That One Day (That One #1.5)
Page 27
I laugh at the thought, wondering what kind of teenager he’ll be. Between our combined genes, I fear he’ll be a handful.
I refocus my attention on Archer when I suddenly hear Frankie groan and find our son waking up his mommy with his little hands slapping her face and boob, as if she is a living, breathing drum. “Ouch,” she grumbles, stretching and opening her eyes. Her face goes from annoyed and sleepy to happy and smiling in an instant.
“You little monkey, that’s no way to wake your momma.” She flips Archer over onto his back, blowing a raspberry on his tummy. He giggles in delight, his legs drawing up and kicking wildly. “And your daddy couldn’t stop you from assaulting your momma in her sleep?” She gives me a glare, but it’s not intimidating in the least considering she has a smile plastered on her face.
“Happy birthday, my cute, little monkey. You’re a big boy now, aren’t you?” She laughs while tickling him, making him snort and squeal like a little pig.
“Yep, you are, aren’t you?” I chime in. “A big boy deserves a big party and big presents, hmm?”
Archer is oblivious to the reason for our cooing and aweing, but seems to be amused by our happy attitude.
“Time for your first pancake and your daddy’s cooking.” I grab Archer, tossing him up in the air. I try to not throw him too high. Frankie always freaks out when I do this, though she tries to hide it.
She climbs out of bed, pulling on a bathrobe. “Come on guys, let’s go. Momma wants pancakes, too,” she jokes, winking at me.
“When does Momma not want food,” I tease her and get the middle finger raised high and proud in response. Throwing my head back, I laugh. “Your momma has no manners, Archer. Better learn from your daddy.”
“I heard that,” Frankie yells from the hallway. “And I’ve got two words for you: Bite me.”
Half an hour later, we’re sitting at the table. The rest of the gang has joined us. We all watch Archer, hypnotized by his reaction to eating his first pancake. His eyes are wide with wonder as he gets his first taste. Instead of sugar, I added a bit of maple syrup so it has a hint of sweetness, and judging by the look on his face he’s thrilled by it. He eagerly grabs one cut up piece after another, shoving it in his mouth. It’s fucking cute.
I glance around the table and find everyone looking at him in awe, Frankie’s eyes misting with tears. She leans in to me, pulling my head toward her, and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for him, Ben.”
Grabbing her hand, I kiss it and turn my attention back to Archer. He’s grabbed the last piece and stuffs it in his mouth, his hand searching the plate for another piece. He looks at the plate, back up at us, and at the plate again. Still munching the last bite, his lower lips starts to quiver and his eyebrows draw together before he lets out a desperate, angry wail, clearly not pleased with the lack of pancakes.
Turning to Frankie, I grin. “He is clearly your son. Throwing a tantrum when the food is gone.”
Frankie is already cutting up another pancake for Archer, but pauses to glare at me, then directs the same glare at Dean when he agrees with me. “Ain’t that the truth.”
After two pancakes and another unsuccessful tantrum, Frankie and I dress Archer and then help the others decorate the living room with balloons and banners. Of course, all decorations are Minions themed courtesy of Frankie—down to the paper plates, cups, and party hats.
Archer is sitting in his playpen, watching what’s happening around him occasionally, but mostly he’s trying to tear off the eye of his teddy bear. Not sure what the poor guy has done to him, but I’m not getting into a fight between a man and his teddy.
Once everything is decorated, I’m ready to head out to pick up the sign for Archer’s playset. Jim, the carpenter I work for, suggested a friend of his who does all types of wood carvings and etchings, as well as wood-burning. He burned a wolf design into the wooden sign, similar to the one on my tool belt, but with a baby wolf howling at the moon.
Together with the rest of the gang, I leave the house, each of us going our separate ways to either pick up people or gifts for the party.
Frankie is staying behind with Archer, focusing on preparing food, and getting everything set up for later.
