Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  Savannah gazes up at me, the edges of her mouth attempting to smile as she nods her encouragement. It’s all the reassurance I need. Slowly, I make my way toward the snug, mentally preparing myself to finally come face to face with the beast of a man who ruled and ruined my childhood. With Savannah close behind me, we push through the door. Two men are at a corner table playing dominoes, pints of beer on the table in front of them. Both are too young to be him. There’s only one other man in the room. He’s bent over the table, his ear close to a small radio as he listens to a horse race, glass of whiskey on the table next to him, but it can’t be him; he doesn’t look big enough. The door swings on its hinges, alerting him to our presence, and he looks up. It’s then that I see him. That unmistakable sneer on his mouth, deep set eyes like tunnels of darkness that lead to an unknown abyss of evil. He’s older, much older—of course he is—but I would recognize him anywhere. My skin feels dirty just looking at him. My insides roil at a fetid smell I’m not sure is real or part of my imagination.

  “You looking at?” he asks defensively, his eyes scouring my attire from head to toe.

  “That’s questionable.” My thoughts emerge as words before I know I’m responding.

  “Well, if you don’t like what you see, fuck off. Upper-class twat.” I feel Savannah bristle by my side, and as if he only just notices her, he adds, in a fake posh accent, “Pardon my French, milady.”

  “Don’t you fucking speak to her. Don’t even look at her.”

  His sneer gets uglier. “Look, do I know you?”

  Shifting nearer, I bend forward and press the off button on his radio. Then leaning my fists on the table, my stance wide so that I’m looming above him, I stare him down. “You should. Let’s see now. You used to refer to me as … boy. Oh, and, you murdered my mum. Ring any bells?”

  All color drains from his face, leaving him deathly pale, almost yellow. He sits back in his chair, trying to escape my space, his eyes, once again, taking in everything about me.

  “Jackson?” You can barely hear the word as it scrapes past the horror and incredulity.

  “Oh. So you do know my name. I often wondered. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol haze that made you forget it or you just couldn’t be bothered using it. Or was it that most of the time you were so drunk you didn’t even care whose face you were punching?”

  This grabs the attention of the two men playing dominoes, and they look up, their eyes fixed on Vince, who glares back, spitting a warning. “You want a picture or something? Fuck off!”

  At the same time, I hear the woman behind the bar. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think you were the largest man on Earth—far bigger than any other man I’d ever met. But you’re not, are you?” My eyes skim over his frame in bewilderment, noticing just how small he actually is. He’s almost emaciated. “You’re just a little man, really. Nothing. Nobody.” I glance at the untouched glass of whiskey and push it toward him. “Or is it because you’ve not had enough of this yet? This is what makes you the big man isn’t it? The fuel that puts led in your pencil. It must be, what? Four o’clock, at least, you should be steaming by now. Come on, drink up.”

  He pushes the glass away. “So you grew up in to a big boy now. Bully for you. You got nothing better to do than push around an old man? Go ahead, I can take it.”

  “Push you around?” I laugh at his delusional comment. Do these people even know what you are … what you’ve done?” I look pointedly from one to the other and back to him as I add, “Do you know that he beat his wife to death?” The woman flicks her gaze to the floor. The men shrug.

  “Jesus Christ, this place really doesn’t change a bit, does it. Scumbags united. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. Don’t judge and you won’t be judged, is that it? How far does that stretch? What’s the ceiling on what’s considered to be an acceptable crime, eh? What about murdering your baby daughter?” I glare at him with abhorrence.

  “I didn’t do that! The kid wasn’t even born.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, motherfucker. That kid, as you call her, the one you beat out of your wife, drowned in her own mother’s blood. She was still hanging out of her mother’s body when they found them. Two days after they died.”

  “I’ve done my time,” Vince spits

  I grab him by the scruff of the neck, almost lifting him out of his seat. “No time is enough for what you’ve done. Justice will only ever be served when you’re dead and buried.”

