Tapped (Totaled Book 2) (19 page)

            I didn’t even have to think about it. “Zero. It was a perfect day.”

            “Good. Now, I wouldn’t ordinarily bring the traumatic memory into play on our first session, but I believe you can handle it. I want you to close your eyes and visualize the scene that you encountered when you came home to find your father beating your mother. Picture it. Everything about it. If I see that your body begins to react in a non-therapeutic way, we’ll stop and focus only on the serene scene today. What number would you give this memory?”

            Doing as he asked, I couldn’t help but instantaneously get angry. “TEN!” I raged.

            “I thought so,” he said. “Now, I want you to remain calm. Open your eyes and take a few deep breaths for me.” I had apparently already started exhibiting physical signs of the stress I always experienced when recalling that day of hell. He held his right hand out and instructed me to keep my eyes on his fingertips. I did as he asked and he began moving them from side to side. My eyes followed, staying fixed on his fingers the entire time. At first it felt as if I was watching a tennis match and following the ball back and forth, but I quickly got used to it. “Keep following my fingers from side to side,” he calmly and quietly instructed, “and now picture the scene again. Visualize the house, walking in. Hear the noises and commotion. Visualize entering that bedroom and seeing him on top of your mother.”

            I saw it. All of it. While watching the fingers jet back and forth, side to side, I saw his body on top of hers, his fists striking her over and over, his face turning to laugh at me. I heard him laugh as if he were right in that room with me and Dr. Greiner.

            “Do you see it?”

            “Yes,” I said calmly.

            “Now, slowly let yourself transition into picturing that day at the beach with your mother, just as you described. The sand, the water, the waves.” He gave me a moment to get there, all the while, my eyes still following his fingers side to side. “Still a zero?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay. Keep following me. Picture your dad again. Visualize the scene in your house again.”

            “I’m there,” I announced after a few seconds. He continued moving his fingers side to side and let me be in the scene a little longer before he spoke again.

            “Now rate the memory. What number would you give the memory now?” he inquired.

           
Oh my God
. I was amazed. His hand movements stopped and he looked into my eyes, awaiting an answer. “Maybe a three,” I admitted in amazement. I had no explanation, but I felt good about it. For the first time since it happened, I could think about it and remain under control.

            We repeated the exercise two times more and by the end of our session, I felt like I’d just conquered the world. Dr. Greiner was optimistic but cautioned me about some potential side effects of EMDR, and warned that this wasn’t a quick fix or instant cure, despite my feeling noticeably better already. But it was as if I couldn’t even hear him. I was elated. I was hopeful. I thanked him, even giving him a hug as I left the office, which surprised us both.

***

            Later that night, I awoke in a panic, crying hysterically and gasping for breath. I was able to remember my dream, but it was different than the memory. Instead of reacting and pulling my father off of her, I just stood there. I was present in the room but faded, almost like a ghost, seeing everything but unable to interact. I watched as he beat her and choked the last breath out of her. I stood by and allowed it. I surveyed him murdering my mother and then sitting on the edge of the bed, cursing her name as he drank vodka straight from the bottle, the blood pooling at his feet. I did nothing.

            I couldn’t believe the shift. Just when I was optimistic for my memories to not haunt my dreams, they simply mutated into something even more heinous and traumatic. Feeling more hopeless and discouraged than ever, I got out of bed at close to three am and wrote Bree back. I sealed the letter and tucked the envelope back into the thermal carrying case to return to Liam tomorrow morning at the gym.

Chapter Twenty-Four

BREE

            It was the first thing I saw. There might as well have been a neon flashing sign above it. My blue thermal bag with black handles, the one I had sent with my father to Mick’s house the day that I cooked them all Drew’s favorite meal, was back. The quivering in my stomach was undiscernible. Was it excitement or dread? I wanted to run to it in search of a reply but was terrified of finding nothing, or even worse, finding something I didn’t want.

            After composing myself, I came across Liam in the living room gathering his things and repacking his equipment bag to head in to the gym.

            “How was training this morning?” I asked him as casually as I could, being that it was completely forced. I was dying to barrage him with questions.

            “It was fine,” he replied curtly, not even looking up at me.

            “Just fine?” I confronted. “No one almost got their arm broken?”

            Liam wasn’t amused at my sad attempt for a joke. “No, Bree. Everything was fine. I said I was sorry and he said he was sorry and that was it.” He picked up his bag and turned away, heading towards the foyer, slipping his flip flops on before reaching for the front doorknob. He paused and turned his head slightly to add, “He gave me some casserole dish in a bag, said to give it back to you. It’s in the kitchen.”

            I didn’t wait another second after the door closed to dash to the kitchen. Unzipping the bag as quickly as my fingers would allow, I grasped at the glass dish, setting it aside. Sure enough, something was there.

            A small white envelope, blank on the outside, was sealed and tucked underneath the small dishtowel that was wrapped around the pie pan. I looked over each shoulder, as if someone was going to catch me, but I knew no one else was home. It was just me, this moment all mine. My first correspondence with him since that horrid night. I brought the note away from the counter and sat at the kitchen table, opening it slowly and carefully.

            It was his handwriting—strong strokes with a black gel pen, the words scrolled quickly but confidently.

Bree,

I’m afraid that even if the vase was glued back together,

once you fill it with liquid,

it’s sure to seep out of all of the little unseen cracks.

I’m too broken for repair.

I’m no good for you. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

I am so sorry.

-Drew

            No.

            No, no, no.

            The tears flooded my eyes, quickly breaching the weak dam of my lids and rolling down my face in a sprint. I felt panic wash over my mind and body; taking a deep enough breath was soon a struggle. How could this be happening?
I tried to picture him writing the note, what his face looked like, what he was doing, where he was. The pain and sorrow that engulfed me from the rejection was too powerful, and yet I was so angry at the same time—so confused as to where this was coming from.

