by Lilly Wilde
Is my anger justified? Probably not. Her condition isn’t her fault. But when she does things that place Jace in harm’s way, it’s hard to see her as the innocent, especially when I suspect she’s missing again for the same reason as before… which from my perspective is very much her fault.
I stare at the road, cursing in my head until Jimmy brings me back from my thoughts. He keeps my mind occupied, briefing me on the latest in the small town of Blue Ridge. I swear he gossips more than his wife Loretta.
When he asks about life in Dallas, I tell him about the players, the locker room brawls, the parties—things he wouldn’t see on TV or read in any magazine. I fill him in on my shit, too—the exploits, the indulgences, testing the elasticity of the cheerleaders, the night with the twins.
Jimmy is well aware of my inclinations for sex. And he knows that beyond fulfilling the need to get laid, I never plan to get close to any woman. Though he wants a different lifestyle for me, he doesn’t judge. He just listens and gives the same drill—never lead a woman on and never go bareback. Beyond that, he grins and shakes his head at my stories.
“Man, that’s some life, Branch. If I were a few years younger… and single, I’d have to move to Texas with ya.”
“As if you could function without Loretta.”
“True.” He chuckles. “By the way, she’s cooking dinner in your honor tonight, so we expect you at seven.”
I shake my head, exhaling the worry in my chest. “Hope we find Mama by then.”
“And if we don’t, come anyway. You need to be with family.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“Now don’t go thanking me again. You know you’re like the son I never had. Especially since my house is full of girls.”
I glance at him, familiar with his paternal sentiment but thrown off by the weird grin spreading across his lips. “What’s so funny?”
“Loretta’s pregnant.”
My brows shoot up. “No way!”
“Yep. Six months. We’re hoping it’s a boy this time.”
“Man, I thought you were done having kids. Four is more than enough.”
“Yeah, my wallet and my sanity can attest to that.”
Jimmy always jokes about a houseful of hormonal girls because he knows it will get Loretta riled up, but I’ve never known a man more devoted to his family.
“It wasn’t planned,” he goes on. “Especially at her age. But doc says everything looks good. We’re expecting Little Jimmy by the end of April.”
“That’s great, Jim. Congratulations. So you finally get your boy, huh?”
He winks at me and shoves my shoulder. “I’ll get my second boy.”
Although acknowledged, I rarely respond to Jimmy’s familial expressions.
“We don’t really know if it’s a boy,” he adds, redirecting his attention to the road. “Loretta wanted it to be a surprise, so we’re waiting. I’m planning for a boy, though. I mean, what am I gonna do with five girls in the house?”
I chuckle and throw a glance his way. “The same thing you do with four.”
When he stops for gas, he lowers the top of the convertible and we’re soon back on I-85. That’s the thing about Georgia weather; even near the dead of winter, it’s still hot as hell. I shove my hat in the glove box and slip on my aviators. Twenty or so miles later, I recline my head on the seat and wonder in what condition I’ll find Mama.
Sooner than I expect, we pull up to Jimmy’s and out comes Loretta, her belly a couple feet in front of her.
I whisper to Jimmy, “Are you sure it ain’t twins?”
He snickers and slides out of the car. “Don’t let Loretta hear you say that.”
“Hola, Branch,” she says, waddling toward me. “Let me look at you. It’s been too long. You need to come home more often. We miss seeing you around here.”
“Now don’t go bugging the boy about that, Loretta.”
Although Jimmy agrees with his wife, he knows the frequency of my visits to Blue Ridge is a sore subject.
“Give me a hug and come on in,” she says.
I let out a low whistle. “Damn, Loretta.” I kiss her on the cheek and step back, her pregnant stomach keeping her at arm’s length. “I didn’t think a pregnant woman could look so fucking hot.”
Jimmy nudges me and takes my place beside his wife. “Hey watch it, kid. You may be like a son, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kick your butt.”
