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Fig barely keeps her grip on her foam sword when her mama wordlessly picks her up.
“Mommy,” she whines. “I’m defending the castle!” Her blocks are kicked all over the living room, the fortress destroyed.
Fig sniffles but doesn’t cry. She’s a big girl. Six whole years old.
She squirms in her mom’s grip but can’t get loose. Mom’s arms are a tight band around her middle and she’s walking hurriedly to the stairs.
Dad is standing at the bottom of them. “Daddy, save me!” she exclaims. She wants to go back to playing, she doesn’t want to go do chores or whatever mom needs. It’s Saturday. Big girls go to school and they get weekends off! That’s the rule!
Her dad looks sad. His green shirt, the one Fig picked out this morning, is wrinkled and there’s a strain on the chest.
“Lynn,” Dad says, in the voice he uses before Mom goes to take a nap and shouldn’t be bothered. “Please put Fig down. You’re scaring her.” He reaches a hand out and Fig strains toward her dad.
Her tummy hurts. She wasn’t scared until Dad said she was.
Mommy jerks around so that Fig can’t see Daddy. “You’re scaring her,” she accuses, sounding like when she’s mad at Grandma. “I told you to leave Gilear.” Her grip tightens on Fig as she tries to wiggle away.
“Mommy,” Fig groans, her arms uselessly pushes against her shoulder. “Down! Down!”
Her mom ignores her, shouldering past daddy. For just a second, Fig can see her dad. There are tears in his eyes. He smiles at Fig and, very briefly, pats her hair. I love you, he mouths. She wishes he would say it out loud.
Mama runs upstairs and Fig digs her chin into mom’s shoulder, trying to get free. Dad follows quickly behind, fingers outstretched toward them.
Usually, Dad knows what to do when Mommy’s having a bad day.
The bad days Fig’s not supposed to remember. She knows to be scared when mom doesn’t come home from work at the same time Fig gets off the bus. She knows that the ‘girl trips’ her mom goes on some weekends are spent alone. She knows that the daddy-daughter ice cream dates happen because The Caramel Yard is right next to the brain doctor’s office.
When Mommy locks herself in a room, Fig’s supposed to go get Daddy.
Mom’s feel-better pills are on the top row of her parents’ bathroom cabinet and if Fig crawls onto the sink, she can just reach them.
Fig’s not supposed to tell her friends when the police got called to their house because of how loud Mom screamed.
Fig’s not supposed to tell her school counselor why she drew a picture of her mom in the hospital.
At the top of the stairs, her mama goes right, toward Fig’s room. She didn't make her bed this morning and a half drunk cup of milk is waiting on the nightstand. Fig tugs at her mom harder.
Over Mom’s shoulder, Fig sees Daddy reach forward again. “Lynn, please. Put Fig down. We can talk about this.”
“Get out of my house!” Mom screams. Fig covers her ears.
Some of Fig’s library books clutter the hallway. She was told to pick them up before playing, but neither of her parents get her in trouble for it. Mom steps right on them as she flings the door to Fig’s room open.
“Lynn-”
The wall shudders as the door slams shut. Fig flinches at the loud noise.
So quick, she almost misses it, her mom sets her on the carpet, locks the door—which Fig is not supposed to do — and pushes Fig’s desk in front of the door.
“Mommy-”
Mama grabs her hand and pulls her toward the bathroom. Locks another door Fig’s not supposed to lock when they’re inside.
It’s dark, but the one window above the toilet doesn’t have curtains because Fig was using them in her doll house.
She stands in the center of her bathroom. Tub to the left, sink to the right. Her toilet and trash can are behind her. Her mom is crumpled against the door in front of her.
Her mom is crying.
Dad is knocking on the bedroom door and shouting to be let in.
Fig puts on her bravest face and holds up her sword. “I’ll protect you, Mommy,” she declares, crawling into her mom’s lap.
Mom wraps her arms around Fig. Usually, she's never safer than when she’s in her parents’ embrace.
Right now, she feels sick and nervous and alone. Fig brushes her mom’s hair out of her face because that always makes Fig feel better.
The yelling from the hallway stops and Fig hears footsteps thumping down the stairs.
“Daddy’s gone now,” Fig reports, patting her mom’s face. “It’s okay. He’s probably really sorry about what happened.” Mom gets mad at Dad a lot. Usually, Mom’s the one who apologizes.
