His back. He flinched. She was staring at the grotesque scars, the many raised dots of whitened flesh.
She grimaced. The revulsion was in the crinkle of her nose, the squinting of her eyes.
Raw anger rose up in him. Was it not enough that she knew how vile he was? That she knew what he’d done? Did he have to fully expose every last shameful detail of his past?
Her eyes slid upward, meeting his in the mirror. He straightened his shoulders, refusing the powerful urge to turn his back from her. “What’s wrong? Never seen a human ashtray?”
She gasped, and her gaze skimmed downward.
He cursed himself for taking his anger out on her.
“I was just—” She held up the supplies. “I knocked—”
He picked up a comb and dragged it through his dripping hair. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
She turned and fled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Hanna moved Micah’s toiletries around, scrubbing the counter with quick swipes. When she’d heard the snow blower start up, she’d rushed to clean his room. If she hurried, she could have it done before he returned.
She took a breath and realized she’d been holding it. Micah’s scent lingered in his room, but breathing in the bathroom was like inhaling the essence of him. Like he was getting inside her, in her blood, in her bones.
She left the bathroom and began tugging off the bedding. She would not think about Micah sleeping here, dreaming here. She would just do her job.
Never seen a human ashtray? His words sprang into her mind unbidden. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the words or their meaning. She’d shoved them into a dusty corner of her mind, not wanting to feel the sympathy she knew would follow. But here, where every breath, every object, summoned thoughts of Micah, she let herself consider it.
Who had done it? Who had burned his back with cigarettes? His father? Had he been taken from his home and put in foster care because of the abuse? How old had he been when it had happened? She pictured a miniature Micah at three or four. She tried to imagine someone jabbing the hot tip of a cigarette on his baby-soft skin. She winced. Had he smelled his own burning flesh? Had they held him down and burned him over and over?
Dear God, how could anyone do such a thing? She’d heard of it before. Read it in the paper or seen it on TV. But never had she seen the physical scars or imagined the emotional ones.
She remembered something he’d said in the kitchen. “She looked like my mother—and suddenly I wanted to hurt her.”
Oh, Lord, his own mother?
Her heart pushed against her chest. She was feeling sorry for Micah, and she didn’t want to. He doesn’t deserve your pity. Remember what he did to you. Whatever had happened to him was no excuse for what he’d done to her.
She tugged off the pillowcase and went to stuff the bundle of linens in the cart, relieved to be finished before his return. Moments later she folded the white towels, transferred her sheets to the dryer, and pulled the knob on the washer, starting the flow of water. After adding a capful of detergent, she began stuffing Micah’s bedding into the washer. Even the sheets smelled of him. She tried not to inhale the musky, woodsy scent.
Something clonked against the top of the washer, and she searched through the folds, trying to find what was wrapped up in the sheet. Through the wadded, twisted material, she felt a hard rectangular object. Finally, she uncovered the object: his journal, she thought. The one she’d seen in his room.
She laid it aside, on the washer, and finished loading the machine. Once the lid was down, she stacked the towels in the basket. As she stood her eyes encountered the brown book. It drew her. Like a warm day in early spring drew children outside, the journal beckoned.
She picked it up. It was bound with a leather spine, but the cover was of plain cloth and titleless. A man’s journal. She glanced through the doorway and realized with a stab of guilt she was being nosy.
She opened the cover anyway. There was an inscription on the first page, scrawled in bold, black ink: To Micah: May the words you write within begin to heal your heart.
It was signed by his foster father and dated almost three years ago. She fanned through the pages, not quite daring to read the private words. The pages were filled, with only a few left blank at the back.
Her lungs constricted with each shallow breath. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline in her veins. She wanted to read it. Read the words that were not meant for her eyes. She wavered uneasily. The weight of the book burned in her hands.
It would answer her questions about Micah’s past; she knew it somehow. But it was wrong to read the private thoughts of another. Then why did it feel so right? Why did she feel this compelling need to—
The front door clicked open and shut. She realized belatedly that the snow blower’s engine had hushed moments ago. Moving quickly, she tucked the journal under a stack of towels in the basket. She mentally traced the footfalls across the lodge. Logs thudded into the grate, making the fire sizzle and pop.
She held her breath and felt her pulse pounding in her temples. More footfalls, but she couldn’t determine their direction. She flattened against the washer, not daring to push the door closed. It was silly, hiding in the laundry room like a naughty child, but she didn’t want to see him.
Finally, a door shut in the distance, and she knew he’d returned to his room. She gathered up the basket of towels and carried them to her room, thinking every step of the way about the journal tucked inside.
As the daylight faded into the murky shadows of evening, Micah heard a truck rumbling in the distance. He pushed the heavy drapes aside. A snowplow barreled down the road, throwing snow off to the sides like twin geysers. He’d expected the roads would be cleared tonight. The snow had stopped, and the forecast for tonight was clear. Clear for him to leave in the morning.
Dread coiled into a knot in his gut, tightening painfully. Memories of Hanna were branded on his heart. Memories of her laughing by the fire. Memories of them kissing by the lake. Good memories. The best of his life.
