by Laney Wylde
I was sure she was just enamored with me because I resembled her favorite Native American. Positive, actually, because one night, Cash, Jo, and I were watching a movie in the basement when Sue decided to join us. She stood on the couch next to me and asked if she could braid my hair like Pocahontas. Before I could answer, she climbed to the back of the couch and draped her legs over my shoulders.
Cash flashed a sweet smile our way as his sister pulled on my hair.
“Sawyer, what’s this?” Sue asked, her tiny fingertip poking at the fleshy seven on the side of my head.
“It’s a scar.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I got a bad cut, and it didn’t heal quite right.”
“How’d you get cut?”
“Car accident.”
“Car accident? Did it hurt really bad?”
I felt Cash’s gaze, his listening ear. Keeping my glossy eyes on the TV, I answered, “Yeah, sweetie. It hurt really bad.”
I snapped my eyes to Cash’s. He knew, I could tell, that I had watched my dad die. Face sad, he flickered a sympathetic smile my way. I shrugged.
I did adapt to Sue following me around, and I even started to miss her when she wasn’t two steps behind me. So, it was half my fault that she crossed a line the fifth night I was there.
Jo’s bedroom door creaked open in the middle of the night, flooding the room with light from the hallway. I squinted my eyes open against the glare to see the silhouette of Sue in her fleece footie pajamas walking toward me, a stuffed animal tucked under her arm. She put her hand on my cheek and whispered in that loud way kids do, “Sawyer, I had a bad dream.”
Yeah, kid, they happen. What did she want me to do about it? She just kept staring at me with those haunting blue eyes, waiting for me to fix it for her. I asked the only thing I could think of, “What was it about?”
“I lost Bunny at the park, and Daddy wouldn’t take me back to find her.” Bunny, I assumed, was the tattered stuffed animal she was now cuddling to her cheek. Ah, these were the real tragedies.
I whispered, “I’m sorry,” because, really, what else was I supposed to say?
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
Um, what? No. Absolutely not. What would her parents or Cash think if they found their precious Sue sleeping in bed with a whore? They would think the worst. Abused people abused people, right? Not that I ever would. It was just that I already had.
How had I not figured this out sooner?
There were a dozen reasons this girl shouldn’t be around me, but the one that was scratching at me for days, the one that made my muscles rigid whenever Sue touched me, finally hit—she looked just like Simone. Not high-school Simone, but grade-school Simone, the one who Jeff invited to our home to “play with me,” the one I watched get raped over and over.
And this little girl—Sue—was just going to climb in bed with me, a total stranger. Had her parents not taught her anything? Sue was a perfect target, and she was going to be dead in a decade just like Simone, dead because of someone like me.
I opened my mouth to tell her to go back to bed or find someone else, but she was already lifting the covers and crawling between the sheets. She snuggled her back into my chest and closed her eyes against the pillow, her arms clutching Bunny tight to her body. Her tiny frame was so close to mine that my arm had nowhere to go except over her.
Once Sue’s breathing evened and slowed, I rolled away from her, scooting toward the wall until my back pressed against it. My eyes stayed wide open, focusing on the lit hallway through the ajar door. I couldn’t fall asleep in here with Sue, not after what I did to Simone. I needed to find a way to get this girl the hell away from me.
But I did drift off after an hour or so. When I awoke, Sue was gone, the bedroom door wide open, and the sun fully up. And the house was loud. Voices were chattering downstairs, June and Jo’s among them.
I plodded down the stairs in the flannel pajamas Cash had loaned me, folded around my hips with a navy cheer tee over them. Ducking into the kitchen, I hoped to avoid the attention of the gabbing women around the table. Had Sue told them she slept in my bed last night? Had Jo noticed? Maybe they thought nothing of it. Maybe they were all just as naive as her. Maybe that was worse.
