by Ren Benton
It never crossed her mind that her mother or anyone else might be unreasonable or cruel or disappointing to her.
Her certainty that she was a loser made her reliant on the kindness of the most generous person willing to give a loser a chance and advertised to abusive assholes that she expected to be treated like shit and wouldn’t object. She put herself in situations destined to go badly so her low expectations were met, reinforcing the toxicity she’d absorbed since childhood.
She’d been stingy with her love because she thought everything she had to offer was worthless. Her piece-of-junk heart wasn’t good enough for the golden boy who was loved by all to want in his collection.
But there was a difference between universal infatuation with his charm and loving all of him — including his often clumsy honesty, his inattention to superficial details, his delight in skating around boring rules. The wrecking ball and the woman who married him no doubt told him all the time that they loved him — words that proved to be empty when they failed to mold his behavior in the desired fashion.
He hadn’t known about Tally’s love because she hadn’t expected it to matter to him, but the more meaningless I love yous heard, the more the true ones mattered. Without honest love — even if it poured from a piece-of-junk heart — someone might get the idea love was always a lie and distrust it when offered.
As she had.
He hadn’t known about her love because she hadn’t known it would matter to him.
“Your mother is gone. Don’t let her stop you from being happy now. Don’t give her the satisfaction of ruining the rest of your life from hell.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I could be done with her if she didn’t still have a hold on you and I knew you could be happy.”
The immensity of the tasks she had to complete successfully in order to get to that point whipped her anxiety to a peak. “What would you do without me?”
“Buy my own milk and pee in a dirty toilet.”
She sniffle-laughed against her fingertips.
“You don’t need anyone’s permission to go after what you want, Tally. No one worth your worry would stand in the way of your happiness.”
She lived under the rule of a tyrant for so long, she didn’t know what to do with freedom. She had built a cage for herself because it seemed safe. She could barely breathe inside, but it kept danger at a distance.
Ben got close enough to see right through the bars, right through her. He knew. He always had. It terrified her having nowhere to hide, no room to conceal her secrets, no protection from him.
But what did she have to protect that was worth the cost of losing him? Nothing. She had nothing else to lose. She never had.
If he saw all her weakness and fear and faults out in the open and decided he didn’t want anything to do with her after all, at least that failure would be his decision, after she tried, instead of quitting because she let fear sabotage her.
Her dad lifted her chin again. “So what are you going to do?”
If she could be the best at something she hated, surely she had it in her not to fail at the only thing she’d ever wanted for herself. “I’m going to be extraordinary at what I love.”
Chapter 37
Ben drove back to Seattle rather than try to get through a TSA checkpoint with a printout of his driver’s license and a wallet full of credit cards that had been reported stolen.
Oh, that was bullshit. He had a reasonable explanation and a police report to back up his story and would have gotten through security without doom befalling him. It was the thought of standing in line for two hours and sitting on a plane for two more hours that made him want to set himself on fire, and more sitting in the custody of Homeland Security with third-degree burns held even less appeal.
He needed to be doing something.
A twenty-hour drive fueled by Cheetos, Mountain Dew, and obnoxiously loud music with the windows rolled down to air out the Febreze miasma was something to do.
He arrived home late Friday, too late to pick up the cat from the pet spa. Just as well — Dice wouldn’t appreciate having his vacation cut short just because Primary Food Source came back early.
Vacuuming, scouring the inside of the empty fridge, scrubbing the toilets, and wandering around the echoing house until finally collapsing into a chair at 2 a.m. for a few hours of sleep was also something to do.
He woke early and made use of the big city’s fancy-phone service availability to send a text announcing his return. The recipient replied immediately with a summons to breakfast.
Ben walked into the Mayhews’ bright, pretty kitchen just as Liz was pouring batter into a waffle iron. “I thought those only came frozen.”
“Philistine. Frozen waffles are made with elf slave labor. Every one you eat consigns a little baby elf to a lifetime in the waffle fields.” She went up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the chin.
“I’ve already doomed the next ten generations of your people, then, but your kid should get an exemption on the grounds of being a half-mutant alien blob.” He bopped his chin on the top of her curly blonde head when she was still for a rare moment. “How you doing, little mama?”
“Great, now that the circle of fussing is complete.”
Will’s mission to play it cool sounded off to a great start. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re on your own with the pushing.”
“I’ve been training for that my whole life. Gram assures me I was pushy in the womb.”
She couldn’t help it. She was a big fireball in a runty package. “You’ll do great.”
She poked him with her elbow. “I’m glad you’re here. I need all the help I can get being tirelessly positive.”
He would have sworn he had no positive charge left in him after the previous thirty-six hours, yet he didn’t hesitate to look ahead to welcoming Baby Mayhew into the world. Until his hopes were blasted to dust, he still believed in happily ever afters on a case-by-case basis.
