Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  Anger sweeps through me. I push off the wall and shout in his face, “I’ll take Jesse over anyone! Anyone else would have bowed down to you, but Jesse is helping me leave!”

  “What did you say?” Dad’s voice goes deadpan and a warning chill runs through me.

  “Bryant.” Mom touches Dad’s arm, and Dad turns on her.

  “I told you years ago to never let her play with that boy.”

  “They were only children,” Mom whispers.

  “This is what happens when you don’t listen!” he shouts.

  He raises his hand, she covers her face and he hits her. The smack of flesh against flesh is a knife through my windpipe. Mom’s head flops back, her body transforms to that of a rag doll, and she falls to the floor. Mom’s a lifeless lump, and I shout her name. She jerks, a quick glance up, and raises her arms as Dad lifts his hand again.

  I scream, but I don’t hear the sound, I don’t hear anything but a high-pitched buzzing. I grab at my father, attempting to hold on to his arm, but he shoves me off.

  He strikes her again, and she squeezes into a ball. He lifts his arm, and I run in between them, but he grabs me. His fingers dig into my skin, I screech with the blinding pain and he throws me. I hit the wall; my muscles spasm with the impact and I crumple to the floor.

  Mom sobs, a gut-wrenching sound that cuts me deep, and I look up to see him strike her again and again. Blood gushes from her nose, her mouth. Dad kicks her and a strange sound leaves Mom’s mouth, a croaking wheeze as if she can’t get in enough air.

  “You’re killing her,” I yell, and Dad staggers back.

  He looks at me, he looks at Mom, then becomes frozen. A demented statue.

  Mom’s crying, her entire body shaking. She tries to push up, but her arm gives as if there is no bone. She hits the floor, wincing as if breathing causes her agony. Blood stains her face, her hair, her clothing, my floor.

  “Leave!” I scream at my father.

  He slowly turns his head toward me as if he doesn’t comprehend my words.

  “Leave!” I yell again, and he does. A slow, stiff walk that’s not fast enough for me.

  I crawl, wrap my body around her and start to sob as if I’m a child. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

  “Mommy?” Isabelle says from the doorway. She’s in PJs and an American Girl doll dangles from her hand. She shakes from head to toe. We’re broken, so broken, and no one in this family will ever be fixed again.

  JESSE

  It’s nearly impossible to keep my eyes open in the passenger side of Marshall’s car. I had to spend the night in lockup and made bail this morning. Marshall then took me to the ER to have the bump on my head examined. There, he talked to the doctor behind the curtain. I didn’t pay much attention as my thoughts were swamped by Scarlett.

  Now, he’s taking me to his house. Not my first choice, but he’s my guardian and doesn’t think going home is in my best interest. But there’s a nagging in my gut to confirm that Scarlett is safe. It’s so strong that a part of me wants to open the car door, even though Marshall’s speeding down the road, jump out, run toward home and hold Scarlett in my arms.

  “Can we at least swing by my house? Maybe pick up some stuff?” Give me a few minutes to sneak across the road, climb up the tree and check on Scarlett?

  “Scarlett’s father was on the warpath last night,” Marshall says as if he’s reading my mind. Maybe he’s now psychic. “I hate to admit it, but he has some major connections at the police department. The last thing you need is a confrontation with him, and being across the road is begging for one.”

  “Did you see Scarlett?” I ask. “Was she okay?”

  Marshall shakes his head, and I’m so damn edgy I swear my skin is molting.

  “I heard someone say that the police took her home. Scarlett’s father came to the station to talk to the chief. A friend of mine said the meeting wasn’t pretty. Mr. Copeland was mad it took so long to find her, and then he was angry with what happened when they did. He wasn’t happy to hear his daughter was manhandled. I’m hoping the last part will work in our favor.”

  “Is there any way you can check on Scarlett?”

  “Is there something you want to tell me? Maybe the big something I feel you’ve been leaving out?”

  I’m silent as I don’t know what to tell him. At least not without possibly upsetting Scarlett because I betrayed her secret.