June had transformed the breakfast nook into her wedding workstation. Her hair was spilling out of a messy bun as she leaned over a pile of a hundred place cards and her mug of coffee.
“Have the McCains RSVPed yet?” June asked with her forehead on her palm and elbow on the table.
Some bridesmaid bouncing a tiny baby against her chest skimmed her finger over a list. “No,” she answered.
“Okay. Jo, can you be in charge of calling them? Like now, please?”
Jo pulled out her phone. “On it!”
Just beyond them, Sue and a boy her age were playing in a massive pile of Legos on the family room floor. Bunny was spectating from against the couch. One of those pseudo-news morning shows was playing on the television.
“Aunt Autumn,” Sue called, unalarmed and focused on her Legos. “Tommy’s nose is bleeding.” The four of us in the kitchen turned our attention to the little curly-haired boy sitting on the beige rug. Just as Sue said, blood was dripping from his nose, not that this seemed to bother him. He was still fitting Legos into the plane he was building.
“Okay!” the bridesmaid yelled before starting a frantic search of the room for something to stop the bleeding. I’d panic, too. A bloodstain wouldn’t come out of that light carpet easily. “Tommy, don’t move.” This order he followed perfectly. He never even glanced up from his project.
I was pulling a banana from the bunch on the counter when Autumn swept past me to get to the paper towels by the sink. The sleeper-clad infant in her arms started wailing as she ripped a towel from the roll. It was just the worst sound. Screaming for no reason. And how was she so loud? She was like ten pounds. “Shoot!” Autumn sent me a pleading look. “Can you take her?”
What? No! Was everyone in this family so trusting? “Uh, I don’t—” Before I could say, think that’s a good idea, she thrust the red-faced thing at me and bolted toward Tommy. My arms were tense around the baby, which made the shrieking louder, a feat I thought impossible. I pulled her against my chest, her head resting against my shoulder. I bounced and swayed her like I saw her mom do in the forty-five seconds I got to observe them. Jo struggled to collect the RSVP over the noise, so I slipped out of the kitchen to the deserted living room, now adding a back pat to the soothing routine.
Did people actually try to make these things? Jake wanted this? Really? The whole time I tried in vain to comfort her, I thought, I can’t do this. I could never do this. How could Jake have thought I could do this? I was right. I was right. I was—
There was a gurgle from the baby’s mouth, then a warm gush of something sticky and sour on my shoulder. Spit up, right? Was that what people called it? Whatever it was, it made the crying stop. I switched the kid to my other arm, so her cheek could rest on my dry shoulder. I kept rocking from one foot to the other, when I noticed her once well-controlled head was now jiggling with each bounce. I slid my hand up to cup the back of her neck, holding her against my chest as we swayed. Her gaze softened, and her eyelids drooped. Within another minute, her dark eyelashes were flush against her fat cheeks, and her pink lips puckered open.
I made my way back into the family room and eased into the squishy recliner, careful not to wake her. The baby’s soft hairs tickled my cheek as she slept against me. I watched her rounded back rise and fall with each calm breath. It was relaxing somehow, even to me. Maybe because it felt like I had something to do with it—her feeling so safe against me that she could shut her eyes and doze off. She didn’t know me very well.
All I kept thinking was, Shit. Jake was right. He was right. How could I have—
“Hey, thank you so much,” Autumn blurted out in front of me. “Oh my gosh, you got her to sleep?”
I nodded.
I nodded and gave her a polite smile. “Does she need a blanket or anything?” I whispered.
“You really don’t mind holding her?” Autumn asked before rummaging through her diaper bag on the floor.
“Not at all.”
“Oh no! Did she spit up on you? You’ll need to use baking soda to get the smell out. It’s worse than poop.”
“It’s fine,” I mouthed. “What’s her name?”
“Grace.”
Of course it was. Christians. “How old is she?”
“Six weeks,” Autumn answered as she returned to the table.