Will shambled into the kitchen, eyes unfocused, hair standing on end, sulking over the injustice that a man couldn’t sleep until noon on a Saturday when his wife habitually rose before the sun, started banging pots and bowls around, and invited guests to breakfast like some early-rising, sociable, pregnant monster. Given her delicate condition, Ben received the brunt of his grumpiness. “I was hoping not to see you until Monday.”
If things had gone better, he’d still be in Westard, making the rounds one last time to say his goodbyes before heading to the airport. “What can I say? You can lead a horse to water, unless it kicks you in the chest and runs away.”
Will seized a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. “Are you calling your mother a horse?”
Liz checked the waffle. “He means the girl, and use a glass in front of witnesses.”
Ben couldn’t talk about Tally and remain tirelessly positive. “You’re the only girl for me, Liz.”
She gave him a you’re so full of shit look that threatened to turn him inside out and spill his guts all over their bright, pretty kitchen.
Their bright, pretty life.
Fortunately for their slate tile, he’d learned from a master how to evade talking about his feelings. “To make things easier for you, I’ve picked out names for the baby. Benjamin for a boy. Benjamina for a girl.”
“Those are too imaginative for you to have come up with without help.”
Will’s disposition improved after administration of sufficient sugar, gluten, and bacon. Ben spent the entire day with them, plotting nursery decor that would make every other baby in the PNW seethe with envy, debating whose team had the better cornerbacks, and talking about whatever in the way friends who could talk about anything did.
Anything other than Tally.
The hour approached when he had to either leave or come up with a convincing reason to sleep over that didn’t alert them to his dread of returning to an empty house.
Will walked him out to his car. “Want to tal
k about it?”
If he was honest about the extent of his agony, Will would worry. Even if he was sworn to secrecy, Liz would notice. Will would tell her everything because that’s what people who loved each other did. Then Liz would worry and give the mutant alien blob an ulcer. “Nothing to talk about.”
Will looked up at the moon. “I know you’re trying to protect us, but we love you, too, you know. We don’t like seeing you hurt. Do not take that as a hint to stay out of our sight, dumbass.”
He might have. He felt poisonous, and it wasn’t their job to decontaminate him.
Shit.
Tally was the saddest person he’d ever known, even without ever letting him see the full extent of her agony. She did this — protected him from being infected by her sorrow, the same way she protected her dad: I’m fine. Don’t worry. Keep your distance so you don’t see that’s a lie and get tangled up in my nightmare.
She never understood that because he loved her, he didn’t want to be protected. He wanted to be there for her, even if he couldn’t help, so she didn’t have to suffer alone.
But if he barged back into her life demanding entry to her fortress, the outcome wouldn’t be any better. She wouldn’t be led. She wouldn’t be pushed. What option did that leave? “If I wouldn’t talk about it, what would you do?”
“Wait. You know we’re here for you whenever you’re ready.”
He hadn’t left Tally on I’m here whenever you’re ready terms. Would it occur to her that he would listen when she had something to say, or would she tuck it away, one more secret she wouldn’t trouble anyone with?
He was afraid he knew the answer.
Chapter 38
“Is it going to be a problem that I’m scared of yeast?”
Tally paused with a strip of adhesive tape stretched between her fingers. “Were you bitten as a child?”
A glob of cookie dough hit her between the shoulder blades and rolled across the floor. Julie didn’t share her neurosis about spotlessness — yet. “It’s never worked for me at home.”
“You’re probably murdering it with overheated water. Dead yeast don’t rise.”
“Good thing. You’d get sued for selling zombie bread that tries to eat the customers.”
Or she’d get a television series. Zombies plus cooking would be ratings gold. “Hundred ten degrees, no more, no less. I taped a chart by the microwave for about how long that takes for different amounts of water, but always go by the thermometer.”
“Write that down, too.”
“It’s on the chart. Will you relax? If I can do it, it’s not hard.”
“Says Miss Straight A’s Dance Champ.”
Tally spread her arms wide. “And look where all those years of perfection got me. Up to my elbows in snickerdoodles alongside a mere B student and a former career that falls under the classification of sex worker. You’ve kept two helpless little humans alive for going on nine years. I guarantee that’s more challenging than anything that happens in this bakery. Yeast is going to be your bitch when I’m done training you.”
Julie had adopted an efficient system of rolling half a dozen balls of dough, dropping them in a bowl of cinnamon and sugar, shaking the bowl to toss the contents, and transferring the sugar-covered balls to a baking sheet. She reverted to her amateur method of meticulously coating one ball individually. “Sorry. You’re probably sick of hearing me whine.”
“Well, yeah, but I understand. I think. The voice in your head telling you you’re stupid and useless and can’t do anything right without following its orders?”
Tally had been trained that the purpose of her mother’s abuse was to make her better. That lie became so deeply entrenched, if no one else would punish her for falling short of perfection, she’d do it herself. How else would she ever become good enough?
“Son of a bitch.” Julie stared down at her unmoving hands. “It’ll go away for so long, I think he’s finally gone for good, but then it comes screaming back.”
