AMAZING HEART (Broken Bottles Series Book 4)

by Pamela Taeuffer

  "My ear, my company . . . I don't know." His eyebrows knotted the way they did when he was worried or upset. "I don't think she ever understood what was taken from me. The pain was overwhelming.”

  I know how it is when part of your childhood is lost.

  "I was only fourteen. It was so sudden—almost violent, when suddenly I had to take care of my needs. I didn't know how. It wasn't fair," his voice trailed off to silence. "I suppose . . . I haven't forgiven her."

  The room was quiet except for the gentle sounds of the ocean that played on the CD. I sat completely still until Ryan was ready to reveal more.

  "Don't get me wrong, I love my mother. Even as she fell apart in her grief she did her best to meet my basic needs. The thing is, I was lost and she couldn't see I needed help. How could she not know I was barely hanging on? Wasn't it her duty as my mother to talk to me and find out if I was all right? Wasn't it obvious?" He looked to the balcony; his eyes pooled, fighting the tears. "All I heard was how she suffered. As if I didn't? I was left trying to figure out what my family meant after Dad died. And then Chris left . . . I lost everyone. I didn't know what to do. Mom should have been stronger." He picked at the pieces of fruit and finally chose one.

  How could she know what to do? She was lost. How could she know . . . how could she . . . how could my mother know what to do? My mom . . .

  His eyes showed a variety of emotions: tears, anger, sadness, and regret. I could see the little boy in front of me was still hurting.

  "When she tries to reach out to me I can't bring myself to be receptive." He recoiled as if I were she. "All that goes through my mind is it's too late for us."

  You hold your mom responsible for not saving you like I do with my mine?

  As he paused to take a drink of the pear sparkler, I wondered if it was ever too late to forgive what family had done?

  Is there trauma that's too difficult to let go of?

  What happens to our bodies if we don't? A broken heart and the emotional vacancies lead to disease, constant illness . . . death?

  Could Ryan and I have true intimacy—the kind that would allow us to keep our eyes open as we made love and witness the sensual beauty of two bodies joining together or talking about deep emotions without turning away—if we remained within the hurt of our past?

  Would we ever escape our self-inflicted prisons?

  Was there a point where the hurt and darkness was too much to free us from our shackles and would keep us hostage the rest of our lives, barred from the pure, blissful joy of life?

  Should my sister have withheld forgiveness, when my diseased and addicted father tried to choke her at the dinner table several years earlier? She was within her right to do so, but what would that do? Set her free? Torment her? She was raped at fourteen—what if she let the anger and hatred consume her?

  If I couldn't learn to live and love differently from the twisted way my parents related to each other, should I blame them? How long is it only their fault that I had problems letting people near me? Do I hold them liable for the rest of my life for all the hurt, grief, and anger—wouldn't it ultimately keep me locked down?

  Ryan and I wanted to love each other. We committed to it. As we explored the fears we had of opening our hearts to each other, was that really possible if we couldn't stop the dysfunction?

  Could we trust each other enough?

  Could we trust ourselves enough?

  To reach the depths of intimacy I wanted, I knew I had to be vulnerable. I wondered how I could let myself get there. Maybe Ryan and I had gone as far as we could and our hearts just too tired and bruised to dig deep for each other. Maybe all the words and promises in the world wouldn't help us go any further.

  "You don't have to go on if this is too difficult, Ryan. I completely understand the lack of your family's support and having to take care of yourself at too young an age."

  "I know you do." He gave me a hug. "That's why I'm so comfortable talking with you."

  Now I understand—what I suspected from the beginning is true—we are the same.

  "One of the worst things about my father's death? Mom depended on me to take care of myself and also of her. It was too much. I was only fourteen—a stupid, rebellious kid who was confused." It seemed as if his strength had returned. He sat up, his back straight, his eyes focused. "I didn't want to be that pillar for her. I needed someone to be a pillar for me."

