by Leanne Davis
“And it made you cry?” I ask almost accusatorily. I feel guilty even though I did not technically do anything.
“Yes. I cry about it sometimes.” Her voice is calm and even, not like she’s desperate or in need of saving, like I was picturing. In need of Dad, I now believe. What does he do for her exactly? I want to know. I want to ask. I suddenly want to better understand their marriage. I’m seeing them as adults when, until this moment, I could care less. They were just Mom and Dad, my parents. Their happiness or wellbeing… well, what did I think about it? Of course, they love each other. I know that. I never once doubted it. Now? I wonder how they love each other. How much? How… real? How much of it came from her need and what happened to her? A weird trickle of something like apprehension bolts up my spine.
Tears fill my eyes and I can feel my face crumbling. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as the magnitude of what Dad told me washes over me anew.
Then… she’s my mom again. Not a victim. She steps forward and sweeps me into her arms, pressing my face against her chest, where I bury my head like a freaking little kid and cry. I am crying about what happened to her. She comforts me and croons and lets me fall apart, which seems so selfish and shows me, yet again, how strong she is, and how, after all these years, I never really knew that about her.
“Are you angry that I know about it?” I finally ask.
She leans back and rubs my hair off my forehead and a soft smile fills her face. “No, Tiny. I think it’s time you knew. I just couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t find the strength to tell you. Besides, what your dad knows is pretty much what I know.”
“But how can you, how can he, stand it? I hate thinking about what was done to you,” I admit before clutching her again.
“We had to. There was simply no other choice. You can learn to live with anything, as it turns out. Even get past it. And find love. Take that from our story, Tiny.”
“I don’t think I could.”
She smiles a soft sad smile. “My fervent hope is you will never have to. But if you do? You could. There is nothing special about me. Nothing at all.”
She sits down on the stool next to me, still holding my hand and talks to me in a quiet, low voice so my sisters can’t hear if they come out. She asks me if learning now what they hid, did I think knowing it at a younger age would have helped me? Meaning, should they tell my sisters sooner than they told me? Unequivocally, I know the answer is no. NO! Now that I know what I couldn’t quite fathom, the mystery outweighs the reality.
She tells me her story from her point of view. She describes what it was like when Dad, who was then a faceless soldier, came to rescue her. She said what the first few weeks home were like, and how confused and hopeless she became, reaching out to him for more help afterwards. Much remains that is disjointed still about their story. But I don’t press. Not yet. I can tell they don’t want to say any more yet.
What I know is: I need to talk to someone now. And the only person whom I talk to outside of my family is Max. “Can I tell Max?”
Mom hesitates, but nods as she understands. “Yes, you can.”
I hug my mom again and realize I’ve made her day hard already. She smiles and gets up as I head out the door. I see her disappearing into their bedroom and wonder what she’ll do. What Dad will say? But I know too, I finally understand why sometimes, they seemed so separate from my sisters and me. Sometimes, they are busy not being parents. I finally forgive them, never realizing until now how much it bothered me.
Chapter Five
~Max~
ROLLING OVER, I TRY to cover my head with the pillow when I hear a loud thumping coming up the stairs. It’s really loud. Way louder than Lindsey or Noah could ever walk. I crack an eye open. It’s only nine o’clock on Sunday morning. Then, my bedroom door bursts open. I am stunned at first and don’t move, until I realize it’s not Lindsey, but Christina. And she’s crying. I quickly pull the covers over me. I’m wearing nothing but boxers and morning wood. I try to move around to hide, but she’s too inflamed to notice anything before she starts pacing my bedroom. It’s a large room with plenty of space. But having her there makes my breaths sharp and awkward, like I am nearly gasping for air. I really don’t like to see her crying. I figure she’s mad about last night. Usually, she gives me the silent treatment. Rarely, no, never, has she shown up here crying. My stomach churns, I must have really upset her.
I don’t know what to say. Not a new occurrence. But today, it feels particularly inhibiting. I run my hand over my face, trying to catch up with what’s going on. Her hair is long and kind of snarled as if she hasn’t yet brushed it. I wonder if Brad’s hands did that. My stomach clenches and I immediately cease regretting what I did.
“I’m not apologizing. It was stupid what you were doing last night,” I finally say to ease my own discomfort and guilt. I have no right to be jealous, or to intrude on her and keep her from having a boyfriend and sex. I might have no right to do so, but it sure as shit won’t stop me.
She is still pacing. She slaps her hands on the tears staining her face and nods her head. “So stupid. So, so stupid. Going up into that room. Anything could have happened. Anything. And no one could hear me scream. No one could have known. I never even once thought about how easily I could have gotten raped…”
Forgetting I’m not dressed, I jump out of bed and my adrenaline goes from nil to full. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
My tone is furious. She stops dead as she finally notices me. Her gaze travels over my half naked body. It’s not the first time she’s seen me. We’ve been swimming together every summer since we were thirteen. I watched her go from frilly, one-piece swimsuits to bikinis, which she now lays out in for hours when she’s not strutting around on the beaches, getting all the attention from guys like me. But still, she’s never seen me like this in my bedroom, with my rumpled bed behind me. I am short, but my love for fighting has always kept me pretty fit. I have sleek muscles, the kind that are not always noticeable in clothes, and my stomach is bunched up with muscles. I have the dark, clear skin and dark hair that draws plenty of looks from the girls, even if I am so freaking short. I hate being so short. I absolutely detest it. Having girls tower over me? Not cool. But it’s one thing I can’t change by fighting.