He turned and surveyed the open duffel bags, half stuffed with clothing. How had it come to this? The good memories had burned away, leaving nothing but ashes. Nothing good had come of his experience here. He’d gained love, only to lose it. He’d hurt Hanna in an unforgivable way. He’d exposed to Hanna the humiliation of his scars. The memories of his time here had turned bitter, as if tossed in vinegar.
He gathered his socks and tucked them in the bag. He wished he could pack up all the damage he’d done and take it away. He felt the sting of regret. He would give anything to turn back time and change things. Even if he couldn’t have Hanna, he wished he could remove the pain he’d caused her. He would give up Hanna, if only he could erase the past.
A tap at the door set his heart galloping. His hands, still clutching a T-shirt and belt, paused. Hope sprang like a spring crocus through the frozen crust of his heart. He tamped it down firmly. When he opened the door, the hope withered and died.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Gram said. She passed by and set a plate on the dresser.
He knew the moment she noticed. You couldn’t miss the gaping bags, the empty chest drawers hanging open in haphazard fashion.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He resumed packing. “Leaving.”
“Why, Micah?” She laid a hand on his arm. Her sparse, white brows pulled together and nearly met over her nose.
He laughed bitterly. “You know why. You should be helping me pack.”
Her hands twitched as if they didn’t know what to do.
He pressed down the clothes and pulled the zipper.
“She’s just confused.” “She’s angry.”
“Yes, she’s angry, but she needs time.”
“She needs me to leave,” he said.
“No. She needs you to stay.”
His gut twisted. He filled the second bag and turned, pushing the drawers back into their slots. He fa
ced Gram. Pain pulsed through his veins, hot and sluggish. He swallowed around the hard lump in his throat. “How will she ever get over it if I stay?”
Gram’s eyes teared. They pierced him with intensity. “How will she get over it if you leave?”
The words hung in the air. He wanted to snatch them, tuck them away in his heart, believe them. He would stay if there was a chance. Hanna’s face flashed in his mind. He remembered the rage that burned in her eyes whenever she saw him. He remembered the expression on her face in the bathroom mirror. The disgust. The revulsion.
He directed his attention to the plate of food, and he picked it up like a life preserver. “Thanks for the food.” He removed the foil, and the aroma of roasted pork assailed his senses. His stomach turned. “Smells great.” He gathered the silverware, hoping she’d leave. In his peripheral vision, he saw her dip her head in defeat. He walked to the door, and she followed.
When she crossed the threshold, she turned. “Where will you go?”
He shrugged.
“At least give me a number, in case she—”
“She won’t.”
Silence surrounded them.
Finally, Gram reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
As she walked away, he clamped his teeth together and stared at the carpet that had come unraveled at the threshold.
From its spot on the corner of her dresser, the journal beckoned. It had called to Hanna all evening, but she had resisted its pull. The shock and rage she’d felt upon learning Micah’s identity had settled into a dull ache. The icy hardness of her heart was beginning to thaw, giving way to the bitter sting of disillusionment. She had found love only to lose it. And while she was still numb, she knew her love for Micah must wither and die eventually. No love could survive the storm they’d been through.
She brushed her teeth and walked toward the bed, stopping when she reached the spot where the journal lay. Had Micah noticed it missing? Was he searching his room for it even now? She picked it up and slid her finger along the gold edges. Her heart quickened. She bit the inside of her mouth. What would it hurt, really? Their relationship was over, and she would return the journal when she was finished.
She couldn’t deny the urge within her. Making the decision, she carried the book to the bed and snuggled beneath the covers. Tension skittered along her nerves as she opened the journal to the first page. The bedside lamp glowed on the paper, tingeing the pages with yellow.
The handwriting slanted boldly on the lines, the ungraceful scrawl of a left-hander. As she began reading, she thought the tone of the first pages was awkward. As if he was giving an impromptu speech and didn’t know what to say or how to say it. He wrote about a recovery group he was attending for children of alcoholics.
Ah, she thought, the Thursday-night appointment.
After several pages of vague rambling, the tone evolved into a more tangible form of storytelling. The writing, in flashback style, was strong and evocative and intermingled with prayers.
I know I was five, because I tripped over my kindergarten tote bag in the dark, and the bells I’d tied on the handle jingled. Sometimes I’d hear her late at night. She would laugh, and I could hear a mans voice through the walls of my bedroom.
But this time was different. She wasn’t laughing, and the groans I heard scared me. I heard a mans voice that time, too, and I crept out of my bed. That alone took a mountain of courage because I wasn’t allowed out of my bed. But I was worried about her.
So I went and looked out the door. The light was on in my mom’s room across the hall. I could just see the end of her bed through her cracked door. Her bare feet, toes pointed upward, were all I could see of her.
I heard the man chuckle. It was not a happy kind of laugh. I could see his leg hanging off the end of the bed. I wondered who he was. I wondered if he was my dad. I used to wonder that about every man she brought home.
