Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  “Please. Stay. Just until I fall asleep? You can tell them you were just making sure I was settled.”

  He sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. Turning his body so that his back is against the wall, he lifts one leg and lays it straight out against me. “Just until you fall asleep,” he concedes.

  I fluff my pillow and try to get comfortable. “You know,” I say quietly, “it’s really hard to go to sleep when I have a statue next to me.”

  He looks down at me. He’s nervous and I consider telling him to leave. It’s not right for me to keep him here if he’s this uncomfortable. But I won’t tell him he can go. You see, I’m selfish. There’s a greedy bitch that lives inside of me and she wants him. All of him.

  Throwing caution to the wind I snuggle into his rigid body, leaning across the space in hopes that he will humor me, loosen up, maybe even put his arm around me. I chance a look back up at him, gauging his reaction, placing my head against his chest. I know I’m pushing it and I half expect him to get up and leave the room.

  But Asher doesn’t react. Saying that, he doesn’t relax either. He keeps his eyes staring straight ahead. I place my cheek against his chest and the burn I get in my own is overwhelming. Listening to his heart thundering against my cheek, it doesn’t feel like the first time we’ve done this. This feels normal, right; like me being tucked into him, safe, content, is something that happens night after night after night. And as if succumbing to the same feelings, his heart thumps harder. Asher may be trying to keep his breathing steady but his body can’t lie. He’s as affected as I am.

  And just when I’m about to drop off it happens. Close to sleep, I feel him exhale. His muscles loosen, his shoulders drop, and his arm wraps around me, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder. I smile to myself and look up at him through my eyelashes but his eyes stay shut. He’s done talking and that’s fine with me. I don’t need words.

  In this moment, his touch is everything I need.

  I STIR A FEW HOURS later, the light filtering in through the window telling me that dawn has arrived. For the first time in a long time, I wake with satisfaction. There’s an overwhelming sense that things are starting to look up for me and the realization excites me. I roll over in my bed and gasp when my body hits a wall of warm skin.

  Asher has yet to leave my side. If he’s caught we’ll both be in the shit.

  I nudge him with my elbow but he doesn’t stir. I try again, harder this time, and he groans, his eyes fluttering open. He casts a glace around the room and when his eyes hit mine his lips break into a drowsy smile. “Hey,” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Hey,” I whisper back quickly. “You gotta get out of here. It’s almost morning.” He rolls to his back and stretches his arms above him, causing his shirt to ride up just enough to reveal the smooth tanned skin of his stomach. “Asher,” I snap. “Room checks.”

  That does it. He scrambles off the bed, his feet hitting the floor and he begins to pace the room, mumbling to himself about timings and rosters, his knuckle once again at his lips. He checks the clock, the window, and then finally the door, pressing his ear against the wood, holding his finger to his lips as he listens intently.

  He’s panicking—our little cuddle session not seeming like as good an idea as it had last night. “I’m going out the window,” he says finally, looking to me for approval.

  “If you think that’s what you should do.”

  He nods once in the affirmative, decision made. “Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.” He heads over toward the window. For a second I worry that I’ve lost him again, that when faced with the prospect of being caught, he’ll decide that this is all too big a risk. That I’m too big a risk.

  Just as I’ve managed to convince myself that this is the last I’ll ever see of Asher Hughes, he looks over his shoulder, one leg out of the window, and smiles a smile that lights up not only his face but the entire room around us. “See you later, Tegan.”

  My stomach fills with butterflies as I watch him sneak out. I hear his feet hit the ground and he gives a quick wave before vanishing out of sight. I let out a sigh of contentment and close my eyes, drifting back off to the deepest slumber I’ve had for years.

  WHEN I TURNED thirteen, I got my period. From the time I knew what it was and understood what getting it would mean, I prayed for it. One time, when I was ten, he said that he wouldn’t touch me once I became a woman; that when I was able to have children of my own, I would no longer be his. At that age I didn’t know how to become a woman. I just knew I wanted to be one. The question was: how?

