Apart from the green-eyed boy she kept in her heart, Logan James had been Lena's only constant for over three years. Unlike Nate, Logan always had time for her, regardless of what might be going on in his life at the time. She trusted him implicitly and loved him as though he were her brother. Now he was gazing hopefully at her from across the table, silently pleading for the support she’d just promised him. How was she supposed to be able to let him go? ...How could she possibly do anything else?
“I…” Lena faltered, mentally compressing her emotions into more manageable shapes. “I support you. I hate it… but if this is what you really want to do then…”
“It is. I think I’d be good at it, Lena. I’d like to go to college too someday, but this… At first, I thought I was being ridiculous to even consider it, but I spent a lot of time researching and talking to people. I know that this is what I want.” His sincere tone implored her to accept his decision without punishing him for it, and Lena sighed, knowing that she was being a bit selfish. This wasn’t about her.
“Then I’m glad you’re doing it,” she replied, sounding a little more genuine than she actually felt. “I hope it works out the way you want. Do you know what MOS you want?”
“Not yet,” Logan admitted, relaxing now that Lena had gone back to sipping her milkshake, a sure sign that the worst was over. He’d been expecting more of a blow-up, and he wondered if being in public might have inhibited her somewhat. They continued to discuss the possible ways that his career in the United States Army might play out as they finished their food and drinks.
As Lena lay in bed that night, her mind swirled with images of Logan in uniform. Shooting, running, shouting at his comrades, taking cover under gunfire… She shuddered, pushing the thoughts away. Logan would be leaving in just a few short months, and there was no way to know how often she might be able to see him after that. She’d become too dependent on him, she realized; the nauseating quiver of anxiety she felt now was proof of that. Lena had grown so accustomed to his presence in her life that she’d taken it for granted, assuming that he would choose some local college and still have time to spend with her. The possibility of Logan choosing another route altogether had never even crossed her mind. She knew, however, that he was most likely right about one thing; he would excel in the military. He had the right personality and temperament for it, and Lena now felt guilty for her initial reaction. Her friend had found the path he wanted for his future and had taken the first step. She should be happy for him.
That, of course, was much easier said than done. After another round of pointless self-castigation, Lena rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow, reaching out in her mind to the one person who never failed to comfort her.
Owen.
Chapter 5
2007
Owen winced as he eased gingerly into his chair for his first period class, knowing that he would have a difficult time focusing throughout the day. He’d spent the past eleven years enduring his mother’s reign of terror, and at one point, he’d concluded that it couldn’t possibly get any worse. He’d been wrong.
When he’d turned thirteen two years ago, Owen hadn’t expected his birthday to be any different from those that had preceded it. His parents would give him a few gifts to keep up appearances, and his mother would find a way to punish him for some perceived offense. As he’d gotten older, she’d gotten more creative. Not only had she continually found ways to spoil every happy moment he’d had, but she’d also come up with new ways to hurt him physically. When he’d gotten too big to lay over her knee, he’d been ordered to bend over the side of his bed while she belted him. It was humiliating and painful, but what she’d had in store for him next made that experience look tame by comparison.
On his thirteenth birthday, she’d led him into a room of their home that he’d never seen before. There was a hidden entrance in one of the seldom-used guest bedrooms that opened to reveal a narrow stairwell, which led to a subterranean level that Owen hadn’t even realized existed. The air was stale and a little damp due to the lack of adequate ventilation, and the recessed lighting cast eerie shadows about the room. The walls and floor were dark, cold stone, and odd fixtures protruded from them in various places. There were several oddly-shaped pieces of furniture, and two of the walls were lined with racks that held a variety of objects. As he’d slowly come to realize what the objects were, he’d felt his pulse quicken in fear, and the twisted smirk on his mother’s face had filled him with dread.
That had been their first trip to the room below, as Owen had come to call it in his mind. When his mother ordered him there, she would tell him to ‘go below’ as though she were a ship captain ordering a subordinate below decks. Those two words were never followed by a pleasant afternoon, whether she was punishing him with canes and whips or ‘rewarding’ him with oral sex. He seemed to leave the room feeling just a little heavier each time, as though the weight of their activities was slowly drowning his soul.
Owen Monroe was a smart boy, not only academically but also in terms of wisdom. Years of silent observation had taught him much about the world and the people in it. It no longer even crossed his mind to tell anyone about the kind of mother Vera was; he was all too aware of the fact that no one would ever take his word over hers. Her reputation as a charitable socialite was spotless. For years, she’d been touting herself as a saint who had rescued an abused child from poverty and given him a better life. Who would believe the damaged fifteen-year-old boy who hated to be touched over the woman who worked to raise millions each year for children who had truly been abused?
