“On some level, you’ve always understood that what happened to you when you were a little girl was wrong,” Nancy says. “Which is why it’s confusing when people pay any kind of attention to you. Healthy interactions can get all mixed up with the unhealthy experiences of your past. Being primed can make it hard to sort out which behaviors are healthy and welcome, and which are unhealthy and harmful. Because just like when your father molested you, it made you feel special and important when the man between the walls singled you out. But it also hurt.”
He had looked at me like he recognized me. He said, “It’s her! She’s here!” And it made me think we had a special connection, like maybe he noticed something special about me. But it had only lasted until the searing pain split my skull.
“Now let’s talk about consent,” Nancy continues. “It’s important for you to remember that you didn’t consent to being primed or molested by your father, Emily. You couldn’t consent, no matter what you may have said or how you may have acted. You were an innocent child. And you didn’t seek or consent to attention from the man between the walls. He assaulted you. Do you understand?”
I nod, hoping beyond hope that what she’s saying is true.
“Listen carefully, Dear. Sex isn’t bad when it’s between consenting adults. Being desirable isn’t bad. Attraction isn’t bad…when you consent to it—something you can only do consciously and soberly. Just because you feel attraction does not mean you consent to anything. Attraction and desire are not the same things as consent. If you choose to kiss a different person every day, or go out with a boy one week and a girl the next, there’s nothing wrong with that at all, as long as everyone involved is a consenting adult. Do you understand?”
I nod. The word CONSENT shivers through me. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but it’s as if I’m actually comprehending its meaning and how it applies to me as an individual for the first time in my life.
“I’m going to tell you something else that might not make much sense at first. It’s something that so many people go their entire lives confused about: Things aren’t bad because they make you feel good. You aren’t bad for enjoying things that feel good.”
My eyes grow bigger and rounder with every word she says.
“It sounds evil, doesn’t it? Almost dirty. Our society has worked very hard to teach us that we can’t trust ourselves, that we must deny our impulses. That our bodies will lead us astray. That to give in to our natural inclinations is base and crude and vile. That the only way we can achieve anything good or worthy in this world is to repress our innate desires.
“From a very young age we’re taught that our emotions are faulty, especially strong emotions: we should be embarrassed when we cry because brave people don’t cry, only weak people do. Passionate people are often described as losing their heads or being out of control. Sometimes, people are even suspicious when they feel too happy.” Nancy knocks on the wood desk next to her chair and arches her eyebrow at me. “You’ve seen it happen, or experienced it yourself, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit, awe in my voice. “I’m always suspicious when I feel too happy, because I know something bad is about to happen that will ruin it. That’s why I hate hope.”
“Tell me, Emily. How much happy is too much? Why do you suppose you hate hope? What are you afraid of?”
“I guess I’m afraid that I don’t deserve happiness.”
“And does your Heart tell you that, Emily, or is it your head?”
“My head.” Definitely my head.
Now it’s Nancy’s turn to nod. “All that conflicting information from society, from religion and philosophers, from politicians and marketers and well-intentioned family members and friends. It’s all just Noise. Turn it off. Take yourself off of autopilot. Notice your conditioned reactions. When your Heart speaks to you, notice the sensations in your body. Ask your Heart what would happen if you didn’t judge and punish yourself for your emotions. Ask your Heart—not your Brain—if it’s really so embarrassing to celebrate life and light in a crypt? Or if it’s really the worst thing in the world to fall head-over heels in love with someone you’ve just met, and then to fall in love with someone else the next day? Does being attracted to someone automatically mean you’re going to end up fucking like rabbits and creating dozens of babies who’ll grow up to be wards of the state?” Nancy laughs.
My mouth falls open. She just said ‘fucking like rabbits’.
“Be kind to yourself, Emily. Don’t give up on self-hypnosis, just yet, okay?”
“Okay.” And I don’t shove away the hope blooming in my chest, either. This time I let it swirl and swell.
