by L. J. Greene
“But it is time for you to leave this house. I want you to come with me.”
Fiona took in a deep ragged breath and wiped her eyes with both hands. Slowly, she turned her head towards Ronan, still crumpled on the floor and unconscious, breathing in ragged, uneven snores. The expression on her stoic face was complicated, the lines of weariness cut deep, and silently she shook her head.
Jamie looked like he’d been punched. “You can’t be serious! What does he need to do to ye before you’ll leave him?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m trying to protect you, Mum!”
She shook her head and touched the jagged strands that fell unevenly over her ears and neck. “Like you said, this can be fixed. And he’ll be sorry for it when he sobers up.” She was clenching her jaw to hold back tears and she would not meet Jamie’s gaze. “He will be.”
Jamie was stunned and frustrated beyond all measure.
“What has he ever done for you?”
“He gave me you,” she answered softly, but with resolve. “All of you.”
“That’s not enough!”
“It is for me.” She met Jamie’s eyes directly. For a very long moment, they just stood staring, willing the other to understand.
Jamie had no words.
“Whether or not he says it, he needs me. I’m his wife.”
“I need you! I need you, Mum!”
“Don’t make me choose between ye,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “You’ve always been a very independent lad.”
Jamie made a sound between exasperation and outrage. “I wasn’t independent. I was alone. With you and Da wrapped up in his madness, and five older brothers who couldn’t have given a shit about what happened to me. I had Danny and Cara, was all. I couldn’t have anyone else.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Fiona snapped, now directing her anger at Jamie.
“Because of this!” Jamie said, slamming his fist on the table. “This insanity! This is what I bloody grew up with every day of my life. I couldn’t very well have friends and bring them into this!”
“Well, you seemed to have done just fine, for all that.” Fiona looked away, crossing her arms over her body in a gesture of pure defiance.
Jamie’s eyes were laser trained on her and his breath was coming fast. “So, that’s it? You’re staying?”
Ronan began to stir, not quite waking, but showing signs of growing consciousness.
“I think you should go before he comes to. There’s been enough trouble for one day.”
“Mum, he’s no good! Look what he’s done to you–not just your hair.”
“You don’t know him like I do. He loses his head sometimes, I know. But he’s never hurt me. He never would. He’s just had a hard life and you need to have some respect.”
“Respect?!” Jamie practically choked on the word. “How could you, of all people, say such a thing to me? That bastard moved us half way across the world to avoid being arrested for theft.”
“He moved us here to help with your uncle’s business.”
Jamie shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a lie! If that were the reason we left, then why did we change the spelling of our name?”
That’s when it clicked about the van in the driveway. ‘Callaghan’ had been spelled with a g. In the traditional Irish spelling–not the way Jamie spelled his name today.
“He thought it would be more American.”
“Another lie you tell yourself!” he roared. “He’s been drunk my entire life, and when he’s sober enough to stand, he’s a brute and a bully. Tell me, now–what is there to respect?”
“You’ll not speak that way, Jamie Callahan,” Fiona shot back. “He’s your father; your flesh and blood!”
“God help me, I know it.”
Just then, Killian burst through the doorway carrying a large blue binder. All eyes swung in his direction, and that’s when Fiona seemed to notice me for the first time, too. She put her hand on her hair self-consciously and walked away into the kitchen. Killian didn’t ask; he could see the carnage on the floor and the look on Jamie’s face, full of hopelessness. He crossed the room and handed Jamie the binder, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Jamie whispered, and a glance passed between the two men with a message I didn’t understand. I looked from one face to the other, both closed and secretive.
Just then, Ronan came to. He opened his eyes and fixed them coolly on Jamie’s face. Jamie walked over and knelt in front of him, the mass of his body looming over Ronan like an ominous thundercloud.
“Do you see this, Da?” he said, flipping through pages of the binder in front of Ronan’s face. “While I worked for you, I kept my own records of your business–hiring undocumented workers, under reporting your income, substituting inferior parts for the ones you quoted, not pulling permits for certain jobs. It’s all here.” Ronan’s eyes widened, but his expression was otherwise hard as stone. “I don’t need to tell you that if you lay one finger on Mum again, I will ruin you. And then I will hurt you.” Jamie spoke softly, a cold, hard threat beneath the subtle Irish lilt. “Are we clear?”
The air in the room around us was still. I didn’t know how lucid Ronan was at that moment. But he eyed Jamie steadily, and then without uttering a word, nodded once. Finally, Jamie rose to stand dangerously over him, underscoring his point with the sheer size of his frame.
I knew how conflicted Jamie must have felt in that moment. Given all that had happened, I’m sure he wanted some sort of justice. As a woman and a witness to this hideous scene, I certainly did. But as a lawyer, I knew that the likelihood of any real jail time from the infractions Jamie had mentioned was doubtful, and at the end of it, Ronan and Fiona would be back together, but without their business as a means of an income–a hard life made even harder by their meager circumstance.
