Ronan
I spend the rest of the afternoon helping Thomas fix up the barn roof while my grandfather and Elias are out sectioning off the pastures to allow the soil to recover. It’s long after sunset by the time I make it back to the house. My muscles ache from the strenuous work, but it’s the kind of ache I relish, the kind you only get from working hard. It’s the kind of work that lets you shut off your mind completely, the kind that ensures a solid night’s sleep because of the sheer exhaustion.
“Shoes off, wash hands, come eat,” my grandmother calls to me when I step in the house.
I do as she says, then join her, the rest of my family, and Thomas and Elias at the dinner table. “Have you seen Randi?” I ask my grandmother as she passes me the plate with the steaks. I immediately pass it on to Colin, who eagerly stabs a piece with his fork.
“She hasn’t come down yet.”
“I should go check on her,” I say and push my chair back.
My grandmother’s hand on my arm stops me. “I already did. She’s still fast asleep. I also put a glass of water and some aspirin on her nightstand for when she wakes up, along with a change of clothes.”
“So, what happened?” my aunt Erin asks. “Why is Miranda here?”
“Ran picked her up in town. She was passed out when he carried her into the house,” my grandmother says. I can tell she’s trying hard to keep her voice neutral.
My grandmother is one of the kindest people I know, and she will go above and beyond for people, but that doesn’t mean she does it without judgment. Randi has always had it hard with my grandma, who’s a hard-working, god-fearing, rather traditional person. She never understood how Randi could be so rebellious with a father who’s a pastor. My grandma was never a fan of my relationship with Randi, partly because I was so young and Randi so much older than me.
“Is she okay?” Erin asks, her eyes locked on me.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “She said her father kicked her out a couple of nights ago, but she didn’t go into detail.”
My grandma scoffs. “Probably because she couldn’t talk properly.”
“I heard that John found Father Jackson in a similar state outside of Wiley’s liquor store about a week ago,” Martin says.
My grandmother drops her utensils, her fork and knife clinking against the nice china of her dinner plate. “What?”
“Oh, yeah,” Martin says, his mouth full. He swallows. “I guess it’s been a more regular occurrence lately.”
“But I thought he had been sober?” my grandmother asks, slightly embarrassed.
“He was,” Martin says. “It’s not uncommon to relapse, Saoirse.”
Erin nods. “I heard Miranda has been collecting her dad pretty regularly at Sterling’s and even told Wiley not to sell him any more liquor. Didn’t go over too well, I guess. Wiley said they had a blow-up, drag-out fight right in the store a couple of days ago to the point where Wiley threatened to call Sheriff Graves because Father Jackson was so belligerent to Miranda.”
“Oh, dear, I had no idea,” my grandmother says, mortified at her earlier disdain for Miranda.
“You’ve always been too harsh on Randi,” Erin says, and takes another bite of her green beans.
“Only because she corrupted Ran,” my grandmother says.
I chuckle. “She didn’t corrupt me, Morai. It was all very mutual, trust me.”
“You were fourteen when Sheriff Graves caught you two drinking, remember? And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking away after church on Sundays to do god-knows-what with Miranda,” she says with a scandalized look. “I honestly don’t even want to imagine what you two were up to.”
Erin laughs lightly. “Probably just normal teenage stuff, Mom.”
“I didn’t do ‘normal teenage stuff’ when I was fourteen.” My grandmother picks up her utensils to continue eating her dinner.
Erin laughs out loud. “Oh really, Mom? May I remind you that you had me when you were fifteen? At least Ran has made it all this time without knocking anyone up, so you have to give him some credit. Regardless of what he and Randi were up to, they managed not to get themselves killed or her pregnant.”
“That was different,” my grandmother says. “Perry and I were married, and we moved across the globe to start a life together.”
“But darling, that was in response to us doing normal teenage stuff, remember?” my grandfather finally chimes in. “You should ease up on Miranda.”
“I’m trying,” she says. “But I still think she should stay in one of the guest cabins. Gives her more privacy.” She throws me a sidelong glance that clearly conveys that she doesn’t want to move Miranda for privacy reasons only. She’s probably worried Miranda will “corrupt” me some more. “And if she stays here, she has to earn her keep. She can help around here.” My grandmother gets up from the table and marches resolutely into the kitchen.
I follow her a couple of minutes later, placing my plate carefully into the kitchen sink.
“How is Cat?” my grandmother casually asks as I turn to leave the kitchen and go up to my room.
“Fine, I hope,” I say. “I won’t know until Sunday.” That’s if she actually picks up my call.
“I like her a lot. I’ve liked her from the moment I met her,” my grandmother says, smiling while she dries her hands on the dish towel. “You know, she was sitting at your hospital bed, her head resting on your mattress next to your arm and she was holding your hand. And even though I could tell she didn’t want to leave your side, she offered me her seat so I could sit with you for a little while. The way she looked at you…”
I’m not sure why she’s telling me these things.
“She’s such a lovely girl. I can tell she really, really cares about you,” my grandmother says.
