by HELEN HARDT
“I didn’t think so. Being a farm wife isn’t easy. It’s a lot of hard work. I never had any time for myself. You were… I loved you so much, Skye, but you were…”
“Rebellious. I know.”
“Yes. It was tiring, always fighting for everything with you. Your father was in the fields twelve hours a day, and he came home exhausted. That’s not his fault, of course, but he was too tired to talk to me, let alone… You know…”
Yeah, I know. Have sex, make love—whatever euphemism you want to call it. The idea of my parents doing that kind of nauseates me, but less so than the idea of my mother with some young stud named Mario.
“Did you always love him?” I ask. “Dad, I mean.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then why…?”
“Because I’m human, honey. Simply human, and I needed some intimacy. Mario offered it, and I accepted. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you control yourself?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She doesn’t have an answer.
Just like I, the self-professed queen of control, have no answer as to why I want the neck binding with Braden.
I just want it.
But he doesn’t.
Maybe if he told me why, I’d understand.
But he’s right. Knowing his why won’t bring me any closer to my own.
Finally, my mother speaks. “I should have resisted. I should have controlled myself. I have no reason except that I wanted it, and I gave in.”
“So you admit you were weak.”
“Yes, Skye. I’m not you. I’m not strong like you and your father are. I gave in.”
“That’s an excuse.”
She sighs. “Perhaps it is. I had a chance to take something I wanted, and I took it.”
“Did you give a thought to Dad? To me?”
“Of course I did.”
“But we lost, and you won out.”
She lowers her head and fixes her gaze on the soil in front of her. “There’s no use arguing about it. You’re right.”
“I feel no satisfaction in being right, Mom.”
“Honey, this is why I resisted telling you everything. Dad and I worked through it. We’re good now. In fact, we’re better than we were before Mario. And we both love you so much, Skye. We always have.”
Yes, they have.
Despite the fact that my mother apparently found me difficult—finds me difficult—there was never a time when I felt she didn’t love me.
I don’t feel that now, either. I know she loves me.
Still, I need one more answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Mom,” I begin, “why were you in bed with Mario while I was in the house?”
“That was unfortunate,” she says with a sigh. “You were supposed to be at your friend Myrna’s house, but her little brother developed a high fever, so Myrna’s mom dropped you back home on her way to the doctor. She called, but I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Who let me in the house?”
“The door was unlocked. You were seven. You let yourself in.”
Myrna. I haven’t given her a thought in years. She and her family lived on a neighboring farm, but they sold out and moved when we were in fifth grade.
Right. I remember now. I opened the door and walked in the house. I yelled for Mom, but she didn’t answer. Then I heard sounds coming from her bedroom.
So I opened the door, and—
Funny how clear it is now. How did I forget? The concussion may have had something to do with it, but I remembered the praying mantis. I remembered getting lost in the cornfield. The china plate…
I never saw Mario again after that, so it was most likely easy for my seven-year-old mind to block out such an unpleasant memory.
And of course Mom didn’t hear the phone. She was… God. My instinct is to fight her on that as well. What was she thinking, not hearing the phone?
But it’s seventeen years in the past.
Perhaps I need to let it go. Perhaps…
Perhaps I need to choose my battles.
I don’t need to fight everything.
Perhaps I need to choose my battles with Braden as well.
…
“It’s so strange,” I tell Rosa the next day at our session. “It’s clear as day now, but for the longest time I didn’t remember catching my mom in bed with that guy.”
“Childhood memory repression isn’t unusual,” Rosa says. “Especially something so unpleasant. Then you have the added issue of the concussion, which can cause retrograde amnesia.”
“It didn’t, though. I remember chasing the praying mantis, and I remember getting lost.”
“But did you remember being at Myrna’s that day?”
“No, not until my mother told me.”
“See? You don’t recall everything from childhood. No one does.”
“But finding my mom in bed with a farm hand… That I should remember.”
“You do. Now. Like I said, it was unpleasant for you at the time, and children often repress unpleasant memories as a defense mechanism. My guess is you didn’t repress it at the time, but it faded away after your parents got back together and everything went on smoothly. The young mind is very resilient, Skye. I’ll say it again. What you’re describing doesn’t sound unusual to me at all.”
“It’s not like me, though. I prefer to be in charge of everything, especially my own mind.”
She smiles. “You were seven.”
I sigh. I know. I was seven. Just a kid. But still…
“Let’s see if we can’t pull some of this together,” Rosa says. “Do you feel responsible for your parents’ breakup?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
She nods. “What if I told you that I think, on some level, you do?”
“I’d say you’re wrong.”
“Let’s go back to you and Braden for a moment. When you asked him to bind your neck—to choke you—and he refused, he said he was concerned that you were becoming dependent on his punishment. In effect, he thought it was no longer a part of the sexual experience for you, and that it was becoming too real.”