Arriving at Brandon’s shop, I take my time looking over his work while he gets the sign out of the backroom. He does some amazing stuff and I can see myself coming to him for some designs on the custom furniture I’ve been building in my classes. I’ll need to talk to him about it, but not today. Today’s all about Archer.
The sign he brings out is impressive; the detail on it absolutely amazing. It looks lifelike, and I can’t wait to attach it to the playset. I’ve just pulled out my phone to show Brandon where it will go, when a noise alerts me to a text message. I smile, seeing it’s from Frankie. I bet she’s wondering where the hell I am and telling me to get my ass home. As pussy whipped as I am, this actually makes me smile.
I open the text and the four words staring back at me make my blood freeze in my veins. Everything around me ceases to exist and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart as dread fills every cell of my body. I turn around, ignoring Brandon calling out to me, and run out the door. I have no idea what is happening, but Frankie wouldn’t send this message if things wouldn’t be really fucking bad.
HELP. Come home now!
Jumping into the truck, I dial Frankie’s cell phone number, but it’s busy.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I quickly dial the house, praying she picks up. It just keeps ringing. I hang up and try again, but it’s futile.
“Fuck.” I slam my hand against the steering wheel, my breathing erratic. My mind is coming up with every worst-case scenario possible—one worse than the other. I need to focus. Frankie and Archer need me. I take a breath and dial Dean’s number, ignoring his jovial and happy greeting.
“Have you heard from Frankie? Are you home?” I shout into the phone, and Dean instantly picks up on the panic in my voice.
“No, what’s wrong?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. She sent me a text that said ‘Help. Come home now!’ ”
“God. We’re on our way.”
I hang up without saying goodbye. I call Viv and Mrs. Walsh next, but both their phones are busy.
“Goddammit!” I slam my foot on the accelerator, racing through traffic. Through a haze I hear honking and the screeching of tires. I run red lights on the way, but I’m too far gone to care.
All I want to do is get home while dreading it at the same time. Maybe it’s some joke, I tell myself, dialing the house again. My fingers slip, dialing the electric company before I hang up swearing. I try again.
“Pick up, Frankie,” I mutter, clenching my hand tightly around the phone.
No matter how much I want to fight the truth, I know Frankie. She’d never make this kind of joke. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I'm not one for premonitions or intuition, otherwise my grandmother’s letter wouldn’t have surprised me the way it did. But this I know—whatever is happening will make everything we've been through pale in comparison.
When I see the sign for Oak Avenue, my heart starts pounding harder. I want to get to her and Archer as fast as possible, but a part of me is afraid of what I will find when I get there. I barely register the trees and houses flying by.
Nothing seems amiss when I pull into our driveway. Frankie's car is parked out front, everything seemingly peaceful and calm. The calm before the fucking storm. The truck comes to a screeching stop next to Frankie's car. I fumble frantically with the seatbelt, and when I'm finally free, I dash out of the truck, the motor still running. I take two steps at a time up onto the porch and fling the door open, barreling through.
I'm in the living room, ready to yell for Frankie, the adrenaline pumping through me when I notice her in the kitchen. I stop in my tracks when I see my dad sitting in a chair at the kitchen table.
"Dad, what are you doing here?" My eyebrows knit together in confusion, my chest heaving with residual fear.
Her face is pale and her eyes are swimming with tears, wide with fear and pain. Even from where I stand, I can see the grip she has on the kitchen counter—her white knuckles a stark contrast to the dark wood. Her body is trembling and her bottom lip is quivering, as she focuses back on my dad.
I let my gaze follow, but can’t make sense of what I see. My dad's face is twisted with anger, hatred, and something else—something that looks like madness. He's holding Archer around the waist, digging his fingers into Archer's tummy, giving him a little shake when Archer's whining picks up volume. What the fuck is going on? My head is spinning as I try to process what I'm seeing. It's not possible. There is no way Frankie is terrified of my dad, no way is my dad threatening my son. That shit happens in movies—not in my house.
