“You know I’ll keep you safe. You know I care about you, don’t you?” With his question spoken, his eyes peer into mine and he pulls back.
He pulls back in that way that makes me want to move closer to him.
“I do.” I really, really do. “You know I’d do the same, right?” I ask him.
“You don’t have to, though.”
It’s a sad smile that plays quietly on my lips. That’s the only response I can give him.
Delilah
The numbers on the digital display climb and climb while the smell of gasoline lingers. The wet spots on the cracked asphalt prove whoever was at pump three before me left droplets right where I’m standing.
Leaning against my car, I glance up at the lone vehicle that drives down the small-town road this gas station resides on and then check my phone again. It’s an old town and just across the street are houses long overdue for renovations. I couldn’t imagine living there. Maybe a long time ago it wasn’t like it is now. Some other time a lifetime ago.
With a deep inhale, I turn my attention back to my own problems and my own life. Or rather my cell phone.
Two messages. Two different numbers. Two very different men.
Marcus: You haven’t told Cody about it. But you also haven’t messaged me.
For a woman with such a curious mind … I expected you would message me.
Cody: Call me when you get there. I need you to keep me updated.
Both men have expectations. Yet I have no idea what I can truly expect from either of them. Cody swears he has a lead on a case that’ll put him only twenty minutes from the hotel I stay at when I visit home. He lies. He lies to me shamelessly and now that I know that, I see him so differently.
Marcus sent a small bouquet of pink roses before I left. I thought of bringing them along to give to my sister or mother, just to get them out of the house. There was no note, no name, just a small bouquet of the palest pink roses. Their stems were cut down to only six inches or so and the half dozen sat in a square glass vase. I left them there, though, on the kitchen island where the last bouquet sat.
Two men. Twice as many expectations.
I leave both messages alone, not texting either of them back.
After less than a minute passes, my phone buzzes with another text. The nervous butterflies in my stomach settle when I glance down and see it’s only my sister, telling me to drive to our mom’s instead of her place and that she’ll be there a bit later. She had an emergency session come up.
It’s easy to respond to her. Although if my life were any semblance of normal, maybe I’d feel the anxiety of my previous visit.
The memories of the bruises flash back, complete with my mother’s smile. The accusations. The uncomfortable moment with my father. Mom said my father won’t be here, though; he’s headed out of town for a convention tonight.
I’ll add that to a list of things to be grateful for. At the very least I don’t have to look into my father’s eyes and wonder if he hits my mother.
With a clunk, the gas pump halts and the wind blows a colder air from the roaming hills and mountains off the highway. Goosebumps travel down my blouse and my gaze instantly moves to the back seat where my luggage rests and my coat remains draped over it. The cream sweater wrapped around my shoulders is made from crocheted yarn and the bitter air easily moves through the holes.
It’s fine, I tell myself, ignoring this nagging feeling in my gut. Everything is fine for now.
It’s only when I’m seated back in my car, with the ding, ding, ding from my keys resting in the ignition driving my irritation higher, that I read the texts again.
I turn on the car if for no other reason than to stop the incessant dinging. Both messages came within two minutes of each other, both as I veered off of the highway and onto these less traveled but somehow more worn paths. It must’ve been an hour after I left. Cody’s first and then Marcus’s.
To Cody I respond: Just stopped for gas; I’ll be there in two hours and text you then.
A text, not a call. I realize there’s a difference, but given that I’m going straight to my mother’s and not the hotel, he can deal. Even if things hadn’t changed between us, I still wouldn’t call him when I got to my mother’s. Calls are for emergencies and a text will do just fine. A churning in my gut refutes that statement, knowing I’d be pushing Cody away and not liking it in the least.
To Marcus, I fail to come up with a suitable response. He fed me information and all it did was prompt me to rattle off more questions. So I ask him, If I had more questions, would you answer?
Both men respond in the same way the initial messages arrived, one after the other, Cody’s being first.
I’ll talk to you soon. The response from Cody is exactly what I expected.
The exact same response from Marcus does nothing but give me chills: I’ll talk to you soon.
With a shiver running down the length of my neck and trailing over my shoulders, I turn up the heat and head back onto the road.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is only a distraction and things are going to get worse. I’m only hiding.
I’m grateful to be hiding, though, and with every mile I get closer to my mother’s, I find myself watching the clock and wishing I were home.
For the first time, it’s not my mother and sister who need me, I realize, it’s me who needs them.
With hours to pass on my way up to my hometown and the radio playing, but my unwilling mind not listening, tiny memories come back to me. They seemed so insignificant, these little blips that didn’t really matter when I was younger. But as I sit in the car, turning the heater on and off nearly as much as I shift in my seat, my critical eye taints the sweet memories.
One in particular never made sense.
Mom was sobbing when we got home from a trip that she didn’t come on with us.
I can still hear her wretched cry of relief when we walked into the living room.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” Cadence asked as I stood there in shock, a small doll hanging from my right hand. The floral backpack Cady wore had the gifts we brought back for Mommy. We were so excited to give them to her. All three of us, Daddy included.
Never in my little mind did I expect to come home to my mother crying on the floor of the living room.
“My babies,” my mother cried out and swept Cady into a tight hug. I stayed back watching her sway; I’m sure my expression mirrored Cadence’s shock. “Where were you?” She heaved in a breath at the same time the question ran away from her.
“We were good, so Daddy took us on a trip.”
“A trip?”
“Of course, Mommy.” My father’s voice was far too upbeat at the sight of my mother crying and distraught. Didn’t he see she was scared? He stood behind me in the kitchen, his large hands resting on my shoulders. “Silly Mommy,” he joked. “We’re home,” he said and beamed with a bright smile. It was odd, everything about the moment. Maybe that’s why I remember it so well.
“I got you taffy, Mommy,” I offered and my mother gripped me in the tightest hug, holding on to me and squeezing too tight. I didn’t understand what was wrong with her. Our father said she was just being silly. Back then I felt awful, though, since she’d obviously wanted to come with us. That’s what I thought.