And Jamie might have had Ronan arrested for assault, but that was not what Fiona wanted, and he didn’t want to hurt Fiona beyond what she’d already suffered. If she would not help herself, not get out of the situation or press charges against her husband, then neither Jamie, nor the law could do much for her without her cooperation.
Maybe she loved Ronan, maybe she thought she needed him, or maybe she felt a duty to her marriage. Emotional abuse can be insidious and elusive in that way. And though Jamie was offering a way out–money, a home and support–he couldn’t make her take it.
I had to hope that Jamie’s threat would keep Ronan in check. After all, there was no question in anyone’s mind that Jamie meant it. He always meant it.
He looked upon Ronan with contempt, one last time, and then turned on his heel to go.
“Séamus,” Ronan said, softly, in a different way than before. Jamie heard the difference too, and stopped, but kept his back turned. “You never went to bed hungry. And ye always had a clean set of clothes to put on.”
Jamie’s jawline tightened, but his face showed little else. Only his eyes betrayed the deep emotion that threatened just below the surface.
“Was that where you set the bar for yourself, Da?” he answered in the same quiet tone.
Ronan raised his shoulders, and then dropped them in a painfully familiar way. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.
“It was more than my da did for me,” he said, with an exhaustion that seemed life-long.
Jamie said nothing further, and did not turn back. He walked out the front door and was gone.
He knew, and I knew it too, that something in his life had shifted irrevocably, and there was no going back.
§
Jamie strode silently back down the walkway towards the cars. The neighbors were all gone by then. It was only mid-afternoon, but it felt like it had been the longest day I could remember. When Killian and I reached the cars, he gave me a quick hug and whispered, “Take care of him,” in my ear. I wanted to–God knows I did–but, in truth, I didn’t know exactly how.
Jamie was already seated in the driver’s seat when I got in, which was unusual for him. He didn’t look at me as I buckled, and he wasn’t saying a word. His hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, causing the muscles and veins in his forearms to stand out even more prominently than usual. And his chest was rising and falling rapidly, though his breath was inaudible.
I was at a total loss.
He eased the car into the street and made a turn at the first corner. The look in his eyes was distant and entirely closed off. He was, in that moment, impenetrable. Totally in his head and an island, completely unto himself. It was as if I didn’t exist.
“Jamie?” I said quietly.
But there was no response, no acknowledgement, whatsoever. He just continued to drive. Another turn down another street, more houses.
His breath was still coming rapidly, and now I could faintly hear it. His hands were locked on the wheel, and his eyes were trained on the road in front of him. Another turn.
I looked out the window to people I didn’t know, and thought how odd it is that we go through our days, often totally oblivious to the pain being experienced by someone just an arm’s length away. Lawns are mowed, groceries are unloaded, children play. And just out of reach, someone’s life is coming completely apart.
Very subtly, I felt the car begin to slow, and Jamie eased it over to the side of the road. We weren’t anywhere I recognized, just some random house on the verge of a business district. He brought the car to a careful stop and he put it in park.
For a very long moment, he just sat there like a stone, his eyes focused on his hands in front of him. Then all of the sudden, he let go of the wheel. His breath was now coming in loud pants, and he smashed his fists into the burled wood with a grunt. I jumped at the sudden intensity of it.
A deep red flush developed on his face and he pounded the wheel again, triggering the horn. And then again, and again until his knuckles became bloody and raw. An explosion of sound came from his lungs with each blow, and his expression burned with agony and rage.
I couldn’t breathe as I watched the manifestation of his pain, couldn’t stop myself from crying, or adequately cover the quiver of my ragged breath. But he didn’t seem aware of it.
At last, he stopped and gripped the wheel again with iron fists. He slumped forward in the seat, his forehead bracing against tenderized knuckles, and his whole body began to shake violently. I could hear his inhalations, heavy, like a man struggling against intense emotions.
“Jamie?” I whispered again. “I’m here.” And I reached my hand out to stroke his head and neck. Tears began pouring down my face, and I just let them come.
Jamie inhaled sharply, and I could see the glitter of moisture under his own closed lids. I could not bear to watch him suffer.
“Jamie.” I pulled a little on his strong neck. I would have done anything to comfort him, anything at all. But he was rigid and unyielding in his seat.
I thought of the band, and how its breakup had driven him into the seclusion of his head. He was physically here now, though it felt like he had left again–sitting close but, in fact, miles and miles away. I didn’t want to lose him, and I didn’t want to see him go through this alone.
“Jamie,” I said one last time, trying desperately to reach him. I tugged a little harder.
And, suddenly, he gave way.
His large body shifted, and he turned his head blindly towards me and laid it heavily on my shoulder. His arms came around my waist, shaking with the tremors that racked his body. I’d never seen him like this. I immediately pulled him closer, and rocked him gently in the warmth and protection of my love.
“I need you, Mel,” he whispered roughly, struggling, in a voice I did not recognize. “Don’t let me disappear.”
His words were so broken I could barely make them out.
