Chapter 45 Jay
On Monday of the third week without seeing Ivan, I wake up from the nightmares again. It's a new one this time, and somehow that makes it worse. The familiar nightmares I've learned to navigate, learned to wake myself from. But this one catches me off guard, drags me under before I can fight back.
I'm fourteen, sitting on the floor of the barn, and the door creaks open slowly. Ivan slips inside, moving so carefully, like every step sends pain shooting through his body. He's twelve, so small for his age, his frame tiny and fragile. His face is pale and tight with barely controlled agony.
"Henderson got me," he whispers. He turns around and lifts his shirt with trembling hands.
The welts are fresh, angry red lines crisscrossing his lower back and the tops of his thighs. Some of them are already purpling into bruises, the edges dark and spreading. One has split the skin completely, a thin line of blood seeping through, trickling down.
Ivan's eyes are wet, shining in the dim light filtering through the barn slats.
I can see him trying desperately not to cry, trying to be brave, and it breaks something in me.
I pull him into my arms and hold him while he shakes, while silent tears finally run down his face.
And I think about Henderson back in the house, probably pouring himself another drink right now, probably feeling satisfied with his night's work.
That's the part that haunts me most, even now.
The way Henderson looked when he was hurting us.
The gleam in his eyes, bright and eager.
The flush on his cheeks, high color like he'd been running.
The way he seemed to stand taller afterward, walk straighter, like beating children gave him something he desperately needed.
Like our pain fed something dark and hungry inside him, something that could never be satisfied for long.
I couldn't protect Ivan. Not enough. Not when it mattered.
I couldn't be with him twenty-four hours a day, couldn't throw myself between him and Henderson's belt every single time.
And every time I failed, every time Ivan came to me with fresh marks on his skin, fresh bruises blooming purple and yellow—it felt like dying.
It felt like failing the only person who mattered.
I wake up with tears streaming down my face and the taste of bile in my throat, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my temples.
I have to be at Mick's in four hours.
I don't go back to sleep.
I know better than to try.
By Friday, I'm running on fumes. Four nights of broken sleep, four nights of that same fucking nightmare on repeat. The exhaustion is making everything harder. My hands shake when I try to hold tools. My vision blurs at random moments.
I push through my shift at Mick's, forcing myself to focus. My hands want to shake, but I grip the wrench tighter. I will not screw this up. I will not let Mick down.
But he notices anyway.
"You look like death warmed over," he says, coming up beside me. "When's the last time you slept more than a few hours? And don't lie to me."
"I'm fine, Mick. Just some rough nights. Bad dreams."
"Is your boyfriend still working weekends? Still can't make it down here?"
"Yeah. One more week. Then things will go back to normal."
Mick grunts and crosses his arms. "You eating? You look thinner than you did last week."
"I'm eating," I reply. "Betty makes sure of that." Mostly true. Enough to function.
"And the other thing? The drinking? You staying clean?"
"I haven't touched a drop." That part is completely true, and it feels like the only thing I can be proud of right now. Even though every night feels like a battle.
Mick studies me. "You've got my number if you need it. Day or night. And you've still got that card I gave you, right? For the meetings?"
"I've got it. It's in my wallet."
"Use it if you have to. There are other meetings besides the ones at seven. Don't be too proud to ask for help." He claps me on the shoulder. "You're doing good work here, kid. But you're no good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground first."
I finish my shift without any mistakes that I can see. Small victory.
Afterwards, I walk to Betty's for my evening shift. The late afternoon sun is scorching, beating down on the sidewalk, and I'm sweating through my shirt before I've gone two blocks.
The dinner rush is brutal tonight, a never-ending stream of plates and cups and silverware that seems to multiply faster than I can wash them.
But I'm grateful for it. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet, occupied with simple tasks.
Scrub, rinse, stack. Scrub, rinse, stack.
The rhythm is soothing, mindless. By the time I hang up my apron, I'm exhausted enough that I almost feel normal. Almost human again.
I call Ivan on my walk back to the motel, the phone pressed to my ear, his voice the only thing keeping me tethered.