Loretta’s a beautiful woman—a petite Latino goddess who’s Jimmy’s sole purpose for breathing. He’s warned me about her a few times over the years. But it’s all in fun. She only has eyes for him and she’s more like a second mom to me.
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asks when I don’t move to follow her.
“He’s here to find Mary,” Jimmy says. “And he needs to check on Jace. They’re coming back for dinner though.”
“Good, because I’m making all your favorites,” she says, still smiling at me.
Jimmy passes his hand over Loretta’s stomach and crouches down in front of her. “How’s my boy doing in there?”
She bats his hand. “Get away from me, Jimmy. We both know it’s another girl.”
“You hear that, Little Jimmy? Tu madre te está llamando niña. We’re just gonna have to show her, aren’t we?” He stands upright and pulls his wife into a hug and kisses her lips. When Jimmy releases her, she looks up at him as though the world starts and stops with him.
His girls are lucky—being raised by those two. Maybe if I’d grown up in the presence of that type of affection—even a fragment of it—I wouldn’t avoid home. Or at least I wouldn’t have to rush here to tend to messes that aren’t mine to clean.
I clear my throat and they both look over at me. “I’m gonna head out. Jace wants me to drop by his class.”
“He and his friends will get a real kick out of that,” Jimmy says. “Not to mention, all the attention it’ll bring his way.”
“Yeah, I think that’s the real reason he wants me there—the attention.”
Loretta lifts a brow. “Wonder who he gets that from.”
“Hey, I don’t ask for it. Hell, most times I avoid it.” At least when it comes to Blue Ridge.
“Well, you are a very handsome man, Branch. If I were younger and single… and if you weren’t like a son to me, I’d—”
“You’d do nothing, Loretta. Nothing at all. So hush up the foolish talk and let the boy get on his way,” Jimmy says.
Loretta winks at me, and Jimmy smacks a palm across her backside.
“You guys should be on a reality show.” I chuckle at their exchange. “Ratings gold.”
“Go ahead and we’ll see you in a bit.” He passes me his keys. “I’ll make a few more calls and we can go to the police station when you get back.”
“Thanks, Jim. Call if you hear anything.”
I fold into his 1957 Chevy Corvette and head across town to Fannin County Middle School, pulling into the parking lot at least an hour before school lets out. Not much has changed since I walked the grounds of the school several years ago. I slip back in time, picturing the guys from the team waiting for me outside the principal’s office. I was there as often as I was in class. I chuckle to myself and step into the main office.
The shapely Mrs. Harris has been replaced by a heavyset secretary with a heap of bright red hair piled atop her head. She looks up with an air of recognition followed by the starstruck eyes wide with disbelief.
“You’re… Oh. My. God.” Her hand clutches her chest. “You’re Branch McGuire! The Branch McGuire.”
After a beat, I say, “That’s the name on my license.”
“Oh, my word,” she exclaims and reaches for the phone, her eyes still pinned on me. The receiver falls to her desk and she glances down briefly to lift it then presses a button on the keypad. “Mr. Fowler, you should come out here. Now.”
“I’m here to see my brother. Do I need to sign something?”
Ignoring my question, she tears a slip
of paper from her pad and pushes away from the desk. “My husband would kill me if I didn’t get your autograph. Would you mind?”
“Is that Branch McGuire?”
I look up from the excited ginger to see Principal Fowler stepping from his office.
“You know.” He shakes a finger at me as his lips curl upward. “I should have a detention room dedicated to you.”
“I thought you had,” I say, laughing with him.
“Good to see you, Branch.” He shakes my hand. “Tonya, are you bugging him for an autograph?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
Her eyes have yet to leave my face.
“And a selfie, if it’s not too much trouble,” she whispers, although Fowler is close enough to hear. “My girlfriends will simply die when they see it.”
“You’re right… they would, which is why it’s not going to happen,” Fowler says, his voice firm. “Now get back to your desk. The man isn’t here to let you snap pictures to put on that darn Facebook or the Twitter. Trump does that enough for everybody.”
