Crosshairs

My parents divorced just before my fifth birthday. Although a significant, life-changing moment, it was not necessarily a bad memory, or, at least, not the first.

A year or so earlier, following the sound of raised voices that found me standing outside a closed door, sniffling quietly, whispering Mommy, Daddy, my mother emerged, eyes red, arms bruised from hands that gripped too tightly, saying look what Daddy did.

Around the same time, I woke up from a nightnare in the middle of the night. After staring into the silent darkness with wide eyes, I slipped out of my bed and ran to my parents' room to snuggle between them.

Their bed was empty.

According to the stories I was told the next day, that night, my mother had rehearsal for a play in which she had been cast. Earlier in the evening, my father had told her he would be home in five minutes. Assuming he would come (despite knowing him well), she left. Assuming she would wait (resentful of this new pursuit that excluded him), five minutes became hours.

Standing in their doorway, I whispered, Mommy? Daddy? Silence reigned. I went to the kitchen. The bathroom. Back in the living room, I climbed up on the couch and waited.

I have no idea how long I actually sat there. Surely, one minute felt like hours to a young child alone at home in the dark. I listened to the sounds of the street, straining to hear footsteps on the concrete, or on the stairs below. A car or two passed by. One stopped in front of our building. The quiet of the night allowed the sound of whispering voices to carry to our window. I tiptoed closer to listen. I heard the rumbling sound of my daddy's laughter. I pulled a chair closer to the window, and climbed up.

"Daddy?" I shout-whispered.

The air was still for a moment and then I heard, "Baby?"

"Daddy! You come upstairs right now!"

"Coming, Baby!" he said as I heard a car door open and slam shut.

The subsequent events are a blur behind a veil of tears. The running to the door, listening to the slow plod of steps on the staircase, then the key in the door. The stoic little body shattering, being lifted up into a bear hug. The tucking in and kiss goodnight. The second late-night door opening and closing. The screaming and finger pointing. The small child huddling in her bed, hugging a stuffed animal, smothering her tears, trying not to listen to two people too young, too angry and too self-absorbed to realize that as they lashed out at each other, a little someone else was caught in the crosshairs.