Poison Me Sweetly (33 page)

I feel like I'm going insane! It's been three days
since I'd left the hospital, and I'm bored to death and sick of my parents. The
need to call Caleb to vent wins out, and I glance at the clock. It's ten at
night and
it's
Thursday. Will he be home or out with
friends? I don't doubt his feelings for me, but I do feel jealous that he might
be out with the guys, having fun while I feel suffocated by my parents. We've
text messaged back and forth on and off, and I've called him a couple times.
Not having him around has made me crabby. Our relationship might still be new
to some extent, but I've grown accustomed to him being around when I need
comfort.

I call his cell and wait as it rings on the other end.
Just when I think it'll go to voice mail, I hear him pick up on the other end
of the line. “Zoey?” he asks immediately.

“Hey,” I reply lightly.

“I'm glad you called.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I always want to talk to you, Sparky. Hang on a
sec.” I hear the rustling sound of fabric and the unmistakable sound of a
zipper. A second later he's back on. “Sorry. You caught me as I came out of the
shower.”

My hand clenches around the phone as I visualize him
standing there, bare chested, and wearing only a pair of jeans. I bet his chest
is still damp. I'd give anything to be there right now, licking droplets of
water off those edible abs.

“Zoey? You there?”

“Yeah.”

“What's on your mind?”

“Sex,” I say with a longing sigh.

Caleb laughs lowly on the other end. “I thought I was
in the dog house and would have to use my hand for a while,” he teases.

I can't help but scowl. “I'll make you pay for sending
me home with my parents in other ways.”

“We're going to have some fun with that cast. I'm
looking forward to being creative,” he says wickedly.

I groan. “No more sex talk. Not unless you plan on
coming to save me from my parents.”

“Not until Monday. How are things going?” he asks, his
tone turning serious.

“They are driving me nuts!”

“How so?”

“Caleb, they are always hovering. It's frustrating
seeing them act like they used to, the way they were before Micah died. They
can't just act like everything is fine and fucking dandy after the past three years.
Life doesn't work that way.”

“Tell them that.”

“No way. I'm already about to go nuclear on them.
Bring up Micah, and things will get nasty,” I say sourly.

“Maybe that's what they are waiting on,” Caleb points
out.

“What?”

“Go nuclear on them. Get it off your chest. None of
you can move forward if you can't tell them how you feel.”

“There is no moving forward. They fucked up, and I'm
done with them,” I say stubbornly.

“No, you're not,” he says knowingly. “You want to fix
things just as badly as they want to. Don’t jump down my throat when I say
this, but you’ve been wanting to resolve things with them for a long time.
That’s why you keep going to their house when they’re out of town. Even if you
hurt them, you’re still connecting with them on some sort of level. You're just
scared that perhaps your fears will come true, and you'll learn they
deliberately shut you out. I can tell you they didn't, Zoey. They
love
you. You need to give them a chance to explain themselves.”

“Maybe I don't care about their explanations,” I lie.

He sighs. “We both know that was a load of bull.”

Irritation sweeps through me. “Well, why do I have to
be the first one to admit how I feel?”

“Have they tried to talk to you in the past about how
things went down after Micah died?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do?”

“I shut them out and walked away,” I grudgingly
confess.

“I know you don't want to hear this, but you're going
to have to make the first move. They are waiting on you, sweetheart,” he tells
me gently.

I reach up and rub my temple with my free hand. The
last thing I want to do is talk to my parents about Micah and re-open old
wounds. To some extent, I know Caleb is right. A confrontation has been in the
works for a very long time. But to do it now, while I am injured and vulnerable...

“Talk to me, Sparky,” Caleb says in my ear.

“Micaela called last night,” I say as I change the
topic.

Caleb sighs audibly at my direct aversion of
continuing our earlier conversation. “How did it go?” he asks, giving in and
dropping the topic.

“She's excited to decorate my cast and lonely as
hell,” I say flatly. “She cried last night on the phone. I'm telling you right
now, Caleb, that if you don't come up with something to yank her mother's head
out of her ass, I will,” I threaten. My protective instincts are in full gear
when it comes to that girl.

“I hear you. But you can't be rash about the
situation, Zoey. Her predicament is different than yours, and she's only
eleven. Let me handle it for now.”

I sigh. “I just want to help.”

