She’s my mother, and I hate her, but I love her too, somewhere deep inside where that four-year-old girl lives. I wish I could just hate her because that would be so much easier.
I open the door, still not sure if I can trust her or not. I want to believe what she’s telling me, but she’s let me down every single day of my life, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she called Dornan as soon as I left the room.
“You’re my mother,” I say, my words coming out in a harsher tone than I’d intended. “You’re my mother, and I forgive you for the past. But I’m going to kill Dornan, and if you try to stop me, I’ll kill you, too.”
She nods in understanding. She looks relieved.
“Wait,” she says, holding up a shaky palm. “Jason told me about the baby. I’m so sorry, Julie. I’m so very sorry. For all of it.”
She’s not just apologizing for the baby. She’s apologizing for everything.
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth dry. “You and me both.”
After the brief but jarring experience of seeing my mother, we drive home in complete silence. Jase steals glances at me every now and then, but mostly, he stares at the road and holds the wheel with a white-knuckled grip.
“You okay?” I ask him, touching his arm. I give silent thanks when he doesn’t flinch at my touch. After the things I’ve done and the way I’ve been acting, I wouldn’t blame him.
He nods. “I didn’t know if I should take you there,” he says, his jaw clenched tightly between sentences. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
I squeeze his arm. “You did the right thing.” I needed to see that. To see her. I can never become like her. I will die first.
I’m staring out of the window when I see out of the corner of my eye, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s squeezing so tightly, his knuckles are white and trembling.
He sees me looking and relaxes slightly, but I can tell he’s still wound up. I’m nervous again, as I watch his fists, as I try not to panic.
“Jase?” I ask quietly. He shakes his head angrily. I look at his face and my heart sinks. His eyes are red and his jaw grinding soundlessly. He is a tortured man.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he explodes, slamming a hand into the steering wheel. “You should have fucking told me what he did.”
I put a hand to my head, letting it rest there a moment as I close my eyes. I’m so tired. So worn out. So worn down with the burden of it all.
“I was scared,” I whisper.
“Of me?” he demands. He’s yelling, but I don’t shrink away, because I deserve it. I’ve been waiting for this for eleven days, since the moment I realized our baby’s heart had stopped.
I welcome his anger. It’s more fitting than his love.
“Of everything,” I say thickly. “I thought you would leave me.”
He growls in the back of his throat, slamming his hand against the steering wheel over and over again. I start crying again, watching his anguish finally unleash.
“I would never leave you!” he roars. He stops hitting the wheel and squeezes it again. “Don’t you get it? You’re like a miracle! You survived death. I thought you were dead for six fucking years! Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Do you think anything you could ever do would stop me from loving you?”
My mouth is open slightly, in shock. I’m crying and I’m pretty sure under the manly bravado he’s crying, too. We are a mess.
“What will it take, Julz? For you to believe me?”
I blink tears out of my eyes. “It’s just – I saw the way my father hated my mother. How he wanted to take me away from her. And now I’m just like her. I’m just like her. Why are you still here with me?”
“Juliette,” Jase says, reaching over and taking my hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. “You are good. You are a beautiful person and I love you. You are not your mother.”
I lose it. I dissolve into a pile of tears, refusing to let go of his hand as we continue to drive.
You are not your mother.
I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
***
It’s afternoon by the time we finally make it home. I’m walking into the kitchen when I hear the sound, the vibration of a cellphone against a hard surface. Fuck. Elliot! I rush to the dining table in time to see the phone has just stopped ringing, its screen still lit up in reminder.
Seventeen missed calls. What the hell? Jase stands on the other side of the table and tilts his head to read the screen, raising his eyebrows at me.
It’s my burner phone. Disposable, purchased by Elliot, given to me the day he left just in case. And now it is ringing again, call number eighteen as it rests on the table between Jase and me.