Brother's Keeper (3 page)

I park up along the side of the building, and as I approach Rowan, she lowers her head and begins to quietly cry. The look on her face isn’t pain alone—it’s humiliation and depression. I squat down beside her and touch her cheek, too close to her mouth, and she inadvertently flinches. I just stay there, looking at her as she cries, wanting to help but not sure where to begin.

“Row, look at me.” She raises her head but can’t quite bring herself to look me in the eye for longer than a second or two at a time. I have to know, and I ask. “Did your father do this?” She just gives a slight nod.

I look at her for a moment longer before I have to lower my head to disguise the fury that is boiling up. I’ve known Rowan since she was a child—hell, since I was a child. How could I have not known this? I see things like this all the time. Abusive parents don’t decide on the spur of the moment to become violent. He’s always been violent, which means she’s always been abused. My fury is as much for myself as it is him. I have to consciously force myself to focus on her and not on my building anger as it threatens to take over me. But one look at her face and I am snapped back to this place—my fury put away in exchange for concern.

I take off my fleece pullover and help her put it on. She’s shivering and so miserable that it is hard to just look at her. “Let’s go.” I’m not sure where to take her but want more than anything to get her away from this dirty old station with its oil-stained concrete and permanent petrol stench.

As I load her bike and backpack into the back of my Cherokee, she hobbles shoeless across the asphalt and in obvious pain to the passenger door. I decide to call my parents. But as I search the front console for my phone, I realize that I’ve left it charging in the kitchen at their house. Shit. I have no choice then but to take her straight to the hospital and call my parents from there.

Rowan looks at me, and in the meekest voice pleads, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

She can’t be serious! I give her a stupefied look, and her face instantly drops as the realization of my intentions registers in her mind. I start to question what would possibly make her want to keep this quiet when she interrupts, asking that I let her out. Had the hit to the face broken her brain? I’m not letting her out! She’s hurt and needs to see a doctor. I know she’s been physically abused and assaulted, but what if there’s more? The idea of that disgusting man laying his hands on her body is a sick, evil thought lurking in the back of my mind.

To my shock and horror, she begins to open the door of my moving car. What the hell is she thinking? Now I know the knock to her head has loosened some screws. I pull screeching to a stop in the middle of the deserted and quiet residential street just in time to see her manage the door open and take off barefoot down the street. I throw the car in park and go after her.

She doesn’t make it far; the hard, uneven, pebbly road makes running difficult on her already painful feet. I catch her around the waist and hold her until she stops fighting. She calms as I hold her with her back to me. She gives up, exhausted, and resorts to quietly pleading with me to just let her go.

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t. You’re hurt and need to see a doctor. We have to call the police.”

I turn her around to face me, and before I can say a word, her head collapses to my chest, and she buries her face there, sobbing quiet tears. I hold her for a long time not wanting to let her go.

She finally asks, “Can we just go home? I promise I will give you an explanation, but please don’t call the police. Not until you’ve given me a chance to explain.”

“Row, you’re hurt. He hit you and God knows what else. You need to see a doctor.”

“I won’t talk to the police. I’m sorry, but I won’t. I’m fine. I promise it’s not as bad as it looks. I swear. Please, just give me a chance to explain.” She’s begging, pleading, and quite frankly, telling me exactly what she is and is not willing to do, and as I stare at her while standing there in the street, I make my decision. Most would say the wrong one.

*

We are silent the short ride back to his parent’s house. I know I’ve asked him to go against everything his logical mind is telling him to do, and I hate myself for that. I stare blankly out the window, trying desperately to concentrate long enough to figure out a way to fix this mess, but I am exhausted. His fleece pullover is warm and soft against my skin. It carries the amazing scent of his body, and all I want to do is drift away in the warmth of him.

When we pull up in his parents’ driveway, he silently helps me from the car and leads me upstairs to the bathroom. He then helps me onto the counter, and with a warm washcloth gently and carefully cleans my face, studying and appraising every inch of my skin. He’s surprisingly gentle for a man, or perhaps my experiences with my father have tainted my opinion of men in general. It is quite an emotional experience realizing how genuinely kind and compassionate a man can be. He takes his time, intent on sparing me any more pain, and as unexpected as his presence is on this night, I’m so thankful to have him here.