“I disagreed then, and I still disagree.”
Rosa makes a few notes and then meets my gaze. “What if I told you that I think he may have a point?”
“Then I still disagree with you. I enjoy kinky sex. So does he.”
“But he’s in charge, right?”
“You told me last time that I’m in charge.”
“You are, in some respects. But so is he. He can refuse to do something you want. That’s his right, but you’re resisting him.”
“That’s not it. He won’t tell me why he won’t do it. Why it’s his hard limit.”
“Should that matter? You’re resisting him. You’re not letting him have the control in the bedroom, which you said you gave up.”
“Well…technically we weren’t in the bedroom. We were at the club.”
Rosa shakes her head slightly. “Skye, you know very well what I mean.”
I draw in a deep breath. She’s right. She knows it, and so do I. I can’t help a soft laugh. “My mother told me I fought her on everything when I was a kid. Not just important stuff, but silly stuff, too, like wearing a pair of socks that was dirty, or arguing over breakfast cereal. What the hell is wrong with me?”
She smiles. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re strong willed. There’s nothing wrong with that. If you were vindictive and irritable, if you blamed others for your stubborn behavior, you might have a touch of obstinate defiance disorder, but I don’t see that in you.”
“I guess I just didn’t realize I’ve been this way my entire life.”
“Our personalities are formed by the time we�
��re five years old,” Rosa says. “You’re a fighter. That’s not a bad thing. It’s why you’re successful.”
I pause for a moment, thinking. Is that why I’m successful? I’m a good photographer, and I studied the discipline in college and became even better. I took the job with Addison so I could take pictures, and that job, plus my relationship with Braden, inadvertently resulted in my own budding influencing career.
Does that equal success?
Is it because of me after all?
Not because of Addie and Braden?
“You look like you’re thinking,” Rosa says. “Your forehead is all wrinkly.”
I nod. “Yeah. I am. I’m wondering…”
“Wondering what?”
“I guess I’m wondering if I truly am the reason for my success. I guess I’m not even sure I am successful.”
“Of course you are. You’re a talented photographer and an up-and-coming influencer. Sounds like success to me.”
“I always figured no one would care what I thought if I weren’t Braden’s girlfriend.”
“I won’t lie to you. That probably helped. But if you were Braden’s girlfriend but couldn’t write good copy or take a good photo, would you still be where you are?”
“I… I honestly don’t know.”
“You do know. You just don’t want to admit it, Skye.” She pauses. “Let’s attack this from a different angle. Braden is concerned about you getting too much pleasure from punishment. What if he doesn’t actually mean pleasure?”
“Braden always says what he means.”
“He may think that’s what he means, but what if it’s not the pleasure from the punishment you’re after? What if it’s the punishment itself?”
“Why would I want to punish myself?”
“For one, because you think you’re not worthy of your success.”
I raise an eyebrow. What Rosa says isn’t completely out of left field. How many times has the thought crossed my mind that I’m a fraud? More than a few.
“Let’s go one step further,” she says. “What if I told you it’s not just that you feel unworthy of your success? What if you blame yourself for what happened between your parents all those years ago?”
I shake my head. “Why would I do that? It wasn’t my fault. I was a kid.”
“Yes, and you’re right. It wasn’t your fault. But somewhere inside you is that seven-year-old girl, and she might think it was her fault.”
Did I?
Do I?
“I’m not sure I gave it any conscious thought at the time.”
“This isn’t your conscious mind at work, Skye. It’s your subconscious. You didn’t think about the fact that you fought your mother on everything, or that you were part of the reason she didn’t want more children. But inside your psyche, you knew. And perhaps your subconscious has always wondered if you drove your father away and drove your mother into another man’s bed.”
“I didn’t even remember Mario until yesterday.”
“But your subconscious mind did. Otherwise it wouldn’t have come blaring back to you when your mother told you.”
She’s not wrong. The image is now so clear in my mind that I could have photographed it myself. In color. Freaking Kodachrome.
“How does this relate to my need for punishment?”
“How does it not relate? You’re punishing yourself not only for your success, which you think you don’t deserve and won’t take any credit for despite having earned it, but also for your parents’ split all those years ago.”
“But…”
“What?”
“I…enjoy the punishment.”
“Do you?”
“Well, yeah… But…”
“But what?”
“The punishment isn’t really punishment. When Braden truly wants to punish me, he doesn’t tie me up or flog me. He denies me a climax. The other stuff isn’t meant to be punishment.”
“There you go. He doesn’t mean for it to be punishment, but on some level, you do. And that’s what is disturbing to him.”
I can’t deny that her reasoning makes an eerie kind of sense. “Are you saying I’m addicted to punishment?”