  "And yet, you feel guilty." I wanted to give him the confirmation he might still need, even after all these years.

  "Yes." He closed his eyes.

  "You had every right to feel that way." I took him in my arms. "I wonder if . . . maybe your mom is reaching out to you now."

  "Mom and I have had our differences—and our yelling matches. That part is over, now we politely co-exist with each other. It's sad, but we walk on flat ground."

  "Flat ground?" I needed clarification.

  "What I mean, we're never emotional with each other. It's like there's no dramatics between us. The obvious love from parent to child is missing and vice versa. Like the scene you witnessed with Chris and Frances at the hotel—that's my family."

  "Your mom is coming to visit you." I traced the tattoo on his chest with my fingertips. "And so soon after her last visit.”

  “Well, that’s . . . I think it’s more about you rather than me."

  “Ryan . . . your mother is coming to make sure the woman you love, loves you. That's because she loves you. No matter what has happened, you are her son. The woman who talked to me on the phone today? She's looking out for you.”

  “Thank you.” He turned his head and quickly wiped his eyes. I put my arms around his neck.

  "When I'm with you, I see my life in ways I couldn't have imagined. Everything seems possible when we're together one on one. You are my sweet man." He smiled with a beautiful innocence that seemed new. "Bear with me when I explain how I see it, okay, Ryan?"

  He nodded, picking at his fingernails and wringing his hands.

  "Your mom was only, what . . . thirty-five or so when your dad was killed?" I shook my head. "That’s so young. My mom was almost the same age when I was born, and yours is alone with an adolescent child and another ready for college? Who gives any of us a manual, you know? I understand being resentful. I blame my father and mother for leaving Jenise and me to figure out so much. Mom never rescued us. "You know," I swallowed. "My poor sister had to seek out her own therapy? My parents paid for it but were so blind to what she needed they didn't even think to arrange it for her. Poor Jenise, only fourteen." I began to choke up. "Raped, torn apart, and had to fend for herself. Can you imagine?"

  Ryan looked down. I could see he felt for her.

  "And you know what I did? I condemned her because she didn't take those boys to court. She took the brunt of my dad's bullshit and that's how I thanked her." I folded my hands as if in prayer. "Thank God she forgave me."

  "You were too young," Ryan consoled me. "You couldn't understand the effects of what happened to your sister."

  "And you were only fourteen." I flattened my hand on his chest.

  "Yes," he responded quietly, perhaps forgiving himself a little.

  Maybe you can forgive yourself, too, Nick.

  "Don’t you think your mom's visit can mend the hurt between you? I'll bet you could both heal if you approach her right. You could say . . ." I looked at the ceiling, trying to gather my thoughts. "'The way I see it', or 'in my opinion', or 'from my view.' You know what I mean? Those non-confrontational phrases therapists suggest? She's probably afraid to bring up the past because of widening the distance between the two of you even more."

  His big arms encircled me.

  Oh, my big boa constrictor.

  "Damn, you're strong," I giggled, teasing and falling into his embrace. He looked down at me wearing his wry grin, his eyes penetrating my soul.

  "You know what I hope for?" he asked.

  "Tell me," I pleaded as he so often did to me. "Tell me ever
ything."

  "I want to be strong for you so you can play like a little girl." A relaxed easiness fell on his body. "I want you to go into the next part of your life carefree."

  "I think we could do that for each other." I affectionately squeezed his left pec. "I kind of see us like two little kids." Even in the low lighting, I could see the warm blush that crossed his face. I knew he felt the same way. "On another subject, I, um . . . I found your dad's journal." I looked directly in his eyes, making sure I didn't avoid his stare or the difficult question that came next. "I hope you don't mind that I read it. You told me to search everything, but is it okay I did that?"

  My anxiety wound inside me.

  I wouldn't break eye contact.

  He returned the intensity of my gaze, looking into my eyes without wavering, holding me inside him, fixed, strong, yet . . . searching.

