Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7)

by Jc Emery

  Jim's good to me. And I'm grateful. Just like I'm grateful for everything I have in my life. If I look back at where I was even six months ago, I can see how much better everything is. It used to be months would go by with me feeling like this all the time. Like dying. Like maybe if my little boy had somebody else to live for him, then I wouldn't have to do it anymore. He does, actually. So I could be done, if I really wanted to be. But Jim has no legal rights to Ian, so even though he'd be better off without me, I know the system. I know what they do to kids with special needs like my boy. They'd contact his biological father since he's on the birth certificate. Best case scenario, that asshole doesn't show up and my kid ends up in foster care. With his issues? Nobody would adopt him. Worst case scenario, that piece of shit who knocked me up at sixteen when he was nearly thirty takes my kid in. I know nothing about that fucker, and I don't want to know anything about him either.

  There were days in the not-so-distant past where I wasn't sure I could take another breath, because breathing was too painful. I never wanted Ian to suffer, but for a long time, suffering was only thing I gave him. The realization that I'm the only one he has was literally the only thing that kept me alive for the better part of the last few years. And now? I have two boys. And on normal days, I let myself believe that they're both mine. I love Ryan just as much as I love Ian. They both need me, just in different ways. Still, today I feel like loving this little boy will only lead me to a broken heart. And I can't lose another child.

  Okay, that's it. This pity party needs to end. Maybe if I just turn enough to my side, I might be able to smother myself with my own pillow. I'm even on my own nerves at this point. I just don't know how to feel it any less dramatically. I don't know how to let myself grieve my babies without being all end-of-the-world and doom-and-gloom about it. It consumes me, but the pain is a welcome reminder that I haven't forgotten them and that I don't love them any less than I did the day they were born. That I don't miss them any less than the day I lost them.

  "You better be eating your food," Jim hollers from behind the closed bedroom door, his voice carrying as he walks down the hall. He made me bacon and eggs for breakfast. That was hours ago, though, and I still haven't touched them. Ryan snuck in to give me a rare kiss a little while ago and managed to walk out with a fist full of bacon. It was the only thing that made me laugh all day. Ian normally tries to cheer me up when I'm sad, but he knows what today is, and he couldn't bring himself to try. Up until about a year ago, he used to tell me that he misses his baby sister and brother. He used to say he wanted to teach Michael how to ride a bike and that he wishes he could hold Alexandra one more time.

  "Answer me, babe."

  I try to respond, but nothing comes out. Today is the first time Jim's ever seen me like this--near catatonic. Part of me hopes this is going to be the first and last time. But then, I also hope it isn't. I hate feeling crazy, but I can't ever feel like I don't care about my babies anymore.

  The door creaks open, and Jim stares at me through the small crack between the door and frame. His eyes are sad, but the smile on his lips tries to hide it. He closes the door a moment later and shouts at the boys to get ready to leave. I don't know where they're going, and he doesn't bother to tell me. After breakfast, he announced that they'd be playing video games in the living room. And later, he let me know they'd be in the backyard working on their fighting skills. Grady had come by to help Jim with giving the boys tips. This is their thing--it's important to Jim that he teach our boys how to defend themselves. Judging by the moves I've seen previously, Jim had already taught Ryan a few things, so I suspect this is more for Ian than anything. I'd say it's a kind gesture, but it's not. This is just who Jim is when he's not drinking himself stupid and snorting shit that makes him act like somebody he's not. The thought makes me burst into tears again.

  Eventually I stop crying and give up on trying to sleep, so I go for just staring up at the ceiling and trying to make patterns out of the popcorn texture. I don't know how long I lie there for. I just know that the boys leave and come back and then leave again for dinner at Chief's house with his family. Before they left, the boys brought me snack cakes, and Jim forced me to sit up enough to drink water. I didn't want it, but he held my nose closed until I had to draw a breath and inadvertently sucked in some water. Bastard. It hurt going down, and I mentally cussed him out for nearly an hour. At some point, I managed to reason with myself. Jim was doing it to help me, not hurt me, and so I took back all those curses I put on his dick. Even knowing that he's taking care of me, I still can't bring myself to not hate him and everything in this world except those four kids that mean more to me than my own life.

