Claiming Amelia

by Jessica Blake

  I heard the growl of distant thunder and looked out the window. There was, indeed, a storm brewing and it was coming quickly. I went through the house, shutting the windows. Worth was closeted in his study downstairs, and I let him be. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to all his rationale. It would only heat things up again.

  I found Letty in the kitchen, putting away left-overs. Unfortunately, upon seeing all the family at home, she’d started cooking barbecue ribs and salads. By the time dinner was ready, it was only Worth, Marga and myself left, but Marga wasn’t coming down. I thought about taking a plate down to Lily, but Brandon’s car had just pulled into her driveway, and I knew that eating was not on the agenda for her evening.

  I sat in the window seat of my bedroom, watching the lightning. It cut through the darkness like light sabers thrown down by the Gods. I tried to imagine what civilizations thousands of years before had thought about such things. They all thought they were alone; that the entire world only consisted of them and what they knew. How wrong they were. Even today, we only know what we can see. How primitive will we be considered a thousand years from now?

  I drew a bath, filling the tub with bubbles. I needed a good soaking. It was therapeutic for me. The storm escalated in intensity, and the walls of the house shook with the thunder. I grew sleepy and climbed out of the tub, pulling on a sleep shirt and climbing beneath the covers. I hoped Worth would choose to sleep somewhere else. I really wasn’t in the mood for his negativity.

  I’d just flipped on the television with the remote to see how big the storm was when the power flickered and then went out. The house was completely dark. I didn’t hear anyone moving around so I assumed they’d gone to sleep. Worth just probably lit a candle and continued brooding. I wished Mark would come home soon but knew it would only be another confrontation. That’s probably what Worth was waiting up for. I hoped Mark would have the sense to stay at a friend’s. Inspired, I tapped his number, but there was no answer. It went to voice mail. I didn’t blame him. He needed to cool down without any interference.

  I slipped the heavy coverlet off the bed. With the electricity off, the air wouldn’t be on, and it would grow warm in the room. I laid atop the sheets and slipped off to sleep.

  ***

  I was deep in a dream of riding Carlos. He was running at a full gallop, and my hair was flying behind us. We came up to a stream, and he launched us across in one bound. I felt so free, so young, so untroubled. Something was pulling me from the dream, and I resisted. The images of the dream were suddenly vacuumed from my brain, and I awakened to a bright light. Startled and trying to gather my thoughts, I pulled back and grabbed a corner of the sheet to pull over my eyes.

  “Worth? Is that you? Turn off the light, would you? Did the power come back on?” I was only vaguely coherent in my confusion.

  “Auggie.” It was Worth’s voice, but it was somehow different. “Auggie, you have to wake up. Here, sit up and talk to me. I need to know you’re awake.”

  “Worth? What’s wrong? Please take that light out of my eyes. I pushed against the mattress, fighting to sit up. Just then the power must have come back on because the entire room lit up. I realized I’d forgotten to flip off the lamps after the power had shut down. “What’s going on?”

  “Auggie. The sheriff is downstairs. Listen to me. There’s been an accident.”

  “What? What kind of accident? Is it Marga?”

  “No, Auggie, Marga is in bed. It’s Mark.”

  My heart squeezed in my chest, so hard I found it momentarily hard to breathe. “What?”

  Then came the anguished cry I would not forget for the rest of my life. “It’s bad, Auggie. We have to leave for the hospital now.”

  ***

  I hadn’t moved for more than a day. I was frozen, numb, and it hurt too much to think. I wanted to die because surely that’s the only thing that could remove the pain I was feeling. But it seemed my heart insisted on beating. My lungs insisted on taking oxygen in and out. So I continued to live, as unbearable as that living had become.

  They’d found Mark’s truck rolled over off one of the curving backroads. They estimate he must have been driving more than a hundred miles per hour and most likely hydroplaned on the soaked road and lost control. The truck had rolled at least six times and come to rest against an old oak tree. The tree still stood, but my son’s life would be forever changed.

