Page 113 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
I can close my eyes and see her smile as she asks me, “But why?” while looking at me above the rim of her beloved cup of tea. If I hold the image long enough, I can even see the way the steam twirls up around her and her hazel eyes squint just a bit, as if she is trying to will the right answer into my mind.
“Because I can’t need anyone. I can’t trust anyone. You know that. It was you and Desi, and now it’s just Desi.” I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then admit, “I’m scared. I’m so scared because I don’t know how long I can keep up the façade that I’m normal and strong when lately I feel like the little girl I used to be. The one who fell apart any time a stranger looked at her for too long and who just wanted to take a knife to her arms to prove that pain was all she ever knew . . . and is all she’ll ever know.”
I look down and play with a daisy as I struggle with the lie I just told her. How I pretended that taking a knife to my arm was more of an urge instead of a recent reality . . . and then I realize she already knows. Her wings were out that morning. That was why I was able to stop myself from cutting the second time.
Dropping the daisy, I trace the engraved letters of her name and know if my mom were still alive, she would tell me that I didn’t mean any of what I said. That I was strong and resilient and beautiful, which was something he saw even if I didn’t. She would tell me that was why I was really scared, and that it didn’t matter if I remembered some of my past because we always knew it was a possibility.
She would set that tea cup down, reach out, and grab my hand before telling me that maybe I was starting to remember because I finally had someone strong enough to stand beside me and help me through it.
The words I imagine her saying hit my ears but don’t grow roots. They’re scary and unwanted and against everything I ever thought I’d allow of myself.
To let somebody in.
To share that part of my past.
One of the last things she said to me resonates with me in the moment.
Would she tell me that letting him in doesn’t mean I have to stop being resilient and strong?
I smile because she totally would.
“I miss you, Mom. I miss you more than you could ever imagine,” I whisper, tears falling as I lie down on my back atop of her grave and think of nights snuggling up in our van while we were between towns. The gypsy girls making an adventure for ourselves.
I stay there for a long while with the blue sky above me, the comfort of my mom around me, a map of possible jump sites circled in purple Sharpie beside me, and my mind fixated on the past and the two men who were such an integral part of it.
“Stop crying, Emmy.” He’s irritated and keeps looking at the clock on the wall, but he won’t look at me.
“I want Mommy.” My hands shake, and my body hurts, and I’m scared and just want my mommy.
“Knock it off. You’re fine. Stop crying and get back in bed.”
“You hurt me.” I stare at him and watch that funny bump on the side of his jaw get hard as he bites his teeth together.
“No, I didn’t.”
My heart feels like it’s in my throat again. The same way it did before I threw up and wet myself. I tell myself not to do it again. I think of the bath he put me in after. The warm water. The weird way he used the washcloth to clean my privates instead of letting me use it myself.
I feel like I can’t breathe. “Yes, you did. Mommy would put you in so much trouble for what you did.”
“No. You are the one who is in trouble. I don’t think you want me to tell your mom about the phone call I got from Mrs. Gellar today about how you keep acting up in class. You know how much she hates when you act up.”
“Mrs. Gellar called?”
“Mm-hmm. You and Grant weren’t listening again. Do I need to ground you from seeing him anymore? Is he becoming a bad influence?”
Panic hits me. No Grant? He’s my only friend. And . . . I don’t understand, I didn’t get in trouble today. I was good. I’m always good. “Dad, I didn’t get in trouble today at school,” I barely whisper.
“And I didn’t hurt you tonight, now did I?”
“But you—”
“You were dreaming, Emmy.” He looks at me for the first time, and his eyes look black to me. Black like the ghost in the Halloween book that Grant let me read that gave me nightmares last week.
Was I dreaming?
“I don’t think I—”
“You were screaming. You had a nightmare. You were fighting against me when I woke you because I was holding you to calm you down. Then you peed the bed like a baby. Again.”
