“She always apologized, and she’d cry and rock me in her arms. But for two or three days at a time, I’d be hungry, scared, thirsty... The worst was the last time she did it to me. Eight days. I was dirty and had to use the corner of the closet as a makeshift bathroom. She slid some water and food through the door. If she hadn’t been lucid enough to do that, I would have probably died. Then she made me clean up my mess in there when she finally let me out. I hated her. I hated her so much.”
He chokes back a sob and turns away from me, but he keeps holding my hand. I never imagined this, and my heart is breaking. I want to say the right thing right now, but I have no idea what that is.
After a moment of recomposing himself, he clears his throat and continues.
“She’d say she loved me, and I fucking hated to be loved if that’s what it meant. My father would tell me he loved me, and I fucking hated him for his love if he was willing to leave me alone with her. And she’d cry and tell me that she loved him, that she missed him. That was usually what her bad days were like. She didn’t always lock me up. Those were just the worst times.
“Usually she’d stay in her bed for days at a time. The covers would stay over her head. She never hit me, or yelled at me, or even threatened me. It was always a calm process when she hid me away. It was only wild and out of control when she’d hurt herself. She hurt herself a lot more than she ever hurt me. And she always lied about how it happened.
“I kept her secrets. She’d always beg me to keep her secrets, and I did. But I honestly thought everyone else saw it. She’d scream and yell at my father. Once she even went after him with a knife. He called her crazy, but he didn’t realize she was actually mentally ill and needed help. With a case as severe as hers... She needed a lot of help. And medicine. And supervision.”
I can’t help it when my sob escapes. I try to stop it, but it just comes out again. All I can see is a terrified child version of Rye huddled in a corner with no one coming to rescue him. His hand tightens on mine, and I quieten down quickly, trying not to make him feel that urge to console me. I want to be here for him right now; I just wish I knew how.
“How did you deal with that?” I ask quietly when the silence begins to weigh too heavily in the air. “Why didn’t your dad do something?”
“He didn’t know how bad things were, and I didn’t deal with it. Not in a healthy way. I didn’t speak for six months after she died. He took me to the best psychologist he could find. He gave up traveling and started working from home, and he hired nannies that almost forced food down my throat when I wouldn’t eat. For six months I was numb. On the seventh month... I grew angry. And I stayed angry.
“When I finally broke and told the shrink what all had happened to me, my dad turned pale for three straight days. I didn’t cry when I relived the memories. I didn’t break when I told them the horror stories they didn’t know existed. I was just angry.”
He looks down to our joined hands for a moment, and then his eyes stroll back across the grave.
“That closet is no longer in his house. He tried to make up for it, but he blamed himself as much as I blamed him.” He says it so quietly that I almost think that part wasn’t meant to be heard.
“I started getting into fights—all the time. Twice I was sent to detention centers for more than two months at a time. By the time I was sixteen, I was out of control. Alcohol was my best friend, and I toyed with drugs. I just wanted to escape the anger that had consumed me. And nothing was working.
“Dad almost sent me to military school just because he didn’t know what else to do. But Ethan’s parents convinced my dad to let me stay with them for a while, and things changed. I was still angry, but I wasn’t in that house. I wasn’t trapped with those memories staring me in the face. And I didn’t have to see my father every day. It made a difference.”
I wish I could just hold him right now. I want to be somewhere safe and warm and holding him.
“I eventually learned to live with the anger and even channel it. I actually have better control of my temper than anyone I know because of how long I’ve dealt with all that rage. It’s damn near impossible to set me off. Or it was.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, and I don’t want to interrupt him to ask.
“It’s always kept me detached,” he says softly, squeezing my hand again. “From everyone. Everything. I keep everyone just close enough to push them away. But you...”
He pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head, forcing our fronts to push together. I don’t waste any time in reciprocating the embrace.