by Rebecca Shea
She rubs my arms gently and sits quietly, patiently, as I sort through my thoughts. “The night my mom finally left, he had come home from work. Lindsay and I were already in bed, but I was wide awake, waiting for him to get home, just like every other night. It was December, the week of Christmas. I heard the front door slam, and I instantly jumped out of bed. It got to the point where he didn’t even talk to my mom, or yell at her, or argue with her. He used to just hit her, beat her for the pure enjoyment factor in it.” I close my eyes as I recall the worst day of my life.
“I stood inside my bedroom with the door shut and my ear pressed against the door. His heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, stopping just outside of their bedroom. I cracked my door open to peek across the hallway just in time to see him take three long strides toward the bed and pull my mom off the bed by her hair. She landed on the floor like a rag doll and he starting kicking her. This time was the first time I heard him call her names, though. I’ll never forget the venom in his voice as he called her a dirty whore and a slut.”
I swallow hard and realize how dry my mouth is and how rapidly my heart is beating. I take another drink of the water and set it back on the table. “With closed fists, he punched her face repeatedly, and that’s when I entered their room. I had finally summoned up the courage to try to help her. She was huddled on the floor, trying to cover her face with her arms and hands as he kept delivering punch after punch, all while still calling her names.” I rake my hands over my face as I recall vividly the sounds of his voice yelling at her, and hers screaming for help.
“I could hear the sound of his hands hitting her face with each punch. Blood was everywhere; he had landed a punch to her nose and there was a large gash under her eye that was also bleeding heavily. I had a matter of seconds to help her, or I knew he would kill her. I jumped in between his fist and my mom and I began taking the blows. He always liked to punch my ribs and chest. I felt ribs crack and break with each punch he threw at me. I couldn’t breathe as the wind had been knocked out of me, but I remember a sense of relief, for just a moment, that my mom wasn’t being hit. She slid out from underneath me and crawled to the corner of the room. It wasn’t until Lindsay, who was only four at the time, was screaming from the doorway that my Dad hesitated to throw another punch.”
My voice is hoarse as I continue. “My dad spit on my mom as he walked past her and out of the bedroom. He yelled at us to clean up the mess before he got home, the door slamming behind him. My mom scrambled to her feet and pulled a large suitcase from the closet and began tossing her clothes in it. A sense of relief washed over me, knowing that we were leaving this hell. She told me to go get a bowl and scrub brush and to start cleaning up the blood before my dad returned. I didn’t question her; I just figured she’d continue packing for us while I cleaned up.”
“So what happened?” she asks as she loops her arm through mine, holding me against her.
“She packed her shit and walked out. She left Lindsay and me and never looked back. Not once did she come for us, or call us, or anything. She left us with that piece of shit who continued to beat me for years.”
“My God, Landon,” she whispers and wipes a tear that slips from the corner of her eye.
“We didn’t celebrate birthdays or holidays after my mom left, but I always hoped; every night, I’d say a prayer that she would come and get us for one of our birthdays, or for Christmas. In my head, I assumed she needed some time to figure out her game plan, but I never doubted she’d come back for us.” I clear my throat of the noticeable lump that has formed.
“About six years after she left, I gave up hope. She wasn’t coming back for us. Yet every time my dad hit me, broke a bone, bruised me—I was so thankful it wasn’t her.”
“Did he hit Lindsay?” she asks timidly.
“No. It was always me. I would never have let him hurt her.” We sit in silence and her thumb rubs the top of my hand. I can tell it’s a nervous habit of hers.
“When did it stop?” she whispers.
“When I was fifteen. I think the alcohol finally wore him down enough that he knew I’d fight back and win. The day I turned fifteen was the first day I hadn’t been beaten in seven years. He never said a word to me, or Lindsay; he just rotted away until he finally was killed in a car accident seven years ago. Is it wrong of me to say that was the happiest day of my life?”
She shakes her head, but doesn’t speak. “This is why I’m so fucked up, Reagan. All of this baggage.”
“You’re not fucked up, Landon. You just need to talk about it. You have to let it go to move forward,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.
“I miss her and hate her all in the same breath. She just left us.” My voice trails off.
“I won’t leave you—ever,” she whispers. “I promise.”
I find it oddly refreshing that reliving the darkest days and years of my life and sharing them with Reagan has lifted the proverbial weight from my shoulders. As vulnerable as it feels to talk about the most painful parts of my existence, it feels good that someone else knows and isn’t judging me.
“I’m sorry for everything, Reagan. For pushing you away, and pulling you back in, for pushing you away again. You deserve better than that. But mostly, I’m sorry for last night, for scaring you. The look in your eyes will haunt me forever.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” she says, pressing a kiss to the side of my mouth.
“Thank you for not giving up on me.”
“Never,” she whispers.
Hours turn into days, days into weeks, and weeks into months. We fall into a comfortable pattern, a familiar routine. We’re learning to navigate the unknown territory of us, as the term, or rather the label “relationship” seems to send Landon running in the other direction. There is no term, no name that describes what we are or what we have.
