Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  My hero gave me hope.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Pulling into the driveway, I kill the engine on the cage and glance over at Gina. The meatloaf has put her into a coma and she appears to be sleeping peacefully ever since we left the diner. Not in a hurry to wake her I turn the headlights off and stare out the window at the little house I grew up in. From the outside one wouldn’t think such a dysfunctional family lived inside. You’d never know almost all the walls had holes in them, a product of my father’s fists. You would never know that the woman who has the most immaculate flowerbeds on the block served as a human punching bag or the little boy slept on the floor of his closet with his hands covering his ears.

  No, you wouldn’t know any of that.

  Because you judged the house by its appearance not knowing what lived inside.

  Turning my gaze back to Gina I silently take in all her beauty. Once the bruises started to fade and the swelling went down I’d look at her and still see them. It took some time to look at her beautiful face and not remember the days she tried to conceal her bruises with make-up or recall icing the swelling around her eyes. But now, it’s easy for me to look at her and see only her and not the remnants of the rape. My only wish is for her to see that for herself, for her to not only see the beauty she possesses on the outside but the beauty that’s inside her as well.

  Heart.

  Strength.

  Will.

  She thought she was fierce before the attack; that she was unstoppable and her strength had no bounds, but in truth she never knew her strength until she had to fight out of the darkness. She still doesn’t know how strong she is and she won’t for a long time. But I know her strength. I see the ferocious woman hiding beneath the mask of despair.

  She’ll suffer at times.

  Doubt herself more than she’ll believe in herself.

  She’ll break down and need a shoulder—my shoulder.

  But she’ll prevail.

  Because beyond these walls built around her isn’t horror.

  Torment doesn’t live where beauty does.

  She’ll learn that.

  I’ll teach her.

  I’ve got a whole lifetime to do so seeing as I already told her I was marrying her.

  What the ever living fuck kind of shit was that?

  A drifter doesn’t stick.

  He doesn’t stay in one place long enough to fill out a change of address form at the post office, but here I am planning on sticking around long enough to sign my name to a marriage certificate.

  Fucking crazy shit right there.

  She was wrong. I am selfish, selfish enough to make her mine in every way that counts. Selfish enough to never let go, to give her my burdens and take on hers.

  Selfish but maybe a little bit honorable too.

  Because I plan on being a man of my word.

  When I tell her I’ve got her I want her to know those are the only words she ever needs to believe.

  To know she can trust I’ll always have her.

  I’ll have her grief.

  I’ll take her pain.

  I’ll bear the ugly.

  And I’ll take all the beauty.

  I’ll take those green eyes and hold onto them with everything I’ve got.

  Yeah, who am I kidding, I’m a fucking selfish prick.

  Sighing, I trail my fingertips down her arm. I fight back the urge to wake her with my lips. A simple kiss, touch my lips to hers and remind her that a kiss isn’t an act of violence but a declaration of affection. But I won’t do that, not until she asks me to. Until she’s ready to erase the ugly and make the beautiful. I’ll wait.

  Wait as long as it takes for her to come to me.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” I murmur, lacing my fingers with hers. Hand holding is the only touching she allows and for a brief moment I wonder if it’s because they didn’t touch her hands.

  I’m not oblivious.

  I’m human too.

  And as much as I block out what happened to her there are times when I think about her attack. Without knowing all the gruesome details, I think about what she’s lived through, what haunts her, what those cocksuckers did to her. I picture her in that alleyway the same way I relive being on top of that roof. And just as I flinch when my subconscious pulls the trigger time and time again on that little boy, I flinch when I imagine all the things they did to her.

  When the time comes, when she’s finally ready to give herself to me fully, it will be rewriting the nightmare for both of us. For her it will reaffirm how a man should touch a woman, how a man should respect a woman’s body and her limits. For me it will reaffirm that she’s mine. That no other man will ever have what’s mine.

  “Hmm,” she mumbles.

  “We’re here,” I whisper, squeezing her hand as I look back toward the house and notice the porch light as it flickers on.

  “We’re here?” she questions, wiping the sleep from her puffy eyes and following my gaze out the window. “You weren’t kidding about the gardening, huh?”

  “Tulips for days,” I mutter, drawing out a deep breath. “You ready to meet my mom?”

  “Are you ready to see her again?”

  “Not really,” I admit.

  “Well then it’s a good thing you brought me to buffer the awkwardness,” she says, squeezing my hand, giving me another glimpse of herself with no effort at all.

  There she is.

  “Come on,” I say hoarsely. “Let’s take you home to mom,” I tease, ignoring the dread churning in my gut.

  Stepping out of the van I move to the passenger side as she climbs out and takes my hand, repositioning the baseball cap with her free hand.

  “Okay, I think I’m ready,” she says, tugging on my hand. She attempts to walk forward but I keep my feet firmly planted on the driveway and wait for her to turn back to me.

  “No, you’re not,” I say, taking a giant leap of faith. “Lose the hat, pretty girl.”