“Well, that’s probably enough for now.” Nancy pats my knee. “Just know: you are a good person, Emily. Better than good. Your power isn’t bad because it’s strong. You aren’t bad because you connect easily with others. Your sexuality isn’t shameful, and neither are your wings. You’re a warrior, Emily. Consider this: you’re much easier for someone like the High Queen to control when you’re struggling under the weight of perpetual self-doubt than when you’re a Shield Maiden armed for battle. Now, let’s go make those sandwiches, hmmm?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Four peanut butter and honey, four peanut butter and raspberry jam, four turkey and cheddar open-faced in front of me on the giant cutting board in mid-assemblage.
I’m still shaken and worn from everything I saw and everything I left behind in the First Realm, and of course I’m worrying about Jacob being way too far away from me, but Nancy’s words have alleviated some of the weight on my chest. I’m tentatively hopeful and have nearly shaken off all the dread and anxiety I felt coming out of self-hypnosis.
Kaillen is coming with us on our hike. I can’t wait to be out in the world just like a normal girl with her normal brother and sister on a hike in the normal redwoods with her hottie boyfriend.
Kaillen stows water bottles and soda cans in the little cooler, piling ice chips on top. Aidan pulls on his backpack while Nancy oversees the lacing up of Claire’s hiking boots.
“Emily, a word please.” Aunt Meg is suddenly beside me. I turn to rinse my hands in the sink so I can follow her out of the kitchen, but she stops me with a wave.
“Finish this up. We don’t want to make everyone wait on us.”
Yes Ma’am, I salute in my mind.
“You’re my great-niece, Emily. It should go without saying that your behavior reflects upon me and my household.”
I have no idea what she’s getting at. I keep my head down, busying myself with putting tops on the sandwiches, cutting them into neat diagonal halves, and placing them in plastic sandwich bags.
“You embarrassed yourself and our entire family at church today,” she continues.
Oh God. Because Claire was lying across my lap and I was tickling her back. Not the most reverent of postures.
Claire’s eyes peek up above the counter at me from the sofa in the living room, guilty.
“Oopsies,” she mouths.
“I’m sorry, Meg. I know that wasn’t respectful. I shouldn’t have let…”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the Pastor. What were you thinking, Young Lady? First flirting with Minali’s boyfriend Brady and then throwing yourself at the Pastor like that? You had your arm around him in the middle of the chapel! He’s a married man, Emily. Do you think his wife enjoyed watching you smile up at him like that?”
My lungs flatten in a trash compactor of shock.
“Do you really need that much attention? Back in Dallas, girls may go around making eyes at every boy who breathes, and I know you say you’ve had experiences in your past which may have damaged your judgment, but let me be crystal clear: that is not how a self-respecting young woman behaves. Toss Gabe off like an old shoe as soon as he leaves and throw yourself at Kaillen if that’s what you need to do. They are both single and can decided for themselves if they want to put up with that. But I won’t let someone I’m responsible for t
ry to seduce a man of the cloth in broad daylight where all the neighbors can see.”
It’s gone dead silent in the kitchen and front room. Even the birds outside the open window have stopped chirping.
“But he put his arm around me…”
“You’re defending yourself? Everyone saw the way you were fawning over him, Young Lady,” she levels her accusation menacingly. “You made a spectacle of yourself.”
“I didn’t!” Did I? Was there something in my posture, my expression, the look in my eyes I didn’t know about that makes her think these awful things? I know I didn’t ask for the Pastor’s attention. In fact I didn’t even want it when it was so creepily bestowed on me. But what if there was something subconscious going on? Wait. No. Nancy said unwanted attention is never my fault.
“Don’t argue with me, Emily. You’ll apologize to Pastor Baker when he visits tonight.”
“I WON’T!” The shout howls up my windpipe with such force my eyes bulge.
“Lower. Your. Voice. You will do exactly as I say if you are to remain under my roof.”