We see each other nearly every night—to the point that the nights that we are apart, there is an emptiness that surrounds me. It’s been nearly thirty-five hours since I’ve seen him. The case he’s working on has him working insane amounts of hours, but I know there is no other job he’d rather be doing. As I drive to work, I remind myself to tell him about my annual trip home every September. I’ve booked my flight and as much as I don’t want to go without him, I need to do this—for me.
After I park in the same parking spot as I do every day, I grab my purse and coffee and head into the office, ready to start my day. As usual, the day flies by as I juggle scheduled patients and emergency appointments. There is never a dull moment at work. Four o’clock and I’m finally sitting down for the first time today when Melissa notifies me that my last appointment has cancelled. I’m grateful for the down time, and finally take a moment to check my phone. Two text messages, one from Landon and one from Lindsay. I open Landon’s first.
“Still out of town. Won’t be home again tonight. Will call when I can.”
His message puts a damper on my already solemn mood. Opening the second message from Lindsay, I can’t help but smile.
“Me and You. Date tonight. 7pm. I’ll bring Chinese, you supply the wine.” As tired as I am, I actually look forward to spending some time with Lindsay.
“It’s a date. See you at 7,” I reply.
Wrapping up my day, I finish charting and returning patient calls. Remembering that I have to stop and purchase wine on the way home, I shut down my laptop and gather my belongings to leave.
“You’re leaving early.” His voice startles me.
“Jesus, Adam, you’re always sneaking up on me.”
“I’m not sneaking up on you; you’re always distracted or lost in thought.” I roll my eyes when he says that.
“I’m not feeling that great, so I’m leaving a little early. See you tomorrow.” I offer him a tight smile as I pull my purse strap over my shoulder and walk to the back door. Adam has kept his distance from me for a couple of months. The only time he talks to me, it’s strictly business, just the way I like to keep it
with him—strictly business. Something about him is off. I shouldn’t feel that way about my business partner, but I do.
“See you tomorrow,” he says from behind me as the door closes. Getting settled in my car, I shoot Lindsay a quick text asking her what kind of wine she likes and I head toward the liquor store. I walk the aisles in search of multiple varieties of wine, since I have not heard back from Lindsay. I settle on a Pinot Grigio, a Riesling, a Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Merlot. Lindsay isn’t due to arrive for another thirty minutes, so I shower quickly and change into some comfortable clothes, just in time to hear her come bounding through my front door.
“Honey, I’m home.” She laughs as she juggles her purse and three large bags of Chinese food.
“Jesus, Linds, it’s just us… we’re not feeding an army!” I rush over to help her by taking two of the bags of food from her hands.
“I know, but I didn’t know what I was in the mood for, so I got a little of everything.” She kicks off her four-inch heels and wiggles her toes.
“Kitchen table or coffee table?” I gesture to the short table that sits on a plush rug surrounded by the couches in the living room.
“Definitely coffee table,” she says, walking over to the table and sets down the bag of food. I follow with the other two bags. She sits on the floor and starts pulling the little white cartons out of the bags, arranging them in the center of the table.
“What kind of wine?” I ask as I pull plates down from the cupboard. “I picked up Pinot Grigio, Riesling…”
“Pinot,” she hollers, cutting me off. Grabbing two white wine glasses, plates, napkins, and the chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, I meet her at the coffee table.
“I picked up lo mein, broccoli with beef, kung pao shrimp, sweet and sour chicken, sesame chicken, egg rolls, and pot stickers.”
“All of it sounds good,” I say as I open the bottle of wine and pour two glasses. Lindsay fills up both of our plates and we sit around the short table like I used to do in college when I didn’t have a kitchen table to sit at.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Lindsay says as she tries to pick up chicken with her chopsticks.
“It has been a while.”
“Things are good, though?”
“Yeah, really good.” I smile as I think of Landon and how comfortable things have been recently.
“Good. He’s happy, you know,” she says, setting down her chopsticks.
“I’m happy too,” I admit. “Really, really happy.”
“Have you heard from him?” she asks, looking a little concerned.
“He sent a text this afternoon saying that he wouldn’t be home tonight. Why, is everything okay?”
“No, I mean, yeah. I don’t know, Reagan.” She sighs and finishes her glass of wine.
“Talk to me, Linds, I don’t like the look on your face.”
“Remember when you came to my work asking me about Adam Gerard?”
“Yeah, of course. Did you find something out?”
“I don’t know,” she says as she runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass, clearly deep in thought. “I mean, yeah, I found out something. But I don’t know…”
“What is it, Lindsay? Tell me. I work with him, and he’s been acting so strange for months now, ever since he saw me with Landon.”
“So let me back up a minute.” She clears her throat and takes another sip of wine. “After you left that day, I was so bothered that someone other than Landon, Matt, and me knew anything about our past, about my dad—and my mom.” She pauses. “I started spending every minute of my free time looking into him. For the last eight weeks, it’s been a fucking obsession of mine. I can’t stop trying to figure out who he is and what he knows—but most importantly, how he knows anything.”
“What did you find out?” The hair on my arm raises and I get the chills as I wait for Lindsay to continue.
