Read It Was Me All Along: A Memoir for Free Online

even for a moment, that I had power, that I could be an adult in mind before body. I hated that in trying to stop the fighting, I’d waged a new war. And most of all, I hated that in trying to protect us all from the bully, to knock him down, I’d become one.
    Mom said he never drank much before the year I was born. Six years after having my brother and marrying, Mom came home witha pink swaddled smoosh of wild black hair, full lips, and only a hint of a nose. And on January 25, my birthday, he fell down drunk. She cried, quietly and alone, with her face pressed into the nook of my little neck. She slept in Anthony’s room that night, with me in the bed between them. In the morning, she opened her eyes to find Anthony smoothing my hair back on my head with his palm, whispering into my tiny ear. She smiled. “What are you telling your sister?” she whispered.
    “That she can share my room with me.”
    The Wednesday when I heard the crash of glass in the hallway, I had been sitting in Anthony’s room trying desperately to shove all of a wedding gown–bedecked Barbie into the front seat of her Corvette. It had taken almost an hour of convincing before Anthony caved and let me host the wedding there. I looked over at him, across the room playing
SEGA
on his TV. When I’d successfully managed stuffing the last bit of fabric into the car, I lay Ken across the trunk and pulled a caramel cream candy from the package in my lap. I untwisted the plastic wrapping and popped the whole thing into my mouth just as I heard the glass shatter.
    I jumped as I bit down, my teeth squeezing through a glob of sticky caramel, and all the candies from my lap scattered about the floor. Dad cried out, “Mere!”
    I heard her bare feet strike the few creaky floorboards as she ran to the breezeway.
    Anthony hopped up instantly, calling a breathy “Andrea, come on” as he ran out through his bedroom door.
    I sat motionless on the floor, listening to the commotion outside. I couldn’t do anything but chew. I worked my way throughthe whole sticky center until it dissolved into gooey sugar on my tongue.
    “Andreaaa! Come on!!” Anthony was shouting now.
    They were already scurrying down the driveway, packing into our white Tercel as fast as they could. And I had to—simply had to—collect all my caramels. I urgently picked up each one that had scattered about the bedroom floor before getting up and rushing out of the room. I stuffed the candies deep within my pockets, the cellophane wrappers crackling as they settled into my denim overalls.
    When I’d made it to the car, I could see that Dad was bleeding in the front seat. Anthony looked at him, so scared of the red seeping through the terrycloth towel wrapped around his arm. Mom was breathless and wide-eyed. She clenched the steering wheel and looked at me, standing outside the driver’s window looking in.
    I climbed in the back beside Anthony. He squeezed my pudgy fist and pulled it closer to his side.
    Dad was furious. In between cursing at Mom and writhing in pain, he looked back to tell me and Anthony that he had cut his arm on the storm door. I nodded, knowing that any more questions would only make him angrier. By the time we pulled up to the emergency room, the once-yellow towel had been completely dyed red. Sopping and heavy with blood.
    We sat in the waiting room while two nurses rushed Dad behind a set of large swinging doors. I wondered how they’d make his arm better—if he’d return with a big white cast like the kid in my class who broke his arm falling from the monkey bars. I tried to think of what I’d write on it and what color marker I’d use. After a while, a doctor came out from behind the doors and asked tohave a word with Mom. They walked a few feet in front of where Anthony and I sat. And though Mom was using her quiet voice, I overheard her tell him that Dad had been drinking. They had been having a fight, and he accidentally punched his arm through a glass