Years of torment and he’s been behind bars a few months. The scales of justice are seriously skewed, and I’ll continue balancing them. I have a plan; my first since I started this walk in hell. It’s not a healthy plot, but it’s the blueprint I’m creating.
It doesn’t matter. The blood, the violence . . . it’s all a part of who I’m becoming. What I’m born from. I’m finally embracing my inner demons. I’m done fighting them. I’m done fighting for myself. I’ll bring vindication to those wronged and tip the balances in the underdog’s favor. One bigoted asshole at a time.
I have nothing to lose, and that’s a dangerous place for a man like me. A place people like Brian and Seth will discover, time and time again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emma
Eating a frozen turkey dinner for Thanksgiving wasn’t something I thought my life would entail. I can close my eyes and smell the decadent aromas from the kitchen this holiday used to bring. My mouth waters thinking of the meal I’m missing. My mom begged me to come home, my dad tried bribery; I wasn’t ready.
I push the lumpy, still frozen mashed potatoes and call home. “Hey, Butterbean.” My mom greets me.
“Don’t mention food. I’m fantasizing about what I’m missing.” I’m not joking.
“Emma, I wish you would’ve come home.” Her voice trails off, and I hear her shoo’ing my dad as he fights her for the phone.
“It’s fine. Promise you’ll help me make Christmas dinner.”
“Of course. I was just telling James how I get to revisit all our old haunts when I come visit you.”
“Mom,” I warn. I asked her not to divulge where I was.
“It’s just them. He’s still evading everyone.” It doesn’t make me feel better, one slip and everything I’m working for could crash in on me.
“Enough of that. I wish you wouldn’t have said anything.” I feel bad chastising her, but I needed this distance. This anonymity.
“Here’s your father.” She’s miffed, her defenses hackling because she knows she screwed up. He may have disappeared for the time being, but once he’s back in their fold, they would tell him. Just as my parents would do the same for me.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“What’d you do to upset your mom? She’s pouring the wine.” I laugh at his joking demeanor.
“She spilled the beans where I’m hiding, and I’m upset. It will blow over.”
“I hate not having you home. This is a first for all of us.” That’s his way of telling me I shouldn’t blame my mom, we’re all getting used to the rules and boundaries. It’s just as hard for them as it is for me.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for taking care of yourself. I just wish I was there doing it.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Honey, each story is different. What worked for me won’t work for you. You left, Emma. Our histories are different; I was the one abandoned. Ask your mom; it may be better for her. I was angry, bitter, lost. I think we both felt that for different reasons.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you sure William did? I was pissed. You were in jeopardy, I had to watch you cry. I’m just not sure the blame lies where you placed it.”
“You don’t understand.” They don’t understand the history, the years this went on, and I tried to get him to change it.
“I won’t understand unless you make me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I huff.
“It will always matter. To you. To him. To us.” This call hasn’t gone how I planned. I’m the injured party here, I expect my dad to sympathize. “Don’t get sullen. I didn’t raise a brat. I’m not saying you’re right or wrong. Your feelings are just that . . . yours. You don’t have to justify or explain them to anyone, but you have to remember in a situation like this there are other sides.”
I growl down the line. “Happy Thanksgiving. Y’all have fun.”
“Emma Marie Nichols, knock it off. You brought this up.”
“No, Mom did.” I’m being belligerent, and I don’t have a fuck to give.
“We love you. You want us to treat you like an adult, let you make your own choices, then you have to stand by those and accept there are varying degrees of the truth in a heated situation. I won’t turn my back on you, him, or our friends. You’re my first priority, but I’d be a shitty parent if I didn’t point out that you have a cock-eyed thinking process.”
He’s right. That’s a hard pill to swallow. “Alright, Dad. I get it. Have a great day. See you soon.”
“Talk to you later.” He pauses. “I love you, baby girl.”
“Love y’all.”
I hang up and let my mind drift to him. Where is he? Is he in trouble? My thoughts have strayed to him many times over the last months, but I’ve shut them off. Today I allow them to run adrift. Remembering the taste of his lips, the feel of his skin, the beat of his heart. I believed it beat for me and vice versa. Is my thinking skewed? I’m not sure. I know I was hurt, I know he had the power to prevent this. Didn’t he?
Chapter Thirty-Six
William
I haven’t allowed myself to look into their eyes. I haven’t seen them since I fled the hospital. James is still recovering. Brett is reeling from the night’s events.
The child they rescued, the child they loved, the child they broke laws to save . . . was a failure. They showed me love by loving one another freely and allowing me a place in their hearts. They showed me love in their patience with me, their support in my dreams, and in the forgiveness they were offering me.
“Son, we’re here to help you. You can’t continue this way,” James begs me. I lift my eyes to his and immediately lower them. I still remember staring at him at the hospital. Months have passed, and I still see the bruises prominently. His arm in a cast, his head still sporting stitches.
“I’m fine.”
“You were arrested. Again. You aren’t fine.”
“How do you know that?” I was sure my past and present lives were fractured. I didn’t want one bleeding into the other.
