Chapter 20 #2
Some resolve comes back, for Trip’s sake, not mine.
I’ve just got to get him to hear whatever explanation I can cobble together.
But I don’t get the chance. Before I can open my mouth to speak, from above us a scream sounds, then it’s repeated again and again, followed by a rhythmic banging noise, the explanation for which overrides everything.
Pulling myself out of the chair, using hitherto unknown strength to shove Short out of my way, I turn my back on the man who’s just eviscerated me as painfully as if he’d driven a knife through my heart.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I throw open the door to Trip’s room.
As I suspected, Trip’s screaming and rocking so hard that every time he comes forward, he knocks his head hard on the floor.
His face is already looking red and bleeding.
I may be his biological mom, but I’ve never been allowed to act like one.
Here, in Short’s house, where some of the truth has surfaced for the first time, I’ve no one to stop me.
And no one to send me away while they attempt to calm Trip down.
Every mother’s instinct within me suddenly roars to the fore, my one desire to stop him from hurting himself further.
And maybe, for the first time, to show a mother’s love that I’ve always been punished for showing before.
I race for Trip, instinctively putting my arms around him, pulling him close for comfort and to stop him from hurting himself.
But this is Trip. This is not a normal child.
With a roar, he tries to get loose, finding inhuman strength in his panic, throwing me off him, where I land hard on the floor.
Then his fists start flailing against me.
Unsure what to do, knowing I can’t hurt him, I don’t fight back.
Instead, I take all the blows. My only hope is he’ll wear himself out, and at least, while using me as a punching bag, he won’t be so likely to cause himself harm.
“What the fuck?” Short barges in and roars.
He does the worst thing possible, wrapping both of his strong arms around Trip and pulling him off me, then continuing to hold him tight.
Unlike me, with his bulk and muscles, my son’s easy for him to restrain.
While Trip keeps fighting and struggling to get free, Short ignores him and focuses his continued anger on me.
As a concession to Trip, he evens out his voice. If I wasn’t looking at his face, I’d have missed the pinched cheeks and the look of derision in his eyes. “So, this is how you got those black eyes, bruises, and that cut. It was your son, not your father. You’re just a lying cunt.”
Even his lowered voice does nothing to calm Trip down, probably as he’s unable to miss the tension in the man who’s holding him. Unable to get free, he starts screaming again.
Trip’s my child, birthed from my loins, and for the first time since he was born, I’m in a position where I can stand up for him. Swallowing my fear of the man more than twice my size, I get to my feet and crawl toward Short.
“Put him down,” I hiss. “And speak quietly. He’s triggered by sounds. And…” Pain fuels the grimace that appears on my face, knowing my initial instinctive reaction only made matters worse. “He doesn’t like human touch.”
“Woman, you’re crazy if you think I’ll let him go before he calms down.” Short swears, but it’s mouthed, and the vocalisation is kept under his breath. “And if you can’t constrain him, what the fuck did you do when he had a tantrum back in your house?”
“It’s a meltdown, not a tantrum,” I correct sharply.
“He’s involuntarily reacting to stimuli that trigger him.
He’s not playing up. He can’t help himself.
And what did I do?” I’m so furious my face glows red, but I keep my voice controlled.
In a soothing, almost sing-song tone, totally at odds with the situation, I fill in some gaps in his knowledge.
“I wasn’t allowed to have anything to do with him.
My mom and dad? They’d lock him in a closet until he’d calmed down.
” A snort comes from my mouth, part derision, part sorrow.
“They at least had it padded, especially so he couldn’t hurt himself.
” And then I give Short the clue to another secret. “Trip doesn’t know I’m his mom.”
Short draws in a breath. “That you didn’t take responsibility for him is not an excuse. And if you objected to the way he was being treated, well, that’s on you. You’re a fuckin’ bitch.”
I wish I could see the humour in such scathing words being spoken in such a gentle tone. But though his manner of speaking might be soft, the fire blazing from his eyes is anything but.
Instinctively, having realised he can’t just let Trip go, Short starts rocking him, his arms still tight around him.
To my surprise, Trip’s frantic efforts to get free start to slow.
Noticing the same thing, Short lifts him, moves to the bed, sits down with him, and continues swaying to and fro, while I just look on in astonishment.
Open-mouthed, as I continue to watch, I have to admire Short’s patience.
He just keeps moving back and forth, side to side, repeating his actions.
And, gradually, it works. Trip seems to relax in his arms, tension visibly leaving his body as his wide-open eyes start to shutter.
Short keeps up his motion, as if he’s a natural, intuitively understanding he can’t stop too soon.
But after a few more minutes pass, Trip’s a dead weight.
It’s only then that, gently, he lets my precious boy go, laying him on the bed and pulling the covers over him.
My body trembling with the relief that floods through me, I approach and start to lean over, wanting to place a kiss on my now-sleeping son’s forehead.
But Short’s sudden hold on my arm stops me.
He drags me away, pushes me through the door, which I notice he leaves open, not closed, then directs me down the stairs.
Once there, he pushes me onto the sofa, then takes out his phone.
“Please, don’t call Dad. Please, Short,” I plead with him, getting to my feet, only to be shoved back and held down, so I can’t get back up again. I don’t struggle. I’d have no more chance fighting him than Trip.
“Pippa there?” The relief makes me dizzy as I realise I’ve got a reprieve. He’s not rung my dad. Not understanding why he’s calling Saint’s woman, I watch while he waits for an answer. Then, shamelessly, listen to his side of the conversation.