“I know, and I love that about you. For now, let's
concentrate on you and getting you back to healthy.”

“Can you come by this weekend? Please? I need to see
someone else besides my parents.”

“You'll see me on Monday,” Caleb says firmly.

“Caleb, there is no reason you can't come over for
dinner or something. I know you're calling my parents every night to check up
on me. I bet my mom has invited you over every time she speaks with you,” I say
with a knowing scowl. It really grates on my nerves how much those three seem
to get along.

“I'm not going to be your excuse to avoid them in
their very own home.”

I pull the phone back from my ear and glare at it.
“Traitor,” I mutter before I disconnect the call and toss the phone on the nightstand.
Caleb hates it when I hang up on him, and I'm betting he's cursing right now. I
can't help but smile with amusement as I smother a yawn and settle back against
the mattress. Our conversation was coming to an end anyway, and I'm ready to
call it a night.

A person can only watch so many movies. Or send so
many text messages before they begin to go nuts. By the time the next evening
rolls around, I've had it. I can hear my mom in the kitchen making dinner, and I
decide I need some exercise. It still hurts like a bitch to move around, but
I've forced myself to start using the right crutch to lean on, so I can hobble
to and from the bathroom. I'm hoping by next week, I can use both crutches,
because I don't want to miss any more classes. I'm going to be busting my ass
in the next few weeks trying to make up what I've missed.

I slowly and painstakingly make my way to the kitchen.
Do I really want to spend quality time with my mom? Not really. But the guest
room walls are closing in on me, and I need to get out of there for a bit. I
find my mom standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Instead of
entering the kitchen, I hover in the doorway.

She glances up and catches sight of me. “Honey, you
should be in bed. I can get you whatever you need,” she says immediately.

“Why?” I blurt out.

“Why what?” she asks with confusion as she sets the
spoon down on the spoon holder.

“Why did we move two months after Micah died?”

My mom swallows hard as emotions flicker in her eyes.
“The memories...”

“Did you ever think that I needed them?” I demand,
unable to hold back now that I've started this conversation.

She slowly nods, her gaze focused on me sadly. “We
rushed it, Zoey. We know that selling the house so soon was a mistake.”

I wasn't expecting her to admit it. “What about his
stuff?” I ask stiffly, scared of the answer.

“Everything is in a storage unit. We could never part
with Micah's belongings.”

Relief sweeps through me as I fall silent. An awkward
quietness descends on us, and I'm not sure how to finish the rest of the
conversation. So much needs to be said, but how do you say it all?

My mom clears her throat. “Supper's almost ready,” she
says cautiously.

I stare at her incredulously. “That's it?”

Her mouth opens and she hesitates.

Anger sweeps through me. They've been trying to talk
to me for a while, and now she clams up when I'm ready to confront the past? “I
am fucking right here!” I yell at her. “I'm right where you want me, three
years too late!”

She flinches as if I've physically hit her.

“What's going on?” my dad asks as he rushes into the
kitchen, his hazel eyes turning wary as he takes in our expressions.

“You never saw me,” I accuse as I glare at them.

“Zoey—” my dad begins.

“No!” I cut in. “Do you have any idea what I've gone
through the past three years? You both shut me out! You grieved
together!
You sold the house, kept yourself busy with your jobs, and you forgot about
me!
”

My mom's eyes fill with tears. “We never forgot about
you, Zoey. We didn't realize what was happening until it was too late and you
were shutting us out.”

I tense up when my dad steps forward, and this causes
him to hesitate where he stands. I lean heavily against the crutch as I stare
at him accusingly, waiting to hear what he has to say. “There are no rules when
it comes to grief, Zoey,” he says to me with grim eyes, and I can see the
self-incrimination in their depths. “Everyone grieves differently, and the way
we did it was wrong. We're admitting it now.”

“Wrong?” I echo with disbelief. “You have no idea what
you did! I felt punished! And you took him from me. You stole his things; sold
the house. I was
devastated!
”

“Zoey—”

“I've spent three years numbing myself from the pain!”
I yell as angry tears spill over my cheeks. “I've done so many stupid things to
escape it. You have no idea what your rejection did to me. I needed you! I
needed help to grieve! Someone to hold me, to assure me that I'd survive it.
You abandoned me!”