“The sheriff has become a great friend. Keeping us updated on the case. How you’re doing. We were surprised at how well acquainted you’ve become with him.”
“It won’t happen again,” I lie. If I see either of those fuckers, I’ll beat them every time. They don’t press charges, so I’m fortunate to get misdemeanors. I know my luck will run out eventually.
“You told him that last time,” Brett interjects. “Talk to us. You were gone when we got home from the hospital. Living across town with no warning or no discussion. You’ve dropped out of college, forfeited your scholarship, Emma is gone, and you continue to punish yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”
“It is.” I’m sure of this.
“It isn’t, William. Nobody is to blame except for Brian.” James is sure of that, but he’s wrong.
“I got in the car. I went on and on, telling them you ruined my life. Buying me. I gave them the fuel when I told them I was quitting the team and leaving town.”
“You can’t take responsibility for his actions. That boy always had issues with us.”
“I know.” My words are quiet, shameful.
“What?” James’s voice picks up volume.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t. Open your mouth and start explaining.”
“I heard it all. The names they called you, the things they said about you adopting me, the fight after the championship game was because of that. I hated the words, but I knew they were wrong. I would get so angry because they didn’t know, they didn’t understand that it wasn’t wrong, or I wasn’t different.”
“Son.” Brett moves to my side. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t want you to deal with that. It’s disgusting. Yet, I was still friends with them.” I break. My stomach revolts, and I double over, the
sobs wrack my body, the bile fights to erupt. The disgust I feel for myself, the way I let everyone down. I tell them everything. The reason I went to Southern, the threats, the taunts. Every vile thing is out in the open. “So it is my fault. I knew what they were capable of, and I went with them.”
James is leaning over me, shielding my body with his. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t believe that. We don’t.” How they don’t blame me is incomprehensible. Brett drops to his knees in front of me.
“This is our job. You should have come to us years ago when it started. I’m not blaming you, but it’s nothing we haven’t heard.”
“My own family disowned me,” James reminds me. “You were a kid, and hiding the truth about your adoption didn’t help. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. Is this why Emma ran?”
“Yes. She begged me to tell you. She didn’t know about the threats.”
“She’s wrong for leaving.” Brett is getting angry.
“No. She’s right to protect herself from me.”
“She’s isn’t. You love her. You love us. You can’t fault yourself for that.” We spend hours rehashing things, deflecting blame off one another. It’s therapeutic. It’s cleansing. I lost so many years letting words dictate my actions. Words that didn’t need to cause harm . . . I gave them validation.
“We need to tell you the truth behind your adoption.” My stomach clenches again. I don’t know how much more I can take.
“Okay,” I declare.
“We visited the country several times before we saw you. I loved the culture, the crops, the history of the land and the struggle of the people; it showed tenacity and pride. We would spend weeks exploring and relaxing. One day we were walking along and saw a group of children being lined up inside a fence. A run down building sat inside the fence, overgrown weeds obstructing the view. A little girl fell down and began crying, a little boy dropped out of line, ignoring the shouts at him and helped her up, drying her face with his dirty shirt and supporting her as she hobbled to take her place. That same little boy was sent back inside and missed the opportunity for the clients there to see him. That little boy was you. Brett and I looked at one another and we didn’t have to speak, we just knew. We never discussed what we were doing as we walked into the home which was being used as an orphanage.” James searches my face, and after I nod, he continues. “We were told as a gay couple we couldn’t adopt, the constitution forbade it. I was furious, we wanted you the first time we saw you.”
“That’s an understatement,” Brett adds. “We felt a connection. It became our mission. We brought clean clothes for you, inquired about your well-being. Our last day when we walked in there was a man waiting for us guarded by militia. He led us to the office and explained how things could be handled. The orphanage housed the children with no backgrounds. Poor immigrant workers, citizens lured to the fight with guerillas in El Salvador. He gave us a price and told us if we paid it you would be ours.” He takes a deep breath and hangs his head in shame. “I’m not proud, but we couldn’t see another way. You were ours. Our son. We had to leave that evening but only came home long enough to secure the funds and flew back to begin the process of bringing you home. We should have told you all this when you were younger, when we felt you pulling away.”
“So you know nothing about me?”
Brett shakes his head. “Sadly, no. I know your mother was killed by the guerillas, it was hinted there was a transgression by your father, and she was the collateral damage, but that’s it. Everything else we told you is the truth. You didn’t speak, a little of your native language but you were a silent child. You didn’t have a name. And the second you saw Emma, you never shut up. You learned English; you read to her, you followed her, allowed her to chase after you. You wiped her tears, you protected her.”
“And I fell in love with her.”
“She fell in love with you, as well. Son, it will work out.”
“If it doesn’t?”
James stands. “I’m going to fix this. This has gone on too long, we all have blame, none of us are faultless.”
“Don’t. She left without a word. That speaks volumes, and I’m going to respect that. Did they know?” This time they both hide from me. I have my answer. “No wonder Luke didn’t want me dating Emma. It drove him mad when it started.”