“Going to need someone to keep an eye on the kid… Why Pippa? Well, she’s pregnant, isn’t she? Must have some kind of maternal instinct. Isn’t that natural?” He glares at me as he’s speaking. “Would be fuckin’ grateful if you come here too. I’ve a situation I’ve fuck all idea how to deal with.”
His face glows as he listens to what’s being said on the other end of the phone, and the next sentence he articulates carefully, his words measured and slow.
“No, I don’t fuckin’ want you here as babysitters to let me get my dick wet…
What the fuck are you talking about?... No, I haven’t hurt Bron.
Wouldn’t put my dick anywhere near this bitch if my life depended on it…
Yeah, I’m talking about sweet, innocent Bronwyn.
She’s a total shitshow… Yeah, appreciate it, Brother.
” Stabbing at the off key, I guess he misses the time when you could actually slam down the phone.
Wide-eyed, I just stare at him, knowing everything’s just got a hundred times more complicated now that he’s called in backup.
Pippa, I don’t mind. But Saint? While his woman has tamed him on the surface, underneath, he’s still the man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone who’d wronged him, without blinking an eye.
Why the hell did I run to this man who thinks he knows everything, when all he’s done is leap to conclusions without hearing the facts? Who hasn’t given me a chance to explain? Who’s made up his own narrative without listening to mine.
Eight years of having the fear driven into me of what could happen if anyone else ever learned the truth about Trip, and how he was conceived, make me tongue-tied and reticent even now. His reaction to only half of my story has stunned me. What’s he going to do when he hears the whole thing?
I thought Short understood me. I thought he offered to help me as a friend. Yet what friend jumps to conclusions? What have I ever done to make him assume the worst?
I’d admired Short. I’d liked him, and even, against the odds, was starting to hope that however much of a challenge it would be, eventually, we might be more.
I hate him now. Instead of helping me, he’s going to destroy me. He’s hurt me so badly I can’t see how I’ll recover. If it were just me, I wouldn’t care. But it’s Trip who I need to keep fighting for.
I’ve got to get him to listen to the truth about my son and the reason he can’t return to my family.
If Short wants to blame and despise me after knowing the facts, then so be it.
While he’s sunk to the bottom of the list of people I trust, and to be honest, there was ever only him on it, his behaviour with Trip during the meltdown suggested there’s just a chance he might prove more sympathetic toward my son. If he ever listens to me.
Having ended his phone call, Short has turned his back.
I wonder how much time I’ve got before Saint and Pippa turn up.
Sinking my head into my hands, I predict their reaction when Short tells them his version of what kind of person I am.
And if they believe him, then it will be three against one. What chance have I got?
Only one. To give him enough information to bring him over to my side.
It probably helps that he’s not looking at me, as I at last open my mouth to voice the secrets I’ve kept locked inside for the past eight years, and even longer.
Knowing I have to start at the beginning, I try to keep my tone steady and calm.
But all the blows, all the beatings, I took to drum the need for secrecy into me, make me sound weaker than I want, as I start my admission.
“My dad started abusing me when I was younger than Trip.” No reaction, no stiffening, no sign he’s heard.
Tremulously, I continue, “At first it was visits to my bed. He’d touch me, tell me I was his special girl.
Then, one night, he raped me, and it fucking hurt.
” I wait for the thunder and lightning to start, something to punish me for uttering those words, but there’s nothing.
“He left me bleeding, sore, and aching. Mom saw the blood, but just brushed it off, explaining about women and periods. I was eight, Short. Eight years old. He came back the next night. I screamed, so, he drugged me. I didn’t know it at the time, but that special hot chocolate he brought me?
I know now it contained Rohypnol. He’d given a date/rape drug to me.
Then, all I knew was that when I woke up in the morning, I was bleeding again.
After a while, the bleeding stopped, but the hot chocolate kept coming, and so did the soreness.
Eventually, he began weaning me off the drug and started putting his filthy dick into me while I was fully awake.
I tried to tell Mom, but she would smack me for making up lies.
But she knew. I think she lost her libido, and would rather he forced me than her. ”
There’s a slight reaction. Short shudders, but he doesn’t turn to face me.
It’s easier talking to his back, so I carry on.
“I had no one to talk to. I was homeschooled, so there were no teachers or people in authority who I could tell what was going on to. And even if there were, how could I have told them? I was Daddy’s favourite, beautiful girl.
Much as I hated him grunting on top of me, the picture my parents had painted made the alternative sound far worse.
They said everyone would think I was lying, and I’d be sent away to a home for naughty girls.
” A sob bursts from my mouth. “Nothing I could do would stop him. I was so young and powerless. So, I endured it. Six years it went on, until I got pregnant. I was fourteen.”
“Fuck!” he shouts.
His voice is too loud. “Shush,” I softly plead. “Don’t wake Trip. And no, don’t turn around,” I say fast, as I see Short start to move. “I can’t get this out while you're looking at me.” Judging me, I admit in my head.
“We had no family who’d come visiting, and neither Mom nor Dad had anything other than casual friends.
Mom left to stay with my aunt when I was about six months gone.
Dad delivered Trip, and Mom came home…” While I’d managed to keep a tight hold on my emotions up to now, sobs start to rack my body.
“They’d set it all up. If anyone had ever asked, Trip was her miracle baby. ”