My mouth has stopped bleeding but is sore as hell. I feel numb everywhere else; even my brain seems to be running on autopilot, and I don’t remember ever feeling so tired. I thoughtlessly run my tongue to the corner of my mouth as he brushes his thumb over the same tender spot. I can’t help but pass an embarrassed glance at him before looking away again. He just looks at me steadily, his face belying nothing of the unease I feel having just touched him with my tongue.

He then pulls over a stool and sits in front of me. I’m sure he’s going to start the interrogation, which is the least of what I deserve. But he doesn’t. He gently lifts one foot and then the other, inspecting the soles for any sign of serious injury. Apparently satisfied that my feet aren’t going to fall off, he washes the soles of both as I try unsuccessfully not to flinch from the pain. The skin is raw and scraped in areas where small pebbles have punctured the skin and larger rocks have bruised my soles.

When he’s finished with my feet, he helps me gently down from the counter. He takes a deep breath, looking weary. “We can talk about this tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

I quietly pull off his fleece, handing it to him before slipping away to Sara’s warm bed, and I drift off quickly and dream. I can’t recall the dream exactly, but I’m running away into the dark. Terror grips my heart as I’m pursued by something awful and unknown. Perhaps it’s more a memory than a dream. I awaken in a start. I don’t even realize I’ve screamed out until Logan bursts into the room ready to attack. I quickly start apologizing as he catches his breath and lets his heartbeat return to normal. He doesn’t leave me for long, though, until I’ve woken him in another fit of nightmares. Again, he is in the room before I am even fully awake. This time, he stays.

Without a word, he slips into the bed next to me and pulls me into him. Pathetically, I’ve never laid this close to a man before, and even in my exhaustion, I have to admit it has its perks. He is warm, and I feel safe. His body is the most amazing replacement for his fleece pullover, and I’m held secure in his arms, breathing in the scent of his skin. I don’t wake again until late morning. There is a note on the bedside table from Logan saying he’s gone to the office for the morning and will be home shortly after noon. The note is also quite adamant about my not leaving the house. Apparently, he hasn’t forgotten about my promise of explanation.

I take a long hot bath that feels painfully good on my scratched and bruised feet. Most of my facial damage is limited to the inside of my mouth but still shows lightly on the corner of my mouth. It could be worse. That’s one small favor I suppose; I have to work this evening and the last thing I want is to draw any attention to myself. I anxiously await Logan’s arrival, still unsure what I am going to tell him.

When I hear his car pull up in the drive, my heart starts racing. I’m in Sara’s room making the bed, or perhaps just trying to look casual, when he comes in. He looks awful. Which is to say, he looks like some hysterical kid has woken him in the middle of the night when he’s had to be up early the next morning. He watches me intensely, waiting. How does he do that? His eyes drill holes through me until I get so nervous I sit down. He stands, leaning against the nearby dresser, waiting patiently and adamantly for my response.

Redirection and distraction having worked so poorly for me the night before, I decide to give it another go. “Are you hungry?” I look up to his dark eyes furtively.

“Please stop, Rowan. I just want to know what happened.”

I sit there contemplating for a very long moment before offering what I know is a terribly pathetic response. “I know, but I have to be at work at five. I really have to go home and change before then. I promise…”

“That’s hours from now. Call in sick for all I care. I just want answers. Now. I’ve been waiting all day to find out why I broke the law for you.”

I look at him, suddenly puzzled, until he elaborates, his irritation seeping around his words. “Oh, you weren’t aware it’s illegal for me to withhold this type of information? You just thought I was allowed to make these judgment calls on my own? So just because I’m not a lawyer yet, you think I can’t destroy my career by breaking the law for you? Don’t you get it? Believe it or not, there’s a whole department solely charged with investigating child abuse that should be handling this by now. But wait, you already know that.” The angry sarcasm is seething from his voice. I try to apologize, to assuage his anger at me, but he cuts me off. “I’m not looking for an apology, Rowan. I want answers. Damn it! This may be nothing new to you, getting the shit beat out of you in the middle of the night, but it’s real fucking new to me!” To say he's angry is an understatement. “After all of this, you’re just going to shut down and say nothing?”