My dad's shoulders begin to shake, and I realize he's
crying. “We know—”

“Do something about it then!” I scream as my entire
body begins to shake with emotional and physical exhaustion.

One second he's standing there, and then the next he's
taking two steps forward and folding me into his arms, holding me tightly. My crutch
drops to the floor, and I'm not sure what to do.

My mom comes up and hugs me from behind. “We love you,
Zoey. We never blamed you, and we certainly weren't punishing you. Never,” she
says fiercely. “That night was gut wrenching but also bittersweet. God took one
child and saved another.”

“We knew we messed up,” my dad says, speaking up.
“We've tried to fix it, but you've kept us out. We hoped someday you'd find a
way to forgive us,” he says as he rubs my back like he used to when I was a
little girl and upset.

Everything has been unleashed within me, and I start
to cry into his shoulder as my arms tentatively wrap around him.

My mom chokes back a sob. “I love you so much, Zoey.
I've missed my baby girl, and I'll do whatever it takes to fix the damage that
has been done,” she promises.

I sniffle and fight back more tears, and we all
cautiously separate a moment later. I look at my parents, taking in their
red-rimmed eyes, and the anguish within their depths. Yet, there's a hint of
hope as they gaze at me. We are a broken family, but as I stand here, I realize
for the first time that we are a family desperate to mend. The heaviness that's
always been in my chest eases slightly.

“You always leave,” my mom says with uncertainty. “Are
you...will you stay through Monday? Give us time to talk more?”

I look at them and see hope burning in their gazes.
Before our family meltdown, I would have bolted, even if I'd had to crawl out
the door on my hands and knees. “I can stay until Monday as long as you're not
burning dinner every night,” I say quietly.

My mom frowns and sniffs the air. Her eyes widen.
“Shoot!” she rushes to the oven.

Dad bends down and grabs my crutch, holding it out to
me, his eyes hesitant as his lips form a cautious smile. “Sit. I'll set the
table.”

I hobble to the table and sink down into a chair. I
watch silently as my parents move around the kitchen as they prepare dinner.
The scene brings a sense of peace to me. Nothing has been fixed, but we've
taken the first step.

The most important step.

After dinner, I gingerly make my way back to the guest
room on my own. Dinner was nice—a little awkward—but nice all the same. We’d
talked a little more about the past, but we didn’t delve into it very long,
because things started getting too emotional. Now I need some time to pull
myself together and process this new turn of events. My parents seem to
understand this, because they allow me to leave on my own, and neither of them
come after me to hover.

I take care to awkwardly shut the door behind me with
my elbow before hobbling with my crutch to the bed. I need some privacy and a
little alone time without worrying that they'll simply walk through the door
when I am desperate for some space. With the door shut, they'll respect the
boundary I just put up.

After collapsing on the bed, I awkwardly move my still
aching body until I feel some semblance of comfort. I breathe in deeply, close
my eyes, and allow my thoughts to take over. When I'd gone to the kitchen, I'd
had no intention of confronting my mom. It had been the farthest thing from my
mind. I don't even know what triggered it. Had it been my conversation with
Caleb last night? I guess it doesn't matter how it happened, because it did,
and it's out there now.

I'm not sure how I feel about it. I guess it had felt
good to get it off my chest, but that doesn't mean anything has really changed.
And no, that's not me being a bitter bitch. I just mean that one conversation
isn't going to fix all that's broken. I still have all this anger built up.
Yes, it's eased a little, but this isn't something I'm going to get over simply
because they admitted they were wrong with what they did. I have three years of
issues and emotions to contend with. I'm not quite sure how to break it down
and start storing it away permanently.

I feel confused.

The need to call Caleb has me reaching for my cell
phone. Talking to him always helps me sort out my thoughts.

He picks up on the second ring. “Sparky,” he greets
warmly.

A smile curves my lips, and I glance at the clock
beside the bed. It's seven in the evening. “Hey, what are you up to?”

“Right now I'm in the elevator. I was at Ace's when
you called, but I'm heading up to my place for privacy.”

“Ah, hoping for some phone sex, were you?” I can't
resist teasing.

I hear the elevator ding in the background, and Caleb
murmurs in a low voice, “Is that a possibility?”

My eyes flicker to the closed bedroom door. “My door
is closed for once,” I say truthfully.

Caleb groans in my ear, and I hear a door shut. “Quit
playing with me.”

