Now I remember everything.
~XoXo~
Valley, Age 6
I squeal in delight as I peel apart the shiny, pretty paper, revealing a stack of new books. It isn’t my birthday, but every time Uncle J visits he sure does make it feel that way. He makes me feel special. Maybe even important.
I tilt my head back until it feels like it hits my back. Uncle Jameson is a giant, but not a big, clumsy one like in Jack and the Beanstalk. He’s not ugly at all. It takes about two seconds of tilting my head back before I find his eyes. They twinkle down at me, two lines just beginning to crinkle on the sides.
“Thank you!” I yell, making sure to use my manners so he knows I love when he brings me surprises. I don’t ever want him to think I don’t like something—even the times I’m not as excited about the gift I open—because then he might stop. On that thought, I quickly add, “You are the best uncle ever!”
For some reason, his smile slides down his face a little, and the light in his eyes dims just a bit as he glances at my mother. But he quickly looks back at me, his smile lifting back into place even if his eyes aren’t as bright as they were.
“Who’s my best girl?” he asks, squatting down in front of me as he opens his arms.
“I am. Duh.” I lean into him, trying to reach all the way around him and knowing my hands will never meet on the other side.
Yeah, he’s definitely a giant. I still try to make a perfect circle with my arms every time I hug him. His own big arms wrap around me like a cage that makes me feel safe.
“Valley,” my mommy scolds me because of what she calls my newfound attitude. She sounds a little embarrassed, but Uncle J simply laughs.
Reaching in his back pocket, he retrieves something else wrapped up, but not in pretty packaging. I already know what it will be, even before he holds it out to me. This time Mommy scolds him. “Jameson, she can’t have sweets. It’s dinner time soon.” I glance over my shoulder to see her give him a stern look. It’s her I mean business look. From the way she’s sticking her hip out with her hand placed there, elbows bent, I can tell she really does means business.
Whenever Mommy directs that look at me, I don’t dare go against her. I know better. But glancing back at Uncle Jameson, I can see one side of his lips tilted up as he continues to hand me the piece of chocolate. He’s not afraid to disobey, he even does so with a smile on his face like he might enjoy the consequences. It must be because he’s so big.
I can’t wait ‘til I’m big enough to ignore orders, then I’ll get away with whatever I want. I’ll stay up late and watch movies I shouldn’t be watching, and read books I shouldn’t be reading, and I’ll go swing at the park even when my father says we can’t leave the apartment.
Maybe I should talk to Uncle Jameson about helping me learn how to disobey Father. I might be too small still, but I bet Uncle Jameson could get away with disobeying him just like he does with Mommy.
The lovable giant in front of me goes so far as to peel away the layer of paper around the chocolate, take a bite, then hold it up to my mouth so I can have some. The whole time he never stops looking directly at my mommy, like he’s daring her to do something. I take a bite of the delicious, sweet treat and take the rest of the bar from him so he can’t decide to eat it all.
Mommy always tries to make me eat vegetables. She hardly ever makes sweets and says they are bad for a woman’s figure, and not good for newly developing teeth. Sounds stupid to me, but I don’t tell her that.
Flickering his eyes back to mine, Uncle J says, “Alright, Sweetheart. How about you take your new books and your candy up to your room so I can speak with your mother about a few things. We’ll start dinner, and I’ll come up and get you when it’s ready.” He winks at me.
“Okay,” I beam at him, grabbing up my new things and bouncing all the way upstairs.
It doesn’t take long for me to read through my new books. Some of them are for bigger readers, and I’ll need Mommy’s help for that, so I toss them to the side. Deciding I’d like to color, I head over to my desk in the corner of the room, only to realize I’ve left everything downstairs. Remembering Uncle J said he’d come get me when supper was ready, I think for two seconds about finding something else to do, but coloring is really what I want to do.
Surely they won’t get mad if I just sneak down for a minute, grab my stuff, and head back to my room. I’ll be quiet, I won’t even say hello, and they’ll never know I was there.
My door creaks when it swings open too wide, but there’s a spot on the hardwood floor in front of it. I’ve learned, as long as the door doesn’t open past that spot, it won’t creak at all. I squeeze through the tiny crack and tiptoe across the hall toward the stairs.
This isn’t the first time I’ve snuck out of my room. I do it a lot. When I want to sneak into the kitchen for a snack. When I want to overhear the fights between my mom and my father to make sure he hasn’t hurt her. Sometimes just to be nosey.
Last time I was caught being nosey, Mom said being nosey isn’t very ladylike, that true ladies tended to their own business instead of sticking their nose in others’. Guess I’m not a true lady. Yet.
When I reach the stairs, I peer over the top of the banister to see if the coast is clear. With no Mother or Uncle in sight, I drop to my bumper and scoot quietly down one step at a time. Eventually, I reach the bottom, using one of the posts to help pull myself back up and onto my feet.
Taking one last look around the room, I sneak across the open area, passing by the kitchen as I head to the big, open window that overlooks the city. I love sitting here when I color.