My dad doesn't react to my arrival, doesn't even glance my way.
As confused and freaked out as I am, it’s Frankie's voice that shakes me to the core. Despite her attempt to sound calm and collected, I hear the panic.
“Ben, why don’t you sit down with your dad and I’ll bring some drinks.”
Before I can say or do anything, my dad speaks. Actually, he yells, his voice loud and cold. I've never heard him speak like this.
“I was sitting here, telling Frankie how this kid will ruin your life, everything you worked for. He’ll take everything that’s yours.” He spits the words out, spittle flying from his mouth. I shake my head once, trying to clear my thoughts. I'm mishearing things. I have to be. This is some kind of cruel joke.
I take a step toward my dad. Maybe he's just in one of his moods. Something must have set him off. I can talk him down.
One step is as far as I get though because as soon as I move, my dad's hand moves to Archer's neck, clasping it tightly. Archer doesn't cry, but he makes a sound I will never forget as long as I live. It rips my heart from my chest and chills me to the bone.
“You know how easy it is to break a baby’s neck? It’s like breaking a twig in two.” My dad's voice is calm, cold, and calculated.
His words make panic rise inside of me, and I struggle for breath, for a coherent thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frankie hanging on by a thread; she covers her mouth, trying to keep the gasp that’s trying to escape locked in. It's the look on her face and Archer’s wail that set my brain in motion again.
“Dad, what are you talking about? Let’s sit down and have a beer. Why don’t you give me Archer so Frankie can take care of him?” I keep my voice even, choosing my words carefully.
His answer, however, is like a bullet straight to my chest. “So he can ruin you? Make your life unbearable? Make everything about him? No. I won’t let that happen. I should have stopped it with you.”
I can't be hearing right. He doesn't mean it. He can’t. But when he continues, there's no doubt left that he meant what he said. The pain searing through me is like shrapnel spreading through my body, bleeding me out from the inside.
“You were crying all the time. So she stopped sleeping next to me. Instead, she slept next to you, saying you were little and needed your mother. She always put you first. I hated you. I don’t want you to go through the same thing.”
I'm trying to breathe through the pain, my head a jumbled mess, trying to make sense of what’s happening, but he just keeps going.
“You know, I tried it. It would have been just a few more seconds and you’d be gone. It was so easy. You didn’t even see it coming when I pressed the pillow to your face, smiling up at me.”
The words, the brutality of them are like a kick to my gut, forcing me to step back. It's not…it can't be. He can't be saying that he tried to kill me. My eyes focus on Archer and the hold my dad has on him. I need to stay focused; I need to keep Archer safe.
“If your mother wouldn’t have come in, we’d still be happy. You’d be gone and I’d have my wife back. But she totally flipped out, running away, calling the cops. They put me in with the crazy. I’m not crazy. She was. We had everything. We were happy until you came along.”
I can’t recall the last time I prayed, but right now I need all the help I can get. In my head I pray for God to keep Archer safe. This isn't about me, this is about my son. His safety. His well-being. His life.
I notice Frankie take miniscule steps forward, and I do the same, hoping my dad is too caught up in his crazy thoughts to pay attention.
“I’ll just kill him and then you can be happy again.”
It's feels like everything is happening in slow motion as I watch my own father clasp his other hand around Archer's neck. The expression on his face is a crazed look which shows he's about to hurt my son.
Then, as if someone hit the play button again, everything moves fast. Frankie wails, and I lunge toward my dad as a loud bang rings out. Just as my father starts to fall forward, I grab Archer and jolt back, falling on my ass. Blood is soaking through my and Archer’s clothes. I look him over, making sure he’s not hurt. He’s screaming, and I don’t know how to calm him down, don’t know what to say to make this better.
I hold him close, breathing in and out while I try to blink away the tears. But when my eyes fall on my father's limp body on the floor, blood pooling underneath him, the gravity of the situation hits me full force. I look around, confused about what happened until I spot the police officer who is moving toward us, his gun still in hand.
