Page 19 of Mended Hearts

I drop my bag, letting it slam to the ground, and turn to face him. “What for, Dad? So we can pretend to be some perfect family?” I know I’m asking for it, but my “give o’ shit” meter is broken. I feel so defeated.

“No family is perfect,” my mother whispers from behind me. Almost as a peace offering. I know she’s trying to be a mediator. That she doesn’t want to blatantly go against my dad, but also, she feels sympathy for me. I can see it in the little things. It almost makes me feel sorry for her and the situation she’s in. But then I remind myself she’s the one who chooses to stay in it.

“Then I guess we can drop the act, right?” I look back at her, catching a glimpse of sadness and understanding before cutting my eyes back to my dad. His look is anything but sadness and understanding. His closely resembles anger and disgust.

Yes, me, his pride and joy, have brought out that look. The sad thing is he should be feeling those things toward himself. I’m not saying I’m perfect and acted innocently. But if he were reasonable, things would’ve gone differently. They never had to go to the extent he’s taken them. He caused the ridge that is now between us. He caused me to push him away and rebel. He can blame the devil all he wants, but he’s the one doing his work.

God doesn’t want you to shelter people and restrict them to a box. He wants you to teach them His ways and then let them have the option of how they will live. God wants people to have choice because God is selfless. He wants people to live for Him because it’s their choice to. Not because they are forced to. Whatmy dad is doing to me is not of God. And like my father always says,“If it’s not of God, it’s of the Devil.”

“Just go to your room,” Mom proposes, sounding completely crushed. My dad’s eyes dart past me to her with such an unfamiliar intensity.

“Gladly.” I seethe, looking at my dad. I reach down and grab my bag, tossing it over my shoulder. I take a step, then glance back. “I hope you find the man you used to be before you suck the life out of all of us.” The first tear makes its way down my face. I look away so he doesn’t see it. “Kind of ironic how God gives us free will, yet you can’t do the same.” I laugh in disbelief, making my way down the hall. I hear a door slam, knowing it’s the door to my dad’s study.

Good.He needs to go spend some time with the Lord. I wish it consisted of him truly seeking God and praying for guidance. I wish it were him being humble and asking God to reveal what he cannot see. But I know he’s in there praying for me, and probably my mother, as well. Him and those blinders. He’ll never be able to see his wrongdoing if he never lifts them.

I DON’T GO to school the following day. I play sick, and my mom allows it. I want to go to school. I really, really do. I mean, it’s the only place I’m going to be able to see Dustin. So logically, staying home makes no sense, but I’m emotionally drained. I know Dustin would make me feel better, but I don’t want him to see me like this—wallowing in self-pity and doubt. Even though my dad isn’t here, I hide out in my room most of the day. Many times, I find myself daydreaming about Dustin and me in the dugout yesterday.

Thinking about our intimate time brings a pang of guilt in my stomach. I never want to regret anything when it comes to Dustin. How can something that feels so right, be wrong? I pushthe idea away, chalking it up to my dad’s overbearing beliefs and how disgusted with me he’d be. I countlessly replay him telling me he’s in love with me. Those words give me hope. Hope that this all hasn’t been for nothing. Sometimes hope is enough for survival.

The doorbell rings at 3:20 p.m. and I know exactly who it is. Dustin is smart and sneaky. I figured he’d come up with a ninja plan to check on me. It was probably torture for him to wait until school was out. I walk up to my closed bedroom door and push my ear against it, listening carefully. If my door didn’t creak, I would open it.

“Hello, Mrs. Price.”

My mother doesn’t offer Dustin to call her by her first name this time.

“Dustin,” she replies thickly, acknowledging him. The boy has balls, I’ll give him that.

“I noticed that Echo wasn’t at school today.” He states the obvious.

“She’s sick,” my mother throws out. I hate how short she’s being with him.

“That’s what I figured. So I went around to her classes and gathered her work. I missed two days of school once, and you’d think I had missed a month. It made me wonder if they just threw in extra work to make me suffer. I felt like I was never going to catch up.” He laughs, trying to lighten the mood. Just something else I love about him. He’s always trying to make the best of a situation.

“That’s really thoughtful of you, Dustin,” she says, a slight softening to her tone.

I can practically see his charming smile. “Anytime, ma’am.”

“Well, I better get this to her. Thank you again.”

“Anytime,” Dustin repeats before I hear the door close.

I run back to my bed, jump in, throw my headphones on, and pick up the book I have been reading. I know my mom will be coming straight to my room, but I can’t make it obvious that I’m anticipating it. I stay turned away from my door even though I hear the knocking. I stay turned away even when I hear the creaky door opening and my mother saying my name. I stay turned away until the moment I feel tapping on my shoulder.

“Ahh,” I jump, surprising her. I yank my headphones off and let them fall to the floor.

“Sorry.” My mom laughs, and it seems like it’s been forever since I’ve seen her genuinely smile.

“Mmmhmm, I’m sure.” I smile back. I need to have one advocate on my side. My mom has already proven she has skin in the game, but she can’t be my cheerleader for its entirety. She’s only able to hide on the sidelines without the coach knowing. She can’t get caught. And I don’t want her to. I don’t want to come between her and my father. I don’t want sides to be chosen, or a line drawn between the three of us. I want to ask if she’s happy, if she made the right choice so long ago. Something tells me she’d lie, so I don’t bother breaching the subject. Doing so won’t change anything.

I sit up in my bed, and she holds out both hands with my schoolwork in them. I reach for the book and the few loose papers, giving her a questioning look.

“The boy brought this for you.” She gives me a sympathetic sideways grin.

“The boy,” I repeat her words. The boy has a name. “The boy we shall not speak of, I presume.”

“Yeah, that one.” She sighs. “You know, Echo,” she starts, but I shake my head.

“No, Mom. It’s all been said and done. Nothing can fix this.”

---