“I wouldn’t put it in those terms, but it’s possible that what Braden sees as kink and part of what he enjoys in the bedroom, you see as actual punishment. As you say, when he wants to truly punish you, he takes your orgasm. The other stuff is for pleasure, both his and yours. Or so he thought.”
“But I enjoy it. It does please me.”
“I know it does. The question is why?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Why indeed?
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Braden.
“Do you need to take that?” Rosa asks.
“It’s him. It’s Braden.”
“Tell you what.” She checks her watch. “We only have five minutes left, and I’ve given you a lot to think about. So go and think about it, and I’ll give you an extra five tomorrow.”
I sigh. “I’m leaving tonight.”
“I thought you said you were staying the week.”
“I was. But after my conversation with my mother yesterday, I just want to go home.”
She smiles. “Don’t run, Skye. Work it out.”
“With my mother?”
“With your mother. Your father. Braden. All of them. It’s time to forgive your mother. And it’s time to forgive yourself.”
“Myself? For what?”
“For being a difficult kid. For fighting your mother so much. You weren’t abnormal. Lots of kids have a stubborn streak. I had one myself.”
“Did you drive your mother into another man’s bed?”
“No, but neither did you.”
I nod. I get what she’s saying. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“No, it absolutely wasn’t. Both of your parents would probably tell you the same thing.”
“My mom already did.”
“See?”
My phone stops buzzing. “I missed the call.”
“Go. Call him back. Then call me tomorrow at two p.m. and we’ll talk some more. If you need more help after that, I’ll find a referral for you in Boston. But, Skye?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to be okay. I promise.”
…
Back on Main Street, I reach for my phone to return Braden’s call, when it buzzes again.
I put it to my ear, smiling. “Hey! Sorry I couldn’t answer. I was just getting ready to call you back.”
“You were?” A female voice that sounds vaguely familiar. Not Addie, but Addie-like.
Shit. I didn’t look at the number. I just assumed it was Braden trying again.
“Sorry, I was expecting another call.”
“Are you Skye Manning?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
“I’m Apple Ames. Addison’s sister.”
Apple. Addie’s hippie twin sister. I met her once, a year ago. She prattled on and on about Zen and motorcycles and the Dalai Lama. Despite their duplicate DNA, she and Addie are like night and day. Though which is which, I couldn’t say.
“Hi, Apple. Why are you calling me?”
“I need to talk to you,” she says, “about Braden Black.”
My heart thunders. “Why?”
“There are things you need to know. Things Addie will never tell you. Things no one knows except Addie and me.”
“Not Betsy?”
“Betsy?”
“Betsy Davis. Your friend from your childhood.”
“Right. Wow. I haven’t given her a thought in ages.”
“You haven’t? Addison posts for her all the time.”
She scoffs. “You seem to be under the delusion that I pay a lick
of attention to Addie’s Instagram. I couldn’t care less.”
Yup, night and day, all right.
“I’m out of town, currently, but I’m returning tonight.”
“Great. I’ll meet you at the airport. Give me your flight information.”
“Wait, wait, wait… How about sometime tomorrow?”
“This can’t wait, Skye. I’m serious.”
My heart begins beating like a snare drum during a Sousa march. “You can’t leave me hanging like this. Seriously. What’s going on?”
“All I can tell you is that Addie’s watching you both. I’m concerned for you.”
“I already know she’s up to something. I’ve been watching her. I’m sure Braden has as well.”
“Yeah, probably. But he can take care of himself.”
“All right. Why, though? Why are you telling me all this?”
“Well, as someone wise once said, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, grasshopper.”
I’ve heard that phrase before. From The Art of War? Maybe. Not the grasshopper part. I’m not sure where Apple got that. “Okay. But you can’t tell me anything now?”
“Not over the phone. Sorry. I don’t trust my sister as far as I can throw her. She could be monitoring calls.”
True. When she ends the call, I toss my phone into my purse. Braden is in New York, and I have no idea when he’ll be back in Boston. Probably not tonight. What does Apple want to tell me? More importantly, what is so important that she can’t say it over the phone because she thinks Addie might be listening in?
What have I gotten myself into?
I head home. My mother and father are sitting together on the deck in back. I regard them before they’re aware of my presence. They’re not touching each other—Dad is paging through a magazine and Mom’s reading a book—but the comfort between them is palpable. They belong together. They love each other. They’ve long overcome the events of seventeen years ago.
The least I can do is the same.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
They both look up.
“Hi, sweetie,” Dad says. “I didn’t hear you come outside.”
“You both seemed buried in whatever you’re reading.”
Mom hold up a tattered copy of Jane Eyre, one of my favorites. “Bet you forgot you left this here.”
