“Quit it, Pyper! Right now! Stop it!” The words were followed by a growl so loud and rough it vibrated in the air all around her and made the insides of her ears tickle. The growl scared her. The growl made her heart pound. Her tummy bounced and jiggled all of a sudden because just like a mean dog, when her daddy growled, he’d strike out. He’d bite and hurt.
What had she done wrong? How could she make it right? It felt like she was being chased by a monster from a scary story. Pyper scrambled when he moved closer and her widened eyes moved from spot to spot in the main room of her house. How could she keep him from getting so mad that he’d hit her?
That’s when she saw it. Of course it was her doll house. There were lots and lots of little parts strewn across the carpet. He’d call her sloppy, and a messy slob. He had done so before, and she always felt sick in her tummy, and so dizzy and awful when she let him down. Before Daddy started yelling, Pyper had been putting furniture in the bedrooms; she’d set tables and chairs in a dining room with walls covered by sunny decorations. Pyper loved to imagine a happy mommy and daddy and kids living in this beautiful house. Her mommy had given it to her for her birthday this year. She wanted that kind of life so very much.
Sure enough, he kicked the bed, and the whole house, into a busted, toppled-over mess on the carpet in the middle of the living room. Pyper’s sobs burst free—and she knew she would be in big trouble for crying and making sad noises—but that didn’t keep her from crying hard.
“Daddy…no…please! I love my house!”
“Shut! Up!”
His voice roared, mad and awful. All she wanted to do was make him feel better. This was her daddy. “Daddy, I sorry! I love you. I won’t be bad. I won’t be bad!” She spoke in earnest, falling to her knees to pick up lamps and couches and stoves. In desperation she grabbed doll house furniture as fast as she could and tossed it inside so it was out of his way. More tears rolled down her cheeks, they burst from her eyes like the streams of rain that pounded on the windows when storms hit.
“Stop it! Cut it out! Stop your crying and be quiet!”
Pyper hiccupped on dry air, trying with all her might to obey his command. She couldn’t. She continued to cry, knowing she had messed up all over again. She turned to look at him, wanting to be big and brave, wanting to tell him again that she was sorry. Her daddy erupted with another loud growl. He slapped her across the face and shoved her to the floor so hard her head banged against thin carpet and the wood floor beneath. Terrified, Pyper squealed and charged away, running for the safe-zone of her bedroom. She slammed the door in a hurry, continually gasping for enough air to fill her heaving chest.
Jesus, she pleaded, why did he have to come home early from work? Why did he have to wreck her daydreams of a family full of smiles and laughs and happiness? These days, Pyper only felt really safe when her mommy was near.
She heard her daddy stumble against a nearby wall and she jumped away from the noise. Her daddy didn’t seem to hear or notice. He cursed and she heard him pull open the doors of a cabinet in the next room. Trembling, she pressed her body against the door when she heard the clang and bang of glass on glass, the gurgle and splash of something being poured.
It had to be even more of that evil, awful gold stuff. Liquor. Oh, how she hated liquor, and oh, how she hated her daddy…
Pyper released the long-ago years when she realized she’d sunk against Chase’s side, when she realized she was crying in a way she hadn’t cried in close to decades. She released the rush of emotion that wrapped her in a vise. “That’s my side of the story.” Hard-edged and gravelly, her tone made her conviction clear. “Nothing will ever change it. Nothing will bring me, or him, back to what could have been. Ever. I want him gone. I want him out of my life. I want nothing from him but to be left alone. That’s the end, Chase, and that will not change. Ever. So don’t ask it of me.”
18
An awkward two-step led Pyper to the day of the Reach North opening. By then, she had pretty much adjusted to the shock of Mark Samuels’s arrival in Nashville, but as the hour of their unavoidable meeting drew close, her nerve endings vibrated and stabbed. Nothing, Amy and Tyler told her, would be gained by stewing, but that hadn’t eased Pyper’s anxiety about the day to come. Yes, this was out of her control. No, this entire situation was in no way Chase’s fault. Still, a layer of discomfort had distorted everything between them in the days that followed the interview with Petra. Doubts—real and imagined—crept through her mind and stole her peace. Yes, Chase seemed sincere in his convictions as well as his loyalty to her. Yes, she believed in him. But wasn’t she usually wrong about men?
