Chapter 4

In my room, I sit on my bed and take a moment to inhale slowly. Despite my outward frosty reception, I’m shaking inside from her visit. She affects me in ways I’ll never understand, no matter how I try to deny it. The woman knows how to make me feel worthless without trying.

She always pulls the rug out from under me; is that the curse of her being my mother? On some level, that child inside me still wants her to wipe away my pain, unaware she’s the one who causes most of it.

I smart at the thought, and my eyes wander to my closed door.

I know that I dislike who she is, but I don’t hate her. I don’t know if I love her anymore; I don’t know what I feel.

I get up and change into casual clothes, jeans, and a loose top, glad to be out of the confines of a suit. I used to love dressing in my business attire, but it feels stifling and claustrophobic nowadays. My hair, already loose, has grown an inch since I had it cut; it brushes my shoulders constantly with its wild waves. I look in the mirror at my head of tawny hair, brushing it back to reveal tired eyes and a sad face.

Do I look like this all the time? Or is this Jocelyn Anderson’s effect on me just by walking through the door?

I push away the sad expression and lift my chin defiantly, pasting on the face of self-preservation that I’ve perfected over the years, refusing to let her see my pain.

Returning to the sitting room, I glance into the kitchen and see her trying to help dish out beef stew into bowls with a smile on her face, bad moods pushed to one side and forgotten, like always. This is just the way she is, acting like nothing has happened. The sad story of my life with her.

I bristle and grind my teeth to curb the raw fury which rushes up. I’m on edge just watching her as she acts like this is the most ordinary scene in the world. I glance at her young nurse; she seems capable and has a maturity about her.

I wonder how much she knows. I wonder how much Jocelyn Anderson has let her see.

“Food’s ready,” the young woman chirps brightly upon seeing me, laying the bowls on the small kitchen table. I watch my mother hesitantly stay back. She’s waiting on my reaction before she makes a move.

I slide into a chair at the table and concentrate on picking up the cutlery and starting to eat. I know I’m being cold and rude, but I don’t care. The last time I saw her, she was in a hospital bed, battered and broken, and I’d just learned that the man responsible was the same one who tried to rape me when I was eighteen. She’d gone back to him, the abusive prick, without a second thought about what it might do to me or our relationship.

They both sit and begin to eat; the silence is awkward and tense, but no one attempts to initiate conversation. The nurse looks around timidly before deciding that staring at her plate is the best option and lowers her head. Finally, feeling my irritation rise beyond control, I break the glass-like atmosphere with a sledgehammer.

“Why are you here?” I blurt out with not-so-subtle venom.

“I… We need to talk about things, Emma,” my mother says, lowering her lashes, attempting coyness, maybe even feebleness, but it only angers me. She leans toward me, putting her fork down and crossing her hands on the table.

“About what exactly? The fact that you’re screwing the man who loves to beat both of us up and tried to rape your only child?” I spit harshly, taking delight in the nurse’s gasp of shock and the color rising on her cheeks.

I guess she didn’t know after all.

“Yes. Emma, he’s gone. I know what I did; I see what I did.” She tries to reach for my hand, but I yank it out of reach. Her voice has that air of victim that I hate.

How many times have I heard this bullshit? How often has she pushed men away after they hit one of us, only to have him crawl back into her bed days later?

“Too little and far too late, Mother! Do you think you can just show up here and smooth it all over? Do you even know what he did while you were lying in a hospital bed?” My voice is raised and agitated; I need to regain a little control if we are to have it out. I hate that she always makes me break this way.

“No-o-o…?” Her weak, tiny voice betrays her nervousness; she’s afraid I will tell her he succeeded this time. I catch that moment of doubt in her eyes, and I cast my mind back to the look on her face when she caught him trying to rape me once before, her fear that he would want me instead of her. It makes me sick to my stomach, which only helps fuel my rage.

“He attacked me!” I snarl. “He’s just the same evil man he was eight years ago. Nothing has changed!”

“What?” Her eyes widen in alarm. “Did he…?” She can’t formulate the words, but I can read her like a book. All she wants to know is if he had sex with me. This isn’t about me or my getting hurt; it’s about her boyfriend cheating on her.

“No. He didn’t. He just wanted to prove his dominance over me, to scare me. And he did,” I yell at her, the twist in my gut deepening as her expression confirms my thoughts.

She’s relieved. Her boyfriend didn’t betray her. She’s happy. She never cared about me; it was always about her and her men. I just got in the way. I was collateral damage.

I have been holding this in for weeks, and I can’t do it anymore. I start unraveling and completely lose my temper, something inside me snapping so very easily. It’s like a damn implodes, and the waters crash free.