by L. D. Davis
I had no sisterly affection for her. I liked her. I cared about her, but I was not sure if I actually loved her. I didn’t hate her or dislike her, even if she did give my mother everything she’d ever wanted from a daughter.
Taylor was an accomplished pianist and a capable violinist, but her tour de force was dancing. I had been a good dancer in my day, but Taylor was not merely good; Taylor was an outstanding ballerina. She was every bit of the young woman my mother had hoped I’d be at that age.
Despite the fact that we have two different fathers, Taylor and I do look similar. We share the same skin color, dark curly hair, and full lips, but that’s where the similarities stop. Her eyes are hazel and not gray. She has the body of a dancer while I have the body of a woman who enjoys chocolate croissants every morning.
As usual, young Taylor and all her grand accomplishments were at the center of our dinner conversation. I zoned out. Their voices became nothing more than white noise to my ears. I, again, thought of Grant, and not with any kindness. What did he want from me? Did he want to talk about Sharice? Besides the little bit I’d shared with Kyle, I didn’t want to think about or talk about Sharice. She had been my friend for a long time. She died. I didn’t. Then Grant left me on my own. That was that.
“Mayson?” Taylor’s small voice penetrated through the invisible bubble I had erected around myself. I realized that she had asked me a question I never heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking. “What?”
I felt my mom’s eyes on me, silently assessing.
“Will you come see me perform next month?” Her eyes shone bright with a youthful innocence I couldn’t remember having.
“Right, you got Odette in Swan Lake.” I managed a smile that I hoped looked sincere. It wasn’t insincere; I was happy for her. Mostly. “Of course. Text me with all of the necessary details so I can mark it on my calendar.”
She beamed, and I felt a little sorry for not being more excited for her benefit. Swan Lake was a big deal, even in the little ratty dance companies, and she was going to be the lead at one of the most notable dance schools in the world.
To make up for being a Kyle—that is, a douche puddle—I did something I almost never did and offered to spend extra time with my sister.
“My cousins are mass-migrating to the shore the week before Labor Day. If it’s okay with Mom and your dad, maybe you can join me for a few days. There won’t be any kids there your age, but we will be doing the boardwalk and all that stuff teenagers like to do.”
Really, I didn’t know what made me invite her. The oldest kid after her was Owen, and he was still a few years away from puberty. What the hell was I going to do with her for days?
Taylor’s small shoulders dropped with disappointment. “That sounds like a lot of fun, but…” She looked from one parent to the other before turning her apologetic eyes back to mine. “We’ll be on our family vacation in Greece.”
She was fifteen, but she wasn’t stupid. It only took a moment of tensed silence for her to understand that it was her choice of words that caused the tension. Her lovely eyes widened as she began to stumble over her words.
“I mean, you-you’re a part of our-our family, of course. It’s j-just that…I…” she trailed off, looking to my mother helplessly.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly when Taylor tried again to explain. “Greece is better than the Jersey shore on any day.”
I poked at my garlic mashed cauliflower. I couldn’t be mad at Taylor for saying “our family” in a way that excluded me. It was true. It had been true since before she was born. I had no immediate family. The closest I had to an immediate family at that point in my life was Kyle Sterling, and that was just sad.
“Mayson, how is work?” Mom asked, ignoring the conversation that had just occurred.
I didn’t feel like playing the game where she pretended to really be interested in my life. The purpose of the stupid dinners were to make sure that I was still clean, not because she missed me or enjoyed my company, or really cared about me.
Instead of answering her, I pushed my plate away and stood up. Six eyeballs looked at me with unease, like I was about to grow twenty feet, turn green, and go into a VPF. It had been years since that had happened, but unlike me, they had long memories. Long, unforgiving memories.
“I just remembered that I have a…work thing.” I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Thanks for dinner.”
My mother’s unease had slipped behind her poker face. Her expression was blank and her tone casual when she said, “You barely ate anything.”
“I’m fine. Thanks. Don’t forget to text me the information,” I said to Taylor, unable to find even an insincere smile for the girl. I gave Aaron and my mom a stiff wave of my hand and hurried out of the dining room.
My mother caught up to me before I could walk out the door.
“Are you okay?” she asked without any concern behind her words. There was never any inflection in her voice when she spoke to me.
“I’m not high or on drugs,” I said dryly.
She blinked slowly, the only indication that she was at all bothered.
“I didn’t ask you anything about drugs. I asked if you are okay.”
Holding my fists to my face, I snapped, “I’m fucking fine, Mom. I just need to get out of here.”
“Why? Why do you need to get out of here? What is it that we’re doing wrong this time?”
I dropped my hands away from my face and looked at her. I felt my eyes prickling with tears and it made me furious. I hated showing any signs of weakness in front of anyone, but especially in front of my mother. I felt that every little bit of weakness she saw in me was further proof of my failure as a daughter.
“I don’t belong here.” My voice came out tight with unshed tears.