Grabbing the pencil box, I lift it to my chest and turn back in the direction of the stairs. As I pass back by the kitchen this time, I catch some movement in the corner of my eye, and this time my eyes cut to the side of their own accord.
My gaze lands on the two figures in the kitchen just in time to see Jameson spinning Mom—who’s had been standing with her back to him as she stirs a pot on the stove—around to face him. He makes a cupped shape with his palm, and brings them up, slowly touching the side of her face. Her eyes lift to meet his, and although I can see his lips moving as he murmurs something to her softly, I can’t hear what is being said. Dipping his head, he presses their lips together.
Just like this isn’t my first time sneaking out of my room, it’s also not the first time I’ve seen two people kissing. I’ve seen Uncle Jameson kiss my mommy once before when they didn’t know I was watching; I’ve watched Father kiss Mommy many times. Curiously, I stand bolted to the floor as I continue to watch. I may be little, but I know when something isn’t meant for my eyes. This moment between them isn’t meant for anyone but them. Yet, here I am, staring. I’m curious because kissing is a mystery to me. Most girls and boys my age say something along the lines of “eww, cooties” when it comes to kissing. It doesn’t look to me like you’d get sick like they’re suggesting. At least not when Mommy kisses Uncle Jameson.
When my father kisses Mommy, it reminds me of a scene from one of those scary movies I sometimes catch when I turn on the TV after my bedtime. I turn the volume down until it reaches “0” and hit the subtitles button on the remote as I try to catch what words I can. Sometimes old black-and-white scary movies will be playing. My favorite of the ones I’ve seen, is the one with a villain in a cape. He’s tall, slender, pale, and has hair just as black as Father’s. The man from the movie—Dracula, I think the subtitles called him—often begins with kissing a beautiful woman, then hovers his lips over her throat. She struggles against him for a while, her face crumpled and her body stiffening up like a statue when she finally falls into a trance-like state. Finally, she sags to the ground, lifeless.
Mother’s body always goes stiff whenever Father kisses her, the same defeated and crumpled look on her face like the victim from the horror movie. Her arms always hang loose at her sides and I’ve noticed her turning her back to him whenever he releases her like she doesn’t want him
to see her face, which usually looks like she’s eaten something sour. There’s always a few inches of space between their bodies, which I think is her doing. She’s constantly backing away from him if he gets close. Watching them kiss, and then seeing the way she is for hours after he finally leaves the apartment, makes me think he really is a villain. He drains the life from her until she’s just barely here with me, weak and zapped of energy.
But when Uncle Jameson comes around, something magical happens. Maybe he’s a magician, or maybe he’s just a doctor who comes by just to cure her. It reminds me of one of those fairy tales I like so much, specifically, Snow White. Uncle J breathes the life back into her. I’m scared to think of what it would be like if he stopped coming around altogether, but luckily, he visits us all the time. When they kiss, her arms are always wrapped around him, their bodies pressed together down to their toes with her fists balled up around the fabric of his shirt like she doesn’t want him to go away. Which is what she’s doing right now. Her fists open up and she drops the fabric, her hands sliding up and around his neck and crossing behind.
My conscience, or I think that’s what it is, tells me to get moving before I’m caught. For once, I listen to it. I climb back up the stairs, squeeze back through my door, and begin coloring a picture. The picture is of a family of three people standing in the park. A swing-set is in the background, and a picnic set is off to the side, which is where the three people are sitting. A beautiful rainbow fills the sky overhead.
Finishing up, I write each person’s name above their stick-figure.
Me.
Mommy.
Uncle Jameson.
Finally, I write the date at the bottom, double-checking my calendar on my art desk to make sure I used the right one. I’ve never quite seen any calendars like the one I have. Uncle Jameson said he had it specially made for me by an artist. Each month I get to see a pretty picture the artist has drawn depicting a different fairytale story, and they are all some of my favorites. Just as I finish up, I hear the soft thuds of footsteps coming up the stairs. I know who they belong to before the door even opens. Mommy is so little she doesn’t make a sound. My father never comes up to my room, not ever.
I smile as Uncle Jameson opens the door and hide the picture behind my back.
“Your mom said to come tell you supper is ready. Between you and me, you better have an appetite after that chocolate bar, or it will hurt her feelings. Then she will be very mad with me.” His face goes all stern, but his voice is telling a joke.
“I’ll eat,” I assure him.
His eyes track the placement of my hands held behind my back.
“What’s that you’re hiding?” he asks, taking a step closer.
“Since you brought me a surprise, I made a surprise for you.” I pull the piece of paper around my side until I’m holding it up in front of me.
Reaching out, he takes the picture from my hands to study it. His eyes begin to look glassy, but then he blinks and the glass disappears.
“Wow. This is a very nice picture indeed. May I take it with me?” he asks.
“Duh. It’s yours, you sillyhead.”
He takes me in his arms once more. “Are there any other pictures you’ve drawn that have me in them?” his voice sounds thickened, like something is in his throat.
“No,” I reply honestly.
“Can you promise me something, my little Val?”
