by Josie Wright
I jolt awake, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath caught in my lungs. I’m panting as I look around the room, finding Frankie fast asleep and Archer snoring in his crib.
I stumble out of bed, not bothering to throw on a shirt. I need to get out of this room, away from Frankie and Archer. I go down to the living room, only turning on the lamp on the end table. Sitting down on the couch, I bury my face in my hands and groan.
Last night’s research was fucking discouraging. Trying to learn more about hereditary factors in psychosis, I’m left with more questions than answers. There is no clear evidence it’s hereditary, but there is also no clear evidence that it isn’t. So it’s like a goddamn Russian roulette—one day I might wake up and decide that my son is the bane of my existence, and hurt him. Or, what if I believe that about both him and Frankie? Fuck, I can’t even think about it. The thought alone is killing me.
I can’t risk that. Can’t put them in danger. If I stay in their life, I don’t know what will happen. What if I snap? There is no warning, no fucking alarm system. I might wake up one day and be like my father— a fucking madman who has no conscience, no remorse. I could talk to a doctor, have him prescribe me something, but what doctor would actually do that solely based on the fact that my father is a nut-job.
As much as it fucking hurts, I need to leave. Need to get as far away as I can in order to keep them safe. The idea makes me double over and I lean my elbows on my knees, groaning and rubbing my face with my hands. The realization of what I have to do is burning through me, the loss more than I can handle.
“Ben, what are you doing down here?” Frankie’s voice breaks through the silence in the room. I should have known she’d come looking for me sooner or later. She always does if I’m not in bed when she wakes up.
I don’t look up, don’t want her to look in my eyes because she’ll see the truth, and I know she’ll fight me on it.
“I couldn’t sleep. Go back to bed, babe.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” she suggests. But I can’t. It’ll just make me question my decision which is not a risk I should take.
“Nah, I’ll only keep you awake.” I silently beg her to just go upstairs and lock the door, but I should have known Frankie doesn’t give up easily.
“Ben, please don’t do that. Don’t push me away.” Her voice is quivering; I can hear the tears she’s trying not to shed.
When I tell her I’m not pushing her away, she ignores the lie. Instead, she kneels in front of me and takes my face in her hands. Her eyes bore into mine, and I know I’m not hiding shit from her. The recognition in her eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Ben, you’ve barely touched Archer since it happened. You don’t dare to stay alone in the room with him. You pretty much stopped talking to me. You’re here in this room, but it feels like you’re leaving me. I can’t lose you again. You promised you wouldn’t leave.” She sobs. “You promised.”
I hate making her cry. Hate causing her pain yet again. But this is a million times better than the hurt I could cause if I stay.
The look she’s giving me, her eyes pleading, her cheeks stained with tears—it weakens my resolve enough to let her into my head. “Fuck, Frankie. Maybe it’s for the best if I leave. Before I hurt you or Archer. What if I’m like him? What if I end up becoming a monster like my father?”
She’s shaking her head, holding one of my hands to her cheek.
“Ben, you’re not. He wasn’t worried about hurting you. You are. You worry about Archer’s well-being every single moment. There is not a bad bone in your body. I trust you with him. Do you think I would do that if I thought you were dangerous?”
“I’m sure my mom didn’t think that either.” She would have never allowed him to be alone with me if she thought he would try to kill me. She trusted him, just like Frankie trusts me.
“Ben, you have to believe me. Please. God, please believe me.”
I want to believe her so bad. I want to trust in her words, but the risk is too big. No matter how much it might break her heart now and tear out mine in the process, I won’t take any chances when it comes to protecting her and Archer.
She must read my face, because all of a sudden, Frankie’s demeanor changes. She sits up straighter, and her eyes blaze with determination.
“I won’t let you do that. Remember what you said to me? You’d fight for us. You did. And now it’s my turn. You won’t leave me; not because you make yourself into something you are not. I love you. And I know you love Archer and me. This won’t destroy us. Do you understand?”
