Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (12 page)

Autumn props her face in her hands, gazing out over the football field. “Maybe we should confront him directly first.”

“What?”

“Just to see what he says. If he’s called out on it, he could confess, and we can talk him into going to the police.”

I shake my head. “Seems like a bad idea.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But I think if we take this to Callie, she’ll try to talk to him directly. I know her. Rather than subject her to that, I think we should take the step for her. Can we ask Brett? He’s dealt with Aaron before.”

“I d-don’t want to drag him into it.” I avert my gaze. Brett would help in a heartbeat, I know he would. Just like he cornered Aaron that day in the parking lot. That’s part of the problem; his loyalty to me has gotten him in trouble before, and this close to graduation, this close to him getting accepted into a great college…I can’t pull him down into something that might ruin his chances.

No, the person with nothing to lose is me, so— “I’ll do it.”

Autumn frowns and nudges me with her foot. “We’ll do it together. Stop leaving me out of things. I’m tougher than I look, and you’re…well…”

I frown. “I’m
what
?”

Her eyebrows lift and I can tell she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “You’re… Oh, hell, Vic. You’re not a violent guy, let’s face it. I’ve seen you try.”

On some base level, that statement irritates me. But I can’t say she isn’t right, either. I’m not a fighter, nor do I handle confrontation well. Brett was always the one who charged headfirst into things while I trailed along like a silent shadow. So maybe between Autumn and me, we can handle Aaron as a pair.

“A-all right. We’ll talk to him together. But where? How?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I mean, he’s always with his friends at school. Maybe we need to go to his house? If we can get his address.”

“I c-can get it.” When she looks at me curiously I explain, “Office assistant. I can sneak onto the computer to look him up.”

“Nice.” Her gaze flickers to her phone on the bench beside her and it seems to be a solemn reminder of what she has on there, and how difficult this is going to be to keep from Callie. How do you look someone in the eye, knowing the person who hurt her is someone she cared about and trusted?

Chapter Sixteen

Sometime during fourth period, Mom texts to tell me to come home after school. The request leaves me feeling slightly nauseous the rest of the day, even after I have Brett drop me off. Mom never tells me to come straight home unless she has bad news or she’s pissed at me for something. Given that we haven’t spoken since I found out about my dad three nights ago, my sensation of dread is only multiplied.

There’s an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway with Nevada plates, and Brett casts me a curious look, which I can only return with a shrug as I thank him and get out. I watch him roll away down the street and have to fight the urge to chase after him so I’m not trapped here with whatever is waiting for me.

Inside even smells strange. Like floor cleaner and vinegar or something. For that matter, as I step into the living room I notice everything is surprisingly clean. I mean, Mom and I are clean people, but I wouldn’t say we’re spotless. This level of clean doesn’t reflect either of us.

I head for the kitchen where I hear the water going and dishes clinking as they’re being washed. At the sink, Aunt Sue stands with her hair tied back and yellow dish gloves on, hunched over a cake pan and scrubbing it with steel wool. I linger awkwardly in the door. What is she doing here? She hardly ever visits.

Eventually she turns off the water and swipes her arm across her forehead before turning around. Her gaze brightens immediately when she sees me, and she plucks off her wet gloves and discards them on the island countertop. It dawns on me now more than ever how much she looks like Mom. The same slightly frizzy hair texture, the same almond-shaped eyes. Aunt Sue is a little plumper, a little shorter, and she’s never looked as hollow as my mother has.

“Oh, Victor! Look how tall you’ve gotten, you handsome boy.” She crosses the distance between us, cupping my face in her soap-scented damp hands and drawing me down a few inches so that she can plant a kiss on my cheek.

“Hi, Aunt Sue,” I say politely, aware that I wasn’t exactly the nicest to her on the phone when we spoke. “Uh… W-what are you doing here?”

“Can’t I come visit my sister and nephew?” She releases me, still smiling, and ushers me over to take a seat at the dining table. I stare at her because I don’t know how to answer that, and she pulls up a chair beside mine, which says a lot about Aunt Sue because most people would sit across from you to have a conversation, but she likes to be as close as possible, like she has to make sure she hears every word you say. She’s the exact opposite of Mom, who always subconsciously puts anything she can between herself and other people. I wonder if I do that without realizing it.

“It’s just…um, unexp-pected.”

“It was a bit last-minute.” She wipes her hands on the bottom of her summery dress. “But I’ve been trying to talk to your mother and even if she wouldn’t admit it, I thought she could use someone here. For support. For both of you.”