“You do belong here,” she said calmly. “We’re your family. You—”
I shook my head, cutting her off. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have anyone. The only person I have is myself.”
I pulled open the door and left without any further resistance.
Chapter Five
I scream at my mother again, but she only stands there. She wears the same blank expression that I despise so much. Her face is so emotionless and robotic that it looked alien. I hate her for it. I hate her and I want to do something to make her face change. So, I do. I hit her.
I slap her across the face so hard that her head snaps to one side. Her hair swings as if blown by a gust of wind, hiding her lovely face from my view. I stand there and wait for her to look at me, wait for her to acknowledge what I’d just done. I want to see the astonishment on her face. I want to see anger or fear. I want to see something besides that impassive mask.
It feels like it takes forever before she finally and slowly turns her head and faces me again. She holds a hand to her cheek—which I know must sting, because my hand hurts like hell—but her face, her damn face is as blank as a stone that has been smoothed to perfection.
My hatred boils. I shriek with fury and hit her again. Again. Again. And again. I no longer have control of my body. When she tries to flee, my body follows her. I tackle her to the ground and grapple with the woman I call Mother.
I hear the small child screaming. Screaming for her mom. Screaming for me to just please, please, please stop hurting her mommy. But I can’t stop. I don’t know if I can ever stop. Because her mommy is finally making faces. Her mommy’s mask has finally slipped off, and beneath it is terror, hatred, sadness, and blood. She bleeds and fights and cries out and begs, but I. Can’t. Stop.
I sit on her chest and go on and on, because hitting her, making her face change, it’s like a high. I love getting high. I love that exhilarating feeling, but…there’s always a crash.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I can barely lift my arms. She lays beneath me a bloody, bruised, whimpering mess, and I love it. I love it because of her face. I touch it with outstretched fingertips, tracing over her downturned m
outh and feeling the blood and tears on her swollen cheeks.
“Your face,” I say with a sleepy joy. “Your face.”
Then she and the screaming child are gone, and I find myself kneeling next to my father’s body, sobbing. I’m hitting him, too, but not because I hate his face, but because I want him to wake up. To just wake up.
Daddy, please wake up. I’m sorry. Please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…
Then I am in someone’s arms, my ear pressed against a chest. I can’t hear his heartbeat over the sounds of my own sobs, but I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, and I can smell him. That smell. That clean, soft, and masculine smell.
“It will be okay,” Grant Alexander murmurs in my ear.
“Yes, it will be okay,” Sharice’s voice says from somewhere behind me.
But they both lied, because nothing was ever okay ever again.
Truth or Fiction: I hated my mother’s passiveness.
Truth. Only my dreams showed me how much I actually hated it.
Truth or Fiction: I had a violent psychopathic fugue and attacked my mother.
Truth. I was sixteen when it happened.
Truth or Fiction: I enjoyed beating my mother.
Fiction. I can’t tell you that I did enjoy beating my mother. I don’t remember it much because I was high.
Truth or Fiction: Taylor witnessed me beating my mother.
Fiction, mostly. Taylor had not been born when I had that VPF, but she had witnessed me pushing my mother around when she was very young.
Truth or Fiction: My father died in front of me.
Truth. My father did die. I was the one who sent him to an early grave.
As the sun began to lighten the sky beyond my bedroom windows, I sat up in bed and tried to shake off the adrenaline, fear, and devastation I felt. My brain began the quick work of sorting through what was fact and what was fiction and what was unknown. I busied myself with my daily morning routines when all I wanted to really do was to pick up that damn phone and make the call, or, at least, sit down and fold paper until I created another stupid flower or another stupid star.
I made myself keep moving because I was in control. I was in complete control as long as I stayed on schedule. As long as I followed my routines, I was in control.
Truth or Fiction: My control was true. My control was real.
Fiction: My control was an illusion.
Chapter Six
My nightmare clung to me like a sticky residue. I couldn’t shake it.
I’d been having the reoccurring dream for years. Elements of it changed all the time, but Grant and Sharice had never had a place in it before. Another truth about my dream was that I’d spent the days and weeks after my father’s death in a psychiatric ward without visitors or contact with the outside world. Grant wasn’t my boyfriend at that time—he hadn’t even moved back to the state at that point—but Sharice had been there for me when I’d come out of the hospital.
Sharice…
I thought that I had forgotten the sound of her voice and the musicality of her laughter, but it had been buried in my mind like so many other things, but somehow, the dream uncovered that precious memory. Hours after dreaming of her, I could hear her in my head clearly.
I wondered if Grant remembered how his sister had sounded, or if like me, he mostly just remembered how she looked when she was dead.
I was only a little surprised to find him standing in front of the coffee shop again. Perhaps it was time for me to find a new route to work.
“Good morning, Mayson,” he said as I approached. He offered me a cup and a bag as he’d done the morning before.
I didn’t take them.
“What do you want, Grant?” I asked with mild exasperation.
“I told you yesterday. I want to talk.”
“We have nothing to—”
“We have everything to talk about, Mayson.”
