Friday, March 17th #2
“Have you talked to your therapist about your dreams and stuff?” Miranda asks, echoing Shane’s words. They really do think Doctor Seivert is some kind of miracle-guru-Ronan-Soult-psyche-whisperer.
“Yep,” I say matter-of-factly.
“And what about that you’re scared of doing the same to your family as your mother did to you?”
“That, too,” I say. “But it’s different than talking with her about shit that has happened to me in the past, because that is what it is.
But the future… I just can’t convince myself that it’s going to be okay.
I have no reference point, no proof that…
” My breath stutters as I inhale. “I can’t risk hurting her, or… ” Nope, I won’t say it.
Her next words catch me so off guard, I’d stumble if I wasn’t sitting on my bed. “Maybe you should try to find your uncle.”
I blink. That thought has never even crossed my mind. “Why would I do that?”
“To see if he was able to change things. I mean, you’re so afraid of doing what you think is, like, ingrained in your DNA. You literally broke up with the love of your life over this,” she says like it’s the most absurd thing she could ever fathom. “Maybe finding him could be helpful.”
I don’t reject her idea outright, but there’s one problem. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
“I’m sure that can be found out pretty easily, don’t you think?”
I shrug with the phone to my ear. “I have no idea. And, okay, let’s say he is alive.
He obviously doesn’t want to be found. I mean, his own mother hasn’t heard from him in over twenty years.
” Not to mention that Rashana was able to dig up some deeply buried shit but was unable to find even scraps of information about my uncle after he turned eighteen.
“But did she try to find him?”
Again, I find myself unable to answer her question. “I don’t actually know.”
“It might be worth a shot, Rony.”
“But Randi, I wouldn’t even know where to start. How do you find someone who’s been missing for two decades?”
“Uh, doesn’t your dad work like, really fancy intelligence in the Air Force?” she asks me like I’ve temporarily lost all my brain cells.
“Oh.” I didn’t think of my dad as a person to ask for help. Does that make me a shitty son? I don’t stop to examine that question now. I have enough shit to feel bad about.
“Yeah, so maybe start there,” Miranda says. “I’m sure he has access to stuff that us normal folk don’t have access to, right?”
“Probably.”
Faint whinnying comes through the phone. I close my eyes, pretending for a moment that I’m on the ranch with her. I can almost smell the mountains.
“So, are you going to do it?” she asks giddily.
The mountains dissipate when I open my eyes to the four walls of my small bedroom. “I don’t know. I… I’m kind of scared.”
“Of finding out that maybe he’s alive and wasn’t able to break the cycle of abuse?”
She’s hitting the nail on the head.
“Yeah.”
“That’s definitely a possibility. But if you think about it, it’s a no-lose situation for you.”
“How?”
“Well, nothing really changes for you if it turns out he’s dead.
Just like nothing will change for you if it turns out he’s still alive but also an asshole.
As far as you know, the Donahue family consists of a bunch of abusive assholes.
That’s your baseline even before you find out about your uncle, right?
On the other hand, if it turns out he’s alive and a great fucking person, that’s a win for you.
It gives you hope, or whatever. If he’s alive and a dick, then you’ll just be where you are now—status quo so to speak.
Not better, not worse. The way I see it, you honestly have nothing to lose. ”
Well shit, she has a damn point. “Yeah, maybe,” I say, nodding.
“Do it, Rony. Try to find him.”
I shut my eyes tightly and exhale the apprehension settling on my chest. “Okay.” I guess Miranda’s right—I already lost the best thing in my life when I broke up with Cat. I have nothing else to lose, even if it all goes sideways and my uncle is a very-much-alive abuser.
“Great. And I’ll tell you what, if shit turns out, well, like shit, then you can come back to Montana and marry me instead. I’m well aware how fucked up you are, I have my own bullshit to deal with, and I don’t want kids either. So we can just live out the rest of our lives fucking each other.”
A laugh bursts from my lips. “Oh, Jesus, Randi.”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. Wouldn’t want that gorgeous, silky cock of yours to wither away from lack of usage. I only have your best interest at heart.”
“Oh, yeah, obviously. Thanks for looking out for my cock.”
“Anytime, Rony. Remember, I’m a regular Mother Teresa.”
“I almost forgot,” I say, still laughing. “Alright, Randi, I’ll let you go. I’m gonna head to my dad’s and see if he’ll help me.”
