He shivers, then scrubs both hands over his face, the way my father does when he can’t think straight. “We moved here, away from Seattle, because of me. Tore the girls away from school and their friends. Because of what I—” His voice cracks. He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and asks, “Why are you here? Tonight? What made you come here?”
“Hey, not so quick. It’s your turn for the grilling.”
“Could we talk about the weather? Or the Seahawks, maybe. That’s a fine topic of conversation.” His face is still in his hands.
I put my hands over his and draw them down and away. He keeps his eyes cast down. I trace the scar on his forehead with my finger. And then the bump on his nose. He shivers beneath my touch, but doesn’t move.
“This,” I say. “Your father did this.”
“Don’t.” He grips my hand in one of his and pulls it away from his face, letting it rest against his chest. I can feel his heart thudding against his ribs. “This is where angels fear to tread, Maisey. You don’t want to go there.”
He’s right. I can feel the anger crawling under his skin, the way it bunches up his muscles, speeds his breath.
“Greg slapped Elle this morning,” I blurt out, as a change of subject. “For no good reason. He wasn’t even angry. He did it because he could.”
Tony draws in a breath. Holds it. Lets it all out in one long whoosh. “Told you he was a bastard.”
“He wants to take Elle back with him, and she’s not going. So we are hiding at your house. Also, we are going in search of my ever-so-pleasant sister tomorrow, and Elle was determined to ask you along as bodyguard.”
“Consider me hired.”
“Just like that? No lecture? No advice?” My hand is still trapped under his, the fingers splayed over his pectoral muscle, the heat of his palm almost enough to burn.
“Would you change your mind if I did lecture?” His head bends down over mine, so close his breath stirs the fine hair in front of my ear.
“Probably not.”
His lips graze my cheek. I can feel the tension in his body, his muscles rock-hard. Both of us are trembling.
“This is a very bad idea, Maisey. We are—”
I silence him with my lips against his. Lightly, at first, a brush, a taste, and then his arms go around me and he pulls me in hard, our lips moving into a kiss so deep it makes me dizzy.
He’s the one that breaks away, holding me by the shoulders and pushing me back to arm’s length. Both of us breathe like we’ve been running a marathon. I think there are tears on my cheeks, but I can’t quite feel my face.
“I can’t do this.” Tony’s voice is harsh. His hands are firm, inexorable, but there are no fingers digging into me. No pain, except for what is breaking open in my heart.
“Why, exactly?”
“All the reasons,” he says. “Greg being one of them.”
He’s right, of course. What was I thinking? Shame heats my body.
“I should go,” I say, only I can’t, because Tony is still holding on to my shoulders.
“When do we leave on this trip?”
“I thought you just said—”
“I can be your bodyguard,” he says. Pauses. Gives me a half smile. “And you can be my long-lost pal.”
It takes me a minute to catch the song reference. I run my fingers through my hair. Focus on breathing normally. He’s not trying to get rid of me altogether. I can do this. “All right, Paul Simon, but don’t you dare start calling me Betty.”
He laughs, but there’s no flash of little-boy mischief. He looks like I feel—deflated, like a punctured balloon. The treehouse isn’t magical anymore. Just a box up in a tree. As I work my way down the ladder, gravity takes possession of me. My body feels heavier with every rung, so that by the time my feet touch grass, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk back to the porch.
“Come on, Betty,” Tony says, and his smile is an act of courage. “There’s no rule that says we can’t be friends.”
Leah’s Journal
Boots showed up two days later, sleek and well rested and sorry. He brought grocery-store flowers. He brought me a bloody steak and held it to my cheek with his own hands.
“Poor Leah,” he said. “Please don’t do that again. I hate it when I hurt you.” He had tears in his eyes as he said it.
In my mind, I still had all kinds of sass. Don’t do what again? Get exhausted? Ask you for help? But I’d been tamed. My head hurt and the fatigue was something that mired my brain and soul in a gray fog that promised to last forever.
