“There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.”
-Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
The scent of burning rubber clung to my nostrils, along with something else I couldn’t quite identify.
Gasoline maybe?
Thick smoke billowed out from under the hood of the convertible, obliterating the last remaining rays of light from the sunset along with any chance of me being found before morning.
I managed to lift my head just enough to determine Tristan’s car was nothing more than a twisted heap of metal before collapsing against the earth again with a muffled moan.
Something sharp dug into my palm, but I couldn’t move. Drawing even the smallest of breaths sent shooting pain throughout my entire body.
I wouldn’t survive long—not like this. My limbs grew heavy in response, tugging me toward oblivion. But instead of bright light or a heavenly voice calling me home, there was nothing but darkness.
I didn’t mind.
The void felt familiar—safe.
Like I’d dreamt of it before.
Maybe I had. Perhaps deep down, I’d always known it was going to end like this. I halfheartedly fought against my slipping consciousness before closing my eyes in relief.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
This wasn’t giving up… it was merely giving in to the inevitable.
“The car’s down here!”
I parted my lips to cry out before it struck me that I knew the voice.
And suddenly, I didn’t want to be found.
My leg jerked involuntarily, rescuing me from yet another nightmare. I peeled my cheek from the damp pillow, ears still ringing from the whine of an engine that miraculously hadn’t stalled out upon impact.
It was happening again—fact and fiction bleeding together and leaving me in a strange state of surrealness.
One of the hospital psychologists had recommended moving around to shorten the episode and rouse my mind back to the present. I slowly sat up and blinked, hoping to clear my vision, but the dense fog of smoke remained—the crumpled black frame of the convertible still so close I could almost touch it.
Reality told me it wasn’t there and that I was safe in my bed at True North, but the nightmare crudely spliced in by my brain begged to differ. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought against the rising tide of panic with each suffocating moment that passed.
The dreams were different every time too. In one, I was still behind the wheel, repeatedly stomping on a brake pedal that no longer worked. In another, the radio stations were changing on their own. It made it virtually impossible to know how much, if any, of what I saw was rooted in reality.
I craved answers but delving into my subconscious for clues only left my mind feeling chaotic, imagining people who weren’t there.
People who couldn’t possibly have been there.
A brief knock at the door saved me from speculating on the matter further, and I cracked one eye open, relieved to find my hospital room had returned to its normal state. It took several seconds more to rid my mind of the haunting images and slow my racing heart.
It only hurts if you let it…
“Good morning, Ariana,” Tsega called as she entered the room, her lips curving up in a wide smile.
I returned the gesture with a small wave, the closest I could get to actual communication for the time being.
Tsega was the weekend aide and, according to Tiffani, a devout Buddhist. She’d felt it was of the utmost importance I know every detail, lest I ‘like convert’ before she returned on Monday.
Given the sheer number of whispered warnings I’d received for the past two Fridays, it was evident Tiffani hadn’t spent her free time studying other religions. If she had, she would have known that Buddhists typically respected different religious views and weren’t exactly known for proselytizing.
She was confusing them with Tristan.
Tsega went over to the large marker board and filled in the daily details, along with who was on-duty. Once that was complete, she helped me out of my mesh prison and into the bathroom for a shower.
Weekends at True North were quiet. There were no classes to attend or schedules to keep. Most patients spent their time watching movies or doing crafts down in the common areas with their families.
In an ironic twist of fate, I found the sudden abundance of freedom unsettling. It was a bit like watching sand drain into the bottom of an hourglass—a reminder my time here was running out. I didn’t want to sit and paint a teacup or roam the halls in my wheelchair before being carted back behind the walls of a cage I was all too familiar with.
It was a frustrating thing, knowing that what you needed and what you were destined for were miles apart.
Like a well-trained zebra finch, I’d spent my life mimicking the rhythm of my father’s song while poking my head through the bars for even the smallest taste of freedom.
“Today’s a special day,” Tsega explained as she braided my damp hair. “You have a visitor.”
I wasn’t ready.
I managed a small nod and rubbed my sweaty palms against the skirt of my dress while staring longingly at the bright red exit sign above the door.
If only it were that easy.
Tsega paused her gentle movements and, keeping one hand on my braid, crouched in front of my chair. She studied my trembling fingers, clenched tightly together, before lifting her eyes to my face.
My pulse thundered as she surveyed me, forcing my heart up into my throat with each furious beat. Tiffani might have been nice, but Tsega was perceptive, picking up on the little things that had gone unnoticed my entire life.
Just last Sunday morning, an overzealous nurse had come in. After turning my television to the live broadcast from Eagle Lake Church, she’d found it necessary to tell me how Pastor James had saved her marriage. When the first few bars of the opening song had begun to play, she’d placed a hand on her chest with a sigh and asked, “Doesn’t hearing this just fill you with hope?”
I’d stared blankly at her, sure she was messing with me.
I was the one singing.
