Not a voice rises in their home on Fern Street, as Father prefers it so. He was downstairs, staying, as he was last week and every week before that.

Natalie cleans up her backpack in her room and ignores the aches prickling her legs. They start up whenever she doesn’t eat enough.

The home used to belong to Mom’s mom, before she did something known as passing. Mom’s in the kitchen, where she hasn’t budged for the last three days, where last Father made her stay.

Natalie learnt early on she can’t ask mom to cook when she’s staying. Father assured her it was nothing like passing, but if she spoke a word it would be.

All Natalie can hope is that Father sleeps off quickly so later she can drift down to eat. Since Mom’s staying, Natalie started sharing lunch with Mya at school—Mya offered first—and today Mya brought two lunches. One for her her. It made Natalie feel real special.

She looks at the clock to wait an hour. Father is like a wind-up toy, on a certain schedule, marching here and there. He doesn’t really enter the kitchen—doesn’t want to bother Mom. In the meantime, Natalie starts her homework.

Mrs. Bea says Natalie’s really good at history for a second grader. It’s because Mom’s the bestest historian ever. Mom goes on digs and is real busy all the time. Though Father doesn’t like that. Probably why he made her stay.

Natalie fills out half her booklet and doesn’t care about the world for a while. It is half an hour when Natalie’s stomach crunches in on itself like a pop can. The lunch Mya gave was really good, but doesn’t make up for the last two days. Natalie eyes her door, shut, with a chair and shelf against it, and a wooden stick kept on the handle in a way that makes it super hard to open.

She shouldn’t go downstairs yet. Father would not be stayed on the couch right now. She knows that. It’s tested and proven like a science fact.

Natalie’s stomach growls again and she clenches her pencil in frustration. It hurts. Real bad. She drops her pencil gently and picks herself up gently, and slowly peels away the furniture from her door. Doesn’t want to alert him.

After, she creeps to the staircase. It is hard to look downstairs without being seen upstairs. If she had a choice, the house would have plenty hiding spots. She peeks her head over the railing, carefully, and Father isn’t on the couch. That means he’s in either the washroom, the kitchen, the laundry, or outside.

Mom used to argue about Father going outside at night. Said he was too busy with other bitches to spend time with his family. Natalie wishes Father would take her. She likes dogs, and doesn’t care if they’re male or female. Female dogs are probably just as strong as male dogs, anyway. Though she still doesn’t know what breed a “skank” is.

Natalie takes a chance and tries a step down the staircase. Mom bought chips a week ago. Father eats all her school snacks—which also annoys Mom. But there should be some sour cream and green onion flavoured ones still left.

She avoids the patches that creak and counts all eighteen steps to the bottom. First, she peers around the staircase wall, into the kitchen behind, with the tiny guest washroom attached. The door is ajar and inside is empty, and so is the kitchen.

Natalie’s feet take her back, but it’s too late. The pantry doors open and Father comes out, carrying a tin of beans. They lock eyes. Mom’s still stayed on the chair in between them. Natalie tries not to choke on Mom’s stink. She hasn’t showered in three days and it’s really, really bad. Her skin’s greening up.

Father looks down at Mom for a long moment when Natalie stares at him. She’s not allowed to run away just yet. That maddens him. She can only run if he’s already mad.

He goes to the counter and struggles to open his tin of beans. Natalie doesn’t know how to open tin cans. She wouldn’t be hungry if she did because she could stuff them in her backpack and never need to come down.

‘Do you want some beans?’ Father asks.

Natalie isn’t allowed to say no, either. She steadies her trembling hands and enters the kitchen. ‘Yes, please.’

Mom’s stink hurts her stomach worse and differently than the hunger. Mom usually cares about her hygiene, always ushering Natalie to shower. This is wrong.

‘Mom’s being disgusting, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is.’ Natalie tries a question. ‘Why isn’t she showering?’

‘Because she’s a lazy skank.’

Natalie wants to meet a real skank so bad. ‘Oh.’

Father is so quiet until he shouts and bangs the tin against the counter. It takes everything for Natalie to stifle her shake. ‘Fuck! Natty, get me a goddamn knife!’

Natalie hurries to the leftmost of the counter to the panel where Mom hangs the knives. She takes the biggest one down and hands it back to Father.

He wastes no time and goes crazy with the tin can, over and over, but it doesn’t bend at all. ‘Fuck,’ he repeats. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m going to starve and it’s that stupid woman’s fucking fault…’

It feels wrong to blame Mom here, but Natalie can barely breathe because she’s stinking up the air.

Father’s knife sticks into the bean tin and Natalie’s stomach twists. ‘Holy shit, how does she open this? You watch your mom cook, don’t you?’

‘Not really. I’m sorry.’

‘Useless.’ He pushes the knife more inside. His hand keeps tight round the tin. Natalie’s fingers don’t stop shaking. Another push and the tin top curls down and there’s beans. She can’t smell it over Mom.

Father pours the watery beans into different bowls and microwaves both. When he gives Natalie hers, the bowl’s too hot. She tries to handle it until she gets to the table, beside Mom, but drops it at the last minute because her fingertips hurt real bad. Her eyes heat.

‘Bitch!’

