Only Between Us

by Mila Ferrera

  “There was a lot going on, and Katie needed help.”

  His expression crumples. “I know. I—thank you. For taking care of her. I was glad you were there.”

  “But I’m here now, because you need … something. I’ll let you tell me what.” I lay my palm of the side of his face, an aching tenderness stirring inside me. I know I should be more cautious, but being this close to Caleb makes that impossible for me.

  “I want to tell you,” he says, leaning into my touch. He covers my hand with his. “I just need you to listen. After that you can decide if you never want to speak to me again, and I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Then I’m listening.”

  Clumsily, he pushes himself over to make room for me on the couch, and I curl up at one end. “The WD-40 is for her bedsprings,” he says. “So they don’t creak.”

  I frown and look down at the discarded can. “Okay.”

  “I can’t stand that sound.”

  “The sound of bedsprings.” I draw my knees to my chest.

  “It used to wake me up.” He closes his eyes and presses his palms against them for a moment. “Almost every fucking night.”

  I rack my brain, trying to think of what to say, what to ask. I don’t want to mess this up, but he’s also drunk and it’s possible he’s talking nonsense. “Your own bedsprings?”

  He shakes his head and then grimaces. “No. Hers. Her bedroom was next to mine, like it is now.”

  My stomach is tight. “Her bedsprings were creaking.”

  He opens his eyes. I’ve never seen anyone look more haunted. “Because he was in there. He was in there with her. When my mom was at work. She worked late.”

  “Who is ‘he’?”

  “Phil. My stepdad.”

  Oh, God. “He was in her bed?”

  “He was on top of her,” he whispers, and suddenly he sounds like a little boy. “I-I peeked in once. I … he …”

  I’m caught between two reactions, withdrawing in horror or reaching for him. I end up scooting a little closer, scared to upset him. “He was molesting her. Your stepfather was molesting Catherine.”

  “Katie,” he corrects. “I mean, her name’s Catherine, but we’ve never called her that.”

  “Katie.”

  He nods. “I don’t know when I first figured it out. But every night, I’d go into the hall, and I’d listen. I didn’t know what to do.”

  An image comes to me. A boy. Standing in front of a door. It was him. Caleb painted himself, outside Katie’s room.

  Listening to his stepfather rape his sister.

  I put the back of my hand over my mouth.

  “One night I stayed out there too long, and he came out,” Caleb says. “He found me standing there.” The shudder goes through his whole body. “He told me not to tell.”

  I touch Caleb’s leg. His eyes meet mine. “Did he hurt you?”

  I can see it on his face. That’s exactly what happened. “He told me he’d kill me and Katie if I said a word,” Caleb whispers. He bows his head onto his knees. “I fell for it. I was too scared.”

  I get up, unable to take the distance. I move to Caleb’s end of the couch, and I start to sit on the floor, but he moves and gives me room next to him. “How old were you?” I ask as I settle in.

  “I think I was twelve.” His hands clench into fists. “I was twelve,” he repeats, his voice shaking with pain.

  “Of course you were scared. You were so young.” I put my hand on his arm.

  “I was old enough. Old enough to tell. Every day he whispered it, that he would kill me, that he would kill her. And I was too stupid to do anything but believe him. I was a fucking pussy. I let it happen. I let it happen.” His shoulders tremble.

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” I say, echoing what he said to me last night.

  “Two fucking years. That’s how long it took me to work up the courage to tell someone.”

  I bow my head. Poor Catherine. “But you told.”

  “Yeah. It was such a relief at first. I thought everything would be okay, that I had saved her. It lasted for maybe a few minutes? And then it all came apart,” he says with a shuddering sigh. “They pulled Katie and me. Put us in foster care. And the police got involved. Phil was charged.”

  “You stopped him. You made it stop.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  I raise my head.