Late that morning, she sat next to Chase, riding shotgun as he navigated the quarter-mile stretch of gravel that led from her family’s farm to the main road that would take them downtown.
She propped an elbow against the window frame of the vehicle, closing her eyes as a warm flow of air caressed her cheeks. “When we first decided to sing at this event, I remember telling my folks how excited I was to meet your sponsor, and thank him for everything he’s done to help you. Now, I’m not so sure.”
She delivered a quirked grin and tried to be easy-spirited, even a bit cheeky; no surprise, Chase saw right through the acting job. She knew he registered the flatness in her tone, the hesitance that betrayed her solid tangle of emotions. At the next stoplight, Chase reached forward, just far enough to trace a fingertip against the tight, achy spot between her brows. His touch felt cool and gentle. Heavenly. Pyper’s eyes fluttered closed and a whisper of air passed her lips.
“You still could, you know. The facts remain true, even if the player isn’t who you expected.”
How she wished she could refute that solid, if thoroughly unappealing piece of logic. Instead, she kept quiet. Stewing.
“Crash, I’m so sorry…I…”
Her eyes popped open. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not your fault. You had no idea. This doesn’t change…” She dipped her head, shy, tucking a tumbled curl of hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t change me and you.” She pushed back that sliver of uncertainty that prodded her to think she might be wrong about her feelings toward Chase.
She closed her eyes once more when Chase cupped her chin and tilted her head just enough to press a light, bone-melting kiss against her lips. Seconds later the light went green, and he surrendered to the drive. “Then have some faith. We’ll get through what comes.”
“But what about my mom? My dad? What about Zach? He’s been confused about everything lately. This isn’t going to help.”
“I repeat. We’ll get through. All of us. Together.”
The idea, the ideal, was appealing. Pyper made an agreeable sound, aiming to reassure him more than anything else, but she couldn’t find her way to his level of confidence.
Chase navigated his vehicle to a stop in a parking lot already packed with cars. The presence of several media trucks paid testimony to the interest to be found in a celebrity-endorsed life recovery center.
Pyper straightened and firmed her jaw. The mission, the objectives of Reach North were important. Lives and hope were on the line here. Healing. That’s what today was all about. Eyes on the prize, she coached herself. Eyes on the prize.
All the same, she clung to Chase’s hand like a lifeline when they walked through the entrance of the facility. Media personnel gathered fast and furious. Photographers captured the moment; they smiled and waved, but she spotted Petra Goode almost immediately, and Pyper’s nerves threatened to shatter.
A second later, her searching gaze came to rest on Mark Samuels.
When she saw him, Pyper experienced the strangest sense of transformation. In a blink, she froze, terrified. In a blink, she trembled and nearly ran. In a blink, she became that desperate, broken child, taken under by an ingrained, instinctive quest for self-preservation.
God, please help me. Please be with me.
Mark sat on the dais meant for speakers and board members of the facilit
y, and he fidgeted nervously with a rolled up program, tapping it against his knee. His eyes roamed the crowd. As in her youth, Pyper wanted only to vanish from his sight. She ached to disappear into oblivion, into a time and place far away from this man and everything he represented.
A pair of guitars rested in position to the left of the raised platform, ready for her upcoming performance with Chase.
The performance of “Forgiveness”.
How in the world was she supposed to sing an anthem to extending God’s mercy when a slab of granite rested on her heart, preventing her from doing just that? She wavered to such a degree that Chase started to reach out, but she stepped away from his touch. Her skin was icy. The devastating sweep of a mental tidal wave thundered and roared within the darkness of her horrorstricken mind.
“Crash? You OK?”
