Page 163 of Edge of Unbroken

“No, never. We mostly stayed in New York, occasionally Montana, while my dad was mostly gone.”

“Mostly gone. What do you mean by that?”

“My dad was rarely ever home. He was deployed a few times, or he lived on base in a different state. He was based in Montana for a brief period, and we lived with my grandparents then, but he still didn’t come home very much,” Ronan says with a deep exhale.

“Were you able to see your dad pretty frequently while you were growing up?”

“No, not really. I’d say I probably saw him a total of maybe six weeks in a year. He’d come home for a few days, then leave again and we wouldn’t see him for weeks or months at a time, especially when he was overseas. I didn’t see him at all for about a year and a half when I was eight and he was stationed in Japan.”

“That must have been difficult for you to have your dad gone so much.”

Ronan just shrugs. “I never knew any different.”

Frank sighs heavily, his face contorted in pain.

“Ronan, has your dad ever physically hurt you?” Mr. Cooley asks.

Ronan doesn’t hesitate even slightly. “No. I don’t even remember him ever raising his voice at me or my brother.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your dad?”

“Umm, well, he was gone the vast majority of my life and… when I was little, I loved spending time with my dad. He’d take us camping or fishing or whatever when he was home for more than a couple of days. He taught me how to work on cars and stuff. He’s honestly pretty badass. He’s just… to me, he was like Superman. But he was gone so much and that always meant pain for me. I’d cry whenever he left, begging him not to go. But he always did, and my crying would always get me into more trouble, so eventually I stopped throwing a tantrum when he’d leave, and things at home were just what they were. I think… I just built a wall, honestly. Whether my dad was gone or not didn’t really affect me anymore, especially once I got older. I was out of the house so much, just trying to be home as little as possible. I started doing my own thing. And now… it’s like we’re getting to know each other again, if that makes any sense,” Ronan says, a crease on his brow.

“It does,” the attorney says with a head nod before continuing to question Ronan about the twelve months he spent moving around from Tennessee to Virginia, then Georgia, before finally returning to New York. He skillfully draws out the details of the violence Rica inflicted on her son, picking up on little details, pushing deeper into Ronan’s memories as he continues to recall incident after incident, beating after beating, hit after hit.

I watch Ronan intently, his shoulders heavy as emotions cross his face. I’m surprised he hasn’t broken down yet, though I can tell he’s struggling to hold it all together as he testifies about the physical and emotional abuse he endured before finally returning to New York.

“How long did you live in New York after moving back when you were six?” the attorney asks.

“We moved back to Montana when I was ten, so about four years that go-around.”

“Did you live in the same house in New York?”

“Yeah, same house. My mom’s parents had helped my parents buy it, so that’s where we’ve been living any time we’re in the city.”

“Do you remember any times your mom hit you when you lived in New York during that time?”

Ronan sighs, nodding. “Right after we moved, we got our dog, Onyx. My mom caught me feeding my leftover dinner to Onyx. That night, she pulled me out of bed and took me downstairs where she beat me. I remember it was a Friday and she didn’t let me eat anything all weekend as punishment for giving my food to the dog.” Ronan runs his hands roughly through his hair as he grits his teeth. “I remember going back to school on Monday and just feeling so weak. I ate anything and everything I could get my hands on. One of my teachers commented that I must be growing.” He chuckles wryly.

Ronan answers Mr. Cooley’s questions for hours, describing horrific abuse, and I feel sick to my stomach when Ronan talks about his mother forcing him to hold his hand against the doorframe before she slammed the door shut, likely breaking his right hand.

“Did your mother take you to the doctor for that injury?” Mr. Cooley asks.

“No,” Ronan says. “She just bandaged it up.”

“How do you know your right hand was broken if you didn’t go to the doctor?”

“I mean, it was black and blue, and I couldn’t move it without excruciating pain. So I’m about ninety-nine percent certain it was broken.”

“Did anyone ask you about the injury?”

“Yeah, my hockey coach did.”

“And what did you tell your coach about how you sustained the injury, if anything?”

“I told him I accidentally got my hand stuck in the door.”

“How long did that injury take to heal?”

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