Page 15 of Between Never and Forever
There are a thousand things I want to say to my mother in this moment, but I bite my tongue. I swallow every single one of my protests. My throat literally burns with frustration, but Matthew 15:4 starts on a loop in my mind, and it renders me speechless. My defense of Savannah chokes me, and all I can do is jerk out a reluctant nod.
I hate myself for that nod.
Satisfied with my response, my mom smiles then reaches up and cups my cheek.
“You’re a good boy, Levi. Your heart is in the right place, but some people aren’t worth the trouble.”
She pats my face softly, then walks into the kitchen.
All of this is bull.
I look at my dad, but he’s still focused on his plate, eating slowly. None of this aligns with what I was taught in Sunday school, or the things we talk about in youth group.Some people aren’t worth the trouble? How can she even say that? Aren’t we all made in God’s image? Aren’t we all worthy of love and kindness? Yet my father, the pastor of our little church, says nothing. He sits back and eats his dinner like everything is fine, while my mom says hateful, hateful things.
I scowl at him. For the first time ever, I feel angry with him. I feel betrayed.
For the first time ever, I question my parents’ judgment. They’re wrong, and if they won’t help me save Savannah, then tomorrow I’ll go to someone who will.
It’s a little past midnight when my window opens and Sav crawls through it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.
I climb out of bed to get her some pajamas, and when I hand them to her, my stomach sinks. Her face is blank. Her cheek is bruised, and her eye is swollen. She looks haunted. She’s not crying, but my fear spikes.
“Savannah, what’s happened?”
“I hit him with a liquor bottle,” she says flatly. “Gashed his head up pretty bad. Lot of blood.”
My jaw drops. “Is he dead?”
She shrugs. “Don’t think so. He was still standin’ when I ran out.”
“Did he hurt you again?”
She doesn’t answer, so without thinking, I reach out and run my hands over her, searching. I brush her hair out of her face and inspect the fresh bruise on her cheek. I sweep my fingers down her shoulders and arms, feeling a few new scratches that weren’t there earlier. I want to lift her shirt and inspect her stomach, but I stop myself.
“When did this happen?”
“After school.”
“That was hours ago,” I say, panicked. “Where the heck have you been?”
“The park. In the bathroom.”
I don’t ask anything else, even though I want to know everything. What was she doing in the park bathroom for eight hours? Is she scared? Sad? I can’t tell what she’s feeling, and it worries me more than anything. I almost wish she was crying, instead.
I put my clothes in her hands and turn around while she changes. After a few minutes, she taps my shoulder. When I turn back to her, she hands me her shirt.
“Can you throw this away? It has his blood on it.”
My face pales and my eyes go wide, but I nod silently and tiptoe to the kitchen without looking at it. As quietly as I can, I dig to the bottom of the trash can and shove the shirt under balled up paper towels and the food scraps from dinner. Then I scrub my hands with scalding hot water and dish soap in the kitchen sink.
When I get back to my room, Savannah is already curled up in my bed, so I climb in behind her.
“Tomorrow, we can go talk to the someone. The police,” I whisper as I tuck her into my chest. I expect her to agree, but instead, she shakes her head violently.
“No. No, he just needs to cool down. I’ll stay out of the house for a few days. It’ll be fine.”
“Savannah, you bashed him over the head with a liquor bottle. Half your face is swollen. You can’t go back there.”