You will not understand this, Walter. I’m not sure that I do. But looking back at the next little space of time, Boots was my bright spot. He was still such a beautiful man. I think, twisted as it is, I came to see him as some sort of angel of mercy. Patient with my weakness. Helping me with the tasks I was incapable of performing on my own. Staying with me, even though my belly was scarred and my breasts leaked milk. Despite the baby weight I hadn’t lost and my inability to do anything other than tend to the little ones and sit, blank and doing nothing, or sleep.
There was a constant litany of this. His voice a patter of toxic rain. “Not that it’s your fault,” he would say, “but it’s a pity about those scars. Good thing you have a man who loves you anyway.” That sort of thing. Always in my head, and me so tired and already believing I was ugly and ruined.
I loved him then, more than I had loved him before. Clung to him. Forgot about leaving him.
Even when he hit me again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We can’t exactly troop up to Marley’s door and demand an audience, so we go the concert route again. It’s not like she’ll stomp off stage in the middle of a set when she sees us all sitting there.
Probably.
Maybe.
Mia and Elle together are an organizational force the military would be lucky to have. It takes them about five minutes to collect intel on Marley’s upcoming gigs and to announce that we will be dining at the Emerald of Siam in Richland tomorrow night, where we will be treated to Marley’s band once again.
They also locate her unlisted home address and that of her boyfriend. I know I should chastise my daughter for this stalker behavior, which goes far beyond the bounds of either family reunions or healthy fandoms, but I’m too wilted and weary to even try.
Dad has fallen asleep in a recliner in the living room, feet up, head tipped back, snoring. I’m jealous. It’s been days since I’ve had any restful sleep, and I have no idea when, or if, it will be safe to go home tonight. I certainly don’t have the energy to drive to Richland, although between Mia and Tony I’m pretty sure we can make it.
And so I sit there, half in, half out of reality, letting the conversation swirl around me and not really paying attention. When my phone goes off, it startles me half out of my chair. It’s a local number, not Greg, and I manage to fumble it on just before it goes to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Karen Porter with Frontier Realty. How are you this evening?”
Tired, I want to tell her. Fucking tired. Heartsick. Despairing, maybe. Not in the mood for telemarketers.
“Look, I don’t know how—”
“Greg gave me your number. He said he’d tell you I would be calling. Is this not a good time?”
I catch my breath, rein in my galloping heart. “A good time for what, exactly?”
“I’ve already driven by your father’s property. Such a lovely home. I’m sure you’re both sad about him having to leave it, but that’s what happens when we get old!”
Far from sounding sad, she sounds as chirpy as the first robin with the very first worm. I don’t have the energy for chirpy. “The house isn’t for sale.”
“Oh, are you sure? Greg said—”
“It’s not Greg’s house to sell. We’re not selling.”
I can almost hear her brain cells regrouping on the other end of the line. “Such a misunderstanding, then. I’m terribly sorry. Why don’t I give you my number, and th
at way if you ever decide—”
I just click End and sit there, staring at my phone, daring it to ring again, this time with a psychological evaluation company offering door-to-door service. Greg has apparently made good use of his waiting time.
An idea comes to me about how to make good use of mine. Greg’s wife and I need to have a little chat.
I excuse myself and step out onto the deck. Linda’s voice on the other end of the line sends a fortifying bolt of adrenaline blasting through me. All sensors go, Captain. Weapon systems armed and ready.
“Maisey. What happened? Is Greg okay?”
“How many times has he hit Elle?”
“Oh,” she says.
“How many times, Linda?”
A long silence unfolds. “He said he’s bringing her back with him,” she says finally, avoiding my question altogether.
“No. He’s not.” I bite each word off and spit it out. “Answer me, Linda. If you can’t protect her, at least you can tell me the truth.”
“She antagonizes him, sometimes. He corrects her. A father has a right to discipline his child.”
