Darren Hannigan
Children from fatherless homes make up 63% of youth suicides, 85% of all children who exhibit behavioral disorders, 71% of all high school dropouts. They are 70% of juveniles in state-operated institutions, 75% of adolescent patients in substance abuse centers, and 75% of rapists motivated by displaced anger.
I did not grow up in a fatherless home but the statistics are still interesting, alarming.
At the same time, my dad is still gone. And his absence has left a hole, a pile of unsaid things and often times I wonder if Peter would be the Peter holed up in his room and I would be me, as I am today, extreme introvert.
Now that being said childhood grief statistics state that 1.5 million children live in a single-parent home because of the loss of one parent and nearly 2 million children under 18 have lost both parents.
Peter and I are in that 1.5 million children.
"What're you doing?" My thoughts snap back to reality at the sound of Peter's voice.
My eyelids blink as I take in the surroundings of the kitchen and the exact spot I sat in while mom told us. It sounds funny but I'm not sure if I've ever sat in that chair again.
I clear my throat and turn my focus on my homework that's sprawled out across the table. "Nothing."
He stares at me for another minute but I don't look up and soon he's in the fridge rifling around for something to eat.
The thing about Peter is he's nice to everyone. Except me. He tolerates me. Letting me drift behind him, under his protection because dad constantly drilled it into our heads that Peter and I are a team. For life.
I don't necessarily agree we are team. At least not a well functioning one.
"There's no food in this house." He groans.
"Mom said she was stopping at the grocery store on her way home." I supply.
I scribble an answer down, turning the page in my book as Peter slams the doors to the refrigerator shut.
"I hate this town." He complains. "There's nothing to do."
If I was someone else I'd tell him he shouldn't have dropped out of college. He'd still have things to do if he was away at college but he's not, he's here.
"I was thinking about having a party." I state.
A spark lights in Peter's eyes as he folds his arms across his chest. "Oh yeah?"
And just as easy as that I already have Peter hooked. I nod my head.
"Is Cora going to be there?"
He's been very tight lipped and impartial about their break up. Acting nonchalant and unaffected, just like he does with everything. But as we all learned, Peter has poor coping mechanism.
Not that mine are much better.
"Do you want her to be?"
He shrugs his shoulders indifferently. His red hair a wild mess, dark bags hang below his eyes from the his late nights spent playing video games holed up in his room.
"I don't care." His voice neutral to the point where I almost believe him but if he didn't really care he never would have asked.
He leans back against the counter, his eyes coming to rest on the same spot that had garnered my attention earlier. We both fall silent, me watching Peter stare.
My heart thumps loud in my chest, my senses heightened as the kitchen falls silent and my mind pulls up feelings from that moment. How one moment life was normal, unassuming, nothing tragic had ever happened to us unless you count the time Peter and I got into a fight and when he shoved me I fell and knocked his fish off his dresser. The bowl tipped, the water soaking into the beige carpet, his goldfish fish flopping on the carpet gasping for air. Peter called me a loser and rage boiled up so fast inside me I swung punching him square in the jaw.
Ten year old me was tired of being the outcast. The fact that my own brother thought so too blinded me.
Peter didn't take well to being punched in the face and the next thing I knew my back hit the ground, air leaving my lungs and as my head rolled to the side I came face to face with Albus.
We stared at each other, his gills opening and closing, his mouth gasping, tail flicking every so often. I was in a similar fate as Peter held me by my T-shirt, his weight on my chest as he yelled at me.
I should have said something. But my mind was too busy calculating exactly how much time he had left. It depends on the species really. And the circumstances, like if Albus would have landed on a tile floor, water pooling underneath him so he could stay wet and keep his gills moist than, sure a few hours is very reasonable. But that wasn't how Albus landed.
And as Peter continued shouting at me, I watched Albus take his final breath before growing still and in that moment ten year old me realized how easy it was for life to end. Or at least I thought I did.
"You ever think about him?" Peter asks, once again bringing my focus back to the present.
It's a dumb question. If I ever think about dad. Of course I do. But I don't tell Peter I think his question is dumb. Instead I nod my head.
He lets out a heavy sigh, shoving himself off the counter where he had perched and as he leaves the kitchen he calls over his shoulder "let me know about the party, I can make some calls and get a keg or two."
Peter doesn't wait for my answer, maybe one isn't needed but regardless he's already out of sight when I open my mouth to respond. It's just another thing left unsaid.
I shift my gaze back to my homework, continuing in the silence of the kitchen.
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I wonder what Laurel said to Ellie. Anyone else?