Chapter 25 #3
I can’t avoid this any longer, not now. Not after what I know and listening to her open up like this with me.
“I didn’t leave willingly,” I rush out. “And as much as I wanted to, as much as I disappointed you, I didn’t just leave.
” I look up at the vaulted beams above, trying to take a deep breath.
I’ve always felt safe here—the distillery was a safe space for me, even as a kid.
I’ve only held back because I didn’t think she could handle it, Birdie either.
But they’re stronger than I’ve ever given them credit for.
Lifting the side of my shirt and holding it up high, I display the scar that runs the length of my torso.
“He started with a fillet knife. It was so sharp, it almost didn’t hurt.
Then he switched to a serrated. It felt like teeth gnawing at me each time he dragged it back and forth.
He told me if I screamed, if I shared with him what it felt like to be so smart, then he would stop.
” I shake my head as tears cloud my eyes.
“I didn’t scream. I didn’t tell him what it felt like knowing I was smarter than him, but that he outplayed me.
” I swallow down the truths that linger, the pieces that she doesn’t need to know.
“I passed out three times before he got so frustrated that he left and came back with someone else who he . . .” I suck in a breath, trying to keep myself from picturing it all over again.
Reliving it in therapy had been enough. “The infection it caused probably should’ve killed me, but after that, he was very adamant about keeping me alive. ”
Her hands cover her mouth, and her tears keep falling even when I let go of my shirt. I didn’t show her to upset her. I wanted her to see that I didn’t choose any part of leaving. “Who?” she asks, the question muffled behind her hands.
“There are all different kinds of men,” I say, finally allowing what she and Birdie shared to settle. “But only a monster is capable of the things I witnessed.”
“Who, Wyn?” she says, more loudly now. “I will kill?—”
I shake my head, as pent-up tears escape, even knowing he’s already gone.
“The only reason I can tell you any of this is because someone else was brave enough to kill him.” I was able to come back home because the woman who had pulled me out of that storage unit ended up being the person who killed him in the end. She was the brave one—I just survived.
My mom picks up one of the empty bottles and chucks it across the space.
It hits the wall and shatters everywhere.
The sound of it makes me jump, but it’s when she screams at the floor, fisting her hands that makes me understand how difficult that must have been to hear.
Grabbing another bottle, she holds it out to me.
When I meet her green eyes, they’re as tear-filled as mine.
I take another deep breath, and on the exhale, I grab the empty bottle by its neck. With a shout, I throw it as hard as I can against the farthest wall. It makes a popping noise as it hits and shatters. I look back to her again, needing my mom to tell me that it’s okay. That all of this is okay.
“Breaking shit helps,” she says, batting another tear away.
I can’t help but bark out a teary laugh. Nodding, I say, “Breaking shit helps.”
Picking up another one, I heave it across the room. This isn’t going to lead to a big, warm embrace—hugging isn’t really our thing. Maybe breaking shit could be.
She pulls two of the work bench stools over and sits on one as I grab one of the recently corked bottles of whiskey—it was being steeped with Earl Gray tea and vanilla bean—and bring it over with two rocks glasses.
She tosses another bottle against the wall.
Once I’ve poured each of us a hefty amount, I sit on the other stool and chuck another one, each time exhaling and trying to let all of this settle more softly than it’s felt to carry.
Between us is a case of empty bottles that were meant to be used to bottle up whatever whiskey had been ready, but I think there are other plans for these bottles now.
She’s quiet for a moment after taking her glass of whiskey and clanking it with mine.
Taking a sip, she says, “You never disappointed me, Wyn. Dammit, I was just a kid when I had you. I was barely surviving with you and your sisters after your father—” A breath whooshes out of her, and she takes a moment to collect herself.
When she does, she picks up another empty bottle from the case and hauls it across the room.
The sound of it breaking feels relieving.
She doesn’t finish her thought. Instead, she says, “Then you grew up to be someone who intimidated the hell out of me.”
My eyes widen. “I intimidated you?” I point to her, laughing. “Have you met yourself?”
“Oh, yes, I work very hard at that. But for you, it’s natural. There’s something different about it when someone isn’t trying.”
“Mom,” I say, not knowing how else to respond. I never imagined her looking at me that way, just the opposite, really.
She shakes her head when she looks at me.
There are some things that changed while I was away, but she barely ages.
She and Birdie both look nothing like the respective years they have under their belts, but something about her is softer now.
Maybe it’s this moment, maybe it’s seeing her with Tommy, or just knowing more, but this is the kind of “different” that I’ve always wanted.
“I don't understand how I can have the one thing back that I begged for, and here I am, still messing it all up.” She practically smacks away a tear that had the nerve to fall down her cheek.
“Let’s both stop messing it up,” I offer, holding up the bottle of whiskey to pour her out another.
Holding up her glass, she says, “Then let's stop messing it up.” She takes a sip and holds it back up to the light again. “Why does this taste like dessert?”
I chuckle at that. “It’s tea. And vanilla. It’ll probably pair well with the cake you made with the blackberries.”
“That one was good, wasn’t it,” she says, smiling into her glass.
“You’re good at this, Wynona. Far better than your father or any of us were at trying to do something with this place.
” Swallowing roughly, she pauses for a moment.
“I started coming out here when you left. Asked Tommy to help at first.” She lifts her chin, more emotion lingering on the surface as she finally shares this with me.
“This was always your thing, Wynona. Figured I would miss you less if I could do something you enjoyed doing.”
“Mom,” I whisper, looking up, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “Thank you.”
She’s trying to keep it together as she nods, swiping under her eyes, and then blowing out a slow breath.
We let silence linger around us. She chucks another bottle at the wall, and both of us laugh.
“Who’s cleaning that up?” I ask, looking at the pile of shattered glass.
She shrugs. “Tommy always likes a task,” she says, polishing off her glass.
“You going to tell me what’s going on with you two?” I toss back to her with a quirked eyebrow.
She takes a deep breath, tilting her face up at the bit of sun that breaks through the windows. “Nope,” she says, popping the p.
I laugh. “Oh, come on, am I supposed to pretend like I didn’t see that?”
Standing, she holds up another empty bottle and turns it in her hand.
“If we’re talking chemistry, me and your Uncle Tommy have always had it.
” She launches this one hard over her head, and it slams against the wall, some pieces reaching all the way back to us.
“Can you do me a favor and keep it between us?”
I smile at her, but can’t help but ask curiously, “Can I ask why? Stevie and Jo would probably be thrilled.”
She takes a step away, back toward the sliding doors. “Like most stories, there’s more to that one. Smiling softly, she leans against the entryway in the afternoon sun, making her look like some kind of goddess. “Stories are harder to tell if they’re not over yet.”
Then she’s turning on her heel.
It felt good. This moment with her, putting all of it on the table. “Mom,” I call out, and she glances over her shoulder. “What happens now?”
“I’ve got a cake cooling. A bar to run. And everything else, we’ll just see what comes of it. Maybe we just need to enjoy a few new rumors and whiskey.”