I did some quick math. How old would my baby be? No, I’d still be pregnant. Seven months, about. It seemed so impossible, that alternate reality where I was in maternity clothes and counting down to a due date. Would I have been one of those people who found out the sex of the baby? Or would that have made it hurt worse to give it away?
My chest ached as I stared at Grace, warm and alive in my arms. I wanted to give her back to Autumn and never feel this again. At the same time, I wanted to bolt out the door with her. My eyes started to sting. No. This was ridiculous. I didn’t have Grace; I had something entirely different. This was not what I lost. And I would tell myself that as many times as I needed to.
Cash’s voice made me jump. “How long were you awake before they roped you into babysitting?”
“Um…” I stared up at him, also still in his pajamas. “It’s fine.”
He patted my waist to scoot me over so he could sit next to me in the recliner. His arm wrapped behind my shoulder when he asked, “Are you sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”
I just shook my head.
He glanced at Grace. “She’s so cute, huh?”
“Adorable,” I murmured.
Cash turned his gaze to the TV. “Any word from Stephen?” he whispered.
“Plea bargain is still in the works, I guess. Prison time isn’t off the table yet, but it won’t be more than a year. And it won’t be a felony charge at least.”
“Sawyer, I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’s going to get you out of this.”
I shrugged.
“When will you find out?”
“Got an email last night that my court date has been set for January second.”
That date loomed over me every hour the rest of the trip, winding me tighter as the days dragged on. Christmas Eve was when the weight of it sank in—would I be in prison for Christmas next year? What would happen with Cash and me? There was no way he’d stay with me while I served a year sentence for assault.
Even worse, we had to go to church on Christmas Eve. I went voluntarily with Cash a second time back in LA because no one bothered me there and it felt nothing like Jeff’s church. But this one in Atlanta—something about it made me itch under my skin, itch that part of my flesh I couldn’t reach with my nails. Two of the Christmas songs were ones my childhood church always played, both of which I tuned out by drifting away from my body like I did during sex. Then the pastor introduced himself as Pastor Mike, the same name as the lead pastor at Jeff’s church. Unbelievably, that pastor dismissed the children after worship, just sent them away. The adults sat down at the end of the song, while at least a hundred kids remained on their feet. A few adults with matching tee shirts and lanyards herded them toward the doors at the back of the sanctuary, like sheep being led to the slaughter.
Sue skipped in front of us to join the droves.
“Where are they going?” I whispered in Cash’s ear.
“Sunday school.”
I knew what that meant. It was a casting call. An audition. And Sue would get the part.
I marched toward the back exit and into the lobby. I didn’t make it in time to find Sue’s bouncing blonde ponytail in the mob of children disappearing down the halls on my left and right. She was so tiny; how was I supposed to find her? One by one, the classroom doors closed. I started toward the left. Some of the younger kids went that way. Maybe I’d find her room.
Large fingers wrapped around my arm. “Sawyer—”
I spun around and clutched Cash’s wrists in both my hands. “Sunday school? Are you fucking kidding me, Cash?” I whisper-screeched, trying to keep my volume down. After all, this was church where we were supposed to pretend we didn’t know such vile words.
“What’s wrong with—”
“Where do you think they groom kids? And she’s the perfect victim: beautiful, trusting, compliant.” She really was just like Simone. “Her life will be over.”
“Not everyone is your stepdad.”
“Yeah, and not everyone is perfect like you. What happens when they molest her, huh? And film it and post it online? What happens when men recognize her when she’s in high school or college and try to rape her again? I swear, it’s like your family lives in this bubble where everyone has the best intentions and is honest and trustworthy. Did you know Sue got in my bed the other night? Why didn’t you guys teach her it isn’t safe to do that?”
“Can you let go of me, please?” Cash asked, his tone even and patient.
I looked down at my fingertips digging into his wrists. Embarrassed, I let them go. “Sorry.”
He put his hands on either side of my face, his fingers in my hair. “Take a breath.”