Vera had groomed her son to be a polite and charming young man, expecting him to perform as such at her many social events because it reflected positively upon her. Owen had managed to perfect his acting skills so well that, at times, he nearly had himself convinced, but appearances were greatly deceiving. Despite his mother’s best efforts to beat his phobia out of him, Owen still found physical contact to be extremely uncomfortable. He managed to push through just well enough to appear normal under most circumstances, but when Vera had added sexual abuse to the hell that was his life, she had made his aversion to touch much worse. This, of course, angered her immensely, and his involuntary flinches and gasps were directly responsible for many of the scars her bullwhip had left on his lower back.
She had delivered just such a punishment the day before, and Owen spent his school day being careful not to lean against the back of his seat. The only thing that kept him going was the promise of freedom from their typical ‘after school activities’ that day. It was the first time he could ever recall being excited to perform manual labor, regardless of the open welts that peppered the skin of his back.
Owen’s most recent encounter with the bullwhip had been the direct result of what she had called his ‘scheming’ in an attempt to get a little time away from her. Two days ago, they’d been at the Langfords’ for dinner, and Sean had offered to pay him for his help with a few odd jobs around their property. Some of the projects, like repainting the tall privacy fence, were a bit more than Eric could handle on his own. Owen had jumped at the chance to earn some money of his own, and Vera had been put on the spot and forced to give her consent. He’d seen the look on her face that evening and had known that he would pay dearly for his eagerness in volunteering to spend his afternoons somewhere other than the room below.
After breaking the skin six times, she had sneered at him that she hoped doing manual labor with those wounds would be as painful as he deserved.
Mary was off work that afternoon, and she greeted Owen with a smile and a cautious pat on the arm when he arrived. She was always careful to respect his boundaries, and she sensed that his phobia hadn’t been entirely resolved. Over the years, Mary had observed him with care and concern, always hoping to see a rare, genuine smile on his handsome face. She’d always been a bit puzzled over his austere personality, but she’d chalked it up to the abuse and neglect he’d suffered at such a formati
ve age.
From a professional perspective, she had often wondered if Owen suffered from a mild form of autism, as he displayed several of the most common markers. He was socially awkward and rarely spoke, and when he did interact, his speech and mannerisms were those of an adult rather than a child. He seldom made direct eye contact, and he was highly intelligent. Even his aversion to touch might have been explained by sensory processing deficits. It wasn’t enough for a diagnosis, however, as no one had any real idea whether his speech had been delayed from the onset or if his silence had simply been a reaction to trauma. He also showed no signs of stimming behaviors or fixations. When she’d voiced her observations to her husband, Sean had suggested that perhaps Owen was simply an introvert with an old soul.
“Eric’s already out back. I’ll bring you boys some water in a little while, okay dear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Langford, thank you,” Owen replied politely. Mary sighed and shook her head.
“Owen, I’ve told you at least a hundred times to call me Mary.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged, a small but mischievous grin playing about his lips. Mary laughed and rolled her eyes.
“Go on, then.”
Owen waved goodbye and headed out the back door to locate Eric, who was surveying a section of the privacy fence for the best place to start.
“Hey, man,” Eric greeted him with his standard ‘bro’ handshake. “Sorry you got roped into this. Usually they hire people to do shit like this, but my mom probably read some article that says manual labor is good for our immune systems or something.” He rolled his eyes, and Owen forced a laugh.
“Well, I’m getting paid.”
“No shit? Guess I better work on Dad when he gets home,” Eric grinned.
The boys worked for over an hour under the hot sun, passively discussing their teachers and the girls they went to school with. Eric was seventeen and went to a different school than Owen, and they didn’t have much in common. Still, it was hard not to like Eric. He was most assuredly one of the ‘popular kids,’ and he had a way of making people see the humor in just about any situation. Their personalities were too different for a close friendship, but Owen never got the impression that Eric judged him for his idiosyncrasies, and that meant a lot.
Mary nudged her way out the back door carrying a small cooler of ice and bottled water. She’d meant to bring the boys some refreshment sooner, but she’d been delayed by a phone call from work. Eric and Owen had their backs to her as she drew nearer, and just as she was about to get their attention, Owen unthinkingly lifted the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. The cooler fell from Mary’s hands as she gaped in horror.
“Oh my God, Owen! What happened to your back?!” she exclaimed, closing the distance between them quickly, the cooler all but forgotten.
“Um… Nothing, ma’am,” he faltered, tugging his shirt downward quickly.
“That’s not nothing, young man. Turn around and lift your shirt.” She used the firm tone she generally reserved for her children or errant employees, and Owen looked like a deer staring into the headlights of oncoming death.
“It’s… It’s okay,” he stammered. “It’s nothing to worry about it.”
Mary frowned in concern and alarm, and she watched Owen’s eyes flicker toward Eric as though he were embarrassed by his presence. He wasn’t making eye contact with either of them, and his clenched fists held the hem of his t-shirt in place. She realized quickly that he was shutting down, looking for an escape.
“Eric, take a break and get yourself some water. Owen, come into the house with me, please.”
Eric, who hadn’t seen anything, gazed back and forth between the two of them in confusion. His mother’s stern expression was one he knew better than to ignore, however, and he did as he was told without commenting on the strange turn of events. Owen had yet to move or look at anyone.
