Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  My mother is practically floating above her seat as I walk over and join her on the couch. “I am so proud of you.” Her hands are clasped tightly over her knees and her voice shakes. I can tell it’s taking everything in her not to start crying. But for once I wouldn’t mind because it seems like they’re happy tears, and I haven’t seen my mother cry happy tears in forever.

  I take her hands in mine and give them a squeeze. “I’m not done yet, Mom. Asher says this is just the beginning.”

  “Asher?”

  “Oh.” I hope that she doesn’t think anything of me using his first name. “My counselor.”

  “He sounds like a very smart man.”

  “He is.” I feel the heat in my cheeks as I think about him. Again, I hope that my mother doesn’t pick up on the subtly of me discussing him. This would be a really shitty time for her to suddenly become astute about what’s going on with me. “I really trust what he says. He’s a former addict himself. Cleaned up and went back to school so he could help others.”

  She nods and smiles. “How admirable.”

  My father lets out a sound that lands somewhere between scoff and laugh. My eyes flick to him, my fingers tightening over my mother’s hand. I don’t understand what he could possibly find amusing.

  “What’s so damn funny?” I ask, and the words come out muffled because they’re said from between gritted teeth.

  “Nothing.”

  He jerks his chin and winks at me and I feel that tight elastic band of control snap. Anger spreading through my body, making my hands shake, my mouth go dry, and every nerve ending in me tingles.

  “Y’know what, I want you to leave.”

  It’s short, and to the point, void of all emotion. I feel the hole in the pit of my stomach opening wide. His forehead scrunches up, his lips forming a hard line. He looks to my mother, shrugs his shoulders and then his eyes come back to me. I don’t break my stare. I’m tired of him winning. This ends now.

  “Tegan, stop.” My mother’s voice cuts right through the tension in the room. The animosity between my father and I is something she has grown accustomed to, and she doesn’t seem surprised by my sudden outburst toward him, but that doesn’t mean she likes it.

  “No, Mom, I won’t stop. He needs to leave.”

  “He’s your father,” she reminds me.

  “We all know that’s not true.”

  She gasps, wrenching her hand from mine, holding it over her open mouth, and I wonder if she really had convinced herself that her secret was safe. My father blinks once and leans over to comfort her.

  “Yeah, I know the sordid little secret. It’s okay, Mom, I understand why you kept it from me all these years. You were just trying to protect me.” I look back to him and glare at him, willing him to feel everything I have felt over the years. All the hatred, the self-loathing, the loneliness. I had pushed it down. But now it’s surfaced. “What you really needed to protect me from, though, was the monster sitting next to you.”

  “Now, Tegan—”

  I cut him off.

  “Shut the hell up. You ruined me.”

  “I may have been hard on you, but I only did it because I wanted you to be better.”

  “So you shoved your hands in my panties to make me better, did you? Pinned me to my bed and told me to ‘be a good girl’ while you had your way with me because you wanted me to be better?”

  My mother flinches with such force that there is now a meter wide gap between her and my father. “What?”

  Without taking my eyes from him, I explain, “I’m talking about all the times he snuck into my bedroom and showed me just how much hatred he had for me. The years of abuse I suffered at his hands because I was, what did you call me? A souvenir?”

  My father knifes up, starts to walk toward me but thinks better of it and returns to crouch in front of my mother, taking her hands in his own. “She’s lying. Obviously this place isn’t doing anything for her. We should leave.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I bite. “You don’t get to leave now. I already gave you that chance.”

  My voice is level. Calm, but with an edge that he must pick up on because his ass is back on the couch in seconds, his face grey, his lips pressed together as he waits to see what I have to say next.

  “Think about it, Mom. All those times he’d go to bed with you, then claim to have a bout of insomnia. He’d tell you he was heading downstairs to watch TV, when in reality he was making me touch him while he touched me.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says through her fingers.

  He leans forward and reaches for her hand. “C’mon, sweetheart, you don’t believe this nonsense, do you?”

  I look at my mother. Growing up I thought she was super woman; that she could do anything. She knew all the answers. But the problem is that when you grow up you realize that’s all bullshit. Grown ups are just as clueless as children—they just get better at hiding it.

  “You know I’m telling the truth. You’re my mom—you can spot my lies a mile off. Deep down, you know it makes sense. You’ve always wondered if some sort of abuse was at the root of my addiction. I just confirmed your worst fears. It was, and it was done by a man you thought loved me.”

  Slowly, she slides off the couch, collapsing into a heap on the carpet. She covers her face, the sound that leaves her mouth strangled and agonizing. I rush to her.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I say into her hair, even though it isn’t. But part of the journey I’ve been on with Asher has been accepting that there are things that I can’t change, and people who I can’t blame. I’ve come to accept that now. “I don’t blame you. I’m just as much at fault. I kept it a secret for far too long. What’s done is done. But you had to know. You thought he was a good man, but he wasn’t. He isn’t. He took out his hatred for the man you should have been with on me.”