  “Yeah, well not long to wait, then.” His breath is sickly and sweet, but it doesn’t smell of whiskey as I expect it to. It’s then I notice the other glass on the table, concealed by the radio, water, I think. And it dawns on me. His emaciated state, his yellowed skin.

  “Oh my God. It’s the drink isn’t it? It’s finally killing you. Well, now, that’s almost poetic justice. It was the demon drink that made you a big enough man to kill my mum and sister … it’s only fitting it should kill you too. How long? How long until I can dance on your grave, Dad?” I spit the last word with as much venom as I can muster.

  “Leave him alone now.” The woman from behind the bar is suddenly next to us, attempting to peel my hands from the neck of his shirt where I still grip him. Savannah pulls her away, but she continues to state his case. “He doesn’t drink anymore, he can’t. Not ever. One glass could kill him. Unless he gets a transplant, he could be dead within months, weeks even. He has to be sober for months before they’ll even consider it. And he’s trying, you know. He has the whiskey glass next to him to remind him of the badness it’s brought to his life.”

  Her words rumble through me with the force of a truck. “Remind him of the badness it’s brought to his life! Well, guess what? I don’t need reminding. I wake every day, even now, with the memory of their lifeless bodies lying there for two days while I was locked in the next room unable to get to them. The stench of death has never left me.”

  With that, I pick up the whiskey glass and shove it against his lips, my other hand closing over his nose, forcing him to open his mouth so I can pour the liquid inside. He coughs and splutters, but I don’t stop until the glass is empty. When it is, I move quickly, entering the bar through the hatch and reaching for the nearest full bottle of scotch. The woman is screaming, trying to pull at me, but Savannah pushes her out of the way. The two men just look on as I unscrew the bottle top and pour the contents down his throat. I only stop when vomit starts to bubble to the surface of his lips—I don’t want him to bring back the poison that will kill him—and so I pour the rest of the bottle over his head. Throwing the empty bottle into his lap, I stand back to survey the mess in front of me. He’s gasping for breath, retching and coughing; the woman is wiping his face as he glares at me in fear. It’s a look I’ve waited all my life to see. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve some notes and throw them at the woman.

  “Glad I could buy you your last drink … Dad.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Savannah

  THE GRAVES ARE REMARKABLY WELL looked after. Though Jackson hasn’t visited for years, he pays to have them tended weekly, fresh flowers to be laid, the headstones cleaned and polished. His sister, Alice, lies with her mother, in her arms. United in death. Next to them lies Jackson’s grandmother, his mom’s mom—the woman who took a broken boy and helped mold him into the man he is today. Three generations. Three times the amount of grief. Three decades of waiting to mourn them properly.

  I watch him from a short distance, wanting to give him the space he needs to say what he needs to say. My heart aches as he drops to his knees, his shoulders shaking with grief—my Bear. So much the man on the outside, all powerful and strong. But on the inside, just a small boy who has neglected to heal. If I could take away his pain, I would in a heartbeat.

  His story is tragic. Heartrending. No child should have to live through what he did. Dealing with his father earlier today was intense, exhausting to say the least, but it wa
s something he had to do to purge the destruction his childhood had left behind. I know he will have had that conversation with his dad in his head many, many times over the years, so I know he will have said everything that needed to be said. And when he took my hand in his and we left that place behind for good, I swear he stood six inches taller.

