Page 12 of Not Another Yesterday
He still doesn’t say anything, his expression unreadable.
“We pushed for a trial because we wanted the opportunity for the jury to hear about Rica’s trauma, but then… then you went on the stand, Ronan, and after you were done testifying… it was so emotional to witness. Rica had told me what she put you through, how much she hurt you, but hearing it from you, seeing the video footage… I don’t think I understood before then what she had truly done to you. It was like hearing my own daughter talk about what Brian did to her, except… except Brian was never quite like that. Rica, sad to say, stepped it up a level. The pain she inflicted on you didn’t always seem motivated by anger at you specifically. She just took everything out on you. You were her punching bag. I hadn’t realized how much anger she had inside her. I felt so horrible for putting you through that trial, for making you relive everything, for making you watch the moment your life almost ended. It was obvious how much it affected you, and how much the jury tuned in to you. You could see it on their faces—several were crying. When you were off the stand, Rica’s lawyer thought the best option would be to take a plea and argue the sentence with the judge. He didn’t think Rica stood a chance in hell with the jury after how compelling you were. So that’s what happened; Rica and her lawyer decided not to put on their case and instead make their case tothe judge for sentencing purposes,” Mrs. Donahue says, and is followed by silence.
She expels a shaky breath, her voice softening. “My daughter did not set out to become like her father and his father before him. But she couldn’t escape her past…” She trails off before she looks around the room. Just like that, her well-practiced smile returns to her lips. “When I saw her today, she was in good spirits. I try to see her every week, but Brian is not well and is getting worse, so it’s harder to make the trip now. For a while now I’ve contemplated stopping by to speak with you, Ronan.”
“Well, you did, so you can cross that off your list,” Ronan says unemotionally.
“Ronan, you need to know that your mother really struggles with what she’s done to you. She is exceptionally remorseful. I cannot tell you how much sleep she has lost, how often she has cried, how hard this has been on her,” Mrs. Donahue says, her voice soft, warm.
Ronan’s face reflects anything but warmth; his features are hard, his jaw and brow set. If I wasn’t already silent, what Mrs. Donahue just said would leave me speechless. “Uh-huh,” Ronan says, his voice barely audible.
“Maybe… maybe you could find it in your heart to forgive your mother,” Mrs. Donahue says. “I think it can help you heal.”
Never mind.NowI’m speechless. Actually, no, I’m furious. How dare she suggest that healing hinges on Ronan offering forgiveness. As if absolving his abuser is some kind of cure.
Clearly, Ronan has had enough. His jaw ticks once, twice. “Dad,” he says, his eyes on Frank, who is completely focused on his youngest son.
“Yeah, bud?”
“I’m done with this conversation,” Ronan says. He gets up from his spot next to me and walks out of the living room.
Frank stands and faces Mrs. Donahue. “Let me walk you out.”
She nods curtly, then stands, adjusting her skirt and jacket before gripping her bag tightly. “Thank you for having me in your home, Frank,” she says warmly, then turns her attention to Penny. “You look lovely. I hope you have a healthy and speedy delivery when the time comes.” She turns to Steve and smiles. “I’m so glad I got to see you and your brother today. You’re both exceptionally handsome young men.”
Finally, she addresses me, her blue eyes intent as they lock on mine. “I’m glad to see Ronan has someone wonderful by his side. I hope your love for him can help him on his road to healing. And more than anything, I wish for you that he’s strong enough…”
Ronan
Fuck.
Why can’t my past just stay buried? Locked up tight, keys melted, tossed in the deepest, darkest part of the ocean. Is that too much to ask?
Clearly it is, because after barely six months of trying to build something for myself that wasn’t founded on basic survival, the universe served me a steaming pile of remember-how-fucked-up-your-life-is.
I was still trying to decide whether to tell my family about Rashana when I exited my car and spotted Steve marching toward me. That expression on his face was telling as hell, and up went my walls. Solidly. Funny how it takes months of chiseling away at the bricks to break down that emotional barrier, and only seconds to put them right back up. It’s like muscle memory.
I’ve never been close to my maternal grandparents, but that didn’t stop my grandmother from unloading decades of unprocessed trauma in the exact room where my own was inflicted. I knew about my mom’s past to a very limited extent, knew that my grandfather hit her and her brother. But I never realized how far up the Donahuefamily tree it went, was never aware that he also hit my grandmother. It was a hell of a lot to take in. I wasn’t prepared for this, and even less so for the moment my grandmother urged me to forgive my mother. The irony hit hard—her plea for forgiveness delivered in the same spot my mother screamed at me to beg her to kill me, feet from where I lay gasping for air while she shattered my ribs, ruptured my spleen, and broke twenty-six bones in my body.
I felt the rage rising within me like a tide, the edges of my mind buzzing with a restless, crackling energy, and I knew I needed to step away, for me and for everyone else.
That rage, that anger—that’s new, and it’s not something I’m willing to explore, despite Doctor Seivert’s insistence.
My dad tried to convince me to stay and eat dinner with them after he ushered my grandmother out of the house. But I didn’t stay. I really needed to get to work, but I also didn’t feel like sticking around and discussing what the hell just happened with my family and Cat. It’s still something I struggle with—talking about things that are uncomfortable or painful. I tend to swallow pain. Bottle it up. Wrap it up into a nice, neat package, then lock that shit away deep, deep inside me.
I drove straight to Murphy’s, hands on the steering wheel, breathing slow. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just watched my past drag itself back to life like the undead.
***
“Someone had a shit day,” Shane says as soon as I walk into Murphy’s and meet him in the office behind the bar. “And that someone’s you, judging by that look on your face.”
I shrug off my jacket. “It actually started out pretty good, but then it kind of took a turn.” I dig my wallet and keys out of my jeans and shove them into the jacket pockets.
“What happened?” he asks, blue eyes narrowed as if he can penetrate my mind. Not that he needs to. He picks up on everything: tone, posture, breathing. We’ve known each other too long for me to fake it around him.
After losing his brother and watching what my mom did to me, Shane doesn’t just read people, he scans them. Especially me. It’s both comforting and claustrophobic. He’s an amazing friend, but he can be overbearing. I have to remind him to stay in his lane when he gets preachy or tries to get me to open up about shit I’m not in a place to talk about.
“My grandmother decided to pay me a visit,” I say simply, but Shane only looks at me confused. “My mom’s mom.”
