Broken Dreams (Fatal Series Book 3)

by Callie Anderson

  “You can’t say anything.” Ethan’s eyes were wide.

  “But—”

  “You can't, Les!” he pleaded. His hands rested on my shoulders and I saw the pain in his eyes.

  “He hurt him.” I shook my head. “He told them to get rid of him.”

  “Leslie, if you tell a soul, he will kill me.” His words were like the stab of a knife, deep in my heart. “And then he will kill my mother. And Charlie.”

  “But we can't let him get away with it.” I didn’t want Jerry to hurt Ethan or his family, but he needed to pay for what he did.

  “What choice do we have?” Ethan released my shoulders and ran his hands through his hair.

  “We can go to the cops,” I suggested.

  He rested his elbows on his knees. His eyes were glued to the sun like mine had been earlier. He too felt defeated. Shaking his head, he looked over at me. “We can't. My father owns them.”

  “So we don't say anything?” I asked, my eyebrows furrowed with confusion.

  Ethan sighed in defeat. “No, not ever.”

  “Ethan, I don’t know—”

  “You can’t say anything, Les. Please!” His eyes looked deep into mine, pleading with me. I didn’t want to ruin the friendship I had made with Ethan. And the last thing I wanted was for Jerry to hurt him.

  “Okay.” I nodded.

  He reached across the bed and grabbed my hand. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  It was a simple sentence that forever bound us.

  6

  PRESENT

  My mother and I take turns pacing the small waiting room. The doctors said it will be an eight-hour procedure, but when six hours pass and no one appears with an update, we begin to worry. The effects of the tequila vanished a long time ago and I find myself craving more. I need something to help me escape my current reality.

  “Did you have big plans for today?” my mother asks when it’s her turn to walk around.

  I sigh and twirl my hair around my finger, it’s a nervous tick I’ve never been able to get rid of. My father’s in surgery, I’m in a town I swore I’d never come back to, and I’m forced to have a conversation with a woman who is utterly disappointed in me. “No, I usually don’t do much,” I say in a low voice. “I’m normally busy with work so there’s not much time for anything else. I was in Los Angeles visiting a friend for Christmas when you called.”

  “What do you do?” She doesn’t look at me when she asks. My own mother has no idea what I do for a living. I doubt she even knows where I live.

  “I’m a national account manager for a company based in Chicago.”

  My mother stops and looks over at me. “Chicago?”

  I clear my throat. “Yes, I moved there about three years ago.”

  She huffs in disappointment. “It’s like you’re a complete stranger to me.”

  I shrug, not knowing what else to do. The disappointment is thick in the small room. Never did she imagine I would work a nine-to-five job.

  “Does your father know?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “I’m surprised he never told you. I guess you never cared to ask.”

  “Don’t.” She raises her hand. “Don’t turn this around on me. You’re the one who left and never came back.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Tears begin to form in my eyes. “I never looked back because eight years ago, when I was the one in this hospital and needed you to comfort me, you abandoned me. When they told me I would no longer dance, you walked out of my room and never stepped foot back in. You left me crying and alone when all my dreams were broken.”

  “You shattered your own dreams, Leslie. You were a love struck puppy following that boy around. It was his fault. I devoted my life to making you great.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say with a sob, and then I stand to face her. “You were the best coach I could have asked for. I trained hard to please you. I ate less to please you. I worked harder to please you. In that hospital room, though, I needed my mother, not my coach.”

  “Excuse me.” A voice cuts through our argument. We both turn to face the doctor standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m here to give you an update.” His eyes are kind and I know he is doing everything he can to maintain a stoic expression.

  My mother holds her hand over her heart and we both wait for any news on my father.

  “There was a complication during surgery.” I gasp and wrap my arm around my mother. “Lawrence went into cardiac arrest. We were able to resuscitate him but his heart didn’t beat for a while which means his brain wasn’t getting the adequate oxygen it needed. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to tell if there is any neurological damage until we’re finished with surgery and he regains consciousness.”

  The doctor continues to speak but my hearing stops working. My father could have brain damage. Everything moves in slow motion, and I do everything in my power to hold my mother up. Darlene has many flaws, but she is a dedicated wife to my father. If anything happens to him, I don’t know how she will recover.

  “When can I see him?” my mother asks. Maybe she is stronger than I give her credit for.

  “He’s still in surgery but as soon as he’s in the recovery room I’ll notify you.”

  The doctor walks out of the room, and my mother turns toward me. My hands rest on her shoulders and I realize we are supporting each other, both physically and emotionally. Tears drip down her cheeks, and for the first time in many years, we hug and cry in each other’s arms.

  The week passes in a blur and I find myself going through the motions and functioning on autopilot. After my father awoke from surgery, it was evident that he did, in fact, suffer brain damage. His speech is impaired and he has lost most of his mobility. He’ll be transferred to a rehabilitation wing of the hospital, but the doctors have to ensure his heart is strong enough before they release him.

