Jase rushes me, taking me by the shoulders. “It’s supposed to hurt,” he yells. “Shit like this is supposed to hurt.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. “You think you’re the only one hurting here?”
“No, of course not,” I say quietly.
“Jesus, Juliette,” he says, clearly disgusted. “This?” he gestures at me and shakes the empty bottle in his hand, “This is what you grew up with. You really want to repeat the past?”
“No.”
“Well then what the fuck are you doing? You’re past the worst of it, past the withdrawals, and you need to start leveling with me, baby.”
I raise my eyes to him. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He rubs his stubbled jaw with his palm, clearly frustrated. “I don’t need your sorry. I need you to be fucking honest with me.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says, his dark eyes flashing in the dim light of the bathroom. “Tell me why you think you need this shit.”
“I—”
I lose it. Everything that’s happened, it all comes rushing around me like a flood, and I can’t hold on. “He gave it to me,” I say, my words quick and frenzied as they tumble from within me. “I tried to stop him. I tried!” My heart starts pounding and I can’t see straight. I sink to my knees, coming to a sitting position up against the edge of the bathtub. A panic attack. I’m having a panic attack. “He killed me. I was dead. I said goodbye. I was ready. And then,” I can’t bear the memories of him shooting me up, oh, God I don’t want to go back there, “then he brought me back. I was dead. I was dead.” I’m hysterical.
“Juliette,” Jase says sharply. “Stay with me, baby.” He gets to the cold ground beside me, wrapping his arms around me. He pulls me to his chest and strokes my hair until I breathe a little easier, until the chaos recedes a little.
Finally, I wipe my eyes and pull away a little, so we’re eye to eye. He looks exhausted. Exhausted and stricken with grief.
“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “I’m so stupid. I should have known. I thought if I just got through that cold turkey, everything would be okay.”
Jase opens his mouth to talk but I press on. I need to get this out now.
“I didn’t know stopping all of a sudden would hurt the baby.” Would kill the baby. “You know what’s stupid? I was actually letting myself believe that it would all work out. That we could finally just be happy together.”
Jase gives me a sad smile, plays with a strand of my hair. “Julz,” he soothes. “Nobody blames you. I don’t blame you. You didn’t do this. This was done to you, you understand? It was a horrible accident, and you need to forgive yourself or it’s going to destroy you.”
I nod. “I want to believe you,” I whimper. “I really do.”
“One day we’ll have our own family, I promise.” He pulls me to him again, running his hands through my hair. “I have this feeling. Everything is going to be okay.”
I wish I had the same feeling, but I don’t. Too much has happened. All I know is I can’t take much more before I break apart completely.
Because I know, any moment, he’s going to leave me for the things I’ve done. And I wouldn’t blame him.
He’s going to leave me soon, and I’m going to be completely and utterly alone.
The next morning, Jase is already dressed and ready to go when I finally drag myself out of bed.
“I’m taking you for a drive today,” Jase says, kissing the top of my head stiffly as I attempt to eat the eggs he’s made for me. Grief and trauma have wiped out my appetite, but I know I need to eat. I need to be strong again, because I intend to push forward with my quest for vengeance with a newfound passion. I intend to be strong enough again so I can kill Dornan Ross and the one remaining son who violated me six years ago.
“Oh yeah?” I ask around a mouthful of eggs. I swallow before continuing. “Where?”
You’re going to leave me. Why are you being nice to me when you’re going to leave me?
“It’s a surprise.”
I hate surprises. I like—I need—to know what’s going on. But I bite my tongue. I said I trusted Jase. I need to put that into practice if we’re ever going to get through this horrid loss together.
He’s going to leave me.
We’re on the road for maybe two hours. I only burst into tears twice in the whole two hours - an improvement on yesterday, when I don’t think I stopped crying from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to bed.
So when we pull up to a collection of brick buildings with the word Rehabilitación emblazoned on the front, I raise my eyebrows, looking at Jase quizzically.
“Rehab?” I ask dubiously. “Who am I, Lindsey Lohan?”
“Who?” Jase asks. I roll my eyes. He never did keep up with the Hollywood gossip that was practically on our doorstep in L.A.
“Never mind. But really, what are we doing here?”
His expression is serious. “There’s somebody I think you should see.”
Oh, crap.
My mother was a beautiful woman once. I’ve seen photos of her when she was a teenager, before she met Dornan and my dad. Before the drugs, before becoming my dad’s old lady, and definitely before she became a teenage mother. Before her life destroyed her.
But life hasn’t been kind to her, and no amount of makeup can hide the heavy black bags under her eyes or the scars along both arms from missed veins and dirty needles. She looks brighter, though, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, her eyes aren’t bloodshot.
When Jase pushes me into the small bedroom, I wince. I want to back away from her, to turn and run, but that would be showing weakness. And I will never show weakness in front of this woman.
“Julie,” she says, rushing to me. My name on her mouth sounds odd, because for once it seems to have genuine feeling behind it, instead of just the standard irritation or desperation that punctuated my childhood.
