Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (3 page)

Seeing the intensity in his gaze, I know without a doubt he’s telling the truth. I think about my father—his anger and what he would do if he knew I was talking with Kevin, and my blood runs cold. I look away for a second to collect my thoughts. I’m not used to this feeling —this knowing I need protection but not wanting it for fear of retaliation.

“Kevin...my dad is dangerous. Please don’t get involved - I don’t want you hurt.”

He studies me and shrugs his shoulders, “It’s too late, Steph. I’m already involved. I was involved the second I saw a bruise on your skin. Nothing will change that - and I promise I’ll be careful. Your dad doesn’t scare me.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

That’s the problem,
I think to myself.

I feel the fear rising—the fixation and compulsiveness—and silently will them away. Closing my eyes, I rest my head in my hands and wonder how long it will be until Kevin realizes the extent of my dad’s power.

Chapter Two

I go through school in a daze and a slight smile on my lips. Even though our conversation ended with me concerned about his safety, I remain relatively unscathed by reality and am happy resting in the daydreams of mornings with Kevin.

Until Pre-Cal.

I never hear Mrs. Houghton call my name. I spend ten minutes after class, apologizing for my absent-mindedness and promising to pay attention in the future. The whole time I’m there I avoid her persistent glances at my arms, my face, my hands. As soon as I’m able, I turn to leave.

“Hey Stephanie?” I wince and slowly turn to respond to Mrs. Houghton’s question—plastering a smile across my face to hide my initial reaction.

“Yes ma’am?”

She glances at me and I know she’s toying with asking me what happened. I see her decide to forget about it, to not get involved, and she waves her hand at me as if to say,
nothing - don’t worry about
it.

She simply smiles and says, “You did well on your test the other day. I just wanted to thank you for your hard work.”

I stare at her, wondering if she’s serious. I’m decent at math and never bomb an exam. My lowest grade on any assignment for this class was an 85 because I forgot to show my work on one problem.

Despite my hard work, she’s never said anything to me—never praised me for a job well done. I decide to disregard her compliment—knowing it was said simply to cover up what she
really
wanted to ask. When I see she isn’t going to give me the third degree, I gather my things together and hurry out the door, surprised at the mixed feelings taking over.

Despite my desire to remain invisible, to not bring attention to myself, I’m disappointed. I rarely meet anyone willing to get messy for what is obviously a dire situation. Most of the time, my father takes care to hit me where no one will see. But in the moments where alcohol takes control, nothing is off limits and all of my teachers gawk at the bruises when they see me. And they all hesitate when they catch my eye on my way out of class. But there’s only ever been one who seriously considered getting her hands dirty for my sake—and I haven’t seen her in a long time.

With new resolve, I decide to go pay her a visit after school. My ears blaze crimson at the thought of another person ignoring me, and I force myself to think on those I know love me. I smile and make my way down the school hallway, stopping by my locker to get my physics notes.

The test I have coming up just might ruin my average. Regardless of what happens at home, I know doing well in school and getting into college is my ticket out of here. It’s the only hope I have, really. I am out the door as the last bell rings for the day—I need to see Emma. I need to be reminded of those who notice what I am going through at home.

She lives about ten minutes from the school so walking isn’t a problem. I see her house from a distance and immediately a peace begins to wash over me. It happens every time I’m near her—I know for those few short hours I’m safe. I can be me. She’s the calmest person I know—nothing surprises her.

Walking up to her door, I smile at the fall decorations littering her porch. Carved pumpkins, cornucopias filled with fake fruit and twigs of numerous styles, shapes and sizes form a cozy little nook around her two ancient looking rocking chairs. Her zest for life echoes throughout everything—even the fake cobwebs hanging from the corner of the railing. I lift my hand and a stray cobweb sticks to my palm.

I wrinkle my nose. I don’t care if it’s fake, it looks gross. I shake it off and stuff my hands in the pockets of my coat.

I walk through the door and immediately recognize the tangy scent of her Anthropologie candle.