  “I’ll see if anyone has seen her since the arrest.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m forgetting the question. I’m just allowing you some time to get your thoughts together.”

  I check my cell again, and besides a few texts from V, Leo and Nazareth, there’s nothing from Scarlett and nothing from Glory. Silence from Scarlett is disappointing yet expected. We’ve never reached out to each other via cell. The silence from Glory, though, hits me hard. It’s sad to admit, but I had started to believe Glory had a gift and that she cared.

  “I called in every favor I have,” Marshall continues. “And even called in a few favors that aren’t owed to me.”

  I can’t explain how grateful I am for him. I’d hate to think what would happen to someone who didn’t have an Uncle Marshall in their corner.

  “Even if this goes in front of a judge,” he continues, “we have a good chance of getting this thrown out. Your initial arrest for kidnapping was an unlawful arrest, which means you have a justification to resist within reasonable limits. If that doesn’t work, we can use the case of self-defense. That nice bump on your forehead will be the proof we need.”

  That explains the photos he had the doctor take. “I didn’t think you did criminal law.”

  “I don’t, but I did stay up most of the night reading.”

  “Thank you.” Probably the most sincere thing I’ve said to him.

  “Regardless of what you think, I care, Jesse. I always have.”

  I believe him, but I’m too drained to deal with much. “I don’t get it. Why is Scarlett’s father one of the people voting?”

  “A few years ago, he began checking up on your grandmother at least twice a week. He paid for some of the repairs on the trailer. Mrs. Copeland would come over, too, and visit with her. You were either at school or working the land. This isn’t a slap in the face to you, but your grandmother was lonely.”

  Heavy with exhaustion, I’m slow looking over at him. “I never knew.”

  Marshall looks as exhausted as me. Black circles under his eyes, his white dress shirt wrinkled. He stops at a red light and rubs his eyes. “Suzanne didn’t want you to know. She thought it would upset you that she had become close with Scarlett’s parents after you and Scarlett had stopped being friends.”

  It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because there’s no straight process to understand. “He’s not a good man.”

  Marshall glances over at me with sharp eyes. “Do you want to elaborate on that?”

  “You already granted me a delay on that subject.”

  Marshall swears under his breath. “How deep is this rabbit hole?

  “Deep.” But I switch the subject back to Gran. “I don’t believe Mr. Copeland was checking on and helping Gran out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “He was a sweet talker to your gran, and I didn’t see anything wrong with it as the whole community thinks the man is a god. Your grandmother was a force of nature, but she was old, and as I said, she could get lonely.

  “The day before her death, I had heard through friends that Mr. Copeland was asking around how much the land would be worth and if he would have any competition on buying it. That didn’t sit right with me so I had planned on going over the next day and convincing your gran to change the vote from him to Glory, but I was too late. If you want to be mad at me for that, I don’t blame you, but don’t be mad at your gran. Even the best of us can be conned.”

  “Does he know he’s one of the votes on the tribunal?” />
  “Yes.”

  Glory lied to me the entire time. “I’m going to lose the land, aren’t I?”

  The light turns green, and Marshall presses on the gas. “I know this is tough on you, but I can’t give you the land. Seeing how hard you’ve worked over the past few months has impressed me, but the maturity aspect is only a portion. If you stay here you’ll be fighting a legacy you have nothing to do with. What happened last night should be proof. Everyone will always think the worst of you because of your last name.”

  “I can prove them wrong,” I say.

  “If you stay here, you’ll become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  My head hits the back of the seat, and I close my eyes. It’s a surreal moment of sinking. Forty-eight hours ago, I had it all—possibly two votes to keep my land and the girl I loved in my arms. For a brief moment, I was happy. My throat constricts as I realize my mom was wrong and the world was right. The original curse is real, the land didn’t protect me and I’ve lost everything I love.