My next words start barely louder than a whisper, but by the end of my sentence they’re louder than a foghorn.
“You horrid, miserable, disguSTING COW. YOU’RE A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING!”
Three of the sandwiches have fallen to the floor, victims of the rage pouring out of me. I kick them across the kitchen and storm to the guest room, slamming the door behind me.
Oh God. What have I done? I collapse on the bed.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Kaillen.
Wow. Where did that come from?
I want so bad to believe he’s talking about what Meg said and not about my tantrum.
My phone buzzes again.
Come on. Everybody’s in the car waiting. Just apologize to Meg and it will blow over.
I burrow under the covers, staring at my phone.
He wants me to apologize. To Meg.
My temples pound with the pressure of holding back what I can already tell are going to be some really nasty tears. I always apologize. Always. And yeah. Maybe I’m immature and selfish for ruining everyone’s day. Maybe what I said was cruel. But I’m not cowering this time. I’m just not.
I’m really tired, I text back. I’m going to take a nap. I’ll go with you guys next time.
Knuckles rap softly at the guest room door just as Kaillen’s next text buzzes on my screen.
You already took a nap. Open up. You need a hug.
I leap up and press my forehead against the door. “Please go away, Kaillen,” I beg. “I just need to be alone for a little while.”
No answering whisper. No buzzing text. He’s just gone.
Well, what did I expect? I told him to go away.
I stare at my phone a minute longer, hoping to see his replying iMessage dots appear.
Nothing. I’m simultaneously weeping and raging inside.
With a permanent undoable left swipe of my thumb, all his messages disappear before I can stop myself. Then I block his number and delete his contact. This way I can pretend his messages merely aren’t getting through to me instead of dealing with the truth: he’s not going to text me anymore.
God, I’m so pathetic.
On autopilot I make up the bed. I should probably put the sheets and the sweat-stained comforter in the wash, but I’m in no mood to do laundry.
When I hear the latch catch shut on the screen door, I stop fighting the inevitable. My inflamed sinuses clog immediately as stinging tears wriggle out, burning determinedly down my cheeks while my chest heaves with sobs.
Maybe a shower will help me calm down? I poke my head out of the room quietly, turning up the volume receptors in my ears. The house is dead silent, but I still tiptoe down the hall, peeking around the corner into the kitchen and out the picture window.
The van is gone. I’m alone.
Why do some tears hurt so much more than others? The hot water from the shower soothes my raw cheeks, but every time I think I’ve got the crying under control it starts up again. It finally stops about the same time the hot water runs out. Huddled pathetically in my towel, I wipe the steam from the mirror to see my little piggy eyes staring back at me. My lids are swollen a thick purple-pink and my lashes poke out at odd angles. I’d win top marks in a freak show, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not planning on seeing anyone for a long, long time.
I fold and hang my damp towel back on the rack, and dress in cut-off jeans and a tank top.
My phone buzzes.
TELL ME HOW I SHOULD HAVE HANDLED THAT DIFFERENTLY
I don’t recognize the number with the 707 area code, but I do recognize the stern tone in yelly caps sans punctuation. It can only be Aunt Meg.
Instant tears, a full force onslaught that evacuates all the accumulated snot my sinuses were using to patch up the damage from before. She wants me to grovel.
A horrifying thought occurs to me: What if they’ve turned around and are on their way back right now so Aunt Meg can lecture me some more in person for being a slut?
I have to get out of here.
First I grab my phone charger from the nightstand, along with my lip-gloss. Next, I pick my drivers license, Mom’s debit card that I’ve been holding for months, and her Kroger Club card from my frayed wallet. I don’t even know if they have Krogers in Cali, and I doubt there’s much money left in Mom’s checking account…unless Aunt Meg somehow forgot to take her off direct deposit when she went into rehab.
