Chapter Sixteen
Marama
I serve up the meatballs and pasta, and by the time we’ve brought it to the table with a fresh green salad, the garlic bread is ready. Spencer pours me a glass of red wine and himself a Sprite, sits at the head of the table while I sit to his left, and we tuck into the meal.
The panic and fury I felt when Connor arrived is finally dissipating.
His arrival made me feel mixed up and uneasy.
They don’t tell you that when you break up with someone, you don’t stop having feelings for them.
It’s been over a year since I’ve seen him, but I still felt that tug in my solar plexus, that warmth you get when you’re attracted to someone.
But it was quickly overwritten by his casual disregard of the pregnancy, and then of course his final admission that he came to see if I’d get him a job.
Fucking cheek.
I’m so relieved Spencer turned up when he did. I don’t think Connor would have pushed it further… but who knows what a man might do when he’s desperate?
I bite into a piece of garlic bread, my gaze straying to the silver-haired man sitting beside me. He’s normally so well turned out, but right now his hair is mussed, his shirt buttons are undone, and he looks relaxed and extremely sexy.
I think about the way he pushed Connor, then pinned him against the wall as if he weighed nothing, and a sizzle starts at the base of my spine and runs up my back.
He’s so commanding. His utter contempt for Connor was evident in his disdainful look that I know must have made Connor feel an inch high.
“Did Connor hurt your feelings?” I ask, scooping up a forkful of the pasta.
Spencer’s eyebrows rise. “No, why?”
“He said ‘Didn’t realize you were dating grandads now.’”
His lips twist. “Well, I am a grandad, so technically he was right.”
“Oh yeah.”
He pushes a meatball around the plate, then looks up at me. “It’s another reason we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Because of your grandson?”
“No. Because you’re going to want children, and I’ve had my family.”
I shrug. “I’m not even sure I want kids anymore.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Not every woman wants children. I wasn’t trying to get pregnant before, with Connor—it was an accident. I’m nearly thirty, and I’m only just breaking out in my career. I don’t want to bring it screeching to a halt now.”
“You can paint while you have kids,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I do… but you need to think carefully about it. Children are a wonderful gift, and you’d make an amazing mother.”
The compliment surprises me. “I don’t think so,” I say with a laugh. “I’m not exactly the maternal type.”
“Of course you are. You’re warm, loving, and affectionate. What’s that, if not maternal?”
I suppose he’s comparing me to Eleanor. Helen has mentioned before that she wasn’t the cuddly sort of mother. Both she and Orson have commented in the past that Spencer was a distant father, always working, and super strict at home.
“Do you regret not spending more time with your kids now?” I ask, crunching into some lettuce.
He gives me an amused look. “You really don’t have a filter, do you?”
I shrug. “I’m not judgmental, only curious. If you don’t want to answer, that’s okay.”
He leans back. “I don’t mind talking about it. Regret is a pointless emotion. I can’t turn back the clock, even if I wanted to. And I’m not sure I would. Work has always been my focus.”
“Because of your upbringing?”
“I think so. No doubt my kids think they would have benefited from having spent more time with me, but I’m not sure that’s the case.”
“What do you mean?”
It’s his turn to shrug. “I don’t know that I have it in me to be that sort of father.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You’re not the ogre you portray yourself as.”
“I know what people think of me.”
“Yes, because you’ve carefully cultivated that image. I don’t believe you’re like that beneath the facade, though. I think it’s something you’ve created to protect yourself. To stop yourself from being hurt.”
He has a mouthful of Sprite. “You’re very direct.”
“Do you mean rude?”
He laughs and leans forward to continue his meal. “No. Nosy, maybe.”
“I’ll take that.” I have a mouthful of pasta. “Tell me about your birth parents.”
Immediately, the shutters come down. “Why do you want to know about them?”
“Because they’re part of you, and I want to know everything about you. Don’t scowl at me. Are you very like your birth father?”
“In looks, maybe a little. In every other way, definitely not.”
He means he’s determined not to be. He’s modeled himself on his foster father and forged the rest of his personality to be as unlike his birth father as possible.
“Were your parents Catholic?”
“I’m guessing the six kids gave that away.”
“It was kind of a hint. Are you religious?”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Can you remember much about your childhood?”