  Chapter 39

  Intimacy

  "How did you feel reading it?" Ryan tapped his fingers on the floor, waiting for my response. "You saw my entries, too. Do you think I'm an asshole?"

  "No." I rubbed his forearm. "I thought everything was tragically beautiful. Both of you wrote from your heart. That's why journals are such great tools. I want to apologize again in case you didn't want me to read it."

  "I told you it was all right to look at anything you wanted." His eyes didn't show any upset and I believed he was telling the truth. "How else did you feel about it?"

  "Mixed feelings."

  "What do you mean?" He put several olives on a paper towel.

  "Happy your father wrote he loved and forgave you, and that you shouldn't feel guilty." I grabbed a pillow and hugged it. "That book is an incredible gift. To see his actual thoughts in black and white . . . you never had to guess what might have been going through his mind. And you can read them whenever you want, know for certain he forgave you and have the last pieces of your father in a loving, creative way . . ." I blinked a few times. "He wanted you to have it. It's like angels inspired him."

  "Yes, it is." His shoulders seemed to drop in relief.

  "Most people never get a gift like you did from your dad. They're left with the wish they could have said goodbye and resolved their differences. They're left with anger and hurt for the rest of their life. You and your father did in your own way. It was heartbreaking to read about how he sensed the end was near.” I paused, dwelling on the horrific emotions his family must have felt. “Still, I’m in awe and feel very blessed you shared it with me. The love you each had for each other jumped out from those pages."

  "I didn't understand everything that book did for me when I was a teenager." Ryan looked toward his office. "I've opened it a lot over the years."

  "You're not angry with your dad anymore?"

  "No." His voice was shaky. "I still miss him. You know, even now, I sometimes wake up and I can't wait to tell him what's happened. To have been able to introduce you to him . . . he would have loved you instantly."

  "I'm sorry I didn't get the chance." I reached for the bottle of pear sparkler and refilled both our glasses. "To your father."

  We clinked glasses and each of us took a sip.

  "Changing the subject slightly," I placed my glass on the end table. "You know the feelings you shared with me about your brother and how he turned his back on you and your mom?"

  He nodded.

  "Well . . . your dad didn't give Chris his journal. As significant and personal as it is, he gave it to you. Not even your mother. Just you. So even though you might still resent your brother for leaving, I think your dad understood. In those final days, you were the boy he was thinking of. You wrote how could the marines know your father was a hero? People just know, Ryan. He risked his life dragging a friend who was shot and possibly paralyzed back into safety. Those marines knew. And you are his wonderful, sensitive, and heroic son.”

  He broke down.

  Fell into my arms.

  Sobbed until the devastation left his body.

  I stroked and petted his body, giving him all the time he wanted. I knew he probably hadn't grieved the way he needed to at fourteen, and now, at twenty-six, I'd hoped he could.

  I played with his hair.

  Traced the veins on his forearms.

  Massaged his neck.

  Kissed his cheeks.

  The flames in the fireplace burned softly.

  A breeze blew through the screen door.

  He lifted his head.

  “God, you’re . . . I knew you were different. Even last year, I knew. Only seventeen and it was easy to see the brilliance of your spirit. What I didn’t realize until recently was your ability to look at the soul of a person. I have a new perspective on so many things because you're the first person who’s ever really heard me.”

  "Thank you," I kissed his lips. "You may not realize it, but even from the beginning, I’ve heard every word you’ve ever said to me. Even if it seems I'm not listening, I am. That's my specialty, picking up all the innuendoes, looks, and hidden meanings in someone's words . . . I catch it all because I've stood in the background and watched people for years."

  “We’re lucky, Nicky.”

  “I know that now." I sat in his lap and reached for another baguette, topped it with some chicken salad and ate it quickly.

  "Chomper," Ryan teased.

  "Told you," I put my hand over my mouth as I laughed and then washed it down with another sip of sparkler. "I chomp instead of chew."

  "Ah, but you're a spectacular chomper," he toasted me with another sip of sparkler.

