Page 78 of Renegade

I picked up my coffee cup just to give my hands something to do. I found that her response left me with more questions than answers—how had a biker helped her get clean? Weren’t they all balls deep in that shit?

Balls deep?

Oh, Jesus.I was starting to think like Mike.

I was happy for her, but I was also bitter. So, she'd sober up for some biker, but not her own daughter. I began picking off more of my nail polish and she placed her hand on mine, stopping me. “Don't do that. Remember, a lady’s nails—”

“Say a lot about who she is,” I finished, surprised that I still remembered. In the brief periods where Monica would sober up long enough to remember that she had a daughter, she’d insist upon manicures. We could’ve been living on pork and beans for the week prior, but she’d always managed to find a way for us to get our nails done.

Subconsciously, even though I was notorious for picking the polish off within a matter of days, I’d carried that mantra into adulthood. And that was when I looked at Monica—really looked at her. I didn't need a drug test to confirm anything, it was obvious that she was telling the truth. “So, you really did it. Congratulations.”

What else was there to say?

Apparently, Torch had some magic touch that I’d never possessed.

She reached for my hand again. “I was horrible to you, Lauren.” She paused as her eyes filled and then took a deep breath before continuing, “Addiction brings out the worst in a person. My god—you raised yourself. I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for that, and it’s unfair of me to ask this of you, but I’d like to try and rebuild our relationship.”

And there it was. I’d come prepared, knowing it was likely that Monica wanted something. Her request took me by surprise though. I didn’t know what to say- I’d spent the majority of my childhood, hoping that she would sober up and be the mother I needed her to be and now that she wanted to try, I was completely stumped.

Realizing that it was doing nothing to calm my anxiety, I set my coffee cup down on the small table and said, “Monica, I don’t know that we can have the typical mother/daughter relationship. There’s just been too much.”

“I never expected it to be normal. Look at us. I grew up with addicts for parents and turned into one myself. You took the lemons that life gave you and made fucking lemonade.”

Several heads turned in our direction and she lowered her voice, “I don’t deserve it, but I’d like another chance. I’m not going to sit here and blame it on addiction or tell you that I did the best I could, because it’s obvious I didn’t.”

My eyes stung and I was painfully aware of just how many people surrounded us. It was too public. I’d thought being here would be safer, but all it had done was expose more people to our drama. I shifted in my chair. “I don’t know if this is the best place to have this conversation—”

She looked down at the table and I watched as tears fell in a steady stream. “I never told you this, but my parents lost custody of me pretty early on. I was shuffled around in foster care. Some homes were good and some were pretty fucking terrible.” Her hands began shaking and without thinking I reached across and placed them in mine.

Monica took a deep breath, “The last home I was in fostered five other teens. I’d gone into it thinking that they were some very generous people with big hearts, but it wasn’t long before I realized that they did it for the state check. The— um—the husband was always touchy-feely, but I tried to tell myself he was just an affectionate pers—” Her words cut off in a sob and I realized where the conversation was headed. The sickness I’d felt in the pit of my stomach seemed to intensify as she forced herself to continue.

“He started coming into the bedroom I shared with another girl at night and forcing us to do things—said he’d throw us out if we told anyone. When I got pregnant at sixteen, I tried to explain myself to his wife, but she called me a whore and threw me out. I’m not going to sit here and lie to you, I considered having an abortion, but had no money.”

“Excuse me,” I said weakly as I fled from the table and into the bathroom, where my body purged the coffee and muffin I’d just consumed.

I’d been the product of rape.

Monica was waiting outside the stall when I opened the door. Her eyes were bright with tears that had yet to be shed, while her face was streaked from the ones that had managed to escape. She dampened a paper towel and pressed it to my forehead. “Laur—I’m so sorry. I wanted to finish. I found a home for unwed mothers and they took me in, no questions asked. I told myself that I was going to do right by you and I fucked up. The first time they took you and put you into foster care, I quit using, cold turkey. I had this vision of what happened to me happening to you and I knew I couldn’t live with myself if it did. I also tried to make sure that I never brought men around you—I’m sure all this means jack shit to you right now, but you deserve the truth.”

I leaned over and clutched my thighs as my breaths became labored. All those years that I’d spent angry over being yanked out of foster homes had been because of this deep-seated fear she had of me being raped. It was almost comical because the night that Josué rescued me, I was seconds away from it.

She placed her hands on my back and rubbed, speaking softly. “It’s okay. Deep breaths.”

When my breathing became normal again I stood back up and she immediately pulled me into a hug, apologizing over and over.

So, it had been temporary, but knowing she had forced herself to get clean in order to retain custody had me suddenly rethinking everything I’d believed about her for years.

She led me out of the bathroom and right through the front door of the coffee shop. “Do you want to walk with me for a minute?”

I clutched my rolling stomach, but gave her a small nod. We walked a couple of blocks over to a small park. She found us a park bench and helped me onto it.

I could hear the kids playing at the elementary school across the street; kids who were probably conceived in love. Dizziness washed over me and I put my head down by my knees until it passed. As I slowly sat up again, I asked, “Is that why you turned to drugs? Because of him?”

Monica exhaled softly and stared off into the distance. “Initially, yes. After you were born, I had this recurring nightmare of him breaking into the apartment. In it, he’d always start by abusing me until he’d hear you cry out from your bassinet and then he’d turn toward you with this awful grin on his face. The dreams had gotten so bad that I could barely function during the day. Every little sound made me jump.”

I couldn’t imagine. I still had nightmares from time to time of the men who broke into the duplex, but it had never been a daily thing.

She continued, “When I told my girlfriend, she put me in touch with a guy who dealt. When I was using, it was like I was floating. My brain didn’t replay the abuse and I didn’t see his face. I felt like I was invincible. I wasn’t a sleep-deprived new mother anymore either. The first time I snorted coke, I stayed up all night cleaning the apartment. I scrubbed the baseboards until my hands were raw. You’d wake up every three hours and I’d make you a bottle. Once you were asleep, I’d go right back to cleaning. I felt like I’d found a miracle drug. I could keep up with you and housework while not being forced to relive the abuse.”

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