“Confusion worse than changing rules?”
She swallowed. “Emotional, personal confusion.”
Wyatt said nothing. She sucked in a breath. “Imagine what it feels like to be a little girl who wants nothing but to protect her mom, so you step in front of a punch.”
He cursed.
“From that point on, I became fair game to him.”
“He began to beat you, too?”
She nodded. “It was like I’d given him permission when I stepped into the first punch.” She licked her lips. “So from that point on, my choice became watch him beat my mom, or take some of the beating for her.”
Wyatt’s eyes squeezed shut, as if he shared her misery through imagining it. “And you frequently chose to be beaten.”
“Sometimes I had to.”
She walked to the stove, ran her finger along the shiny rim. “But that night he couldn’t reach me. I’d taken my mother to the sink, stupidly believing that without any one to hit, he’d get frustrated and head for the sofa. But he went after Althea.”
“How old was she?”
“Twelve. Too young to take full-fist beating from a grown man.”
“I’m sorry.”
Missy sucked in another breath. Hearing the truth coming from her own mouth, her anger at herself, disappointment in herself, and the grief she felt over losing Althea began to crumble. She’d been young, too. Too young to take the blame for things her father had done.
She loosened her shoulders, faced Wyatt again. “I could see her arm was broken, so I didn’t think. I didn’t speak. I didn’t ask permission or wait for instructions. I just grabbed the car keys to take her to the hospital, and my dad yanked the bottle of bleach off the washer by the back door.” Missy looked into Wyatt’s dark, solemn eyes. “He took off the cap and, two seconds before I would have been out of range, tossed it at me. It ran down my skirt, washing out the color, eating holes right through the thin material.”
Wyatt shook his head. “He was insane.”
“I’d earned that dress myself.” Her voice wobbled, so she paused long enough to strengthen it. She was done being a victim, done being haunted by her dad. It appeared even her ghosts of guilt over Althea leaving were being exorcized. “I worked for every penny I’d needed to buy it. But when he was drunk, he forgot things like that. As I was scrambling out of the dress, before the bleach burned through to my skin, he called me a bunch of names. I just tossed the dress in the trash and walked to my room. I put on jeans and a T-shirt and took Althea to the hospital. His screams and cursing followed us out the door and to the car.”
Wyatt said nothing.
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, too, letting it soak in that she’d finally told someone, and that in telling someone she’d seen that she wasn’t to blame. That she had no sin. No part in any of it except victim. And she was strong enough now not to accept that title anymore.
“At the hospital, a social worker came into the cubicle. Althea wanted to tell, to report our dad. I wouldn’t let her.” Missy glanced up at him again. “I feared for Mom. I knew the social worker would take us away, but Mom would be stuck there. And because we’d embarrassed him, he’d be even worse to her than he already was.”
“Why didn’t your mom leave?”
“She was afraid. She had no money. No skills. And he really only beat her about twice a month.”
Wyatt sniffed in derision. “He’s a bastard.”
“I left the next day. Got a clerical job in D.C. and an apartment with some friends. Althea spent every weekend with us. I guess that was enough for my dad to realize we didn’t need him—didn’t depend on him—and we could report him, because he stopped hitting Mom. When Althea graduated, she left town. Went to college in California. We haven’t really heard from her since.” Saying that aloud hurt. Missy loved and missed her sister. But she wasn’t the reason Althea had gone. She could let go of that now. “When one of my roommates moved out, I tried to get my mom to move in with me, but she refused. A few weeks later she had a heart attack and died.”
Wyatt gaped at her. “How old was she?”
“Not quite fifty. But she was worn down, anorexic. She never ate. She was always too worried to eat. It finally killed her.”
With her story out, exhaustion set in. Missy’s shoulders slumped.
He turned to the coffeepot, poured two cups. “Here.”
She smiled shakily. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Secrets are always better if you tell them.”
She laughed. “How do you know?”
He shrugged. “School, I guess. In grade school I hid the fact that I was bullied from my parents. But in high school I knew I couldn’t let it go on. The kids were bigger, meaner, and I was no match. So I told them. They talked to the school principal. At first the bullies kept at me, but after enough detention hours, and seeing that I wasn’t going to be their personal punching bag anymore, they stopped.”
Missy laughed, set her cup on the counter beside him and flattened her hands on his chest. “Poor baby.”
“I’d have paid good money to have you tell me that in high school.”
“I really did like you, you know. I thought of you as smart and honest.”
“I was.”
She peeked up at him. “You are now, too.”
The room got quiet. They stood as close as lovers, but something more hummed between them. Emotionally, she’d never been as connected to anyone as she was to him right now. She knew he didn’t want anything permanent, but in this minute, she didn’t, either. All she wanted was the quiet confirmation that, secrets shared, she would feel in the circle of his arms. She wanted to feel. To be real. To be whole.
Then she heard the kids out in the yard. Her kids. Her life. She didn’t need sex to tell her she was real, whole. She had a life. A good life. A life she’d made herself. She had a cake to bake this Saturday. Soon she’d have an assistant. She’d make cakes for grocery stores and restaurants. Her life had turned out better than she’d expected. She had good things, kids to live for, a business that made her happy.
She stepped away. A one-night stand would be fun. But building a good life was better. “I’ve gotta go.”
He studied her. “You’re okay?”
“I’m really okay.” She smiled. “I’m better than okay. Thanks for letting me talk to you.”
“That’s what friends do.”
Her smile grew. The tension in her chest eased. “Exactly. So if you have any deep, dark secrets, I’m here for you, friend.”
“You know my story. Stood up to bullies in high school, made lots of money, bad marriage, worse divorce—which I’m beginning to feel better about, thank you for asking.”
She laughed and headed for the door. “Well, if you ever need to talk, you know where I am.”
“Like I said, I have no secrets.”
She stopped, faced him again. He might not have secrets, but he did have hurts. Hurts he didn’t share.
Were it not for those hurts, she probably wouldn’t push open the door and walk away. She’d probably be in his arms right now. But she did push on the screen door, did leave his kitchen. They were both too smart to get involved when he couldn’t