Chase had leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. Still transfixed, Pyper managed nothing more than a faint nod, but she noticed now that she pulled slightly against Chase’s hold, resisting when he tried to move them forward and through the building onslaught of reporters, paparazzi, and fans.
Pyper squeezed his hand tight and fought for control, for the kind of poise everyone expected. Like Chase, she smiled and waved, greeting the enthusiastic crowd as would be expected of country-Christian music’s newly crowned “it” couple. But her motions were stilted, and though her smile spread wide, it didn’t reach deep. It pulled at her skin, made her feel waxen and posed.
“Remember, this is a different time, and a different place. You’re different people now. Stay strong, Pyp.” Chase kept close, his body a welcome source of warmth against her side. His whispered words were gentle. She tried to absorb the truth he offered, but failed.
Pyper’s mom and dad arrived, slipping in behind them with her brother on their heels.
“I’m going to check in with the musicians; catch up with you guys in a little while.” Eager and unaware of the drama set to unfold, Zach moved away to join band members who set up equipment on the dais.
People continued to crowd in, filling space until the room became claustrophobic. During the commotion of her arrival with Chase, Pyper noticed the way Mark’s attention fell on them and stayed put for a beat. He stood slowly and started to walk their way. Pyper craved an exit route, but none could be found.
When it became clear Mark was about to step into her path, Pyper decided to work an immediate preemptive strike.
“Hello, Pyper. I—”
Three tentative words were all she allowed him to say before cutting in with a low, discreet hiss. “Understand something clearly, and let there be no mistake. I do not want to talk to you. I do not want to hear anything you have to say. I want nothing to do with you. I’m going to sing, and I’m going to give my support to this facility. Beyond that, you stay away from me. And unlike before, I have the means to fight back if you cross the line. Now, step aside.”
“Pyp.”
Chase’s quiet admonishment held no weight. Neither did the way Mark reared his head and wordlessly backed off. But when she elbowed past him, blood simmering with hostility, their eyes met. Blue on blue. The sadness she detected slowed her steps some but didn’t keep her from walking away.
Once seated, she crossed her legs. Outwardly demure, she donned an attentive mask, one of politically correct behavior and interest. The crowd assembled and staff members prepared to kick off proceedings. Out of view, knowing the long flounce of her jean skirt masked things from view, she latched a booted ankle around the leg of her chair. Such was the only way she’d remain in place and properly grounded.
Petra Goode glided past delivering a plastic smile and wearing a too-snug powder blue suit. Silent screams pushed and beat against Pyper’s chest, her throat, her temples. She looked straight ahead, extending courteous glances toward the audience. Once she unclenched her tightly laced fingertips, she offered a wave of acknowledgment to a few members of the staff who were seated in the front row and encouraging smiles to the teens sitting close by. The kids had been working with Zach and Chase over the past few days and represented Chase’s freshly established music therapy program. The group would be joining them on stage shortly.
Soon she’d have to sing. Perform.
For a centering moment, Pyper bowed her head and prayed.
Father, on Your strength alone will I get through this.
The DJ of the Christian radio station’s morning drive stood at a wooden podium, addressing the assemblage about midway through the event.
“Before we enjoy a musical interlude and some refreshments, I’d like you to meet the director of Reach North, the man who’ll be managing the corporation’s new outreach center. He’s already staffed the facility and will both counsel and head up operations here in Nashville when it opens in a couple weeks. In fact, he’s the one responsible for recruiting the talents of Chase Bradington and Pyper Brock to lend support to today’s event. Please help me welcome Mark Samuels.”
Pyper was used to being in the public eye, used to controlling her physical and mental responses no matter what the outward pressure. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment.
Mark moved slowly to the podium, visibly uncomfortable. He withdrew a short stack of papers from a cubby in the lectern, smoothing them into place so he could read. He cleared his throat, adjusted the mic.
“Hey, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out and for lending your support. I want you to know you’re looking at one of the thousands of reasons why Reach North is necessary.” He cleared his throat again. “They say the best form of witness is the story of your life, so, if you’ll be kind enough to spare me a few minutes, I’d like to share mine. I hope it’ll demonstrate the ways recovery, rehabilitation, and the support of community outreach centers like this one can turn death into life.”
