There’s so much on that one little windowsill. There’s the sugar jar, the pig, salt and peppershakers, some vases, medications, and various knickknacks. Something was bound to shatter sometime, right? I don’t know why they let me put the dishes away. I am clumsy; they know that. I had taken the sugar jar out of the dishwasher and struggled to put it up on the ledge. I’m not tall enough to reach all the way by myself. Normally I ask for help, but I couldn’t today. None of my siblings are home, Mom is at the store, and I can’t ask him today; some days I can, but today is not one of those days. I tried. I thought I was just nudging the little pig out of the way with the bottom of the jar, but I slipped.
Who chose that tile anyway? It wasn’t me; they don’t let the children choose the kitchen floor coverings. If they had, I certainly would not have chosen this ugly pink ceramic tile. It is slippery to walk on and loud when the dog traipses through. Right now I’m really wishing there were carpet in this room.
The sound of the shatter still rings in my ears. There is a loud, identifiable crash when porcelain forcefully and unexpectedly meets marble. I am immediately nervous. I have a lot of questions running through my head—all of them rhetorical and none helping my panic. Racing through my mind so quickly that I can hardly focus on just one at a time, the questions and exclamations of fear overwhelm me. Why did mom like that little glass pig so much? Why was it on the windowsill? Why do we store the sugar on the windowsill? What will he do? The most important question is: why isn’t mom home? He is a little better when she’s home. Why did she say no when I asked her if I could go to the grocery store with her? If I had gone with her, I wouldn’t be so scared right now. She hasn’t been saying yes lately. She has been there three times this week; I think she is getting scared, too.
Right now I am scared. I am more than scared. I am shaking and it feels as if every particle of my body is not only scared but also terrified. Every hair on my body stands on end, as if helping me to listen for any sign of movement from the other room so that I can hope to possibly prepare myself for however he might react to my latest incompetence. I know he heard it. He had to have heard it. It was so loud when the clunky ceramic pig figurine crashed onto the marble tile and the entrance to the other room is entirely open. Each piece shuddered and slid a different direction across the floor, scraping the tile along the way. There were sounds and he had to have heard them—yet I pray with every fiber of my little kid self that he somehow didn’t hear it.
His rocking chair creaks. There’s no way to avoid his anger now; he has heard it. I’m sure he thinks the crash is another cup. I broke one last week and he is still mad at me for it. He had yelled for twenty minutes straight. Ever since he’s been mumbling things about clumsy, messy children under his breath every time I even look like I might drop something.
I’m trying to decide which he would be angrier about, another cup or the pig, when I hear the floor creak as he steps away from the chair. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he just got up to go to the bathroom. If that’s true, I can get this cleaned up and he never has to know. I’ll apologize to Mom later and she’ll promise not to tell him. Maybe I am scared for no reason. Maybe his mood changed and he won’t even care.
Creak. The sound is closer this time; I hold my breath. If I stop time, he’ll never get angry again. If time stops, nothing bad can happen.
The floor creaks again, closer this time; he must be nearing the entryway. He sees the pieces. The furthest scattered piece is right in front of the entrance to the kitchen. There are a few more creaks, much closer together now, and after a couple I can see him—a giant man charging toward me, his anger-driven feet crushing pieces to dust as they land on a few that he is unwilling to avoid making contact with. Suddenly he is in front of me, yelling, and so angry that I can’t understand him, so I just kneel down and start picking up the pieces around me as well as I can with my trembling hands.
I’ve never noticed the true detail on this particular knickknack, but it was quite beautiful; I can tell from the pieces. Was it hand painted? I’m trying to concentrate on the detailed paintwork and not on whatever malicious things he is yelling down at me. One by one I struggle to pick them up, too scared to walk away and get the broom. I place the smaller pieces inside the biggest piece while forcing myself not to cry as he yells.
And then he’s not yelling anymore. And I’m not on the floor. His large, calloused hands crush my shoulders as he holds me at his eye level. My feet dangle just above the floor where my now pouring tears are splashing as they fall. I hurt. I hurt more than just the pain I feel where his hands grip me angrily; I am used to the anger and fear, but this is new and absolutely terrifying. He is saying something to me about laziness and respect, but I’m so scared that my mind won’t let me register the words that he is saying; each movement of his lips just makes me shiver with fear.
He hears the tinny engine of our station wagon pull into our driveway at the same time that I do. Quickly he releases the pressure on my shoulders and I crumple to the ground, dropping all of the pieces that I had struggled to pick up. He glares, but walks back to the other room, out of sight before Mom walks in the door. He knows I’d never tell her. And I know that I don’t have to. I just mentally thank both her and God for her coming home right then and I breathe.
She sees me on the floor crying and gives me a hug, says she is sorry, and begins to put the groceries away. I see her wipe away a few tears. Even though I haven’t told her anything that happened, I know that she knows enough. She knows why I’m scared to be home without her. She knows why she pretends to forget things at the grocery store. She hands me the broom and we both silently pray that the floor won’t be the only thing cleaned up soon.
