Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  He’s hurt? She’s the one with bruises on her body. “Dad hurt you, Mom. He hurt me. This isn’t my fault, and this isn’t your fault. This is Dad’s fault, and it’s time for you to stop making excuses for him.”

  Mom stands. I’m shaking as I rise and follow her into her bedroom. She doesn’t go for her closet, nor does she go for her dresser. Instead she slips on her robe and heads for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  She glances over her shoulder, but she doesn’t look me in the eye. “Think of how heartbroken your father has to be. He thought he lost you. I should have been more supportive. I should have done a better job helping him calm down last night.”

  My mind completely cracks, and I try to grasp how the conversation turned so wrong, so quickly. “This isn’t your fault.”

  She shakes her head as if she doesn’t agree and then leaves the room.

  “It’s not your fault,” I yell, but it doesn’t matter how loud I am. She’s not listening. “It’s none of our faults! It’s his! He’s to blame!”

  “Scarlett?” Isabelle’s child-like voice, the voice of fear and innocence, cuts me deep. “Are things better now?”

  I tremble so violently that my teeth chatter. “We need to leave.”

  “What?”

  We need to leave. But how? I have no car, and even if I did, I don’t know how to drive. Dad took my money, and I’m broke. We have no place to go, no one who will believe us, no one who will take us in. I spin as the walls of the room start to close in. We’re trapped, and there’s nothing I can do. I sink to the floor as bile rises in my throat. What do I do? God, what do I do?

  A touch on my arm, and Isabelle has moved in front of me. “Do you want to hold my hand? When I get scared at school, my teacher holds my hand.”

  She holds out both of her hands, palms up, and I blink as I see the little lines on her left hand—who she was born to be. Then lines on her right hand—who she is due to her choices and circumstances. On her right hand, her life line is broken and so is her heart line.

  Glory asked me if I had the courage to change the lines on my hand. I don’t know if I can change me, but I have to be strong enough to change the lines on my sister’s. “If I ask you to be quiet, and do absolutely everything I tell you to do, will you leave me with me?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  Isabelle nods her agreement.

  “How do you feel about climbing a tree?”

  * * *

  Climbing down the tree with my sister was terrifying. She was a little too eager, going a little too fast, and I finally have an appreciation of how Jesse feels when he climbs with me.

  Going out one of the doors would have been preferable, but opening the door would set off the alarm throughout the house, alerting my parents we were leaving, and I don’t know the code to turn off the security system.

  I feel like a fugitive, and it’s a terrible sensation. I have this itch between my shoulder blades, a sensation that there’s a bull’s-eye painted on my back.

  If the cycle holds true then Mom and Dad will spend hours drowning in each other’s misery before they reemerge in their attempt to be parents again. When they do emerge and find us gone, Dad will search, and I don’t want him to find me, not until I’m ready.

  A cold, light rain mists over me, and it makes the hike through the field treacherous, especially with my sister riding piggyback. Her arms are knotted tight around my neck, choking me, but I don’t reprimand her. She’s scared enough, and I do my best to readjust.

  It’s Sunday, and the tiny white church comes into view. It seems like a lifetime since I was here for Suzanne’s funeral. I guess it has been. I’m not the same person I was back then, and I’ll never be that person again.

  People who had been gathered together talking after service wave goodbye to each other, get in their cars and pull away. There’s only one car left, and I’m praying it belongs to the one person I need. At the street, I stop, slip my sister to the ground and have a moment of déjà vu. I glance over my shoulder at the weeping willow and there’s a flash of disappointment that Glory’s not there. I didn’t think I did real friendships, but I now consider her one.

  I take Isabelle’s hand in mine and we cross the street, walk up the steps and into the aging church. Pastor Hughes is near the front, busying himself at the altar, but he freezes when he spots me and my sister.

  The circulating air in the church hits my wet skin, and goose bumps form. I can imagine how we look—bedraggled, drowned rats. Wet hair stuck to our scalps, and our jeans and sweaters are darkened from the rain. Beads of water drop from us onto the carpet.

  “What happened?” Pastor Hughes asks.

  What if I made the wrong choice? What if I tell him and he sends us back? What if he just tells me to give counseling another try?

  “My daddy hit my mom,” Isabelle says, and the admission in her soft voice rocks through me like rolling thunder.

  Pastor Hughes slowly walks toward us as if we’re wounded animals he’s scared he’ll frighten off. When he reaches us, he pulls his cell out of his pocket and offers it to me. “What did I tell you do to when your dad hit your mom?”

  My throat swells as a million voices of doubt enter my head. “Can you call?”

  “I can if that’s what you want me to do, and I will if you don’t. But you need to take control of the situation. You need to do this, Scarlett. You need to take control of your life.”

  My lips pull down and it’s hard to speak. “Mom will deny what he did.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they won’t believe you.”

  “They won’t.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Because you already knew he hit her.”

  “I knew there was past abuse between your parents, but we were under the impression that the abuse had happened years ago.”