I look into his eyes, the same color as the chocolate he always brings me, and nod seriously.
“Don’t draw any more pictures with me in them,” he orders.
It makes me sad. My eyes begin to burn. “You don’t like it?” I ask, my voice sounding small. I’m not very good at drawing yet, it doesn’t look very real, but I thought at least the pretty colors I used would be good enough.
“I love it. In fact, I’m going to take it home and save it forever. But can we have a little secret just between me and you?”
I love secrets. Mommy once said I was her bestest friend in the world because I keep all of her secrets. I am not stupid. I don’t talk to my father about anything my mom does or says, ever ever ever. He gets mad when she makes the wrong choice for what dinner we’re to have when he comes home to see us. He gets mad when she wears the wrong thing, even though I think she always looks beautiful. So, I avoid speaking to him altogether, just like he ignores me. It’s easy to do and he’s only asked me a handful of questions about my mom. I always give him a shrug of the shoulders and answer the way she’s taught me: Hmm, I don’t know.
“Okay, what’s the secret?” I hold out my pinky finger in promise to stick to whatever he’s about to tell me.
“Try not to draw any more pictures with me in them, because your dad will have hurt feelings if he sees them. Then he will get mad with your mommy because his feelings are hurt. Understand?” His face drops down to eye level with me.
Gulping, I nod once again. Seemingly satisfied, he ruffles my hair then carries me down so that we can all eat supper together before he has to leave.
~XoXo~
Knowing death is imminent—knowing it’s coming, and expecting it—doesn’t mean it’s easy to accept. No, accepting death is whole different ballpark from simply knowing it’s on the way. There’s a lot to consider and to come to terms with before the idea can settle in.
For me, the first thing I’d have to accept is the loss of life. Not just my own, but my child’s. I’d have to accept my child’s life will never actually begin because he or she will never be born.
Will my mom have an autopsy performed?
Will she ever even find my body?
Because I’m sure she’ll know what’s happened to me, and if she just accepts that I’m dead without having to hear all the grizzly details an autopsy would surely provide her—and honestly what parent wants to hear all that?—she’ll also miss out on something I never told her.
But if I’m already dead, maybe it’s for the best. It might save her from an extra, tiny sliver of pain if she doesn’t find out she was going to be a grandmother. I don’t think I’ll ever come to terms with my child never even having a chance at life, not even in my final moments. My poor baby will never meet his or her Mommy, Daddy, or Nanny—or whatever it is my mother would want to be called.
My child’s father will never even know of his or her existence. He’ll never know that one day, when he decides to start a family with someone else and is expecting his first child, there was a whole other child he never even knew about. His true first child. My child’s father will never get to experience the fear, the joy, or the pure, raw love I’ve gotten to experience in the few short days since I knew of its existence.
There’s also the issue with Gray. Knowing him, he’s going to blame himself. I was so angry with him when I found out he was working with Jameson, that I never stopped to think about the why. Why would he leave behind his family, burrow his way into the life of an upper-class criminal, doing things I’m sure he hated, and staying far the hell away from me in the process?
Because of me.
I’m the only connection he has to Jameson, the only reason he’d have turned into this person I once referred to as his soulless clone. The only reason for him to completely alter who he is, to shift into the role of a different human being altogether, would be if he thought he could better protect me or eventually save me from the life I’ve come to loathe.
And my dumb ass didn’t tell him thank you or show any gratitude whatsoever.
My dumb ass showed him nothing but cantankerousness and bad temper.
I’ll try to make myself feel better now by blaming it on the hormones. If I could write one person out of all of them a letter, it would be him, hands down. I’d tell him not to blame himself—there wasn’t anything better he could have done. Even if he had known about the tracker and avoided leading them straight to my location, they’d have still found me eventually.
Then, I’d tell him I’m sorry for everything in the aforementioned.
So, in the end, I’d have to accept the loss of my own life, the loss of my child’s life, accept the pain of my mother, accept my child’s father will never know of their existence, and then, after all that, accept the pain and self-loathing, the self-blaming of Gray. And even worse, the fact that I never, ever, not once, told him I loved him.
I’ll never be ready to accept any of those things. I’ll never be okay with them.
So, even though I expect my death, I’m still planning to give Dominic Malone one hell of a fight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Valley
FORESEEABLE. THAT’S WHAT my future was destined to be from the day we skipped town and left the state of New Jersey. I had only been a child at the time, but even at such an adolescent age, I was well aware of the risk we were taking. Somehow I always knew it would come down to this; that I would die at the hands of the man who was my living, breathing, nightmare. It was as inevitable as the need to draw my next breath. And by hopping from town to town and swapping identities more quickly than I could memorize them, I was holding the air inside my lungs for as long as I possibly could. Sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool with the illusion of tranquility while watching the world pass by through the surface’s reflection. Eventually though, the unavoidable occurs; the body is forced to expel all its breath in one, lengthy whoosh. Dominic is that driving force causing me to expel all that air before I was ready. Only when I needed to take another breath, there was no oxygen to be found.
Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series Page 22