  My sweet, sweet son… my baby. The one who’d been most like me was hanging on to life by a thread. He’d never hurt anyone. He always followed the rules. He’d been caring and considerate and had only risen the one time when he felt I was being hurt. Now I couldn’t help him, only sit by a bed watching machines do what his body was no longer able to do.

  I knew he’d been angry and feeling out of control, and that’s why he’d driven so fast. While I soaked in my bubble bath, concerned about nothing more than the leftovers that might go to waste — he almost died. I hoped he hadn’t suffered, hadn’t laid there in pain, trying to get out, all the while knowing that his life was ending and that no one was coming. That he was all alone. It was unthinkable.

  I dug down into my core, looking for some strength to draw upon, but found none. I didn’t have anyone to turn to. Dad was gone. He’d been my rock. Worth had disappeared. I didn’t know where. Marga was living her own hell. I grappled with the enormity of what lay ahead; the grief and the guilt all alone.

  Mark was in a coma and it wasn’t clear if he’d survive. If he did, he would face months of physical therapy in order to walk again. His back was broken, although his spinal cord had been saved.

  His brain was the biggest concern. So swollen they didn’t yet know how irreparable the damage might be. If he lived, he might not be able to see. Or talk. Laugh again. If he lived, it might never be outside a hospital bed.

  If.

  The word haunted me.

  The day after the accident, I woke to find Worth gone. They wouldn’t let us stay in ICU, so we’d come home. Marga had screamed that we couldn’t leave him, couldn’t abandon him. Worth had jammed his hands over his ears and walked out the door. I don’t remember much after that.

  My bedroom door opened, and it was Letty with her big, comforting arms. A few steps behind her was Liane and Lily. They circled me as if to calm me with the motion of a group hug. For a moment, I thought they came to tell me Mark was dead, that he hadn’t been able to hold on during the night.

  I began screaming and eventually Letty slapped me, at which point I dissolved into sobs. They had a discussion among themselves, and it was evidently decided that Liane would stay with me. As the others left, she climbed up onto the bed next to me and held my head in her lap. She rocked gently, smoothing my hair and letting me cry until there was nothing left to make tears. She lifted a glass of water to my lips, and I drank thirstily then promptly brought it all back up onto a blanket.

  I felt as though I was drowning. I couldn’t seem to get a breath and flailed for something to hold on to, something solid that would allow me to get my bearings. I needed somewhere to start. But I didn’t know what that something could possibly be.

  Back at the hospital, we were only allowed in his room for fifteen minutes at a time. For that short time, I could hold myself together, talk to him, sing to him, tell him everything would be alright.

  Nothing I’d ever felt before in my life could compare with how I felt inside. Back in the waiting room, I’d dissolve into tears again. Another pill would materialize, and I would fade back into sleep, only to wake hours later to the same hell.

  This cycle repeated itself over the next several days. Liane, Hawk or Marga would sit with me, taking turns reading to Mark or just holding his hand. Nothing changed and I fell into a well of deep despair.

  My baby boy. The good son. The best of all of us was slipping away.

  Marga was filled with grief, and she blubbered on and on about all the fights they had and how mean she’d been to him over the years. She was wracked with guilt
and sought to absolve herself. She had little sympathy left for anyone else, including me.

  After a while, I grew very calm and I think I went into shock. People and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt disconnected, as though I was free floating and only a hand touching me could bring me back. I thought I heard Mark’s voice once. He was calling to me from downstairs, and I leapt to my feet and into the hallway. I was sure it had all been a huge mistake; it had been someone else. But the entryway was empty, and Mark’s voice was silent.

  I’d staggered to the phone and called the hospital, certain he had died, and his ghost had visited to say goodbye. But he was still alive, they’d assured me. Barely.

  Worth came in. He looked horrible. He hadn’t slept or shaved or bathed. His voice sounded as if it came from someone else. “I’m sorry.”