  The room is silent except for her sobs and my hushes. I rock her back and forth, whispering into her hair, just like she did to me when I was a child. And just like she would back then, I know I would do anything to take away her pain. I feel a push against my chest and she lifts up her head, her blotchy cheeks covered with mascara and tears. Her bottom lip trembles. She looks so small. So afraid. “I’m so sorry, Tegan. I didn’t know.”

  “I know.”

  Suddenly I’m pushed backward and the reason for this is that my mother has jumped up and is pummeling my father’s chest with her fist. “Get out. You hear me? Get out of my sight.”

  As much as it pleases me to see him shielding himself while he gets his ass handed to him, I reach for my mother and wrap my arms around her, pulling her back to my front. She struggles against me and I can feel her chest heaving, hear the deep lungful of air she pulls through her nose. My father watches on in amazement.

  “But—”

  Briefly, she attempts to free herself from my arms. I know she’s not satisfied. I can see the familiar fire in her eyes, she wants to kill him. “But what?”

  “Are you really going to take her word against mine? She’s a heroin addict for Christ's sake!”

  “Was,” I say firmly, using the words that Luke said to me just a few weeks ago. “Past tense.”

  He whips his head around and glares at me.

  “I was a heroin addict,” I continue, “just like I was your play thing. Now I’m a survivor.”

  He ignores my statement and looks back to my mother who’s continuing to struggle against my arms. “Calm down and let’s get out of here,” he says quietly to her.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He lets out a sigh that is a borderline groan. “Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looks him square in the face and asks the question whose answer will make or break this family reunion. “Tell me then. Is it true?”

  “You can’t be serious right now.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Of course it’s not true.” I smile. You might think that reaction
is weird, but it isn’t. I smile because gone is the confidence, the arrogance, the “look what a great guy I am” persona. For the first time in my life, he no longer has the upper hand. I’ve sown a seed. Time to watch it grow. “And the fact that you’re even entertaining any of this makes me sick.”

  “You’ve always hated her.” The silence fills the room and within seconds I know that his evasiveness just confirmed everything she feared. “You need to leave now,” she says, her voice strong and unwavering. “I need to talk to my daughter—alone.”

  “Please don’t do this,” he begs.

  “I don’t want to hear it. Not now, not today, possibly not ever. I thought you were a great father, but you disgust me. Now get out, before I do something that will land me in prison.”

  He works his way to his feet, his face ghastly white. Things have taken a turn I’m sure he wasn’t expecting. Mom and I cling to each other as he makes his way to the door. He glares at me as he walks away. I can tell he hopes that I will cower and break my gaze from his, but instead I find myself reveling in the moment. All I do is smile. Closure feels good, and I hope that he finds himself paying for his mistakes every day for the rest of his pathetic life. I’m proud of myself. I can’t believe how far I’ve come from the scared little girl he once tortured.

  I manage to hold it together until the door slams behind him. After that my legs give out from beneath me and I hit the floor, my knees buckling under the weight of years and years of . . . of everything. But I’m not alone. This time my mother is here with me, holding me tight. When it came down to it, she chose me.

  Me.

  WHEN ASHER’S FACE appears at my window that evening, I feel different. Something has changed. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I don’t feel like I’m completely under his spell anymore. Maybe it’s because I’m no longer the scared little girl. Maybe the exchange today gave me back a little of the power I lost all those years ago. Whatever it is, it bothers me. My stomach flops over the top of itself and for a second I question whether or not I’m going to be sick.

  We go through our normal window routine, and as his lithe body slides over the sill and his feet and on the floor he reaches for me, like it’s all one movement. He leans down and kisses my lips gently and the familiar fluttering in my heart returns and I brush my moment of doubt aside.

  “How’d it go?” he asks once our lips part.

  Happy that the excitement has returned, I throw my arms around his neck and sigh. “It was extremely liberating.” I move forward to place my lips on his again, but he leans back. Just out of my reach.

  “I want to hear all about it.”

  “Can we talk about it later?” I slide a hand down his back. All I want is him. No words. No revisiting old wounds. Just him.

  He grabs my hand and stills it, sliding his fingers in between mine, pulling our joined hands up between our bodies. “Let me be there for you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I say defensively.

  “It means that I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”

  My stomach falls and my eyes look to the floor.

  He places a knuckle underneath my chin, slowly lifts my face so that he can see me. “Tonight, you’re going to let me inside your heart.”

  My eyes widen and I search his face. There is a softness there that I’ve only ever seen during his unguarded moments; the moments where he thinks I’m not looking at him when really I am. Like in his bed, when we’re both skating the edges of sleep, satisfied and sated, relaxed. His eyes shine brightly and I feel the emotions I was hoping to push away bubble to the surface. My eyes sting as the tears well. “I think I broke my mother’s heart today,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t say anything. It’s as if he knows that whatever words he could muster wouldn’t be enough. So instead, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me against his chest, holding me as a lover would as the sobs rip through my core.

