Bridge to Forever

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  A noise startled Mickelle and she looked up to see Bryan, a full backpack slung over his shoulder. “Where are you going?” she asked, following him to the mudroom where he put on his shoes.

  He reached for the phone by the door. “I’m leaving. Doug’ll let me stay with him.” He punched in the numbers.

  “Put . . . that . . . down.” Mickelle enunciated each word, hoping he would bow to her authority.

  Bryan kept on punching. “I’m not staying here with him. Or with you. You’re a betrayer.”

  His words stabbed into Mickelle’s heart, but she warned herself to be cool. Grabbing the phone from him, she said, “You’re not calling anyone.”

  “Fine!” Bryan lifted his chin, brown eyes lit with fire. “I won’t call anyone. But I’m still leaving. I’ll live in the street if I have to. Or maybe I won’t live at all. Then let’s see how happy you’d be with him.”

  Mickelle wanted to believe he didn’t mean that last threat, but she remembered too vividly the last time Riley had left the house. She’d never expected him to die, to commit suicide. Either way, the street was no place for a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Galvanized into action, Mickelle threw herself between him and the door. “You are not going anywhere except back up into your room! And you are grounded until your attitude changes.”

  His eyes glinted and his jaw hardened. He took a deep breath and Mickelle noticed how solid he had become. Solid and strong. Like his father.

  Bryan tried to pull her from the door.

  “No!” She remained firm.

  He hit her then, the blow coming at her stomach without warning. Not even Riley had hit her, though she had been afraid he would, near the end. Perhaps he would have succumbed to physical abuse eventually; by killing himself he had shown he was capable of violence.

  Mickelle cried out as Bryan continued to alternately pull her out of the way and punch her. The blows were painful and accurate, and she held up her arms to fend them off. But she didn’t give up her place. No matter what, she would not allow Bryan to leave the house. Suddenly, Mickelle found herself lying on top of the short wood shelf where they stored their shoes. She felt the wood splinter under the impact. Pain shot through her upper thigh and then knifed through her skull as it hit the ceramic tile.

  Everything then seemed to happen at once. A man Mickelle didn’t recognize shot into the mudroom, pulling Bryan from her. Damon was close behind, and he rushed to Mickelle’s side. “I’m okay,” she muttered, though her body throbbed with pain.

  Bryan let out a feral growl. The strange man continued to hold onto him, but in an effort not to hurt the boy, he was losing ground. Damon sprang to his aid.

  Mickelle watched as her son, her firstborn, struggled with the two men. Her heart was torn in two. Never had she expected to suffer abuse from her own son! Never! Especially not physical abuse. She’d not even been remotely fearful of such a thing—until that first heartbreaking punch. If she had believed that her husband Riley would hit her, or endanger her life or that of the boys, she would have left, found a shelter to hide from him. She wouldn’t have been able to excuse threats or physical abuse as she had tried to excuse the emotional abuse for so many years. But what did you do when the physical abuse came from your thirteen-year-old son?

  One thing she did know: it could not be allowed to continue. She refused to be a victim—again.

  She reached for the phone, lying where it had fallen in the fray. The receiver had come apart, exposing the wires, but she pushed it together. Miraculously, it still worked. She dialed 911.

  Her eyes lifted to see Jennie Anne standing in the doorway, one hand to her mouth, her eyes radiating terror. She had changed her clothes, Mickelle noticed, and was wearing one of the new outfits they kept at the house for her. She had chosen long sleeves. To hide the bruises, Mickelle thought. There’s too much hiding here.

  The person on the other end of the phone answered and Mickelle spoke, her voice gravelly. “My son hit me. They’re holding him down now, but we need assistance.”

  Damon glanced at her sharply as she spoke and then nodded his approval. As she gave the address, Bryan began to calm. The other man let go of him and retired to a corner, but Damon kept his grip. There was fear in Bryan’s eyes now, and Mickelle longed to go to him. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Her heart hurt even worse than her injuries.