  We pull into the driveway, Marshall turns off the car and there’s a few moments of silence.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse,” he says. “But I promise you’ll get good money for the land. I’ll invest it well for you, and it will give you plenty of time to figure out what you’d like to do with your life. And I promise you, you’ll build a good life, a great life, and you’ll look back on all of this as a bad dream. But in order for you to have a decent future, you have to learn how to let this life and this town go.”

  He stares at me, waiting for a response, but what do you say when you’ve lost it all? What do you say when all that you’ve loved has died?

  “Gena made up the spare bedroom for you, and she took the kids to her mom’s so we could get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. We’ll tackle the rest later, okay?”

  I’m grateful that his wife and children are gone. They’re innocent, and I don’t need to curse anyone else.

  SCARLETT

  Dad’s locked himself in the basement. As far as I’m concerned, he can lock himself in hell. Isabelle is plastic-wrap tight to me as we lay together on Mom’s bed. The TV is on. My eyes are on it, but I don’t watch. I wonder if Isabelle is able to lose herself in the flashing, loud cartoon. I wonder if Isabelle will ever be okay again, because I’m not. I’m consumed with the darkness of violation, betrayal and shame.

  He hit Mom, and he tossed me into the wall. My wrist throbs and so does my back. But my pain is nothing compared to Mom’s. Was Dad hitting Mom the same as him shoving me? Is it abuse? Is that the same or is it different?

  There’s a numbness in my brain that won’t let me connect his actions with my emotions. I’m like one of Isabelle’s bandaged-by-toilet-paper dolls. Frozen, empty and emotionless.

  Isabelle and I stayed in here with Mom last night. Most of it was spent consoling my sobbing mother and pressing ice to her wounds. We had the same mantra of a conversation.

  Call the police, Mom.

  I can’t.

  Call the police, Mom.

  I can’t. They won’t help me. They can’t help me. No one can.

  I’m going to call the police. I’m going to tell them what happened.

  Who will believe you? The cops just pulled you half-naked out of a car with Jesse Lachlin. They arrested him and pity you.

  Mom went in to take a shower thirty minutes ago. The water ran for fifteen minutes, but since then there’s been silence. I glance at the door and light peeks out from underneath. A slice of worry breaks through my emotional paralysis. Yes, her body was broken and bruised, but so was her spirit. Her state of mind is fragile, and a question dances around the crazy in my mind. Would she hurt herself to escape?

  I kiss Isabelle on the top of the head and cuddle her closer for a second, whispering that I’ll be right back. What I’m not prepared for is how she clings to me.

  “Don’t go.” Isabelle’s grip on my arm becomes painful.

  I place my hand over hers and try to gently peel her fingers off of me. “I need to check on Mom. I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She slides off the bed, dragging the king-size comforter with her. Unfortunately, the biggest security blanket in the world can’t help us. “I’ll come with you.”

  Realizing I won’t win this battle, I give up, and when I knock on the door of the bathroom, Isabelle fastens herself to my leg.

  “Mom,” I call out. “Are you okay?”

  Some shifting and she says, “I’m fine.”

  No, she’s not. “Will you please open the door?”

  Mom doesn’t open the door, but she does undo the lock. I bundle my sister like a burrito by the door, face her toward the TV and convince her to stay put, promising to keep the door ajar.

  The hinges squeak as it opens, and it’s weird to think that a few weeks ago I was in here preparing for a date with Stewart. Mom was happy, my father was happy, but I wasn’t. I was sick, my soul was sick and I was dying. Now everyone is dying.

  Mom’s wrapped in a wet towel and sits up in ball on the tile floor near her sunken bathtub. Her hair is wet, uncombed, and she shivers. I grab a stack of towels and drape them over her. It’s hard to look directly at her as the right side of her face is bruised and her lip is swollen.

  I sit beside her and wonder what to say or what to do. I’m confused because she’s the parent and she should take care of me. But maybe that’s what she’s been doing, protecting me the only way she knew how. “You came into my room and touched him on purpose, didn’t you?”

  She’s silent, and there’s a part of me that wants her to stay quiet, but she eventually says, “It’s better that he hits me. I don’t want you to be hurt. I have never wanted you to hurt.”