“Actually, Mrs. Langford, I think I should probably head home now. My mother will be expecting me for dinner.”
“You’ll do no such thing. In the house right now, young man.”
As they walked toward the house, Owen wondered if this was how it felt to walk to one’s own execution. Because there was no way his mother would let him live to see another day if he allowed Mary to see the marks on his back. He’d been so careful, so cautious every day of his life to keep his wounds concealed. He dressed for P.E. in the bathroom rather than the locker room. He didn’t participate in activities that would’ve required him to remove his shirt. Ever.
How did I let this happen? he berated himself. What else could leave marks like that? Maybe I can say I got jumped at school…
It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d lied to cover for his mother’s abuse. He’d been telling tales and making excuses his whole life, as though deceit were his first language and English his second. Before he had time to concoct a plausible cover story, however, they had made it to the kitchen, and Mary rounded on him with concern and fear in her eyes. He knew in that moment that he couldn’t lie to her. Not ever again.
“I can see that you’re afraid, dear, but you don’t have to be. I’m a doctor. I can help you. And you need help, Owen. Those wounds need to be treated so they don’t get infected, and you need to tell me how you got them. Who hurt you?”
Owen avoided her eyes and shook his head, unable to look at her heartbroken expression. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her compassion or her affection. She’d already saved him once; he had no right to hope that she might be able to do it again. Owen knew that she probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. She and his mother had been friends for nearly twenty years. She would probably call Vera and recommend a psych consult for pathological lying.
He’d tried to tell a teacher once when he was in second grade. She hadn’t believed him either. The school had called Vera, who had easily put their fears to rest, and when he’d gotten home, she had given him the worst beating he’d had in months. That had been the first and last time he’d dared to tell another soul about his mother’s abuse. He’d perfected the art of hiding what was really happening.
Mary watched his thoughts and memories wage war on his face, and she sighed in remorse. Something had been happening to this boy right under her nose, right under his parents’ noses, and no one had seen it.
“Alright,” she acquiesced. “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? I need to look at your back. I promise I won’t touch you without warning, and I won’t touch you more than absolutely necessary. I need you to trust me, Owen. Please let me help you.”
At long last, he looked her in the eye, silently begging her to either believe him or simply let it go. He felt his own eyes sting with tears as he slowly lifted his shirt over his head. He was glad that he couldn’t see Mary’s expression of horror when he turned his back to her and braced his arms against the kitchen counter. Her gasp of shock was bad enough.
Mary pressed both hands to her mouth to stifle the sob that rose quickly in her chest. Tears of heartbroken outrage streamed from her eyes, and she felt nauseated as she got a good look at Owen’s back. She steeled herself, drawing on her years of medical experience, and she forced herself into a more professional mindset. Owen needed a doctor, and for the moment, that’s what she resolved to be. She took a deep breath and felt her head clear.
The skin was broken and healing in many places, and upon a closer examination, she could see now that they were welts. She’d never seen so many on one person, and she had no idea what could have caused them. She’d seen abuse victims with all manner of cuts and bruises, but none of the patients she’d cared for had carried wounds quite like these. The fact that some of the welts were older than others was perhaps the most disturbing part of the situation, coupled with the handful of actual scars that had long since healed. Mary realized with a start that she hadn’t actually seen Owen without a shirt since before they’d moved to Seattle.
How long has this been going on?
“I’
m going to get my bag, so I can clean and dress the wounds properly, alright? It’s just in the next room, and I’ll only be gone a moment,” she told him in a calm voice. Owen nodded, hearing the words she didn’t say. ‘Don’t even think about trying to leave.’
He hadn’t moved an inch when she returned to the kitchen carrying her medical kit, but she saw that his expression had gone blank. It was as though he’d located a switch in his brain that had allowed him to disengage for the sake of his own sanity. Mary wiped away another tear before washing her hands and laying out the necessary supplies on the counter. Before she began her task, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and snapped a few pictures, making sure to disable the tell-tale shutter sound effect of her smartphone.
Mary’s movements were slow and methodical as she cleaned each of the welts on Owen’s back, applying bandages to the ones that were open. She gave him a verbal warning of every action before she took it, explaining to him that he would need a round of antibiotics, since two of the welts looked like they might be infected. Owen struggled to keep his breathing steady for the duration of the treatment, telling himself repeatedly that Mary would never hurt him, that she was safe.
But would she believe him? Would she take his word over that of a woman she’d been friends with for so many years?
“Okay,” Mary said shakily as she handed him a clean t-shirt that belonged to Sean. It was slightly too big for Owen’s frame, and it made him look younger than his fifteen years. “Let’s sit down and talk. Drink this, dear.” She took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and slid it across the counter toward him.
Owen sat down at the kitchen table and watched as Mary took the seat on the adjacent side. He had no idea where to begin, and his indecision must’ve been evident in his features.
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