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The nights I lay awake waiting for my bedroom door to sigh open, his figure filling the space, wearing nothing but his blue terrycloth robe. Or the nights, exhausted, I would finally fall asleep, only to feel his fingers slide along the sole of my foot, jerking me awake. The small touches, the stink of his breath on my neck, the coldness in his eyes… in those dark hours I was not his daughter. I wasn’t even a person. I was a toy. All I could think was What a bastard.

    When I returned home the next evening, I was pleasantly surprised to find my father’s car absent from the driveway. Mom was puttering around in the kitchen, half-heartedly pulling out the ingredients for a dinner for two.
    “Hey, Persephone, how was school today? Did you have fun at Maggie’s?”
    “Good and yes. Where’s Dad? Thought he was back for a few days since his trip got cut short.”
    “So did I. Apparently, there was some crisis at the new restaurant in Dallas. He felt he should attend to it personally.” I wondered what her name was. “He left this morning.”
    “Oh.” What a slice of pleasantness—an unexpected night of peace. As long as I could keep the nightmares at bay. “So what’s for dinner?”
    “Nothing major. I was thinking about chicken casserole. Or maybe I’ll order pizza. What do you think?”
    “Pizza sounds good.”
    “Okay.” We both stood there, me staring at her, Mom staring at the countertop.
    “Mom, is something wrong?”
    “Huh? Oh no, just kind of spaced out there for a minute. Sorry, hon. Pepperoni good?”
    “Yeah, sounds great. Are you sure you’re okay?”
    “I’m fine, baby,” she answered, still gazing at the counter, as if talking to it instead of me. “Persephone, you would tell me if there was something wrong, right?” She raised her eyes to meet mine. I broke eye contact. Where was this coming from?
    “Yeah, Mom. Why?”
    “It’s just sometimes… I don’t know. You seem so distant, I guess.”
    I tried to laugh it off. “I’m a teenager. That’s my job, right?”
    “That’s what your dad said too, but it’s more than that.”
    Of course that’s what Dad said. He must have seen the same thing in her eyes. She didn’t know what she was dangerously close to, but her instinct was telling her there was something wrong. I couldn’t believe she didn’t know. There were times I could almost taste the wrongness in my house. Surely Mom could, too.
    If only one of us could have been brave enough to throw the first rock, break through the glass walls surrounding us. They enclosed the members of my little family. And what wonderful walls of funhouse glass they were. Looking out at the world through them, everything was distorted and ugly. But to those looking in, they saw the perfection of a successful, all-American family. We were a display at a museum. We were something to be admired but never touched. Don’t get too close—it’s against the rules.
    We both kept our silence that night. I continued to look at my hands while Mom waited for something to happen. Then she shook her head like a dog waking up from a nap.
    “Well, go get your homework done, then. I’ll holler at you when the pizza gets here.”
    On my way down the stairs I heard the rattle of the cabinet as she took down a wine glass. I went to find the sheet music for ‘On My Own’ from Les Mis .

7.
    Saturday morning I stumbled out of bed long before I was normally up and around. Maggie and I had made our usual round of parties the night before, but I called it quits early on. Maggie hadn’t been much in the mood for drinking, so I didn’t have to worry about her making it home safe and sound. She had been kind of morose, grunting in response to my questions, barely smiling at all. I wasn’t in the mood and didn’t have the energy to deal with it.
    Mom was cratered when I got home and comatose in the morning. I put on a pot of coffee and threw some cinnamon rolls in the oven. Either the smells would entice her