***
It’s striking how strange it feels to let myself into my dad’s house. I only moved out a few months ago, but already it doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never did.
Even now, nearly two years after the abuse ended, I still tense whenever I pull up to the curb.
I fully expect my mom’s white Camry to be parked in the driveway, to walk in on her waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to dish out punishment for some minor transgression, like sneezing or saying “hi” incorrectly.
That car, of course, is no longer around.
My dad sold it a long time ago. In fact, there are essentially no traces of my mom left inside the house.
He packed up all her belongings, bought all new furniture—pillows, bedding, and linens included.
He even threw out that damn broom that hung on a hook in the kitchen.
The surveillance the D.A. played at the trial made it obvious that my mom favored that broom as her weapon.
She used it a lot there toward the end, and the day my mom changed her plea to guilty, my dad yanked it off the wall—hook and all—and bent that metal handle with brute force before marching it out to the trash can.
Still, old habits die hard. I enter the house making virtually no sound.
I hang up my jacket, then take off my shoes and quietly deposit them in the shoe closet, finding a spot between my dad’s running shoes and Penny’s black pumps.
I walk down the hallway, careful to avoid the spots where the floorboards creak, then turn right into the living room.
My dad’s sitting back on the sofa, working on his laptop. He’s not alone; resting against my dad’s solid chest is one of my baby half brothers—Dean, if I had to guess, but I’m still not great at telling the twins apart.
Like the career soldier he is, my dad catches my movement out of his periphery and turns his head in my direction. “Ran?”
“Hey, Dad.”
He narrows his eyes at me, gaze sweeping over me as if to assess my well-being as I sit on the loveseat.
“Not that I don’t love the surprise visit, but I’d be lying if I said I was expecting to see you today, bud. Are you alright?” His voice is a low, soothing hum. I know it’s for the benefit of my sleeping brother, but I can’t say it doesn’t have a calming effect on me, too.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, then nod at the baby. I figure a little small talk is a good idea before I ask my dad to take advantage of his security clearance and deep dive into my mom’s family history. “Is it nap time?”
He expels a breathy laugh. “You could say that. Dean really only sleeps well when he’s being held, which means Penny doesn’t get great sleep at night.
She’s upstairs right now resting with Kellan while I’m on Dean duty.
He conks right out when I have him on my chest. I get a pretty solid couple of hours of work done this way. ”
I cock an eyebrow. “And Kellan doesn’t want to be held the whole time?”
“Not when he’s sleeping. Kellan’s a solid sleeper. Dean not so much. But when the boys are awake, it’s the complete opposite. Then Kellan wants to be held all the time while Dean wants to do his own thing.”
I nod, contemplating how different Kellan and Dean are, despite them being twins.
“How much longer are you on leave?” My dad took advantage of the twelve-week paid paternity leave offered by the Air Force, which I imagine is coming in handy with the twins, one of whom is apparently a terrible sleeper.
He moves his laptop onto the sofa cushion.
“I go back the week after the wedding.” His eyes narrow analytically again.
“Alright, Ran, you haven’t stopped by in weeks now.
You haven’t responded to my texts. I literally had to hunt you down at Murphy’s a few evenings ago to assure myself you’re still breathing.
There’s a reason you’re here, and that reason is not to ask me about my leave. Feel like spitting it out?”
If only he had been this discerning when my mother was still beating the shit out of me. I brace myself and exhale deeply. “Well, I kind of need your help with something.”
“Okay?” He stands, carefully moves to a motorized baby swing, and successfully transfers Dean into it without waking him. Then he retakes his seat on the sofa across from me and gives me his undivided attention, his brows raised.
“I think I want to try to find Mom’s brother.”
His eyes flare while his eyebrows knit. “Wow, Ran, that’s… why?”
“Because I need to know if it’s possible for me to break the cycle of abuse, Dad.”
It’s the most basic explanation, the most watered-down response. I practiced it on the car ride over here. Of course, it’s way more nuanced than that, but hey, baby steps.
His features soften. “Of course it is, Ran. And you will,” he says like he doesn’t harbor a single doubt.
I knew he wouldn’t fucking get it. I mean, how could he?
He’s never had to live in my damn head, never had to breathe with my lungs, hasn’t had to wake from those dreams, hasn’t ever had to wonder whether he’d snap one day and hurt the people he cares most about.