“That’s not true. Luke has his own battles in letting go of Emma. Battles you wouldn’t understand unless you lived them. They loved you as much as we did from day one. Don’t doubt that.” I stand to go home.
“I need some time.” They nod. I feel dirty. I know where their hearts were, but I was still traded like a commodity. I feel their love but wonder what sins my father committed? My birth parents’ blood runs through me, I may be like them. Filthy, ruthless, immoral. Who knows? Does it matter? I’m exhausted and it’s easier not to fight who I am.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emma
I wrap my acceptance letter and place it under my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. My parents arrive in an hour, and I’m scurrying to pick up. They are staying at a hotel because the apartment is small, something my mom lived in while running from her past. Uncanny how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I sigh wishing for the crisp cool air of Georgia with the sun peeking through the clouds instead of the wet flurries and ice covering the ground here.
They don’t knock, just enter, but I can’t complain because they do own this place. I fly to my dad’s embrace, my mom running her hands over my head cooing words of love. He pushes me back, eyes raking over me, making sure I’m in one piece. “I’m fine.”
“I missed you.” My mom steals me from his arms and doesn’t let go for a long while.
“What do we need to do?” My dad hates this city and likes to keep his excursions to a minimum, getting everything done in one venture and becoming a hermit. My mom rolls her eyes, and I hand him a list. “Jesus, Emma. That’s like five stops.”
“You can stay here.” I challenge him.
“How will y’all get around?”
“Uber.” Duh. I’ve lived here four months, so I have learned a thing or two.
“You better not be, Emma. I swear I’ll lock you in a dungeon if I find out you’ve been getting in strangers’ cars. A cab is bad enough.”
“I’ve got to get to stores and stuff. How do you expect me to get from point A to point B?” This man is crazy protective.
“I’ve deposited extra money, given you access to your trust each month. I figured you’d call a car service.” I laugh. I can’t help it, he’s certifiable.
“Okay, Mr. Trump. I forgot I’m an heiress with a limo at my beck and call.”
“Deal with your daughter, Twinkle.” He steps in the kitchen, tugging his hair.
“I don’t know why you torture him. He’s losing his mind with you here.” I know we aren’t hurting for money, we’ve never struggled, but I refuse to use a car service because he is a fanatic about my safety.
“I’m being realistic. His ideas are ridiculous.”
“True. But his love is like no other.” She stares at him, and I vomit in my mouth thinking what will happen tonight in their hotel room.
“Whatever. Let’s go.” Those magical words make my dad appear, ushering us to the rental he has and chauffeuring us from store to store. We purchase enough food for a small army; I know this means my dad isn’t planning on treating us to meals on the town. We finish last minute presents, drop off stuff to the shelters, and finally make our way back to my home away from home.
I kiss them goodnight shortly after. They are tired from their flight, and my mom promises to be here early to prepare breakfast and open gifts. Christmas this year is different, but I still have my family with me.
As promised, bright and early meant crack of dawn for my parents. I woke to pots and pans banging, “Little Drummer Boy” blaring, and enough chatter to wake the dead.
“Morning,” I manage, yawning.
“Merry Christmas,” Mom shouts. Good Lord, I
can’t deal.
Dad takes pity on me, tugging me to the couch to cuddle. “Want breakfast or presents first?”
“Presents, of course.” My mom shuts down the oven and joins us. We huddle in a circle around the tree. I hand them their little presents, trinkets I picked up here and there to make them laugh or let them know I was thinking of them. I open scarfs, boots, and gift cards. We all seem a bit off this year.
I give them the box holding my acceptance letter. My mom tears into it, my dad staring over her shoulder. “Oh, Emma.” She holds it to her chest. “We’re so proud of you.”
“Baby girl, number three ranked school for your major.” I shake my head, soaking in the pride rolling off them.
“I’m excited.”
“I’m happy for you. It means another year you’ll be gone. Thousands of miles from home. Don’t go getting a job that far away, too.” He’s half kidding.
The big present propped against the wall draws my eye. I watch my mom cross to it, lugging it back to me. “This is from James and Brett.”
My hands tremble; my fingers have a hard time tearing the brown paper. It’s a Kim Anderson photo; this has turned into a theme. This one is sorrowful. A lone boy, holding flowers, it’s aptly named Missing You. I stand and excuse myself to the bathroom. My emotions sting my nose, tears held in. I splash cold water on my face. I know this is their message to me.
Both my parents are silent, watching me as I exit. “Has he seen them?”
“Yes. Last week. William’s getting in fights, drinking; he’s off the rails. According to James, he broke down, says he doesn’t know if William has any fight in him. He’s lost.” I nod and want to change the subject, but she has other plans. “Emma, we support you, but I feel we are enabling you. Providing a place for you to escape, all expenses paid, I’m afraid we aren’t teaching you anything.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I can use my trust and not your money if that makes it better.” The anger is rising. I’m their daughter. I’m their concern, not him.
Embracing Emma (Companion to Brisé) Page 22