  “Throw him out.”

  “I can’t.”

  So sick and tired of hearing I can’t, I hit the floor with my fist. “Throw him out.”

  “I can’t!” she shouts, and that causes me to look at her. Mom never loses her temper. That’s Dad’s job. “I’ve tried, Scarlett. For years. He won’t go. Just because I tell him to leave doesn’t mean he has to. This is his house, his home. The deed is in his name. So is every car and every bank account. Don’t you understand? I own nothing. I have no legal right to a thing. I can’t throw him out. He’s the one who can throw me out, and then who’s going to be here to protect you girls? No one, and I can’t live with that. I have never been able to stomach the idea of leaving here to save myself and risk putting you girls in the path of his wrath.”

  “Then we leave,” I say. “We pack our bags, we grab Isabelle and we leave.”

  “With what?” Mom demands. “Didn’t you hear me? We don’t have anything. You don’t think I’ve thought of leaving hundreds of times over the years? If I leave here, I leave with the clothes on my back.

  “I have no money to feed you, no money to house you, no money for a lawyer, and your father would have full custody of the two of you before I could turn the doorknob of the front door. Your father has money, he has influence. He has friends in the system, friends who have gone through ugly divorces, powerful friends who will side with him. I’ll lose, and I cannot leave you here to defend yourselves. I can’t. I won’t.”

  “But he’s hurting you. The law will protect us.”

  “Do you remember Nikki Harvey? Her husband was a police officer, and he hit her for years. The abuse became so bad that she ended up in surgery. While she was in surgery, he filed a protection order against her claiming that she had attacked him and what he did to her was self-defense. By the time she made it out of surgery, he already had emergency custody of the children and she didn’t have a penny to her name. It took her years to rebuild her life. TV makes leaving look so easy, but it’s not, Scarlett. The system can be manipulated. The system is broken.”

  My mind is a whirlwind as I try to grasp an answer. Any answer. And like a miracle, the answer is there. The plan. The one Pastor Hughes went over with me. The one he said could save my life. “Then we go to a women’
s shelter. We don’t have to stay here. We don’t need anything. We start from scratch, as a family. Just you, me and Isabelle.”

  “The nearest one is an hour away,” she says quietly.

  “Then we take his car and we go there.”

  “He’ll follow. He’ll say we stole his car.”

  “Then we give him the car back after we get there, and the shelter will find a way to help us.” I visited one of the websites Pastor Hughes shared with me. Their message was clear—all we have to do is leave. “Pastor Hughes says we aren’t alone. We can go to a shelter.”

  “We’re staying.” Mom sounds like Isabelle when she doesn’t want to eat her vegetables.

  “If you can’t throw Dad out, then we need to leave. I hear what you’re saying, and I’m not suggesting that this will be easy, but we have to give this a shot. We need to leave.”

  Mom clutches the towel I laid over her. “It’s easier to stay. It’s easier to make it work. He was doing well, and he was changing. If you think about it, you lied, and you continued to lie when we trusted you to tell us the truth.

  “And think of how much pain you put your father through last night. We were so terrified something horrible had happened to you. After what your father went through with his sister, what you did last night with Jesse Lachlin was heartless.”

  A dangerous flip of a switch in my brain and my head tilts. “What are you saying?”

  “I should have done a better job with you. I should have never let you be friends with Jesse when you were younger. Maybe I should have sent you to a private school. I should have done better to teach you to follow the rules. If we follow the rules then everything will be perfect. Your father would never be angry, and then we’d be happy.”

  Her words vibrate along my body, and my mind starts to split into tiny fractures. “Are you blaming me? Are you blaming yourself?”

  Mom’s eyes water, and she wipes the tears away. “Why couldn’t you forgive your father? Why couldn’t you have just learned to not be so upset? If we had just followed the rules, we would have been okay. He doesn’t get angry when we follow the rules, but now we have to start all over again and he’s going to be so hurt.”