Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Letting Go
I find them sitting at the kitchen table. Kacey is curled up on Trent’s lap with her fingers coiled in his hair, laughing as Dan pokes Storm’s swollen belly repeatedly, trying to make the baby respond. She’s due in two months now and she’s as beautiful as ever.
“Livie?” My sister’s watery blue eyes stare at me with a mix of surprise and worry. “I thought you weren’t coming home over your break.”
I swallow. “Neither did I, but . . . things changed.”
“I can see that.” She stares pointedly at my outfit. I never did go back to the dorm to change. I simply jumped in a cab to Newark and went on standby for the first available flight out to Miami. It took ten hours, but here I am.
Home.
Where I never should have left to begin with.
No one says a word, but I feel their eyes on my back as I walk over to the pantry. I pull out the bottle of tequila that Storm keeps on the top shelf. For emergencies, she says. “You were right, Kacey.” I grab two shot glasses. “You were right all along.”
“I missed the sound of seagulls,” I murmur.
“Wow, you really are fucked up.”
With a snort, I fling my hand in Kacey’s direction and end up slapping her in the cheek. Last night, with the bottle of tequila and two shot glasses in hand, I had silently walked out the patio door to the deck. Kacey followed me, pulling up a lounge chair next to mine. Without a word, she started pouring shots.
And I started pouring my guts out.
I told my sister everything.
I admitted to every detail of my last two months, right down to the most intimate and embarrassing. Once the truth started flowing, it cascaded out of me in an unstoppable torrent. I’m sure the booze helped, but being around my sister helped more. Kacey just listened. She held my hand and squeezed it tight. She didn’t pass judgment, she didn’t scream, she didn’t cast disappointed sighs and glances or make me feel embarrassed. She did scold me for not using a condom, but then quickly admitted that she shouldn’t be throwing stones.
She cried with me.
At some point Trent came out to stretch a duvet over us. He didn’t say a word, leaving us to our drunken, sobbing stupor. And as the first hints of sun came over the horizon, completely drained of every last emotion, every secret, every lie, I passed out.
“Can I see that picture again?” Kacey asks softly.
I hand her the four-by-six from my purse, so thankful that I had it on me when I left. “I can’t believe how young they are here,” she murmurs, tracing the lines of the image as I had. I smile to myself. Three years ago, Kacey couldn’t even glance in the general direction of our parents’ picture.
Waving it at me before she hands it back, she murmurs, “Proof that he cares a great deal about you, Livie. Even if he is a train wreck.”
I close my eyes and heave a sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Kacey. I can’t go back. I mean . . . he’s engaged. Or he was.” Is he still? I’d received a where-the-hell-are-you text from Reagan earlier. After explaining that I was back in Miami, we shared a few messages, but she had no information for me. Or she didn’t want to tell me, other than to say that she hid out in Grant’s room all day because there was a lot of screaming and yelling.
That made me start worrying about Ashton more. What if he’s not with Dana? What will his father do to him? Will he use whatever he has over his head?
“And he’s definitely a train wreck,” Kacey repeats. “He needs to clear the tracks before he can move on with anyone, and that includes you.”
Just the thought of it stirs an ache in my chest. She’s right. Whatever Ashton and I had, I have to let it go. As much as I want to keep trying, to stay close to him while he battles whatever demons he needs to battle, I can’t keep doing it. Not like this.
Not with Connor and Dana and . . . ugh. The ring. My stomach tightens. This thing between us—love or not—has turned me into a selfish, manipulating idiot who takes what she wants even though it may hurt others. Who kept convincing herself that everything she did was okay because she knew that the man she wanted cared about her.
Who would likely fall back into that trap because it felt so right, despite being so wrong.
“You don’t have to go back.”
I crack an eyelid to look at her, flinching against the harsh daylight as I do. “What . . . just give up on everything?”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it giving up. More like living through trial and error. Or taking a breather. Maybe time away from Ashton and school will put things into perspective. Or maybe they’re already in perspective and you just need a little time to let the dust settle.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I close my eyes, gratefully absorbing the comfort of being home.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay home?” Dad asks as he pushes the matted hair off my forehead.
I answer with a sneeze and a groan.
With a heavy sigh, he says, “Okay, that does it. I’m staying.”
