by Jay McLean
She didn’t take away my dreams.
Not yet.
My hands covered my face, my legs kicking out—trying to get her to back away. “Please,” I begged. “Enough.”
“Enough?” She shouted, dropping the pot. Her shoulders heaved—and if I weren’t smart—if I hadn’t lived through this my entire life—I’d have thought she was giving up… that she finally calmed down. But I knew—it was the calm right before the storm. “Enough? You don’t tell me what to do, Becca! God. Fucking. Dammit! I’m your mother! You disrespectful little whore!” She opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out the biggest knife she owned.
Everything in me went still.
Everything.
Then I screamed.
So fucking loud.
“Help!”
Blood spurted from my mouth, my nose, my eye. All I could see was red. I tried to stand. “Somebody help! PLEASE!”
Nobody came to me.
Only my mother.
She was smiling.
Sinister.
Evil.
“You’ll never leave me, Becca,” she whispered, knife to my throat as she pulled on my hair, making me stand. She held me against the wall, her voice fierce against my ear. “Never!”
She let me go and I fell to the ground. I cried, relieved.
The “episode” was over.
Or so I thought.
Her fingers curled against my scalp, her hands gripping my hair. I slid against the tiles as she dragged me across the kitchen floor. Through the blood whooshing in my ears, I heard her screaming, shouting the same words over and over. “You’ll never leave me!”
With my hands on her wrists, I kicked, I screamed, I begged for mercy. “Please stop! Mommy! Please!”
With my eyes closed, she dragged me through the house and outside. I knew it was wrong. I knew the punishment would be worse but I couldn’t help it. I kicked. I begged. I screamed for help.
Nobody came.
She opened the front passenger’s door of her car and threw me inside like I weighed nothing, then slammed the door shut and ran to the driver’s side. I screamed again. “HELP!”
She got in and closed her door. Then turned on the stereo as loud as possible to drown out my pleas. She turned to me, her face red and eyes filled with rage. So much rage. Then she held the knife to my throat again. “I’d rather you be dead than leave me.”
The life switched off inside me.
The dreams I created were just that.
Dreams.
And I remember thinking that I hope my dreams were the last thing that run through my mind before I died. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being trapped in my reality for the rest of mortality.
“Let me dream,” I whispered as my mother reversed out of the driveway. I looked out my window with the one eye that still functioned and I saw her—the old lady next door, phone to her ear, tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” I mouthed, my bloodstained hands on the window.
I wish she could’ve saved me when I could be saved.
With the music blaring, my mother sped through the streets, ignoring everything around her. I put on my seatbelt right after she ran a red light—the last set of lights in town before there was nothing but empty roads surrounded by trees. She turned off the stereo when she knew there would be no one around to hear my screams.
For minutes we drove in silence.
At least on the outside.
Inside, every single part of me was screaming.
And then the strangest thing happened.
She started to laugh.
Not out of humor.
But pure evil.
She faced me but I could barely keep my eyes open. I knew I was fading, and fading fast—dropping in and out of consciousness.
She smiled. Not out of happiness.
But pure menace.
She picked up speed, swerving from side to side on the empty road.
I grabbed onto the dash. “Mom!”
She laughed harder.
Drove faster.
Swerved further.
I moved my hands from the dash and gripped my seatbelt.
She hit the brakes. I lurched forward but was contained by the belt as the tires screech to a halt. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. My mouth was filled with blood, but still, I fought for air, and that intake and outpour of breath was the only thing I could hear. Darkness surrounded us. The only thing I could see was her headlights and the trees half a mile in front of us. She unclipped her seatbelt and moved toward me. It seemed slow, the movement, though I’m sure it wasn’t. She leaned in close, her dark tear filled eyes on mine—her pale skin illuminated by the moonlight. I felt her hand, soft at first, around my neck—right before she squeezed. Her face an inch from mine, she smiled again. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said. “I never wanted it to be like this.”
Her elbow moved from side to side but I couldn’t make out why.
“I just love you so much, Becca. You know that, right? I never meant to hurt you. It’s just that you’re all I have. You and me. That’s the way it has to be. Forever. You can’t leave me. You wouldn’t leave your mommy, would you, baby?”
Her smile dropped.
She pulled away—just as I heard my seatbelt wind up.
I looked down—already knowing my fate.
She’d cut the fucking belt.
My gaze snapped from the belt to the trees as she hit the brakes and the accelerator at the same; the wheels spun, but the car was stationary.
“You’ll never leave me,” was the last thing I heard her say, right before the sound of tires screeching, of screams—not mine, but hers filled my ears.
Metal crushed.
Glass shattered.
And then darkness.
Sweet, peaceful, darkness.
It felt safe—that darkness. Then I remembered my dreams—the dreams that I’d created on my own. The dreams that started this nightmare.
I fought to breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
But something pressed against my neck, crushing it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel a thing. I felt the darkness trying to suck me in—trying to take me away from my reality.
I needed to see her.
One last time.