            The letter was clearly in response to my own, and would be poetic if it wasn’t such a depressing vision. I wanted to glue us back together, but he was too focused on the imperfections and gaps that he was surrendering. Giving up on himself. Giving up on us. The rollercoaster of emotions assaulting my brain were overwhelming—sadness for losing him, confusion as to what exactly was going on in his head, and downright anger. I wasn’t the one that did this to him. I wasn’t the one who abused him and killed his mother. It pissed me off that I was being punished for something I didn’t do. I was understanding when he hid it from me and supported him when the public found out. I stuck by him and loved him even after he hurt me. And here I was, still loving him, and he was throwing it all away. He wasn’t even going to try? Did I mean that little to him that it was that easy to just snuff the flame, out, gone, over?

            Maybe Sue and my father were right. Maybe I needed to just let it go. But how?

DREW

            It was nothing short of devastating to write that letter to Bree, but to zip it into that bag and hand it over to Liam knowing that I could never take it back—it was excruciating. Liam apologized for being such a dick at our last training session and I returned an apology for the below the belt strike. We laughed, hugged it out, and went on with our morning like nothing had ever happened. It was refreshing to have a true spar and Liam was definitely getting quicker and stronger, making our grappling sessions much more of a challenge. It was exactly what I needed—something to focus on and work toward that wasn’t confessing my inadequacies.

            The discouragement that I felt after yesterday’s failed exercise was at its highest level. I didn’t get it. How could something be so instant and comforting only to backfire the second I went to sleep? What kind of fucked up mind tricks was Dr. Greiner playing? Whatever they were, I was having none of them. I’d rather have the rage-fueled dreams of fighting my father off than have to stand there and watch an alternative outcome. It was unacceptable for me to watch him getting away with killing her and live on to sit and enjoy a victory drink. How in the hell was
that
supposed to help me grieve?

            Checking my phone at the end of training, I saw that I had a missed call and a voicemail from the doc, which I chose to ignore. I needed a break. What I really needed to do was check on my house and get some more clothes. The fact that I’d grabbed my old mouth guard when I packed was the perfect excuse. I was sick of my teeth not fitting just right in the cheaper guard and having it be a constant distraction. I was sick of wearing the same couple t-shirts over and over again. I was sick of sleeping in a full-size bed with an old lady quilt on top. I was irritable and wanted my own place with my own shit.

            I didn’t call anyone for permission. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I just left, consequences be damned.

BREE

            I did what I always did when I needed to clear my head and think in peace. I went for a run on the beach—just me and the ocean, working things out. Again, figuring there would be no harm in traipsing to the north end, I got dressed in a tank top and spandex capris, topping it off with a comfortable visor, and headed out.

            Before long, I was parking and stretching beside my car, my earbuds already blaring my music. I selected a running playlist that was a little angrier, just a hair more upbeat for really pounding the pavement rather than my usual, more relaxing mix. I may have been pounding sand instead of pavement, but relaxation was certainly not the intent of this run. I was pissed and needed to clear out all the bullshit to think straight.

            I took off towards the north end and immediately found myself reminiscing about the time I first encountered Drew on the beach, when I was sprinting myself into a near vomiting episode. I shook my head at the memory; I didn’t need to think fondly of him right then. I didn’t want to remember the thoughtful Drew that came down to the sand to check on me even after I’d assaulted him at the gym. I didn’t want to picture him with tousled bedhead and sexy muscles popping out everywhere, begging to be touched. I didn’t want to remember how good and cherished he made me feel. I needed to be thinking of how I could possibly find a way to let him go.

DREW

            Entering my place was cathartic and agonizing all at once. The smell of the salty ocean was instant aromatherapy, but when I opened the front door and was swarmed by the sad emptiness of the house, my heart was conflicted. It was tolerable until I walked into my bedroom, the bed still bare of any sheets. It had been bare since the morning Bree left. The morning I let her walk out of my life when she was in no condition to be walking anywhere. I angrily trekked to my closet, savagely ripping shirts off of their hangers and flinging them into a pile atop the bed. I shoved a few more pairs of jeans and shoes into a duffle bag and went to my dresser to grab more workout gear. My mouth guard was nowhere to be found. It dawned on me that I had another gym bag under the bed so I went around the other side and reached for it. When I leaned down to see where it was, I was nearly knocked over. Next to my gym bag was a dried up rose petal. One lonely, forgotten petal, crispy and vacant of any remaining life.

            I had laid them out that night, lining a path down the hall into the bedroom and on top of the bed where I couldn’t wait to make love to her. I had intended to make her the center of my attention finally. I wanted to worship and ravish her—to show her that night how much she truly meant to me.

            I thought I did. And then I ruined everything.

            Turning to my panoramic window, I looked out into the horizon and exhaled. This wasn’t a situation that I could just breathe through. The way the tide had washed up left the sand in such a way that it had almost formed a shelf or ridge and I felt in my bones that it was where I needed to be right then. The house, all of its contents and memories, was suffocating me. So with a slide of the glass doors, I stepped out and sauntered down to the shore.

            It was like a bench of sand, shaped there just for me to sit and contemplate my fate, beckoning me to rest and think. So I did. I wasn’t dressed for the beach, wearing jeans and a      t-shirt which I had already shed in deference to the ninety plus degree temperature. But feeling the heat of the sun beat down on my back was nice. I stared out into the endless water and listened to the world around me. The waves crashed in front of me, the breeze caressed my sun-scorched skin; the seagulls gawked at anything and everything they could gawk at. But all that noise didn’t drown out the overwhelming peace that I felt in that moment. There wasn’t another soul around but me.