Chapter 1

Daddy had the worst temper. I remember his eyebrows, arched at an almost impossible angle just before he would charge forward. I remember the ripples of skin bunched up over his brows, and the beads of sweat that would stream down and drip from the tip of his nose. I remember his balled up fists with clumps of her hair, and the deep roar of his voice echoing throughout the house pleading with her to shut-up. Just shut-up.

She never knew when to stop. He would say afterwards that she had made him do it. That she had pushed him to the brink. That she was making him into a man he did not want to be, a man that did not belong to the tranquility he had built.

It was a beautiful house but inside it lacked a woman’s touch. The walls were bare and the carpets thrown down temporarily but never replaced. My mother was not allowed to offer suggestions or have an opinion. She did not choose the furniture or the cabinets. She did not choose her room or ours. She was not to buy things for the house, and when she would disobey he would correct her. We were merely visitors in this house that daddy built.

I remember the last time he lost his temper. The fight had started on the second floor. I was playing with my dolls when I heard her foot-steps scurrying up the stairs, followed by his louder much more determined strides. She’s screaming at him, firm on her point and shaking with anger. She slams the heavy bathroom door, but the argument isn’t over. She continues behind the door with her shrill persistent voice which only fuels his rage. He rips the door off its hinges and drags her out by her hair. All the while yelling for her to shut her mouth. She pushes him further, calling him a faggot. He throws her against the concrete wall and she’s quiet for a second. My sister jumps on his back and he flings her off. Mum charges for the veranda and steps up on to the ledge.

I always hated it when she would leave. No one understood why I would cry when she left for work. Sometimes I’d hide in her car so she’d take me with her. I hated being alone on the hill at night. Not because I was afraid of him hitting me, but because I was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t come back. I was young but I understood everything. I understood that today she was not going to work. I understood that what she was about to do would mean that she would not be coming home again.

I see her clearly now, she’s standing on the ledge and she turns to look at me. I see it all in slow motion; her hair frayed in the wind, glasses bent, and face red and wet. Her clothes are torn and dirty, and there are bruises all along her neck and arms. Her whole body shakes. She turns to me and mouths “I’m sorry” before turning back towards the Green Island Bay.