  Pulling myself up from the bed, I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Sorry for what?”

  “You were right. All this is my fault. I’ve been a selfish bastard and our children have paid the price.”

  Compassion speared through me, even as anger warred with it. But I had no energy in which to find satisfaction in his confession. I simply pulled him down on the bed and we slept in each other’s arms for the first time in what felt like forever.

  The next morning, Liane returned to sit with me, and she helped me get into the shower. She turned the water on very hot and it was the closest I could come to feeling normal. While I showered, she stripped and changed the bed. Liane forced me to eat half a grilled cheese sandwich and then when I collapsed against the pillow with another pill, she slid beneath the sheets next to me and held my hand before we went back to the hospital to visit with Mark again.

  The days became a repeat of each other and it seemed like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. I remember Worth being there sometimes. Sometimes not. The not became more and more frequent as the days passed from one to another.

  I sank into a depression so deep, it sometimes became impossible to get out of bed. On those days, I was only aware of time passing by the light that did or did not appear through the window. From time to time, I heard movement in the house, often with voices and then they would fade away as I fell back asleep. Sleep was the only place I could live. Breathe without feeling the pain of each inhale.

  A turning point came when Hawk knocked on my door.

  “You need to get up,” he said. “You’ve spent your entire life being passive, then wondering why things were out of your control.” He pulled my blankets off, then grabbed my hand and pulled me to sitting. “Be the mother you want to be. Starting right now.”

  I’d cried again, knowing he was right but also not knowing where to begin. “How?” I asked my child, the tables being turned on us once again.

  “You begin by taking a shower each morning, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, and getting dressed. Then you go to the hospital and talk to Mark. Do therapy for his arms and legs. Ask the therapists the right way to do it.”

  I looked up at him, startled. “How do you know that?”

  He lifted his chin. “Because I’ve been working with him twice a day. When he gets better, and he will get better, he will need his muscles working as soon as possible.” He walked to the window and threw open the drapes. “I’ve been looking at the layout of your land and think that area would be best for an indoor therapy pool and spa.”

  Stunned, I rose and walked to the window, my hand on the wall to steady myself. “For when he gets better?” The words felt wonderful on my tongue.

  “Yes. I’ll call the architect and get it started with your approval. I’ve already spoken to the therapists and know everything he will need.”

  I gazed up at my eldest son. “Thank you, Hawk.”

  He swallowed. “You’re welcome. Now, get showered and dressed. We’re going to the hospital, just you and me. I’ll be downstairs.”

  He turned and left the room, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Hawk was right. I knew I had to find strength. I knew I had to pull it together and resume the routine. I couldn’t continue to be drugged and sleeping all the time, wallowing in my self-pity.

  I stepped into the shower, then dressed in jeans and a shirt. I left the room that had become my prison and carefully descended the stairs. As I looked around, I realized I was searching for Worth. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been there with me. Why he had abandoned me. He must know I was hurting as much as he.

  Hawk kept his arm around my shoulder as we walked into the ICU that morning. This time I looked at my younger son through non-medicated eyes. The bruises were fading, the cuts closing into little red lines that would someday fade to white.

  Because there would be a someday, I thought for the first time.

  Yes, there would be a someday.

  It could have been my imagination, but I thought Mark’s eyelids fluttered when I spoke to him. I kept speaking and that became our new routine.

  Hours later, a hand fell on my shoulder. I looked up to see it belonged to Hawk. He smiled down at me. “You did good, Mom. Real good. It’s time to go, now. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”

  I stood and reached for his face and pulled him down to kiss his cheek. He didn’t flinch or pull away, just let me press my lips into his warm skin. “Thank you, Hawk.”

  He smiled down at me. “You’re welcome, Mom.”

  With his arm around my shoulders again, he walked me to his car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Hawk

  I was trying to figure out how in the space of a week my life could have gone from joyous to a living hell. Typically, I looked for someone to blame and typically, my father won that honor. I couldn’t heap it on him completely — not this time. My hands were soiled as much as his.