“No, Daddy.” I shake my head, though I’d love nothing more than to have him comfort me. “You should go. I’ll just get you sick if you stay here and it’s Kacey’s big game tonight. She’d be upset if you missed it.” Scratch that. My sister would be crushed if Dad missed it. “I’ll be—” My words are cut off by another violent sneeze.
Handing me a tissue, Dad cringes. “Well, I’m not going to lie to you, kiddo. You’re kind of grossing me out right now.”
The way he says “kiddo” with his faint Irish brogue makes me giggle.
“Don’t worry. I’m grossing myself out right now, plenty,” I say between nose blows.
He answers with a chuckle and a pat to my knee. “Just teasing. You’ll always be my beautiful little angel, green snot and all.” He busies himself arranging the medicine and liquids on my nightstand while I reposition myself. “Mrs. Duggan is in the family room—”
“Ugh! Dad! I don’t need a babysitter!”
I see the shift before he utters a word. “Yes you do, Livie. You may act like a thirty-year-old sometimes but you’re biologically only eleven, and Child Protective Services frowns upon leaving eleven-year-olds home alone. No arguing,” he says briskly, leaning in to place a kiss on top of my head.
My brow knits as I fumble for my remote. Three back-to-back episodes of lions eating gazelles in the wild are too much.
With a sigh and a mutter about his stubborn girls, he stands up and heads toward the door. But he stops and turns back, waiting, his watery blue irises twinkling with his smile. My scowl lasts all of two more seconds before a grin wins out. It’s impossible to keep a scowl when my dad smiles at me like that. He just has a way about him.
Dad chuckles softly. “That’s my Livie Girl. Make me proud.”
He says the same thing every night.
And tonight, just like every other night, I flash him a toothy smile as I answer, “I’ll always make you proud, Daddy.” I watch him leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I wake up to a late-afternoon sky and my last words to my father playing over in my head. Such simple words. A tiny, routine phrase. But in reality, guaranteed to be a lie. I mean, how can anyone commit to something like that? Not every decision you will make is going to be a good one. Some of them will even be disastrous.
I turn and see that the person sitting in the lounger next to me isn’t as red-haired or female as the one who was there when I fell asleep.
“Hello, Livie.” Dr. Stayner adjusts his hideous two-toned bowling shirt. It almost goes with the Hawaiian boardshorts that no man his age should ever wear. “How do you like my beachwear?”
“Hey, Dr. Stayner. Why are you always right?”
“I tend to be, don’t I?”
“Thank goodness. I thought I’d have to torch that chair if you didn’t shower soon.”
I give my sister a playful shove as we walk down the hall toward the kitchen. “So . . . Stayner?”
She shrugs. “I texted him last night to let him know that you finally cracked. I didn’t expect him to show up here with a suitcase, though.”
Apparently, Dr. Stayner has decided to enjoy a few days in sunny Miami, Florida at Chez Ryder. Well, Storm insisted that he stay with us, even though that means he takes Kacey’s room and she either sleeps with me or at Trent’s. I reminded her that it was strange and unprofessional for the family psychiatrist to stay with us. Then she reminded me that everything about Dr. Stayner is strange and unprofessional, so this actually makes sense.
My argument ended there.
And now Dr. Stayner is at our kitchen sink in one of Storm’s polka-dot aprons, peeling carrots with Mia’s help.
“Do you think eating carrots really make you see better or is that just what moms say to make kids eat vegetables?” Mia’s at that cute age where she’s still quite gullible but is learning to question things.
I lean up against the entranceway with my arms crossed and watch with curiosity.
“What do you think, Mia?” Dr. Stayner replies.
She narrows her eyes at him. “I asked you first.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Don’t bother. She’s too smart for you, Stayner.”
With a squeal, Mia drops the carrot and runs to dive into my arms in a hug. “Livie! Mom said you were here. Did you see X moving?”
I chuckle. I guess Mia has moved on from the loving nickname “Baby Alien X” to just “X.” It works. “No, but I saw Dan poking your mom’s belly last night,” I say with a wink.
She makes a face. “I hope he’s not going to be weird when X is born.” The topic quickly changes. “Are you staying for a while?” Her expression is hopeful.
“I don’t know, Mia.” And it’s the truth. I just don’t know anything anymore.
“What do you think it is?”