  My eyes snap shut as disappointment rolls through me. Mom lied to me. She lied to the counselors, but she wouldn’t see it that way. She’d see it as telling most of the truth. Then again, I shouldn’t be shocked.

  “You need to understand this,” Pastor Hughes says. “Even if I didn’t know about the past abuse, I still would believe you.”

  I grip my sister’s hand tighter. Is this real? Is he lying?

  “I believe you,” he repeats.

  The sweet words hold me like a hug, and I pray to God I’m making the right choice. I accept the cell, and Pastor Hughes holds out his hand to my sister for her to take. “I’m Pastor Hughes. Something tells me you haven’t had anything to eat yet today. Which one would you like? Breakfast or lunch?”

  My sister looks up at me, waiting for my judgment if this man is friend or foe. If he is to be trusted or denied. I understand her need for confirmation. Our trust radars have been broken for years, but now that I know what love is, I’m getting a better sense of where to turn.

  I give Isabelle a nod, and she places her hand in his. She doesn’t answer his question, but I know my sister. “Breakfast. Her favorite is pancakes.”

  “Then pancakes you will get. Scarlett, you hold on to that cell until you make the call. Once you do, you can give it back to me. Until then, let’s go to my office so we can call my wife and ask her to bring breakfast and some warm clothes for both of you.”

  With Isabelle holding both of our hands, the three of us walk toward his office.

  JESSE

  A knocking drags me out of a deep sleep, and I sit up in bed. Disorientation sets in when I do a scan and have no idea where I am. The doorbell rings, another knock, and little kids’ voices squeal that someone’s at the door.

  I rub the sleep out of my head as I slowly realize I’m at Marshall’s. I’m shirtless and in a pair of old sweats that belong to my uncle. Near the door on a wooden chair are my neatly folded clothes. I didn’t do that. I barely remember stripping down, leaving my clothes as a mess on the floor and stumbling into bed.

  I pick up th
e clothes and they’re warm as if fresh out of the dryer and have the sweet scent of fabric softener. The niceness that someone would do my laundry disarms me. I take my time changing and try to figure out how I should act or what I should say when I leave this room. My relationship with Marshall is complicated enough, and I don’t want to do anything to insult or upset his wife and children.

  I’m saved from having to figure it out with another knock, this time on the door to my room. It opens right as I finish pulling the shirt over my head. Marshall pops his head in. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Good.” My voice is rougher than normal, deeper, and my head throbs. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Not long. It’s eleven.”

  “At night?”

  “In the morning. I had hoped to let you sleep longer, but Mr. Copeland’s here and he wants to talk to you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that a good idea?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s here and he seems calm.”

  Yeah. The guy is all about appearances. I follow Marshall down the hallway and in the living room is Scarlett’s father. He’s in a pair of khakis, a collared shirt, and he turns away from the window when we walk in. His eyes narrow at the bump and bruise on my head, and he mashes his lips together. “I heard there was a scuffle when they found you and my daughter. I had no idea it was so bad.”

  I glance at Marshall, willing him to take the lead, and he doesn’t disappoint. “Jesse’s legal team is handling the altercation directly with the police.”

  I have a legal team? Sounds fancy.

  “I’m here to offer my support,” Mr. Copeland says. “I’ve talked to several people in the department, the chief of police is a friend of mine, and it sounds as if there was a severe overreaction. I have it on good authority that the resisting arrest charges will be dropped, but of course, it’s up to Jesse and his legal team if you want to file a formal complaint against the officers. I have not ruled that out myself.”

  Spoken like a true manipulator, but I don’t buy it. Not for a second.

  “I can speak to the chief if you’d like, Jesse, and tell him that I believe that the officers were out of line with you and my daughter.”

  In exchange for what? My soul?

  “Thank you for your offer,” Marshall says. “We’ll definitely keep that in mind. While we appreciate you coming by to check on Jesse, it’s been a long night and we need some decent sleep before we discuss legalities. It’s good to know that you’re hoping for the same thing we are: a peaceful, quick and just resolution.”

  I’m assuming I’m not the lone one who picked up on the subtext that we aren’t only talking about the arrest last night.

  “I agree.” Mr. Copeland waves his hand at the couches. “Please, why don’t we sit?” As if this is his house to offer.

  I’m proud of Marshall as he stands his ground. “I mean no disrespect, but Jesse is recovering and my daughters just returned home. Unless there is something else that weighs heavily on you, we can set up a meeting to discuss anything else you’d like this coming week. My law practice is near your company, which will make it convenient for you.”

  No wonder Gran liked Marshall. It’s nice being on his side instead of the one he’s fighting.

  “Of course,” Mr. Copeland says. “I do have one question, and it’s a private matter. Would it be possible for me to speak to Jesse alone?”

  “No.” Marshall has balls of steel.

  Anger flashes over Mr. Copeland’s face, but it’s gone as quick as it was there. “I understand and respect that. Jesse,” he hesitates, “my daughter is going through a lot in her life. She’s very confused, and I apologize that you’ve been caught up in her erratic behavior.”

  “Erratic?” I spit out, but the warning glare Marshall sends me shuts me up.