  She opens her mouth to object but I trail my finger down the bridge of her nose until it falls to her lips, silencing her.

  “It hides your eyes.”

  “Eyes that tell a story—”

  “Eyes that tell the story of a beautiful woman,” I interrupt, leaning my forehead against the brim of the hat. “Lose that hat, pretty girl,” I whisper. “Show the world and my mother you survived.”

  I take a step back and assess her features, knowing my words will either wound her or motivate her. Seconds tick by, maybe minutes but then she lifts her head and I recognize the fire in those green eyes. An inferno mixed with courage and fear blazes in them as she raises one hand and slowly pulls the rim of the cap off her head.

  She slaps the hat against my chest, forcing me to take it and I watch those eyes glaze with tears. I’m about to hand her back the hat and apologize for pushing her too far when she lifts her hands again and tucks the strands of hair covering her eyes behind her ears.

  “Is that better?” she asks as her voice hitches but her eyes remain locked with mine.

  “I don’t know; why don’t you decide?” I reply hoarsely.

  “Fact, I don’t like you very much right now,” she hisses.

  “I can live with that,” I tell her, fitting her cap to my head.

  “I love you for that,” she whispers as she lets the tears fall. “Can you promise me something?”

  “I knew you were looking for promises,” I rasp, taking her hand. “What do you need, pretty girl?”

  “That. I need a lot of that,” she says. “Promise me you’ll help me find myself again.”

  I reach up and brush away the tears from her cheeks. And she gives me more of her beautiful when she doesn’t flinch at my touch. Instead, she leans her cheek into my palm and I give her the only beautiful I know.

  I give her words.

  My words.

  “I’ve got you,” I vow as I take her hand and bring it to my li
ps.

  A kiss is still a kiss and wherever it lands, it’s still a declaration of affection.

  With her hand in mine, I walk the pathway lined with tulips. A pathway I never thought my boots would walk again and I ring the doorbell.

  More beautiful comes my way as the door opens and one warrior greets another. My mother’s green eyes briefly meet mine before they lock with Gina’s green eyes.

  “Hi, Mom,” I greet, waiting for her to tear her eyes away from Gina, but it doesn’t happen right away. I watch as the two women continue to silently stare at each other before Gina extends her hand.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kincaid, I’m Gina…” She pauses slapping my arm, “You didn’t tell me if your mother calls you Chase or Stryker,” she whispers.

  “You didn’t ask,” I counter.

  “Still, don’t you think you should’ve told me?”

  “Chase,” my mother interrupts. “It’s the name I gave him and the only one I’ll ever call him,” she clarifies. “And while we’re playing the name game, please don’t call me Mrs. Kincaid. It reminds me of my mother-in-law and she was a bitter old tool.”

  Gina’s glare softens as she turns her gaze back to my mother and smiles.

  “Call me Claire,” my mother says, before her eyes settle back on me. I watch as she drinks every inch of me in, her eyes glistening as they finally reach mine. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again.”

  I keep the reasons for my visit to myself and shove my hands into my pockets.

  “Is now a bad time?”

  “Is that your way of asking about your father?”

  I raise an eyebrow at the spunk laced in her words.

  “Your father passed away a year ago.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “So, to answer your question; no it’s not my way of asking about the old man, but it is my way of asking you if it’s okay we’re here.”

  “Of course it’s okay you’re here, Chase,” she whispers, stepping aside as she opens the door wider. “Please come in.”

  I place my hand on the small of Gina’s back and follow her into the house, watching as she takes in every single detail from the molding to the grain of wood the floor is.

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty? What can I get you?” My mother asks as we enter the living room.

  “I’m good,” I tell her, keeping my eyes on Gina as she stares at the only photo on the mantle.

  “May I?” she asks, turning to my mother. Once she receives the nod of approval Gina lifts the frame and stares at the photo of me in my dress uniform.

  “That was my proudest moment as a mother. Well, that and when he pooped on the potty.”

  She did not just go there.

  I spin around and glare at my mother, watching as she innocently shrugs her shoulders.

  “Don’t give me that look. Training you was hell. It took months, and you marked all my plants like a dog. Besides, you came home to introduce me to your girlfriend, right? Careful, Chase, I’ll pull out my photo albums. I have three of them dedicated to your terrible twos,” she warns, turning back to Gina.

  Her laughter fills the room and I spin around again, pushing back the realization that this was probably a bad idea and I’ll end up with whiplash chasing the sounds of their smart mouths.

  “Can I see those photo albums?”

  “No.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ma, no, no photo albums,” I demand, taking the frame from Gina’s hand and standing it back on the mantel. “Jesus fuck,” I growl.

  “Language! Don’t fuck with the Lords name,” my mother chastises and again I turn to her wide-eyed.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I question in astonishment.

  “Oh sweetie, you only knew one facet of your mother. You never gave me the chance to introduce you to the woman I kept buried. I wish you would have, maybe then I would’ve had the chance to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes in confusion.

  “Yes, thank you. You set me free. You, Chase, you saved me.”

  I was nobody’s hero.