My gaze latches onto my hands folded on the table. “I d-don’t know why. There’s n-nothing to be supportive of now. I was cleared.” More or less. For now.

“I know. She called me when she found out.” Aunt Sue sighs a little and places one of her hands atop both of mine. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t more going on here, dear heart. You finding out about your dad…I’m so sorry. Maybe I should have told you myself instead of you finding out the way you did.”

I study her hand instead. Each neatly filed nail painted a pale pink. Mom paints her nails, too, but then she bites at them when she’s anxious. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”

“She told me you two got into an argument and it just came out. Not the way I’d hoped she would approach it.”

“I s-sort of pushed it until she blurted it out,” I admit guiltily.

“But that’s the thing, you shouldn’t have had to push.” She gives my hands a squeeze. “You’re old enough, and in light of what you’ve been going through it would’ve been helpful information for you to have to understand why this was difficult for her, too.”

She puts into words exactly what I wish I could have articulated to Mom. It wasn’t that I cared about tracking down my dad or whatever, just that I wanted to understand why she hated
me
. Why she didn’t believe I was innocent.

I don’t have a chance to find words for these thoughts. The front door opens and shuts, and a moment later Mom is entering the kitchen with a paper bag in her arms. She treats the sight of Aunt Sue and me casually, as though this is what she comes home to every day.

“I bought stuff to make omelets for dinner,” she announces, placing the groceries on the counter.

Omelets are my favorite. I can’t remember the last time Mom made them for me. As Aunt Sue gets up to help Mom put things away, I stay at the table, fingers wrung together and staring at them anxiously. They didn’t just call me home to have dinner with them. Unless this is Aunt Sue’s attempt at making Mom and me play nice with each other and get over this wall of tension that has built between us.

Yet while they cook and I set the table, Aunt Sue chats to us—at us, really—about her cats and work and other casual things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of what’s going on, but Mom asks the occasional question and makes commentary. I’m too nervous to manage any kind of conversation.

We eat in silence, Mom and me across from each other and Aunt Sue to my left. As I take the first few bites, the flavors of peppers and egg and bacon lure me back to a memory of a birthday years ago.

My tenth, maybe. Or eleventh. I can’t recall. But I do remember Mrs. Mason picking Brett and me up from school and dropping us off at my house. I remember coming inside to find a birthday cake on the dining table and Mom at the stove, flipping omelets and melting cheese over the top. There were a few presents—from Mom, from Aunt Sue, from Brett and his family—stacked beside my cake and I stood there in the doorway, smiling because it felt a little surreal to me. Like…these people cared about me enough to celebrate the day I was born. That my mother loved me enough that she took time off work to come home and bake something just for me, with my name written across it in blue icing.

“Delicious, Victoria,” Sue says appraisingly.

For the sake of trying to get along, of perhaps reaching out to Mom, I smile across the table at her. “It’s really good, Mom. Thanks.”

Mom doesn’t give either of us a response beyond an acknowledging noise, so I don’t attempt to converse anymore. I’ll keep quiet and we’ll eat, and afterward I’ll get up to clear the dishes from the table. On the rare occasion Mom and I have dinner together, that’s sort of the deal. Whoever doesn’t cook, does dishes. It had a lot more weight when I was younger and we ate together almost every night.

“Now that we have full stomachs,” Aunt Sue begins, rising to her feet and patting her belly, “why don’t we go talk in the living room?”

I glance at Mom, who stands and walks wordlessly out of the dining room. Talk about what? What is going on? My mouth is dry. Aunt Sue beckons for me to follow with a smile. She and Mom sit on the couch and I pull up the old recliner to avoid sitting right between them. No one makes a move to turn on the television, which means…we really are here to talk about something.

Aunt Sue looks from me to Mom and back again like she’s expecting one of us to say something. When we don’t, she takes a deep breath and kicks things off for us. “All right. Well, Victor, we’re here to talk about your father.”

I glance at Mom, who has her hands in her lap and is staring at them intently. “I th-thought we already had.”

“Not in the best of ways. And I—we—thought you deserved a little more information.”

Somehow I don’t think this was really Mom’s idea at all. She still hasn’t said anything. Though with Sue and me staring at her, she meets my gaze briefly and then nods to a shoe box I hadn’t noticed sitting on the coffee table. I lean forward to pick it up and draw it into my lap. Slowly, like I’m worried she’ll change her mind and lash out at me.