  “Katie denied it. She said it never happened. Insisted it never happened. Said she was fine, that she just wanted to go home and be with Mom.” His hair falls over his eyes. “And my mom said I was lying. She said I made it up because I didn’t like Phil. The police ended up dropping the charges, but the child welfare people wouldn’t let Katie go home unless Phil wasn’t there. My mom chose him over us.” He’s quiet for a moment, his mouth opening and closing around words too painful to say. But finally: “And they all blamed me for tearing us apart.”

  The realization is like a chill in the room. “Your whole family said it didn’t happen.”

  “To this day.” He grimaces. “To this very day.”

  “But it happened.” I brush his hair away from his face. “It happened.”

  He stares at me. “It happened, Romy.”

  And then it’s like he’s falling, like he’s crashing through the sky with no parachute and no hope. I see it in his eyes, the moment he realizes how much it’s going to hurt when he hits the ground. So I put my arms out and I catch him. I wrap myself around him as tears streak down his face, as I witness the quiet cratering of a soul so weighed down with horror that it can’t hold itself up anymore. I pull him to my chest and hold his head against me, feeling every tremor and shiver, listening to every breath.

  There are so many things I don’t understand. So many things.

  But here is what I know: Caleb has been through hell. The least I can do is get him through the night.

  Chapter Eighteen: Caleb

  It’s been years since I told anyone, and as I fall apart, I remember why I never talk about it. The last ten years wrap around me like a net and drag me so deep underwater that I can’t breathe or move. I’m paralyzed. It’s so huge that I can’t fight against it. All I can do is cry because it hurts so fucking bad, all the things I lost, all the ways I failed, all the people who will never forgive me.

  My head spins. There’s no up or down. I’m too drunk to stop the memories that wash over me. They trickle in through the cracks in my walls, then flood every dry, safe spot, drenching me, drowning me. Phil’s fist hard in my ribs. His meaty fingers in my hair. His breath in my ear. His words. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill Katie. I’ll bury you both in the woods where no one will ever find you. If you tell a single person, I’ll know.

  I pissed myself that night. I remember it running down my legs, puddling on the floor. I remember the smell of my own fear. And I feel all the shame of letting that terror keep me from doing the right thing. Too little, too late. That’s Katie’s way of telling me that it’s my fault.

  And she’s right.

  Romy weaves her fingers into my hair, her palm pressed against my scalp like she’s trying to draw the horror right out of my head. I wrap my arms around her body and hold on tight, needing an anchor, something to keep me from being lost forever. “Caleb,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  I grit my teeth as another wave hits me. My first visit with Katie after we’d been removed from the house by the child welfare workers. We were in a playroom with lots of toys and board games meant for younger kids. “I hate you for lying,” she hissed at me, tears running down her face. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “He did,” I said. “I know he did.” In her eyes, I saw a flash of pain. “Tell them what really happened, Katie. Please. He’ll be put in jail and we can go back to Mom.”

  “You should be in jail!” she screamed.

  “I wanted to save you!”

  Her eyes were bright with tears. “Too little, too late.” T
he first time she ever said it to me. The only acknowledgement I’ve ever gotten that she knows the truth, no matter how much she denies.

  I flinch with the memory, those words hitting me like knives, like they always have. Romy’s arms become steel cables around me. She lays her cheek against my forehead. “I’m here,” she tells me.

  But I’m not here. I’m with my mother, and she’s crying. Why did you lie, Caleb? How could you do this to Phil? To us?

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her.

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” Romy replies, reminding me where I am.

  My fingers curl and fist against her back. I must be hurting her. It’s such a vague thought, like it’s coming from outside of me. I try to pull away, but Romy won’t let me go, and I don’t fight very hard. I’m too unsteady, and I need her here. I don’t think I’ll survive if she lets me go right now.

  “You’ve painted all the things you couldn’t say,” she murmurs. “Or all the things you tried to say, the things they couldn’t hear.”

  In two sentences, she’s spoken the truth of my existence. It’s terrifying. She’s looked at my paintings. So have a lot of people. But unlike nearly everyone else, she actually sees them.

