“I’ll do it.”
I followed him into the kitchen. “What do you want to watch tonight?”
“I’ll let you pick. Lady’s choice. But first, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Nothing that unusual.” I hopped up on the counter next to the old yellow refrigerator. “My dad was drunk. He didn’t go to work.”
Jax started the microwave, came over, and stood between my legs. He pressed his palms to my thighs and rubbed them up and down. “I like these.”
“My sweats?”
“Yeah. I like it when it’s just you and me like this. Comfortable.”
My heart was racing. “Now you’re all words and feelings. What’s gotten into you, Fisher?”
“It was hard to see you with Hunter.”
I cocked my head to the side. “It was hard to stare at this for two days.” I pointed to the fading hickey on his neck.
“I know.”
“He called me a cunt.”
“Who?”
“My dad. He’s never called me that before.”
Jax closed his eyes in disgust and shook his head. “I’ll kill him,” he whispered. That wasn’t the first time Jax had said something like this, but we always knew it was just talk. “God, Em. You don’t deserve that.”
I started tearing up. “I don’t want to cry any more today.”
He tilted my chin up so we were eye to eye, and then he ran his index finger down my jawline. He studied my face, looking from my eyes to my mouth. There was reverence in his expression.
“What?” I said, and then his lips were on mine. He kissed me slowly, sweetly. He gently braced my neck with both hands and deepened the kiss. I anchored my hands on the outsides of his biceps. He felt bigger to me. He felt safe, warm, familiar. When he broke away, he opened his eyes and smiled for a moment. I smiled back, and then he kissed me again. I moved my hands to his ribs and pulled him closer. He trailed kisses up my jawline and to my ear. My breath was quickening. Near my ear, in a low voice, he said. “I have wanted to do that for so long.”
“Was it okay?” I said nervously.
“Shhh, it was perfect.”
He bit my earlobe gently. I whimpered.
“Take your hands off her.” My father’s slurred voice traveled down the dark hallway.
Jax pulled back but kept his hands on my neck and his eyes focused on mine. I was frozen.
“I said take your fucking hands off her.”
Jackson’s eyes started to water and then he squeezed them shut like he was trying to make us disappear. He shook his head and whispered, “This is not happening.”
“It’s okay, Jax. Let me go. It’ll be okay.”
He let go of my neck finally and just mouthed the words, I’m sorry.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Get your ass home, Emerson.” My father’s voice shook the walls around us.
“Okay, Dad.” I hopped off the counter and walked toward him. “Let’s go,” I said to him, and pointed to the door.
“I’m gonna have a word with this degenerate first.”
“Dad, I kissed him. Nothing else happened. That’s the first time we ever kissed.” I looked back at Jackson, whose eyes were now wide with panic.
“Shut up! Get your ass home now!”
I pleaded one last time, “Please, don’t hurt him.”
I stood just outside of the front door and listened. All I heard him say was, “Touch her again and I’ll kill you. I got a loaded shotgun waiting for you at my house.”
When I heard him coming toward the front, I ran home, into my bedroom, and shut the door.
He didn’t come in right away. I think he had to drink some of that nice bottle he’d bought with my egg ranch money before he was ready to scream in my face. For a while, I thought he might leave me alone, but that wouldn’t be his style.
Forty-five minutes later, my door swung open. “Stand up, you lying little bitch.”
For the first time ever, I held my head high and walked toward him. I looked him right in the eye and was rewarded with a smack! I stared at him in shock. He’d slapped me. He had never hit me like that in the face. He’d grabbed me roughly before and shoved me around when things got really bad, but he’d never struck me with such purpose and force. I gathered myself, straightened my shoulders, and lifted my face to him again. I was scared and shaking.
“Do you want to be a liar and a slut?”
“No, sir.”
Smack! “You little bitch.” Smack. “You lied to me, Diana!” Smack.
Why was he calling me my mother’s name?
“It’s Emerson, Dad!” Smack. I started to sob. “I’m sorry, Dad.” Smack.
“I didn’t even have to touch that little pussy Jackson. He practically pissed himself right there on the kitchen floor.”
Something changed within me all of a sudden. I felt like my father could say anything to me and anything about my mother, he could talk about all the people in the world he despised, all the sluts and druggies and degenerates, but in my book, he wasn’t allowed to touch Jax. He wasn’t even allowed to breathe his name. I wouldn’t let him without a fight.
In a strangely resigned voice, I said, “Fuck you.” My father stood there, glaring at me, motionless, stunned. “I said fuck you, you mean bastard. You have no right.”
With an open-fisted smack, he shoved me to the ground and kicked me in the head. I blacked out and came to seconds later. He was beating me on my back and butt with the buckle end of his belt. I started screaming from the pain and begged him to stop. I tried to scurry away on my hands and knees, but he stepped on my back and then swung me around by my hair. He punched me in the face and I blacked out again. I was hovering somewhere on the brink of consciousness, and I could feel my body getting pummeled as he struck me over and over again.
When my bedroom door creaked open, I saw Jackson’s black hoodie and sneakers coming toward us.
