16. Madelyn #2
She grins. “Okay, okay. Continue.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
“I met him before the party, but that night was the first time we actually hung out. We were upstairs in his friends room talking and—”
“A boys room? Madelyn!”
I stare at her. She looks completely serious.
“We weren’t doing anything!”
“If this story ends with you sleeping with him, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh my God, Nonie! Stop!”
“I’m just saying, your mother had you young, and I would prefer you not repeat history.”
I cover my ears, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Nope. Nope. Not listening.”
I can hear her laughing.
“Are you done so we can be serious for a minute?”
“Yes, I’ll stop interrupting now.”
“Good.” I drop my hands and continue. “Okay, so we were talking, and he was about to kiss me when suddenly someone threw a brick through the window.”
Her smile disappears.
“When he went to check it out, I got a text message.”
“What did it say?”
I stare down at my hands. “It said the next time he touches me, it would go through his head.” The silence that follows is immediate, but I continue before I lose my nerve. “And it hasn’t stopped since.”
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I open them and see Nonie’s expression. She’s terrified.
“One of the text messages called me a whore,” I whisper. “Like my mother.”
Nonie goes completely still.
“I don’t understand what that means,” I say. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
She takes a slow breath, leaning back against the couch. Picking up her tea, she finishes the entire cup. I watch her, completely confused.
“I think,” she says quietly, “I need something stronger than tea before we continue this conversation.”
Before I can respond, she stands and heads inside. A second later, my phone rings, causing my heart to leap from my chest. I grab it, immediately wondering if it’s him, but when I look down, my stomach relaxes.
Miles.
Miles: Can we talk?
I stare at the message. He really doesn’t understand the concept of space.
I quickly type a response.
Me: I’m a little busy right now. Can we do this later?
When I look up, Nonie is walking back outside with a glass of amber liquid in her hand. I’m kind of upset she didn’t get me a glass. Can’t really blame her, me being underage and all.
“Alright baby,” she says, settling back onto the couch. “Where were we?”
“The part where my stalker called me a whore like my mother.”
Her expression shifts before she takes a sip of her drink. My phone buzzes again and I glance up at Nonie. She waves me off, telling me to get it, so I open the message.
Miles: Busy? What are you doing? Can you come to my place?
Me: I’m at my aunt’s house. I’ll try to swing by later.
I lock my phone and urge Nonie to continue.
“Your mother…” she pauses. “I love your mother more than anything in this world, but she wasn’t perfect. She made mistakes just like anyone else.”
I frown. “What kind of mistakes?”
Nonie sighs. “Your mother loved your father. She did. But before him, there was someone else.”
My stomach twists.
“Her high school sweetheart.” She looks down at the glass in her hands. “They were together all through high school. I honestly thought they were going to get married someday. But they broke up after graduation when he decided to join the military. Not long after that, she met your father.”
She takes another sip.
“Our parents hated him, of course. He was seven years older than her. But your mother was stubborn. When she loved someone, she loved them completely.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother ran into him years later. I think you were about six.” Her voice softens. “She called me afterward and told me it felt like no time had passed. Like all the old feelings were still there.”
My heart sinks.
“I told her not to see him again.” She shakes her head. “But your mother was just as hardheaded as I am.”
I laugh quietly. At least I know where I got that from.
“She started seeing him regularly,” she continues, “and eventually your dad found out.” Her expression darkens. “That’s when it all started. The drinking, the abuse, both verbal and physical.”
My hands curl into fists.
“I tried to convince her to leave him when I moved here. I told her she could bring you and stay with me. I begged her.”
My eyes fill with tears.
“But she was afraid of what he would do.”
I stare at her. “And you knew? You knew he was like that?”
Nonie’s face breaks. “Lynie…”
“You knew he was hurting her.”
She looks away. “I was scared too.”
And suddenly, all the anger I’ve been holding onto for years comes rushing forward.
“What about me?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine. “You were thirteen.”
My voice cracks. “I lost my mom. The only person who loved me. The only person who made me feel safe. And then I had to go back into that house with him.”
My breathing gets heavier.