He shuffled his feet. When he cast a quick, telling glance toward Pyper, she ducked her head promptly and focused on tightly clenched hands folded neatly in her lap.
“It was a sticky, humid day. The kind of day you see maybe half a dozen times during the course of a Michigan summer. The heat amplified my mood. My hate. My raging sense of injustice at the world. Sound familiar?”
Pyper focused on the crowd, anywhere but the podium. Some uncomfortable, understanding glances ran through the room like a circuit. Her attention returned to Mark. Visibly centered now, he no longer looked left or right. Instead, he re-smoothed the crumpled pages. Pyper steeled her back against the kind of care and effort of handwritten pages being crafted by him.
“I lost my job,” he went on to say. “I got fired that day, and instead of acknowledging the shame, the fault that was mine alone, I stopped at a liquor store on my way home. I pulled out a twenty and bought a pint of whiskey. I came home to my four-year-old daughter. Happy as could be, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room next to our sitter, Marcey. They played dolls, or house or some such thing. None of that mattered to me.”
His voice caught. Pyper gulped and simmered and seared him with a look he didn’t even see. He was traveling to the past? Oh, she’d love to shove him down its battered and broken pathway to reveal precisely what hell he had wrought. She itched to leave him somehow bruised and beaten the same way he had done to her and her mother. Monster. Sure, she couldn’t shout the word like she wanted, but releasing that toxic cloud of anger into the recesses of her mind helped steady her overly-frayed nerves.
“I screamed at them.” His fingertips brushed the pages from which he read. “I carried a bottle in my hand, wrapped in a brown paper bag, and I had one focus alone. One goal. Drunken oblivion. So, I shoved Marcey out the door with a handful of bucks and sent my daughter to her room for no reason at all other than the fact that I didn’t want to see her, and I didn’t want her to see me. She fought me. She wanted to play. In answer to that, I shoved her to the ground and when she cried, I slapped her across the face. I wanted her out of my sight. I wanted her gone. I didn’t want her
kind of sweetness and innocence to interfere with me and a full-on quest to destroy myself, so I terrified her into submission.”
Desperate to maintain control, Pyper relived the moments he described, that backhanded slap across her face when she stubbornly, willfully refused to obey him. Odd how she could still feel the giant, rolling tears that had crested her lashes and worked soothing dew against the burn of a fast-swelling cheek.
In the here and now, Pyper realized, her tears weren’t phantom, they tracked down her face, silent and choking.
“I beat her.”
Pyper dashed shaky fingertips beneath her lashes.
“I beat that unsuspecting child. I yelled at her. I cursed at her, and I locked her in her in a room—”
Pyper gave a subtle jump when she absorbed the warm touch of Chase’s roughened hand settling atop hers. His tender caress caused a fresh push of tears, but she swallowed hard, she blinked, she battled the beasts and fought back discomfort as best she could, struggling to remain composed.
At the podium, Mark swiped a kerchief beneath his reddened nose. He squared his shoulders. “My wife came home.” His gaze darted to Amy, who clung fast to Tyler. “We argued with words. We battled physically. I shoved at her. I beat her and yelled at her and locked her out of our home. That moment, my blackest moment, paved the road to this podium, to the promise of this facility and everything good that can be accomplished within its walls.”
All over again Mark danced nervous fingers across battered notebook pages. He shifted from the top page to the one beneath. “I had lost my job, but that was no excuse. I was a drunk. I was an out-of-control alcoholic, but that was no excuse. Let me tell you about the end of that day. While I thought I had won, while I strutted, guzzled, fumed and stormed through the house like some kind of self-righteous fool, while I thought full-well that I had won the battle, I lost a war. A war for my happiness and peace of mind. I went to my daughter’s bedroom, intending to make sure I had her right where I wanted—imprisoned. I wanted control. I wanted her restrained like a possession. Squashed beneath my thumb.”
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