I crept silently along the way evading the board that creaked. Finally, I peeked around the doorjamb. My heart was pumping like it did when I ran the whole way home from school. I didn’t know who I was most afraid of: the man or my mom. His back was to me, and my eyes widened at what I saw. He had a green dragon on his back, a tattoo, with orange fire coming from its nostrils.
My mom moaned again, and I watched her toes curl.
“Stop it!” I’d said without thinking.
The man jerked around. He was naked, and I’d never seen a naked man before. He looked back at my mom, who was hidden by his massive body. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you had a kid.”
My mom sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Get in bed, Micah!” Her voice was raspy and ugly.
As I turned and ran, I heard her words. “He ain’t mine. He’s my sister’s. I’m just baby-sitting.”
Hanna’s heart twisted at her first peek inside Micah’s boyhood. A yawn sneaked out, and she glanced at the clock. It was well past her bedtime, but the journal had her in its clutches, gripped her like a fast-paced novel. More so even, because these stories were true.
An hour passed, then two. She didn’t get up, not even for a tissue. Her eyes grew heavy and swollen, but something was happening inside her at the reading of his words. Something good, something right.
A battle raged in her mind. Sympathy pulled at her heart for the boy Micah had been. Each wounded word tugged at the door, but something in her strove to keep it shut. How could a mother abuse her own child? Verbally, physically hurt the child she’d carried and given birth to? It was beyond imagining.
The next pages were a flashback to a time when Micah had emptied his mother’s last bottle of beer.
She sniffed the bottle. “What did you do with the beer?”
“I … I poured it in the sink.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth twisted in that way I hated. “That was my last beer! I don’t get paid ’til Thursday, you know that, and you wasted my last beer.”
When she turned and strolled to her purse, I held my breath. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. It was like this angry, orange light. My mother looked hard, like she could have killed me, as she puffed on it.
I was terrified, and I stood slowly. She was so angry, I could see it in her eyes. I backed up, staring at the cigarette. It blurred into a fiery glow. My breath came in short gasps. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to push myself into the wall, scarcely feeling the wet flow down my legs.
Hanna had to stop reading. She couldn’t see past the tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with the corner of the blanket, then finally got up to blow her nose. She remembered with disturbing clarity the scarred flesh of Micah’s back. The many white dots that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. It was true. His mother had put them there.
Horror dragged its talons along her spine. She couldn’t even fathom doing that to any child, much less her own. If he hadn’t been loved by his only parent, how had he survived? How had he become such an honorable—
He hadn’t been an honorable man. He’d been a man who drank and assaulted a woman. His mother’s violence had produced a son who behaved violently. It was a known fact that abused children often grow up to abuse.
But Micah wasn’t the man he used to be. She knew that. She’d seen nothing but integrity and virtue since he’d come to Higher Grounds. Memories of him flashed like fireflies in her mind. Of the time he’d gone out to find Gram when she was lost. Of the time he’d refused to cash his paychecks so she could pay the lodge’s bills. Of the times he’d held his passion in check when they’d kissed. On and on it went. Memory after memory affirming the person Micah was today. God had made the changes in him, for only God could change a person so completely.
Hanna settled back in bed, and feeling flushed, she pushed back the covers. Eagerly, she picked up the journal. There were only four pages remaining.
Dear Mom,
I know you’ll never read this, but this is for me, not for you. I need to get past the anger and bitterness I feel toward you, and to d
o that, I know I have to forgive you.
I learned something new in group tonight. I learned that forgiving you doesn’t mean what you did was okay. Because it wasn’t, Mom. It was inexcusable. But I will no longer hold you responsible.
Only lately have I begun to understand how your choices influenced the person I became. And I wonder what your childhood was like. I wonder if your choices, your behavior, was a direct result of your parents choices. It’s like an ugly heirloom that gets passed from generation to generation. Nobody wants it, but it gets passed on anyway.
Well, Mom, I’m throwing it away. With God’s help it’s stopping with me. I grieve the mistakes I’ve already made. I can no more undo them than you can. But maybe if I forgive you I can find it within me to forgive myself for I hurt someone too.
I forgive you, Mom.
Please, God. Be with the one I hurt. Help her to find peace and healing. Help me to find forgiveness.
Hanna wiped her eyes with the soggy tissue and looked at the date in the corner of the page. June eighth. He’d written it after he’d started at Higher Grounds but before they’d begun dating. He had been praying for her even before he knew who she was.
Forgive him.
The words were whispered into her heart. Her breath caught and held, and she knew it was a critical moment. She had carried the animosity in her heart for eight years, and it was time to let it go. With her body trembling and her blood surging, she turned loose of the door. She flung it open and asked God for a measure of grace to sustain her. The moment hung suspended like a bubble, floating with iridescent beauty. God communed with her quietly there in the stillness of the night and assured her His grace would be sufficient. She could forgive Micah with God’s help.
Hanna’s eyes flitted over the last few pages. The last entry was September twelfth, two days before Devon’s assault. She read avidly the words he’d written about their relationship. At the end of the entry, she caught her breath.
Mending Places Page 26