I hold up my palms to stop her in her tracks. Don’t hug me, bitch. I will drop her faster than she can try and wrap those bony arms around me.
She gets the message, slowing, and letting her arms fall to her sides.
I glare at Jase. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, not even caring she’s in the room. He pulls me closer to him. “Just speak to her, okay? I think it would be really good for you, Julz.”
I fight the burning urge to roll my eyes and glare at him as he steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. Great. So I’m stuck alone with the bitch.
“You’re alive,” she says in wonder.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling like I’m five years old again.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Apparently, so are you.”
“The boys had to make it seem like I was dead,” she says, wringing her hands in front of her. I step back a little as she starts to pace in front of me. That’s where I get it from, I think. A little voice inside me demands to know if she’s okay, and I push that voice down angrily. No. She doesn’t get to tell me if she’s okay. I don’t care if she’s okay.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” she says, darting her eyes toward me before averting them to the floor. Pace. Turn. Pace some more. My resolve falters when I see a photo frame by her single bed, a frame of our little family in happier days. I must’ve been about four years old, and my mom was having a good run. I think she lasted a whole year that time. It was a good year, before it all went bad again. I haven’t seen a photograph of my dad in many months - I never got a chance to take anything with me when I left for Nebraska with Elliot, and the photographs adorning the clubhouse walls aren’t exactly family snaps.
I falter, and my mother sees that. She rushes to the photo, and holds it out to me. “Here,” she says. “Take it.”
I take it from her slowly, bringing it closer so I can study our faces. It was taken in the nineties, before digital cameras were cool, and so the focus is slightly off, the lighting too bright. But it’s
something I never thought I’d see - us, together, and looking happy.
I swallow thickly, my hatred for the woman fading just a little.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a photo of your dealer next to your bed,” I say, before I can stop myself. Her face falls, but she doesn’t look offended. Good. She doesn’t have the right to be offended after the childhood she dealt me.
“It’s your fault they killed dad,” I blurt out suddenly, letting the photo hang at my side. “It’s your fault they almost killed me.”
She starts to cry.
“Don’t cry,” I say bitterly, backing as far away as I can from her. “You don’t get to cry.”
She nods, wiping her cheeks, trying to compose herself. We both stand tensely, neither one knowing what to say.
“Did I ever tell you about when you were born?” she asks finally. I shake my head. I’m not sure I want to hear what she’s got to say. She opens the dresser next to her bed and pulls out a small photo album, flipping to the first page. She holds it out to me but I don’t take it this time. I can see it’s a photo of a newborn baby in her arms. I know that nose. It’s the nose I used to have before Dornan broke it. Before the surgeon smashed it apart and rebuilt it into something else.
She studies the photograph, stroking the baby’s cheeks through the plastic film.
“When they handed you to me, I knew I was supposed to feel something. Love or affection or something inside that said I was meant to protect you, keep you safe. But when the doctor put you on my chest and I looked into your eyes, all I felt was dread. I was meant to love you, but I was terrified of you. I was seventeen years old.”
Her words cut into me deeper than I thought possible, as I remember the grief and love I felt when I was handed my own baby just eleven days ago. A baby I would have died for a thousand times to ensure her survival. A baby I would have killed the whole world to protect. Clearly, my mother had not experienced that.
“So, did you ever love me?” I ask stiffly. “Or did you hate me all along?”
She starts to cry again.
“When you died,” she whispers, “when Dornan told me you were dead, I realized for the first time you were my gift from God. You were given to me to make me a better person. You were a miracle, and I’d wasted fifteen years trying to forget you existed.”
Her words stab me deep, cutting criss-cross sections into my heart. I hate her, and that is the saddest thing of all.
“I think about you all the time,” she says, her entire demeanor so full of sadness, it’s as if she’s been devoured by it, completely and utterly consumed by every shitty thing that’s ever happened in her life. I try not to take it personally, try to see her as a victim. But hate still spikes deep in my chest at this woman who, for fifteen years, just wanted me to go away.
“What are you going to do?” she asks finally. “Are you going to kill him?”
Dornan. I know that’s who she’s referring to. I mean, apart from Donny, there’s nobody else left. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I let my rage tamp down the sadness until the lump in my throat fades away.
“Yes,” I reply.
She cries harder. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I trusted him. I knew he was angry with your father that day, but I never knew he was capable of that.”
Of that. She can’t even say what that refers to. I nod slowly; none of us knew. Even at the very last moment, when I begged and Dornan wavered for a second, I had truly believed he would stop before he did what he did. My resolve breaks as I look down at the framed photograph I’m holding one last time. I look at the way my parents look at me as if they adore me. Maybe she did love me when this photo was taken. Maybe she was just as broken as I am now.
She’s my mother, and I hate her, but I love her too, somewhere deep inside where that four-year-old girl lives. I wish I could just hate her because that would be so much easier.
I open the door, still not sure if I can trust her or not. I want to believe what she’s telling me, but she’s let me down every single day of my life, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she called Dornan as soon as I left the room.
