It was my turn to keep silent, mulling over what she was saying. I could see her point, and maybe she was right. But it was a one-sided rightness. “Don’t you think I should take some responsibility for that stuff? At the park, I backhanded him, remember? I caught him off-guard and he reacted. And the situation with Jordan, Sebastian was protecting me. He thought Jordan might be hurting me.”
“What about his reaction to Gina pushing him?” I’d forgotten about that. “And this black eye? He says it’s normal for him? Tish! These are red flags. Oh!” Her voice rose a notch. “Remember that day you tried to talk to him outside your classroom back in March? You told me he looked like he was in pain.”
I suddenly recalled the marks on his neck and covered my mouth. They had to be scratches. Or worse. “Yeah.” I was nodding, replaying other times I’d thought he’d looked a little shell-shocked or super tired. “You’re right. He was hurting, Ani. He could hardly stand up straight.”
“Think about it. If he’s getting beat up on a regular basis, whether it’s someone in his apartment complex like he claims, or even his dad, God forbid, we’re talking about some serious psychological issues he’s dealing with. And now I’m even more curious about what was in his trunk. It was like he was prepared for an emergency. Or for living on the run, or something. Who carries a sleeping bag around in their trunk? And that First Aid kit? Tish, I was expecting one of those little white metal boxes, not a 15-gallon plastic bin packed with everything from emergency medical supplies to personal hygiene products and extra underwear.”
“I know,” I murmured, becoming more and more concerned. But not for me. For Sebastian. What must his life be like to live every day on the edge like that? To always be ready to run, to react, to push back? “Ani, I’m really worried about him.”
“I’m also worried about Foster,” she said, voicing the thought that had been hovering at the back of my mind throughout our whole conversation. “I’m worried that Sebastian might be mixed up in whatever Foster got mixed up in.”
“Me, too,” I said again. “Sebastian had to move them again last night. And he admitted that Foster isn’t looking so good. I think he was more worried than he let on. Remember how he got a little choked up when he said Foster wouldn’t come home with me?”
“Yeah, I picked up on that, too.”
We sat in silence together, separated by far more than the street between our homes now. I peered out my window to Ani’s room, the shades drawn, no light glowing from within. I felt her absence acutely.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered back. “But I think you need to start by telling your parents about Foster. Let Sebastian know you’re going to so he doesn’t feel betrayed, but you need to tell them, T-Bird. That’s what family is for.” After a moment, she added, “Maybe that’s why Sebastian thinks he has to handle this alone. Because he doesn’t have a family who will help him. I’m scared that his dad may not be such a great guy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dad and Mom came to my room less than half an hour after I’d come up, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. I’d watched Sebastian get in his car parked in front of the house, and I’d waited in vain for him to look up at my window and see me. He didn’t linger, but pulled away from the curb slowly, then moved off down the street. I heard the front door close and realized someone—probably my dad—had been watching him leave. Tom’s truck was still parked out front, too, and I hoped, for all parties involved, that he’d remained clueless about what had just happened.
Dad was built like all four of my brothers, compact, lean, durable. None of them reached six feet tall, but even Eric, the shortest of the Ransome men, was at least as tall as Ani, and she stood about 5’9” in her socks. Dad fell in the middle of the mix somewhere, and when photos captured the five of them together, the height differences were negligible. Even so, for someone of my stature, he still seemed tall to me, especially when he stood in the middle of my room, gazing down at me where I sat cross-legged on my bed.
Mom, thank goodness, settled beside me and took another look at my cheek. “I think you’re going to survive,” she murmured. It did feel much better, especially now that the ibuprofen I’d taken had kicked in. I didn’t take medicine very often, and usually responded well to over-the-counter pain pills.
I nodded and smiled carefully, then looked up at my dad, silently imploring him to get on with it. I was dying to know what had happened down there.
Dad took pity on me. “Titia, Sebastian Jeffries is a rather troubled young man.” He paused, gauging his words, choosing them carefully. “His lifestyle is very different from ours, which means he has some very different struggles, things he deals with that you can’t possibly understand.”
I grimaced and looked away, crossing my arms in consternation. Now Dad was going to tell me what I could and couldn’t understand?
“Honey, he lives in a really rough neighborhood in a really rough apartment complex with some really rough people.”
“So does that mean he’s automatically a really rough guy?” I snapped, feeling a surge of anger, of fear for Sebastian, well up inside me. “You think he’s a hopeless case? That he can’t rise above his past, his circumstances? Is that what you teach in your classes at church?” I was ticked that Dad, of all people, would categorize Sebastian that way. Charlie Ransome, an awesome husband and father for as long as I’d been alive, had put my mom through hell the first several years they were married because of his alcoholism. My two oldest brothers had some dark memories from that time, too. But now, having come out the other end of it, he led several different twelve-step recovery programs throughout the year for different kinds of addiction, everything from alcohol and drugs, to pornography, and gambling. His classes were sought after and recommended not just at our church, but throughout the community as well, because they actually helped people to overcome their addictions. Because Dad worked hard to make them accessible, relevant, and effective.