  The stress weighs heavy on my shoulders. My week of vacation is almost up, and I’m not ready to leave their side, not when they need me the most. My mother spends countless hours at the hospital. We take shifts sitting with Dad and keeping him company but it’s heartbreaking watching him try to communicate to no avail. Most nights when I come home, I find my mother curled up on the couch crying.

  Yes, Darlene is complicated in her own way, but she’s still my mother and needs me here. It’s not easy being the caretaker to my parents, especially when not so long ago, I felt as if I didn’t belong with them. It isn’t that I don’t love them; it’s the constant feeling that I let them down—all because I fell in love.

  Ethan.

  My love for him has turned to hate over the years. He broke a piece of me. A piece that has never mended.

  The pure dread of reliving or seeing anyone from my past is the reason I never turn on a single light in the house while my mother is at the hospital. The sooner my father gets better, the sooner I can go home. Away from this town and all the memories it holds.

  I'm cleaning the kitchen counter when the house phone rings. At first, I debate whether I should answer it, but I see the telephone screen and realize it's my father’s health insurance company.

  "Hello?" I say holding the phone between my shoulder and ear.

  “Hi, may I speak to Mrs. Sutton?"

  “Mr. Sutton isn't here. Can I help you with anything?" I wipe the dishcloth along the countertop.

  "My name is Ana with Gate United Health. I'm calling from the claims department. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, not at all."

  "I’m calling regarding the recent claim submitted to us by Freeman Hospital. It states that Mr. Sutton will be transferred to a rehab facility within the next few days. Unfortunately, we can't approve this claim at the moment.”

  “Why not?” I rest my lower back against the counter.

  “I’m afraid your insurance is scheduled to be terminated at midnight tonight.”

  "I'm sorry, what? How? Why?" I can’t mask the confusion in my voice.

 
; “We were notified that Mr. Sutton’s employment was recently terminated. In order for the coverage to continue under a portable plan, the application needs to be submitted by the end of the day today. The package was sent out last week and I’m calling to make sure we get everything squared away."

  My father lost his job? Does my mother even know? I move from the kitchen and sit at the table. “So, his coverage will continue as long as the forms are submitted today?”

  "Yes, along with the premium."

  My hand massages my scalp. “Can I do this over the phone or online?"

  “I can email you a link if you'd like."

  I sigh with relief. “That would be perfect.” I provide Ana with my email address. The second I hang up the phone, I rush to my father’s home office, log on to his computer, and fill out the forms. Luckily, his personal information is at my disposal in the stacks of papers on his desk.

  Once I’m finished, I sit back on the leather chair and glance at the papers on his desk. My father isn’t an irresponsible man. He spent hours teaching me the value of a good job when I was younger. My shoulders sink as the stress keeps piling on them. How will he find a job with his condition? My mother hasn’t worked in years. After I left, she closed down her studio. That studio was her happy place.

  I glance at the time and realize my mother is probably ready to come home for the night. Jogging to the kitchen, I grab the keys and head over to the hospital to tag her out. My mind replays the conversation I had with Ana, followed by panic. What will my parents do to survive?

  The hospital is busy when I arrive. Ambulances light up the sky and I can tell it’ll be a busy New Year’s Eve. Waving at the security guard at the main entrance, I make my way to the elevator.

  My mother is sitting on the recliner when I enter the room. Her hair is pulled back like always and she looks so peaceful. The frown lines that have taken a new space on her forehead have disappeared. I feel an ache in my chest as I walk over to her. My hand rests on her shoulder and she looks up at me.

  “You’re back already?” she whispers.

  I nod. “How is he?”

  Her muscles tighten under my skin. “Better, I guess. He’s recovering but still not well enough to transfer to rehab for another week.”

  I bite my lip and release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Mom, do you think I can talk to you?”

  “Is everything all right?” She turns to face me, her eyebrows furrowing as she waits for me to answer.

  “Yeah. Um . . .” I pause, not knowing how to explain it all to her. I pull a chair toward her and take a seat. “When I was at the house, the insurance company called.” I take her hands in mine. “They notified me that Dad is no longer employed and his health insurance was about to lapse.”

  My mother sighs. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I forgot to send that in.”

  “So, you knew about him losing his job?”

  “Yes, of course.” She swallows and holds her head up. “This is all my fault.” Her voice cracks.

  “Mom.”

  “No, it is.” She shakes her head. “I received the papers regarding our insurance termination, and when I confronted him about it we argued. During our argument he started to feel the pain in his arm. Your father was under a lot of stress.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, Mom.” Tears pool in my eyes. “And he will be fine.”

  “I don’t know what to do. Even with the insurance, his medical bills will cost us a fortune.”

  “I can help. I have some money in my savings. I can take a few weeks off from work to help. And Dad has always been really good with his money. I’m sure you guys can dip into your savings.”

  My mother’s lower lip quivers and she lowers her head. “Leslie, we have nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We put all our eggs in one basket. Calvin, your father’s business partner, drained the company’s assets. Your father took out another mortgage on our house and emptied our savings so he could continue to pay the employees. I have no idea what we’ll do.” My mother reaches in her purse and pulls out a tissue. “What if your father isn’t the same after rehab? What if he can’t work anymore? We’ll have to file for bankruptcy. We’ll lose everything.”