“But it's so fun,” I laugh.

“You sound like you're in a good mood.”

“I do?” I ask, slightly taken aback by his comment.

“You do,” he confirms.

This has me falling silent briefly, because a few minutes
ago I'd been brooding and confused. “I guess I'm just happy to hear your
voice.”

“Or something happened, because the tone of your voice
has changed drastically.”

“I hate it when you do that,” I mutter.

“Do what?”

“Sometimes I swear you can read my mind.”

“I wish. It sure as hell would make life easier,” he
says dryly.

“No, it would make it a hell of a lot more
complicating.”

“Talk to me,” he says simply.

“I am.”

“About whatever is on your mind. I can tell you need
to talk about something, Zoey.”

This has my eyebrows drawing together. “I haven't said
anything.”

“You don't have to. Now quit dodging,” he orders.

A sigh of exasperation escapes me. “I confronted my
parents tonight.”

Caleb is silent for a long moment. “About everything?”
he eventually asks.

“Well, about as much as I could in one conversation.
There's so much inside me...”

“How did they take it?”

I pick at some lint on the sheet near my waist. “Um,
good, I guess. They said that they never meant to hurt me. I learned some new
things tonight, things they hadn’t told me before,” I say quietly.

“Like what?”

“My mom was dealing with severe depression after Micah
died. I had no idea,” I say softly. The fact that my mom and I have depression
in common is almost a relief to me. I don’t feel as alone as before, but yet I
still blame her for shutting me out three years ago.

“I can hear the confusion in your voice,” he says
quietly. “How do you feel about it?”

“I’m still angry,” I confess. “I mean, my dad pretty
much chose her over me. I know she was…breaking down, even a bit suicidal, but
he concentrated all his attention on her, making me go through my own grief all
by myself. I guess I’m glad I have answers, because it makes sense. Sort of.
But they want to fix things with me, and I don’t know if it can be…”

“Do you want to fix it? Do you want a better
relationship with them than what you have now?”

“Of course, I want things to be better. They're my
parents. But Caleb, what if it's not possible to repair our relationship?” I
ask, and even I can hear the uncertainty in my tone.

“If you want them in your life, it's repairable.”

“But I'm still so mad and angry. I don't think I can
just simply forgive and forget,” I say softly.

“No one's asking you to, Zoey. It's been three years,
and all that damage isn't going to be repaired with only a few conversations.
It's going to take a while.”

“What if I can't ever forgive them?” I whisper.

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. “You
can't forgive them then,” he says. “There's no point in worrying about it
unless you get to that point. Don't stress yourself out needlessly. Take it one
day at a time. You know how you consider yourself to be a work in progress?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, your relationship with your parents will be a
work in progress, as well. No one's expecting miracles in one day.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, and I realize that he's easing
my fears, and I'm beginning to accept the outcome of this evening. I can't
predict what will happen with my parents, but I can't control it, either. It's
best to simply go slow and not over analyze every little thing.

“How do you feel now that you've told them everything
you’ve been holding in for so long?”

I think about it for a second. “Relieved,” I confess.

“Good. The hardest part is over. Things will still be
tough, but at least now the three of you are working on it. Just don't shut
them out, and I think you guys will eventually get to where you want to be.”

“You really think so?”

“You love them, right?” he asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“And they love you?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

“Then anything is possible. I think you're going to be
just fine, Zoey.”

One month later...

I can't help but study Caleb as he drives. He's been
oddly silent, and it's all my fault. I'd done the very thing he'd asked me not
to. I'd secretly taken a detour to Micaela's house after my last class of the
day. I hadn't been able to take hearing Micaela yearn for her mother's
attention one more minute. I'd text messaged Caleb to tell him I'd be a little
late for our plans at four, and that I had something to do but would meet him
at his place when I was finished.

I don't regret going to the
Runde
residence. Micaela's mother had been surprised to find me standing there on her
doorstep when she'd answered the door. I claimed to have met Micaela at the
beach a while back, and that we'd grown to be close friends. I'd left Caleb out
completely, and I am hoping Micaela will too when her mother confronts her when
she comes home from school.