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s okay. One picture won’t hurt.”
Disregarding her boss, the ginger rushes to her purse for her cell and after snapping two photos, she’s back at her desk, tapping on the phone screen, more than likely doing exactly what Fowler said she’d do. So much for my plan to remain unnoticed.
Minutes later, I’m strolling down the hall to Jace’s last-period class. The door to Ms. Tucker’s room is already open. She looks up when she notices someone watching, her eyes big as saucers when she recognizes who the someone is. Stumbling over herself, she beckons me to come in.
The class is a mix of gasps and whispers as Jace rushes to the front of the room to hug his big brother. “You’re here. You’re actually here!”
And there it is again—the euphoric sound in his voice that kicks me in the gut.
April 15, 2008
THE GUIDANCE COUNSELOR DECLARES MY 4.6 GPA guarantees acceptance to pretty much the university of my choice, and it probably does… if my plan were to pursue a college education, but it isn’t. I never thought beyond high school graduation and freedom from Cassidy and Dad. With the latter resolved, I find myself either making up for lost time or coping with the guilt of leaving Noah behind.
I’m sitting in third period, chatting it up with my best friend Hayley when a message sounds over the intercom. It’s Mrs. Waters. She’s requested I come to the main office.
Strange.
I’ve only been summoned to the office when Cassidy…
I bring that train of thought to a halt, confident that Mrs. Waters’s call is related to my impending graduation. Even so, my mind wanders, conjuring details of my last visit to the school office.
A visit that very much involved Cassidy.
She appeared under the guise of my forgotten research paper when her real intent was to drag me to the bathroom for one of our talks. Before leaving for school, I’d completed my morning chores, including cooking breakfast for the family and cleaning the kitchen afterward. But I’d been rushing to catch the bus, and in my haste, I’d failed to notice the bread crumbs on the counter nearest the stove. For that oversight, I’d be punished. And it wouldn’t wait until after school. It would happen as soon as my stepmother could get her hands on me.
In the bathroom stall, Cassidy directed me to lower my pants and underwear. I did as I was told. And then I was warned not to cry. She next grabbed a wooden hairbrush from her purse and ordered me to bend over. And without pause, she started in on me, cracking the back of the brush over each bare cheek. Twenty strikes each. I remember the number vividly because she’d made me count—she always made me count. Each slap to my tender flesh incited an involuntary response to cry out. But I suffered in silence, squeezing my eyes tight, biting my lip, and riding through each blow.
When it was over, she told me to pull my pants up and to look at her. My eyes were dry and I was devoid of all emotion. For this setting, that’s what she required. So that’s what I gave. My body had conditioned itself to the abuse. So whereas a normal person would typically cry, my tear ducts knew not to betray me. And they didn’t.
I stared at Cassidy and waited for her speech—the one where she threatened my brother and me if I ever told anyone.
“Next time, do as you’re told. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Her palm lands solidly across my cheek. “Yes, what?”
I ignore the sting of her assault and reply the way she expects. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You will keep that house clean and that includes wiping every kitchen counter. How many times must I tell you that, you disobedient little bitch?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to skip that one. But the bus was—”
“Get back to class. And I’d better not get a call about you crying. If I do, you’ll get far more than a measly hairbrush across your ass. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I returned to class that day as though nothing had happened. My expression impassive, my eyes dry. Cassidy didn’t want anyone to know what she’d done, so I didn’t dare expose my pain.
Not in public.
Never in public.
But at home, she required something different. She wanted each strike to elicit my suffering. She wanted to see that she was hurting me, breaking me. So at those times, I gave her the tears. I cried. Because if I didn’t, the lashes were harder. Relentless. Wounding. I learned to create tears when I had none. To put on the show she needed. She wanted to see the hurt and fear in my eyes, so I’d forced myself to give her that—to give her the broken mess of a girl she wanted at her mercy.