I obeyed, drawing a shallow, quivering inhale.
“Is that what happened to you?”
I watched his island eyes for a minute before I finally nodded.
Cash pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. I shut my eyes against his sweater, pushing out a frustrated tear. “She’s okay. June teaches in her class most weeks. She’d tell us if there was something off. Does that make you feel any better?”
I nodded against him, more tears falling over my cheeks.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Then a second time. And a third. “Hello?”
“It’s Colburn. I need to meet with you Thursday.” Why was Stephen working on Christmas Eve? I mentally crossed attorney off my list of potential future careers.
“Uh, yeah. Is everything okay?”
“Not the best. They haven’t found evidence that Buchanan downloaded your images.”
Shit. “But he did.”
“I know. But right now, it’s your word against his.” He didn’t even take a breath when he continued, “Your sentence is down to six months. And there’s a great psychiatric facility I can get you in if they’ll agree to that over prison time.”
I swallowed hard. I wouldn’t put “great” and “psychiatric facility” together in the same sentence. I wasn’t sure how that’d be better than prison. “Okay.”
“See you Thursday at eleven.”
“Yeah.”
He hung up.
“Everything okay?” Cash asked, his hands still on my arms.
I sighed. “You’ll need to find another date to June’s wedding.”
* * *
I flew back Wednesday for my Thursday meeting with Colburn. He told me they finally agreed to no prison time, no parole, just six months mandatory inpatient psychiatric treatment.
I had five days before my hearing, five days of freedom, of which Cash would be gone for the first half. So, I did what any reasonable person in my situation would do—I replenished my stash of alcohol, logged into Netflix, and drank with my hand down my panties. Might as well relish in a pain-free fog before I had to face six sober months. Sober. Didn’t the word itself seem to protract time?
16
JANUARY 2018
I woke up parched, my head throbbing, to bright sunlight and a wintry breeze compliments of my now-open window. The trash can was empty with a new liner, and there was an unopened water bottle on my desk. The bottles—empty, full, in between—were all gone, as was my comforter, which Cash had replaced with his own.
Crap. Cash was here. What day was it? Had I missed my hearing? What state was I in when he fo
und me? This was bad, or at least, not cute.
“Hey, I’m glad you’re alive.” Cash’s voice was flat, irritated.
“Cash, I’m—”
His tone had a muted fury to it when he interrupted me, “I almost called an ambulance when I found you. You didn’t wake up when I shook you. You had a pulse, though, which I figured was a good sign. Anyway, I was about to dial 9-1-1 when you mumbled something in Spanish, so I decided to let you sleep it off.” He gazed up at the ceiling and added matter-of-factly, “That was yesterday around noon.
I closed my eyes and asked hoarsely, “What time is it?”
“Nine AM. How many days did it take you to go through those bottles?”
I shook my aching head.
He raised his voice. “Sawyer, what happened?”
I covered my ears, not just because he was loud and I was hungover, but because I was sober and sober meant I could hear every sound in a five-mile radius: those damn birds squawking outside, a sprinkler flicking water, the wind smacking a living leaf against its dying neighbor. Sober meant life in high-definition—too noisy, too crisp to tolerate. That was it, the difference between Cash and me. His vision was always softly lit, fuzzy around the edges like a lip-locking scene in a black-and-white movie. His world wasn’t a deluge of noises and sights and crawling sensations beneath his skin, like the muscles had torn from the bones and were scrambling to get free. It wasn’t fair he was always drunk without alcohol, that he thought I had some problem just because he’d never have the imagination it took to see that the world was actually glaring and shrieking with bright colors and dark screams and a constant creeping fear that could only be softened with drink. And it wasn’t fair that he took away my ability to live in his world of dampened senses when he dumped out my booze.
“The trash can was half full of just vomit,” Cash continued. “And you puked on the bed and carpet, too. I could smell your room all the way down the hall.”