Page 13 of Take Me Now

My mother and I tried to be close, and we were in some ways. But maintaining our relationship meant certain topics were off-limits. It was as if a force field that neither one of us dared to cross surrounded those topics. On occasion, we stumbled through those force fields by accident.

When my mother sat down across from me, I wasn’t thinking when I asked, “Are you okay?”

Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. She traced her thumb in a circle around her coffee cup. “Your stepfather died two years ago today. I miss him.”

My heartbeat picked up its pace, and not in a good way. It was this unsteady, familiar, and frightened beat. I wanted to take my mother by the shoulders and shake her. For the first time since I could remember, my mother had a full two years of her life when she didn’t bear a bruise left by my stepfather. I tried to understand what had happened. I truly did.

Intellectually, I knew why she missed Gerald. I understood that love was complicated and messy and that she had loved the parts of him that weren’t abusive. I also understood that holding that love was a way to help people tolerate an experience of abuse. It hadn’t been safe for her to leave him when he was alive. I knew the statistics. It was perilous for women to try to escape abusive relationships. In fact, during and after an attempt to leave was the most dangerous time in abusive relationships, and more women died.

I could recite all of those facts in my brain, and I could remind myself that I loved the part of my mother that didn’t cling to a memory of my stepfather that didn’t exist. But it still hurt. There was a good reason we tiptoed around this topic.

Before I could think better of it, I asked, “Do you remember my birthday when I was ten?”

My mother stared at me, her nostrils flaring as she took an unsteady breath. I saw the pain in her eyes, laced with guilt and regret. Or so I thought.

“Of course, I do,” she said hoarsely. “Like I’ve told you before, I know everything Gerald did wrong. I know it doesn’t make sense that I miss him. But I do.”

Even though it felt like pounding my fist against a door, locked and bolted shut, the part of me that still wanted to fight the situation persisted just a little bit more. “Mom, I had to call the police that time he pushed you down the stairs. He threw my birthday cupcake at the wall.”

Whenever I spoke that detail aloud, it felt small. Yet, it wasn’t. It was just one of hundreds of times when my step-dad blew up over minor things. It was the weight of fear, the endless tiptoeing around to keep him from spiraling out of control. Simply talking about it exhausted me. That’s what the world didn’t understand about abuse. The big, bad events were never the only things happening. It was the constant drip, drip, drip of control and fear that wore you down and left you emotionally spent.

“You always ask me why I don’t date. Well, I made a promise to myself that day. I would never,never—” My voice came out low and forceful as I blinked back tears. “—have to worry about anything like that ever again.”

My mother took a quick breath, letting it out in a sigh. She swallowed audibly before squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

And I knew she was. I knew she felt bad about all of it. Her guilt had clung to her when he was alive, and we still lived with him. I immediately felt horrible for saying anything. I supposed it was better for her to remember only the good parts of my stepfather. It was just that I couldn’t remember any good parts. The stretches of time with no violence were almost worse because I was always waiting—waiting for him to blow up, waiting for how bad it might be, and wishing he would just go away.

I reached across the table, curling my hand over hers, squeezing it quickly, and releasing it before leaning back in my chair. “I know you are, Mom. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know we can’t change what happened.” That knowledge was concrete and true. Yet a corner of my heart still wished I could change the past. I wished I could will away everything that had gone so very wrong.

She studied me quietly for a moment. “You can say something. I just hope you understand. There are many things about Gerald that I don’t miss, but I still miss him. No one person is all good or bad.”

I blinked, willing myself not to cry as I felt tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

She held my gaze steadily. Sometimes it annoyed me that she had found some peace. I didn’t know if I ever would.

Just when I thought this brief conversation couldn’t get any worse, I happened to glance to my side and discover that Cooper sitting there with Jonah and Wes, both friends of mine, because they were in love with the closest friends I had in town.

I didn’t even know when they sat down there, but I could tell by the look on Cooper’s face he had heard what I’d said about Gerald. One of the best things about coming to Willow Brook was that I felt like I’d found a fresh start. I’d finally closed the door on that ugly part of my life, a part I had no control over. As my mother pointed out, you couldn’t change the past. I knew that as permanently as if it were burned into my skin.

When my mother suggested moving to Alaska to stay with her friend, I jumped at the chance to get us out of that house filled with ghosts and memories. That house I hadn’t been able to leave because I’d wanted to protect my mother. After Gerald died, I wanted to make sure she was okay, so I stayed.

My small apartment here was my very first place alone. I had just turned thirty. I didn’t want people here to know the ugly history of my stepfather. And now, I feared Cooper did.

I smiled tightly and looked away. My mother knew me well. She was also an absolute expert at deftly changing the subject and pretending everything was fine. She had built her entire life around that. Without missing a beat, she shifted gears. “I’m buying that house.”

“You are?” I prompted, injecting brightness into my tone. I could fake it as well as she could.

“Yes, Shelly and I are going halfsies on the deposit.”

“Are you sure—” I began before my mother cut in.

“I’m positive. I made plenty of money when I sold our house in San Francisco. I’ve known Shelly forever. I can never thank her enough for what she did for me here. I like having a roommate. I don’t really want to live alone. I think I’m too old for that at this point.”

I took a swallow of my coffee, savoring the bitterness and the jolt of caffeine. “Well then, I think it’s great. Let me know what I can do to help.”

“It’s a three bedroom, so if you wanted to stay…” My mother’s words trailed off when I shook my head.

“Mom, I have my own place for the first time, and I love it.”

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