  Then a few days later, like some divine intervention, I overheard my sister talking about her period to some of her friends. Listening to them talk about not wanting to be a woman, I finally understood what he meant. That would be my ticket; my way out of this pathetic existence called my life.

  So from that day forward, all I asked of God was for Him to make me a woman. I didn’t know all that it would entail, but it was the only hope I had left. I prayed He’d hear me. That my pleas would not go unanswered like they had all the times I’d prayed that the torment would just stop.

  After a few months of nothing, I cried. With nothing to lose, I got up the courage and ask my mother about it. She explained to me that there was no set time when it would come. That it was for God to decide. I wondered what the hell was wrong with God that he hadn’t already given it to me. He knew what was happening. He saw everything. It didn’t make sense to me.

  My mother went on to explain what I could expect when it happened. When she explained to me that I would bleed, I clenched my teeth, fighting back the horror that surged through me. I’d bled down there before.

  It hadn’t felt good.

  So I quit praying and went on living my life, knowing that when the day finally came, I’d be ready. That day I saw my blood-stained panties, my breath came in pants. Relief washed over me and I screamed my delight. My mother came running to see what was the matter, and I pretended I was upset. I knew enough to know that no thirteen-year-old girl should be excited about getting her period.

  My mother talked me through the options I had: tampons, pads, liners? But the whole time all I could think was, it’s over.

  I decided on pads, because that seemed like what any other thirteen-year-old girl would choose, having overheard some of the girls at school talk about how horrifying it sounded to shove something up their vagina. When I told my mother, she nodded sympathetically, like some sort of girl code. Then she went on to say that when I was older I would probably want to switch to tampons. “Pads get messy,” she said, matter-of-factly. I nodded. I’d wait a year or two before making the switch. Didn’t want to seem overzealous.

  I studied my reflection in the mirror. Wasn’t I supposed to feel different? Was this really all there was to it? Just like that I was a woman.

  “How are your cramps, sweetheart?”

  Her question snapped me from my daze. I’d been so wrapped up in the excitement of getting my period that I forgot there were actual things that came along with it—other than the blood. I shrugged. “I don’t feel anything.” I wondered if I was just too happy to feel pain. Like I was high on the thrill of what it meant.

  Standing behind me, she ran her fingers through my hair and smiled. “They may start later on. If they do, let me know and I can give you some Advil.” I nodded and she leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. I smiled up at her. She headed toward the door and opened it before looking back at me. “Just let me know if you need anything else, baby girl.”

  “I will.”

  I spent the rest of the day in my room. I read a book. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Music played all day long. It was like I couldn’t believe that the day had finally arrived. I was free.

  That night, long after I had changed into my pajamas, he snuck into my room and sat on the edge of my bed. For a second I was frightened that he wasn’t going to keep his promise. But then I read the look o
n his face and I knew. I knew that my mother had told him and I knew that he meant what he said.

  “Your mother tells me that . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” I finished for him. I just wanted for it to be over already. I wanted him out of my room, for good.

  “Did she explain it to you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course she did.” I loved my mother. She was the best mother I could’ve asked for. She hugged and kissed me everyday, fed me home cooked meals, made sure I always had the best clothes. She just married the wrong man, oblivious to the fact he was a monster.

  “Good.”

  I forced a fake smile and willed him to leave not just my room, but my life altogether. He nodded and stood up, slowly walking to my door, stopping just short, his hand on the knob. He paused and kept his eyes forward. “Well, whatever you do, don’t get pregnant,” he said. And then he left.

  I rolled over onto my stomach, buried my head in my pillow and cried. I let every tear that I had held back finally flow freely. The man that had played the role of my father, the one I was supposed to have trusted most, would no longer be able to control me. He could no longer sneak into my room at night and touch me. There would be no more confusion. No anger or hatred. He wouldn’t put his hands on me again. His reign of torture was over. He wasn’t going to hurt me any longer. If he could, I’d rather die.