  But I was my mother’s.

  Go figure.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I forget.

  I temporarily forget that I’m the victim. I become so engrossed in the stories Claire shares, the way her and Stryker reminisce over the times they ‘scraped happy from the floor of this old house’ and the way they both dance around the memories neither of them are fond of. There are memories that have them laughing out loud and memories that Stryker gets up and literally walks away from.

  Claire tells me all about her gardens and then she blows both me and Stryker away when she admits the truth behind her green thumb.

  I was an abused woman, something I didn’t want to admit, so I escaped it. I’d sit in those flower beds for hours pretending I was like all the other housewives on the block. Sometimes I was better than them because my pansies didn’t die and my tulips didn’t frost over. When cars rolled down the block, I wasn’t the woman whose husband smacked her around at night. I wasn’t the woman too ashamed to look her son in the eye when she put him on the school bus the next morning. I was Claire Kincaid, and I had the perfect life…just look at my flowers, the proof was right there in the front of my house.

  I think that was big of her to admit, even now, years later. She found the courage to share what happened to her, to say the words I’m a victim. But she wasn’t only the victim, that badge didn’t stick with her for the rest of her life because she turned it around by admitting it.

  Then she became the survivor.

  And that’s beautiful.

  I’m not sure Stryker felt the same way about his mother’s admission because he took another breather from the conversation, only this time he didn’t return after five minutes.

  “He resents me,” Claire says quietly as she leans over the coffee table and fills both of our coffee mugs. “He begged me so many times to leave his father. Imagine that? A young boy pleading with his mama to be safe. My own son begging me to open my eyes. I ignored the fear in his eyes for so long, told myself every day he wasn’t scared to come home, but I knew deep down inside he was absolutely terrified of opening that door and finding me dead.”

  I say nothing, watch as she fixes my coffee exactly as I did for the first cup and then she leans back and stares me right in the eyes.

  “It’s sad when you meet your son’s girlfriend and in one sitting we’re able to share the few happy memories we have.”

  She sips her coffee as I keep my hands steadily wrapped around my own mug before placing it down on the table.

  “Can I ask you what changed?”

  She looks at me for a moment, continues to drink her coffee in silence before she places it down next to mine and holds out her hand.

  “Come,” she whispers.

  I place my hand in hers and curiously follow her into the little bathroom off the side of the kitchen. She points to the toilet and I turn down the seat and sit. Silently she bends her head and washes her face, scrubs away all the make-up and then pats herself dry with a towel before turning to me. Claire crooks her finger and I stand, walking into the light and my eyes follow her finger as she points to the four faded marks beneath her eye.

  “Scars,” she whispers. “These are the only ones that never faded and every time I look in the mirror I’m reminded why I lost my son.”

  She pauses, drawing in a deep breath before forcing a smile.

  “He came home from the service, thought being where he was and seeing what he saw made him a capable man and begged me to leave with him. He pleaded with me and told me he could take care of me; that we didn’t need his dad, but I was too broken and too fearful to realize I didn’t need him. I was too jaded by the things I conjured in my head to truly see how badly things had become, too blind to see my son joined the Marines to escape the life his father and I gave him.”

  She brings th
e towel to her face, dabs at her eyes before draping it over the faucet of the sink.

  “Still, he didn’t give up on his mama. He came and visited me once a year on my birthday…”

  My heart hitches and tears sting my eyes as that little revelation hits home for me. My mother’s birthday has been the one day every year that Rocco and I always find our way to each other. The one day when we put aside our differences and visit our mom.

  “Until one year he came and found me pinned against the wall and his father holding a fork to my face,” she whispers. “It was a nightmare,” she adds. “One that didn’t end with the fork stabbing my skin but a bullet piercing through my husband’s back.”

  My eyes widen and the gasp involuntarily escapes my lips.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, covering my mouth with my hand.

  “Me too,” she says sadly. “I’m sorry it took my son shooting his own father to open my eyes.”

  “Stryker shot his dad?”

  She nods.

  “That was the last day I saw my boy,” she cries. “And the last words I told him was to get out of here.”

  She shakes her head, glances down and sighs before she lifts her sad eyes back to mine.

  The color.

  Oh my God, it’s so similar to mine.

  “For years my son tried to be my hero, tried to rescue me from a hell I stayed in, but that moment, that one moment changed everything. Watching my son walk out the door, lying to the police and telling them someone broke into the house, flushing my wedding ring down the toilet—it all opened my eyes. I didn’t need someone to rescue me from the abuse, I needed to become my own hero. I needed to save myself from the nightmare I was living.” She shrugs her shoulders. “So, that’s what I became.”

  “A hero.”

  “My hero,” she corrects.

  “What happened to your husband?”

  “The bullet paralyzed him from the neck down,” she reveals, crossing her arms under her chest. “I threw his ass in a home and let the miserable fuck rot in hell until he died. Oh, honey don’t look so shocked. A woman can only take so much until she’s taken enough and then the world better watch out. There’s nothing more ferocious than a woman reclaiming her life.”