And cookies—ah —Emma’s cookies. I head toward the kitchen, immediately in a better mood, and help myself to the cookies already on the counter. Plopping on the couch, I perk my ears to listen for sounds of Emma. I hear her in the room next to the kitchen—
probably doing laundry,
I think with a smirk—and then I frown. I can’t even remember the last time I washed my jeans. I suddenly glance down at the couch, expecting to see a spot from dirt and grime where I sit. I breathe easier when I see no signs of dirt and continue to eat the chocolatey goodness.

“There’s milk in the fridge, Steph,” I hear Emma call from the laundry room and a smile spreads across my lips.

This is why I love Emma.
I think to myself.
No fussing over me, no making a big deal over the
little things. Just the reminder to make myself at home.

“Is it that nasty soy milk?” I call back, knowing my question will bait Emma’s already spunky attitude. I don’t drink soy milk—even the thought of it makes me gag. I head over to the fridge to look for the fresh gallon she promised. I hear something drop in the laundry room and a snort of amusement.
Yep.

Teasing her is always worth the entertainment.
I smile, pouring the milk in a tall glass before heading back to the couch.

“Stephanie,” she calls from the hallway, “either drink the milk or go buy yourself some milky water substitute for the real thing. You aren’t going to find soy milk in this house.” She walks in the room with a room full of clothes and peers over mounds of towels and baby clothes. “Besides. You know I’m allergic to soy.” She throws the clothes on the couch and collapses in the middle of them. “You wanna help me fold? Benjamin nearly soiled every single onesie in the house. I don’t care what people say.

Infants have more mess in them than anyone can ever imagine. I swear if he has another diaper blowout I just may puke.” Looking at me, she brushes the hair out of her eyes and sits up straight.

Well that didn’t take long.

“What happened, Steph?”

Her questions are never optional. I think back to when I first met her in my creative writing class in high school. She was my teacher. I was her student. Something happened in the middle of the year though—after I turned in a paper explaining my tendencies of self-denial and habitual expectation of failure—we became more like mother/daughter and less like your standard teacher/student. At first, it was weird. I felt suspicious because she kept asking how I was doing and wanting to know how my weekend went and no adult had ever taken the time to really know me. It took a while for me to believe she wasn’t manipulating me. I will never forget the first time she kept me after class and asked me a question formed as a statement. I had no choice but to respond—and to be honest. Looking back, I know it was her who saved me that semester from some dangerous decisions I was bound to make. Looking back, I know it was her who likely called the authorities about my perpetual bruises and quiet tears.

As always, the authorities did nothing.

But Emma was there—door unlocked, phone ready. I spent a lot of time hiding out from my father that year. I was always nervous he would find out where she lived. He hated anyone getting in the way of his plans and constantly threatened to find out who said something. It took months for him to finally believe it wasn’t me. A lone shiver of memory courses through my veins and I wrap the coat tight around my chest.

I glance at her and took a deep breath, pulling my hair away from my face so she can see the bruises.

“He got angry again last night.”

She breathes in sharply and reaches forward to touch the spots of purple and blue. I put my hand up before she can brush against them with her fingers and she starts stumbling over her words. “What the
hell,
Stephanie? Is this all of them?”

She moves her hand to rest on her mouth, her eyes already glistening with tears. I know this look.

This is what she does when she’s fighting her thoughts—forcing them inside, keeping them from becoming words.

“It’s okay. I survived. He apologized afterwards. And I know it sounds weird, but I know he didn’t mean to do it this time. For some reason he always needs to take his anger out on
me.
My mom’s been cheating on him —I had a feeling, but last night we actually met the guy. I don’t even know how it happened—he was over at our house. The guy just stood there as dad hit me and yelled at me.” I shudder at the memory and continue, straightening my back to help my resolve, “We worked it out though.”

I look at Emma, begging her to not make a big deal out of what happened, even though I know just how big of a deal it is for my dad to do what he did to me
over and over
. My knee is proof—it still throbs from where he pushed me up against the desk and then later crashed against the pavement.

