The Final Piece (2 page)

“You know what he did! You pretend like you don’t know—that you didn’t see—but you know what he did!”

My stubborn, angsty teenage resolve shatters as memories slap at my face. I am swept up in a humiliating show of weakness, unable to control my sobs as they shake my body. Mom blanches, her mouth hanging slightly open.

“What did he do, Beth?”

Her voice is barely audible, but I can hear the fear she has for my answer. “He touched me, Mom! He did stuff to me...”

I hesitate, pulling my knees up against my chest and dropping my head down between them because I can’t look at her when I say it. “From the time I was five,” I whisper, “until they moved away last year…”

The second it comes out of my mouth I want to hit rewind and take it all back.

Oh my God, I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t want to go there with her! Why did I have to open my big mouth?

This will not end well, of that I am certain. I hold my breath and steal a peek at her face. It’s completely devoid of emotion. She speaks slowly, punctuating each syllable with her accusatory tone.

“What do you mean he touched you? Why haven’t you said anything before?

She glares, the whites of her eyes getting larger as she waits for me to give her an answer. I don’t have one.

“I don’t know, I just couldn’t,” I cry.

She shakes her head, looking down at me with ill-concealed disgust. “Drew touched you? That is an awful thing to say about someone who has adored you from the moment he and Kristy met you.”

My breath hitches, getting caught in my throat. I had adored him, too. I loved him and he spent the better part of seven years twisting my brain into believing that he loved me, too. At five years old, the attention was confusing but flattering. At first, he refrained from touching me, choosing instead to use words to confuse my mind and relax my boundaries.

“Mouse, I can see your underwear.”

This is one of the first memories I have of hearing the subtle inflection change in his voice. The shift went from loud and jovial to soft and intimate.

He started speaking to me in these hushed tones like we were in on a secret no one else knew about. It felt good and I started seeking him out for more of the attention he was willing to give me. That day, I was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, playing jacks. I had on a skirt. At my mother’s insistence, my closet was full of them. I, on the other hand, would rather climb trees and catch lizards. The skirts did little to deter me, despite my mother’s efforts. There I sat with my hands frozen in suspension, one holding the ball and the other my jacks. I looked at him wide-eyed, squirming where I sat. I moved to shift my legs underneath me, to allow my skirt to fall more modestly.

“Don’t,” Drew whispered, “you are beautiful just as you are.” He winked at me. Confused, but giddy from his words, I smiled. I was a lonely little girl and he was an attentive friend.

My mother would never accept such tarnish on her perfect family picture. She is delusional, maniacal even, about keeping up appearances—to the point that she displays these Norman Rockwell plates in a display case in the dining room. I hate those ridiculous plates; each one depicts its own lie. My head feels like a dinghy being tossed around inside a hurricane.

Pitch. Lurch. I close my eyes and try to steady myself. This is going to blow up in my face. I desperately want to take each word back, but I know all I can do now is try to protect myself for the oncoming attack. I retreat into my defense strategies, systematically slowing my breathing and my heart rate as I have taught myself over the years.

Detach. Float away. I tell myself as I let my mind go numb, a skill I acquired when Drew’s affections turned physical. If they can’t get in, they can’t wear you down.

I size up the enemy, scoping out a potential weakness. Even in her anger she is stunning, staring at me, daring me to defy her. This is my Achilles heel: I am a notorious people pleaser and she knows it. She is banking on my need to say what she wants to hear and end this standoff. As much as I need for her to be pleased with me, I just can’t find it in me to concede. I look directly into her blazing eyes and simply state, “He did.”

Her beautiful face is awash with anger as her shaking hand strikes my cheek. I don’t know if it is the sting of her hand or the sting of rejection that sends the last steel shutter into place. All I know is the pain is fleeting. Numbness takes over in defense. I have secured the fortress. I’m checked out of this conversation, and she couldn’t hurt me right now if she set me on fire.

“You are sick, Elizabeth! You don’t accuse someone of something like that to get out of being at dinner! He is affectionate with you because he loves you. You are special to him and to Kristy! They don’t have children of their own, they have always thought of you as theirs!”

Her words bounce off of my armor and I am grateful for the thick iron gates I have erected around my heart.

“He hugs you and what? Does he tickle you, Beth?” She mocks me. “Jesus Christ, Beth everyone gets tickled at some point!”

I wonder if she can hear herself.

She takes my silence as defeat and adds, “You will be at dinner tonight with your family, or I will take every one of those records and toss them in the trash.”

With that threat, my armor cracks and I panic.

She can’t take away my music—it’s all I have!

“They are NOT my family! You think because you make me call them Aunt and Uncle that makes a difference?” I spit.

With smug satisfaction she sneers at me, knowing I will choose my music over my pride. “No, Beth, they are not, but they are the best friends your father and I have. You will show them the respect they deserve.”

Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she walks out of my room and closes the door. Once again, I am alone. I was before she left, and I am now that she is gone. For once, I am grateful for the solitude. Seeking the only comfort I know, I place my headphones back over my head, close my eyes and let the music carry me away.

Chapter 3

A knock on my door shakes me from my daydreaming and before I can react, the door swings wide and a man sticks in his head. I am treated to the Tommy Cantwell megawatt smile, which instantly brightens my mood. He is working his hands in some mad game of charades. Looking at him quizzically, he finally points to his ears. I laugh and sit up, removing my headphones.

“Hey, baby girl! Where you been? Uncle Rob and I got in about an hour ago...” His words trail off as my attention shifts to the clock on the stereo. Three hours have passed since my mom stormed out and it is now 5:30 P.M., thirty minutes until my hell is unleashed at the dinner table. I look back toward Tommy and find him standing in front of me.

