Chapter 12
After hanging up with Liam, I sit, smiling at my lock screen. Last night is a hazy fog, but at least I didn’t annoy Liam or do anything too crazy. That I know of. Then I notice the time and shoot Austin a quick text.
Good luck tonight!
Break a leg.
Tonight’s the night. Austin’s last show that determines if he’s finally free of his label, free to actually start over. I haven’t let myself think too hard about what happens if it doesn’t go his way. Not after watching him fight for sobriety. Not after seeing how much he loves Penny.
So full of optimism, he’s already booked a flight home with strict instructions to get Penny to Old Town Tavern tomorrow night.
Heading to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. Hopefully feeling a bit more human will stave off this hangover. My phone vibrates with an incoming call, and the name Aunt Ashley flashes onto my screen.
Although she calls often, an instinct some might call a sixth sense, sends a sudden wave of panic climbing up my throat, nearly strangling me. My heart beats so hard inside my chest I feel it in my temples, and my hands go clammy. I grab my phone, and with shaky fingers, jab the answer button.
“Hello?” My voice is barely a whisper, and when I hear my aunt crying quietly, everything in me goes still.
Something has happened to my mom.
It’s a fear I’ve lived with as far back as I can remember.
Quiet and persistent sitting heavy in my heart, that one day my father would go too far, and no one would be there to stop him.
Just my mom, helpless to his rage. Now it wraps around me like a boa constrictor.
I’m almost too scared to ask what has happened, terrified the damage is worse than I have the strength to face.
“Cassie,” my aunt says, voice trembling. “It’s your mom.”
Over the years I’ve received calls about my mom. But never has my aunt’s voice wavered like this. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste the metallic tang of copper. “Is she…” The question dies on my lips. I refuse to speak the word for fear it’s true.
“She’s alive,” my aunt rushes out. “But it’s bad.”
The relief I feel is so violent, my vision blurs around the edges. I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep the nausea at bay. My mom is alive. It’s bad, but she’s alive.
She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive. Those words are the only thing I cling to for a series of heartbeats.
In a fog, I stumble through the apartment until I reach the couch, collapsing onto the cushion.
I know I need to ask how bad, but part of me wants to sit in this fragile bubble of the unknown.
My aunt is a straight shooter, never exaggerating, never sugarcoating things.
If she says it’s bad, then I have to brace for the worst.
“How bad?” I manage to force out.
Aunt Ashley lets out a long breath before speaking, her voice stronger, probably for my benefit.
“Beth’s face has extensive bruising and swelling.
One eye is completely swollen shut with a fracture to the orbital bone.
Her lip was split, requiring stitches. There are bruised ribs.
Several gashes to her head.” There’s a catch in her voice before she continues.
“The doctors did everything they could to patch her up, but you and I both know it’s the invisible wounds that are harder to heal from. ”
A sickening image of my mom, beat up and bruised, rises to the surface of my mind, like a photo slowly processing.
Once it’s fully developed, the image that sits at the forefront of my mind is so heartbreaking I have to push it back down.
Instead, I summon images of the mom who has my eyes and braided my hair into pigtails.
The mother who loved Austin and me the best she knew how, which meant not fighting to keep us when we were taken from that house.
Standing, I find the envelope of photos I gathered before I followed my brother to Singing River.
Dropping to the edge of the bed, I rifle through them until I come to my favorite.
Mom was so young and beautiful. I sat, propped on her hip, my mouth open in laughter.
Austin’s profile is to the camera. He’s holding a push-up popsicle, orange sherbet dripping down his hand.
The look she’s giving him is complete, unfiltered joy.
“Cassie, are you there?”
My aunt’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and I blink, realizing I’ve been silent for several seconds.
“I’m here. This is just a lot.” My aunt hums in agreement. “What about him?” I can’t force the word Dad. I might share his DNA but that monster lost the title of Dad.
Aunt Ashley seems to understand who I mean. “From what I understand, this is much bigger than what he’s put Beth through. I’m getting conflicting information but while your mom was at the hospital, he disappeared. Nobody can find him.”
Cold terror crawls up my spine like icy fingertips and I take in a sharp inhale. People like him are more dangerous when they think they’re being cornered.