I catch myself extracting another memory… and then another. Yet as quickly as I bring them to the surface, I smother them, not wanting to remember anymore. Wanting to forget. And after last night, I can. Cassidy and the depravity that surrounds her are behind me. She will never hurt me again.
When I step into the school’s main office, it’s with an assurance that everything will be fine. Mrs. Waters looks up with a kind smile. “Good morning, Ragan. Your mother’s here,” she says, motioning toward the small sitting area to my right.
The knot that’s been absent suddenly pulls tight in my chest. I follow the secretary’s gaze to find Cassidy sitting in a metal-framed chair, her legs crossed and a fake smile spreading over her wicked lips.
“There you are,” she says. “Let’s talk in the hall.”
I walk over to Cassidy and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere with you.” And for the first time, I know I don’t have to.
She tilts her head to the side, and a malicious smile replaces the sweetness of the fake. “Are you forgetting that Noah is still in my house?” She leans forward and grants a whisper of her own, one that sends chills down my spine. “Do you want him to get something that’s intended for you?”
Her subtlety isn’t lost on me. I understand the implication. And since Cassidy isn’t in the habit of making threats without following through, my brother will assuredly suffer. And her malevolence will be incomplete until she’s furnished evidence. She’ll make certain that I see what she’s done—that she’s left Noah’s body battered and bruised. And she’ll place the blame solely on me.
Cassidy stands and walks out of the office, expecting me to follow.
And I do.
To our usual rendezvous point.
The bathroom.
She kicks open each stall door, checking that we’re alone. Then she turns toward me, staring.
I square my shoulders, crossing my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Cassidy?”
She walks toward me, stopping when we’re a couple of feet apart. “Just reminding you to keep your mouth shut. You may be out of my house, but your brother isn’t. So if you say anything, you know what will happen to him, don’t you?”
I glare at her, wanting to rip her insides out.
Cassidy raises a hand at me and I flinch.
�
��Answer me,” she barks.
“I won’t say anything.”
“Good.” She lets out a breath. “We have an understanding then.”
I don’t respond. What can I say? She holds all the cards and she knows it.
“Well, that’s all I wanted. Go back to class… or not. I could care less,” she says, pulling the mop of brownish-gray hair to one side of her head. “You’re no longer my problem.” She starts toward the door and I follow, but she stops as her hand grips the handle. “And by the way, I packed up all of your crap and had David set it on the curb. If you want it, you’d better get it before the garbage man picks it up tomorrow.”
“You’re an evil piece of shit, Cassidy. There are no words for how much I hate you.”
She tosses her head back with a bitter laugh. “You stupid little bitch. Do you honestly think I care? I’m so glad to have you out of my house.”
My hands fist at my sides. It’s not your house, you stupid whore. I should have choked the life from her miserable body the night before.
She smirks and walks out, leaving me staring after her.
I exhale the air in my lungs, releasing the anxiety she placed in my chest. And then, still too shaken to return to class, I decide to skip. Not like anyone gives a fuck either way. I step to the sink, splash water across my cheeks, and stare in the mirror. I replay Cassidy’s words. From the first to the last. Even the part about Dad. He set my belongings on the curb. My personal items. My drawings. They’re sitting there… outside. Waiting to be hauled off as garbage.
Tears spill from my eyes.
Why couldn’t this all be a horrible, horrible dream? Why is it based in reality? And why is there no end in sight? Even nightmares offer some type of finality when your eyes flicker open or when the dream fades to a close. But not for me. The bad never stops. It’s as if someone has pressed a recycle button that spits out shit on top of shit. No one deserves this life. No one should walk through each day with a constant ache in their heart. No one’s dreams should only consist of running away from a family that doesn’t bear the meaning of the word. And now, after more than a decade of abuse and dysfunction, I fear I’ll never fully comprehend the meaning myself.