Mom tips her head back against the door. “He shouldn’t be,” she moans. “Your father is the only good man I’ve ever met, Fig. Your mom’s the fuck up.” Fig doesn’t know what the word means, but she knows it’s an unkind thing to say.
“No you’re not!” Fig insists. She scrambles up to retrieve some toilet paper and presents it proudly to her mother, who messily blows her nose.
“You’re the only one who loves me,” Mom announces, which Fig knows isn’t true. Dad loves Mom so much. That’s where babies come from and Fig’s their baby! “Your father should leave me.” Suddenly, her voice raises. “Why won’t you just leave me, Gilear? Just leave me so I don’t screw up your life any more than I already have!”
No response comes. Dad’s still downstairs.
Mommy starts crying again, yesterday's make up smearing as she wipes the tears away. “I should’ve left you with your father,” she sobs. “He wouldn’t fuck you up as much as I will.”
Fig pats her mom’s arm. “I think you’re the best Mommy in the world.” She wipes away her own tears on the sleeve of her blue jacket. Her foam sword wiggles in the air.
The door to her bedroom rattles. Then, she hears something large pushing against the carpeted floor. Her desk. Daddy’s back!
Mom screams, no words, just pain, when she hears it too.
When she runs out of breath, Dad knocks on the door. “Lynn, I brought your medication. Open the door-”
“Fuck you! You just want to dope me up until I’m some lobotomized perfect housewife you can trot around to your friends.”
A massive sigh can be heard through the door. Fig hates it when her dad sighs. Usually it’s because she disappointed him.
“Lynn, you’ve been prescribed Pentabicin since before we were married.”
Sneakily, Fig reaches up for the door handle. Mom snatches her hand away. “You’ve already turned my own daughter against me. Leave! Get out of my house! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
There’s a soft thunk from where her dad is. Quietly, he says, “I know, Lynn. I know.”
“Mommy.” Fig pulls herself free of her mom’s grip. “Daddy’s trying to be nice.”
Mom ignores her. “You’re the only person who cares about me,” she cries. Then, to Dad, “Go away before you ruin our lives even more!”
“It was a bottle of wine, Sandra Lynn!” Dad never, ever raises his voice, but all the sudden he starts screaming. Fig tucks her head in Mom’s shoulder. “You can’t drink on your medication, you shouldn’t drink at all! I wanted to donate it to the church up the road because we don’t drink.”
“I got it from my boss! How do you think Wren would feel if I got rid of it without even having a sip?”
“You never just ‘have a sip!’ And more than a sip, mixed with your meds, could kill you! You want to die on our kitchen floor because you’re so afraid of offending your inconsiderate supervisor?”
Mom slams her fists back against the wooden door and the noise echoes through the small bathroom. “It’d be better than living another shitty day with you!” Her voice breaks as she shouts and she holds Fig closely. Or maybe, Fig holds her closely.
Her sword drops to the floor. She doesn’t pick it back up.
Dad’s crying too when he says, “Lynn, Lynn, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. We’re all upset, let’s just calm down.”
“Mommy,” Fig whispers. She clumsily wipes more toilet paper against her mom’s cheek. “Please don’t die. I’ll miss you.”
Her mom is shaking and covered in snot. She carefully wraps her arms around Fig. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby,” she repeats over and over.
For a while, no one says anything other than croaked apologies.
The sunlight in the room gets brighter as the sun moves from above their house to visible through the window above the toilet. Fig wets her favorite pink washcloth and cleans up her mom’s face. She retrieves her purple-scented lotion and rubs it into her mom’s hands.
Mom just cries more.
Fig starts weaving a magical story about the family of duckies that live in her tub. About how sometimes they get mad at each other, but they always forgive because they love each other no matter what.
Mom interrupts before the story can end in the dance party she wants it to. “Come on, Fig. Enough hiding in the bathroom.” She sniffles as she stands.
Dad’s sitting on Fig’s unmade bed when Mom opens the door. He has his arms wrapped around Fig’s purple dragon stuffie, Layla.
More than anything, Fig wants to throw herself into her dad’s arms while he makes it all better.
But Mom whispers, “I’m going to go lay down,” and without thinking, Fig grabs her hand and says, “Me too.”
“I love you, girls,” Dad promises as he rises to his feet.
Fig gives her dad an air hug. “Love you, Daddy.”
Mom doesn’t look as she walks toward the door. “I’m sorry, Gil.”
Dad doesn’t follow them out.