“What did she do?”
“I heard she rotated between friends, and eventually stayed with a guy who owned a liquor store. She worked for him, and he gave her room and board in exchange. She stayed with him for a couple years after you were born, but she started drinking as much liquor as she was selling, and he kicked her out. She went back to friends’ couches with you in tow, but that only lasted a year. Until her father died. Cirrhosis, I heard.”
“At least that part is true. My grandfather is dead.” Bastard.
“When she found out he was dead, she went back home and stayed. Your grandma passed away a few years later. You were only four or five, I doubt you’d have any memories of it.”
“I don’t. I remember nothing about my grandparents or the other places I lived.” And that’s a relief.
“The house you grew up in is the same house they raised your mother.”
“Right back where it all started …” I laugh without humor. The cycle of misery goes on unending. But I can change that, can’t I?
More pictures and more stories follow. This time about him. He shows me pictures of his parents, my grandparents. Pictures of him in uniform. He was—is a good-looking man. I can see myself in him. How strange this is to recognize myself in a stranger and for that stranger to be my father.
It’s been a couple of hours, and it’s not anywhere as awkward as I expected meeting him again to be. I’m actually comfortable talking to him. Having the pictures, listening to the stories, was a great idea. It took the focus off me and gave me insight into my mother. Insight into the circumstances that shaped her, and why she blames me for ruining her life. I can’t say that she’s wrong. I ruined her life just by being born.
“Thank you for sharing this with me. It helps me understand.” Not that it will change the past. I swallow the bitter memories.
“Understand?” His eyebrows squish together.
“Yeah, understand my mother. Why she is the way she is, and why she has always blamed me for ruining her life.”
“You didn’t ruin her life. You didn’t force her to make the choices she made. You didn’t make her an alcoholic or a junkie. She made those choices on her own. Yes, she had a messed-up family and being thrown out when she was pregnant with you was a terrible thing to endure, but it’s no excuse. Plenty of people have been in the same situation and made better choices.”
Better choices. I’ve had my share of bad decisions too. All my bravado, meaningless hookups, and avoidance hasn’t helped me at all. I left my mother, the only home I have ever known, the place I grew up in, but I brought my scars and nightmares with me. My mother uses alcohol and drugs to numb her pain and regret. I use sex to feel in control. Are we that different?
I hug myself and drop my shoulders, hiding behind a curtain of hair. I can’t look at him now. I can’t face my father. Irrational as it may be I’m afraid he’ll see all my sins written on my face. Heat climbs up my neck, and my cheeks burn. I’m ashamed of my choices.
“We can’t change the past, Becca. What is done is done, but we can change the now.”
His words are a stab into my heart. A laser knife. Cutting and cauterizing at the same time.
He reaches with a tentative hand. Taps mine gently. “I want to be a part of your life from now on. I want you to call me when you need help, or just to say hello. I want to have a real father-daughter relationship with you. I can’t change the actions that made me absent from your life. But I can choose a different direction.”
I nod, still not able to face him. I squeeze my eyes shut and forbid the tears to spill. But tears are traitorous little bitches and do whatever they damn well please.
“I choose you.” He squeezes my hand. “I choose you, Becca.”
I stop hiding behind my hair and look at him, his face blurred by my tears. I blink until he comes into focus again. Like turning the little dial on a pair of binoculars until everything is clear. I look beyond the words and the gestures, and what I find is kindness. And hope. And love. It stirs something in my chest, and a little piece of my armor falls, and in this moment it’s easier to breathe.
No one has ever chosen me before. Not even myself.
“I hope that with time, you can learn to trust me,” he says.
I don’t know why, but I already do.
Chapter Eleven
I hesitate, hand on the doorknob—holding off for a few extra seconds before I have to step out of my room and face the world again. I close my eyes, rest my head on the frame and try to push away the thoughts that have taken residence in my brain.
One last time, I allow myself to relive the meetings with my father. His words about changing the past weigh heavily on my chest, even though they were about him and not directed at me. Much of my life was out of my control. Other people forced their wills on me.
“But the last four years, that’s all on you Becca,” I whisper to no one. “You made a mess out of yourself.” The choices I made to take control of my life are not something I’m proud of. Or something I ever allowed myself to look into too close.
I need help. I know I do, but I have no idea where to start, and the thought of sitting with someone face-to-face and speaking the truth terrifies me. I push the thought away, open the door and take the stairs out of my dorm. Monday classes await.
“Hey there!”
“Ahhhhhh!” I jump and step back. The scream is out before I realize who tapped my shoulder.
“Sorry?” Puppy dog eyes beg me for forgiveness, but Tommy’s laugh betrays him.
“Tommy?” My heart is trying to escape my chest.
“That’s me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Hmm, waiting for you to walk to class together.”
I press a hand to my chest, my heart still beating wildly. “You scared me to death.”
“You’re not dead, so technically, that’s not true.”