  Her eyes shifted to the other man, still lurking in the corner of the mudroom. He had light brown hair and was of average height and build but looked as hard as a piece of steel. The gray eyes in the intent face seemed to note everything. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Who was he? Obviously, he was known to Damon, and she was grateful for his help, but she felt uncomfortable having him there to witness such a personal trial.

  Damon saw her stare. “This is Stan,” he said. “He’s the guy doing our security work.”

  “I thought the security system was already in place.”

  Damon’s angular face wore a mask of discomfort. His moustache twitched. “It is, but Stan is also watching the camera monitors. He has a room in the basement.”

  “He has a . . .” Mickelle couldn’t believe it. “He’s been living here?”

  “Well, working really.”

  “He has cameras?” Mickelle’s mind was dredging up all sorts of images that she didn’t like one bit.

  “Around the outside of the house,” Damon hastened to say. “The only inside ones are by the doors. That’s why he came when Bry . . .” His eyes pleaded for understanding. “I meant to tell you. I didn’t want you to get upset. It was only going to be for a while, but then the police never caught Colton . . .”

  Mickelle glared at him. “You should have told me.” She struggled to her feet, ignoring the pounding in her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  She limped past him and out the door where all the other children had gathered. She felt, more than saw, Damon shove Bryan at Stan. “Hold him.”

  Bryan started struggling again, and it was all both men could do to contain him without hurting him. Mickelle was almost glad when the police arrived. They filled out a brief report before heading to the door, taking Bryan with them, even as Belle and Jeremy begged them not to.

  “Mom,” Bryan said, sounding like her son again. His eyes bored into hers—begging, pleading.

  The ice around Mickelle’s heart softened. “We’ll come get you soon.” The officers were taking him to juvenile detention for the night. She prayed with her whole being that she’d made the right decision. At least in custody he couldn’t hurt anyone . . . or himself.

  After they left there was silence in the family room. Stan, the security man, had disappeared after talking to the police and promising to make a video copy of the disturbance.

  Disturbance, Mickelle scoffed. She wished she were alone so she could cry. But the children were watching her earnestly. Instead, she sat stiffly on the blue leather couch and wiped the tears seeping from her eyes. “You should have told me about that man,” she told Damon. “I hate it that you didn’t tell me.”

  Damon put a hand on Tanner’s shoulder. “Take the girls and Jer to the game room, okay? Kelle and I need to have a little talk. And shut the door. Don’t worry—everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Mickelle was glad he’d remembered the children. Her heart was feeling too betrayed and desolate to think coherently. She forced a smile for the kids. “Go on, really. I’m okay. We’re okay. Everything will be fine. I’m just upset about Bryan.”

  Jeremy and Belle looked relieved, but she could tell Jennie Anne didn’t believe her. Jennie Anne and I are too much alike. The thought surprised Mickelle, though perhaps it was true.

  When they were alone once more she said, “To think that he’s been here in the house this entire time. It’s creepy! That’s what’s wrong with living in a house this size. Someone can live in your basement, and you don’t even hear them!”

  Damon sat on the edge of the love
seat, elbows on knees, head inclined in her direction. “You think I’m going to leave you here unprotected? If you remember, the police haven’t caught Colton yet—if it was Colton that night, which I really doubt.”

  “I thought you had an alarm!”

  “I wanted someone to be here in case the alarm went off! I knew I couldn’t stay because it would look funny.” He grimaced. “Although for some reason a perfect stranger can live here without it being frowned upon. Anyway, I did the next best thing. I hired Stan to be here when I wasn’t.”

  “You hire everything out!” she yelled at him.

  “So?”

  “So it’s a waste of money—the gardening, the cooking, washing the car . . .”

  “It’s not a waste. Most things I hire out so that I can be with you and the kids. Isn’t that more important?”

  She blinked, realizing that everything he was saying made a lot more sense than her comments. “I’m just not used to all this,” she whispered. “Money was always so tight, and . . .” There was nothing more to say, since she didn’t really know what was wrong with her anyway.