“Shit.”

I hide a smile. It takes a lot for Emma to swear.

“Steph, this is
not
okay. When are you going to get out of there? You do realize this isn’t your fault, right? You didn’t drive your mom into the arms of that guy. It’s time to get out. Seriously. You don’t deserve this.”

“Emma, I just can’t leave. It’s not possible. Who would take care of Pacey? Besides, it’s only a couple months until graduation.” I shrug and play with the string on my jacket’s hood, “I can do anything for a couple of months.”

Our conversation is interrupted by the piercing cry of an infant and Emma glances toward the nursery. “I need to feed him. Can you stay tonight? Dinner’s going to be ready here in about thirty minutes or so.” She turns and looks at me and points at the couch. “Scratch that. It’s not a question. Don’t leave. This conversation is far from over.”

I stretch out against the pillows and fight the urge to run. The last thing I really want to experience is stable domesticity—even though I know it’s what I crave. One of the hardest things for me to see is a family loving each other, knowing my own family waits at home for me—battered and hoarding a shed of secrets.

Emma walks back in the room and baby Benjamin giggles at the sight of me. My heart melts and against my better judgment, I decide to stay. I may get panicky at the sight of a close-knit family, but I can’t ever turn down the sweetness of this little boy. I smile at Emma and reach for Benjamin.

“You’re evil, you know that? Pure evil. And your timing is impeccable.”

Emma chuckles and passes her son off to me and turns toward the kitchen. Calling over her shoulder, she says, “Is it really my timing or are you just absolutely predictable?”

I threw a pillow at her and miss her by mere centimeters.
Dang it.

“Watch out for the candles!” She hollers as she leaves.

I glance at Benjamin, staring at me with big, brown eyes. Grabbing his bottle from the nearby table I sigh. “How does she know, Benjamin? How does she always
know?”

He shrieks at the sight of the bottle and reaches for it. For a brief moment, I wonder if my parents ever felt for me what I feel right at this moment. I want to protect him at all cost. My eyes began to mist over as I wonder what could have happened had my life been this stable.

Emma returns and kisses the top of my head. “You’re beautiful. Your heart for others is hopeful and pure and trusting. No matter what anyone else has told you, you are worth much to this family and even though you may not have a home with your mom and dad, you have a home here.”

I let the tears flow freely now. Leaning against her shoulder, with Benjamin in my lap, I let myself rest for the first time in days. For a few minutes, I forget about the nightmare of the past twenty-four hours and dream of a future filled with safety and love. For a few minutes, I imagine what it would be like to have a home and a family who loved me and cared for me and wanted the best for me. I imagine what it would feel like to be protected at all costs.

And for a brief moment of time, I actually believe what Emma said.

I am worth something.

Emma just sits. Quiet. Letting me grieve and begin to heal. Finally, she glances at me and reaches for Benjamin. He starts to cry and immediately she starts to soothe him by rocking him back and forth and making soft noises. He takes to singing himself to sleep and she smiles.

“Do you remember that one time in class last year when we did the line activity?”

“Um yeah. It’s actually something I would rather forget.” I laugh and shrug my shoulders as I wipe the tears from my cheeks, “Wasn’t the most shining moment in my history of self-confidence.”

“Do you remember what you said that day?”

I sigh and glare at her. I know there’s a reason she’s talking about this, but I’m not ready for self-evaluation. Not yet. But the thoughts come anyway. “What are you trying to get at, Emma? I remember that day. I remember what I said. I remember not believing in myself. How can I forget? I used to have razors stashed in the side pocket of my backpack just in case I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore. Why are we bringing this up again?”

I can’t help it; the anger is always there, waiting for me to tap into it. I love Emma to death, but sometimes her probing frightens me. And this? This memory? It’s something I try to forget - it reminds me of a darker time before I met Kevin. One without hope.

I would never tell her this, but that was the day I had finally decided to end it all. I was through—