  Saying goodbye to his mom and his sister, however, appears to be harder than he ever anticipated. Over the weeks he has uncovered and confronted so many emotions—hopelessness, inadequacy, guilt—some of which he hadn’t even realized he’d suppressed. When he explored the anger he’d directed at himself for not doing more to protect them, I asked him to picture sitting down with his twelve-year-old self. Asked him what he would say to the boy who felt he was somehow to blame for the deaths of his mother and unborn sister. For not breaking down a locked door and fighting off a violent brute of a man who beat him so often his body was never free from the marks he left behind. “It’s not your fault,” was how he’d replied. Accepting he was not responsible had led the way to a new anger, one he now directed at his mom. He found it impossible to comprehend why she hadn’t left, why she hadn’t done more to protect him, herself, and her unborn child from his father’s violence. The revelation had shook him. He felt guilty for being angry at her. Changing his perception, attempting to see the situation through his mother’s eyes, has helped him come to terms with his anger for her. And over time, I’m certain he will be more at peace with it.

  It’s only now I understand how incredibly difficult it must have been for him to let me deal with my own abuse alone. His instinct to stand in and protect me must have been overwhelming, and yet I gave him no choice. Fate did have a hand in our union—I have no doubt of that.

  I watch as he makes the final adjustments to the tiny pink bear he’s brought for Alice, the flowers for his mom, before standing tall, his shoulders lifting with the deep restorative breath he takes. I know from the way he looks off at an angle that he needs me, and so I take my place by his side, my hand slipping inside his as I look up into his handsome face, his brown crinkly eyes.

  “You okay?” I ask softly.

  He smooths the unruly tendrils of hair from my face in that way of his. “I’m more than okay. Got my Sparrow, haven’t I?”

  “Always,” I answer.

  Reaching out, his fingers graze over the top of the headstone. His final goodbye. We turn and arms linked, make our way through the graveyard. Today will be the first day of the rest of our lives together. From here, we will fly to France and then to Italy, and who knows where after that. It won’t really matter as long as we’re together.

  Has it changed him, all this? If it has, he’s a better man for it—if that’s at all possible. He’s a man that has room to grow because he understands the direction he has come from and is not afraid of the direction he wants to take. He is a man who is comfortable in his own skin.

  He’s my Bear.

  Chapter Fifty

  Jackson

  Three years later.

  SAVANNAH LICKS HER LIPS NERVOUSLY as she looks out at her audience. They shuffle restlessly on the floor in front of her where they sit, some of them griping and moaning, others eyes wide, mouths drooping open in expectancy. But they are mostly only three and four years old, so I guess they can be forgiven.

  The book she’s about to read out loud in the children’s corner of this eminent New York bookstore is her first. Written and illustrated by Savannah Dean, the story, aimed at three-to-five-year-olds, is about a bear and a sparrow who strike up an unlikely friendship one day when they learn to see life from each other’s point of view. She clears her throat and the children go quiet.

  “The Sparrow and the Bear.”

  “What are you doing under there?” said the big burly bear.

  To the sparrow who seemed to be filled with despair.

  She’d been cowering beneath the shrubs in her dimly lit den

  Since she fell from her nest at a quarter past ten.

  “Everything’s so big and scary out there,

  I want to come out, but I simply don’t dare.

  It’s alright for you up there in the sky.

  I’ll never see as you do, no matter how hard I try.”

  The bear had never thought of it that way before.

  So he got down on his knees and put his face to the floor.

  Seeing things as his friend did came as a surprise.

  Like looking out at the world from a whole new set of eyes.

  “I’ve got it!” Burly Bear suddenly cried,

  As the pair stood together, side by side.

  “It’s the same world, just a different view.

  You just have to change where you stand to see something new.”

  “Trust me, I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.

  Just take my hand if you want to see all.”

  And so the bear popped her on the end of his nose,

  And the little bird stood on her tippy toes.

  “Wow,” she breathed as she looked all around.

  “It’s so different from being down there on the ground.

  I wish I could grow as tall as you.

  And then I could always have this view.”

  Bear laughed. “That’s the funniest thing I have ever heard.

  You may be small, but you’re a bird.

  You’re as big and tall as you want to be.

  Why, you can even be taller than me.”

  “All you need to do is spread your wings and fly.

  A few strong beats and you’ll reach the sky.

  Take to the air and soon you’ll see.

