Page 19 of Everything We Left Unsaid

Abby

Jacob’s brow furrows as his eyes scan over the page. I consider asking him to read it out loud to remind him why I cut him out of our lives and make him relive his biggest mistake, but I decide not to. Hearing those words spoken out loud, hearing the smooth, deep voice I once craved saying those awful things would be far too painful. Besides, I memorized every line. I never wanted to forget. I had to stay strong. For me. For Chloe. I knew if he ever came back and wanted to be part of our lives, I’d be too weak to tell him no. But if those vile, awful words were burned into my memory, I’d be able to resist him and the love I once felt.

His eyes widen in shock and move faster across each line. I close mine, returning to the memory of that day.

Two years, one month ago...

A knock at the door startles me and I drop the broom, its metal handle clanging loudly against the floor. I hit pause on Little Big Town’s “Better Man,” not knowing how closely I’d one day relate to the lyrics. Brushing a strand of hair that escaped my ponytail, I make my way to the door.

“Good morning,” the mailman greets when I open it. “I’ve got a package for you. I just need a signature.”

I take the pen and clipboard from his outstretched hand and scribble my name on the receipt, wondering what in the world I could be getting that’s so important it requires me to sign for it. Handing him back the receipt, he places a package in my hands. My pulse climbs when I see the Arlington P.O. box.

This must be from Jacob!I tear into it, pulling out a folded piece of paper and opening it. The very top of the off-white page bears the letterhead, Senator Arthur Daniels in navy blue ink. For a moment I worry this letter is from Jacob’s dad, but the signature at the end puts those fears to rest. I begin reading, nervousness and excitement fluttering in my belly.

Abby,

I regret that I cannot be there to do this in person, but unfortunately, I’m traveling at this time and could not find an opening in my schedule to break away. I know you must be scared, but rest assured, everything will be alright.

I owe you an apology. If I had practiced more restraint and conducted myself more responsibly during our brief affair, this all could have been prevented. I’m deeply sorry for putting you in this position. I take full responsibility for my part in this, and I’m prepared to do what is necessary to remedy the situation. Enclosed in the package you’ve just received is what I believe to be an adequate sum of money to assist you with any expenses you incur. I’ve also included a list of reputable clinics that can provide you the best possible care. The money should be more than enough to cover the cost of treatment and compensate you for lost wages as you recover.

Sincerely,

Jacob A. Daniels

My hand goes to my mouth to muffle my sob as the paper floats to the floor. Remedy the situation? He can’t be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting! How could he? My chest tightens as a long-suppressed memory comes flooding back, one that sucks the breath from my lungs like a vacuum and brings me to the floor. I brace my weight on my hands and knees and try to pull in a breath past the emotion constricting my throat as tears sting my eyes. It all comes crashing back to me, and with my defenses weakened, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Abby, age 15

“Please, Mom. Don’t do this again.”

“Where is it?” she demands, her words slurred in a voice thickened by a cocktail of one-hundred-proof poison and little white pills. I’ve hidden her last bottle of vodka and she knows it. I knew the spiral was coming. She has a cycle, a very predictable one.

The warning came several days ago. She’d been more upbeat than usual, listening to music while she cleaned the house, dancing as she mopped and dusted. Then that evening she put an old home movie on, and it was all over. She started sobbing as soon as Dad’s face came on the screen. She got up and walked out the door, returning hours later, noticeably intoxicated. I don’t think she’s been sober since, not even for a minute. At least she doesn’t have any new marks on her arms. I’ve looked. When she finally passes out, I examine the crooks of her elbows, looking for any signs that she’s doing the hard stuff again. It’s not like she wouldn’t if she could. She just doesn’t have any money right now. She’s pawned just about everything else that’s worth anything, even Dad’s old Stratocaster. Ethan cried when Mom pried it out of his hands. That was his most cherished possession, his last connection to our father, and my mother ripped it away to pay for a temporary high.

“Tell me where it is,” she growls, gripping my arm. I wince in pain as her fingernails carve half-moon crescents into my skin. “I know you took it, you little bitch. Now give it back. It doesn’t belong to you.” Although I should be used to her verbal abuse by now, her insults still sting. And it infuriates me that I let her have that much control over the way I feel.

Lifting my chin in defiance, I straighten my spine and look her square in the eye. “No.”

“No?” she questions, stunned by my refusal. “Abigail Harris, I am your mother and you’ll do as I say!” Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow as I wipe the spittle from my face. Even though I want to throttle her, I need to be the bigger person and just walk away.

“I think you’ve had enough,” I assert and turn toward my bedroom.

You should never show your enemy your back, because that’s when they strike the hardest. I only make it a few steps before she opens fire.

“I should’ve never let your dad talk me into keeping you,” she sneers. Her proclamation halts me in my tracks, my blood running cold in my veins. I turn back around, even though I know I should keep walking. But for some reason, I can’t make myself leave. It’s like my feet are cemented to the floor and I have no choice but to stand here and listen to her spew her vile, hateful declaration.

She smirks arrogantly at my wide-eyed expression. I’m the rabbit and she’s the fox, and I’ve just shown her my jugular. She takes full advantage of my rapt attention and goes in for the kill.

“I had an appointment, you know,” she informs me. Bile churns in my stomach as her meaning sinks in. “I wasn’t ready to have kids; wasn’t even sure I wanted any.” My eyes begin to burn with unshed tears, and I swallow thickly to keep from letting my hurt show. I won’t give her the satisfaction. “But your dad,” she continues, shaking her head with disappointment. “As soon as he found out about you, he was in love. Begged me not to go through with it.”

Bullseye.

Her cheap shot hits its target. I blink, and the tears I’d been trying so hard to keep from leaking out break loose and roll down my cheeks.

“He was a stupid man,” she announces. “But I loved him. And now he’s gone,” she reminds me. As if I could ever forget. “It’s all your fault,” she accuses, jabbing a finger at me. “He took that God-forsaken job so he could provide for you and your brother, so he could buy a house big enough for the four of us. I didn’t need all this,” she explains, waving her hands around. “I would’ve been happy in a one-bedroom apartment, but no, he insisted on keeping you,” she huffs, the inconvenience of my existence an obvious hindrance to her happiness. “It’s your fault he’s dead!”

Even though I know she’s being completely irrational, it hurts. Her hatred. Her disdain. The complete and utter lack of motherly affection I shouldn’t crave. It causes my chest to ache in a way that rivals the pain I felt the day we laid my father in the ground.

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