  When they return after dinner, Jim pulls me up and forces me to drink water again. I lie loose in his arms, letting him support my weight, and I fight swallowing until he says the only thing that can get through to me. "You're scaring our boys, Ian especially. I've tried to keep him out of here so he doesn't have to see you like this, but it's not easy. Elle asked where you were tonight, and when Ryan shot his mouth off, telling the entire table why, Ian ran from the table. It took me thirty minutes to get him to come out of the bathroom, and when he did, he'd scratched the shit out of his arms and neck. You need to pull your shit together, because I'm doing all I can here, but it's not enough. He needs you."

  When the sting of his honesty subsides, I take a sip of water, and it feels so good to my parched throat that I gulp down the rest of the glass greedily. When I'm done, Jim places the glass on the bedside table. We stay like that for a few minutes before I force myself up from the bed. Jim gives me space as I change and wash my face and even brush my hair. I have my hand on the doorknob before he speaks again.

  "Those kids, they're not dirty little secrets. You don't have two kids--you have four. Three boys and one girl. Next year, we buy a cake and celebrate their birthday even if they're not here with us. On Christmas, we hang their stockings, buy them presents--even if those presents go to the shelter after--and we make damn sure this year doesn't repeat itself. Our sons deserve to know those babies exist. They have every right to share in their mother's pain. You don't shut us out. Next time you need a time out, just say so, and we'll head out. But not on days when Ian and Ryan need you. Got that?"

  My eyes fall closed, but no tears fall. I'm literally out of juice, so I just nod my agreement. Jim comes up behind me, wrapping me in a hug, and kisses the top of my head.

  "Sorry you're hurting, babe. You need something, we'll get you to a doctor. But I can't do this alone. Ian needs his mom."

  "I know," I say and leave the room to go pretend to be happy with my boys.

  CHAPTER 16

  March 1998

  "Mom!"

  The scream that comes from the boy's room is deafening. The knife in my hand stills while I wait to see if this is one of those situations I really do need to go in there for. Ryan's ten now--he just had his birthday last week. In an effort to avoid getting in trouble as often as he does, he informed me that I only need to show up if I've been called three times in a row. Apparently, if I show up after the first time Ian calls for me, the boy doesn't even get a swing in. According to Ryan, that's not fair. But this is Ryan's screams, not Ian's. It didn't used to be like this. It used to be Ian crying and screaming for help, but ever since I gave in and let Jim teach the boys how to fight, Ian's been coming out on top more often. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me proud. A few months ago, Ian started karate at the local rec center. Ryan lasted three classes before their sensei said he was too unruly to teach, but Ian's absolutely flourished in the classes. He started with his white belt, progressed to blue pretty quickly, and is on the verge of getting his purple belt. He's been working super hard for it, but it's not been easy. It's worth it, though. Marital arts is giving my kid a sense of power and control that seems to be healing him.

  "Mom! Help! Mom!" Ryan's screaming again. With a sigh, I set down the knife and eye the pile of tomatoes I have yet to chop.
I'm not sure how Rage convinced me to make the salsa for this weekend's upcoming barbecue, but he did. I like making salsa, don't get me wrong. But making salsa for four is a hell of a lot different than making salsa for over fifty people, half of which have stupidly large appetites.

  "Um, Mom?" Ian's voice breaks through my thoughts now. It's tentative and loaded with probably about fifty bucks' worth of damage. Their room looked so nice when we first moved in. A few weeks later and it was officially broken in as the bedroom of two rowdy boys. Two rowdy boys who seriously don't understand the concept of "you break it, you buy it." So I take my time washing and drying my hands. They broke something, I already know it. And it's going to cost Jim money one way or another. I'm just hoping it's not another bone. My boys are tough as all get out until they're laid up on the couch, unable to move, and then it's like they're complete invalids. Broken arms I can deal with a lot better than broken legs. If it's a broken leg, I'm going to stay with Sylvia and Rage until it heals.

