Chapter 12
Lily
I n the garden, facing the lake, I brought my paintbrush to the canvas. An instrumental played through my headphones as I attempted concentration. But the gentle music did nothing to decrease the tension. For the first time in my life, I had all this freedom and all this time, and yet I'd never been more uninspired.
The lake wasn't soft and tranquil, but a black hole instead. I should have been happy, but I was so lost. I didn't know who I was anymore. I'd cut ties with my mother because she was still standing by him, and my relationship with my men wasn't all rainbows and happy colors.
The muscles holding my heart up were strained, and I couldn't breathe because I was still fighting against my mother's voice. That's the curse of having parents who should have been there for you but weren't. I read a quote once about how "adult children who blame their lack of success on their parents don't have a right to" or something. The author of the quote didn't respect those types of adult children. To some extent, I agreed. As adults, we're responsible for our own decisions, but who was I to blame for this emptiness inside me, this lack of identity?
I'd spent my whole life trying to be anything other than them and reminding myself that I was more like them every single day. Who was to be blamed for that? I'd sacrificed a lot to take care of my mother for five years, and what had she sacrificed for me? She hadn't stayed with Terry for me and my brother. She'd stayed because she couldn't let go. Who was I to blame for her voice in my head? How could I control it?
Now that she was gone, I should have felt free. Free to focus on the people around me who loved me. But I was still restrained by the guilt that I should have chosen her because she needed me. She was vulnerable. Even with a nurse, she needed someone who understood her, who wouldn't give up on her. But I had.
Absent-mindedly, I brought the brush coated with black paint back and forth across the canvas. I needed to start giving attention to my relationship. My men needed me, and I needed them. Ryan was falling apart in there, and I didn't know what was wrong. I'd left him and Ethan asleep, hoping they could watch out for one another, because my mind was bombarded. My next therapy session was so far away.
My lungs became too large for my chest. I brought shades of gray to the canvas and, like a mad woman, I painted the sky. It wasn't gray in real life, but the clouds in my life were.
Marriage.
What a terrible idea. For now, at least. Ryan wasn't ready to marry anyone.
Hell, I didn't think I was either.
Again, my mother's words were loud and mocking. I had been so excited about the idea. It had brought color to the fog. I guess that was done. If I didn't know who I was and doubted my men because my parents' voices were the most familiar voices in my head, what kind of wife would I be? I couldn't even be there for them when they needed me. This wasn't a fairytale.
This was real life, and I was dead weight in this union.
And what about Ryan? If I was being honest, he was beginning to scare me. If we all got married to each other, would everything change? Ryan's actions could be a precursor for what was to come. As much as I couldn't imagine it, I wondered if Terry was anything like Ryan before he knocked my mother up and got her tied to him forever. Before he married her and knew she couldn't leave him as easily.
I didn't want to see Ryan like that, but how could I not? The others could be better at hiding it.
No, I wouldn't let my mind go there, because if it did, I was in danger. I was helpless against him. Against them. I loved them, and I knew that even if they became Terry Thornbread, I'd probably be Petal Thornbread in return. And that was worse than any nightmare I'd ever had, even after being bashed over the head.
There was still time for us, time Marco and I didn't have because we were both toxic, blind to each other's red flags. But I saw it now, and I could stop it. Giving up on my painting, I pulled out my phone and called that therapist.
"Hey, I know we're not scheduled until next week, but I was wondering if there's any space for men in the Women's Shelter," I asked. "One of my men, I'm afraid he's heading down a rocky path and he needs help."
"Oh, I don't know. It's not that we wouldn't love to help, but we can't risk triggering our temporary residents. How bad is he?" my therapist asked.
I gulped. "I'm starting to become afraid of him."
"Are you in danger? Has he hurt you?" Her tone was steady, not alarming, thank goodness, because the question certainly was.
"No! No. He's not like that. Well, he hasn't been like that. I know who he is deep down," I continued.
"Lily..." She interjected.
"I know what it sounds like, okay? But I've lived around monsters, been with monsters. Ryan isn't one of them. He's just broken," I said.
"And you think you can fix him," she finished.
"No, I don't. But that's why I'm calling you. I'm hoping you can." Desperation lifted my voice.
She sighed. "Have you spoken to him about it?"
"About what?" I asked.
"Getting help?" she clarified.
"Well, he knows he needs help. I'm sure he'll..." I came to his defense.
"I'll tell you what, speak to him about it first. And if he agrees, I'll see about creating a safe environment to accommodate him. I can't help someone who doesn't want help. But if you want my advice, off the clock, as a friend, not a therapist, it sounds like you're making excuses for him, like you've done before. I suggest you walk away before things escalate."