I think I
finally
got through to Micaela's
mother. It probably helped that I hadn't sugar coated a damn thing. I told her
the whole ugly story of my past. I admitted to my obsession with alcohol, and
my need for sex with random guys. I told her
everything
. Oddly enough,
it had been a bit cathartic knowing that my story might just save what's left
of the
Runde
family. I feel good about my decision to
talk to Micaela's mother, because I think I opened her eyes to what she's been
doing to her own daughter. I guess only time would tell.

I
do
feel bad that I did it behind Caleb's
back. I have every faith in Micaela, and I'm sure her mother will never find
out about the hotline. But, I still should have told him what I had planned
before the fact. I hadn't, though, because I'd been afraid he'd talk me out of
it. He has that effect on me. He talks and I
listen.
The man can talk me
into anything.

“You've been staring at me since we left Long Beach,”
Caleb comments, cutting into my thoughts.

I gaze at him. “That's because I think you're secretly
mad at me.”

He glances at me, frowning. “I told you I'm not mad.
You felt that this situation with Micaela has gone on long enough, and you did
something about it. I respect that. You've been in her shoes, and if you felt
it was time to get involved, then I'm thinking you're right. You've got great
instincts when it comes to that girl. She really looks up to you.”

I can't help but snort. “She shouldn't. My life's been
a mess for three years.”

Caleb reaches out a hand, palm up. I slip my hand in
his and he squeezes it. “You're working on it, and that's the most important
thing.” He glances briefly at the road before meeting my gaze again. “It's easy
for someone like myself to suggest what they think might help someone else, but
you've lived it, and Micaela knows that. Whether you think so or not, you are a
good role model for her,” he says before he fixes his attention on the road.

“We'll see,” I say dryly.

He squeezes my hand again. “Sparky, you've taken all
your issues and faced them. I'm more proud of you than you'll ever know.”

“I haven't faced
all
of them,” I murmur as I
stare out my window. I've began counseling, I've adjusted to my medication, and
my parents and I had our first family therapy session last week. Things are
slowly falling into place. I can even talk about Micah now, and we're on our
way to the mini-storage unit in Pasadena where my brother's things have been
stored. I have the key, and I feel that I am ready to go through his personal
belongings. The one thing I haven't done is visit his grave. I know I'll work
up the courage to do it eventually, but for now, I'll just take things one step
at a time as I feel I am ready for them.

“You'll visit him when you're ready. Don't rush it,”
Caleb says lightly as he focuses on his driving.

I nod and look down at the key clutched in my hand.
Life still seems difficult without Micah in it, but I'm beginning to move on.
Caleb's become a permanent fixture in my life, and he's slowly filling the void
that had been in my heart. When things get to be too much for me, he's always
there. He's completely honest with me, and I never have to doubt where I fit in
with his life. He makes it clear on a daily basis that I come first, and I am
floored that a man like Caleb is mine. Life has definitely become worth living.

Surprisingly enough, things are getting better with my
parents. They are trying so hard. I'm still bitter, but that bitterness is
beginning to fade. Every time I see them, I can feel myself beginning to
forgive, one little piece at a time.

“Zoey?” Caleb questions, as if sensing that I have
more on my mind than I'd let on.

I draw in a deep breath and exhale before looking at
him sadly. “He hasn't appeared. I kind of wish he would. Even if he's not really
there, I think I'd be grateful to see him and talk to him one more time.”

He glances at me and his expression softens. “You're
healing.”

“I miss him.”

“You'll always miss him. He's gone, but he'll never be
forgotten.”

“Never forgotten,” I echo in agreement.

“You sure you want to do this today?” Caleb asks as he
pulls into the entrance of the mini-storage unit lot.

“I want to feel close to him.”

Caleb nods and parks the car near storage unit number
twenty-seven. I open my car door, and Caleb is out of the car and leaning in my
doorway to grab my crutches for me before I can try to climb out. Then he helps
me gingerly ease out of the seat, and I hand him the key as I steady the
crutches under my arms. We walk over to the unit and Caleb unlocks it. He glances
at me questioningly.

I nod.

He leans down and easily pulls the door up and secures
it overhead.

I stare at the familiar furniture and the boxes
stacked in neat, orderly piles. I spy Micah's dresser, and a box sits on top of
it. I use my crutches and hobble over. The word 'pictures' is written across
the top in my mom's handwriting. I can feel Caleb's eyes on me as I carefully
set the crutches aside. With shaky hands, I cautiously open the box.