Nuzzling into my son's neck, I let the tears fall. I rock him back and forth, whispering to him, though I'm not sure who I try to soothe—Archer or myself.
Everything feels surreal. I'm here, but at the same time I’m miles away. Somewhere where my father is not completely fucking insane. I feel numb, not much around me registering anymore. Only when Frankie clings to me and Archer am I brought back to the present.
It’s in this moment I realize nothing will ever be the same. The man lying in front of us has destroyed what we had. A man I brought into our lives. Frankie's arms squeeze hard. I notice, but can't react. All I know is I don't want to let go of Archer, not even when the EMTs try to take him from me.
***
Unwilling to leave Archer’s side, we ride in the back of the ambulance, trying to soothe him while the EMTs check his vitals.
My arm is around Frankie, holding her close, trying to soothe the despair I know she has to be feeling. Her hand rests on my thigh, occasionally squeezing lightly, keeping me in the here and now.
I've turned all my emotions off, my only focus on the two people I love the most. I have to be strong for them, get them through this—especially since I failed them today. The least I can do is to be there for them. Forcing myself to be numb to the fucking hurricane brewing inside of me, I watch the EMTs, waiting for their verdict. If Archer has been injured, I'll fucking kill the son of a bitch.
"His vitals are good. There are no visible injuries, but the doctors will have to run more tests," the female EMT says. "Now let's check you two."
She steps close to us, but Frankie shakes her head. "I'm fine," she croaks. I suppose it might be true when it comes to her physical well-being; her emotional state is a whole different thing.
“What about you?” the EMT says, stepping up to me. “There’s a lot of blood on your clothes.”
I frown and grind my teeth, swatting her hand away when she tries to check my pulse. I don’t want her to fuss over me.
“It’s not his,” Frankie says, her voice defeated.
I run my free hand through my hair, trying to stop the anger boiling just under the surface.
“Please, just make sure my son is okay.” I’m way past saving.
***
Our time at the hospital is hell—the wait to learn if Archer really is okay is pure torture. Every time I glance at Frankie, it’s like looking at a zombie. Her usually vibrant and shining eyes are blank, devoid of any expression.
It’s the same look I saw when I looked into the mirror while cleaning up and changing into the scrubs a friendly nurse has provided. I suppose they were worried it might scare patients to see us covered in blood.
Walking back with Frankie to the room Archer is in, I see Dean and Mrs. Walsh in the hall. Their eyes are rimmed red and Dean gives me a sympathetic smile. I just nod in response, too numb for anything more.
Taking Frankie’s hand, I listen to the doctor explain that my son is okay and there shouldn’t be any permanent emotional damage.
I hold Frankie close as we walk outside to Dean’s car and help her buckle Archer into his seat. Sitting on one side I hold Archer’s little hand while Frankie holds the other.
All the way back home, one thought spins around my head. This is all my fault.
***
Walking into the house is only possible because I force myself not to feel.
Frankie walks ahead of me and heads up the stairs while I let the others hug me, staring at the few square feet that were the scene of our lives fucking unraveling.
I want to run, get away, forget, and keep Archer and Frankie safe from me. At the same time, I want to lock myself away with them, protect them forever. Protect them from my father—a madman. I don’t deserve to be around them. They would have been happy and safe if I never would have come back.
Alex is the last one to hug me, his words low and measured. “You’ll get through this. You will. It’s not your fault.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t tell him how wrong he is.
Walking up the stairs and reaching our room, I stand in the doorway, unsure if I should be here.
Frankie is curled up on the bed, lying on her side. She’s still wearing the scrubs. Archer is beside her, already asleep, stretched out on his back and oblivious to the turmoil around him. Frankie watches his every move, every breath, but then she turns her head, looking straight at me.
“Come lie down with us.”
I can’t look at her, don’t want to see the truth in her eyes when I ask, “Do you even want me here?”