Tell Me When

by Stina Lindenblatt

  “You’re my daughter,” Mom snaps. Glad to hear she still remembers that.

  “I know, but...” Grandma doesn’t look at me and see my dead brother and remember that I never saved him when he was shot. “You’re busy...” Getting drunk. “Your clients need you.” I need her, too, but not in the same way. Not that this is anything new. I’ve needed her since Dad walked out on us but her job always came first.

  “I’ll call you later.” I hang up on her before she can respond.

  * * *

  The weekend is better than I imagined it would be, and Jordan’s parents aren’t so scary. Actually, they’re downright amazing. Despite what she had feared, they accepted her decision to pursue child psychology, even admitting she’ll excel at it.

  “What do you say, ladies?” Her father pulls into the mall parking lot. “You ready to shop till you drop?” He’s nothing like I was expecting. He looks more like a linebacker than a surgeon, and according to Jordan, he used to be one during his pre-med days. But he’s not intimidating, even though he is over six-five.

  “You’re gonna love this,” Jordan has yet to tell me anything, other than it’s been a family tradition for the past few years.

  We walk to the toy store. At the entrance, I pause, confused why we’re here. Jordan was already smiling when we arrived at the mall. Now she’s beaming. She gestures for me to grab a shopping cart, and she and her parents claim their own.

  “Our trauma unit sees a lot of victims, many who are children,” her mother explains. “They’re victims of physical or sexual abuse, family violence, or other types of criminal activity. They come in scared and irreparably changed.” She smiles at Jordan, pride clear on her face. “Jordan came up with a great idea a few years ago. She and the kids in her school raised money and bought gifts to give to traumatized children when they’re admitted to the hospital. Something to give them hope and show them they’re loved.”

  “Someone else is now responsible for the fund-raising.” Jordan’s father pushes his cart to the side to let a mother and her two young kids pass. “But we love to do our part and buy gifts for the kids. With the holiday season coming, the incidence of violent crimes increases. We want to ensure there are enough toys.”

  Somehow, at his words, I manage to keep back the tears at how wonderful my friend and her family really are. And not for the first time since I met Jordan’s parents, I wish they were mine. And Marcus’s

  Just the thought of Marcus encourages the tears I was trying to hold back. Not because we’re no longer together. But because he was the boy they were talking about, and Jordan doesn’t even realize it. I can’t tell her, though. It’s not my story to tell.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Jordan’s mother asks.

  I could tell them how I was that girl, the one who was a victim of a violent crime. But the mall isn’t where I want to have this conversation. I wipe the tear away and do my best to smile without letting any more fall.

  I say I’m fine and Jordan hugs me. But in that moment, I feel like she knows more about my situation than she realizes, more about what happened to me than I had intended.

  “We’ll talk after this,” she whispers and I nod.

  We spend the next hour laughing and figuring out which toys will make a difference, even just a small difference, in a child’s life. By the time we’re finished, I feel better than I have in a long time. The toys are meant to give their recipients a taste of hope, but they’ve given me so much more in return. If only Marcus were here. Then he’d see how wrong he was. There are people, like Jordan and her family, who do care about what happens to victims, especially the kids.

  Once we return to her parents’ house, I tell Jordan about Paul and about the stalking and kidnapping. I tell her about the nightmares and the flashbacks, and how they’re the result of what happened to me. I leave out a lot of details. She doesn’t need to know everything.

  I do, though, show her my tattoo, and tell her why I had to turn away from my best friend. Like Marcus, she points out that Trent’s death wasn’t my fault. The only person at fault was Paul.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I say. And I mean it. “I wanted to, but I also wanted to keep you separate from what happened. I wanted us to have better memories than the ones I want to forget.”

  Jordan smiles, then hugs me. “You’re forgiven.” She pulls away. “Does Marcus know?”

  “Yeah. A friend of his figured out I’m dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. Marcus eventually convinced me to tell him what happened.”

  “You guys didn’t break up because of this, right?”

  “No. It had nothing to do with that.” I almost choke on the lie.

  My cell phone buzzes from Jordan’s desk. I check to see who sent me a text but don’t recognize the number. I open it.

  It’s from Tammara.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Marcus

  I open the door. Tammara’s standing in the hallway, streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  Against my better instincts, I open the door wider and let her in. This better be quick. I was about to go to the youth center to talk to Dave about Amber.

  Tammara sits on the couch. Her face crumples and she starts sobbing. I’ve never seen her eyes get even the slightest bit wet, never mind her breaking down into full-out sobs.

  As much as I don’t want her here, and as much as I want to see Dave, I sit next to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her sobbing slows and she rests her head on my shoulder. Her arms snake around my waist. “I was at my sister’s place.” She shudders. “Can I have a drink? I need a drink. Do you have any beer?”

  I nod and get us both one. When I return, I hand her the open bottle and sit back on the couch, this time putting distance between us.

  “Thanks.” She sniffs and looks through her purse. “I’m out of tissues. Could I have one, please?”