  WALKING TOWARD ASHER’S office today feels different, as it should. My stomach is in knots, rolling with anticipation so much that I it’s like I’m going on a date; or what I imagine it would feel like if I knew what it was to go on a date—which I don’t.

  I consider not showing because I’m unsure of how it’s going to go, but I immediately toss that idea out the window because I have to see him. I can’t not. I’ll go insane.

  My hands shake as I reach up and rap lightly on his door. I don’t even know why I still knock. His other clients don’t. I’ve watched them let themselves in for their allotted appointment time. He’s expecting me anyway. My knuckles are still resting against the wood when the door flies open and a hand locks around my wrist, pulling me into the room, and I’m barely inside the doorframe before it shuts behind me. “You’re late,” he says with a smile.

  “I got nervous.”

  He pushes my back against the wall. The linen of his pants feels scratchy against my bare legs peeking out from under the skirt I wore just for him. “Do I make you nervous?” he asks, dropping his face to mine, so close that I can smell butterscotch candy on his breath.

  I love butterscotch candy.

  I shake my head. “The situation does.”

  As if waking from a daze, he backs away from me, his jaw clenched, and I wonder what I’ve said wrong. I blink rapidly, unsure of what to do next until he says, “Come sit down and let’s get started.”

  “I didn’t mean we had to stop.”

  “I know. But this is your session. It was wrong of me to hijack it.”

  A smile plays at the edge of my lips. I feel like teasing him. So I do. “What if I want to be hijacked?”

  “You shouldn’t.” He gestures to the couch. “We still have work to do no matter what. So, please, sit down, Tegan.”

  With a sigh, I do as I’m asked.

  “How are you today?”

  I shrug.

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what.”

  “Irritable.”

  To sulk when I don’t get my own way is my modus operandi and I hate and I love that he knows that about me. Perhaps him being my counselor is going to make things difficult, in more ways than one.

  “This is serious work. You’ve only begun to scrape the tip of the iceberg that is your recovery and if you have any hope of staying clean you’ve got to cut that shit out.”

  Despite wanting to be pissed off that he shut me down, I know he’s right. No one knows. Not even him. And as my counselor, he should, but how could he when I haven’t told him. I’m not ready, and I’m not so sure I’ll ever be. A lump forms in my throat. “I can’t,” I manage to squeak out.

  He nods, understanding. “Then how about I tell you about my melted iceberg, and then maybe next time we can get the sun shining on yours?” A slow smile spreads across my face and I nod. He’s letting me in and my heart feels as though it’s soaring out of my chest. He coughs and it’s nervous. “I really don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Sounds like it’s my turn to play counselor.”

  “You know, I am certified,” he teases, a deep chuckle sounding in his chest before he looks at me very seriously. “Does that mean I get the couch?”

  I shake my head. “No way. This is the most comfortable piece of furniture in this whole place. I’ll die before giving it to you.”

  He throws his hands up in surrender and I smile, enjoying the ease with which we seem to be settling. “All right. Fine.”

  “So start at the beginning,” I prompt, folding my hands over my knees and peering at him over my fake glasses.

  “Jesus, is that what I sound like?”

  “Cheesy, isn’t it.”

  “Very. I don’t know how you tolerate me.”

  We share another laugh before he quiets and the mood in the room shifts when he takes a deep breath before beginning. “I had the epitome of a shitty childhood. My mom and dad were teenagers when they had me and, of course, couldn’t afford to take care of me like a kid should be taken care of. They worked a lot. Drank even more. Eventually, by the time I was able to read, they’d started to fight. A lot. It started out with yelling, but quickly it progressed to slaps, then fists. My dad always won.”

  I listen intently to his story, alternating between clenching and relaxing my fists, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth as I imagine Asher as a small boy, a pit of sorrow opening up in my stomach as he sets the scene.

