Page 111 of Edge of Unbroken

“Darren said there’s a chance; he thinks it’s more likely she’ll get a reduced sentence instead. Rica’s lawyer is certain he can get her a better deal at trial than the D.A. is offering if she takes a plea. It… Ran, your testimony will be vital.”

“Okay,” I say again, the weight on my shoulders multiplying with each word. It’s crushing.

“I’m sorry, Ran. I just… I’m so sorry… for everything. I wish I could change your past for you. I wish—”

“I know, Dad. Me, too,” I say sincerely. There’s a lot I wish had happened differently, but I’m not going to get into it with him. “When’s the trial?”

“Last I checked it was still on the docket for mid-April, but Darren says these things tend to be moving targets. As soon as I know for sure, I’m bringing you home.”

“Okay,” I say for a third time, at a loss for words. He doesn’t really know what to say to me either, and my grandmother ends up taking the phone from me. I don’t return to the table to finally eat my lunch and instead march out of the house and to my truck, hightailing it to my favorite secluded spot by the lake.

***

I stand on the small wooden dock, staring at the water as ripples roll slowly across its otherwise smooth surface.

I’m not that surprised my mother rejected a plea deal and is insisting on a trial. Whatishard for me to wrap my head around is that my mother suffered the same abuse she inflicted on me. She was just repeating the cycle, and she’s going to use her own suffering as an excuse for making me suffer in turn.

All kinds of thoughts and emotions run through my head. She’s going to make me relive every second of everything she has ever done to me, essentially forcing me to become a victim of her abuse once more. There’s no way to move on from this any time soon, no way for me to forget, no chance for me to heal when I’m about to be reinjured.

And then there’s something new, something even more devastating: a very real fear that I might one day become like my mom and grandfather. Who’s to say I’ll be successful in breaking the cycle of abuse? Who can guarantee that I won’t do to my family what my mother has done to me, what her dad has done to her? Aren’t there statistics about that sort of thing? I’ve lost control before, have found myself unable to suppress the sudden rage consuming me like an inferno. Maybe the violence and the inability to control it is part of my DNA. I can’t fucking risk that. I just can’t.

“Fuck.Fuck. FUCK,” I say, my voice getting louder until I finally scream into the nothingness around me.

“Rony? What happened?” I hear Miranda’s voice from behind me and whirl around. I didn’t hear her, didn’t notice her truck approaching. “I saw you drive off the ranch, and your grandmother told me you had talked to your dad. I figured you’d be here,” she says, approaching me cautiously. I spot an unopened bottle of Jack in her hand.

She holds it up with a grin on her face. “Sounds like you could use some of this.”

I nod. “I could, in fact.” I’m so tense my neck hurts. I know I shouldn’t drink. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in months, I haven’t eaten today, and I’m in a weird mental state—all good reasons not to put the bottle of alcohol to my lips, but none of them good enough to stop me. Not today.

I take the bottle from her hand, unscrew the cap, and take two large gulps back-to-back. The liquor burns its way down my throat.

“Damn, Rony,” Miranda says when I follow my first two shots up with another two, knowing full well that I’m going to be trashed in no time if I keep this up. But I don’t care right now. I need to shut it all off.

I’m ready to take yet another shot when Miranda yanks the bottle out of my hand. “Leave some for me, would you?”

She copies me, taking long draws from the bottle, her head tipped back, throat working hard to force down the alcohol. “Good god, this stuff is harsh, but damn there’s nothing better to calm the nerves, right?” She studies me. “Talk, Rony. What the fuck happened? What did your dad say?”

I frown at her. She knows how reluctant I am to talk about anything that even remotely involves what happened to me.

“Here.” She urges the bottle back into my left hand. “Take another shot and then spill the damn beans.”

Maybe it’s the fact that I have no other outlet or that I feel trapped in my own head right now, but I do take another shot, and then one more. My thoughts have already slowed down significantly, and I sit down on the dock.

I close my eyes and tell Miranda all about what my dad divulged on the phone. I feel her lower herself next to me, though she remains quiet, letting me talk—or more like ramble—as we pass the Jack back and forth, taking shot after shot.

“Did you think there was a real chance your mom would plead guilty to hurting you?” Miranda finally asks, her speech drawn out, her eyes hooded and red.

“Nope,” I say without a second thought. “She’ll probably testify that I deserved everything she did to me because I’m a worthless piece of shit who can’t do as he’s told.” I take another drink from the bottle. I have no idea how much I’ve had by now, and even less of a clue about how I’m going to get back to the ranch.

Miranda laughs. “Fucking funny how your mom sounds just like my dad.” She takes the bottle from me. “The only difference is that I actually did turn out to be a piece of shit who can’t do anything right,” she says, chuckling.

I frown at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The fact that you and I are complete opposites. You’re a good boy and I’m the person who corrupts you, remember?”

“Stop, Randi. You know that’s not true.”

“Oh, no? Who’d you lose your precious virginity to at fourteen? Me. Who introduced you to weed and pills? Me. Who made you sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to get drunk by the creek? Me. Who made you have sex in my dad’s church? Me.”

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