  TEN. THE FIRST of the double-digit numbers. Once today is over I’ll be down to single figures and the thought scares me.

  I have ten more days here and then what?

  My solo sessions with Asher are slowly coming to a close. After our session the other day he informed me that once he dismisses me, the majority of my sessions will be group oriented. I hate group. It makes me feel like a freak. Despite spending time with people over the time I’ve been in here, I’m still not comfortable sitting in a circle with a bunch of other addicts. It just makes me more aware of the fact that I have, or had a problem. I beg him to not dismiss me, to keep our sessions going, but if he did that, they wouldn’t feel comfortable letting me go from the program. No dismissal from the program equals no moving on with life. We both know this upsets me. What little time we have together, other than our snatched moments in my room, is during our scheduled sessions and without those I won’t see him as much. It’s not something we’ve discussed, but we both know that he can’t sneak to my window during the daylight, and every nighttime tryst brings with it the increased chance of us being caught.

  Asher coughs and I look up at him. I’ve been sitting across from him, silent in my own thoughts, frightened by what the future may have in store for me for the last twenty minutes. Although not much of a talker, it’s unusual for me to be this quiet and he knows it.

  “So what are you stewing about over there?” he finally asks.

  “Things are changing.”

  He gives an almost imperceptible nod. “And how does that make you feel?”

  Forcing a smile, I can’t help but be amazed that even though he’s seen me naked and writhing underneath him, the times when I need him to be my counselor, he is. The times I need him to be other things—my face flushes as I think about all the other ways he’s there for me—let’s just say he does that well too. Stopping my daydream, I look to him, hoping he’ll rephrase the question.

  “Okay then, how do you feel about change?”

  “It scares the shit out of me.”

  “How come?”

  I contemplate bullshitting him but there’s no use. He’s able to read me like a book and my lies will get me nowhere. “Because even though this should be an exciting time for me, it’s like my life is starting all over again and I can’t get excited about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, there are too many unknowns. Too much uncertainty. How can I plan when I have nothing to plan for? I don’t even know where I stand with you!” My response is more heated than I expected and I flinch when I realize I’ve yelled at him.

  Silence surrounds both of us. My heart races. My palms sweat. My knees grow weak and I begin to shake. My mind starts to reel with all the possibilities. Evidently, I had every right to be scared shitless because he doesn’t seem to have an answer for me either. I should’ve known better than to think a man could actually be dependable. “Your silence speaks volumes,” I say, not attempting to hide the distain from my tone. He sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his hands up to cover his face then pushing them back until they come to rest at the back of his neck.

  “There’s no easy answer, Tegan.”

  “So where is this going?”

  His tone is flat. “I don’t know.”

  How can he not know? He’s the one guiding me. Isn’t that what the whole rehab process is supposed to be about? Guidance.

  I’m frustrated. And one thing they always tell you in rehab is not to lash out when you’re frustrated. “Think about your actions,” they say. “Think about the ramifications. Take time to consider the repercussions. Count to ten.”

  Yeah, well, fuck ten.

  I hop up from the chair and punch him in the arm. It’s an odd reaction, I know, but slapping him seems too intimate, and right now he doesn’t deserve that. I’ve always laid myself out for him and all I’m asking for is a bit of clarification that I haven’t spent the whole fucking time here pining after someone whose intentions don’t go beyond my ninety day stint.<
br />
  His left hand flies to his arm and he rubs the muscle deeply. “What the hell was that for?”

  “For being a selfish prick.”

  I dart for the door but he’s too quick, grabbing my wrist and holding me in place. “Let me go, Asher,” I hiss, and I watch the light drain out of his eyes.

  In that instant I know I’ve overreacted.

  Fuck. They were right.

  “No. I won’t.”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “You just said so yourself.”

  “No,” he argues, “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

  Everyone doubts themselves at some point during their life, and being an addict is no different. The treatment they provide here is all about developing strategies and tools to help you move past those moments and look toward the future, aim for your “happy place”. But how can I do that? I know it’s wrong to place so much emphasis on my relationship with Asher, but when I look to my future, a relationship with him I what I see. And that in itself is a big thing for me. My parent’s marriage hasn’t exactly instilled me with a desire to head out and make a family, but when I imagine doing all that with Asher, suddenly the idea doesn’t seem so ridiculous. But, when I’m stuck here, in limbo, I can’t plan for anything. I don’t have a happy place to aim for. And without something to aim for, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move past these moments of doubt.

  I was a good addict- a fucking great one. And maybe that’s all I was meant to be. Maybe this thing with Asher was the universes way of saying sorry for the shitty times. Nothing more than a lasting memory for me to hold on to.