She sounds strong and unyielding, a hint of anger and a lot of conviction in her voice. She stomps up the stairs, leaving me by myself in the living room. I want to follow her, but I know it’ll just make things harder. I should stay away. Should leave as soon as I can. The only problem is I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose the life I have here. I don’t want to lose the only two people who matter to me. I’m torn between doing the right thing and doing what my heart wants me to do. In the end, my heart wins.
I walk into our bedroom and first thing I notice is the suitcase on the bed. She’s throwing my clothes into it. I have not the slightest clue what’s going on. Half an hour earlier, she was announcing she would fight for us and now she’s packing my stuff. Is she kicking me out?
The thought makes my stomach churn. I can’t abandon her and Archer. Not without a fight. The possibility of her having had enough is my fucking wake-up call. She and Archer are my world—if there’s the slightest chance we might fix this, that it could work, I need to try. She’s hell-bent on loving me. Others might have run away a long time ago, but not Frankie. She’s willing to fight for us, and I owe it to her to at least give it a try.
My heart is beating wildly in my chest. “Frankie, what are you doing?”
“We’re going to see your mom. The flight is in five hours.” I want to tell her we can’t do that, but she holds up a hand, stopping me before I can utter a single word.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I told you, you’re either in it or you aren’t. You decided you’re in, so you’re not going to jump off the damn train at the first fucking detour. You owe me this. You owe Archer this. We’ll go there and we’ll ask your mom questions that need to be asked. If you still think you’re too dangerous to be around, fine, walk away. But I won’t let you do that without trying. And don’t say anything or I swear to God I will punch you.”
I watch her as she continues packing, noticing her stiff movements and the tension in her rigid shoulders. I watch my girl being strong for the both of us, willing to fight for me. She’s given me a chance before, forgiving all of the mistakes I made. Even now, after everything my father has done, she’s still here—fighting for me. They weren’t just empty words at the cemetery—she doesn’t judge me by my father’s deeds or illness. She simply loves me—even when I push her away, when I contemplate leaving her. She’ll never know how much this fucking means. This kind of unconditional love—I can’t believe it’s mine.
I walk up to her and take my shirts out of her hand. She freezes, looking up at me. Her face is scrunched up in anticipation, waiting for me to defy her plan. And maybe I should. But I can’t. I owe her this. I owe her to fight and to love her back the way she loves me. So I place the shirts in the suitcase and feel her relax next to me, all the tension leaving her body.
She exhales a long breath, as if she’d been holding it for a while. So do I, for now. It’s the upcoming days that will make or break us.
Chapter 42
Weight off my Chest
The flight to Detroit is pure torture. It feels like it takes for-fucking-ever. I try to occupy myself with Archer’s fascination over everything on the plane, but I don’t manage to focus for long. I’m nervous. Really fucking nervous. Not knowing how my mom or Ron will react is nerve-racking.
A part of me is still mad they lied to me, knowing this shit would have never happened if I would ha
ve known the truth from the beginning. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have done the same if it came to Archer. It’s not an easy conversation. Hey Son, by the way, this is not really your father. Your real dad is locked up ’cause he tried to kill you. Pass the salt?
It’d be so easy to blame them for Noah’s actions and I really want to. But I can’t. They did the best they could to protect me. And I was the asshole giving them the middle finger as a thank you. I hope they can forgive me. I’m not sure how we’re supposed to move past everything, but I guess I owe it to myself and them to try.
***
When the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of the house I grew up in, my stomach is tight with anxiety. I’m sure by the time we’re at the front door, I’ll have puked out the cheap peanuts Frankie forced me to eat on the plane.
She senses my trepidation and pulls me close, which is just as well because I’m five seconds from getting back into the taxi and telling the driver to haul ass.
“It’s going to be okay. They love you. They are your parents. I love you. And I’m here for you. So is Archer.”