  I nod and return a minute later with a wad of them. I gulp back my beer.

  She sips hers, making it clear she’s in no rush. “I went to visit my sister this afternoon, but she wasn’t home. Her fiancé was, though. He told me she wouldn’t be long and I might as well come in and wait for her.” Her voice cracks. “Then h-he....” She can’t talk after that as she breaks down, again, in tears.

  I pull her into my arms. I don’t tell her it’s going to be okay, because these things never are. I just let her cry against my shoulder. Exhaustion seeps in and drags me into its depths. I haven’t slept well since Amber dumped me, but I can’t believe I’m this tired.

  Unable to keep my eyes open another second, I let them drift shut.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Amber

  I stare at my math test, and the numbers swirling around in a blur. All I want is to lay my head on the desk and sleep. Something I haven’t done much of for the past week, ever since I received the text from Tammara. Ever since I received more messages from Paul, all hinting the same thing: if I get back together with Marcus, he’s dead.

  I close my eyes for a second. When I reopen them, things aren’t much clearer. Come on, focus. I’d feel more confident if Marcus had helped me study, but I haven’t spoken to him in over a week. After seeing the pictures Tammara sent me of her and Marcus together in bed, kissing, and who knows what else, I couldn’t ask Chase for help. I was too afraid of seeing the truth in his eyes. That Marcus and Tammara are back together, for good.

  My hopes of passing the test fade with each ticking second. Now my only goal is to finish it so I can skip my next class and have a nap.

  After the instructor announces time’s up, I hand him the exam and trudge back to my dorm. Brittany isn’t due back for another two hours, unless like me she decides to miss her next class.

  I lie on my bed and pr
ay I don’t have another bad dream. For once, I’d like to sleep without being haunted with memories of my real-life nightmare.

  * * *

  I wake with a jolt, the visions of Mom as Paul’s defense lawyer—because she believes I’m the guilty one, not Paul—fresh in my head. I’ve slept maybe forty-five minutes. Not great, but good enough for what I need to do. Drive back home and talk to Mom.

  Outside, I glance at the massive gray clouds in the distance. I don’t want to drive in bad weather, but I have to do this if I want the nightmares to end. It’s time I face my fear of storms. A storm didn’t kidnap or torture me. It didn’t kill Trent or Michael. And it didn’t take away my father. Humans, not the weather, were responsible for each of those events. I keep repeating this in my head. I’m not sure if it’s helping, but at least I’m not dwelling on Marcus and the photos.

  Over an hour later, I pull into the driveway of my house. On the way over, I practiced what I wanted to say, but as soon as the place looms in front of me, those thoughts vanish.

  Mom and Grandpa, who was a former Marine, used to tell Michael and me that only the strong survive. Never show weakness in front of the enemy. Never show weakness in front of friends and those you love. No matter what happens, be strong and never show fear.

  I guess I should thank them, in so many ways. Smoky wasn’t the only one who saved my life.

  But Mom hasn’t been strong for a while. The alcohol only made her believe she was. Which means for once I’m the stronger of the two of us, the one who will have to save her.

  I enter the house. Voices from the TV in the living room greet me. From the sound of it, Mom’s watching the twenty-four—hour news station.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say as I walk into the room. She’s sitting on the couch, wearing lounge pants, legs tucked under her. In her hand is a half-empty glass, filled with ice and the familiar dark liquid I’ve seen too many times in the past. Rye and coke.

  “What are you doing here?” she slurs.

  “I want to talk to you.” I approach and indicate the glass. “You need to stop doing this to yourself.”

  She glares at me. “I had a rough day. I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. You know what else isn’t right? You treating me as though I’m one of your clients. I’m not. I. Am. Your. Daughter. Or have you forgotten that?” Even though I don’t mean for it to happen, even though this isn’t the speech I rehearsed in the car, my voice grows louder by a few degrees, barely covering the volume of my heartbeat.

  Mom pushes herself off the couch, her face red, though I can’t tell if that’s from the alcohol or her reaction to my words. “Don’t talk to me like that, young lady.” The slur is gone, replaced by a tightness I rarely hear from her. The last time I heard it was when Michael cut down a small tree in the backyard when he was eleven. Our father had planted it just before he left.

  “I’m well aware I’m your mother. I’m also the person who worked long hours so I could give you and your brother everything you needed.”

  “Yes, but we never asked you to do that. We didn’t ask you to spend all your time defending rapists and murders and criminals just so you could give us this....” I gesture at the room.

  The glass in her hand trembles, sloshing brown liquid onto the beige carpet. “What you mean is defending guys like Paul Carson?”

  The heat of her words forces me back a step. “You’re right. I do!”

  Her hand slaps my face, hard, stunning me into silence. “I do what I do because I believe everyone has the right to a fair trial.” Her voice is soft, broken. She storms out of the room.

  I’m left here alone, my skin stinging from her touch, as I try piecing together what just happened. It’s clear to both of us that I blame her as much as she blames me for what happened to Michael.