“I don’t want to speak to you.” My works escaped through gritted teeth.
He looked at me for a long time, his dark eyes searching mine. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but I had the eerie feeling that he was able to see the parts of me that I kept hidden, not just from everyone else, but even from myself.
I broke eye contact first, because even if it was just my imagination, I didn’t like the idea of him seeing those hidden parts of me.
“If you didn’t want to talk to me, you would have kept on walking,” he said, closing the gap between us. “You wouldn’t have stopped and asked me what I wanted. You want to talk to me, but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
“Fuck you,” I spat. I turned to leave, but he smoothly stepped in front of me.
I let out a frustrated growl and took a step back from him.
“If you’re waiting for me to thank you for saving my life, you will be waiting a very long time.”
At first, he seemed taken aback by my comment, but that passed. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened.
“I didn’t ask for your thanks.” His voice sounded soft and rough at the same time. “Not only have I not asked you for a damn thing, Mayson, but here I am trying to give you something.”
“You asked to talk to me. You asked to have a few minutes with me.”
He shook his head from side to side three times, slow and purposeful. “I didn’t ask you, Baby Girl. I told you.”
I missed a breath at the sound of the familiar endearment, but I didn’t swoon. It only fueled the fire of fury that burned in my chest.
“You don’t get to tell me anything, Grant Alexander, and don’t call me that!” I leaned forward, pointing a finger at his chest as I let my words fly. “Why the hell do you want to talk to me? You want to remind me of the horrible things I’ve done and make me feel shame and less than human? Because I don’t need you to remind me, Grant. There are enough people in my life to remind me. Hell, I remind me every time I look in the mirror. I don’t need you to—”
My harsh words fell away with a brief, surprised sound when Grant’s hand shot out and gripped my upper arm. Roughly, he pulled me so close that our bodies were almost touching.
I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and stared up at him in alarm. My heart thrashed in my chest as fear washed over me. I wasn’t afraid of Grant, but it was my body’s automatic response to the unexpected closeness of a male. Fuzzy images of hands holding me and hands touching me zipped through my head.
My anxiety must have been written all over my face because Grant’s expression changed to mild alarm and confusion. He released my arm but didn’t give me the space I needed.
“Listen to me,” he demanded, his voice dark. “Don’t project your fear, self-disgust, and inability to forgive yourself onto me. Maybe it’s been a long time, but if you ever truly knew me, you’d know I would never beat you down for your past sins.”
My breaths were quick with anxiety and my heart continued to race, even though I felt more bewildered than scared.
“But…but you blame me for—”
“I don’t blame you for anything,” Grant said harshly. “You feel the weight of responsibility I have never assigned to you. I am not here to blame you, shame you, or to make you feel any worse than you already do. I am here because I have thought about what it would be like to see you again a million times over the years. I am here, Mayson, because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I first saw you in the coffee shop.” His voice and his eyes softened. “I want to know the new you. I want to know the woman you’ve become.”
I looked away again, which made me so angry. I never looked away, never backed down. People didn’t get to make me feel uncomfortable.
I looked down at our feet. With my voice quiet and bitter, I said, “Maybe I’m still the same broken, useless, and worthless person you left behind all those years ago.”
A light touch to my chin made my head tilt up. I wanted to bat his hand away and yell at him for touching me without my permission, but instead, I just stare
d stupidly into his brown eyes as he spoke quietly.
“You were never worthless to me.”
For a long moment, we simply looked at each other. I think I forgot to breathe, because when he finally released me and took a step back, I let out a long, explosive breath.
Again, Grant held out the coffee and slightly crumpled bag. Dumbly, I took the items from him.
“Look,” he said, more gently. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning. If you keep on walking without a word or glance in my direction…” He paused and gave me a look of doubt. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Forcing myself to sound stronger than I actually felt, I asked, “Do you mean that? Do you promise?”
“I promise, but…”
“But what?” I demanded.
“But you won’t keep walking,” he said with such confidence, that I almost blew a gasket.
“Fuck. You.”
“I can fuck you,” he whispered. “All you have to do is ask.”
Then the bastard walked away, leaving me speechless and trembling.
After I somewhat recovered, I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t give him any more of my time. I promised myself that the next morning, I’d walk past him and dismiss him from my life once and for all.
“And then he said ‘all you have to do is ask.’ And walked away!”
Kyle’s eyebrow shot up. “Are you going to ask him?”
“Shut up, Kyle!”
I hadn’t planned on telling him anything more about Grant, but it had been agitating me all day. I wasn’t the kind of girl to call up my girlfriends when I had guy issues—mainly because I rarely had guy issues since I rarely dated anyone. Also, Kyle wasn’t afraid to be honest and straightforward with me. Almost everyone else feared that they’d hurt my feelings, like hearing some honesty might to force me into some dark alley and overdose on drugs.
I looked over at Kyle when I realized he had indeed shut up and had been quiet for a couple minutes. He was absently drumming his fingers on his desk as his discerning eyes watched me pace his office.