I opened my eyes and glanced sideways.
And I saw her.
She was facing me, her head pinned between the steering wheel and her seat. And as I watched the blood trickle from her mouth and her eyes lose the fight for life, all I could think was that she could’ve been beautiful. If you take away her evil and her anger and her need to hurt me—she could’ve been beautiful. In a way, she still was. To me, anyway. In her death—she was still beautiful.
“I hate you, Becca.”
31
-Joshua-
“Maybe now you can understand why it’s so important for her to go to college… for her to do something for herself,” Chazarae says. “It’s going to be hard for her. She has a lot of emotional hurdles she needs to overcome. I spoke to Olivia the first time she started showing signs of depression again—”
“Depression?”
Chazarae nods. “Becca’s very sick, Josh. She was diagnosed with depression when her mother passed. I’m sure it’s something that was there long before the diagnosis. How could it not be? When she got here she was at a very low point in her life—then you and Tommy came along and you changed all of that. She has a tendency to become attached to those who show her love—for people who can make her feel safe. Especially—and please don’t take this the wrong way—but especially boys. She feels a level of comfort and safety because their touch is gentle and different to her mother’s. I’m sure it’s not the same with you, though. In fact, I’m positive it’s not. Becca genuinely loved you, Josh,” she says, her voice breaking. “I don’t want you to think her condition made your time together any less than it was. While you were together, you gave her an extreme level of joy and happiness and when things started to fall apa
rt with you guys, she fell into a deep, dark hole, one I couldn’t get her out of.” She pauses a beat, as if hesitating to tell me more. After a while, she continues. “After Tommy broke his arm, I caught her in her room at three in the morning, her lights were on and she was rocking back and forth in the corner biting down on her thumb. She wouldn’t react to my voice, to my touch, nothing. So I called Olivia and asked her for help. I can’t remember the exact words she used, but she likened it to training a dog; when they do something good, you give them a treat and after a while their brains link the two. When Becca thought she did something bad, her mind automatically associated it with pain so she bit on her thumb looking for that link. The other night she bit down on it so hard she broke skin.”
“Jesus Christ.” I wipe tears off my cheeks. “She took something, right? That’s why she had to get her stomach pumped?”
Chazarae nods. “She had pain killers left over from the accident. She took whatever was left in the bottle. I found her unconscious, Josh. We’re just lucky the ambulance got there in time.”
My hands shook as I stared straight ahead, my mind numb and my breaths short. “I’ll never forgive myself,” I tell her.
“You have to, Josh.” She places a piece of paper in my hand and stands up. “Becca says you have to.”
I wait until she’s in her house before looking down at the note—the one in Becca’s handwriting.
Grams,
Forgiveness is the final form of love.
Joshua deserves both.
Continue to love him like I do.
Like I always will.
-Becca.
32
-Joshua-
I look at the framed picture in my hand—the one from her birthday. I stare at her smile, a smile that reached her eyes and I find it so hard to believe that behind those eyes, there was a whole other side of her I didn’t know existed.
I should’ve known, right?
When she’d cried in my arms, I should have asked.
I should’ve pushed her.
I should’ve made her talk to me.
I should’ve done so many things I didn’t.
And I shouldn’t have done so many things I did.
But like they say, regrets are useless.
They also say that time heals all wounds.
And as I sit here—looking at a still image that makes me question everything—I don’t see how time, or anything else, can heal me.
Heal us.
A knock on my door has my eyes snapping to the sound—and for a moment, I almost forget that it’s not her. It can’t be.
And when I open the door, it’s the complete opposite.
“Natalie.”
I look for a sign of compassion in her eyes—something to say that she’s sorry for what she did—for being the catalyst that tore me down, wore me out, and finally broke me.
“I want full custody of Thomas,” she says, and I blink, tilting my head so my ear’s closer to her—because I must’ve heard wrong. “I’m using my grandmother’s trust fund to hire lawyers. And there’s a lot of money there, Josh. I’m going to fight for him. And I’ll win. I’ll spend every spare second of every day, every single cent I have until I get what I want—what Thomas deserves.”
With narrowed eyes, I take a step forward. “Who the hell is going to grant you rights to a child you fucking abandoned?”
She doesn’t budge. Not an inch. She stands in front of me, toe to toe. Eye to eye. “A judge who’s not going to want a child in danger of your temper. All I have to do is tell them how you acted that night. She holds up her phone. “I have pictures of your truck—the truck you destroyed in a fit of rage all while your son stood in a house ten feet away. He’s not safe with you, Josh. He’s better off with me.”
I slam the door in her face because I’m too afraid of what’ll happen if I have to look at her a second longer.
I stand, staring at the wall, my fists balled, letting the anger filter through me. And once the anger has passed, I let reality sink in. And for the millionth time since my mom showed up on my doorstep, I break.
Seriously, how many times can a person break before the only things left are shattered fragments too small to piece back together?
I slump down on the couch and look back at the picture again—only this time, my focus isn’t on Becca; it’s on Tommy.