“Does he discipline you, too?”
Her breathing hesitates, comes back ragged and irregular. “I need to go, Maisey. It’s time to feed the baby.”
Which tells me all I need to know. Linda can’t help me, can’t protect Elle. She’s scared. I take a breath and soften my tone, coaxing her like a frightened animal.
“Wait a minute, Linda. He’s not there. He’ll never know we had this conversation. I won’t have Elle being hit. He’ll fight me in court, I know how he is. I need your help.”
She laughs at that. Shaky and small, but defiant. “I’ve already told you he has a right—”
“You hold that thought. Now picture your son growing up. What’s it going to be for him? A cheek slap and humiliation? Or fists? You think he’s immune, because he’s a boy. Hell, maybe you’re right. But do you want him to learn that behavior? Do you really think it’s okay?”
“I am not having this conversation. Greg is my husband. He—”
“Spare me. Do this one thing. Tell him you don’t want Elle full time. You know it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m sorry, Maisey. I can’t.”
The line goes dead, but her voice lingers in my ears, soft with what sounds like regret. Wild thoughts surge through my brain. I’ll run away with my daughter. Wipe out our identities. Live in the car.
None of this is practical, and I know it. I don’t have money to bankroll a getaway of that magnitude. Sooner or later I’m going to have to let Elle go back to Greg. Even if I put Dad in a care facility and go back to Kansas City, I’ll still have to let her visit. Living in a car and being on the run would probably be more damaging than the occasional discipline from her father.
I’m in the throes of accepting reality when the slider opens and Tony comes out on the deck.
“What’s the plan?” he asks. “We’re game to drive tonight, if you want, only your dad looks totally done in.”
I scrub my face with my hands and groan. “I know. Me, too. Just not up to fighting with Greg tonight.”
“You’re forgetting you have a bodyguard,” he says. “Or, you could sleep here.”
“Dad needs his medication. And we couldn’t intrude. I’m being ridiculous, I know. I need to face up to him. It’s just that I’m so damn tired.”
Tony’s hand rests on my shoulder. His face softens. His head lowers toward mine, and for a minute I think he’s going to kiss me again. “Mia and I will go fetch the meds. I bet Elle would love to sleep in the treehouse. Maybe you, too.”
I lean into this version of a plan like an illicit lover’s embrace. It is warm, inviting—and wrong.
“Another time.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m not going to keep hiding from Greg. We’ll go back to the house tonight. I’ll tell Greg that Elle isn’t going, like I’m an adult and not a frightened child. And tomorrow we’ll head for the Tri-Cities if you guys are still up for that.”
“Absolutely.” He opens the slider for me, then pauses, hand on the door. “You can do this, Maisey. You’re stronger than you think.”
Marley was the strong one, I almost tell him, and then gasp as the realization hits me. All of Marley’s imagined qualities: her fearlessness, her way with words, her adventurous spirit. All of them are mine. I don’t remember her, not as a real child. I created her out of the fabric of my own being.
Tony’s right. I can do this.
For a minute I consider leaving Elle here, safe and out of reach. And then it occurs to me that she needs to know that I will stand up for her. She needs to know that a woman can be strong against a man.
I’m not sure that I know this for myself, but I have one inner certainty. I cannot spend the rest of my life hiding from Greg.
Still, as we pull into Dad’s street, I’m holding my breath with the hope that Greg’s car will be gone. That he’s moved on. It would be fantastic luck to have the inner credit of knowing I was ready to stand up to him without actually having to do so.
Luck is against me. Greg is against me.
Earlier, he was irritated. He is now thoroughly pissed. Rage radiates off him like heat from an inferno. He gets out of his car, sears me with a glare, and then speaks directly to Elle.
“Get in the car. Your mother will bring your things.”
Elle hesitates, caught in the crossfire. I press the house key into her hand. “Go in the house, Elle. Take Grandpa and lock the door behind you.”
She scuttles up the sidewalk and away.