I tried to yell, “No, Jax!” but my voice was gone. I was afraid my father would kill him. In one motion, Jax lifted my father’s weight from me and threw him down, against my wood dresser. I was trying desperately to stay conscious. There was blood on my face and in my eyes, but through it all, I could still see Jackson straddling my father, punching him, one blow after another in fast succession.
“You piece of shit!” He was screaming and crying as he hit him over and over again. When it looked like my father had either passed out or had been knocked out, I watched Jackson get up and come over to me with wide, scared eyes. He lifted me effortlessly. His tears fell onto my face, but I couldn’t feel anything anymore. “Oh god. Oh god.” He kept saying over and over again. “Don’t die. Please, Em, don’t leave me.”
I thought idly that I must look really bad, and then I lost consciousness again. When I came to, I was lying across the front seat of my dad’s truck. My head was on Jackson’s lap. He talked continuously as he drove, “Try to stay awake, Em.” My clothes were sticking to me from the cuts. I started to feel the stinging and ache everywhere on my body. Jackson had his learner’s permit. He would be sixteen in another month and would have his license. Maybe then we can leave Neeble behind, I thought.
“Emerson, I love you. Please try to keep your eyes open.” But I couldn’t anymore because I just wanted to dream about Jackson and me, in some other life, loving each other.
Jax wouldn’t leave my side at the hospital. Even after police and social workers from Child Protective Services told him I would be fine, he wouldn’t leave. I had a concussion, blackened and swollen eyes, a split lip, some minor lacerations from the belt buckle, and a lot of bruises, but otherwise I was okay. When we got word that my father had been arrested without much resistance, Jackson relaxed a little, but he still wouldn’t leave. Not that I wanted him to.
We became something of a media sensation over the two days we were there. A story was written about Jax and me in the paper. The fifteen-year-old boy who saved his girlfriend’s life, drove her fifte
en miles to the hospital, and then carried her weak body into the ER. We both got a lot of special treatment. The nurses fed him, fixed up his hand, and let him sleep in my room. But our happiness was short-lived.
“You’re going into foster care,” he said the morning I was discharged.
“I know. They’re sending me to New Clayton. It’s not that far. We can see each other on the weekends.” I was devastated and so was he, but I wanted him to understand that we could still be together. “You’re my best friend,” I said to him.
“I’m so in love with you.” His eyes were pleading. He was starting to look pretty rough after two days without a shower, and his worry made him seem older than fifteen. His longish brown hair was going every which way, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“I’m going to be okay, Jax. We’re going to be okay, and I love you too. When you get your license, you can come and see me.”
Near my hospital bed, he put his hand on my cheek. I winced. “I can’t believe he did this to you. Why was it so different this time?”
“I don’t know. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m gonna be good . . . better. Only a couple of years and we can go to California. We’ll be together and we can go to college and you can finish writing your book and we’ll get a cat.”
He laughed. “I like dogs.”
“We’ll get a cat and a dog.”
“You swear?”
“I promise you, Jackson. That means more than swearing.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it. I’ll come and find you and make you keep your word.”
“You won’t have to,” I told him.
Paula, my social worker from CPS, came into the room. “Hi, Emerson. Hi, Jax. Before we leave, Emerson, you’ll need to sit down with the detective from the police department. I can be in there as your advocate. They’ll need a brief statement from you. Your father has pleaded guilty, so you won’t have to testify, but you do have to give a statement.”
“Okay.”
After I met with members of the police department, Jax and I went to the front, where his mom was waiting in her old car. She only waved at me; she didn’t even bother getting out. I wondered why.
“What’s with your mom?”
“I don’t know. Don’t worry about her.”
“Did she say anything to you when you called her this morning?” He shook his head. “Tell me, Jackson, please.”
He sighed. “She was worried that being involved with this stuff with your dad was gonna get me into trouble—jeopardize college and stuff. You know how she’s banking on me to take care of her, right?” He rolled his eyes.
“You did an amazing thing. Please do not let her make you feel bad about it. You’re a hero.”
He reached down and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “I think you’re the hero, Em. You’re so strong . . . fearless.”
“I’m a huge wimp. Remember when you found that big brown spider in the shed?”
“You’re right. You’re a huge wimp, but only when it comes to spiders.”
Paula pulled up in her car and waited for Jax and me to say good-bye.
“I am so grateful to have you in my life, Jackson. You keep saving me over and over.”
He smiled, his eyes watery. “Being on that stupid road without you is gonna suck.”
“Keep telling yourself that it won’t be for very long.”
“You’ll call me every day, right?”
“I’m gonna try. It’s only New Clayton. It’s not even that far. Think she’ll let you use the car when you get your license?”
He glanced over to Leila. “Come on, Jax, I gotta get to work!” she yelled.
“Probably not. God, I’m so frustrated, Em. I don’t want to leave you.”
“Don’t stress, okay? We’ll figure it out. Maybe Paula will help. She really likes you.”
I ran my palm down his cheek. There was pain in his sweet, tender eyes. “I love you, Jackson, and you love me. That’s all that matters.”