“Yes.”
I spear a meatball with my fork and wait.
He glares at me. Then he gives another sigh, and the tension leaves his body.
“Every positive memory I have of being a kid is connected to being away from my parents. Sports days at school, going to camp, staying over at friends’ houses.
Life at home was hard. My mother was miserable literally all the time, physically and mentally exhausted from having so many children underfoot, and having no money to feed, clothe, or entertain them.
I don’t remember her ever having a kind word for me.
” He stabs a meatball with his fork. “And my father was permanently drunk.” His expression is as hard as granite.
He glances at me, then lowers his gaze. There’s something he’s not telling me.
Understanding dawns. “Is that why you don’t drink alcohol? Because you’re worried about being an alcoholic?” When he doesn’t answer, I know I’m right. “So you’ve never had a drink?”
“Nope.” He’s obviously terrified of turning into his father.
I feel a prickle of insight. There’s something he’s not telling me. “Do you have a temper?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Not now.”
“So you did?”
His spine is rigid, his face expressionless. He’s resenting the hell out of this conversation. Equally, though, he hasn’t changed the subject.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
He’s quiet for a while, long enough that I start to think he’s not going to reply. Then, eventually, he says, his voice low, “There was an incident one night.”
I make sure to stay calm and relaxed. “Oh?”
“I came home late from a rugby game. He was yelling, throwing things. I knew what that meant.”
“He was going to be violent?”
He nods. “I went straight up to my room. My siblings were all awake, cowering in their beds. I was terrified, but worried about my mother. I went back down to the kitchen. I could hear a horrible sound as I got close. It sounded as if he was smacking a piece of meat.”
I press a hand to my mouth. “Oh no…”
“I peered around the door. He was punching her. There was blood everywhere. I didn’t know what to do.
I was about to run and get help… and then he turned around.
” He speaks faster now, as if the padlock has been undone and the words are spilling out.
“The knife block sat on the table, and I took out the biggest knife.”
My heart bangs so loudly I’m surprised he can’t hear it. What is he going to admit to me?
But he just sighs and leans on the table. “I couldn’t do it. I froze, and he lunged for me and knocked it out of my hand. And then he beat the hell out of me for it. Told me if I ever looked at him like that again, he’d kill me. And I believed him.”
“Oh, Spencer…”
“Both Mum and I ended up in hospital. Shortly after that the authorities took us kids away.”
“How awful for you.”
He finally lifts his gaze to mine and gives a rueful smile. “I’ve never told anyone what I did. Not even Eleanor. I’ve spent my whole life trying to forget that moment. Not because I failed —but because I wanted to do it. I wanted him dead.” His hands clench into fists.
I understand now. His urge to hurt his father was so strong that it frightened him. He thought it meant he’d inherited his father’s anger. And he’s spent his life attempting to contain it. Refusing to drink alcohol. No wonder the guy has such a thing about being in control.
He brushes his hand across his face. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he says roughly.
“No, I’m so glad you did.”
“You’ll think less of me.”
I lean forward and put a hand on his. “Of course I won’t. Your father was threatening your mother. And your siblings were terrified. You knew he could easily have turned his rage on them. So you tried to stop him. It was perfectly understandable. Commendable, even. It was extremely brave.”
He frowns and blinks at me. “All these years I’ve been convinced that if I told anyone, they’d be horrified, maybe even call the police. How can you be so forgiving?”
Calmly, I sip my wine. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but a few years ago I worked for a publishing house. I used to do illustrations for government pamphlets. One I did was for a report on child abuse statistics in New Zealand. You know what the OECD is?”
“The Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development.”
“Yes. It’s a global policy forum, and it works with over a hundred countries.
They say it works to build better policies for better lives.
Amongst these countries, New Zealand has the highest rate of teen suicide, the sixth highest teen pregnancy rate, and the seventh highest rate of child homicide.
In this country, a child dies every five weeks due to family violence.
And we’re thirty-fifth out of forty-one developed countries for child wellbeing outcomes. ”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s shocking, and depressing. I’m not diminishing what you went through, just trying to say you’re not alone. Childhood violence, abuse, and neglect are going to have a profound effect on you as an adult. I have no doubt that you suffer from CPTSD.”