  "I should go." I'm talking to myself aloud now. It might make me crazy, but it's not the first time I've been accused of such, so I go with it. "Good moms run to their kids' aide. They don't hide out in the kitchen, stalling."

  "I don't think she's coming," Ryan says. He's shouting it, making damn sure I hear. Neither boy is bothering to come out, and they're not crying, so I know they're not in a lot of pain.

  Ian speaks up, defending me like any good son should, saying, "She's not just going to leave us here."

  I love that boy. As a nod to his faith in me, I walk to the fridge, pull out a beer, pop the top, and take a swig. I won't actually leave them there, but I'm not going to run to their aide either. They're not little boys anymore, and they don't get into little trouble, so they can learn to wait it out. I continue to enjoy my beer as they place bets on whether or not I'm going to come to their rescue.

  "This is a very not-mom thing to do, lady," Ryan shouts. I snicker and shake my head while giving myself a mental pat on the back. Just when I'm feeling more mom-guilt than I can handle, I set down the beer and head for the hallway.

  The loud rumble of Jim's bike sounds in the distance, growing nearer every second. I let out a relieved breath. If dad's home, I can be the good cop and cuddle my babies for their stupidity. That's why I hate handling things solo so much. I don't have anyone to pawn the responsibility of the discipline off on.

  "Dad's coming! Shit!" Ryan shouts, now sounding panicked. Oh, whatever they did is good. Real good. I want to be mad, but I can't bring myself to.

  As of today, Ian and I have officially been in Fort Bragg for one year. And our lives are so completely different than they were before. My boy has a home and a brother. He even has a dad. I still have my moments of doubt, of this sinking fear that all of this will end, but then Jim reminds me of who he is. Not just with the promises he makes, but the things he does. The reminder is there, in every single touch and every sly smile he gives me. It's in the lingering looks, like he wants to tell me something but not quite ready to just yet.

  I gave up thinking those looks meant that he wanted to make this thing between us legal months ago. The one time I asked him it was way too early in our relationship. Ryan had just called me "Mom" for the first time, so I was riding that high, and it just came out. It was right after Thanksgiving, and I was so grateful for everything I now have and also so incredible guilty over almost forgetting about Alexandra and Michael. It was just this split second, where I was basting the turkey and I thought, I have everything I ever wanted. It was a sharp, painful reminder of what I don't have. My twins. My babies aren't here, so how could I, even for a fucking second, think I have everything? I just stopped what I was doing, left the room, and curled into a ball on our bed, drowning in my own tears. Jim came in and tried to make it better, but he didn't know how and soon came to realize he couldn't. It was a slow realization for him--deep in his heart, he still thinks he can get my babies back. They're not even babies anymore. This past September, they turned three. I wonder about their hair color and their eyes. I wonder how their personalities have developed, and selfishly, I pray to nothing in particular that they remember me. That somehow, those first few weeks with them meant enough that they'd recognize me somehow if they saw me. And it was too much, far too overwhelming. I couldn't handle it and was just looking for something to make me feel better. So when I was able to speak, I just blurted it out. "Do you even want to marry me?" All he said was, "Can't," and then crawled out of bed and disappeared until dinner time when there were too many people around to talk about it. He hasn't brought it up since and neither have I. It was greedy of me to even suggest it. He's already given us so much.

  The back door creaks open behind me, followed by heavy boots against the laminate flooring. One deep breath after another and I'm halfway to looking like a normal person. I don't want Jim seeing me like this. We're doing good. There's no reason to bring us down with my baggage.

  "What's wrong, momma?" His voice comes from a few feet behind me. He hasn't even seen my face yet, and he already knows. He has this uncanny sense about him. He always knows, and I always think I can fool him. Instead of saying a word, I just point in the direction of the boys' bedroom. Crappy mom point two--throwing the kids under the bus to save myself.

  "What did they do?" Each word he speaks is punctuated with his annoyance, but he doesn't stomp toward their room like I expect. Instead, he wraps his arms around me from behind and pulls me against his chest. "I'll take care of them in a minute, but first I want to know what's wrong."

