She took a slow sip of her Chardonnay and sighed. “Now look what you made him do.”
The pain was a living, breathing entity in the room. It gnawed at my shin, sending fiery, electric shocks up my thigh with every shallow breath I took. I lay on the cold floor, tasting copper and dust, my vision swimming.
David crouched down beside me. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were calculating, immediately assessing the damage and constructing the narrative.
“You slipped,” he whispered harshly, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled of bourbon and panic. “The floor was wet. You were hysterical about the finances, you lost your balance, and you slipped. Tell your father you slipped. Tell everyone.”
I couldn’t speak. The agony in my leg was so severe it was threatening to pull me into unconsciousness. But through the ringing in my ears, I heard Emma sobbing. It was a desperate, wet sound, muffled by the sleeves of her pajamas.
I turned my head, fighting through a wave of nausea, and locked eyes with my daughter. She was trembling against the banister, frozen in terror.
Slowly, fighting the agonizing tremors in my arm, I raised my right hand.
I extended two fingers.
Emma’s sobbing hitched. She stared at my hand.
We had practiced this. For six months, ever since the arguments had begun escalating, ever since David started standing too close and speaking too quietly. We had turned it into a secret game, played only when Daddy wasn’t home. If Mommy ever holds up two fingers, you are the brave messenger. You run to the kitchen drawer. You push the big red button. You say exactly what you see. You do not argue. You do not come closer.
I saw the exact moment the childish terror in her face was eclipsed by a sharp, inherited determination. My daughter was not fragile.
She turned and ran.
Her little bare feet slapped against the hardwood, not toward the stairs, but toward the far side of the kitchen.
David’s head snapped up. “Where is she going? Emma! Get back here!”