When Dad doesn’t follow, she turns back to look at us, at him, wavering.
“Please,” I say to the only father I’ve ever known. “She doesn’t need to hear this.”
He nods and follows Elle up the sidewalk and into the house.
Drawing strength from the fiercely protective love I have for my father and my daughter, I turn to face the man who has been controlling my life, one way or another, for so many years.
“We are not selling the house, Greg. I already told you. So I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t try to hook me up with Realtors.”
“And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t undermine my authority with Elle. I’ve bought her a ticket. Spent money. And we need to go. It’s already late, and we have an early flight.”
That’s the way it’s going to be, then. Straight to the heart of the matter.
I draw up courage from the earth beneath my feet. “She’ll come back with me. When I’m ready.”
Greg draws a deep breath, snorts it out through his nose. He reins himself in, all calm control, and actually smiles. Condescending and superior and deceptively calm.
“Maisey. You aren’t thinking straight. Perfectly understandable. You’re grieving. It’s been a difficult week. Our daughter needs to return to her normal routine. She needs to get back to school. All this chaos isn’t good for her.”
“She wants to stay.”
“She’s a child, Maisey. She doesn’t get to make decisions.”
“But I do, Greg.” I say it gently, surprising myself, as if he, Greg, is a child in the middle of a tantrum and needs soothing. “I’m the custodial parent. I’m actually pretty good at knowing what she needs. School is not an issue. There’s absolutely no reason why she can’t stay here.”
“Except that I’m taking her.”
“No. You’re not. Good night, Greg. Go home. And stop with the Realtors. If I want one, I know where to find one.”
I turn my back on him and start up the sidewalk.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Greg calls after me. “This isn’t like you.”
My feet grow roots that stop me short. I can’t run away from this. From him. I take a breath and turn back to face him.
“You. You are what got into me. You hurt me, Greg.”
He opens his mouth, but I keep talking. “Don’t start with the whole bit about how long it’s been since you hit me. You stil
l put me down, every opportunity you get. You always make me feel stupid. You’ve followed me around the country, interfered with my relationships. I’ve put up with it, tolerated it, sometimes didn’t even notice it. Why? Because of Elle. And now—” My voice breaks, and the traitorous tears come in a rush.
Greg takes my emotion for weakness and starts up the sidewalk toward me. “Is that what this is about?” he asks, oh so gently. “You think I hurt Elle?”
My breath comes in gasps. I can’t stop the tears, don’t trust my voice.
Greg holds his hand out to me, palm up. Takes a step closer. “Come on, Maisey. You know better than that. I’d never harm her.”
“I saw you. You can’t—”
“Oh, Maisey.” He sounds sorrowful now. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but discipline is necessary. Does she act like an abused child to you? Think about it.”
Elle. Beautiful, confident, irrepressible Elle. Maybe he’s right. I know full well how my imagination can run away with me, make things seem real when they are only figments. Only Marley is real. Was real. Not a figment at all, no matter what my mother and the counselors drilled into me.
I wrap my arms around my chest, holding myself together.
And wince as my fingers press against the bruised place on my ribs. I press the sore place harder, deliberately invoking the pain and the memory that comes with it. Greg claiming possession of me, antagonizing Tony. The look on Elle’s face after he slapped her. His casual nonchalance.
I hold out both palms toward him, not in surrender but to ward him off.
“Stop.”
He doesn’t. His confident, patient steps bring him up the sidewalk to me. His chest against my hands. Mostly bone. I’m surprised by the relative slightness of him, compared to Tony.
I plant my heels and lean my weight against him, shoving him back. He staggers a little, rights himself.
His shock gives me space to square my chin. Level my voice. Look him in the eye.
“Maybe you believe what you’re saying. That’s the most positive spin I can find. But this is the truth. You hurt me then. You hurt me at Mom’s funeral dinner. I have bruises, Greg.”
Whisper Me This Page 27