He nodded and then leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. When I closed my eyes, I felt a tear hit my cheek, and then he was gone. Right before his mother pulled away, he looked up through the passenger window, kissed his hand, and waved. I did the same.
6. It Was All True
I closed the book and took a deep breath. So far, almost everything Jase had written was accurate. Unbelievably, he had nailed every moment of that fateful night, right down to my complicated feelings. There were only a few subtle differences. My father was more of a sloppy drunk than an angry one, and “the whiskey monster” was Jase’s name for him, not mine. My dad was verbally abusive and neglectful, but he was rarely physically violent, with the exception of the few times he lost control. But nothing compared to that last night I lived under his roof.
That night changed my whole life, and it was the main reason I refused to look backward. But whenever I had been forced to talk about it during therapy sessions, I always got lost in my own memories and feelings. I never really thought about how Jase had felt in that situation, how that night might’ve impacted him deep down inside. But clearly, it had. It did. I wondered if writing those scenes was somehow cathartic for him.
Leila, whose name was actually Lisa, obviously had been a heroin addict, though the book tried to make her addiction seem harmless and less urgent. I wondered if Jase was trying to protect her by lightly skimming over the facts. She had tried to provide for her sons, but by the time they were teenagers, she was pretty far gone. Her arms were covered in track marks, and she spent most of her money on drugs. There had been a lot of unsavory characters in and out of Jase’s house—we could only imagine what for.
Reading Jase’s book was like reading the story I would’ve written myself if I ever followed Cara’s advice to start a memoir. The entire experience was strange. It was like my memories had come to life, complete with every sensory detail. Each page transported me back to that ugly place in Ohio where Jase and I had been stuck for our entire childhoods.
Yet the idea of the book still made me angry, not grateful. I kept going back to the opening pages before the text, looking for a dedication, but there was nothing. He was going to drag me all the way through my painful past, steal my story, and not even dedicate the damn book to me.
Later that night, Trevor came over with a pizza. We sat at the breakfast bar and ate in awkward silence as I waited for him to bring up our conversation from the night before. He had been begging me to share a part of my past with him for so long, and finally I had opened up to him. But nothing had really changed between us, and now I felt further away from him than I had before.
“So . . . what did you do today?” I asked through a mouthful of food.
“Just PT, then I grabbed some beers with the other assistant coaches. You?”
“Nothing much. Laundry.”
Trevor laid a greasy slice down on his plate and paused. “Emi, are you still feeling emotional about that thing you told me last night?”
That thing? “I opened up to you about some very traumatic things and you’ve barely acknowledged that. You know I hate revisiting my past, and this book I’m reading isn’t helping. So yeah, I’m feeling pretty shitty.”
“What book?” he asked, totally missing the point.
I felt something snap inside of me, and before I knew it, the words were tumbling from my mouth. “I’m reading a book about me, Trevor. My first love wrote a whole book about our childhood, from my perspective, and it’s a huge hit. And now he’s a bestselling author. And you know what? I’m more than just upset about it; I’m fucking devastated and confused because I don’t want to relive those awful memories, and I certainly don’t want anyone else profiting from them.”
He was looking right at me now, his eyes wide with shock. “What the . . . Where the hell did you get this book? Let me see it.” No apology for his insensitivity. No sympathy for what I was going through. Typical Trevor.
“No way.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mostly about my relationship with another guy.”
“If he was from your childhood, weren’t you guys just kids?”
“I mean, I haven’t seen him in twelve years, but our connection was very . . .” I swallowed nervously. “Intense.”
He crossed his arms and gave me a skeptical look. “I’m not going to be jealous of your juvenile relationship, Emi. I just want to know what he wrote about you.”
Suddenly, I regretted telling him about Jase and the book. “Just let me finish reading it. It’s personal, that’s all.”
“The whole world can read it, but your boyfriend can’t?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s bullshit.”
I didn’t respond, and he didn’t push. He wasn’t wrong exactly, but I didn’t need to justify myself. It was personal. If he wanted a copy, he’d have to buy it himself.
We sat in silence as we finished our dinner, then we moved to the couch so Trevor could watch football while I curled up into a ball and continued reading. He assumed his standard position as he slouched against the cushions, his feet kicked up on the coffee table, his hands clasped together behind his head. It struck me that there was something wrong about his casualness. We had just had a fight, yet his body language suggested that nothing had happened. Like he had moved on.
To the untrained eye, we looked like the picture of intimacy, but there was nothing intimate here. Our relationship was lazy. He should have been rubbing my feet, and I should have been practicing full disclosure, but instead we were as far apart as we could be in every sense of the word. It was easier that way.
From All The Roads Between
On the way to the foster home in New Clayton, Paula gave me all the pertinent details of my new life. Mr. and Mrs. Keller were in their sixties and had been foster parents for over thirty years. I would be the oldest of five foster kids in their home, which sounded kind of great to me—I loved the idea of having little kids around to play with. By the time we pulled up to the old, yellow, three-story Victorian, I had stars in my eyes. It looked like a dollhouse.
Paula thought the Kellers would be a great match for me, and I couldn’t agree more. I was so excited to meet my new family.