I squint my eyes at him, hoping it looks like a nasty dirty look. “You disappeared for a week. You didn’t return any of my messages.”
All the lightness evaporates from his face. “Yeah, I was dealing with some … stuff.”
That’s it? No explanation? Just stuff?
I turn on my heels, veer off the walkway and cut through the grassy slope that will take me to the Maslow building. My feet hitting the ground with unnecessary force. I trample the poor grass and grip my backpack harder, hands curving around the straps until my nails bite into my palms.
“Hey, wait up.” Tommy catches up with me. “You mad at me?” His pace quickens.
He tries to stop me, but I flinch away. I’m acting like a brat. My emotions controlling my reactions.
“Becca, stop!”
I keep going. “I have class, and I don’t want to be late.”
He jogs around me and forces me to stop and look at him. “I’m sorry, okay? I had to deal with something, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
His eyes search mine, so open and eager. He’s out of breath, dark shadows under his eyes, he blinks, and wetness gathers at the corner on one eye.
All the fire inside me extinguishes. “No. I’m the one who should apologize. I have no right to be mad at you. You have a life, and I’m nothing to you.”
“You are not nothing!” Tommy steps closer. “Do you hear me? You’re somebody, and I care about you.”
There’s a golf ball-sized lump in my throat, and my eyes are trying to leak again. Talking to my father two days ago opened a faucet of endless tears, and I can’t even blame it on PMS. It’s not the right time of the month. Damn it. I dig in my bag and find some sunglasses to put on so I can blink the tears away without looking deranged. The golf ball is stuck—I don’t even attempt to speak and nod at him before resuming my walk in a normal pace now. Tommy trails next to me, and we walk in silence. Him with his stuff and me with my monsters.
When I was a kid, I used to name them.
Hungry Harry.
Cold Cindy.
&nbs
p; Afraid Abigail.
Hurt Henry.
Lost Lila.
Lonely Lou.
Stupid Sandy.
Dumb Debbie.
Whore Wanda.
Slut Sonia.
Until there were too many to name. I was naming all the things I felt and identifying them as something outside of me. Naming them had been my way of distancing myself from everything. But the distance was an illusion, and I was still hungry, cold, and afraid. It still hurt, and I was still lost and lonely. And they still called me stupid, dumb, whore, slut.
And now, when I glance at Tommy and the pained expression on his face, it hits me. Maybe, just maybe, he’s not as happy and carefree as he seems. And perhaps he has monsters of his own. Monsters with different names, but no less real.
I have a new monster to name. Add one more to the list.
Selfish Sam.
Chapter Twelve
Tommy touches my arm. “I’m sorry I went MIA. I really had some stuff to deal with.”
“That’s okay, Tommy. I’m sorry too. I’m cranky and took it out on you.”
He shrugs. “No biggie. Want to grab some coffee after your class?”
“Can’t, sorry. I have my practicum this afternoon. I’m working until five.”
His brows furrow. “What’s a practicum?”
We walk at a slower pace. “It’s like an internship. It’s the practical, hands-on part of the coursework. You need a certain number of hours to graduate and get a license.”
“Huh … How many hours?”
I smile, the anger easing with each step we take together. “It varies by state, but in Vermont, we are required to complete four hundred and fifty hours.”
“That’s a lot of hours.”
“That’s nothing. The master’s requires three thousand hours of supervised experience over a period of two years. I love every second.” My candor surprises me. I didn’t plan to be so open with him.
His eyes widen. “Whoa … how many more hours do you need to finish it?”
I adjust the straps of my backpack. “I’m over four hundred hours now.”
“Oh, so close.”
“Yes. I can almost taste it. I’ll complete the requirement by graduation, and then I can get my license and do some kind of entry-level human service job while going for my master’s.”
“And then what?”
“And then more training, more hours, more tests until I get my clinical license.”
He bumps me with his shoulder. “So, what do you wanna be when you grow up?”
I grin at him. “I want to be a Licensed Independent Clinical Social Worker. Basically, I can work independently.”
“That’s cool. Being your own boss, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“How did you even get into that?”
His question makes my steps falter. “I don’t know. Something I’ve always wanted to do.” A partial truth.
“And the university helps you find the internship?”
“Yes and no. We get referred to different places. But I work under the Queen.”
“The Queen?”
I laugh. “That’s not her real name. That’s what everyone calls her because you better be good at your job or else heads will roll. Her name is Magda Kenny.”
“Holy crap! Can’t you find a different internship?”
“I wouldn’t want to. She’s a powerhouse of a woman. I love working for her. She’s been in the field for over thirty years. Nothing can replace that kind of knowledge or experience.”
I’m so close to graduating. And Magda Kenny played a big part in getting me to this point. I worked my ass off. All the sleepless nights studying, the odd jobs I took in addition to my bartending gig, brought me a step closer to what I want. I’m lucky to have her in my corner.
