The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (27 page)

The weekend hits and for the first time, I don’t feel so desolate about spending two whole days by myself, without Zeke’s company. When he asks me if I’ll be all right, just before he leaves on Friday afternoon, I reply after a moment that I will be, and for one of the first times, I’m not lying. I feel I can handle it, and I feel good when I see the relief in Zeke’s face that he believes me too.

When I go to bed in the basement that weekend, I decide it’s finally time to get a new bed and work on making my own room more livable, which also leads to the thought that I need to call Uncle Greg and get the exact details of what my dad left for me, and how I go about handling all of it. I know it’s a lot of money, lots of stocks and bank accounts and trusts and loopholes and rules, and I don’t even want to begin to think about what it means that I have controlling interest in his business, and it all gives me a headache. But I know that sooner or later I have to man up, grow up, and learn how to do it, even though finances are last on my list of interests.

Still, when I wake up the next morning, I dutifully call Uncle Greg and make dinner plans with him, feeling guilty at the concerned, and then overjoyed tone of his voice. I should have called him earlier and at least let him know that I was doing okay, even though I’m thankful he let me have my space. For the first time, I also realize that even though I felt so alone, between Zeke, my dad, and Uncle Greg, I had more support than I needed. I just didn’t know how to take advantage of it.

I hang up the phone and make my way upstairs, and as I pass Clarissa’s room again, I remember that I need to talk to Uncle Greg about her as well. I make a face at her door, wishing she could hold herself together. But then, I realize with a flash of guilt, I don’t really have room to talk. I have Zeke, at least, and I realize that I haven’t seen Hunter for weeks. Some part of Clarissa had undoubtedly loved my dad, and she lost him, just the same as I did. And she’s been going through it alone.

I guess I can’t really blame her for drinking, but I’m also obligated to try and help her. Later, I promise. I would talk to Uncle Greg about it tonight, and have him help me, since I know Clarissa won’t be receptive to my lone efforts. I continue on down the hallway and then stop before the door of my old bedroom, taking a deep breath before I push it open.

The huge pile of
stuff
, mostly books, is still in the middle of the room on the floor, things that I couldn’t just throw out. My books, a few journals, accessory-type clothes like scarves and old purses that were in the drawers of my nightstands. I need to clean it all up, get everything out of here so I don’t have to come back into this room. Its ghosts are finally laid to rest, but it will never be a place I venture to in this house.

I start with my books, carrying them armful by armful into my office, which I have plans to also embellish and outfit more thoroughly, since I want to keep my room solely as a haven, a safe retreat. Then I fold and organize the scarves and purses and hats that are left on the floor, sorting them into neat piles before I survey the closet of my new room.

It’s a walk-in, bigger than my old one. It’s bare, however, just a few wire shelves and I decide I’ll have to buy some stuff to organize it. In the meantime, I can move most of my hanging clothes in and lay the rest on the floor so I don’t have to go into my old room to get dressed anymore.

I return to the old closet and pull a handful of hangers off the rack and begin to cross the room, reflecting that I should grab my phone and put on some music while I work. I’m distracted, however, by the sight of green satin peeking out from the middle of the pile. I pause in the middle of the room and juggle everything until I can pull it out, and then I hold the dress up and stare at it. Emerald satin, a pretty, strapless dress that I always liked because it made my unusual purple eyes pop and my hair look like rich dark chocolate.

“Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight? Your eyes are stunning with that dress.”

I recoil from the memory, drop the dress and back away from it. The dress was one of Tony’s favorites too, just like the blue one I wore when he beat me almost to death. My previous enjoyment at its prettiness is marred by the memory of being outside of the club, Tony’s hand fisted in my hair as he screams into my face that I’m a slut for daring to look Zeke in the eyes and allow him to touch my hand.

I drop the pile of clothes in my hands and fly back into my closet, flipping through the racks until I find what I’m looking for; the cut-off capris and cozy dark purple knit sweater I was wearing when he punched me in the ribs after I got my toes painted pink. I’m sure the thickness of the sweater is the only thing that kept my ribs from being cracked that day. I come back out with the outfit and toss it on top of the dress.

I cross my arms and stare at them, lying in a heap on the floor. They’re just clothes, they can’t hurt me, and yet the memories are vivid, every single one of them clear as day in my mind. A sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as they play in my head like a movie, and my fingertips tingle.

No
, I tell myself firmly.
You’re not floating away. You don’t need to do that. Just stay here and
deal
with it. Don’t deal with it because of the guilt; deal with it because you need to move on.

They’re brave words, what I know I should be doing, but I don’t want to. I’m feeling dirty again, too big for my own skin and disconnected. My fists clench against the urge to hurt myself, and when I look at the still-healing scars on my arm, the overwhelming urge to sprint downstairs and find a knife slams into me.

“No!” I shout the word, and before I even realize it, I’ve whirled around and sped back into my closet, tearing feverishly through the clothes.

There. A plaid button up shirt I was wearing the very first time Tony slapped me. I yank at it, pulling so hard that I break the plastic hanger, and throw it out behind me on the dress and sweater and continue on. A tennis skirt I wore when Tony pushed me to the ground and kicked me so hard in the thigh that I limped for three days. It flies out behind me, and I keep going. A soft, downy jacket from the time last fall he nearly broke my finger, sweatpants he said made me look like a cow, a jean skirt that sent him into a blind rage because he said it was too short and made me look like a hooker, the sweater set I was wearing the first time he threatened to take his own life if I left him, and finally, the crowning glory.

I slowly pull the black sundress from the closet, my hands shaking almost uncontrollably. I remember that day so clearly; curling my hair with rollers in Tony’s favorite style, putting on this dress with the flattering cut on my small frame, reasoning that since I would only see him, it was okay to wear something more revealing than I might have if we were going out in public. Driving to his house to spend the night because his parents were out of town, and I couldn’t think of an excuse to get out of it.