“But listen to me, Cassie,” she continues, slipping into the calm, steady voice she used on me when I was a child on the edge of panic. “They have an officer stationed at our house round the clock. They’ll stay until your father is found.”
“She’s staying with you?” I ask, mild relief settling in.
“She’s here and she’s safe. I have her set up in your old bedroom. I don’t plan on leaving her alone until they have your father in custody.”
“I’m coming. I’ll pack a bag now. I can be there first thing in the morning.” I’m already standing and moving to the suitcase in the closet.
“Honey,” she says gently. “Your mama isn’t ready to see anyone. Not yet. She’s embarrassed and ashamed.”
And that’s the thing my education has taught me.
More times than not, the abused feel like they’re somehow at fault.
The thought makes my heart twist painfully.
Mom lived through unimaginable torment, and still she survived.
If anyone should feel shame, it’s my father.
But still, my aunt’s words are a dull knife, a deep cut to my heart, because I want to see my mom who I haven’t seen in far too long.
“My heart hurts, Aunt Ashley,” I whisper.
“Oh, love. I know,” she agrees. “My heart does, too. But we’ll all get through this together, yeah?”
I make a sound of agreement and then a thought hits me. “You know Austin will be there tonight? He’s packing up more of his things.”
“I do. Though I don’t know why he’d stop in here when he’ll probably be exhausted and ready for his own bed. It’ll be late when he arrives.”
I don’t say it, but Austin is persistent with our mom. Knowing he’d have a chance to see her, I can’t imagine anything stopping him from trying.
“Cassie,” she says softly, “I promise I’ll keep you updated. If she asks for you, I’ll call immediately.”
I close my eyes, struggling to push down the helplessness threatening to swallow me whole.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
When the call ends, I sit motionless, the phone still clutched in my hand, wishing the distance between my mother and me wasn’t measured in miles and years of silence.
Wetness splashes onto the screen, and it’s only now I realize I’m crying hot frustrated tears. With the back of my hand, I swipe halfheartedly at my damp cheeks, but it’s a pointless act. They keep coming and I have no choice but to let them.
In a daze, my hand drifts to touch that damn widow’s peak at my hairline, the one distinctive feature I inherited from him. The monster. The man who caused a lifetime of pain for my mother.
Before I can think it through, I’m on my feet moving to the drawer where I keep the kitchen shears. The metal is cold in my hand as I head to the bathroom.
I take a second to stare at my reflection in the silver surface. Red-rimmed eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks. My chest heaves, breaths coming in quick, ragged gasps that echo off the bathroom tiles. And that fucking dip at my hairline. His mark on me.
“I hate him,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
My hands are trembling so violently I almost drop the scissors, but I force them steady.
I gather the hair at my forehead, feeling each snipped strand fall, mingling with the tears streaking down my cheeks.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Each cut is loud, a staccato punctuation in the suffocating silence.
My shoulders shake but I keep going, trying to outrun the hate, the disgust, all the pieces of him in me I want gone.
Finally, the uneven fringe falls across my forehead. I drop the scissors into the hair-covered sink, heart hammering, and stare at my reflection—the strands of hair, the tears, my nose which is red from crying.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
This is bad. What have I done? This is a mess. Choppy and jagged.
I sink onto the toilet lid and drop my head into my hands, crying harder this time. Because I’m still his daughter. His DNA still runs through my veins that no amount of cutting can erase, even if I try.
Out of nowhere, a knock startles me from my trance. It’s a little rhythm, almost like the beat to a song, and in an instant, I know who I’ll find standing on the other side of that door. And he’s the only person I want to see right now.
Swiping under my eyes, I run a hand through my hair and stand, taking a restorative breath.
When I open the door, Liam is there holding a small bouquet of wildflowers, wrapped in a damp fast food napkin. He’s looking at the bouquet, wearing a lopsided grin.
“I was about an hour out from Nashville when I saw this field of wildflowers. And a little voice said Liam, I think Cassie will love those.”
His gaze shifts to me and his grin slowly falls as he takes me in. His eyes roam my face, from my red rimmed eyes to the downturn of my lips. Then they catch on the mess I’ve made of my hair.
“Oh, angel,” he breathes out. “What fresh hell is this?”
Shame floods me, hot and prickling over my skin. My hand flies to my forehead, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already seen it.