Dr. Stayner slurps at the extra-large latte as we sit side by side in lounge chairs on the back deck, watching the early morning joggers pass by. All that coffee can’t be good for him. “I can’t begin to hazard a guess on that, Livie. He clearly has some issues to sort out. It would seem that he uses physical connections with women as a way of coping. It would seem that his mother’s death is too difficult for him to talk about. It would seem that he does care greatly for you.” Dr. Stayner sits back in his chair. “And if he grew up with an abusive father, then it is quite possible that he still feels as if he has little control over his life. Maybe he does. But I can tell you that you’ll never get an answer that makes sense to you about why it all happened to him. And until he talks about it, it’s difficult to help him. And that is why, my dear Livie Girl . . .” I roll my eyes but then smile. For some reason he took a liking to that nickname. “You need to untangle yourself from his mess until you can straighten out yours. Don’t forget, your sister and Trent needed the same. It was five months before they reconnected. These things often take time.”
I nod slowly. Five months. Where will Ashton be in five months? How many women will he “forget” with in by then? And can I handle being at Princeton while he works things out? If he’s even trying to work things out. My stomach is starting to churn again.
“Livie . . .”
“Sorry.”
“I know it’s hard, but you need to focus on yourself for a little while. Get this hang-up out of your head that you”—he lifts his fingers in air quotes—“‘lied’ to your father.”
“But . . .” I avert my gaze to my freshly painted toes, care of Storm. “I know what he wanted for me and I’m going against it. How in the world would that make him proud of me?”
Dr. Stayner pats my shoulder. “I don’t guarantee anything, Livie. Ever. But I will guarantee that your parents would be proud of you and your sister. Beyond proud. You are both simply . . . remarkable.”
Remarkable.
“Even though I finally cracked?” I smile sadly, repeating Kacey’s words.
He starts chuckling. “You didn’t, Livie. I’d like to say that you finally came to a crossroad and just needed some guidance. You’re a smart cookie who seems to figure things out. That’s all you need sometimes—a little bit of guidance. Not like your sister. Now, she cracked.” He turns to mouth “wow,” and I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes me.
“I think you are going to be just fine with time. Now is the fun part.”
I raise my brow in question.
“Figuring out who you want to be.”
I’m used to Dr. Stayner in small doses—one hour per week on the phone, max. So when he leaves after spending several days with me, my brain temporarily shuts down like a machine that’s overheated. We spent most of that time out on the back deck, discussing all the options I had before me for my education, for my future career aspirations, and for my social life. He never shared his opinions. He said he didn’t want to skew my own selection process. The only thing he insisted on is that I embrace ambiguity for a while, that I don’t dive into a choice for the sake of making one. He suggested that taking classes without focusing on a major right now à la Reagan isn’t a bad idea. Of course, he had to acknowledge that the longer I waffled, the less likely the “stay at Princeton” option would apply, because I’d fail the semester.
I think my biggest fear about going back to Princeton isn’t Princeton itself—I’ve accepted that the school just isn’t for me. And I’ve already called the hospital to inform them that I’m quitting my volunteer position.
My biggest fear is facing Ashton again and my weakness around him. A simple look or touch could pull me back to him and that’s not good for either of us. I’ve walked away once. Will the second time be harder or easier? Or impossible . . .
My life is full of difficult choices and one that’s easy—Ashton.
And he’s the one choice that I can’t have.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Choices
I swear Reagan was waiting at the door like an eager pet for the sound of the unlocking mechanism, because the second I step through on Friday night, she barrels into me. “I missed you so much!”
“It’s only been two weeks, Reagan,” I say with a chuckle, tossing my purse on the desk. I decided to come back to Princeton after all. Not because I particularly feel like this is the place for me, but because I do know that I want an education, and until they either kick me out or I transfer to Miami—which I looked into while back at home—I may as well be here.
Tucking my hair back behind my ear, I ask casually, “So how has everything been?”
Her nose scrunches up. “Same. Don’t know. Ashton’s staying at my parents’ right now and I can’t get anything out of my dad. Grant’s been staying here a lot because the house isn’t much fun right now. Connor is hurt. But he’ll be fine, Livie. Seriously. He just needs to get laid.” She flops down onto her bed in typical Reagan fashion—dramatically. “Oh, and Ty sprained his ankle. Dumbass.”
I chuckle, but it doesn’t loosen the angst inside.
“What’s your plan for this weekend?” She hesitates. “Are you going to see him?”