  Damon was next to her in an instant, his strong arms enfolding her like a familiar warm blanket. “Bry will be okay,” he said, pinpointing her real despair. “I’m sorry this happened, but for what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision. Somehow we’ll work through this. You’ll see. We’ll be a family yet.”

  “There were signs. His arguments with Tanner, always throwing the ball, his anger toward me and you. Mostly to me. His fighting at school. I should have seen it coming. I did see it coming, just not in this way. I should have guessed.”

  “No,” Damon shook his head. “We couldn’t have. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “My poor little boy,” she sobbed against his chest. “I was so afraid he’d leave. That he’d hurt himself. I couldn’t let him. I didn’t matter at that moment—what he did to me didn’t matter. I had to save him.”

  “I know.”

  Damon held her for a long time, and Mickelle’s anguish slowly spent itself. The terrible pounding that had begun when her head hit the tile relaxed marginally. “I’ve been praying so hard that he’ll come around,” she murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks.

  “Maybe this is Bry’s way of coming around. Maybe this is the only way we can get him the help he needs.”

  A similar thought had crossed her mind. Sometimes a person had to be brought to the depths of humility before he was ready to change his life. Of course, some people wimped out at that point. Like Riley. “What doesn’t kill you makes you strong,” she quoted silently.

  They sat together mutely until the evening shadows crept into the room and then she said, “Don’t you ever hide anything from me again. I can take it. I want to know about all the Stans. Every single one.” She jabbed her finger into his chest, accentuating the last three words.

  “Okay,” he promised. After a brief moment of silence, his voice took on a teasing note as he said, “I suppose that means you want to know where we’re going on our honeymoon, too.”

  “I won’t go that far.” She gingerly touched the place on her thigh where she’d fallen on the shoe shelf. There was a swollen mound there now, as large as her open hand, protruding like a large half grapefruit. Another bruise to add to her collection.

  He grinned. “Oh, I don’t mind. We’re going to Europe. I know you’ve always wanted to. I thought we’d hit Italy, Spain, Greece, Germany, London, and of course France, so you can see your brother and his kids. We can even go to Ireland if you want.”

  She stared at him with increasing surprise, her mouth agape.

  He hesitated. “You’re catching flies.” His hand gently caressed her jaw, and she shut it with a snap.

  “Catching flies . . .” She shook her head at him, then winced mentally as her head renewed its throbbing with the motion.

  “It’s okay that the surprise is ruined.” He grinned at her, eyes sparkling. “I thought since we were going to be gone so long, you might want to help plan the trip anyway. Maybe the kids could even join us for the last leg of the journey—if you want.”

  Mickelle hugged him, and he hugged her back. She couldn’t believe that everything in her life, while still difficult and agonizing, was suddenly manageable. Her burden was shared.

  “When I asked you to marry me,” Damon whispered in her ear, sending delicious shivers through her body, “I meant that we were in this together. Together is the only way we can do it right. The same goes for anything we face. If there’s a bridge, we’ll cross it together—somehow.”

  She knew he was talking not only about Bryan but also about her desire to have his child.

  There was something that had to come before that: Jennie Anne’s welfare. “It’s not just Bryan,” she said softly, reluctantly. She adjusted her position so the swelling bump on the side of her head wouldn’t touch anything. “I mean the situation with him is bad enough, but I noticed when Jennie Anne changed into that leotard today . . . it had short sleeves.” She swallowed hard at the sudden dryness in her throat.

  “Noticed what?”

  “She has more bruises. What are we going to do?”

  * * *

  To Jennie Anne’s dismay, Damon came in with her when he drove her home. She didn’t want him to come. She always worried that he would discover her secret and that her aunt wouldn’t let her go to his house anymore. So instead of walking into the house as she did ordinarily, she rang the bell to give her aunt warning. That was especially important if Troy was around.

  “What? Huh? Oh, it’s you.” As Jennie Anne slipped past, her aunt focused on Damon. She even smiled. Though it was probably because of the money he gave her, Aunt Nedda seemed to really like Damon.