I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified to speak. Not the fear of physical violence I get at home, but the fear of utterly disappointing him. I can’t bear the thought of him being upset at me, irritated at me, or worse yet, hating me. But that’s exactly the situation I’m in. And with an angry shake of his head, he turns and leaves the room, leaving me sitting there, feeling guilty and heartbroken. I start to cry. I know I have to talk to him. He deserves every last bit of the truth from me, but what will he think of me once he knows?

*

I don’t know why I got so angry with Rowan. The second I went into that room all I wanted was to be sleeping soundly next to her like the night before. But in daylight, you can see the slight swelling of her mouth, and the truth of what has happened to her can’t be ignored.

After leaving her staring stunned at me in Sara’s room, I escaped to my parent’s room, pulled off my shirt, and collapsed on the bed. My guilt eats into me as my weary body tries to sink into sleep, and I end up cursing myself for being so cruel to her. Her fear, her pain was so obvious on her delicate features as I railed against her, and I let my exhaustion and my selfish desire to invade her life control my actions. She doesn’t deserve my anger. She deserves my support and my compassion. I was an asshole, plain and simple. And as I continue to drift in half-sleep, loathing my behavior, I feel the soft movement of the bed and my opportunity to fix what I’ve done.

Rowan is sitting on the side of the bed. Her back is to me, and her head is down. God, I’m such a shit. I sit up behind her and reach my hand to the nape of her neck. I want to apologize but don’t know where to begin. Her hair is pulled back, and the skin of her neck is smooth and warm to the touch. It occurs to me that I am too close to her. I have never touched Rowan in this way. I have never had any interest in Rowan other than the familial. She is, after all, just a kid and far too young for me. But my desire to comfort her feels strangely, almost arousingly, intimate.

Rowan isn’t beautiful in the sultry curvaceous sense of the word, but she is beautiful. Her face is angelic and easy to look at. Her eyes are round and open, and every emotion she feels can be read there plainly. Her small size and slight feminine lines are nothing like what I am used to, but the way she looks sitting on the side of the bed makes me want to touch her all the same.

Her head is down, and as she feels my touch she responds by tilting her face toward me and apologizing. Apology not being my strong suit, I slowly and gently stroke the skin of her neck, wanting to assure her that everything’s going to be all right. After a few moments, she begins to tell me a story. It’s the story of a young girl who’s gone from a loving home to losing a mother to gaining a monster. I’ve always known Rowan’s story was a sad one, but I never dreamed it could be this overwhelming. Hearing her talk about the abuse she'd suffered from her father is agony.

As she relives the worst of it, I can’t help but match up the lies she told my family and everyone else to the injuries she is now relating to me. She talks about the times Social Services had been called. And I remember such an occasion. Sara was so worried and wanted desperately for Rowan to tell her it was all a big mistake, and Rowan obliged. We bought into her lies so willingly, not wanting to believe the alternative. I understand now why she spent so many nights with Sara, to avoid confrontations with him. It worked, or so she said, but then, I was looking into the eyes of a young woman who had blood running down her face just twelve hours ago. It hadn’t worked at all. She had just been temporarily lucky. He was a monster, and there was no way he would stop using her as his own private punching bag.

Listening to her feels like being punched in the stomach. How could this have happened and nobody knew? I want to kill her father. I could kill him. Without doubt, I could kill him and think nothing of it. He deserves to die. He’s supposed to care for her. He’s supposed to protect her. She doesn’t deserve this. But I hide these traces of violent imaginings as I continue to push her for more information.

And when she’s finished speaking, I find my voice again, and the question I really need answered, “Why didn't you want me to call the police last night?”