Bread and Rainbow Skin

a short story of pain and hope.

Nadine watches her son like a watchdog, stealing glances at her father in fear. He must know what she did yesterday. Pushing her to the edge of her nerves is his favorite hobby.

His hand slams the table, rattling it. “Stop imitating a snail and eat!”

Her son, Adam, drops his spoon. It clatters. The stew splatters the floor. Adam jumps from his chair and hides behind her. She winces when he clutches her bruised back.

Her father stares down at her. “He’s just a child,” she weakly defends; if he continues barring Adam from food every time Adam fears him, Adam will soon be heavily malnourished.

“You’re raising a man. If you keep babying him, he’ll be a crybaby his whole life.”

Again, she curses every moment that led her here, herself for not fleeing when she had a chance, and for trusting the man her mother escaped when she was a child. But how could she have known? She was a mere child herself when she found herself on his doorstep.

She moves her plate towards the edge of the table, and the piece of bread she had placed behind it falls into her lap. She keeps her eyes down as she raises a spoon to her mouth for a last bite, then hides the bread between her waistband and bare skin.

She stands, and Adam latches onto the back of her pants. “I’m taking him up to his room.”

Her father snorts and pulls her plate towards himself. “You can keep going with him all you want, but eventually, you’ll have to make him serve his punishment alone, or you’ll starve.”

Nadine presses her lips together and slowly walks backward, knowing that Adam won’t react well to being in her father’s direct line of fire.

When they walk into his unlit bedroom, Nadine pulls Adam to her chest and hugs him tightly. “I sorry, Mummy. I no man,” her son cries, holding her tightly, hiding his face in her neck.

She sits in the chair in the corner of his room. “Hush. It’s okay. Everything will be alright,” she gently tells him, running her fingers through his hair and kissing his head. He shudders against her, and she holds him tighter, humming him a lullaby, and feeling the tension gradually leaving her little boy’s body.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, baby?”

He pulls out of her embrace and looks down, whimpering, “I hungry.”

She reaches between them and pulls the bread. His face breaks into a heartbreaking smile as he takes the bread and munches it quickly, then looks away, frowning.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She asks, not bearing to see his frown.

“You hungry,” he tells her, all knowing.

She shakes her head. “I’m feeling quite full.” She’s starving. She hasn’t had a decent meal in months. Her father took the 2 pounds she gained 6 months ago as a personal failing. He’s been locking the pantry, fridge, and watching her like a hawk as she prepares the food to make sure she doesn’t sneak in a bite. She has lost 10 pounds since then. Not that it made a difference for him.

But her son, who’s four months shy of turning two, shouldn’t know any of that.

“Lie?” he asks, taking her face in his hands and examining it, as if his toddler eyes can tell the difference between the truth and a lie.

Heavy footsteps up the stairs…

Her smile drops. Adam slides off her lap and runs to the opposite corner of the room.

Her father stands in the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway. “Finally, you’re not coddling him.”

What’s so great about terrorizing her child and forbidding her from comforting him? She wants to wipe the smarmy smirk off his face. She doesn’t. The last time she tried, she couldn’t smile for a week without wincing.

“I’m going out,” he states. She follows, closing the door behind him and watching from the window as he gets into the car and drives through the property’s gateway. Why did he gate his property? It’s not like she’s allowed to leave the house, let alone the property. God forbid the town people remember that the wicked daughter of their decent mayor got knocked up in high school.

“Go?”

She turns around and finds Adam slowly climbing the stairs, one step at a time.

She intercepts his steps and carries him down. “He did, baby.”

“Snow?” he asks hopefully.

Nadine frowns. “We can’t,” she tells him, grimacing. Adam is angry, but not quite. Anger isn’t an emotion he’s been allowed to exhibit.

“See?” he asks, deflated.

She nods and carries him to the sofa underneath the window. His eyes sparkle in awe at everything covered in white. She holds him in place to make sure he doesn’t fall, and waits for Adam to grow bored with the scenery, but he doesn’t. 30 minutes pass by while he watches the snow. Abruptly, he gasps and crouches in hiding.

“Boy,” he gasps, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. Grimacing, she rubs his back.

“Nothing bad will happen, sweetie,” she lies, in a calm voice she perfected using while terrified when she realized that Adam takes his cue from her. She doesn’t want Adam to feel terror every time she does.

But Adam’s fear happens. The doorbell rings. She closes her eyes and prays that the boy her father hired for yard work thinks no one is home.

“I know you’re home. Don’t ignore me, please.”

Adam shakes in her lap, and it takes everything in Nadine not to shake with him. Jim will kill her over this; there is no questioning it. She’s dead.

“I don’t mean you harm. I just wanna talk,” the voice of a boy no older than 15 states.

She takes Adam’s face in her hand and looks into his eyes. “Everything will be alright, okay?”

Adam opens his mouth and closes it when no voice comes out. She should be worried about him being tongue-tied if she didn’t have a bigger problem.

She walks toward the door and twists the lock; a sliver of the door is opened. “If you tell my father that you saw me yesterday, I will tell him that you knocked on the door and wouldn’t leave me alone,” she tells the boy, in a warning, giving him the best glare she could muster.

Yesterday, nothing she did made Adam happy. Snow was the only word he uttered. Her exhaustion, frustration, and need to make one decision for herself after years of being her father’s marionette doll, combined with Adam’s whining, made her break one of her father’s cardinal rules: she left the house. Since Adam doesn’t have a coat or jacket, she bundled him up in every winter item in his meager possessions and took him to play outside. It was glorious. Fresh air, pine trees, and Adam leaving the house for the first time in twenty months.

Five glorious minutes of heaven, until the boy arrived.

Since then, she’s been holding on by a thread. Her father hires the boys to keep an eye on her and report back to him. Hell, he’s always changing their schedule, hoping one will catch her outside.

“I won’t tell him. I’m no snitch,” the boy tells her, offended.

Nadine frowns; if he has no plans on telling her father, why is he demanding her attention? “Then what do you want?” She asks, confused.

“I want to give you this,” he answers, and shoves a small plastic bag in her hands. Frowning, she holds it skeptically. She struggles to open it while holding Adam with her other arm. Skepticism turns into confusion when she finds concealer and foundation in the small bag.

“I don’t understand.” She opens the door wider.

“Makeup.”

She moves Adam to her other hip to relieve her right arm. “I can see that. Why are you giving it to me?”

“To cover your bruises and look strong. Mom says never to let bullies see your weakness,” he tells her. A voice in her head tells her it’s a ploy to get her to break as many rules as possible. His smile is shy but hopeful; white teeth contrast with russet skin. Eventually, his smile drops in disappointment, and he turns his back to her and walks down the porch.

“What’s your name?” She asks, her voice thick with years of pain and fear.

“Jonny,” he answers.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He smiles and tells her, “No need to. Your dad pays me a lot. By the way, if you come out while I’m outside, I’ll pretend you never left home.”

She smiles back, eyes clouded by tears. After years of terror, she’s forgotten a pretty simple thing: not all people are monsters. Neither Nadine nor Jonny know it yet, but this moment will change the trajectory of their lives.

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