"Hey," he answers immediately, like he was waiting for the call. "How was your day? You sound tired."
"Long. Busy. The usual." I switch the phone to my other ear, my free hand in my pocket. "How are things on your end? Ready for the big party tomorrow?"
"Rosalyn's been baking all day. The entire house smells like cake and frosting.
" He laughs, and the sound makes me miss him even more.
"Diana changed her mind about the decorations three times today.
First, she wanted butterflies, then she wanted stars, now she wants butterfly-stars, whatever that means.
And Destiny still wants to know if we can have a pinata shaped like a rocket ship. "
"Can you?" I smile despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones.
"Apparently Rosalyn found one online. Some specialty store. It's being delivered tomorrow morning. Crisis averted, disaster prevented."
"Sounds like it's going to be a good day. A really good day for them."
"I wish you could be here," Ivan says. "It doesn't feel right, celebrating without you."
"Those girls need you more than I do right now. Go make it a great birthday for them."
"I know. I miss you so much it hurts though."
"I miss you too," I tell him. "Every single day. Every hour of the day, really."
"How are you really doing, Jay?"
I let out a long sigh. It's hard to hide things from him.
"The nightmares are bad again," I admit, because I have to give him something.
"They're always bad when you're not here, but this week they've been worse than usual.
I keep dreaming about Henderson. About what he did to us.
I wish that bastard would get out of my head. "
"You did everything you could."
"Don't worry, I'm okay. I'm handling it. I need to get through this weekend, and then it's only one more week until you can come visit, right?"
"Right. One more week. Seven long fucking days. If it gets too bad, if you really need me, call me. I don't care if it's the middle of the party. I don't care if it's three in the morning. You call me and I'll answer. My phone is always with me."
"I will."
"Promise me you'll call if you need help."
"I promise."
We say goodnight, and I walk the rest of the way to the motel alone. The room is dark and empty when I let myself in. I lie down on the bed without turning on the lights and close my eyes.
The nightmare finds me within minutes.
It's the barn again, but everything is wrong, distorted.
The walls are too close, pressing in, the ceiling too low and getting lower.
And Henderson is there, standing in the doorway with the belt coiled in his hand like a snake.
His face is flushed dark red, his eyes bright with that terrible excitement I remember so well, that awful eagerness.
"Your turn," he says. "You know you deserve punishment, Jay. You've always deserved this."
I try to run, but my legs won't move. They're frozen, locked in place. I try to scream for help, but no sound comes out. My throat is paralyzed.
Henderson moves closer, and I can see the way his breathing has changed, faster and shallow, excited.
The way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
The way his pupils are dilated, huge and black.
He's enjoying this. He's always enjoyed it.
That's what made it so much worse than just pain—knowing that our suffering gave him pleasure, that he needed it the way other people need food or water or air to breathe.
The belt comes down, and I feel every stripe of fire across my back, white-hot pain that steals my breath. And somewhere in the distance I hear Ivan screaming my name, screaming for me to help him, but I can't move, can't reach him—
I jerk awake, gasping, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, behind my eyes.
I'm alone. I'm safe.
You're not safe. You're never safe.
I don't try to go back to sleep. I know better. I sit in the chair by the window and watch the sun come up, counting the hours until I can go to work and have something to do with my hands, something to occupy my mind.
But there is no work today. It's Saturday. Mick's is closed.
The day stretches out endlessly in front of me. Without Mick's shop, without Ivan, without any structure, I have nothing but time and the fucking voices in my head that won't shut up.
By late afternoon, I'm pacing the room like a caged animal, my hands shaking, my breath coming too fast. I can't call Ivan. He's still at work, or at the party being there for those kids, the way someone should have been there for us.
Finally, it's time to walk to Betty's for my shift, and I'm desperate for the distraction. The work helps. It always helps. I lose myself in the rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing and stacking.
Ivan calls during my break.
"Hey, how's the party going?" I ask.
"It was amazing. The girls had the best time. Diana cried when she saw the cake. The good kind of crying with happy tears. And Destiny hit the pinata so hard candy went everywhere. The party was a big hit."