  I tried to recall the conversation that terrible afternoon at Mom’s. I struggled to remember if there had been any kind words at all in Mark’s presence, but could think of none. Everything said had been poisonous and intentionally hurtful — his side and mine. The three LaViere men had taken one another on, and now one of their lives was uncertain.

  Liane, although sensitive to my maelstrom of emotions, knew she was needed more by my mother’s side. Someone had to take charge, and no one else was stepping up. The vicar had come out, but Mom had been sleeping and Father was missing most of the time, or so Liane told me. He extended his sympathies to Marga and Letty before coming up to see me.

  We sat next to one another on the patio. I noticed suddenly how the blades of grass bent in the breeze and in the distance, the redwing blackbirds rode the tips of swaying tall grasses seemingly without any support. He patted my shoulder and gave his sympathies, but he knew that was just a formality. He knew there was a deep, deep rift in my soul and it would not heal anytime soon.

  “You expect others to heal your hurt for you, Hawk,” the vicar said.

  “Ben, I don’t expect anything from anyone,” I spat back at him, then immediately apologized.

  “Oh, but you do. You feel wounded, and you have a right to, but you keep pouring salt into those open wounds. Hate is that salt, my son.”

  He was right, I knew it, but I didn’t know how to stop. When I asked him how, he shared one word, “Forgiveness.”

  I scoffed. “They don’t deserve my forgiveness.”

  He simply nodded. “Maybe not, but you do.”

  Surprised, I jerked my head toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “My son, forgiveness is never for those who have hurt you. Forgiveness is the key in which you unlock the door to your self-imposed prison. You can release the hate you feel with three words—I forgive you.”

  Hate curled its fist around my heart. “Forgive my mother and father for sending me away? Forgive my brother and sister for taking what was mine? Impossible.”

  Ben sighed deeply. “Then maybe you should begin by forgiving yourself.”

  I stared at him and heat burned behind my eyes. I blinked rapidly and turned my head away.

  “H
ow badly do you hate the young boy you once were?” he continued. “The hellion who did those terrible things?”

  “I was just a boy,” I defended myself.

  “Yes. So forgive that boy. Forgive the boy who screamed those terrible things, did those terrible things. Killed your uncle. Threatened your siblings. Scared your mother. Emasculated your father.”

  Fury rose inside me. “Emasculated my father? How can you say that? I was a boy; he was a grown man.”

  He frowned at me. “Your father has never been a grown man. He still isn’t to this day. He was abused as a child, Hawk. Horribly abused, emotionally and physically from what I understand. No matter the education he’s received or how hard he has tried to be the better man, he still carries the weight of that abuse with him. He still strives to protect himself at all costs first. Abused children often do that.”

  He was right. A deep part of me knew that. But a deeper part wasn’t ready to let go of the anger. Not yet.

  “Forgiveness is a process, son, one that doesn’t happen overnight as much as people want to believe. The day you become grateful for the lesson you received is the day the healing really begins.”

  I shook my head. “Grateful for the lesson. What do you mean?”

  “Well, what are some of the positives that have occurred in your life because your parents sent you away?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Well, I’m not a spoiled rotten little shit like Mark and Marga, that’s for sure.”

  The vicar nodded. “So, because you were sent away, you’re grateful that you learned to be independent and work for what you have?”

  Damn it. I walked right into that trap. “I suppose.”

  “Hawk, you are or you aren’t. Which is it?”

  Blowing out a deep breath, I answered, “I am. I just wish I could have had parents who loved me enough to help me become the man I am now rather than it having come to me the hard way.”

  “Yes. And I’m sure your father wishes he had a father who loved him. I’m sure your mother wishes she had a mother who loved her. I’m sure they both desperately wish they could have a do-over and make different choices and be different people than the ones they’ve become. But it isn’t possible. What’s done is done.”