  Jennie Anne tried to peer over the stacks of junk in the front room to see if Troy was home. It was no use. She wasn’t tall enough. Damon, though, would be able to see from the door—maybe. If Troy was home, there might be big trouble.

  She peered down the path through the piles to the couch. He wasn’t there. The relief didn’t pour through her yet. First she had to peek into the kitchen.

  Sighing with relief at last, Jennie Anne crept quietly back to the front room to hear what the adults were saying. Oh, please, oh please, don’t let him talk about the bruises. I hope Mickelle didn’t tell him about the bruises!

  She was too late to hear what they had said. Damon was already leaving, and Jennie Anne watched him go, feeling suddenly lost. She wanted to run after him and beg him to take her back to Mickelle where she would be safe.

  The problem was that she didn’t know if she would be safe, even with Mickelle. She’d wanted to confide in Mickelle about the bruises, especially when she talked about the police. But those same policemen hadn’t found the man who had hurt Mickelle yet. Jennie Anne knew if he decided to, he could still hurt Mickelle.

  I can still be hurt. The police will never know.

  But the police had taken Bryan away when he’d tried to hurt Mickelle. So maybe sometimes it worked. Was it worth the risk?

  No, better to keep quiet. At least she spent most of her days away from this horrid house.

  She smiled, thinking of Belle’s castle room. Magic happened there. She was no longer Jennie Anne but a powerful princess who never had any bruises. Of course, Belle was kind of bossy, always telling her to play this or do that, but it was okay, really. She loved Belle fiercely. Her only friend, the one who had opened her heart, and, perhaps even more importantly, the doors to reading—to a whole world she had never imagined.

  There was a sound in the bathroom, and Jennie Anne’s blood ran cold. Her heart seemed to quit beating. She huddled up to a stack of magazines, taller than her head. The stack swayed slightly but was kept in place by the surrounding piles of junk.

  Troy didn’t notice her. “So who was it?” he growled. Jennie Anne knew he was waiting for that pretty man to come back. She’d seen him twice since that day when her uncle had first driven of
f with him. Both he and Uncle Troy had bruises around their blue eyes. Jennie Anne wondered if they had fought, and if so, why they continued to be friends. She’d gloated just a little, in the safety of the Wolfe home, that Uncle Troy had a black eye. A mean little part of her hoped it hurt him as bad as her bruises hurt her.

  “Just the rich guy. None of your concern.”

  “He give you more?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask.” Nedda’s chin jutted out.

  “I think he’ll pay more.”

  “So? I got enough. And more coming next month. You better stay away from her.”

  “What—I ain’t touched her!”

  “You left bruises all over her arm.”

  “Did he mention them?”

  “No, but he knows. I know he knows. He as much as said I wouldn’t get more if she was hurt. You’d better lay off. ”

  Troy sneered at her. “I do what I please. You lay off! I’m going to get me a chunk of that rich snob’s money one way or another. I don’t give a crap what happens to Donna May’s whelp. Don’t matter to me at all. Not one little bit.”

  Jennie Anne shivered. Her arm ached where he’d grabbed it a few days ago. He’d been so angry when he’d come home. Something to do with money—it was always money with him. When she hadn’t been quick enough to clear a chair for him to sit, he had told her how lazy she was . . . and then gave her the bruises to remember to do better the next time. She’d been careful not to let Mickelle or Belle know about how bad her arm hurt, like her aunt said, but it wasn’t easy.

  She had slept in her aunt’s room since Troy came back, instead of in the kitchen like she usually did when he was here. She was glad because sometimes before when he’d stayed with them, she’d awakened in the night and found Troy watching her as he downed a beer from the fridge. His eyes had been dark and ugly, and she’d been afraid. This time he had been back for longer than she could ever remember him staying at one time. She hoped he would leave soon.

  Jennie Anne tried to slink past them, but Troy caught her arm painfully. “Did you tell them about the bruises?” he demanded.