“How long have you been plugged in?” He leans down and places an arm around my shoulders as he sits.

I can’t fake anything around Tommy. He is one of few people I allow close enough to really know me. He scans my face with his warm brown eyes.

“What happened, Beth?” Tommy’s tender concern stokes the smoldering remains of my relationship with my mom. My tired eyes leak a deluge of tears as I throw my arms around Tommy’s neck.

“I got into a really bad fight with Mom and she hates me!”

He places his hand against the back of my head and an arm around my waist to pull me against him in a bear hug.

“Oh, honey, she doesn’t hate you. She could never hate you. Sometimes we fight the hardest with the people we love the most. Your mama and your daddy adore you.” He leans back, placing his hands on my arms and gently turning me to face him, as he looks me in the eye. “No one hates you, Beth. You are loved very much by me, your Uncle Rob and all of us hanyaks back home.”

I laugh at the absurd term he uses. Hanyak, pronounced
haw
n
‐
yock
. It’s a word assigned by my grandfather to his loved ones. He is old and ornery, so it’s only fitting that he’d label us with an equally ornery title. Only Pops could generate a term of endearment from a phrase with synonyms like
hoodlum
and
hooligan
. I am comforted at the thought of my grandparents and my aunt and uncle back home in Iowa. I miss them so much and am so grateful to spend my summers with them. I think I might be the only kid alive who is happy that her parents ship her off to the Midwest every summer.

Tommy laughs with me, his mustache curling up on the ends as his smile widens. He is the definition of a family friend, not Drew. He has been my Uncle Rob’s best friend since grade school. He’s always been around, so he is as much my uncle as Rob. He and Rob attempted to teach me to water ski the first summer I spent in Des Moines. When that effort was proven futile, Tommy bought me a big yellow tube.

“You are not tying that thing to the back of my boat.” Rob stood on the dock of the marina blocking Tommy from his beloved jet boat.

“Man, get over yourself, she is too little to pull herself up on skis yet. She can hang onto this just fine.” Tommy chided.

Rob audibly scoffed and then looked at me. I stuck my tongue out at him for effect, which sent him into full belly guffaws.

“Fine, but teaching this squirrel, I mean girl, is on you, T.”

I spent the rest of the summer on that tube behind Uncle Rob’s boat.

The following summer, Tommy brought his nephew, Ryan, out to his Dad’s farm in Cumming to detassel corn.

“It’s a rite of passage for every child in Iowa!” he said, staring at us in disbelief as we moaned about the heat and time wasted.

“I’m from Miami, Tommy. I should be exempt.” I tried to keep a straight face, but Tommy’s bug-eyed slack-jawed response sent me into fits of giggles.

“Baby girl, you cannot deny your heritage. I was there the day you were born at Iowa Methodist in the fine capital of our state.” He placed his hand over his heart for dramatic effect. “It is inconsequential that your folks lost their collective mind and moved to Florida.” He paused to make sure we were listening, which gave Ryan an opportunity to chime in.

“
Inconsequential?
When did you learn such big words, T?” Ryan was a smart ass by nature. He was two years older than me and reminded me of it every chance he got.

“Get over here, you hanyak!” Tommy teased, as he grabbed Ryan in a headlock and scrubbed his knuckles across the top of his skull.

“Ow, old man! Knock it off!” Ryan all but squealed, “I’m gonna tell Mom!”

“You’re going to rat on me?” Tommy laughed in disbelief. “I’m not afraid of your mama. She might be my sister, but I can take her on.”

For the rest of the day, random laughter could be heard throughout the rows of corn when one of us would think about Tommy and Ryan trying to best one another.

Recalling those memories makes me smile and immediately I start to count on the calendar in my head—just two more months until I can go home again.

I let go of Tommy, wipe my face on my shirtsleeve and brave a smile. “There are some fights that can’t be fixed, though.”

I try my best to shrug and act nonchalant but I can see my sadness reflecting in Tommy’s expression. He knows me so well and right now, he can see that something is different.

The doorbell rings and I am slammed back into reality. My eyes search the clock on the stereo, 5:55 P.M.

Great, the assholes are punctual.

Though a year has passed since I’ve had to be in the same room with Drew, the same sense of panic mixed with dread spreads inside me, infecting every fiber of self worth and esteem. I can’t see it; I only feel it as the happiness leaves my body in a dizzying rush. It bleeds out of me like I’ve been gutted with a dull knife. My spiral into despair feels like slow motion, but in reality, it’s just a matter of seconds. That is all it takes for Tommy to see past the breach, I don’t know what clued him into my distress, but suddenly Tommy freezes and the air around us grows thick with tension. I try to ignore it. His brow creases and his eyes narrow in suspicion or contemplation—I am too nervous to get a good look at him to know. The sound of his voice makes me jump.

“Is this about Drew and Kristy?” The question hangs in the air, stealing the last of my ability to breathe. In an attempt to deflect the situation, I force a grin-shrug combination, stand and head for the door.

Beth! Could you be more unconvincing?

I glance back when I realize that Tommy is not following, he is looking out the window blankly. He seems lost, the light gone from his eyes, his face stoic. For the first time in my life, I feel uneasiness separating us. He is the glue that holds me together. I can’t stand the thought of anything coming between us. This awkwardness is like the death knell of Drew’s toxic effect on everything in my life. The mere idea that my friendship with Tommy could change turns my blood to ice water.

“Tommy?” My voice breaks the strange spell and he faces me, pinning me with compassionate eyes. I cannot disguise the look of horror that crosses my face, and Tommy’s expression turns soft with sympathy. I must be getting paranoid because there is no way he can possibly know a thing. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he might know. He doesn’t even live here. He’s only here once a year with Uncle Rob for their annual trip to the Daytona 500.