“Was this the first time Mr. Fletcher put his hands on you?”
“No,” my voice whispers out. My eyes go to Brenda. Her eyes fill with tears, but her hand is squeezing mine tighter.
It is one thing to know what they think of you; it is another thing to actually admit it to them.
“Has Mr. Fletcher ever harmed his child?”
“He never touched her. He did lock her in a closet once and only once. I left the day after.” I hang my head down in shame.
I let this happen to my daughter. I let him do that to her because I didn’t leave at the beginning.
“Would you be willing to file for a protective order against Mr. Fletcher? It will help in the future if he ever comes back. Now it’ll be on paper that he isn’t allowed near you,”
Chris says, waiting for my answer.
“I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign.” I look at him, then at Brenda. “I’m not the victim no more.”
“No, sweetheart, you aren’t,” Brenda says.
All this is too much for me. I’m so tired. I lay my head back on the pillow, just thinking I’m going to rest my eyes.
Till the blackness comes and takes me again, but this time I can fight it and open my eyes but only for a minute before Brenda tells me she is going to take Lilah home so I can rest, and she’ll be back tomorrow.
I feel Lilah kiss my hand then hear the door close. I don’t know if it’s a dream or not, but I feel a hand holding mine.
My hand turns over and a kiss is placed right on the inside of my wrist.
When I open my eyes, darkness has taken over and the room is empty. It was a dream, all a dream.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jackson
It’s been a week since I sat by her bed. Actually, that is a lie. Every night I go in there when I know she’s sleeping to hold her hand. To touch her, to whisper to her, to see her healing.
The nurses have been good with not telling her about my nightly visits. Mick has been calling me a stalker. I don’t give a shit as long as I can sit with her.
Her bruises have faded, the swelling is down. The stitch in her lip has been removed. The cast is supposed to come off in another month. But she is set to go home tomorrow.
She is going home where I won’t be able to touch her every night.
During the day I sit outside with whoever is on duty, only leaving to bring Lilah home or to take her to eat.
I’m flipping through the newspaper when my cell rings. Seeing my mother’s name on the screen makes me groan.
We haven’t seen each other since that day in Bella’s room.
“Hello.”
“Jackson, honey, how are you?”
“I’m good, Mom, what can I do for you?”
“How is Bella, how is Lilah?”
“She is getting better, but she isn’t talking to me, so I haven’t seen her, but I heard she looks better.”
“Jackson, why don’t you come over for lunch? I can whip something up real fast.”
“I don’t know, Mom, I don’t want to leave her ju—”
“She’ll be fine. Come on, sweetheart.”
Looking up, I know this is a showdown that has to happen.
“Fine, Mom, but I only have about thirty minutes.”
I leave my chair in the hallway, letting the nurses’ station know I’m leaving for thirty minutes and if there is anything to call me.
They just smile and nod. I’m wondering if they have a bet going on for the sappy dude sitting in the hall.
Making my way over to my mother’s, I think about how hard it will be not to see Bella. To not be able to touch her. I don’t even want to think about it.
Pulling up into my childhood home, I notice it looks the same. Just new flowers have been planted.
Walking up the stairs to the door, I open it without knocking like I always do.
The living room is in disarray; there are photo albums everywhere.
Photo albums of my childhood, photo albums of Adam’s childhood.
I walk over, picking up the album that is open to the last photo Adam ever took with us. Three weeks before he went missing.
You wouldn’t know from seeing the picture of us laughing on the front lawn with Mom in the background. It was the family BBQ and someone had just said I was pumping so much muscle I would soon blow up like the Pillsbury dough boy. Adam thought it was hilarious and poked me in the stomach, asking me to “ho ho ho.”
My mother must have heard me come in because she walks in, wiping her hands onher apron.
“What is all this?” I look around. Every single picture Adam ever took is in this room.
“Jackson, he is my son. I can’t turn my back on him.”
I throw the book against the wall. “He beat her.” I don’t stop or sugarcoat this shit. “He fucking beat her and watched as his dealer raped her while he got high. He stood there and watched.” The tears stream down her face, her hand in front of her mouth.