With Archer in Frankie’s arms, we head for the door hand in hand. She doesn’t let me go for even a second. The suitcase with the travel crib fastened to it is in my other hand, and I’m holding on so tight my nails dig into the palm of my hand.
Walking up the step, I recall the last time I’d seen the house and my mother crumpled on the ground, watching me disappear. Guilt and shame hit me, making my hold on Frankie’s hand stronger. I’m a fucking mess. She squeezes my hand back in encouragement, but it does nothing to calm me down.
Before I can overthink the situation, the door flies open and my mom throws herself at me, hugging me so close I can barely breathe. Her whole body is shaking with sobs. I’m not sure what to do. It feels foreign, like I don’t deserve it. But fuck, I need it. After everything that happened, I need my mother. I need her hugs and her love. So letting the suitcase fall to the ground, I hug her close, holding on.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I mutter, emotions choking me.
I feel her shake her head against me. “No, I’m sorry, Benny. So sorry.”
I hold her close, rubbing my hand up and down her back, while trying not to cry myself. She hasn’t called me Benny since I was ten years old and told her it was a baby’s name and not cool enough.
We stand like this until her sobs have subsided. She pulls back, looking at me, a wistful smile on her face before she lets go and turns around to hug Frankie.
Reluctantly, I look up and see Ron walking toward me. I don’t know what he’ll do. Will he kick the shit out of me for hurting my mom, for being an ungrateful fuck? He’s always been there for me. Every freaking moment of my life, no matter how much of a little shit I was. And I left to find a father who never fucking wanted me. I couldn’t blame him if he kicked me out and told me to get lost.
I want to say something, but he doesn’t give me a chance. When he’s in front of me, he pulls me to him, his big, rough hands clapping my back. “Welcome home, Son.”
Hearing those words nearly brings me to my knees, relief flooding through my veins. All my fears and worries dissipate with those three words and I hold onto Ron, my dad, not fighting the tears anymore. Right now, I don’t feel like the grownup man with a woman and a little son at his side. I feel like the little boy who just needs his dad to make things better, and the man who’s holding me up is the one who has always done it. We might not share the same DNA, but he’s always been my father.
I know Frankie and everyone back in Northampton have been there for me, but it’s not the same. It’s a fucking lonely feeling without parents. In this moment, in my dad’s arms, I finally grasp the depth of their unconditional love for me.
He pats my back with one hand, and pulls my head closer with the other, letting me just get it all out. Only once I’m somewhat steady and controlled, he suggests we go inside, pulling me with him as he goes.
We sit down at the little round kitchen table, Frankie with Archer at my side, my parents across from us. It’s the same table I was sitting at when everything unraveled and I thought shit couldn’t get worse. Noah proved me wrong.
We need to talk. I need to get shit off my chest and ask questions. The answers will determine if I can stay with Frankie or if I’m a fucking train wreck waiting to happen.
My hands are clammy and my pulse is pounding away in sync with the bouncing of my leg. Though it doesn’t calm my nerves, it gives me the nudge to start talking when Frankie puts her hand on my knee.
“Noah escaped the hospital and came to our house.” It dawns on me that I’ve gradually gone from calling him dad, to calling him father, and now he’s just Noah. No one who tries to hurt his child is a real father. The fact that he made me doesn’t change this. He’s nothing more than the sperm donor—not a father.
I don’t look up, but I hear my mother gasp.
I need to power through this. Talking about it is fucking hard.
“He attacked Archer…he…fuck…he tried to kill him.” I swallow hard, trying to get the anger and pain swirling around under control. I haven’t actually expressed it this clearly. Never said those words, always using some kind of description instead.
“He also told us he tried to kill me.”
“Oh God, Ben, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I should have warned you.” Between sobs, my mom reaches over the table, taking my hand and holding it like a vise.
I remember the day when I got the letter, remember how she tried to talk to me. Even if she would have told me the whole truth, I would have considered her a liar. I was falling apart and I wanted to hate her for lying to me. Back then, I didn’t want to see she might have had a reason for it.