  The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. “Don’t say that.” I shake my head. “What about . . . What about your dance studio?”

  “I haven’t been there since you left. We were renting it out for some time, but it’s been vacant for a while now.”

  “You can open it back up. Teach again. You were great.”

  “What about your father? Who will be with him? I can’t be both places at once, Leslie.” My mother raises her voice, frustration pouring out with every breath.

  I sit back, feeling defeated. A few minutes pass before I speak. “I can take a leave of absence. FMLA without pay will hold my job for twelve months. I probably won’t need it all but that should be plenty of time to figure things out. I can help you at the studio.” My voice is so low that it’s barely a whisper. As if on cue, my ankle begins to throb and I find myself stretching it.

  “Are you still dancing?”

  “I haven’t since . . .” I shrug, not wanting to admit that I haven’t slipped on my ballet flats since the accident. “But I can teach. Those who can’t do teach, right?”

  My mother nods and the conversation between us dies. Realization sets in. I’ll be re-opening her dance studio. A studio she bought for me. A studio where I spent countless hours dancing, rehearsing, and where the wood floor is embossed with my sweat, blood and tears.

  I abandoned it, and now I am finally coming back.

  “I have to make a quick call,” I notify my mother and then walk around the corner to dial Chloe’s number.

  “Happy New Year!” Chloe sings into the phone.

  “Hey, Chloe.” I say barely above a whisper.

  “Everything okay? How’s your dad?”

  I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to have to stay here a little bit longer. Things are much worse than we thought.”

  “Oh, no, Leslie. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” I press my back against the cool cement wall. “I’m going to call Sherry in HR tomorrow and file for FMLA. Can you please just make sure Drew doesn’t screw up any of my accounts.”

  “Babe, your father is in the hospital. Don’t you dare worry about any of your accounts. I got you covered.”

  Slowly I massage my scalp. “Thanks, Chloe.” I hang up and slide my phone into my purse.

  I’m staying in the one place I swore I’d never return to.

  7

  PAST

  Two Years Later

  The tapping on my bedroom window woke me from a deep sleep. This was the fourth time this week that Ethan was seeking escape from his father and my heart was breaking for him. It had been two years since the first time he climbed into my room.

  My fingers held the white wood frame and slid it up the track. “You okay?” I mumbled when he was inside. Things had gotten worse since I witnessed the whole garage incident, and my heart constantly raced, wondering if he was alright.

  “Yeah.” He spoke softly, and I knew from the sadness in his eyes that he was lying. But at least he was safe.

  Tossing him my extra pillow and the quilt that rested at the bottom of my bed, I crawled back under the blankets. “Do you think it will ever stop?” I asked, looking up at the glowing stars my dad and I had stuck to my ceiling on my eighth birthday.

  “Probably not.” He exhaled, briefly I closed my eyes praying that I could take away his pain. The pain I assumed was rooted deep in his chest.

  “Why don’t you call the cops?”

  “We’ve been over this, Les. What are they gonna do?” I heard him shuffling on the floor.

  Rolling toward him, I tucked my hands under my cheek. “You can tell them the truth. We can tell them what we saw; we can make them look for Joey.”

  �
�My dad is a bad man, Leslie. Even if they did believe us, he would buy his way out of trouble and then me, my mom, and my brother would pay for betraying him.” Ethan lifted his hands and tucked them under his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ethan.”

  He didn’t respond. The hatred he felt for Jerry didn’t allow him to say it was okay anymore. We all knew it wasn’t okay.

  At an age when you need your old man to show you the ropes, his father opened Ethan’s eyes to abuse. Each night Jerry laid a finger on Joyce was another nail slammed into Ethan’s coffin.

  “It will be okay,” I still whispered in the darkness of the room.

  “Yeah.” He paused. “When I get the hell out of this town.”

  Ethan and I had the same discussion for two consecutive years.

  The banging on my bedroom door startled me. I sprang from bed with my fist clenched to my chest. The sun was bright in my room. I was late.

  “Leslie?” My mother rattled the bedroom doorknob. “Why is your door locked?”

  I glanced around my bedroom and took in my surroundings. Ethan was on the floor fast asleep.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll be right there,” I said and tossed my pillow on Ethan.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay? Why is there a lock on your door?”

  “Mom, I’m fine! Give me a minute.” Ethan jumped up from the floor. His eyes were as confused as mine. I yanked the quilt off the floor and tossed it on my bed. “Hide in the closet,” I mouthed to him. His long legs sprinted across the room and he ducked inside the closet. I brushed my hair back and gently opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” My mother pushed open the door, her arms crossed at her chest.

  “I was sleeping.” It was the truth.

  “Why was your door locked?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. “When did you buy a lock for your bedroom?”

  “It’s always had a lock.” I lied hoping she never noticed that I had Ethan install a new one and walked over to grab my tights and leotard.