  A door at the back of the house slams shut. A minute later the sound of the garage door opening grumbles through the house. A car engine rumbles to life and then she’s gone, backing out the driveway to go who-knows-where.

  My head droops forward. I screwed up big time. I wanted to convince Mom to get help. I’ve just made things worse.

  Although I want to return to Chicago before the storm hits, I drive to my grandma’s house and cuddle with Smoky for a while on the couch. Grandma’s not here and I don’t know where she could be.

  “What am I gonna do about Mom, Smoky?” A tear drops on his gray fur and I kiss his head. I leave Grandma a note before heading out a few minutes later.

  I’ve been driving for forty minutes when I feel the unmistakable pull of a flat tire. Rain splatters against the windshield and my heart speeds up. Oh God. Not again. Not again. Not again. Hands shaking, I steer the car onto the shoulder of the quiet side road. It’s okay. It’s not Paul. I’m okay. It’s just a flat tire.

  For the next few minutes I sit quietly, trying not to panic, trying to rationally think what I should do. Except, it’s hard to be rational when dealing with an adrenalin overload. In the end, I call Chase with the number Jordan programmed into my phone. Marcus is probably with Tammara and I don’t want to risk his bringing her here. And I doubt the cops would even come out here, unless it’s a real emergency.

  Like my body found on the roadside.

  Chapter Forty

  Marcus

  “Where are you?” Chase asks, talking on his cell phone.

  I go back to watching the football game on TV. It’s not until I hear him say Amber’s name that he has my full attention.

  “I’m on my way.” Without looking at me, he hangs up and grabs his keys from the kitchen table.

  “What’s going on?” I don’t like the idea of Chase meeting up with Amber.

  “It’s no big deal. Amber’s got a flat and needs help.”

  Shit. “Where is she?” If she gets flashbacks during storms, what the hell will she be like with a flat tire? And the last I saw, when I left campus, we were in for bad weather. That’s bound to make things worse.

  I grab my leather jacket from the hall closet.

  “Dude, you don’t have to come,” Chase says. “I can handle it.”

  “I have no doubt you can handle the tire. It’s Amber you don’t know how to deal with.”

  His eyebrows pinch together. I’m not the only one who cares for Amber. “What do you mean ‘deal with’ her? She dumped you, Marcus. What exactly is there to deal with?” Though as he says the last part, I can tell he’s thinking back to the day she reacted to Jordan’s roses.

  I indicate for him to get his ass moving. “I’ll explain everything in the car.” And I do. Well, almost everything. I stick to the general stuff you would find in a newspaper and I don’t mention she was raped or tortured, though I’m sure he can figure that much on his own.

  The entire time I’m talking, I try getting through to Amber on her phone. She might not want to be with me anymore, but hearing my voice has to be better than being stranded alone. At least then she’d know we’re on our way.

  “Well that explains a few things,” Chase says as we push the speed limit in the rain.

  “Between the weather and the flat tire,” I warn, “she might be a mess by the time we get there.”

  By the tenth attempt to call her, I’m ready to hurl the damn phone out the window. Fuck. What if she’s having a flashback? She could get killed by running in front of a truck without realizing what she’s doing.

  Chase eventually pulls up ahead of Amber’s car. The car has barely come to a stop when I jump out the door. The rain pelts me at a sharp angle, soaking through my jeans, as I sprint to her car. Water drips from my hair and into my eyes.

  Amber’s curled in a ball on the floor of the passenger side. Her face is against her knees, her arms wrapped over her head, and she’s shaking violently.

  I try the dr
iver’s door. It’s locked. Knowing Amber, all the doors will be locked. After what happened with Paul, she wouldn’t take any chances.

  I bang the window. “Kitten, it’s me, Marcus. Can you open the door for me?” She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look up. I bang louder. “Kitten, please open the door. You’re safe.”

  Slowly, she raises her head to reveal her tear-soaked face. Her wild eyes make contact with mine, her body visibly shaking, though not as much as before. She gives a small nod and twists around to unlock the car. I run around to her side and carefully open the door, then gather her in my arms. I just want to hold her while I can, hold her before she remembers that she ended things between us.

  She twists around and places her head on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I murmur in her hair. “You’re safe now.”

  This seems to have the opposite effect to what I was after. She shivers in my arms. “No, I’m not,” she whispers, voice rough as if she’s been screaming for hours. I tighten my hold on her. “He’s still going to come after me.”

  I frown. “Who’s coming after you?”

  “Paul.” The name trembles from her lips.

  “He’s locked away, Amber. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “He’s locked away but he has a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know but he’s been sending me messages.”

  All I’m capable of is blinking, and I’m barely doing that. What kind of fucking prisons allows their fucking psychopaths to write letters to their victims?

  “What did he tell you?” I ask.

  Amber pulls away and pushes herself onto the passenger seat. I unfold myself to a stand, the wind and rain whipping against me. She reaches behind the seat and drags a purse onto her lap. She opens it and removes an envelope, which she hands to me.

  “Are we fixing this tire or what?” Chase approaches the car from behind.