I know who “him” is and it’s not Connor. I shake my head. No . . . We need more than two weeks to sort this mess out. It’s too new. Too fresh. Too painful to deal with. “Trying to catch up, if there’s any hope.” I missed a week’s worth of classes, including a test. I slowly climb up the rungs to my bed, pushing out all the memories. “And I’m going to visit the boys at the hospital.” I have to say goodbye properly, for my own closure.
I get a text from Dr. Stayner as I’m taking the train in to the hospital. It has an address, along with the words:
One more task, since you owe me for not completing the last one. Be there at two p.m.
I don’t even question him anymore. The man’s brilliant. I simply respond with:
Okay.
“Hi, Livie.” Gale’s beaming smile greets me at the front desk. When Kacey told Dr. Stayner that I was back in Miami, he contacted the hospital to let them know, in vague terms, what was happening. When I made the final decision that I would not be continuing on with the volunteer program, he sat with me while I called to let them know. They’ve been incredible with it all.
“The boys will be so happy to see you.”
“How are they?”
She winks. “Go see for yourself.”
Walking through the halls doesn’t make me as sick as it did before, I notice. I know it’s not because I have somehow gotten used to it. It’s because I’ve let go of the idea that this has to be my future.
The twins run to me with energy I haven’t seen in a while, clutching my legs and making me giggle.
“Come here!” Each of them grabs hold of a hand. They pull me over to the table. If they were upset that I left so abruptly two weeks ago, they aren’t showing it.
“Nurse Gale said you were gone, doing some . . . I don’t get what she said. Something about a . . . soul? You lost it? And you needed to go find it?” Eric ends that with a quizzical frown.
Soul searching. I chuckle. “Yes. I was.”
“Here.” Derek pushes forward a stack of papers with drawings on them. “She told us to help you think of all the things you could be when you grow up.”
“I told her you wanted to be a doctor,” Eric interjects with an eye roll. “But she thought it’d be good to give you backup ideas.”
Looking at each of them in turn, at their eager little faces, I begin flipping through each sheet, evaluating all of my options.
And I’m laughing harder than I’ve laughed in a long time.
I step out of the cab in front of a large white Victorian house in Newark at exactly two p.m. By the sign out front, it appears to be a nursing home of sorts. A fairly nice one at that, I note as I enter through the front door and into a modest but charming foyer with dark mahogany floors, pastel striped wallpaper, and a floral arrangement sitting on a side table. Across from me is an unattended front desk with a notice directing visitors to a registration book. I sigh as I glance around, looking for a clue as to what I’m supposed to do next. Dr. Stayner gave me no further instruction than to go to this address. Normally he’s quite explicit with his demands.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, about to text him for guidance, when a young blond woman in baby blue nurse scrubs strolls by.
With a smile in greeting, she says, “You must be Livie.”
I nod.
“He’s waiting for you in room 305. Stairs are around the corner, to your left. Third floor and follow the signs.”
“Thanks.” So Dr. Stayner is here. Why am I not surprised? I open my mouth to ask the nurse what she knows about room 305, but she’s gone before I can utter a word.
I follow her directions, taking the staircase to the third floor, the lingering scent of industrial-grade cleaner trailing the entire way. I can’t help but notice the eerie quiet as I climb. It only amplifies the creaking steps. Aside from an occasional cough, I hear nothing. I see nothing. It’s as if the place is empty. My gut tells me it’s far from it.
Following the room numbers on the doors, I watch the progression until I reach my destination. The door is propped open. Okay, Dr. Stayner. What do you have for me now? With a deep inhale, I step hesitantly around the corner, expecting to find my graying psychiatrist.
A short, narrow hallway leads into a room that I can’t see fully from the doorway. All I can see is the corner ahead and a dark-haired, tanned, beautiful man hunched over in a chair—his elbows on his knees, his hands folded and pressed to his mouth as if he’s waiting with trepidation.
My breath hitches.
Ashton is on his feet immediately. His lips part as he stares at me, as if he wants to speak but doesn’t know where to begin. “Livie,” he finally manages, and then clears his throat. He’s never called me Livie before. Never. I don’t know how that makes me feel.
I’m too shocked to respond. I hadn’t expected to see him today. I hadn’t prepared myself.
I watch with wide eyes as Ashton takes five quick strides over and seizes my hand, his worried brown eyes locked on mine, a slight tremble in his grip. “Please don’t run,” he whispers, adding more quietly, more gruffly, “and please don’t hate me.”
