Page 159 of Edge of Unbroken

Ronan takes a deep breath in, then exhales. “I had this idea that if I got bigger, stronger, maybe my mom wouldn’t hurt me so much,” he says, causing my breath to hitch.

“Did it work?”

“No. But it still provided me with an escape, and honestly, it’s a great way to get all the negative emotions out of your system.”

“How would you describe your stature growing up? Were you always tall?”

“No, not really. I was pretty small growing up, but then I sort of shot up when I hit puberty. My dad, brother, and grandfather are tall, so I guess it’s not a surprise, although out of the four of us, I’m still the shortest. I’m the runt,” Ronan says with a tiny smile on his lips.

“Okay, so let me clarify this. You’re a straight-A student. You work, you play varsity and club hockey, you work out, and you maintain a pretty active social life with your friends and girlfriend. Did I sum that up right?”

Ronan nods. “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t played hockey since I got hurt last August; I haven’t been back to school. And I only just started picking up shifts at Murphy’s again, so…”

“And why is that, Ronan?” I can tell we’re moving toward the cliff, inching toward the inevitable.

“Because I was in Montana.”

“Is there a reason why you were in Montana instead of here in New York?”

Ronan closes his eyes as we arrive at the point of no return. “My dad sent me there,” he says, still skirting the issue, still fighting having to talk about it.

“Do you know why your dad sent you there?”

Ronan nods. “Yeah.”

“Why did your dad send you to Montana?”

“Because… because I was suicidal.” Ronan drops his head.

“When did you first begin having thoughts of suicide, Ronan?”

“When I got to the rehab hospital a couple of weeks after waking up from the coma. When the nightmares started,” he says, his voice low.

“Ronan,” Mr. Cooley says. Ronan looks at him. “Why were you in a coma?”

Ronan doesn’t answer right away.

“Ronan?” the attorney says gently.

“Because my mother beat me within an inch of my life.”

A thick, heavy silence blankets the courtroom as Ronan begins testifying about the reason everyone has gathered here today. It doesn’t take long before the faces next to me are tear-stained and quiet sniffles echo through the courtroom with Ronan’s vivid descriptions of the abuse his mother inflicted when he was just a child. His earliest recollection of abuse seems to be when he was two, maybe three, and still lived in Montana, and the images in my head of a tiny Ronan being hurt by his mother threaten to rip my heart right out of my chest.

“How often has your mom hurt you physically?” the attorney asks.

“I can’t give you a number.”

“More than ten times?”

Ronan laughs dryly. “More than a thousand times. Look, you have to understand, she didn’t always push me down a flight of stairs or punch me in the face. Some days it was just a kick or a slap or a hard shove…”

“And other times?”

“Other times she’d break my collarbone with a frying pan or force me to hold my hand against the doorframe while she slammed the door shut, or choke me until I’d pass out. She had no problem coming up with new ways to punish me,” Ronan says so matter-of-factly it shocks me to the core.

“When did she break your collarbone?”

“When I was eight or nine. Honestly though, I never went to a doctor for any of this, so I can’t even really say it was broken—well, I know it was because it was displaced and my mother set it, but there aren’t medical records to back it up. Just like I can’t truly say whether my right hand was broken or that my ribs were broken. The only time I ever went to the doctor, aside from August 28th, obviously, was when I broke my elbow after she pushed me down our stairs. She has a thing for pushing me,” he says quietly.

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