“I spent every free minute I had and resources at work, trying to dig up any information on him. It’s what consumed me every waking moment. I hit dead ends, though, everywhere I looked, so I hired a private investigator, Reagan,” she mumbles. “At first, all he gave me was the basic shit, that he graduated three years ahead of Landon; you already knew that because Landon told you. That he played football, and so did Landon. I thought it was just some stupid guy who was jealous of my brother, that still harbors some old shit from high school.”
“Is that what it is?”
“No. It’s so much more.”
“Spit it out, Lindsay.” My stomach is in knots as she stumbles over words.
“Be patient… I hadn’t heard from the investigator in over a week and I was pressuring him for information, anything that would help me figure out who Adam Gerard is. The P.I. claimed he was continuing to look into things and that he was onto something, but needed a few more days.”
“And…” I break out in a light sweat and my knee bounces nervously.
“Well, he pieced everything together and sat me down this morning to lay it all out in front of me.”
“Okay… Jesus, Lindsay, just tell me.” My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest.
“So Adam is my stepbrother.” That’s all she says. Drops a bomb and doesn’t say another word.
“What?” I spit out. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, until he laid it all out in front of me. In 1988, Adam’s mother, Kathryn, passed away from cancer. He was eight years old. In 1992, Adam’s father, a prominent local banker, Louis Gerard, suddenly packed up his new girlfriend, Josie, and twelve-year-old twin sons, Adam and Aaron. He quietly moved them across the country to Tucson, Arizona, with little explanation to friends or family.”
“Okay, I still don’t understand,” I say, confused.
“Josie is my mom.” And my heart literally stops beating. The look on Lindsay’s face is pure disgust.
“She left us, and moved away with Adam, his brother, and his dad. She fucking left us for another family.”
It all makes sense, what Adam was saying. “Last I heard, she set up house with another family. Got to play ‘mommy’ to some step kids. She left and never went back for them.”
“The private investigator talked to some old friends of Mr. Gerard’s and, apparently, my mom met him at a charity event. He was a very generous supporter of some of the local law enforcement charities, and apparently took an interest in my mom. Louis Gerard was trying to help her divorce my dad. He didn’t go into greater detail about my mom specifically because I asked him for information on Adam, not her. The report gave me information on Adam and where he went to college, his girlfriends, where he attended medical school, and other shit I don’t care about. He found my mom.”
“Will you excuse me for a second?” I push myself up and move quickly toward the bathroom. I feel nauseous. Pushing my way through the bathroom door, I empty my stomach of the dinner I just ate. How in the hell are we going to tell Landon this? Will she tell him? I can’t keep this from him. The bathroom door opens behind me, and Lindsay pushes her way in.
“Ah, you had the same reaction I had this afternoon.” She laughs and pulls my hair back, holding it while I pull toilet paper from the roll and wipe my nose and mouth. Leaning back against the bathroom wall, I look up at her.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re not going to do anything. I need to digest this information, get everything straight before I take this to Landon.”
“I can’t go to work and pretend that I don’t know this about Adam, Lindsay.”
“Yes, you can. And you will. Let me figure this shit out, and decide how and when to tell Landon. This will destroy him.”
“We’re not going to let that happen.”
“No, we’re not. I even toyed with not telling you. Ripping up the report and pretending I didn’t even know.”
“Why?”
“She’s been gone for so long, and to know that she’s been living under our noses for as long as
she has without trying to get a hold of us.” She pauses. “It’s disgusting, and it will destroy Landon.”
“Are you going to try to get a hold of her? I mean, now that we know Adam’s connection, I can essentially lead you to her front door.”
“I don’t know,” she whispers and stares dead ahead at the wall, a blank expression on her face. “I don’t know what to do about her.”
“Is this really happening?” I ask as I gently bang the back of my head against the bathroom wall.
“Yeah. Yeah, it fucking is.”
I know that it’s four in the morning and it’s ridiculously early, but selfishly, I’ve missed her. I need to see her, taste her—feel her. I slip into her dark condo using the backlight from my phone to see as I quietly move down the hallway to her room. I’ve been gone for nearly two days, working on this investigation and, as much as I love my job, the difficult part is that there are no set hours, no nine to five days.
I strip off my clothes and slide into bed beside her. She’s bundled under the comforter, hugging a large pillow. I notice how she smells like flowers as I press myself against her warm body. She startles as my hand snakes around her waist.
“Hey, baby,” I whisper, pressing kisses to the soft, warm skin behind her ear. She releases the pillow she was holding and twists her soft body toward me, wrapping long arms and legs around me. There is no other feeling like the feeling of her supple body in my arms.
“I missed you,” she says sleepily, pressing a kiss to my lips. “What time is it?”
“Just after four, Doc. Go back to sleep.”
“No way. How was work?” She yawns.
“Just work. Can’t really talk about it yet. How were things here?” She doesn’t say anything, but just studies me, running her fingers up and down my scruffy cheeks. I haven’t shaved in almost three days, and she always likes to play with the rough hair. Moonlight spills in from her skylight, providing just enough light to see her features perfectly.