“For five years, Nonie.” Tears are spilling down my face, and I let them, because for the first time in my life, I’m letting myself say the words I’ve been holding inside. “Five years. I was just a kid.”
The words hang between us, carried away by the soft breeze rustling through the flowers surrounding the patio. A bee lazily drifts from one lavender bush to the next, completely unaware that my entire world feels like it’s cracking open all over again.
Nonie doesn’t speak. She can’t. Tears stream silently down her face as she stares at me, her lips parting once or twice as though she’s trying to find the right words. But what do you say to something like that? What apology could possibly make up for five years of fear?
I scrub angrily at my eyes before continuing, hating that I’m crying this much in front of her.
I don’t want her to see me like this, or anyone for that matter.
I’ve spent years pretending none of it ever happened, convincing myself that if I buried it deep enough, one day I’d wake up and it would stop hurting. Only, it never did.
“I didn't understand why he hated me so much after Mom died,” I say quietly, staring down at my hands. “I kept trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. I thought maybe if I stayed out of his way more, or kept the house cleaner, or made better grades, maybe he’d finally look at me and see his daughter again instead of—” I shake my head.
“Instead of whatever it was he saw every time he looked at me.”
The tears blur my vision again, but I don't bother wiping them away this time.
“I spent years trying to become someone he couldn’t be angry with, and it didn't matter. Nothing I did was ever enough.”
Nonie quietly gets up from her chair and walks over to me. She doesn’t interrupt me or try to tell me everything is okay. She simply sits beside me on the porch swing and takes one of my hands in both of hers, gently rubbing her thumb across my knuckles.
It’s such a small gesture, but it reminds me so much of my mom that my chest aches.
“I was fifteen when I finally realized why he kept calling Mom a whore. There was a boy at school. He was a senior who had transferred from another state, so he didn't know anything about me. He didn’t know what people whispered about my family or looked at me with pity every time I walked through the hallways. To him, I was just, me.”
A sad smile tugs at my lips before disappearing just as quickly.
“He liked me.”
Even now, those words don't feel real.
“He was the first boy who'd ever looked at me like I was worth getting to know, and I couldn’t understand why. I kept waiting for him to realize everyone else was right about me and leave, but he never did. We started dating, and for a little while,” I pause, letting out a shaky laugh.
“For a little while, I actually got to feel normal.”
I swallow hard, the memory souring as quickly as it had begun.
“Then Dad found out. He looked at me and said I was just like my mother. He called me a whore, and I didn't understand what he meant. I was so angry. I yelled at him for the first time in my life.” I let out a bitter laugh. “I guess I finally got tired of being afraid.”
I can still remember every word that came out of my mouth.
“I told him Mom didn't kill herself because of me.” My voice breaks, and I squeeze Nonie's hand tighter without even realizing it. “I told him she killed herself because of him.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stare out at the flowers in Nonie's garden, but I don't really see them anymore. All I see is that kitchen. The broken dishes. The smell of whiskey. My father's face twisting with rage before I even realized what was happening.
“He beat me so badly I thought I was going to die. I just laid there and took it. I didn’t have the strength to do anything about it.
Once he was done, he just walked away, sat back down on his recliner, and kept drinking.
It was like I didn’t even matter. But eventually I got back up, and I walked to the police station. ”
Her face crumples, tearing spilling over her lids.
“I don't even remember the walk. I just remember walking through those doors covered in bruises and blood, and one of the officers taking one look at me before rushing me into the back.” I let out a long breath. “He never laid a hand on me again after that. But he never stopped trying to hurt me.”
The yelling never stopped. The drinking never stopped. The insults never stopped. Every single day I woke up wondering what version of him I'd be coming home to, and every single night I went to bed wishing I could wake up somewhere else.
“Oh, Lynie…” Nonie’s voice cracks so badly it barely sounds like her own. She reaches up and brushes my hair back from my face before cupping my cheek. “I'm so sorry.”
I shake my head. “No…you’re not the one who did it.”
“No,” she whispers, tears streaming freely down her face. “But I should've gotten you out of there.”
Those words hit something deep inside me and I pull away just enough to look at her. “You were all I had left.”