“You’re my mother,” I say, my words coming out in a harsher tone than I’d intended. “You’re my mother, and I forgive you for the past. But I’m going to kill Dornan, and if you try to stop me, I’ll kill you, too.”
She nods in understanding. She looks relieved.
“Wait,” she says, holding up a shaky palm. “Jason told me about the baby. I’m so sorry, Julie. I’m so very sorry. For all of it.”
She’s not just apologizing for the baby. She’s apologizing for everything.
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth dry. “You and me both.”
After the brief but jarring experience of seeing my mother, we drive home in complete silence. Jase steals glances at me every now and then, but mostly, he stares at the road and holds the wheel with a white-knuckled grip.
“You okay?” I ask him, touching his arm. I give silent thanks when he doesn’t flinch at my touch. After the things I’ve done and the way I’ve been acting, I wouldn’t blame him.
He nods. “I didn’t know if I should take you there,” he says, his jaw clenched tightly between sentences. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
I squeeze his arm. “You did the right thing.” I needed to see that. To see her. I can never become like her. I will die first.
I’m staring out of the window when I see out of the corner of my eye, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s squeezing so tightly, his knuckles are white and trembling.
He sees me looking and relaxes slightly, but I can tell he’s still wound up. I’m nervous again, as I watch his fists, as I try not to panic.
“Jase?” I ask quietly. He shakes his head angrily. I look at his face and my heart sinks. His eyes are red and his jaw grinding soundlessly. He is a tortured man.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he explodes, slamming a hand into the steering wheel. “You should have fucking told me what he did.”
I put a hand to my head, letting it rest there a moment as I close my eyes. I’m so tired. So worn out. So worn down with the burden of it all.
“I was scared,” I whisper.
“Of me?” he demands. He’s yelling, but I don’t shrink away, because I deserve it. I’ve been waiting for this for eleven days, since the moment I realized our baby’s heart had stopped.
I welcome his anger. It’s more fitting than his love.
“Of everything,” I say thickly. “I thought you would leave me.”
He growls in the back of his throat, slamming his hand against the steering wheel over and over again. I start crying again, watching his anguish finally unleash.
“I would never leave you!” he roars. He stops hitting the wheel and squeezes it again. “Don’t you get it? You’re like a miracle! You survived death. I thought you were dead for six fucking years! Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Do you think anything you could ever do would stop me from loving you?”
My mouth is open slightly, in shock. I’m crying and I’m pretty sure under the manly bravado he’s crying, too. We are a mess.
“What will it take, Julz? For you to believe me?”
I blink tears out of my eyes. “It’s just – I saw the way my father hated my mother. How he wanted to take me away from her. And now I’m just like her. I’m just like her. Why are you still here with me?”
“Juliette,” Jase says, reaching over and taking my hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. “You are good. You are a beautiful person and I love you. You are not your mother.”
I lose it. I dissolve into a pile of tears, refusing to let go of his hand as we continue to drive.
You are not your mother.
I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
***
It’s afternoon by the time we finally make it home. I’m walking into the kitchen when I hear the sound, the vibration of a cellphone against a hard surface. Fuc
k. Elliot! I rush to the dining table in time to see the phone has just stopped ringing, its screen still lit up in reminder.
Seventeen missed calls. What the hell? Jase stands on the other side of the table and tilts his head to read the screen, raising his eyebrows at me.
It’s my burner phone. Disposable, purchased by Elliot, given to me the day he left just in case. And now it is ringing again, call number eighteen as it rests on the table between Jase and me.
I pick up the phone and hit answer, holding the phone to my ear as my eyes remain locked with Jase’s.
Static erupts from the other end, but no talking.
“Elliot?” I say after a beat.
The voice on the other end makes me wither and die inside. “Hello, Juliette,” Dornan says cheerfully. “How is my baby girl?”
Jase knows who it is by the look on his face. He watches as terrified tears form in my eyes, terror that is punctuated with hate. He’s the reason our baby died. He’s the reason we continue to suffer. He’s the one to blame for everything.
Jase motions for me to give him the phone and I do, thankful to be relieved of the responsibility. Even the sound of his voice is too much for me to bear.
“How’d you get this number, old man?” he asks, his knuckles white as he holds the cell phone in a death grip.
Dornan says something unintelligible over the line and Jase pales.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. “You’re full of shit.”
There’s a high-pitched noise on the other end of the phone. Jase looks like he’s about to have a heart attack and die on the floor in front of me. More deep crackling on the other end. Dornan.
I don’t hear what he says, but I don’t need to. A moment later, the crackling at Jase’s ear stops, and he stares at the screen, more worried than I think I’ve ever seen him. He roars, hurling the phone against the wall.
He’s got Elliot. He’s got Elliot. He must.
“He’s got him, hasn’t he?” I ask, horrified. “He’s got Elliot.”
“No.” He swallows, and the next words to come out of his mouth make me wail.
“He’s got Amy and Kayla,” Jase says thickly, his hands shaking.
Two Roads Page 8