  "Damn straight!" I toasted back and we clinked glasses.

  He gathered my body against his and my back rested against his luscious volcano. I broke in chills as his hands ran through my hair.

  "When I spoke to your mother she said you talked about me. I didn't know what to say."

  "I told her you were the love of my life and I knew we belonged together," he said confidently. "Have you taken your blood pressure today?"

  "A few times. Normal." I tilted my head so I could kiss his cheek. "Ryan," I squiggled from his hold and wrapped my legs around his hips. I hugged him tightly. "I have years before I get my degree and that's such a long time to wait for a child." I cleared my throat, "Do you want marriage and family right away? Your mother said you did."

  "I want whatever works for both of us." He avoided my question.

  "That's not an answer.” I continued looking in his eyes, waiting for a more honest response. In the soft glow from the fireplace, I couldn’t miss how the rosiness in his cheeks deepened. It was a telling sign as to what he really wanted. I didn't know what to do with the information he'd silently revealed. "Let's enjoy the time we have together and not think so far ahead, all right?"

  "Nicky, you're afraid of intimacy. You think commitment is the same as sacrificing yourself and being locked down. That's so far from the truth or what I want from you."

  "You've said that before, but I've been intimate with you." I was unprepared for his response. "We've been close during our deep discussions. Like are have been tonight."

  "Yes, but you're afraid of it," he pushed on. "If the conversation turns to you, it's not very long before you begin to deflect or get anxious. You're so generous listening to others, sharing your views and analysis. You're just as good at pushing away the present so you can dwell on your future. I might know why. At least partially."

  "What do you see?"

  "Your father." He tightened his embrace.

  I pulled back a little.

  "Just hear me out," he pleaded. "Try your best to keep an open mind. I can feel your body tense. Please try not to get defensive and shut down."

  His request was innocent and genuine. I could see he was afraid to open up any further. Any mention of my father was a contradiction for me. I felt a connection to Dad that made me want to defend him in spite of all the twisted things he'd done.

  "I won't get mad and I won't shut down," I promised. "Say whatever you want to me."

&n
bsp; "You told me he'd come into your bedroom at night when he was drunk?" His head was down. He had trouble even watching what might be a severe reaction from me.

  "Yes."

  "When he sat on your bed, he told you not to say anything to your mom about taking you and your sister to the bar so he could drink. You both waited in the truck while he got drunk with his friends, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You said what you knew he wanted to hear just to get him out of your bedroom as quickly as possible. His breath, the stink of alcohol and the sloppy hugs . . . you wanted them to go away at almost any cost. Is that right?" Ryan's face was twisted.

  I nodded in agreement. Tracing his brows with my fingers, I let him know with silent, loving, language, it was okay to continue.

  "I think it freaked you out so badly that now, when someone comes close you want to run. Letting someone get close reminds you of those nights. So when you say, I don't understand, how things will work, it's like you're already planning your escape. Maybe down deep you're afraid what we have isn't real. You think a relationship is good only as long as someone needs you for their secrets," Ryan continued courageously. "The minute you're challenged to go deeper, to make yourself vulnerable—especially to me—you start to shut down. Do you see your father's face?"

  I looked out the balcony doors.

  I tried not to cry.

  "I'm suggesting—I'm not attacking your father—I'm just suggesting, he taught you the wrong kind of intimacy. Now you're an adult and ready to go out on your own, but the example of love you've had, what you learned from his actions, it isn't right."

  I continued fighting the tears. I didn't want to look at him, but I felt his fingers softly touch my cheek and turn my face to his.

  "He took advantage of your innocence. I won't do that. What your father showed you wasn't love. He was an alcoholic doing whatever he could to keep his hopeless addiction a secret. He wanted to cover his shame with the innocence of a little girl. He was sick. You know that. The awful lesson he gave you was lying, covering up, never telling the truth or it will be over . . . all of those things were what you saw. He put his sickness on his daughter."