“You know what, Dad? Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand.” I felt like a preset audio track programmed to loop back on itself over and over. “Maybe that’s where Sebastian came from but does that mean it’s his future, too? I’ve seen him do things that no one else I know would do for another person in real need. Do you know he brings a meal to Foster and dog food to Pete a couple of times a week? But he doesn’t just give them handouts. He sits and eats with them. He spends time with them, being a real friend to them. I don’t know that any of the nicely dressed people who sit in the pews in church on Sunday would do the same.” I wasn’t quite ready to divulge everything yet, at least not until I got a chance to talk to Sebastian first. “I’ve seen him stand up for the underdog even when the underdog won’t stand up for themselves.” I thought of Belinda and how she was so quick to hand over her reputation for a chance to rub up against a hot guy on stage, and yet Sebastian still saw that she was worth defending. “A couple of weeks ago, he walked in on Jordan and me wrestling, and you know how that can get. He didn’t wait to see if I might get hurt. He stepped in and hauled Jordan off me. He acted, Daddy. He acted. He didn’t wait to see if it was proper or polite. He jumped in because he thought I was going to get hurt. And don’t tell me he was a little rough with Jordan. Jordan was being more than a little rough with me.”
Mom shook her head, her brow furrowed. Dad met her gaze and some kind of communication passed between them.
“Please don’t pass judgment on him because of this.” I flapped a hand at my face. “I got mad. I got physical. And it came back to bite me in the butt. Or in the face.” No one smiled at my terribly-timed joke. “This was my fault, Dad. I take full responsibility for it.”
Dad held up a hand to stop me and I closed my mouth, sensing I was beginning to ramble. Rambling had never helped me out of a tight spot before and I didn’t think it would now.
“I’m not judging him. Nor am I writing him off as a hopeles
s case. But I need you to listen to me very carefully, Titia. I need you to hear me and understand what I am saying to you.” He waited a moment for effect, and then grabbed my desk chair and drew it up so he could sit directly in front of me, look me in the eye. He reached out and took my hand, holding it in both of his. Mom put her arm around me. “You are responsible for your actions, Titia Ransome. You are not responsible for Sebastian’s actions. Or Jordan’s. Or mine.” He squeezed my hand hard, as though he could force me to accept and understand this important lesson. “You are responsible for your actions,” he said again. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
I frowned. “I think so.” But I wasn’t sure what point he was making.
“Titia, if you drink and drive and crash into a tree or into a bus full of children, you are responsible for your actions. How the owner of the tree responds, how the parents of the children you injure respond, those responses, their actions are their responsibility. Yes, there are consequences to your behavior, and you must face those consequences. If you slap me, there will be consequences and you will have to face them, because you are responsible for slapping me. But just because you slap me, I do not have the right to slap you back, and if I do, I cannot blame you for making me slap you. Each one of us, you, me, the tree owner, the parents, the bus driver, Sebastian Jeffries, we are all responsible for our own actions. Does this make sense?”
I nodded again.
“Sebastian told me how he grabbed your wrist and held on in order to stop you from hitting him.”
“But that—”
Dad’s eyebrow went up and I shut up. “He also explained how he got in your face and threatened you. Scared you.”
I shook my head, confusion now beginning to war with my anger.
“He may not have hit you, pushed you, or physically assaulted you, but he used his size, strength, and anger to intimidate you.”
I did understand what he was saying, but I couldn’t keep silent a moment longer. “But I triggered that reaction! I feel responsible for his reaction because I triggered it.”
“No, Titia. No. What you’re feeling is not responsibility, honey, but guilt. You’re ashamed about your behavior that motivated his. And that’s a good thing. You should feel ashamed of bad behavior. That means you have a conscience. But Sebastian still chose to act on that motivation. You did not make him. I know how you can be, Tish.” Dad sighed and I heard the undertone of disappointment in that sound. It nearly broke my heart. “Raging at the world when you think a wrong has been committed. You’ve always been that way. And in most cases, it’s one of your greatest strengths. But sometimes, that passion of yours gets the best of you. It might have been really hard with you in his personal space, but he could have—and he should have—simply walked away from you.”
I rested my good cheek against my mother’s shoulder, completely deflated. “So what happens now?” I finally asked in a small voice.
Dad let go of my hand and straightened up in the chair. “I sent Sebastian home. The poor kid looked like he needed some sleep.”
“Do you think that’s safe? For him to go back to his apartment complex?” I still didn’t know if I was convinced Sebastian’s dad had hit him, but if the person who had given him the shiner lived there, maybe there’d be more trouble.
“We offered to let him sleep in one of your brothers’ rooms, but he refused.” He looked back and forth between Mom and me. “We couldn’t keep him here against his will, honey. And we all could use a good night’s rest. But Sebastian has agreed to come sit through one of my classes with me this coming Wednesday night. I’m hoping he’ll stay for the whole course.”
“What?” The word burst out of me before I could stop it. “No, Dad. Don’t make him do that.” It all sounded a little trite to me, like putting a Band-Aid on a wound that needed surgery first. A simplified fix for a monstrous problem.
“Why not? Don’t you think he could learn something? Benefit from them? These classes get good results, Titia. It may be just what he needs to get out from under the stuff pressing down on him.”