I’m in go mode. Fight-or-flight adrenaline zaps the backs of my legs with hurry-up energy. I head to the kitchen and gather several water bottles from the fridge, cramming them in a reusable Trader Joe’s grocery bag from the pantry, along with some protein bars and a few apples. I retrieve my flannel shirt and two pair of leggings from the laundry room, and then I race back to the guest room to grab my well-worn paperback copy of The Ocean at the End of the Lane.
I imagine Nancy would say something like, Everyone wants to run away sometime, but running away isn’t what healthy people do.
Whatever. I’ve never pretended to be healthy. Besides, I’m not running away. I’m just getting some fresh air. By myself. For a really long time.
And possibly never coming back.
Because I can’t handle Aidan and Claire watching while I screw up yet again. I can’t handle the ever-present reminder I get when I look at them that Jacob has chosen Dad over us. I can’t handle knowing that Mom probably overheard Meg’s accusations from behind the closed door of her room.
Impulsively, I snag Kaillen’s old Vegas-gold Scotts Valley High School Falcons sweatshirt from the back of a kitchen chair and slip it over my head.
My phone buzzes again. I check it with dread thudding in my veins.
I WOULD APPRECIATE AN ANSWER YOUNG LADY
Heart pounding, I grab the teeming Trader Joe’s bag and push out the back door, leaving through the side gate. It isn’t until I’m out of the yard and concealed behind birches on the path following the road that I dare text back with trembling fingers.
I’m sorry, Aunt Meg. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have said those things and I’m sorry.
But I’m not. I know it was stupid and I know it was wrong, but I’m still not sorry.
A glob of snot drops onto the screen of my phone. Gross. I wipe it away with my sleeve and watch her little dots appear. She’s responding.
YOU OFFENDED ME DEEPLY
YOU MAY NOT AGREE WITH THE THINGS I SAY BUT I EXPECT YOU TO TREAT ME WITH RESPECT
YOU ARE A GUEST IN MY HOME
YOU CALLED ME A COW AND A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING
Her rapid-fire succession of legitimate grievances imbed in my guilty conscious like poison darts.
I’m sorry, I text back.
YOU HAVE A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT THE WORLD YOUNG LADY
I know. I’m sorry, I repeat.
Heaviness weighs me down like two thousand-pound anvils hooked to my
clavicles and dragging behind me on the ground. I don’t want to learn one more thing about the world. About any world. I set my phone to silent and shove it in my back pocket, starting off down the path without knowing where I’m going, numb. Images of Aidan, Claire, and Jacob float on the stage of my mind, but I push them away. As Jacob would be only too happy to remind me, I’m not their Mom and they’re not my responsibility. I’m beginning to wonder if they wouldn’t be better off without me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The guttural growl of a vehicle approaching on the road sends my pulse racing. I shrink behind the nearest tree trunk and think desperately skinny thoughts.
Why is it slowing down? Why would anybody stop right there in the middle of the road?
Crap. Did someone see me?
I curse Kaillen’s stupid yellow sweatshirt. I might as well be wearing a searchlight.
“Please-please-please just keep driving,” I pray under my breath. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
“Emily Alvey, is that you?”
No no no. PLEASE NO.
“Sweetie, are you lost?” It’s Minali, and she knows perfectly well I’m not lost. The Vineyard is literally around the bend.
There’s an unmistakable note of triumph in her voice, like she can’t believe her luck in landing a chance to humiliate me. You’d think the rich and popular would have something better to do with their time other than torment people like me. Polish their posh iPhone cases or something.
A car door opens with a squeaky complaint. That doesn’t sound like the custom Lexus SUV I imagined Minali driving.
Curious, I shift the teensiest bit, peeking around the tree trunk.
Oh God.
A rust-colored four-door Jeep with an enormous wheelbase dominates the entire two-lane road, hogging the solid white center line, exuding machismo. Minali’s bf, Brady, sits behind the wheel with his left arm hanging out the window while the fingers of his other hand tap the wheel in an unstudied rhythm. His inscrutable shades wink a red-orange flame of midday sun back at me.
Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel Page 16