Without Juliet, everything will fall apart.
What will her little sister do without Juliet to keep her secure? What will her mom do without Juliet to keep things going? Thoughts of home float in and surround Juliet. Her father’s angry shouting, the silhouette of a full glass at the side of the sink, the shape of the empty bottle in the bin. Lily’s worried face, the slurred grey of her mother’s voice.
So much Juliet could write in her journal, but nothing she’s ready to examine that closely.
The sound of her father’s voice won’t go away. All that hate, so much disgust. So little love for his wife and daughters.
Juliet picks up her pen. She has to write something in this stupid journal, and she won’t be betraying anyone if her topic for this afternoon is Me and My Dad: The Wonderful World of Juliet Ryan and Bart, her Fabulous Father.
He doesn’t say much, her father. Not to Juliet, anyway. It’s different with her mother. He’s got plenty to say to her about the state of the house: For God’s sake, Monica, can’t you keep the maid under control, what exactly are we paying her for? Her mother, quiet, always quiet, then apologising again and again and again. I’m sorry, Bart. Sorry, Bart. That’s her mother’s litany when he comes home, her hands shaking because she needs a drink.
Juliet has seen her mom shake. Seen her scurrying, Sorry Bart, sorry, flitting from kitchen to dining room to lounge to stoep. Trying to straighten rooms that never look properly clean and tidy no matter how many times she asks the latest maid to Please do this, and Could you do that?
Bart Ryan.
She can’t see how her mother’s ever going to escape him. If he had his way, Juliet would be in his power too, pinned down by his hard eyes, reduced to stuttering and mumbling and shuffling and trying, always trying. And then, finally, the desired result. Sorry Dad, sorry Dad, sorry.
Those are words Bart Ryan will never hear his daughter say.