Page 255 of Tell Me Something True

She shut the door, then flipped on the overhead lights. Her mother winced at the sudden brightness, then turned her head slowly toward Tabitha.

“My meds are wearing off,” Michelle said, still picking at her skin. “The pain’s getting bad again.”

Forcing herself to move, Tabitha crossed the room, stopping at the end of Michelle’s bed. She looked even worse than she had that morning. She was still picking at her wrist, had done so for so long, so hard, she’d drawn blood. Her bruises were darker, angrier looking. Her complexion sallow, Her cheeks sunken. She looked old, much older than the forty-six she knew her mother to be.

Old and frail, beaten down and broken.

Tabitha was the one with the power now.

She was an adult with full autonomy. Knowledge of not only how the system worked, but of her mother’s past.

She had the truth.

And she no longer wanted her mother’s attention. No longer craved her love.

No longer needed the woman before her.

Tabitha waited for some sense of triumph, or at least, vindication to fill her. Something, anything—anger or delight or hatred. But there was no room for anything other than the compassion that ballooned inside of her chest. The pity that formed a lump in her throat.

And the sudden, surprising realization that burst through her like a firework, bright and dazzling.

Her mother couldn’t hurt her anymore.

And Tabitha was going to make sure she didn’t hurt Reed. Not ever again.

“I’m not your nurse,” Tabitha told her, picking the remote off the side of the bed and turning to shut off the TV. When she turned back, she set the remote on the foot of the bed, that compassion, that pity she’d unearthed for this woman gentling her tone. “Do you remember me?”

Her mother blinked rapidly. Repeatedly. Gaze flicking to Tabitha’s face and then darting away. Fingers pick, pick, picking at her too thin wrist, sparse eyebrows drawn together as she struggled to think. “You were here before…”

Tabitha nodded. “I was. I was here this morning. But that’s not what I meant.” She stepped closer. “Do you remember me? From before? Before you moved to Mount Laurel?”

Her mother’s entire body twitched. “The pain’s coming back…”

“You lived in Pittsburgh,” Tabitha went on. “And your name was Jenny.”

Her mother blinked and blinked and blinked. Picked and picked and picked. “My name’s Michelle.”

“But it used to be Jenny,” Tabitha said quietly. “Jennifer Ewings. And when you lived in Pittsburgh, and your name was Jenny, you had a daughter.” She stepped forward. “Named Tabitha. A little girl you neglected and abused and sold to violent, predatory men. A little girl you abandoned in a motel room.” She spread her arms. “I’m not that little girl anymore.”

Now her mother was shaking. Trembling so violently, the loose top of her hospital gown slid down her shoulder, exposing how thin she was, her collar bones standing out in sharp relief, the bruises along her throat and upper chest dark and ugly against her too-pale skin.

“G… g… go…” her mother stammered, her voice small and reedy, her eyes wide as if Tabitha was a ghost, a monster from her worst nightmares made reality. “Go… away…”

Tabitha stepped closer and her mother flinched and pressed back, as if trying to disappear into the mattress.

No, this woman couldn’t hurt her. But her lies, her fears, and her addictions could put Reed in prison.

“I’m not that little girl anymore,” Tabitha repeated, finding calmness, clarity in that knowledge. “But I was. And if your case against Reed goes to trial, I will take the stand in whatever capacity I have to and tell them what happened to that little girl. The abuse. The neglect. The abandonment. Everything you did, everything you ran away from will come out. I will tell them everything.”

She paused, letting that sink in before continuing, “Unless you tell the truth now. Tell the police what really happened, who really hurt you.”

“No. No,” her mother repeated, picking once more at her wrist. “Pete said—”

She pressed her lips together, gaze dropping to her lap.

“If Pete threatened you,” Tabitha said, “if he’s hurting you, we can help you. We can keep you safe.”

Her mother’s blue eyes filled with panic, her fingers picking at her wrist faster. “You want to take him away from me,” she accused shakily. “I need him. He takes care of me. I need him.”

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