Jackee Budesta Batanda,
"Holding on to the Memories"
(page 4 of 6)
IV
The front door squeaked, and Naboro staggered into the living room.
She did not see him as she wobbled by. His voice in the darkness
arrested her.
"Where are you coming from?"
She froze in her tracks and turned to face the voice.
"Out."
"There are rules in my house," he said quietly.
"Rules work best in prison."
He stood up and walked over to her, sniffing. "You have been
drinking."
She looked up without speaking.
"You forget your religion," he spoke quietly. "No child of mine
desecrates this house by drinking alcohol."
"For what it's worth, you should take your ass out of the '70s and
face life. Times have changed, and you need to re-adjust your
thinking."
Nasser raised his hand and slapped Naboro hard. She landed on the red
polished, cemented floor. The slap resounded in the room. His hand hurt,
and he turned away. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He only wanted to talk
to her, to make her see that she was wrong. He only wanted to assert his
place as a father-figure in her life. But she was disrespectful. She was
spoiled. She dared to answer back defiantly. She made him do
this.
As Naboro stood up slowly and tottered to her room, he felt something
tear at his heart. Nasser was a crushed man. For the umpteenth time that
day, he asked himself whether accepting the pardon was the right thing
to do. After all, he had adjusted to life in detention and felt happy.
Almost happy. He had resigned himself to his fate and moved on with his
life. Now, back in the free world, he couldn't even manage something as
basic as parenting. Perhaps he had rushed his decision; perhaps it was
foolish. No, he made the right decision, he told himself. Things had to
work out within the limited time he had left.
Suddenly, a pain seared through his right side. He doubled over,
staggered, and collapsed in the chair.
Naboro slammed her door and fell on her bed. Her cheek still felt hot
when she brushed her hand over it. How dare he slap her? Her mother had
never raised a hand at her, and now this absolute stranger walked into
her life and, out of nowhere, hit her. She envied her older brothers.
They were out of the house and didn't have to suffer this outrage. One
of them was studying to be a lawyer so that he could represent condemned
men. Naboro smiled at the thought. The damned man in the living room did
not deserve any representation. He was guilty as hell, and she didn't
care whether he was her father or not. She felt no warmth toward him—and
embarrassed each time she had to face people she'd known her whole life
and admit, "Yes, I know him," and then hurriedly explain, "My mother
kept the secret from me." She felt the need to apologize for things she
hadn't done—and for even being born. And she constantly reminded people
that she wasn't like that man. She had been brought up proper. Why had
this happened?
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