And I remember one of the first things I ever told Becca: that there are some sacrifices greater than love. And some loves greater than any sacrifice. Tommy was greater than both.
And because of that, I stand up, grab my keys and get in my car.
And I give up the only thing I have left to sacrifice.
My pride.
My mom’s eyes widen when she opens the door, then drop to Tommy standing in front of me.
“I need your help.”
Without a word, she opens the door wider. She doesn’t stop us when I take Tommy’s hand to help him climb the stairs to their bedroom. She stays silent as she follows behind and when I walk into the room, my dad’s eyes widen, first at me and then at his grandson. He looks behind me, I assume at my mother, his lips part but he doesn’t make a sound.
He never does.
Through the lump in my throat, I force out my words. “Tommy this is your…” I look at my mom. “What do you want to be called?”
She sniffs once, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nanni,” she whispers.
“Tommy this is your nanni, this is Daddy’s mamma.”
Tommy’s narrowed eyebrows shadow his clear blue eyes. “Daddy’s mamma?”
“Yes.” I point to my dad, “And this is Daddy’s daddy…”
“Pa,” my mom says. “Nanni and Pa.”
Tommy looks at my dad, lying on his back in his hospital type bed—the same way I’d seen him since I found out about his illness. “You is Pa?” he asks quietly.
My mom lets out a single sob.
My dad doesn’t move.
Robby and Kim knock on their front door—showing up exactly when I’d wanted them to.
Tommy smiles when he sees them enter my parents’ room, even though he just left them.
“This is your grandson: Thomas Joshua Christian. My son. My world. And I need your help, because I’m going to lose him.”
I ask Kim to take Tommy so I can speak to my parents and Robby and ask them for something I never thought I would.
Help.
I need help.
And I need them.
I sit down on the same chair I’ve always sat in, only now I pull it to the side of his bed, because I need him to hear me. I need him to see me.
“He’s a great kid—my son. He’s kind and respectful and a little crazy but I love him with everything I have,” I tell him, the pain of the past few days finally consuming me. “He’s smart, Dad. Smarter than I ever was. And he’s so funny. He gives me a new reason to smile every single day.” I pause when my mom sits on the bed by his legs, taking his hand in hers. She nods, asking me to continue. “He’s into dressing up at the moment. Chazarae, the lady who took me in and gave me a home when I had nowhere to go—”
My mother’s cry cuts me off but she nods again. “Go on.”
“Chazarae buys him all these little outfits and Becca—my girl—my ex, she’d take these pictures of him. She called him a little poser.” I reach into my pocket and pull out all the photographs she’d taken of him and hand them to my mom. She lets go of Dad and starts flipping through the pictures, her smile now overshadowing her tears. My dad stays silent, his gaze at the wall in front of him.
“It’s been hard—being seventeen and being completely alone to a raise a child. I didn’t know anything about being a dad—only what you taught me,” I tell him. “And somehow, it was enough to get me here. And Robby and Kim—they’ve helped me through a lot of it, but there’ve been times when I needed my parents. And no more so than I need them now. I wouldn’t ask…” I choke on a breath, fighting against my pride.
“Natalie—she came back. She wants full custody of him. She has money I don’t. She has family I don’t. She’s his mom and she’s going to win. She’s going to take my world away from me and I don’t know what to do. I can’t live without him.”
“Fuck,” Robby whispers.
I rear back when my dad slowly sits up, his eyes on mine. He tries to speak but nothing comes out. Then he looks at my mother. “Ella, call Jack Newman.”
“Our lawyer?”
Dad nods. “Set up a meeting for all of us.” He turns to me now, but I can barely see him, not through the tears flooding my vision. “Your son has your smile, Josh.”
★★★
I get the papers from Natalie’s lawyers the next day and the first thing I do is take them to my parent’s house. We sit in my dad’s room and go through everything we know. The next day, we have an appointment with Jack Newman at their house. My dad sits in the living room with us, dressed in a suit that hangs off his now thin and gaunt frame. He stays quiet while the lawyer explains everything to us. Natalie’s lawyers are good. Really good. And they’re going to take their time finding evidence and character witnesses who are going to be willing to lie on the stand for the girl who was lost at seventeen, found at twenty, and wants the best for her son. In her mind, and in her lawyer’s, she has a case. A good one. Especially since she’s using my actions and temper from New Year’s Eve night for her personal gain. Jack says he’ll do his own digging into her past and try to find what she’s been up to. I tell him to have at it, but I don’t want to know about any of it until I have to. “How much is this going to cost?” I ask him. “I have money that I was saving to put toward a house but I don’t know if it’s going to cover it.”
Mr. Newman glances at my dad quickly. “It’s covered,” he says.
I look at my dad, but he’s looking down at his lap.
“Your first step is to gather character witnesses, which is what she’ll be doing. Anyone you can find who will vouch for you. We need all the help we can get,” Mr. Newman says.
“What are my chances here? Be honest. Please.”