“Yes, she is lovely. And beautiful, and smart, and perfect in every way imaginable. I care about her just as much, Morai,” I say, and my heart aches in my chest like it does every time someone brings up Cat or she crosses my mind. “I can’t even put into words how much I miss her.”
My grandmother studies my face a moment longer, then smiles at me. “Get some sleep, baby boy,” she says simply, and turns to the sink to fill it up with warm water.
Upstairs, I take a brief shower before climbing into bed and falling asleep the second my head hits the pillow.
***
“Rony? !”
I jerk awake to Miranda’s voice pulling me out of yet another one of my nightmares. I sit up, feeling the night air cool my clammy chest while my heart beats furiously against my ribs.
“Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep,” she says, sitting next to me on my bed.
I concentrate on slowing my anguished breathing. “Yeah, I just had a nightmare. I have those a lot,” I say in a monotone voice and look at her. She’s still fully dressed. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I just barfed into the toilet, so I feel a lot better,” she says, hitches both her legs onto my mattress, and leans back against the headboard before pulling my blanket over herself. “So, when you have these nightmares, do you always beg your mom to stop hurting you or was that just tonight?” She purses her lips while she analyzes my face.
“I have no idea. No one has ever told me what I say or do when I have these dreams. They usually just wake me up.”
“Okay, well, it sounded pretty awful. You were pleading for your life. What do you dream?”
I frown at her. “You’re always so damn forward, Randi.”
She grins. “And you’ve always loved me for it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Just tell me what you were dreaming,” she says. Clearly this isn’t up for negotiation.
“I dream the same shit every time; it’s always about the last time… the last time my mother beat me.” I scoot back to lean against my headboard like Miranda.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
"Do I look like I want to talk about it?"
“Not really, but I think you should.”
“Do you now.”
“I do. Do you talk to your feline about what your mother did to you?” she asks, smirking.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about it. With anyone. Ever.”
“You have to, Rony, otherwise it’ll slowly erode your insides. It will eat away at you like acid. It just… festers.”
I frown. “You sound like my therapist.”
“You have a therapist?”
“Yep. Fun, right? Comes with the trauma survivor starter kit.”
She chuckles wryly. “Nice, how do I get one of those?”
I shrug. “Not sure. I guess seventeen years of abuse culminating in twenty-six broken bones, a ruptured spleen, and a week in a coma will get you that. Maybe.”
“Sheesh, what the hell was your mom so pissed off about?”
“My existence, probably. Who the fuck knows anymore. I could never figure it out,” I say with another shrug.
“See, you’re talking about it. Sort of. You should open up more about it. It helps.”
“Do you talk about the shit your dad does to you?” I challenge.
She gives me a one-shouldered shrug. “Sometimes.”
“And how does that feel?”
“It sucks in the moment, but afterwards I always feel a little bit lighter.”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “What happened two nights ago?”
Now she frowns at me. “Always so damn forward, Rony.”
“Just answer my question.”
Her eyes briefly graze over my bare chest before she refocuses. “I already told you: my dad kicked me out.”
"Why?"
“Because I told him to stop drinking and that he needs to go to rehab. This was after Wiley called me to let me know that my dad was trying to buy booze, and I tracked him down and tried to take him home with me. Can you believe he drove to the store? He was already wasted. God damn it,” she sighs.
“Did he get physical with you?”
She shakes her head. “Nah, he’s never been the physical type, but he sure has a way with words. He just started telling me what a shitty daughter I was, what a disappointment, that I’m nothing like my momma who was an angel, and blah blah blah,” she says, keeping her voice strong.
I know Miranda well enough to see right through her fa?ade. Her dad has always been an emotionally abusive asshole, and a huge part of why Miranda is the way she is—brick wall exterior and all—is because of him.
“And then he told me to get out of his house, that I was no longer welcome there,” she says. “Rony, could you please put on a shirt?” she says out of the blue. “I’m trying to be respectful of your relationship with your feline.”
“Jesus, Randi. You came into my room, remember?” I climb out of bed to put on the first shirt within reach.
“Yeah, I remember. I saved you from your nightmare. I told you I’m going to save you from yourself, Rony,” she says smugly. “I didn’t think you were half-naked though, and you’re nice to look at. It’s distracting.”
“Okay, let’s talk about your dad some more, shall we?” I say, desperate to turn the subject toward something a little less sexually charged. I take a seat at the foot of my bed.
“No, thanks. Let’s talk about your bitch of a mother instead.”
I shake my head. “Actually, I think it’s time for you to go back to your own room.”
“Alright, but if you get lonely, you know where to find me,” she says as she shimmies out from under my blanket and saunters out of my bedroom giggling.
“You know, my grandma thinks you’re corrupting me,” I call after her.
I hear her laughing as she walks down the hallway back to her bedroom. “You are stubbornly uncorruptible,” she calls back, then closes her door.
Typical Miranda—always putting on a front when things get heavy. I recognize it from myself, except that Miranda’s front is promiscuous and flirty, whereas mine is acting like I have all my shit together.