“When you’re out of your comfort zone and unsure of yourself.”
Julie’s hands balled into fists. “Dammit, Tally, we were supposed to be friends. Why didn’t you ever say anything about your mom?”
“How long was Jeremy hitting you before you told anyone?”
“Too long, but I bought into the idea that I could control the hitting if I acted right.”
“You think it’s easier to brainwash a twenty-year-old to that effect than a victim worked on since infancy?” Tally had lived with daily guilt about the way she thoughtlessly upset her mother. Responsibility slid off abusers like they were made of grease. They were the true victims, forced to take unpleasant actions to defend themselves from torment. Whether they actually believed that bullshit or it was only another part of their manipulation strategy made no difference. “Apart from that, there are the consequences that you will cause if you blab.”
“‘I’ll take the kid and you’ll never see him again.’”
“‘I’ll send your father to prison and all the men he’s guarded will rape and murder him.’”
Julie shook her head. “Then you’re trying so hard to protect someone else, you can’t even think about protecting yourself.”
“That’s the idea. The last thing they want to do is call attention to themselves by, say, abducting a baby or making allegations of child molestation, but even if you sense they’re bluffing, you’re too scared to test them.”
“I look at my kids, and they seem so small and breakable. And I think about you at that age, going through abuse I couldn’t handle as an adult, having to figure all that out when recess was still part of our lives, and it breaks my heart, Tal.”
Tally’s insides squirmed. “And of course my first thought is I should have hidden it better so it didn’t hurt you.”
“You have to give credit to abusive assholes for having an effective program.”
They probably had a newsletter full of helpful tips. “Any idea how you get your abusive asshole’s voice to go away for a while? Other than staying in your comfort zone, because my zone has been the size of a raisin and I still can’t soundproof it.”
“Always be making your comfort zone bigger. The more you prove you can do, the less the voice can say you can’t. If it has to stay outside the zone, make it scream from a distance.”
Expanding her zone necessitated abandoning her fortress. “In progress.”
“Right.” Julie had agreed to play a part in that progress. “It also helps to have someone who wants to protect you, even from yourself. When you see how hard it is on someone you love to battle your demons for you, you’re motivated to fight harder. But on the days you’re exhausted to the point of quitting, it’s nice to have somebody take up a sword on your behalf. Also in progress, right?”
That was Tally’s lofty aspiration, but regardless of whether Ben would give her another chance, she had a lot of work to do on herself. That had to come before she inflicted the same broken woman on him. “We’ll see.”
Julie resumed rolling ivory balls of dough. “These would probably be pretty with some food coloring in them.”
“They are.” Tally had the same thought at one point. The dough had so little color, dye stayed true. She’d made a rainbow of doughs before she discovered the drawbacks. “Unfortunately, the cinnamon makes the pretty colors look dirty.”
“Can’t you roll them in plain sugar?”
Tally also had that thought. “You can. Try it for one batch.”
Julie’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going to go wrong?”
There wasn’t a lot of flavor in snickerdoodles. Only the cinnamon saved them from tasting like sweetened drywall compound. “Nobody’s going to die, if that’s what you’re worried about. You learn by experimenting, for better or worse.”
“Or you could tell me and save time and dough.”
They had time and dough to burn, so to speak, since Stella persisted in not caring about the books. “How would you know I wasn’t sho
oting down your idea for the sake of taking of a shot at you?”
“Because you’re not an abusive asshole.”
The bell on the counter dinged before Tally could debate the accuracy of that statement.
Julie looked toward the sound. “Want me to get that?”
“I’ll do it. Roll at least a few of those in plain sugar so you’ll know whether it’s worth doing in the future with color.”
“What are we going to do with all these cookies, anyway?”
Julie could follow a recipe just fine. What she needed was the confidence that came from doing each of them successfully, which created far more supply than demand during this transitional period. Stella had put Tally through the same trial two years earlier. “Give them away free with purchase, whether the purchaser likes it or not.”
Tally stepped out of the kitchen, and Janine Fielder dropped the hand poised to hit the bell on the counter again. “What happened to the buzzer?”
“I got tired of listening to it complain, so I took it down and beat it to smithereens with a hammer.” The only thing more satisfying than permanently silencing that irritant was seeing the look on people’s faces when she told them how she handled complaints these days.
Janine appraised her at length, then gave a nod. “Good for you. I always hated that damn thing.”
“And you hardly ever come in. Try living with it all day.”
“I did. I worked here for a year the first time Ben’s father ran off. Stella let me keep him in a playpen behind the counter.”
Tally had often wondered how Ben came by his sweet tooth. Must have been through osmosis. “He never mentioned that.”
“He was too little to remember not having my undivided attention that time.”
She’d be willing to bet Ben never suffered from lack of attention. Someone had been cooing over that playpen at all times. “What can I get you, Ms. Fielder?”