“Do you even know what’s wrong with him? What are you teaching right now? Please tell me it’s not an alcohol addiction course. The guy doesn’t even drink.” Sebastian must have agreed just to get Dad off his back. I covered my face with both hands, forgetting for a moment my bruised cheek, and yelped in pain. Mom handed me the icepack from the foot of the bed where I’d laid it when they came in.
Dad chuckled softly and shook his head. “Nope. Call it coincidence, call it God’s timing. This Wednesday, I start a new series on anger management.”
Well.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I woke up Monday, my cheekbone extremely tender and beginning to turn ugly colors. My stomach lurched every time I thought about the way last night had ended and I waited until noon before I finally gave up waiting for Sebastian to call me and called him instead. He didn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t, but I had to try anyway. I texted him around six, knowing he usually worked until five thirty. Although my phone indicated the message had been delivered, he didn’t appear to have read it, and he didn’t respond.
Tuesday morning, Sebastian didn’t contact me or respond to any of my attempts to contact him, either. But at noon, Jordan came home for lunch, knowing it would be just the two of us in the house. He set his laptop on the island. “I think you need to see this,” he said, his boy-next-door features marred by concern.
With a few mouse clicks, he opened an article from an Orange County news site about a little boy whose mother died when she fell down a set of concrete stairs leading up to their second-story apartment. According to the article, the little boy had run to meet her, catching her unawares as she came up the stairs, and the impact of his sturdy little five-year-old body had sent her tumbling backwards to her death. She was survived by her husband and son, Nathan and Braden Jeffries.
I looked at Jordan curiously. “That’s a terrible story. Do you think they’re related to Sebastian somehow?” Was Jordan still looking for information on him? His concerned warning the other day indicated he just might be.
“Look at the date, sis.”
Seventeen years ago today. A sickening sensation began to settle in my stomach.
“Another article says the woman had some other injuries that couldn’t be attributed to the fall, some much older, but there were no police reports of abuse. The apartment neighbors claimed the woman was quiet and well-liked, the husband worked long hours and was rarely around, at least during the day. A woman across the hall who sometimes took care of Braden said the little boy seemed happy enough before the accident, so there was a brief domestic violence investigation that ended inconclusively.”
I waited, knowing Jordan was getting to his point, wishing he would hurry, but dreading it all the same.
“Now look at this.” He leaned in and scrolled through a few more sites until he found another article, this one with a photo of the husband, Nathan Jeffries. “Who does that look like to you?”
I couldn’t breathe as I stared at the black and white image on the screen. I didn’t need it to be in color to recognize Sebastian’s eyes staring back at me from the face of a man who could only be his father. “Oh, Jordan,” I whispered, my whole body tingling with shock. “Oh no.” There were no words. “Poor Sebastian.”
Something else clicked into place. “Braden. That was Charlton Heston’s character in The Greatest Show on Earth, and Sebastian told me he was named for The Great Sebastian in that movie, Jordan. It’s probably his middle name. It’s him. It’s got to be.”
“I’ve done a lot of looking, but all I’ve found is a tiny follow up article in a local paper a few months later. Apparently, shortly after the case was shelved, Nathan moved his son away from the apartments without even saying goodbye to the neighbors who had helped take care of them for weeks after the accident.” Jordan still leaned over the computer beside me, his forearms resting on the island. “I think this mig
ht explain his overly-protective nature.”
“I can’t even imagine, Jordan. His mother. Poor thing must have been terribly traumatized. And then to up and leave like that.” I was barely able to see him through the tears welling in my eyes, my heart aching for the little boy Sebastian once was, for the invisible man he tried to be. “Oh, Jordan,” I whispered, a terrible puzzle piece slipping into place. “Do you think they got the story right?”
“I don’t know, sis.” He stared at the image on the screen, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I don’t know. Something feels off to me. Not necessarily wrong, but like there’s something missing. But you know me. I’m pretty sure I was Magnum P.I. in another life.” Joke as he might, I could tell he was really bothered by what he’d learned. “You know Sebastian better than I do. What does your gut tell you, Squeak?”
I hesitated only for a moment, and then I told Jordan everything, starting with the first day Sebastian walked into my Music Theory III class, about Foster and Pete, and how Sebastian was risking his own safety to take care of them, all the way up to Sunday night’s rehearsal and Dad’s intervention. Sebastian’s words kept ripping through my thoughts over and over again in the new light of what I’d just learned.
“Are you scared of me now? Because you should be. I hurt everyone I care about eventually. I am a monster, little girl.”
***
Jordan suggested I wait until Wednesday night before I made a commotion about Sebastian. “He may just be embarrassed, like he was the day he hauled me off you. He may truly believe he’s not worthy of you, and isn’t answering your calls because he thinks he needs to stay away.” What he said made sense, but the waiting was killing me. “Keep trying to contact him. Let him know you want to hear from him. If he doesn’t show for Dad’s class, we’ll go looking for him, okay? You have his address, right?”
I promised him I’d hold off and try not to panic, but by that evening, I couldn’t stand sitting around doing nothing. Waiting. I needed to do something. Anything.
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