  “After all these years, you’re still trying to tell the truth.”

  “You twist me up, Romy,” I say, so quietly that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hear me. You twist me so tight. I can’t unhear the things you say. Or maybe she untwists me. Cuts me open and sorts out the tangled mess inside. That’s how it feels. Painful and perfect. I press my ear to her chest. Her arms are a cage around my head, shielding me.

  “I believe you, Caleb. I believe you.” Her lips flutter against my skin as she speaks.

  Her words push me to the surface, up to where I can breathe. Whatever she walked in here believing, she knows I’ve told her the truth, and she’s still here. She might leave tomorrow, but she’s got me now. She’s not letting me go.

  A miracle. A small one, but hell, I’ll take it.

  As we lie there, the memories slowly recede like a tide, and exhaustion creeps in. It settles over me, gentle but complete. The last thing I’m aware of is the steady beating of Romy’s heart.

  The sun through my curtains is like an icepick through my eyeball. I turn my face into the pillow. Romy. Her scent is all around me. I force my eyes open.

  She’s not here.

  The air leaves my lungs, confusion sweeping in, making my head pound. It feels like someone’s scrubbed the inside of my skull with steel wool. My nostrils flare as I try to wrap my arms around some memory, around something that will make sense of the last twenty-four hours.

  A day ago, Romy was here with me. Her skin against mine. Her breasts against my bare chest. I was inside her. I’ve been with plenty of women, but it had never been like that. It felt like Romy needed me, and I know I needed her. I’ve never been so desperate to please someone, never wanted to offer so much. Usually, I’m eager to escape as soon as both of us get what we want, but with Romy, I didn’t want to let her go. But I did. And now …

  Oh, God.

  Last night. At the co-op. Katie. A wave of nausea sloshes over me and I sit up quickly. Katie was there and she was bleeding and she was holding onto Jude and Romy was there too …

  I stagger to the bathroom and heave into the toilet. I don’t drink, not often, at least. But I couldn’t take it last night. I wanted to make it all go away. I remember the vodka, remember sinking into numbness …

  Romy was here. She isn’t here now, but she was. I remember her voice, the feel of her hands on my face. I slowly get up and rinse my mouth, wincing as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them, red mark on my cheek. I lumber into the hall and stare at Katie’s door. She’s in the hospital. I think.

  I enter the living room, trying to stitch together what happened. There’s a half-empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen table. And a note. I pick it up with unsteady fingers.

  Caleb,

  I had to be at my internship early this morning. Check your phone—I think the hospital called. If you want to talk, I’m here.

  Romy

  Her phone number is at the bottom. But … that’s it. I run my fingertips over her loopy handwriting, as if that’s going to give me some clue as to whether she wants me to call her or not. Because I don’t know. I told her things last night, but I was too dull and wrecked to comprehend how she took it. For all I know, she’s in therapist mode. She sounds like one sometimes. She kind of sounds like one in this note, though there aren’t enough words here to let me figure it out for sure.

  I start to crumple it up and put it in the trash, but then catch myself. Why would I do that?

  Because I want so much more from her than this.

  So much more. I don’t want her to be my therapist. I want to know her. But why the hell would she want to be close to me? What do I have to offer her? Would she even want me to try?

  I can’t focus on this right now. Katie’s in the hospital. I check the message on my phone, and sure enough, it’s her psychiatrist, telling me there’s a discharge planning meeting at four. Katie’s agreed to allow me to be there, if I can come.

  It’s already two. Thank God I didn’t have any private lessons this morning. I call Daniel and ask him to cover my afternoon classes, then force myself to eat some toast and take a long shower, still trying to pull shreds of recollection to the front of my mind. Everything was spinning last night, but Romy was in the eye of the storm with me. Slowly, it comes back. She helped me stumble to my bed. She stroked my hair from my face, and I close my eyes and feel it all over again, along with a deep ache in my chest.