Our worship band had released four albums—the latest of which had been nominated for Pop/Contemporary Album of the Year at last year’s Dove Awards—not that I’d been allowed to attend the award ceremony in Nashville.
Brad had once boasted that they’d use my songs until the earth turned to dust because there was something eerie in my voice—something that made people sink to their knees in repentance.
As I’d listened, I couldn’t help but agree. The sound was hauntingly beautiful, causing my flesh to break out in goosebumps by the time I reached the chorus. My every word was clear and resolute, leaving me to wonder where the strength went when I wasn’t singing.
Tsega had watched me intently during the song, and in the minutes following the nurse’s departure when my father came on-stage. Then, without saying a word, she’d gotten up and turned it off.
She was doing it again now, studying me like I was a code in need of cracking. I gathered a deep breath, slightly curious to know what she saw when she looked at me—a meek creature who startled at the slightest sound? A fragile woman with no voice?
Perhaps Tsega’s view was just as misguided as Killian’s. That somehow felt worse than being seen as weak. I turned away as emotion clogged my throat, threatening to spill over in the form of tears.
It only hurts if you let it…
She inhaled sharply before placing her free hand over both of mine. “It’s not your father, okay? It’s not him. It’s a woman—Morgan. If you don’t want to see her—”
Morgan? Yes.
To drive my point home, I began bobbing my head up and down in an exaggerated manner, loosening my braid with each eager nod.
Tsega
nodded, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Okay. But first, we have to fix your hair again.”
With the feelings of relief came a sudden influx of memories and a sharp flare of guilt—I hadn’t thought of Morgan once since my accident.
How had I forgotten my only confidante? Her family had begun attending Eagle Lake when she was fourteen, but it had taken me a lot longer just to work up the courage to say hello.
At youth gatherings, I sat in the back, silently admiring the streaks of white blonde in her dark hair. Later, once we’d been properly introduced, she’d informed me they were highlights and not something she’d been born with—yet I’d never even been allowed to cut my hair, much less alter the color.
Looking back, I couldn’t help but feel that by befriending her, I was at least partially responsible for what happened next. If I’d never overcome my fear of speaking to her, Morgan would have been just another nameless face in the crowd.
Safe.
Instead, I’d led her into the monster’s lair, never imagining Tristan would take an interest in a sixteen year-old girl.
Clearly, I’d underestimated him.
Her family eagerly accepted Tristan’s proposal and moved into the gated community during their two-year courtship, oblivious to the trap that had been set. On her eighteenth birthday, Tristan put a ring on Morgan’s finger and an end to her traveling anywhere without an escort.
The white highlights gradually faded away, but Morgan had never lost her spark, which had only made me admire her more. Yet, as much as I’d tried over the last three years, I couldn’t bring myself to call her my stepmother. She was, after all, only a couple of years older than me.
My best friend.
The one person who knew me better than anyone else.
An idea began to take root. I’d been going about this all wrong—putting enormous amounts of pressure on my body to speed up the healing process. But the answer had been right in front of me all along. If there was one person who could tell me with certainty what I’d been doing before the accident, it was Morgan.
We never kept secrets from each other.
After Tsega radioed down to the front desk, I kept my eyes on the door, restlessly bouncing the soles of my house shoes against the wheelchair footrests. Somehow, despite the current of nervous energy flooding my body, she managed to tame my braid.
I was so caught up in witnessing Morgan’s arrival that when Tsega offered me a notebook and pen, I handed it back to her in confusion.
“No,” she chuckled. “For you… to write down what you want to say.”
Oh. Right.
In my excitement, I’d forgotten I was terrible at Charades. Although, in my defense, trying to act out the phrase “Noah’s Ark” in front of sixty hyperactive youth members would have been daunting for anyone.
The breath caught in my throat when the door opened and Morgan appeared. She pulled me into her arms, squeezing to the point of pain, but I didn’t care.
I’d missed her.
I hadn’t realized just how much until I was enveloped in the comforting scent of her raspberry and vanilla body spray.
“I’m sorry, Ari,” she rasped before abruptly pulling back. “Am I hurting you?”
I shook my head, unable to wipe the grin from my face.
“Good. I’ve—” Morgan awkwardly cleared her throat and took a step back, letting her hands drop to her sides. “We’ve been praying so hard for your recovery. The church, I mean. We—”
Tsega offered her a chair, and she fell silent again, dropping onto it with a frustrated exhale. “Your father—he’s just been sick over this. Well, we all have… really.”
The thoughtful look returned to Tsega’s face. “Did Ginny have you do the family training when you got here?”
“I watched the video, and we discussed the basics. Is that what you’re asking?”
Sensing where Tsega was leading with her questioning, I began nodding, pleased that she and I were on the same page.
“Yep, and since you’ve been informed of the protocol, I can actually step out and let you two catch up in private,” she said with another strange expression that made deciphering her thoughts virtually impossible.
The woman was quite the enigma.
