For You (25 page)

This guy wasn't Damion, because his eyes were set too close together, but a part of me still felt his presence, as though I was being watched, and the real Damion was nearby in the shadows.

Damion's betrayal wasn't like a regular memory, that faded with time, but like a hot fire poker jabbing into me.

We had sex in my little unheated bedroom the first time, and then the second time. He kept coming by when my mother and Derek were out, and after seven times, I lost count and it just became a regular weekend thing. This went on for over a year, and we did all of the things I'd heard about from people at school or seen in movies.

Apart from that first time, he never hurt me.

I knew some girls who'd been raped by family members and they said they were ashamed, even though it wasn't their fault.

My shameful secret was that I enjoyed having sex with Damion. I looked forward to his visits. I never asked him to make it official and have an actual relationship that people knew about, because I didn't want to scare him away. Sex was just something we did, and pretended we didn't.

Even though he was my mother's boyfriend's son, he wasn't my brother. He was six years older than me, and had never lived with us, or even in the trailer. He'd barely even known his father until he was twenty.

Sometimes, though, he'd come over for dinner and we'd all sit together, and he'd tease me the way I imagined brothers did. I'd look over and imagine him naked, on top of me, saying those dirty things to me that he loved to say, and I'd feel so hot and so guilty.

What scared me was not knowing how it was going to end. I was pretty sure he'd get a girlfriend and stop coming over. Then one weekend he brought a girl by for dinner to meet his father. He'd been seeing her for months, and I never knew.

Later that night he came back, on his own. I hadn't been expecting him, since my mother and Derek were home and sleeping just down the hall. Plus I'd met his girlfriend.

I woke up with him lying on top of me, grinning down at me in the dark.

And then, without a word from either of us, we fucked. Just like that. And I'm not gonna lie. It was really good.

Ever since then, half the time when I had a really bad nightmare, that was it. Me waking up with Damion on top of me, and then us fucking, even though I knew it was wrong and dirty.

I wished I'd had the sense to end whatever we had, but his father, Derek, was the one who put out the fire.

At first, Derek made a few comments around the house that made me suspicious. I thought maybe he'd been reading my secret diary—not the dummy one, but the one hidden in the ceiling.

Then he got the new tattoo.

My mother always pretended to hate Derek's tattoos. She said they were creepy and satanic, but I'd seen her staring at the red and black swirls on his forearms like she was in love with the tattoos themselves.

In amidst the flames on his arms, Derek had images of naked women of all types. There was a red devil girl with horns, and a pin-up girl posing on a chair, her hair on fire. The new tattoo he got was different. Brighter. All blue tones and a light ink that was close to white. The new tattoo was an angel, with her halo held in one hand, and her knee in the other hand, spreading her legs wide open to show her white panties.

Not long after he got the tattoo, Derek and I were alone in the house together, because my mother was visiting a friend of hers. We were sitting on the same couch, at either end, and he had pulled the plastic wrap and tape off his arm to show me his newest tattoo.

The angel on Derek's forearm was vivid, shiny and slick under a coating of Polysporin.

“Awesome,” I said, my voice snarling with sarcasm.

“You love my tattoos.”

“You're gross.”

“Hey, Aubrey, wanna know a secret?”

I was trying to watch the TV, but he wouldn't let up, so finally I said, “What?”

“That's you,” Derek said. “Spreading your legs for my son.”

“Fuck you.” I turned back to the TV and pretended I wasn't bothered by what he'd said.

He laughed and muttered something under his breath. I heard “sweet sixteen” and “virgin.”

Though my heart was pounding, I stayed right there on the couch and pretended nothing was wrong. I wasn't going to let him get to me. I wanted to pick up the nearest thing and smash it into his stupid face, but I just sat there, quietly pretending to watch the TV.

He went to the kitchen to get another drink, and he called out to me, as if we were buddies, asking if I wanted a beer or something else.

I wanted to yell and scream at him to
die, just die
, but instead I called back, “No thanks! I've got my Diet Coke and I'm fine.”

For the last two weeks, Damion hadn't been coming to visit me. About a month earlier, Derek had started looking at me funny, like he knew. I'd asked Damion, who swore he'd never said a word, even though the two of them hung out all the time. Damion even looked me right in the eyes, but it was like he was looking through me, to the back of my head, and I knew he was lying.

I hated Damion for using me, and I hated Derek for making me feel worthless. I hated them both, and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.

Someone was talking to me.

He repeated himself, saying something about darts.

The man seated at the bar was not Damion. I drifted back to reality, and I knew it was real because everything was so heavy. My head was heavy, and I was so tired. And cold.

“There's no space for darts,” he said.

The man with the dark hair stared at me with his dark eyes. His mouth didn't have a cruel edge now that he was talking.

I wasn't back at that trailer. I was free of that old life and all the hate, in my new life now.

The man looked at me like I was a real idiot.

“Um. No, sir, we don't have darts,” I said.

“What's your name, little darlin'?”

I held up my left hand, flashing the gold band his way. I hadn't worn the ring when I was out with Sawyer, but I didn't forget to wear it to work.

“My name's Mrs. Braun,” I said.

He chuckled. “Well, sheeee-it.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Ain't life a big steamin' bowl of too-bad. I hope he treats you right.”