  “As a concerned father, I’m trying to figure a few things out. One of them being, do you have any knowledge of Scarlett using drugs?”

  My muscles tighten and my fingers form a fist. Marshall moves his arm out in front of me as if the driver had hit the brakes too fast and I’m whiplashing forward. “Answer, Jesse, but yes or no only.”

  Yes or no only? I want to tell Scarlett’s father where to shove his question, and then I want to smack him like he’s been smacking his wife. It’s hard as hell to stay in place and even harder to not run my mouth. “No.”

  “Has she been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she currently is?”

  My entire body recoils in fear. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes or no only,” Marshall bites out.

  “As I said, Scarlett has been having a rough time. She’s confused, and not acting like herself. Her mother and I are very concerned, and we’d like to get her help. After the traumatic experience you and Scarlett went through, she was understandably very upset. She left home sometime this morning, and she took Isabelle with her. With how Scarlett has been behaving lately, we’re concerned with her mental well-being. I’m begging you, Jesse, if you know where Scarlett is, please let us know. We’re extremely worried.”

  “Do you know where Scarlett is?” Marshall asks.

  “No.” And that scares me.

  “If you’re concerned,” Marshall says, “I would suggest involving the police.”

  It’s obvious that’s not a recommendation Mr. Copeland appreciates. “Her mother and I were hoping to avoid the dramatic scene from last night. We believe it traumatized her. If you hear from her, please let me know immediately.”

  Mr. Copeland offers Marshall his hand, they say short, obligatory goodbyes, then Mr. Copland shuts the front door behind him. Marshall pivots to stand directly in front of me. “There’s more going on than two teenagers making out in a car, and it’s going to be in your best interest to catch me up.”

  My brain swims—losing my land, and now Scarlett … The bump on my head throbs and I’d give anything to crawl back into bed, but that’s not in the cards I’ve been dealt. Scarlett is missing and that means she’s in danger. “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes, but that’s never been the problem. You have to decide to do the trusting.”

  Scarlett trusts me, but I love her. She needs help, more help than I can give, and Marshall might be the force of nature who can help her survive this storm. “Scarlett’s father abuses her mother, and I’ve been helping Scarlett plan how to leave home after graduation. If she’s gone, it means things are bad and she needs our help.”

  SCARLETT

  It’s weird. I’ve kissed Jesse, made out with Jesse, snuck out with Jesse, have fallen in love with Jesse, but I’ve never called him and have never sent him a text. I couldn’t because of the fear of my father. So when Pastor Hughes asked me if there was anyone I wanted to contact, I wasn’t able to reach out directly to Jesse as I don’t have his number.

  My father has stolen so much from me—the happiness of childhood, teenage normalcy, any concept of safety.

  Pastor Hughes and his wife drove Isabelle and me from the small church to the main one in town where I did my counseling. In one of the church’s children’s playrooms, I sit in a chair in the back and flip Pastor Hughes’s cell in my hand again and again. I haven’t made the call. Not yet. Something’s holding me back. Years of fear, years of being told not to, years of wondering what would happen if I did.

  I watch as Isabelle plays with the Hughes children. They are adorable girls with bright smiles, and they are gracious and welcoming to my sister. No matter how friendly they are, Isabelle is shy and rarely talks. It’s tough for her to engage, and that breaks my heart. My sister holds on to her doll as if her life depends on keeping her close.

  “I can’t believe I’m in a church, Tink. Two times in a year is a record for me, but I’ll admit you’re worth it.”

  My heart leaps at the sound of Jesse’s voice, and I’m out of my seat. I ram into him and he doesn’t rock with the impact. Instead, he weaves his arms around me and holds me close. I bury my head into h
is chest and for the first time since I was dragged out of his truck, I can breathe.

  A light touch on my head and then another. He’s kissing me and each one is like medicine on a wound. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I draw back and his green eyes are so sad that I grab both of his hands for support. For me and for him. I just lied. I’m not fine. I’m anything but fine and I need to start being honest, beginning with being honest with myself. “It happened again last night.”

  “What?”

  The words become lodged in my throat, but I’m done being silenced. “Dad hit Mom again.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  Did he? The instinct is to say no, that it was just a push and a shove, but I think of how my back is sore and of the bruise forming on my wrist. I think of how Jesse told me that being hit once was enough. I think of the sadness and sense of betrayal.

  I loved my father, and I had thought that he loved me. The ends of my mouth turn down as they quiver. “He shoved me.” And because I can’t think about it anymore, I place my hand in the air to stop the flood of anger that I know is poised on the tip of his tongue. “Pastor Hughes thinks I should call the police.”

  “He shoved you?” Jesse cups my face with the palm of his hand and the touch is so tender, I’m nearly undone. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No, but I’m here and not there. That’s good, right?”

  “What do you think?” he asks. “Of calling the police?”

  I think Jesse shouldn’t have a large lump on his head. “Oh my God.”

  I reach up, barely brush the wound, and Jesse winces. “I’m okay.”

  “Did the police do that?”

  “Marshall’s handling everything so don’t worry about me. We need to focus on you.”