Inside the box is a collection of things: police reports, greeting cards, newspaper clippings, photographs. I scan over them so quickly that for half a second, I think I’m looking at photos of myself, except—

I pick up one of the pictures. It’s faded and a little worn around the corners, but not in bad shape. I’m staring at my mother seventeen years younger, smiling brightly at the camera with a man standing beside her. A man who looks exactly like me. I’m staring into my own thin mouth and eyes and jawline, sharp features, thick lashes…the same thin, lanky build and curly dark hair. Nondescript but not bad-looking. The only thing different is the color of his eyes. His are dark but mine are bright blue, like Mom’s.

All at once, I want to throw the box aside and run away. How am I supposed to feel? In awe of finally getting a glimpse at my father? Horror that my mother has effectively spent years having to look at my face every day and seeing the person who raped her and left her with a child?

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Mom says quietly, “We met at a bar after a friend’s wedding rehearsal dinner. All the other girls were prettier, and yet your father only seemed interested in me. He was a truck driver, so he was gone a lot, but he would call me from the road every single day just to let me know he was thinking about me.”

I have to put the picture back. It feels too heavy in my hand. I look at Mom to let her know I’m listening, but I don’t say anything.

“We dated for about four months, but we didn’t see each other much because of his work. He could be…incredibly thoughtful and sweet, but he was also a very overbearing man.” Mom plucks fuzz from her shirt, lost in the memories. “We weren’t intimate. I had been raised to think I needed to wait until marriage, and Don was all right with that…for a while.”

Aunt Sue takes Mom’s hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. I have to wonder how much Mom has talked about this over the years, if at all. She’s never gone to therapy as far as I know, and I would think after going through something so traumatic, it would be needed. Sue lets Mom stay quiet this time, and I don’t really need her to say anything more; I can guess where the story goes from here.

“Your mother called me after the fact,” Aunt Sue says. “I drove out and picked her up, brought her home. We filed a police report right away and they arrested him right before he left on his next route.”

Some of the words from the newspaper clippings jump out at me.
Local Trucker Arrested for Rape. Other Crimes
Begin to Surface.
“Th-there were others?”

“Two exes of his stepped forward,” Mom says. “They didn’t have any proof because they waited so long, of course, but their stories did back mine up and help get him a longer sentence.”

“Fifteen years.” If he went to jail around the time I was born, then I was fifteen years old when Don Whitmore was let out of prison. I wonder where he went after that, if he’s still in town, if he’s even alive, if I could find him. And if I could, what the hell would I say to him? “Does he know about me?”

“He was notified during the course of the trial, yes. He tried to write for the first few years, but I never responded.”

I blink back the sudden onslaught of tears filling my eyes. Everything I’m feeling, every wave of emotion that sweeps over me is different. I want to sob and throw something at the same time. “I l-look like him. That’s why you hate me.”

Mom’s head snaps up, her eyes wide and round in shock. “What? Victor, I don’t hate you.”

“She’s your mother, Vic. How could she do anything but love you?”

“That’s a good question.” I toss the box back to the coffee table and stand up, running a hand over my face. “I love you, Mom, and th-there are no words for how sorry I am you went through what you did. But you’ve spent the l-last few years treating me like I’m the one who did s-something wrong, and I don’t forgive you for that.”

Her jaw tenses, lower lip quivering briefly. “Victor—”

“I don’t want excuses. I just…just don’t.” The tears are coming freely now and I feel like the world’s biggest baby because of it. Everyone else is going through so much and here I am, crying because oh, boo-hoo, Mommy doesn’t love me. And yet the words are pouring out of me with no filter before I can stop them. “I’ve gone through all of this alone. I didn’t hurt Callie. I never would have, but you labeled me guilty without even listening to my side of the story. B-because, why? Because I look like my dad? B-because you were so unconfident in your ability to raise a good person that you would question whether or not I was capable of something like that?”

“Vic—”

“I’m your son and I
needed you
and
you didn’t care!
”

My shouting leaves the room in silence. My chest aches and it’s taking everything I have not to sob openly, to blink back the tears enough that I can storm out of the living room to my own bedroom because, now? I don’t care. I don’t care about her excuses. I don’t care how she might point out that she’s made sure I’ve had what I need and kept a roof over my head—because in retrospect, all these years everything I’ve needed that Mom hasn’t given me has been emotional. The one thing I wanted was a hug, a smile, an “I love you” from my mother. Apparently that was too much to ask.