Page 43 of Arranged Scars
“I bet you are. We all are. Shane is a real loss. If you were the dead one though—” His nose wrinkles and he turns away. “You can go.”
I don’t think I’ve ever left a room that fast before in my life. I shut the door and stand on the other side, breathing hard. My guts twist in a knot. I close my eyes and see Finn stabbing Shane again, over and over. This time, the memory isn’t so bad.
The rest of my brothers are in front of the TV. Some late-night action movie is on. They’re all drinking. Red ignores me. Dermot barely gives me a nod. Mal’s on the phone, pacing back and forth, talking to some soldier or lieutenant, probably looking into Shane’s death.
“How’s everyone doing?” I ask Dermot.
He glances at me. Any normal brother would get up and hug his sister in a time like this. Instead, he just shrugs and drinks. “How the fuck do you think?”
I last ten minutes with them before I get the hell out of there. That’s the story of my life. I’m always running away from my brothers.
Mom’s up in her room. I find her sitting on her bed, her eyes red with tears. She’s looking at her phone, scrolling through old pictures of the boys. There aren’t many of me.
I finally get the hug I’ve been waiting for. Mom squeezes me tightly. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry? For what?”
“Shane’s dead, honey. He was your brother.”
“I know, but I’m sorry for you. He was your son.”
“We can all mourn, right?” She wipes her face. “I just keep thinking he’ll come storming through that door with a big smile for me, the way he always did.”
I hug her again. She lets out a little sob but gets herself together quickly. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.” The guilt creeps back. I don’t care if I hurt Dad or my brothers. But a part of me wishes Mom didn’t have to go through this. “That’s how he lived, right? We all were waiting for it.”
She stiffens. “I don’t believe that.”
“Mom, I know it’s probably not the time, but Shane?—”
“Your brother was a good man.”
I stare at her, shaking my head. “Mom, come on. You’re really going to pretend right now? We don’t have to lie to each other. He’s dead. You can be honest.”
“Shane was my son. I loved him. He wasn’t perfect, but he tried his best.”
“He was a violent, drunk, womanizing asshole. I know you’re sad, but?—”
Mom pulls away sharply. “Watch your mouth, Caroline.” She looks toward the bedroom door, and I realize she’s terrified. Hervoice softens to a whisper. “Don’t you dare let them hear you talk that way.”
My guts clench. All my life, Mom’s been acting like nothing’s wrong. She tried over the years to protect me in her own twisted way. She’d warn me when the boys were in a mood, try to hide me, try to deflect Dad’s rages, but it rarely worked. It was always Mom who cleaned up their messes, who gave me icepacks, taught me how to cover up bruises, introduced me to long sleeves and dresses that hid my scars. But never, in all this time, has she ever actually admitted out loud what’s been going on.
“Shane did this.” I show her the scar on my neck. “Remember this one? From the screwdriver? I used all the hot water one night, and this was my punishment.”
Mom’s face twists. “Darling, please, now isn’t the time.”
“He did this and worse. You have to admit it. Please, Mom, I’m begging you?—”
“No,” she hisses sharply. “He’s dead. That’s enough.”
I pull back. I’m shaking and I feel sick. I stand and back away. Mom watches, hugging herself.
“What do I have to do to get you to just admit it?” I whisper, fighting tears. “How much worse does it have to get?”
“Just go, Caroline. I can’t deal with this right now.”
I turn and leave my mother. I’m crying when I get downstairs. The boys probably think it’s for Shane. None of them get up to comfort me. After a few minutes, Dermot shoves a beer into my hands.
“Quit fucking blubbering,” he mutters and slaps me on the back. “He never liked you anyway.”