Stepping out of the car, walking up the steps to his big house and seeing him there standing in the doorway. Later that night, when he started kissing me, slipping a strap of my dress over my shoulder.
I love you in this dress, Evie. But I want you to take it off. Please, do it for me?
My own protests that I didn’t want to, that I didn’t want
that
kind of sleepover. The light in Tony’s eyes at my refusal, and then the feeling as he grabbed my wrists and held me captive, helpless to stop him because he was bigger and stronger than I was.

The way I’d bucked and fought as he maneuvered me upstairs and finally halfway out of my dress. The burning sensation in my throat as I’d screamed, and finally the burning sensation inside me as he’d ripped me apart from the inside out. And those awful moments in the bathroom afterward, when he’d finally let me go, the first time I’d been unable to wash away the dirtiness.

I slowly walk out of the closet and lay the sundress on top of the pile, which is huge. I stare at it all, feeling dirtier than ever, as though the dirtiness inside me is seeping out of my pores, pouring out of me and coating my skin, finally visible on the outside. I want to go and try to scrub it off. I want to go and find a knife, cut myself open and let it all out, let the dirty feeling pour out of me through my own blood, bleed and bleed until there is nothing left inside me and it’s impossible for me to feel dirty at all.

“It will come back,” I say aloud to myself, clenching my fists but making sure my nails aren’t digging into my palms. I’m trembling with the effort of staying still, of not dashing toward the bathroom, toward a sink and soap and even a cheap plastic razor. “It will just come back. It
won’t
help you, Evie. It won’t. You know.”

But I
want
to!
The dark part of my mind cries out.
It might be a quick, cheap fix, but you’ve been doing so well! It won’t hurt to sink back in, just this one time. It’s all too much. You need a small break. You know this works, even for a little while.

“No!” I shout again, stamping my foot down on the floor. I don’t want to sink back into it. I don’t want to fail Zeke. Someone is actually rooting for me, wanting me to get better, and I don’t want to face the disappointment in his eyes if he sees that I’ve relapsed, that I couldn’t even handle two days without him to help keep me sane and grounded.

Distraction. Anger. I need to do
something
, or I’ll sink into it. But what can I do? I look down at the clothes at my feet, and make a split second decision. I flee the room, thundering down the stairs and not even caring if I bother Clarissa. I skid into the kitchen and have to exercise every fiber of discipline not to pause when I pass the drawer that I know holds knives. But I manage. I defeat the urge and root around under the sink until I find two big black trash bags, and then I run back upstairs.

Carelessly and frantically, I stuff all the clothes into the bags, filling them until they’re bulging and then fighting to tie the strings closed. All my dirty secrets, all the ugly memories, held back by the thin barrier of plastic. Then it’s back downstairs once again, dragging the bulky, ungainly bags along behind me. I make it out to the garage and throw the bags into the trunk of my car and then peel out of the driveway.

I’m nervous and jittery the whole drive into downtown Grandview, my legs jiggling uncontrollably, my fingers tapping uneven rhythms on the steering wheel because I can’t stay still. I feel barely connected to the world, my entire focus on those stupid bags in my trunk that I can’t even see. I accidentally run a red light because I’m distracted but thankfully there are no cops or even other cars present. Finally, I’m pulling into the parking lot of the Catholic church across the street from the Caribou Coffee on Grandview Avenue, parking in front of the big, iron clothes donation box that’s been in their parking lot for as long as I can remember.

I get out of the car and fly around to the back, popping the trunk and dragging both the bags out and over to the box. I lift the first one, and then I hesitate, letting it fall to the ground once again. It’s a hatch-style box; once the clothes are in there, I can’t get them back out. There will be no backing out, no remorse, no do-overs.

I look down at the clothes, and then lift up my shaking hands. My body wants me to stop. To take the clothes home, to stop trying to defy Tony, to stop doing things for myself, and satisfy its urges and make it stop freaking out with the one way it knows will work; pain and suffering, the temporary, damaging fix. But my mind, deep inside my heart, knows that it’s just that. Temporary. It will fix the problem, but not the cause. It’s not the path to healing or recovering, only a Band-Aid opposed to a stitch over a wound.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and even though my body is trembling, my arms weak and my mind threatening to float away, even though I feel absolutely filthy and disgusting, I lift the bags, one by one, and drop them into the Goodwill box.

Shuddering all over like an epileptic, I lean against the box, pressing a cheek and palm to it as I whisper in a shaky voice, “May you bring the next wearer more luck than you gave me.”

Even though part of me is screaming to return, to find a way to dig those damn clothes out of the box, that every single piece of Tony’s favorite clothing is trapped in there, I force myself to take uncertain, jagged steps back to my car, get inside, and turn the key in the ignition.

I drive home much more sedately than I drove into Grandview, and as I very slowly come down from my high, I reflect that Zeke is right, yet again. Sometimes the healthy, right thing to do doesn’t feel good. Sometimes it feels like the absolute wrong thing, and that doing it will shatter you into a million pieces. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it, though, just because it’s hard.

In fact, I realize that probably, it just makes it even more worth it in the end. Especially when you look back and realize what you’ve overcome. I park my car in the garage and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep, calming breaths until my body stops shaking and I feel mildly under control.

Then I can’t control a bout of laughter as I realize that I’ve just given away over half of my closet. I exit the car and decide that tonight, after dinner with Uncle Greg, I’m going to the mall. I’m going to get my favorite coffee drink from Starbucks, and shop to my heart’s content.

For myself, for things that
I
like, and no one else. And that decision, at least, feels good and right, and I cling to it as I go back into the house and finish what I started.