My phone buzzed with another message from Sawyer. When I looked at my phone, it kept getting blurry from the tears that threatened to fall out of my eyes. I couldn't understand why I felt so overwhelmed.

For the rest of my shift, I was constantly falling behind and missing things, but Lana was an incredible partner. She seemed to know exactly what I needed, which was space and time to breathe.

She suggested I go take a break outside and bum a smoke.

I nodded and went out. The first puff made me cough, and burned more than I remembered. By the end of the cigarette, I had that nausea cigarettes always gave me. I used to love that feeling, because it was at least something, and kept the hunger pangs at bay. Tonight, it made me glad I'd quit smoking.

But I did feel better.

I went back in, just as we were getting busy. Busy was perfect, because it fattened up our tips and made the time fly by.

Back at the apartment after my shift ended, I found my grandmother snoring on the couch. Bell sat next to her, transfixed by the TV. It was past nine, and Bell should have been in bed hours ago, but they did look awfully cute.

In her relaxed state, my grandmother seemed smaller, not much bigger than Bell. Her white-streaked dark hair fell back from her temples in soft curls, and with her head tipped up against the back of the sofa, the lines of her face disappeared. She reminded me of my mother, only I knew she was just napping, not passed out from one of her gin and lemonade parties.

I whispered to Bell, “Has she been asleep for long?”

Without getting up or moving, my grandmother muttered, “Just resting my eyes.”

“So, you weren't having a little nap there?”

“Tea,” she said, her eyes fluttering open. She wiggled the tip of her nose and sniffed, sounding congested. The skin around her nostrils and upper lip was red and chafed from her cold, and as she sat up, the creases returned around her mouth.

“You sure you don't want to get home and to bed?”

“Brew us a cup of tea and tell me about your day. Everyone who has a day at work should have someone to tell about it.”

I couldn't argue with that, so I put on the kettle, and we made some tea. She'd tidied all the dishes after dinner, and the kitchen looked cleaner than it had been in days.

Bell insisted on having some tea as well, though hers was mostly milk and sugar, served in her tiny cup.

I made her change into her pajamas, and we set her up on the couch with all her blankets. I didn't want to start a bad habit, but I had a feeling she'd be asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She fought sleep valiantly, her eyes wide open and staring at the tiny television set. We didn't have a cable package, but there were four or five local channels, and Bell enjoyed watching each for five minutes and then changing channels.

My grandmother and I sat at the table, and I was struck by how
normal
everything felt in that moment. We were just family, discussing our day, like people do.

The conversation shifted away from how things were at her son's bar, to areas I was less comfortable talking about.

Quietly, she asked, “Do you think she believes you?”

We both turned to look at Bell. The kid had a remarkable ability for knowing when she was being spoken about, but this time the television provided cover.

My grandmother restated her question. “Does she remember your mother?”

“She calls her Pretend Mother, and she asks about her sometimes.”

“What if she comes back? Someone knocked on the door at the house the other day, when I wasn't expecting anyone.”

My pulse surged in my throat, my skin tingling. “Oh my god.”

She waved her hand. “No, no, it was just someone wanting to clean the carpets.”

We both took a deep breath at the same time.

Bell had been so young when we ran away. The first time I told her I was her mother, she was more interested in the dogs at the park than in what I was saying. I kept repeating it to her, though, because I trusted that repetition would make it true.

Bell agreed, finally, that I was her mother. When asked by strangers how old she was, she would say, “I'm five, and Aubrey is my mommy.”

Strangers thought it was adorable she called me by my first name. I finally got her to call me Mom around people, but only about half the time.

One day, I would tell her everything about our past, but that day was years away. Would she hate me? My grandmother thought I did the right thing, and only chided me about not coming to them sooner. Of course I would have, if I hadn't been lied to my whole life, and knew they wanted us. My grandmother and I were united by our anger for the woman between us.

We sat there drinking our tea, not having to say what we were feeling for the other to know.

“I forgive her,” my grandmother said, everything about her softening in that moment, from her salt-and-pepper hair to the lines around her mouth.

I tilted my head from side to side, my back suddenly sore. She wanted me to say I forgave my mother. Looking into her gray-blue eyes, I found a wealth of love, but I didn't feel as generous.

I reached out and placed my hand on hers. “She doesn't deserve it.” The words sounded more cruel out loud than they had in my head.

“You're young, and you hang on to your pain. When you get old like me, and your body doesn't work like it used to, you decide you have enough pain, and you let those old wounds go. You don't want to become a sinking boat, throwing stuff over the side just so you can stay afloat.”

“She took my childhood. I had to take care of
her
, you know? When it was just the two of us, I'd have to beg her to buy groceries. I can't remember a time I felt safe and content.”

Those gray-blue eyes didn't stray from my face. “Do you feel safe and content now?” She turned over her hand beneath mine, squeezed my fingers, and offered a smile.

“I'm scared. I'm scared all the time, and I don't know how to be normal.”

“Open you eyes and look around. Do what other people do. It's not so hard.”

I looked down at my tea in the stained cup.
Do what other people do.
I really appreciated the fact she hadn't tried to argue with me, to insist there was no such thing as
normal
. Of course there's such a thing, or we wouldn't have a word for it.

Plenty of people know damn well they're normal; it's only the most messed-up people who insist there's no such thing. They figure if they can't be
normal
, nobody can.