She wipes her eyes before finally turning and collapsing on the bed. “No. Not me. Nothing happened to me. That’s the point. I’ve never taken any precautions. Never. Not all the times my dad warned me. But when he came to the party last night, and burst in there, I was so mad. No, I was furious. I wanted to kill him and you.”
“I know,” I reply while standing there with my fists clenched. “But what happened?” I’m still not sure what is wrong with her.
She raises her big, brown eyes at me. They’re so deep and dark, I could drown in their innocence and depth. “He told me, finally, this story. It sort of explains what’s wrong with my mom. You know all those times when I was mad because she, or they, were acting weird? Like they were hiding something?”
I nod. I remember her frustration and how sure she was of an ugly family secret they would not disclose to her. It didn’t seem all that tragic to me, considering my history. But it upset her never the less. She can be a bit of a drama queen. When she demands that things be done her way and isn’t obeyed, she thinks that constitutes an actual betrayal by others, and a real tragedy.
But she is also the kindest, most compassionate, and sweetest person I know. She can slay me with her anger and heal me with her empathy. She doesn’t really cry very often. But she frequently tears up when an anecdote or story touches that gooey center of hers. Whatever happened to keep her crying for this long must have been substantial, since crying was so rare for her.
“This isn’t about the party?” I must sound clueless as I scratch my head, wondering why she’s here. “What happened?”
She raises her eyes and bites her lip before crying again. “I wish you could hold me, Max. I wish, just for once, you could touch me.” Her words are whi
spered softly. She lowers her gaze and lets her hair fall over her face so I can’t see it. I watch the blush rising up from her neck. This. Again. We’ve had this situation numerous times before. It is always excruciating and awkward for both of us.
I have never liked anyone, including Christina, touching me. It makes my skin feel tight and itchy, and my heart rate increases until I almost want to hyperventilate. It’s nothing personal. It’s not like I sit around, dreading that Christina Hendricks might touch me. No. It’s actually just the opposite. I want nothing more in the world than for her to touch me. I want to be a normal, freaking guy, trying to get into the pants of the girl he likes best every other moment. I don’t do that, because to get to that ideal place, I’d have to touch her.
I’ve had a crush on her since I was thirteen years old. It’s not like I didn’t spend the last five years fantasizing about all the things I’d like to do to and with her. But I can’t handle the touch of another human being. I have no idea how to reconcile the two. I never tell her about all the things I fantasize about. She has no idea. I notice, however, she sometimes looks at me differently than, I imagine, she looks at her other guy friends. She has lots of friends, both male and female, and is crazy popular. But there are times when I wonder if she reserves her most special feelings for me.
My childhood screwed me up so bad, I can’t tolerate having the girl I like touch my freaking hand or leg. I can’t hug her when she is crying. What good could ever come of expressing any of the private things I feel to her? I sit down on the bed beside her, careful to keep space between us and she glances up at me. I’m still not dressed or covered. And one part of me does want to be touched, especially with her staring at me that way.
“What happened?” I repeat, ignoring the obvious. That needs to remain unsaid between us. She is still staring at me when she finally shakes her head and brings her knees up to her chest. Wrapping her arms around them, she looks like a small, vulnerable ball. “She was raped. My mom was kidnapped and held by three men who gang-raped her. Dad… he was a soldier then, was sent on a mission to rescue her. He did. But…” She buries her head in her knees and her shoulders convulse. I want to pull her against me. I want to so badly, I can almost feel her body heat against my hand. I need to help her. I know she needs my comfort. For all her popularity, I am her rock. Her confidante. Her best friend. I am the only one who knows the real Christina Hendricks, warts and all.
I am horrified by her ominous words. She is really crying now, and her shoulders are jerking. I need to do something. Of course, I truly care about her. I sometimes think I’m in love with her. I don’t think she’s just my best friend or that I’m having an adolescent crush. But I guess I don’t know that for sure. I don’t really get the whole love thing. It’s new and difficult for me to comprehend. And the boy/girl, being in-love thing? Still not sure about that.
She lifts her face. “Dad had to watch her getting gang-raped. That was when he first laid eyes on her. That horrible nightmare is the history they have to live with.”
I have seen a lot of strange shit in my life. My mom was batshit crazy and usually strung out between fixes. She worked as a whore and a lot of her johns acted strange, not only in front of me, but also toward me. When Derek lived at home, he used to barricade us in his room to protect me from the worst of it, I think. Not that Derek could have stopped much. But at least, he knew how to be quiet and he taught me how. Out of sight, out of mind, they say, and it worked the best for us. But Derek moved out. When dealing drugs became profitable enough, he left me. So there I was with Mom. My abhorrence to being touched? That started with my mom. She never showed any kind of normal affection to me. I assume it must have started there. I was never held or coddled as an infant or toddler, not that I remember. After I quit talking, she (my mom, whom I hate giving that honor to, since she doesn’t deserve it) mocked me every chance she got. Her affection in words and touch was totally withheld from me. She didn’t molest me, but it was… not conducive to a healthy upbringing. The more time I spend with normal people, the more I see how sick my mother raised me. She withheld every form of comfort a kid craves and deserves. Now, as a man, I seek no one’s comfort at all.