But it was then, with stunning clarity, that I finally realized what it was I could give him. All those months ago, I had stood outside a music venue wondering what I had to offer in exchange for the gifts he’d given me: the joy and adventure he’d brought into my life, his perspective on the world that changed the way I saw everything, including myself, for the better. I could give him my love, of course, but I had always believed that, perhaps, there was something more. And suddenly, I understood exactly what that was.
I could be his shelter; I could be that safe place from where he could make his stand in the world, a place to which he could feel grounded.
After all, everyone needs to know that there is somewhere they belong; and, even more, that there is someone they belong to. That is the very essence of security, without which, we are adrift.
Jamie experienced things vividly and documented them painstakingly, but it was quite possible he had never really felt a part of anything. Maybe until the band. And now, even that was in question for him.
But I could give him a home.
Whereas I had always had one, strong and stable, Jamie had lived his life with near constant disruption and chaos. I could see that now, as clear as day. And I could see the toll it had taken on him–how absolutely tired he was. He was a wall of a man, but God, he could break like the rest of us.
I held him close, wrapping myself around him and squeezing his shivering body tightly to mine. I pressed my cheek to his head, and willed the strength of my own solid foundation to be enough for the both of us. It would have to be. I would not give him anything less.
I think he knew it. I think he could see it in the way he saw everything else between us.
And so, there in my arms, in a car on a random street in a suburb of San Francisco, Jamie Callahan went utterly and completely to pieces.
Chapter 29
Mel
“COME SIT AND LET ME look at your hands,” I said, as we walked back into my apartment.
“They’re fine; it’s just a scratch.”
Jamie shrugged off my concern with a small wave of dismissal, and pulled off his shirt as he started down the hallway towards my bathroom. He was bone tired, and in no mood for a fuss. What he wanted was a shower and a hot meal. Still…
“Your hands are bleeding. Sit down here and let me clean them.”
The raw vehemence in my voice was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me, and he stopped and turned back to face me. The truth of the matter was that the whole incident had left me feeling very shaken. In the moment, I was so overwhelmed by the horror of the events as they were unfolding that I was numb. But as time passed, the shock was wearing off and the reality was setting in that Jamie had been on the wrong side of a knife. And I could do nothing for him then. Now, I just needed to. I needed to care for him. I needed to feel the warmth of his skin and the life coursing beneath it.
I needed for him to just sit the hell down.
And somehow understanding this in the way he understood so many things about me, he gave up arguing.
“If you like.” He nodded softly, and his face relaxed into a half-rueful smile.
By the time I returned to the living room with medical supplies, he was ready to submit himself to my care. He sat obligingly on the arm of the couch with his legs spread wide and his hands resting on his thighs.
And God, he was stunning, with his vibrant hazel eyes and that rugged, handsome face. And a body that looked like it was carved from stone, with definition around every muscle. Even after months together, I could still be mesmerized by the twist of his powerful torso, and the formidable swell of his biceps and shoulders when he moved. He was beautifully built–every inch of him–and none of it sculpted in a gym. Like everything else he had, his body had been forged from the rigors and the hardship of his everyday life.
Strong as he was, though, he was not impenetrable, and he had the cuts and bruises to prove it. A dozen images of my own fear and helplessness came rushing back to topple my reserves as I caught sight of his injuries. I felt myself begin to break.
He rose to his feet as I collided into his embrace. I let go of everyt
hing in my hands so that I could just hold him.
I needed this. I needed him.
I pressed my cheek to the smooth skin of his sternum and squeezed my eyes closed to block out everything but the feel and smell of him. He was so vivid to me: warm and alive and earthy. I didn’t ever want to let go.
“Shhh, love, don’t cry,” he whispered to me as he rocked gently on his feet. “I wasn’t in any danger.” One hand was around my back tightly, and the other clutched my head firmly to his chest, where his heartbeat was steady and strong.
“I was so scared, Jamie.”
“I know. I’m sorry to have put you through it.”
I shook my head against his body. “No. I wanted to be there for you. I love you,” I whispered, and pressed my lips to him again.
He made a sound of deep contentment and squeezed me a little tighter. “Lord, I know it,” he said in a voice uneven with emotion. “I asked the universe for a pony, and by some miracle, it gave me a unicorn.”
§
Jamie was right; the cuts on his hands were superficial. The emotional damage from them, I knew, was not. He sat very patiently and very still as I wiped them clean with hydrogen peroxide and applied an antibiotic ointment. All the while, his soft eyes never left my face. He seemed to be drinking in every movement, every detail, and every gentle touch between us.
“Does anything else hurt?” I ran my fingertips lightly across the dark bruise that was developing over his kidney.
He shook his head, silently. The day was finally beginning to fade, giving way to a soft pink light that drenched the room in warmth and peacefulness. And it was quiet, too; for being in the city, there was almost no street noise outside. I picked up one large hand from his thigh, and checked the bones again to make sure nothing was broken. But he closed it around mine and then intertwined our fingers together. His hand was rough but gentle, engulfing mine completely.
“I’m glad you were there with me today,” he said softly.
I could feel his gaze on my face and looked up, into the pale greens and golden browns that made up those amazing eyes. There was just a hint of a dimple on one cheek.