  The world is whatever you want it to be.”

  Savannah’s face beams, peaches and cream lighting up the room as she looks out over the sea of clapping excited children, her icy blue eyes reaching mine. I’m practically bursting with pride as I look back at the woman who owns my heart. My wife. My Sparrow.

  I love you, I mouth.

  I love you too.

  I’m suddenly reminded that we’re not the only two people in the room when the weight on top of my shoulders starts to wriggle, the legs dangling down my chest beginning to kick impatiently.

  “Want get down, Daddy.”

  “Okay, son. Take it easy.” I lower my boy, Harrison, to the floor where he runs off to find Mommy. “Slow down, it’s not a race,” I shout after him.

  “She was amazing.” Angel is suddenly by my side, her twin boys flanking her, Ethan grinning as he takes up the rear behind his treasured family.

  He claps me on my back. “You must be very proud, my friend.”

  “You have no idea. I literally can’t even—”

  They both laugh at my inability to express my feelings toward my wife.

  “Here’s the lady herself.” Angel smiles as she welcomes Savannah into the conversation.

  Harrison leads the way, tugging her by the hand, eager to get to his playmates. He and the twins are roughly the same age and inseparable, as are the four of us. Savannah humbly accepts her well-deserved praise from Ethan and Angel before turning to me.

  Leaning forward, I take her face in my hands and kiss her lightly on the lips. “You were incredible, baby.”

  “Thank you. Oh …” She looks startled for a second as she straightens and guides my hand to her swollen stomach. I feel a tiny kick beneath my hand. “I think our princess agrees with you.”

  “I think you’re right. She’s very excited.”

  “So,” Ethan says. “Are you guys off to celebrate your success somewhere nice and expensive?”

  “We’re heading to the cabin for the weekend actually,” I reply. I tracked down the owner to the cabin and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. It was my wedding present to Savannah.

  “I cannot wait,” she says. “I’m going to put my feet up with this little one while the boys do some fishing. Bliss.”

  Bliss. I couldn’t describe it better myself. Me and my own perfect little family in our very own s
lice of paradise. I am the luckiest man on Earth with everything to look forward to. And they’re standing right here in front of me.

  It feels like we’ve climbed mountains together, Savannah and I. A journey that neither one of us would have taken without the other. She’s taught me that strength comes in all different forms—even tiny sparrow-like packages. But essentially, it comes from within. You can be a fighter or a defender, or both, or neither. None of it really matters unless you’re at peace with who you are and the shape you’ve become. Sometimes you have to break down a few walls to get there, stand in a few different places until you’re comfortable with what you see. But it’s worth it.

  Opening up to Savannah about what happened to me, to my mum and my sister, was the first step in a very bumpy road, but as time went on, the road got smoother and straighter until eventually I could see the long open road ahead—a future.

  Savannah’s abuse will always be a part of her, but it wasn’t what she suffered that molded her into the woman she is now. It’s what she survived. How she came out the other side, a courageous force field of energy and determination. With every day she grows stronger. She illuminates the world around her like a bolt of lightning amid a raging storm, untamable and unstoppable, and so staggeringly desirable.

  Sometimes I wonder if she was aptly named as Sparrow, even though I’d never change it. Because when I look at her now, I don’t see that tiny bird. I don’t see the smoke and embers of her fading spirit. Instead, I see her large as life, stepping out from the halo of a magnificent blaze, her wings outstretched and proud.

  A golden eagle.

  THE END

  About Perception

  The idea for the title Perception came from working through personal experiences of my own, learning to view a situation differently in order to stop it having a negative effect on my life. Over time, I have begun to appreciate the concept that our perceptions arise from the way we interpret something from our senses, but also how they can be heavily influenced by thoughts and the knowledge we have available to us. It has helped me to understand why it is us humans don’t always see eye to eye, but more so, to be comfortable with the decisions I have made despite the lack of understanding I’ve had from others.