Morgan’s smile slipped as soon as Tsega left the room. She grasped the arms of the wheelchair, yanking me until our knees butted together.
“What happened to you?” she hissed, her mouth twisting into a brief grimace as she leaned forward.
I pulled the pen from the binding of the notebook and scrawled,
You don’t know?
It didn’t make sense.
“No,” Morgan admitted, sadness clouding her features. “He said you were in a car accident. I needed you to help me understand, but you can’t even talk.”
We told each other everything—if I ran away, she would have known the reason, unless…
Unless I no longer trusted her.
I released the notebook and dropped my hands down to the wheels on my wheelchair, pulling back until I was satisfied with the distance I’d placed between us.
Was this Tristan’s plan—using Morgan as a spy?
It seemed ridiculous—even to me—but there was no other explanation.
“Ari, it’s just that Tristan—”
No, I mouthed at the mention of his name, holding my hand up. Stop.
The same woman who’d once stood in the middle of Sunday school and proclaimed that the church’s teachings were archaic and slanted toward men had seemingly changed her stance without a second thought. Meanwhile, I’d been questioning the accuracy of my memories because I appeared to be the only person in the world who saw Tristan James for what he was.
At night, I’d laid awake, wondering if everyone else had it right. I’d even gone as far as considering the possibility that his treatment of me was nothing more than a direct response to my alleged rebelliousness.
The thought made my stomach churn, but deep down, I knew I wasn’t the problem. It didn’t matter what other people believed because they didn’t know him like I did. They’d never experienced his rage.
But Morgan had.
Maybe to an even greater extent than me.
In what could only be described as unfortunate timing on my part, I’d overheard the sounds of Morgan’s quiet sobs while Tristan groaned loudly in what I presumed to be ecstasy. Even with my minimal experience, I wasn’t completely naïve when it came to sex. I just struggled to come to terms with the details of the arrangement.
When Sister Helene lectured us in health class on the importance of bearing Eve’s sin with submissive hearts, I’d almost believed she was joking. The lesson was just one of many in the church-funded private school curriculum, or, as I’d affectionately come to call it: A Study in Women’s Suffering.
There’d never been any real education in health class, just a consistent reminder that sex was a necessary punishment for women. We’d once spent an entire semester discussing how faithful and obedient Adam had been until his wife had used her sex to turn him away from the truth.
Because heaven forbid, we take a step back and examine the talking snake and his roadside fruit stand.
Despite our cursed souls, the church inexplicably believed our bodies were sacred vessels, meant to remain untouched and pure until our wedding night. It was a man’s divine right to join his body with his wife’s, bringing her sins to light. Because nine months of pregnancy and the agony of labor weren’t enough.
Unsurprisingly, I’d never been in much of a hurry to marry.
I might have assumed what I’d overheard was nothing more than the physical act of marriage, had I not seen the marks on Morgan’s body the following day. No lesson could explain the spectrum of old and new bruises coating her torso.
Nothing could explain that level of brutality.
Which was why I was having a hard time believing she’d see eye to eye with Tristan on anything. There had never been any problems between us. If a
nything, our shared wounds had only brought us closer together.
“If you would just listen to me—please,” she begged, hugging herself.
I shook my head, wanting to vomit as I remembered the things I’d shared with her over the years. Had she been sent to give me a lecture on remaining obedient, or to simply discuss the importance of not crashing Tristan’s luxury cars when running away from home?
Suddenly, she jolted upright, staggering toward me. I jerked the wheels again, but only managed a few inches before connecting with the side of the bed.
Morgan blocked my next escape attempt, locking her hand around my cheeks to pin me in place. “Listen to me, goddammit! I’m not here to hurt you.”
I tensed my shoulders as her fingers dug into the tender flesh above my jaw but didn’t move again. Morgan’s chest rose and fell with several rapid breaths before she loosened her hold on me.
“You cannot come back,” she forced out, her nostrils flaring. “Do you understand me?”
I nodded, not understanding at all. True North could only let me stay for up to twelve weeks. Regardless of what I wanted, eventually, I was going to have to go back. It wasn’t as if I was in any shape to do much else. Even if there’d been a solid plan behind my escape, the details of it were rotting along with the mangled remains of the convertible.
Morgan shook her head, one corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “You’re looking at me like you think I’m crazy. But I’m not. Ari, you know as well as I do that if you’re out here, you’re safe.”
There was a chance she was telling the truth, but my mind lingered in doubt. Tristan had never been one to let Morgan off her leash, especially not after what had happened to me. I froze; the hair on my neck lifting at the thought of him crouched just outside the door, patiently waiting for his cue to come in and absolve me of my many, many sins.
I pushed Morgan’s hand away from my face and grabbed my notebook.
Where is he? Is he putting you up to this?
She huffed a mirthless laugh and lowered her head. “C’mon, Ari. You’re smarter than that. Do you really think so little of me? Tristan’s in New York. Dean’s working.”
Wait For It: A Houston Hurricanes Novel Page 9