We’re at the Maslow building now. Tommy walks in with me. “Was it hard to get the job?”
“After she accepted me into her program, I found out she rejected nine other applicants before me. She’s picky. I got lucky, I guess.”
That day is imprinted on my mind. After the interview, at the very end, I was sure I’d be rejected.
“Miss Jones, you answered every question perfectly. You have a 4.0 GPA. And recommendation letters that praise you as an exemplary student. I should be thrilled with you. But I’m not.”
“No?” I couldn’t help myself. I was mortified as the word jumped out of my mouth.
“No. I’m not happy at all with this interview. You want to know why?”
“Yes.”
Then she looked at me with eyes that could see into my soul.
“For an hour we talked, and I still don’t know why you want to be a social worker.”
“To help people …” She cut me off before I could say anything else.
“Bullshit!” I was so startled by the cuss, all I could do was sit there, and open and close my mouth like a fish.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t go through all of this, spent thousands of hours studying and busting your ass for these grades, so you can help people.”
Her response incensed me. The hell I didn’t. That’s exactly why I was doing this. Anger got the best of me. Now that I was sure I didn’t get the position, I had nothing to lose. My mouth was filled to the brim with words that needed spilling. But again, she stopped me with a raised eyebrow.
“I'll ask you again. Why do you want to be a social worker, and don’t give me that 'you want to help people' bullshit answer again. Think, then speak.”
I said nothing. I had nothing. As I was about to gather myself and leave, she spoke again.
“The truth, Miss Jones. All I want is the truth. The real reason you want to work for me.”
Her eyes. They cut right through me. Through all the layers, carefully built, one over the other until I had a shell so thick nothing could touch it—nothing until the Queen. Until Magda Kenny.
And then I understood what she was asking. And it was harder than anything else I had ever had to say.
“Because I know.”
“Because you know what?” She was not letting me off easy. Not at all.
“Because I know what they are going through. Because I know what it’s like. Because it was me. They are me.”
She smiles then. The Queen graces me with a smile so bright and full of warmth, it could obfuscate the sun.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. I don’t need super-smart kids. I don’t want people who want to help because they’re on a mission to make the world better. I need people who know. People who can relate. People who’ll understand. And you, Miss Jones, fulfill those needs. But before I offer you the internship, I need you to understand one thing.”
“Okay …”
“You can’t save them all. Can you live with that?”
I knew the answer she was looking for was yes. But my head was shaking even before she finished the question. “No, I can’t.”
“I’ve been doing this for over thirty years. We lose some. You can’t stop it.”
“I can damn well try.”
“Miss Jones, it was a pleasure to meet you. You got yourself a job.”
I blink away the memory. “You don’t have any classes here, do you?” I ask.
Tommy is looking at the stairs with a determined look in his eyes. “Nope. Going to say hello to my brother. Catch you later.” He answers without looking at me and walks to the stairs.
I’ve worked for over a year under Magda. Didn’t take long to understand her nickname. She’s not Queen because of any sense of superiority or vanity. She’s Queen because she makes things happen. Where others fail, Magda creates small miracles. And some days a miracle was the only thing that kept us going.
Her keen eyes landed on me as soon as I walked into the cramped office.
“Miss Jones?” She never calls me Becca. Not unless something very serious was about to happen.
“Yes?”
“Could you please take s
ome of these fliers and post them on bulletin boards around campus?” She hands me a folder and inside are about a dozen bright pink fliers. I look at them and freeze. I take a moment to find my voice again. “What is this?”
“It’s a new program to help victims of abuse. Completely anonymous. Riggins is one of thirty-two universities taking part in this program, and they asked for our help.”
The words on the paper float before me like a jumble of letters. I blink again and again, trying to make sense of what they say. The rapid tempo of my heart out of sync with my frozen state. I push myself to move, leaden feet drag on the carpeted floor.
IF YOU SPEAK, WE WILL HEAR YOU.
Every 98 seconds, someone is
sexually assaulted.
You Don’t Have to be a Victim.
Talk to us. We will listen.
We will counsel. We will help you.
All sessions are hosted by trained
medical professionals.
100% anonymous.
100% free.
More information on the website below.
I close the folder and put it in my backpack. Turmoil takes residence in my head. I can’t wait to get back to my dorm and go to the website. I need to find out more about this program. The multitude of thoughts in my mind is reaching Defcon one status. It takes a ridiculous amount of concentration to accomplish the most menial of tasks. Thank goodness all I’m doing today is entering some paperwork into the computer and nothing requiring any kind of real thinking.
Vibration alerts me to a text. I glance at the screen and find a message from River.
River: Food?
Becca: I can’t. I have a lot to do.
My stomach is flipping inside out. There’s no way I can eat anything.
River: But you still have to eat.
Becca: Sorry. Can’t. Breakfast tomorrow?
River: Okay… :(
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 7