  “I was lucky they never laid a hand on me, I guess. But I always made sure to hide during the fights, just in case, you know? My mom pretty much always had a black eye or a busted lip. Hell, I think by the time I was in third grade I forgot what she looked like without them.

  “So then, when I was in the fifth or sixth grade, he stopped coming home for days at a time. Mom would cry and drink. Hammered, she’d start talking to me about what a dirtbag my father was, telling me he was out sleeping with other women. It was a wonderful thing to hear as a kid.”

  He paused and took a deep breath while my heart broke for him. No one should ever be without the love and adoration of their mother. I only managed to survive through life by the skin of my teeth, thanks to my mother’s love. What hope did someone have without even one parent to look out for them? He reaches for a glass of water and takes a slow sip. The room is silent except for the sound of the glass as he returns it to the table next to him and I’m thankful that he doesn’t need me to talk because I don’t think I’ll be able to find the right words.

  “While this was going on, the beatings stopped, mostly because he wasn’t home. The other part of me thinks it was because he just didn’t care anymore. And then shit hit the fan. My mom went psycho. Would throw me in the car and stalk my dad while he went to bars and got drunk, following him to wherever he would go when he’d undoubtedly leave with some bimbo. It didn’t matter where they’d end up; she’d be there, sitting outside, crying, drinking. All while I, a boy of thirteen, sat in the backseat and did my homework.

  “When she finally got the courage to confront him, he left. Just like that. Never to be seen or heard from again. Mom got worse. She lasted three years before she blew her brains out while I was at school. I came home and found her.”

  And with those words, the air that had been hanging so heavily over the room disappear completely and I struggle to draw breath, my heart breaking, seizing at the thought of him walking home to such a scene. I look him square in the eye and expect to find him upset. But he isn’t. His eyes are soft, his body language almost . . . relaxed, like he’s told this story a thousand times before; so muc
h so that the words themselves have lost any power they might have had over him, and I wonder if I might, too, someday have that strength. If only I could find the strength to talk, period. But the ability to talk about what hurts me most without drawing myself up into a ball, shielding myself from the words as they swarm around me, infecting me with the memory of the most painful experiences of my life, reminding me of what I became as a result, seems to be something that continues to evade me. Even though he’s sitting across from me, completely calm and collected, all I can think about is that teenage boy that lost what little world he had. I want to go to him, to offer comfort in some way but I’m frozen in my seat, needing to know what happened next.

  “An orphan at sixteen is bad enough, but a sixteen-year-old orphan who’s spent their entire life around alcohol and physical abuse is even worse. Her body was barely in the ground before I was smoking pot. By the time I was eighteen, I had experimented with every drug going and had a list of sexual conquests longer than Santa’s good list. The rest is pretty much history.”

  His choice of words strikes a memory with me. “You’ve said that to me before.” He looks at me, confused. The memory of us discussing recovery seeps back in slowly. Why did he finally seek help for his addiction? When I asked him before he’d skirted the issue, but there had to be a reason. “Why’d you get sober, Asher?”

  His eyes break away from mine and by the way he begins running his fingers through his hair I can tell he has purposely avoided this section of his story, but I’m not going to let him. I need to know what his rock bottom was. What was the defining moment that turned him from Asher Hughes the drug addict into Asher Hughes, LADC.

  “Asher,” I scold. “What happened?”

  He takes a deep breath and starts to speak. “I got a girl pregnant. She wasn’t my girlfriend or anything, just some cokehead I hung out with a lot. We’d get strung out and have sex. Obviously I was pretty careless.” He stops for a second and looks back at me, forcing his lips to turn upward into a halfhearted smile. “When she shared the news with me she told me to not worry because she planned on getting an abortion. I can’t explain exactly what I felt, but I do know that when she said those words my heart sank. I wanted that baby. I wanted a chance to be a better dad than mine had been. I wanted to clean up. Be the man I knew I could be.