Father’s scream is fast. He places his bowl onto the counter and stomps around the table.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Natalie searches for anything to clean with. Then Father is beside her and he slaps her down, and she topples into Mom, who falls off her chair. They slide onto the ground together. Mom isn’t warm at all.

Natalie sobs and covers her face. They were getting along just now. She ruined it. Like she ruins everything. Father kicks Mom aside like one of Mya’s mom’s old-timey ragdolls. Mom doesn’t even make a peep.

**Natalie is not that strong. **She whimpers when Father picks Natalie up by her shirt. There is a dribble of orange tin can beans on it. He throws her into the wall and her head rings. He nears again when the doorbell rings.

He grabs a plate and stares at her, like a bug that just won’t die.

Natalie is good. Natalie doesn’t twitch. Father inhales and leaves her alone to go to the door. She crawls out from behind the wall to see. There is a police officer there. It is not the first time they’ve visited.

‘Is this the Verity residence?’

‘What does it fucking look like?’

The cop pauses and his eyes keep moving over the place. His nose wrinkles fiercely before he locks eyes with Natalie. Natalie freezes. ‘Is that your daughter?’

‘Excuse me.’ Father looks at her and his eyes burn. ‘Natty, would you get your ass upstairs?’

‘You shouldn’t talk to her like that.’

‘Don’t tell me how to talk to my goddamn child.’

This sounds like the conversation that made Father ban Natalie from going to Mya’s house. Mya’s parents are scary nice, like the policeman, like Mrs. Bea during the teacher-parent conference, like the strangers from something called CPS.

‘Natty, get the fuck upstairs!’

‘It’s alright. She can stay here.’

Her head still hurts.

‘Is he your father or am I? Like you didn’t fucking hear me the first two times. Natty, you will not like me a second from now. Go upstairs!’

‘I really don’t mind her. Natty, why don’t you come here?’

Father whips towards the police officer in a jiffy. His hand flies. Natalie’s eyes shut, waiting for the police officer to stay too, like Mom, for Father not to stop, but a second later Father’s the one screaming. There’s a black gun placed steady on his chest and Natalie’s heart jumps. She wobbles to her feet and sprints over.

‘Father!’

He’s on the ground, convulsing, and hot tears flow down her cheeks. She should have gone upstairs. She should have. Her hand grasps at his chest for red stickiness, but there is none. Just another smell of burning something and a warmth where the gun was.

‘You killed him, you killed—’ Natalie chokes.

The policeman kneels down. He’s about Father’s age, but all adults look the same age before eighty. ‘It’s just a tazer, just a tazer. He’s not dead.’

Before anything can happen, he flips Father over and locks his wrists together in hand cuffs. Father groans and it hurts Natalie bad.

‘No, no. My father’s not a criminal. Why are you doing that? Let him go!’

She grabs his arm and tugs but the adult is stronger. They always are. He stands up and she claws at his pants.

‘Please don’t take him to jail, please—’

‘Natty, come. Come. Where’s your mom?’ He holds her hand and she forces herself to stand.

‘In the kitchen,’ she murmurs, ‘and Mom won’t like this, she won’t stand for it.’ But Mom doesn’t speak anymore and she hasn’t stood since she fell.

‘What’s that smell, if I mind asking?’

‘It’s Mom.’

‘Your mom?’

‘She doesn’t shower anymore.’ Natalie sniffles. ‘She just sits in the kitchen and looks sad. Please don’t take Father to jail.’

‘Show me her.’

She walks him to the kitchen. When he rounds the corner, he says a bad word. Natalie knows a curse means anger, and anger means hitting, and if he has that taser gun, Natalie is gone.

Instead, he picks his walkietalkie and mentions ‘back up.’ Then he takes Father, handcuffed, outside, and tells Natalie she’ll be okay, and so will Father. That she has nothing to worry about anymore.

He sits her in the back of a new police car after talking with her on the porch about nothing. There she watches as more red and blue lights crowd outside her house. An ambulance arrives. Neighbours come outside. Soon there is yellow tape and a news van. People in different suits go in and out of her house for forever or for two seconds. Her head still hurts.

The original policeman returns with a lollipop and a woman who sits down and asks Natalie to talk to her. This time, it’s not nothing, like school and homework, but about “Mom dying”.

‘Mom’s not dead. She’s just stayed.’

‘Stayed?’

‘Yeah. Stayed. Father stayed her three days ago.’

The woman is real interested in that. ‘Stayed her?’

‘With his hands. She still has them on her neck.’

‘Okay.’

‘But Father promised she was fine.’

‘And she’s been fine?’

‘She doesn’t take showers anymore. Or do anything. But that’s it.’ Natalie goes quiet, playing with the wrapper around her lollipop. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

‘That’s okay. Alright? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.’

The woman doesn’t leave. Natalie doesn’t open her lollipop. Her history teacher says after a while bones turn to rock under dirt. It’s kind of like this. There’s so much dirtiness and time that everyone is rock, all stayed like Mom.

‘Is he going to jail?’

‘Sweetheart, he’s not a good man.’

Natalie’s quiet. ‘I know. But I love him. He’s Father.’

‘And that’s alright.’