Chapter 28
SIX DAYS LATER
If I was being honest with myself—and I was trying to face each day with my eyes wide open, regardless of how much it hurt—I sort of hoped it would be harder to find them. Impossible would have been better. But Georgia was nothing if not predictable.
Or was it that I wasn’t as different from her as I thought?
I shook the thought away, not at all interested in entertaining it. Instead, I sat behind the wheel of my Bronco, parked at the back of the diner’s lot, and continued to wait.
I couldn’t exactly put into words why I was in Colorado, I simply was aware I needed to be.
It was a feeling, like I’d picked up a chain I noticed shackled around my ankle and, in order to free myself of it, I had to follow its length to the other end.
I had to go back to the beginning—to the place where it all started.
The root of my secrets, the seed of my shame, it was all tied to the woman I should have told twenty years ago.
It was getting late in the afternoon, and I knew she would be off soon.
Or, at least, I assumed as much. It was around four o’clock the previous day when I watched her get into her car and head home for the evening.
I followed her there—a run-down apartment complex the owners seemed uninterested in preserving for any great length of time.
Except, rather than stop and confront her then, I found myself circling the block in avoidance.
After my third trip around, I decided today would be better.
When she emerged from the restaurant, looking worn out from a long shift on her feet, I forced myself to open my door and step out of my vehicle. If I was going to do this, it was going to be here. Out in the open. As far away from Tommy as I could manage.
My heart was pounding upon my approach. I could hear my pulse as loudly as if the beat of it was being broadcasted through a loudspeaker; and yet, she didn’t notice me until we both arrived at her car.
Her eyes widened before she knit her eyebrows in confusion at the sight of me.
“What are you doing here? God—you look awful.”
I ignored her slight, folding my arms across my chest as I replied, “We need to talk.”
She studied me skeptically, shaking her head all the while.
“Not sure I’ve got anything to say to you.”
“Maybe not, but I have somethin’ to say to you.”
“What gives you the right? Hmm? You think you can just show up, unannounced, and expect me to welcome you with open arms? Fuck that. You didn’t show me the courtesy, or have you forgotten already?”
“That’s—that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of. I mean—it’s about Tommy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She popped a hip, propping her fist against it. “You want to talk about the hospital bill we’re still payin’ for?”
“No. I want to—I…” My voice trailed off as I felt my nose tingle, the urge to cry knocking me square in the middle of the face.
I was so tired of feeling small and vulnerable. Even after all this time, it was like I was still that scared teenager, too ashamed to say the words aloud. Too worried about how the truth of what I’d done for years defined me.
Was I as much to blame as him?
“For god’s sake,” she mumbled, reaching for her door handle.
Panic rushed through me as it became apparent my opportunity was slipping through my fingers. I needed to say the words. I needed to spit them out. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to come back again another day.
“He’s a perv, mom,” I cried.
She froze, her eyes pinned on me, her expression giving away nothing.
“He sexually abused me from the time I was fourteen until I moved out. And I should have told you. Fuck, I should have been honest about the man you married. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I never said anything. I didn’t know how.”
I hiccuped, trying to calm down and slow my tears.
Georgia merely stared, guarded and cautious.
Finally, in a hushed voice, she asked, “He ever lay a hand on you?”
There was something about the way she phrased the question that made me pause. I frowned as I replied, “No. But he’d make me take my clothes off. He?—”
“He put a roof over our heads, is what he did.”
“What?” I gaped at her, searching for evidence of her denial.
I saw no shock in her expression. No surprise. No disgust or alarm.
“He never laid a hand on you, Ali-Mae,” she stated cooly.
My arms fell to my sides as my heart sank, heavy as a stone.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak; could barely conjure more than a single thought, realization widening the chasm which had separated us for most of my life.
I understood, with an assurity and a finality so astute, I wondered how I never noticed it before.
I wondered how it was possible I ever bought into the lie that she cared about me at all.
The truth was, the depth of the fissure between us was so wide, so deep, no amount of love could careen itself from one side to the other.
My mother—my own fucking mother—had known all along.
“You…you knew.” It was a statement, not a question, the words uttered so softly, even I could hardly hear them.
Then, for the first time in all her god forsaken life, Georgia said not a word.
I nodded slowly, too stunned to feel anything other than angry at the fact that I couldn’t stop my tears. Neither could I move my feet. At least, not right away. I stood there, staring at her, knowing this would be the last time I laid eyes on her.
Underneath the shock and the hurt, I felt something visceral.
‘Fucker got less than he deserved,’ I remembered Benson saying.
‘Her, too, if you ask me.’
I defended her then.
Now, I feared what I might be capable of if ever our paths should cross in the future.
It wasn’t until she pulled in a breath, as if preparing to speak, that I was able to move.
Slowly, I took one step back and then another.
Before she could say a word, I turned and started for my Bronco.
She called out to me, but I ignored her.
I climbed behind the wheel, jammed my key into the ignition, and shifted into gear—all without giving her so much as a second glance.
My tires peeled against the hot asphalt as I sped out of the parking lot, headed I didn’t care where. It didn’t matter, so long as it was far, far away from her.
Ten minutes later, I was merging onto a state highway. I didn’t take note of which one it was or which direction I was headed. I was anxious to go wherever the road took me.
My top was down, my gas tank was nearly full, and I had no place to be.
So, I drove—going fast, headed nowhere, the wind in my hair, and my shackle left behind.