That snaps me out of my initial shock but it sends me into another one. Did he honestly think I’d run from him the second I saw him? And how on earth could Ashton ever think that I’d hate him?
Whatever is going on, Ashton clearly doesn’t comprehend the depth of my feeling for him. Yes, I left two weeks ago. It was something I had to do. For me. But I’m here now and I don’t ever want to run or walk or anything away from Ashton again.
I just pray to God that I won’t have to.
What the hell is that damn psychiatrist of mine up to now?
Stepping backward, Ashton silently leads me farther into the room until I can see the entire space. It’s quaint, simple—with pale yellow paper adorning the walls, crown molding lining the ceiling, and several vine plants suspended before a bay window, soaking up the mid-afternoon sunshine. All of those details vanish, though, as my eyes land on the woman lying in the hospital bed.
A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a faintly wrinkled face that surely would have been described as beautiful at one time, especially with those full lips. Lips as full as Ashton’s.
And it all just . . . clicks.
“This is your mother,” I whisper. It’s not a question because I know the answer with certainty. I just don’t know the mountain of “whys” behind it.
Ashton’s hand never slips from mine, his grip never weakens. “Yes.”
“She’s not dead.”
“No, she’s not.” There’s a long pause. “But she is gone.”
I appraise Ashton’s solemn expression for a moment before turning back to the woman. I don’t mean to stare, but I do anyway.
Her eyes flicker from my face to Ashton’s. “Who . . .” she begins to say, and I can tell she’s struggling to form her words, her mouth working the shapes but unable to make the sounds come out. And in her eyes . . . I see nothing but confusion.
“It’s Ashton, Mom. This is Livie. I told you about her. We call her Irish.”
The woman’s gaze roams Ashton’s face and then drops down as if to search her memory.
“Who . . .” She tries again. I take two steps forward, as far as Ashton’s death grip on my hand will allow me. It’s close enough to catch the faint smell of urine that I recognize from the seniors homes with patients who have lost all bladder control.
As if giving up on figuring either of us out, the woman’s head rolls to the side and she simply stares out the window.
“Let’s get some air,” Ashton whispers, pulling me with him as he walks to a little radio on the side table. He turns on an Etta James disc and adjusts the volume up a bit. I don’t say anything as he leads me out of her room, closing the door softly behind him. We head down the hallway and a different set of stairs in silence, one that leads out to the home’s backyard garden, a sizeable property with bare oak trees and small paths weaving through the flower beds, long since prepared for winter. I suspect this is a lovely respite for residents in warmer weather. Now, though, with the weak November sun and a bite in the air, I shudder.
Taking a seat on a bench, Ashton doesn’t hesitate to pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around my body as if to shelter me from the cold. And I don’t hesitate to let him, because I crave his warmth for more than one reason. Even if I shouldn’t.
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
I don’t know what’s right anymore. All I know is that Ashton’s mother is alive and Dr. Stayner sent me here, no doubt to learn the truth. How Dr. Stayner knew . . . I’ll figure that out later.
I close my eyes and inhale, absorbing Ashton’s heavenly scent. Being so close to him after our night together is even harder than I imagined it would be. I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and the storm of emotions threatens to push me off—pain and confusion and love and desire. I can feel that gravitational pull, that urge to curl into his body, to slide my hand over his chest, to kiss him, to make myself believe that he’s mine. He’s not mine, though. He’s not even his yet.
“Why, Ashton? Why lie about her death?” Why . . . everything?
“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t correct you when you assumed she was dead.”
The word “Why” is on my lips again, but he speaks before I can say it. “It was easier than admitting my mother doesn’t remember who I am. That every day I woke up hoping that it was the day she died so I could be free of my screwed-up life. So I could be at peace.”
I close my eyes to stave off the tears. Peace. Now I understand what that strange look was, the night that Ashton found out about my parents’ death. He was wishing the same for himself. Heaving a deep breath, I whisper, “You need to tell me. Everything.”
“I’m going to, Irish. Everything.” Ashton’s head tips back as he pauses to collect his thoughts. His chest pushes out against mine as he takes a deep breath. I can almost see the weight lifting off of his shoulders as he lets himself speak freely for the first time. “My mother has late-stage Alzheimer’s. She developed it very early—earlier than most.”
An instant lump forms in my throat.