“I wouldn’t have believed you anyway. I was too angry, too blind. Mom, I’m sorry.”
My mom’s frail frame is shaking with tears. She looks a mess and if not for Dad at her side, I think she’d crumble to pieces.
They both look at Archer, cradled in Frankie’s arms, oblivious to the emotions churning in the room. Worry and love for my son is written all over their faces. Dad nods toward him. “Is Archer okay? Did he get hurt?”
Frankie answers, telling them he is okay. That he only had some bruises but nothing serious—thanks to the cop and me. She fucking paints me as a hero in this, which couldn’t be further from the truth. My dad doesn’t let me ponder on this, though.
Grabbing my free hand, he asks, “What about you, Son? How are you coping?”
Sighing loudly, I contemplate how to answer, how much to tell them of how I’ve been feeling since it happened. “Not well…” I start, but pause, searching for the right words. Dad squeezes my hand and the pain, guilt, and shame I’ve been bottling up, tumble out. “Dad, he lied to me from the start. Every-fucking-thing he said was nothing but a lie. And I was stupid enough to believe him. If I hadn’t, if I would have listened to Mom, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Closing my eyes I drop my head, waiting for them to tell me it’s my fault. It’s only when I feel someone’s hands on my thigh that I open them again, seeing my mother crouching next to me. Her eyes bore into mine while she takes my face between her hands, not allowing me to look away.
“You listen to me, Benjamin. None of this is your fault. None of it. We should have told you about him sooner, but we wanted to protect you. Your father…Noah…he’s a very sick man and he’s been like that for a long time. We didn’t want him to hurt you. What he’s done, it was his doing. It was him. Not you Ben. If you want to blame anyone, blame me for not keeping you safe from him.”
I wish it were that easy; that I could put the blame on her. And I’ve done it for so long. But even though she and Dad made mistakes, I was the one who didn’t see through Noah’s fucked-up charade. I didn’t question anything, didn’t try to seek proof of what he told me. I was so fucking eager to believe him, needing to connect with my real father, to find out where I come from and whom I be
long to. I didn’t even realize all the bullshit he was feeding me.
Frankie and I tell them every sick, twisted detail of Noah’s surprise visit; it’s a hollow feeling to recount all of it. Again, my heart is yanked out of my chest. Every time Frankie’s voice falters and I pick up, I hate Noah a little more for what he has done to her, to us.
This talk is the equivalent of a big, festering wound I keep pouring salt into. But even though it hurts and makes my head ache, I know it’s necessary.
I’m thankful to see my dad get out the whiskey when we finish our story. I need something to help me numb the pain.
The burn of the alcohol feels like pure bliss, giving me something else to concentrate on than the chaos inside my head. Instead, I can focus on the sting traveling down my throat when I down the glass in one go.
The main reason we came here isn’t to talk about Noah’s attack, but about the more pressing issue I’m not sure how to bring up. I guess I’m scared of the response—because it will determine my future. I can’t look at Mom, who is sitting across from me again, silently crying in Dad’s arms.
Frankie reads my mind and asks the one question that has kept me awake for the past nights.
“We’re having a hard time coping with what happened. But it’s harder for Ben, for many reasons. He’s worried and scared that Noah’s mental illness is genetic and he’ll end up like him.”
After mouthing a thank you to Frankie, I turn to my mom. Every single muscle in my body is tense, waiting for the verdict.
“Oh no, God, no. Ben, don’t you worry. You aren’t like him and you won’t be,” my mom says shaking her head and takes ahold of my hand. “It’s not hereditary. Noah had an accident as a child.”
At her response, my muscles relax, some of the tension fleeing my body. I can’t fully believe it yet. Not after everything that happened with Noah. The panic that has dug its claws into me refuses to let go that easily.
I nod at my mom, urging her to continue.