  I pack a bag for Katie, cursing because she took so much with her when she stormed out with that Evan guy. On my way to the hospital, I stop at the drugstore and buy a few things I know she uses, like this flowery body wash and shampoo, a round hairbrush, the toothpaste she likes. She doesn’t like the hospital stuff, and she’ll probably be on the psychiatric unit by now. She can wear regular clothes.

  When I check in at the reception desk in the psychiatry unit, Dr. Prihadi comes out of a meeting room to greet me. He’s this tiny guy with skin the color of dark walnut stain, thinning black hair, and thick eyebrows. He’s always wearing a tie, and today it’s sky blue with all these white birds at the bottom. Just seeing him coming toward me fills me with relief. Then I see who’s behind him.

  It’s Jude. There’s another, older man beside him. Gray hair, glasses. I tense up as they approach.

  “Caleb, this is Mr. Lancaster, who has been seeing your sister at the free community clinic, and his clinical supervisor, Dr. Robert Greer.”

  I shake Dr. Greer’s hand and then turn to Jude. “Hey.”

  Jude nods solemnly at me.

  “Jude has informed us that he had some social contact with you in the community,” says Dr. Greer. “We wanted to talk to you before we go in to see Catherine.”

  “Katie,” I say quietly.

  “She introduced herself to Jude using her given name, and has never asked to be called by her nickname.”

  I rub at my temple. “I’ve never called her anything else.” And does it matter, really? I’ll call her whatever she wants to be called if it makes her feel better. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “She’s signed a release allowing all of us to share information,” says Jude. “She wouldn’t do that before. It’s why I didn’t contact you when she first came to see me. I had no idea you were her brother, obviously. She called you ‘Cabe.’”

  I sigh. “Yeah. She’s called me that since she was a toddler.”

  “Well, maybe I should have probed further, but I assumed that was her brother’s actual name. I was trying my best.” He sounds defensive, and I remember how I yelled at him last night, how frustrated I was.

  Dr. Greer puts his hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Obviously Jude is concerned at the confusion and distress this revelation has caused,” he says g
ently.

  “Because she signed the consent,” Dr. Prihadi tells me, “I was able to share her treatment history, as well as some of the things you’ve disclosed to me, Caleb. I hope that’s all right.”

  My stomach hurts. “It’s fine.” So all of them know, and that’s good. And awful.

  “I also told them how you are her primary support. How you manage her medications and get her to all her appointments.”

  “That’s not what she told you though, is it?” I say to Jude. I could tell by the way he looked at me last night. Like I was a freaking monster he had to protect her from. Jude presses his lips together, and it’s the only answer I need.

  “I have now shared my own formulation of Katie with these gentlemen,” Dr. Prihadi says. “Given her history and her diagnoses, the way she portrayed you to Mr. Lancaster is not surprising. She’s very black-and-white in her thinking, and this is an example of that.”

  “I didn’t know she’d been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder,” says Jude, who glances nervously at Dr. Greer.

  I look into Dr. Greer’s eyes. There’s more there than I’m understanding. He looks curious? Or assessing, maybe. “You think it’s true, whatever Katie said?” I ask him.

  “She disclosed that you attacked a young man with whom she was intimate. That you burst into her room and assaulted him. Was that a lie?”

  My jaw clenches. “It was a mistake. I thought he was … someone else.”

  “We’ll need to talk that over with Katie, when she’s willing,” says Dr. Prihadi. “She was quite understandably upset about it.” He glances at his watch. “Shall we go in?”

  “May I have a few minutes to speak to Mr. McCallum before we join you?” asks Dr. Greer. While the other two head back into the meeting room on the unit, he leads me into the hallway. “I wanted to speak with you about a related matter,” he says. “I also supervise Romy Foerster, and I understand you have had social contact with her as well.”

  Social contact. That’s one way of putting it. I’ve felt her body clench around me and tasted her skin. She’s reached into my chest and closed her fingers around my heart. “Yeah.”