I started fighting to eradicate some of the weird emotions that live in my head. I mean, I couldn’t even do the simplest thing of talking without sounding like an imbecile. That particular affliction caused me a lot of humiliation. But the touching phobia? It mostly creates confusion, which leads to shame and eventually, a rage that persists until I release it.
I know, I do, I know in my head, Christina won’t hurt me, but I just can’t stand feeling anyone’s hands on me. It’s like having sandpaper rubbed on my skin. Imagine how trapped that would make you feel. I feel cornered and tortured and confused. I want to like the way it feels, but since I can’t it confuses me. Why must I find Christina so hot, and get hard whenever I think about her. I want to have sex with her. But I can’t even work up the courage to hold her hand. So where and how could the other part ever begin to happen?
The story she’s telling me right now is shocking. I never watched anyone being raped. That must twist up someone’s head. I wonder how her parents ended up married? I have to say, I am shocked. The Hendrickses, until this moment, were for me that family, and those parents; you know the kind… I almost disdained them sometimes because they seemed so perfect, and so good to each other and their kids. Sometimes, Christina’s antics or annoyance with them fell on my deaf ears. I mean, really? Did she ever have to inject drugs into her mom’s arm? No, but I did. And that’s fucked-up shit. That’s the kind of stuff that messes with your head. Not because your parents are a little too strict with the house rules, or force you to watch your sisters when you don’t want to. Christina’s and my definitions of shitty parenting are as far apart as her insistence on talking while I prefer to remain mute.
But I never expected her to say that about her parents. Of course, her grief is real. She is hurt and upset and confused. I get those things. She just isn’t used to them. I want to help her. To comfort her. I want to want to touch her, which is completely fucked up. Why don’t I just lean over and put my arm around her shoulders? It’s not like she’s any threat to me, or could ever hurt me physically, and yet, I can’t force myself to do it. As soon as anyone touches me, I invariably react before even thinking it out. It’s completely instinctive for me to react defensively and avoid anyone’s touch. I accidentally pushed my brother’s girlfriend down once when she touched me unexpectedly. I didn’t even mean to do it. I am not so much of an ass that I want to hurt girls. No. Never. It’s the guys, the huge, beefy guys that I like to hurt.
Fucked-up much? Yeah, that’s me.
And the one person in the whole world that I want to touch and almost want her to touch me, is the girl crying on my bed beside me. She needs me. She came here for me, and still, I can’t do it.
Until… Suddenly, she turns and wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face into my chest. I stiffen. I am shocked at her action. She’s always respected my need for space. She never pressed me about it before. Not once. She often expresses her desire to touch me, but she never blatantly disrespected my wishes. My breathing starts to quicken, and my lungs feel like a firm hand is suddenly tightening around my throat. My head grows dizzy and my heart rate accelerates. She is leaning against me, wrapping her arms around me. I can feel her wet tears on my chest and the way her slender body contracts and shakes as her tears cause her whole body to tremble. This isn’t like Christina. She’s never experienced any real grief. Not the kind that wracks your entire body and makes you feel like you’re going to puke. The kind of grief she came to me for, seeking comfort.
I want to. God, I want to so bad. I want to let her stay pressed against me. I want to wrap her up in my arms. I want to take away her pain and ease her innocent mind and heart. But… this breathing thing is really getting to me. I feel like millions of needles are pressing into my skin. I just can’t do it.
“Even now?” she whispers as she wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands before more tears replace them. Tears, I suspect, from my rejection.
“Even now,” I mutter before turning away from her to hunt for some damn clothes. This… us being together with me hardly clothed can’t happen again. I might want Christina. I might have feelings far beyond the friend thing we pretend to share, but I can’t act on them. Her parents are supposed to be my freaking aunt and uncle. They pretend I’m their damn nephew. Having been homeless and family-less as a youth, I appreciate their charade. It’s kind of them. It also makes it weird when I lust after their daughter. They trust me alone with her. No one suspects a thing with her coming and going from my room, or me to hers. No other guys are allowed in her room but me. Not even her boyfriends. Just me. That’s because I’m good, old, quiet Max. I have no designs on her. Right?
Wrong.
The thing is: between my stupid affliction and our legal family status, a relationship between us can never be. I know that. Clearly. I accepted it a long time ago. Well, that is whenever Christina is alone and without a guy hanging all over her. Then, she gets another date or boyfriend, and I go right back to secretly trying to destroy it. Those times tend to coincide when I usually go on the prowl for fights. I manage to succeed more often than not with both: ruining her relationships and setting up fights. Look what I did with Brad. He’s forgotten already, I bet. Done. Whatever she was mad at me or her dad over has been forgotten by this tragedy.