“She had me when she was in her early forties. Unplanned and highly unexpected. And unwanted by my father. He . . . isn’t one to share. That apparently included my mother’s affections.” He pauses to give me a sad smile. “My mother modeled for years in Europe before meeting my dad and moving to America. I have some of her magazine covers. I’ll show you them one day. She was stunning. I mean drop-dead gorgeous.”
I lift a hand to touch his jawline. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He closes his eyes and leans into my fingers momentarily before continuing. “When she met my dad, she had no interest in having kids either, so it worked out well. They were married for fifteen years before I was born. Fifteen years of bliss before I ruined everything, according to my father.” He says that last part with an indifferent shrug, but I know he’s far from indifferent. I can see the pain thinly veiled in those brown irises.
Even though I know that I shouldn’t, I press my hand against his chest.
Ashton’s hand closes over it and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I thought I’d never feel you do that again,” he whispers.
I give him a moment before I gently push. “Keep talking.” But I leave my hand where it is, resting against his now racing heart.
Ashton’s lips curve into a small grimace. When his eyes open, he blinks against a glassy sheen. Just the idea of Ashton crying wrenches at my insides. I struggle to keep myself composed. “I still remember the day my mom and I sat at the kitchen table with a batch of cookies that I helped her bake. I was seven. She pinched my cheeks and told me that I was a blessing in disguise, that she didn’t realize what she was missing until the day she found out she was going to have me. She said that something finally clicked inside her. Some maternal switch that made her want me more than anything else in the world. She told me that I made her and my dad so very happy.” That’s when the single tear finally slips down his cheek. “She had no idea, Irish. No idea what he was doing to me,” he whispers, his eyes closing once again as he takes a deep, calming breath.
I brush the tear off his cheek but not before it spurs a dozen of my own, tears that I quickly wipe away because I don’t want to derail the conversation. “When did it start?”
Clearing his throat, Ashton goes on, pushing the door wide open to show me his skeletons without reservation. Finally. “I was almost six the first time he locked me in a closet. Before that, I never saw him much. He worked long hours and avoided me the rest of the time. It didn’t really matter. My mom doted on me constantly. She was an expressive woman. Endless hugs and kisses. I remember her friends joking that she would smother me to death with love.” His brow furrows. “Looking back on it now, that must have bothered my dad. A lot. He had had her undivided attention before that, and . . .” Ashton’s voice turns bitter. “One day, something changed. He started staying home when my mom had plans—a baby shower, or a party with her friends. He used those days to stick me in a closet with a strip of duct tape over my mouth. He’d leave me in there for hours, hungry and crying. Said he didn’t want to hear or see me. That I shouldn’t be alive. That I’d ruined their lives.”
I can’t understand how Ashton is so calm, how his heart keeps its steady rhythm, because I, despite all of my resolve to keep my composure, have melted into a blubbering mess as the visual of that little dark-eyed boy—not much bigger than Eric or Derek—curled in the closet burns bright in my mind again. I struggle to speak with the sharp lump in my throat. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Ashton’s palm wipes away some of my tears. “A few months earlier, I had accidentally let our Pomeranian out the front door. He ran right into traffic . . . My mom cried for weeks over that dog. Dad said he’d tell her that I intentionally let it run out the door, that I was a wicked little boy that did bad things to animals. I was terrified that she’d believe him. . . .” He shrugs. “What the hell did I know? I was only six.” There’s a pause. “It was about a month before my eighth birthday when my mom started forgetting dates, and names, and appointments. She did it occasionally before that but it started getting really bad.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a big swallow. “Within a year they diagnosed her. That’s the day . . .” Inhaling deeply through his nose, he rubs the belt on his wrist. The one that’s still there, still confining him. His constant reminder. “He never used a belt on me before that. I don’t think he knew how hard he could hit before breaking skin. And he was mad. So mad at me. He blamed me for everything. He said the pregnancy did this to her, that the hormones had started wrecking her brain the day I was born.” Ashton absently scratches over his forearm, where one of his scars hides. “He told me not to tell her what happened or the stress of it would make her get worse, faster. So I lied. I told her I got the cuts screwing around on my bike. After that, I lied to her about everything. The bruises on my ribs when he punched me, the welts when he hit me with the belt again, the bump on my forehead the night he shoved me into the door frame. I got so used to lying, and my mother’s health was deteriorating so quickly that what he was doing to me became . . . insignificant. I got used to it.
