A Sound of Small Betrayals

by Kristen McQuinn

Timothy Dykes

The bathtub’s rim came up all the way to my shoulder. I shivered at its cold touch, the ceramic a bright, blinding white, freezing cold in the direct path of the air conditioner vent. It was a stark contrast to the soothing warmth of the water that came up over my legs and lapped at my chubby belly.

The water sploshed and plunked happily as I played with my bath toys. I had a stereotypical yellow rubber duck, and a white one I named Donald. He chased the yellow one around the tub, but I wasn’t sure if he was having fun or if he was mad. Blooomp! Whether he was mad or not, Donald enjoyed doing cannonballs off of the spigot.

I leaned over the edge of the tub. I’d accidentally splashed water onto the floor, but most of it landed on the bath mat. I didn’t think I would get in any trouble for that. There were only a couple drops on the floor. I flopped back into the tub and slid back and forth so I could make a tidal wave, but I stopped just short of it going clear over the edge. I would get in trouble for that.

The water cooled enough to chill my skin and I climbed out by myself. I felt like a big girl for getting my own towel and drying off, just like my mom taught me. I heard footsteps approaching in the hallway.

I rubbed the rough terry cloth over me, missing as many wet places as I caught. I tried to do it like my mom taught me but the towel was twice as big as I was. I turned to reach for my jammies but then my dad was there, turning me toward the tub. The words he screamed at me didn’t make sense. I only knew the sudden terror of having done something wrong. He pointed at the tub and I went hot with mortification. There, floating back and forth in time with the residual motion of my tidal wave, was a small, mucousy turd.

Tears of embarrassment and shame filled my eyes. I was a big girl. I was almost three. I hadn’t had an accident in a long time, since before I was two. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know I did it, Dad. But the words were stuck in my throat. The lump of mortification wouldn’t let them out.

He was still screaming at me, his words an unintelligible noise in my head. Then his hands grabbed me. His whole being was reduced to just his rageful voice and hands like iron. They pushed me forward, inexorably, shoving me to my knees at the edge of the tub.

One time, our puppy had pooped in the living room. He picked her up by her neck and rubbed her nose in her mess. He’d managed to block her nose with feces and my mom had to use a Q-Tip to clean it out. The dog was terrified of him until we moved cross country and couldn’t bring her with us. I finally started crying as I understood that he was going to rub my nose in my mess, too.

I put my arms out against the rim of the tub, trying to resist. He wouldn’t listen. I was still wet. I wasn’t good at drying myself off yet. He gave me a jerk. My wet arms slipped off the edge and into the tub. My chest bumped painfully against the cold porcelain rim. My hands scrabbled for a grip on the slippery floor of the tub. It was still filled with water because I’d forgotten to pull the plug up. My body went cold with terror.

I knew my dad was going to drown me.

I started struggling and screaming, my voice a terrified counterpoint to his alcohol-fueled rage. I tried to turn my face away from the water but his hands on the back of my head held it tight. I tried to stop crying and hold my breath but too late. I inhaled a nose full of water. I started coughing. My knees made a drumming tattoo on the side of the tub, extra loud in the water. His yelling was muffled.

Roughly, I was jerked out of the tub. The room stood upright and my mom was there, reaching for me. She grabbed me away from him, not caring that I was dripping wet with bath water and snot and feces.

“What did she do?” she cried, her voice shrill with alarm. She wrapped a clean towel and her arms around me, shielding me. My relief at her presence was so profound that, for a moment, it overwhelmed the instinctive sting of her betrayal. But I didn’t mean to, Mommy!

The memory fades to white, and only the sound remains of the water splashing in the tub as my mother reached in to unplug the drain. Just another ordinary bath before bed.

*

Kristen McQuinn is contributing writer at Book Riot. She also has work published in the Strange New Worlds 2016 Star Trek anthology and The Fem Lit.