  "You know what's wrong," I say. My eyes fall closed, and I sink into my man. Jim's chest is firm, even more built than when I met him a year ago. He doesn't drink as much or do as many drugs as he used to. We have an agreement. He can do whatever he wants as long as he can keep his shit together, and if he gets too out of hand, I let him know. So far we've only had two situations arise, and even though he was a real bastard the first time we went through it, he found out the hard way that we wouldn't be having an issue like that again. And we haven't. The second time he partied too hard and I had to rein him in, he didn't give me any shit. Because that's who we are as a couple.

  It's a long while before he says anything, because that's how he is. With everybody else, Jim shoots his mouth off before thinking, but with me he's careful and considerate. At least he is now.

  "It's okay to be sad, momma." He gives me a squeeze, and his hands travel down from just beneath my breasts to my belly. It'll never be flat after three kids, but it's not as chunky as it used to be. There's still stretch marks and scars from the twins' birth--marks that Jim's studied and traced. With one hand, he palms my belly. I hate the gesture even though I know it's coming from a good place.

  "Carried those babies for almost nine full months. You know them in a way nobody else ever will, and the way Mancuso stole them from you? That shit is fucked. I can't make that right the way I want to, but I can promise you that I'm never going to stop trying, and that means if you gotta cry or be sad, you just fucking do it."

  Tears fall down my cheeks no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop them. Jim hates the tears. He doesn't exactly recoil, but I know that he doesn't know what to do with me when I'm crying. The man with all the answers always goes radio silent.

  "We good?"

  I nod my head in response and take a deep breath as the tears dry up.

  "Now, what did the boys do to piss you off?"

  "Oh fuck," I shout and push off from Jim and rush across the room. I forgot about the boys. I forgot about my children, and they could be missing a leg or bleeding out or . . . oh my God . . . they could be dead.

  "Babe, you want my dick, all you have to do is say so." Jim chases after me and shouts in confusion when I go down the hall in the opposite direction he expects.

  I burst through the boys' closed bedroom door and stop in my tracks. Jim's moving so close behind, he slams into my back and has to grab hold of me so I don't fall over.


  "Well, it's about time," Ryan says with a sigh.

  Ian's brown eyes stare at me, loaded with judgment and disappointment. He shakes his head and says, "I expected better of you."

  The furniture is all in place, and neither boy appears to be bleeding. Clearly, both of their mouths work just fine.

  "You," Jim says, pointing a finger at Ian. "Start talking."

  "We were watching E.T., and it was all Ian's idea," Ryan says. He shifts in place uncomfortably and pulls away from Ian a little before righting himself. They're standing awful close. Shoulder to shoulder close. Neither seems very happy about it, but they're purposefully not moving.

  "And?" Jim's voice is hard and brokers no argument from either boy. I take a step forward to allow Jim into the room and watch as he approaches the kids. Ryan's eyes dart from mine to his dad's and back again. His big gray orbs scream "help me," but I just shrug my shoulders and act like there's nothing I can do. Ian, on the other hand, is staring Jim straight in the eyes. The kid doesn't even look remorseful or like he's in the least bit of trouble. Christ, maybe all those karate classes aren't so good for him after all. He used to at least be fearful of our disapproval.

  "Son," Jim says, focusing on Ian. He bends down to meet his eyes and waits. The boys exchange a few looks before Ian steps away from Ryan. Despite the distance between their bodies, their lower arms are still firmly attached. Jim reaches out, taking each of their arms in a hand and tries to pull them apart. Both Ian and Ryan wince in discomfort.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" Jim says, trying to separate their arms again. Still, they don't budge.

  "Babe, your kids Super Glue'd their arms together," I say, now eyeing the small tube lying on the floor near Ryan's feet.

  Jim snorts and shakes his head before falling to his ass. His shoulders shake as he strains for breath. His face turns red, and the sounds of his fucking cackling can probably be heard all the way to the beach. I bite my lip, doing my best to keep a straight face. Neither boy knows what to do with their dad, and honestly neither do I.