Christina (Daughters #1) (22 page)

“Are you done now?” Noah asks after a thick, long silence with Lindsey’s intermittent sobs as the only sound. “Are you done punishing everyone? Derek, us, Christina, and most of all, yourself? Will you ever punish yourself enough?”

I lean forward and almost face plant into the carpet. I let out a weird noise, like a dying animal.

I know it’s Derek who kneels next to me. He doesn’t touch me. I am choked up with what I’ve done. It’s so much worse than what I did two nights ago. I know Lindsey is leaning down on the other side of me. I finally turn my face and open my eyes so I can see her. Tears are streaming down her face. I shake my head and bury it back into the carpet, muttering, “You should have never adopted me. You should have sent me back to Marsdale. You should have gone on and done great things as a senator. You should never have given that up for me. For this. For what I can’t ever be for you.”

“What is it you think we want you to be, Max?”

“A good son. A good brother. A decent person.”

She lets out a weird sound, somewhere between a cough and cry. “Max. You already
are
the son I wanted. That I still want. I didn’t want kids until I met you. I
chose
you. We chose you. And we never regretted that for one day, not even now. Today. I will never regret bringing you into our family. Am I your mother, or mentor, or caregiver, or friend? I don’t know. I just know you are part of my family and I love you. I will always love you, no matter what. If you choose to fight every day for the rest of your life, I’ll still love you. I’ll still welcome you into my house. I will still be your family.”

“I can’t even hug you. You deserve a kid who can love you back. Who can thank you for what you do for him. You deserve so much better than me. What you did? Adopting me? I don’t know anyone else who would have done such a thing, and yet, your pathetic reward is me?”

“But you
are
our reward. You’re here, Max, and that’s enough. When will you see that? When will you accept that it’s enough to just have you here? And I don’t believe for a goddamn second you don’t love us—me. Tell me that, Max. Tell me, right to my face, that you don’t love me.”

I shake my head.

“Say it,” she insists.

“I can’t. I can’t say that to you. I can’t say
it
,” I protest. Why can’t I? Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I just say
I love you
to the woman who took me in and raised me and mothered me when no one else ever cared or bothered?

“You said plenty. And that’s enough.” I glance up, finally. She smiles through her watery eyes. All three of them are there for me, staring at me, their eyes filled with sympathy, not regret, and their warm emotions are all directed at me. I can literally feel what they feel inside me. It’s pressure. So much of it is building in my chest. It’s almost like they’re touching me with their hands. But unlike when I was little, there is no aggression or anger in their touch. I know that. Even if my physical reaction to it still isn’t acceptance. I can’t accept their care. There is something so wrong in me, I can’t accept it.

But for the first time, now, I think I want to. I want to figure out how to do that. I just don’t know.

Derek holds out his hand for me to grab. I stare at his open palm and then into his dark eyes. They’re full of understanding and sorrow and love. I finally put my hand out, hating the contact of our fingers, but trying to ignore the strange revulsion that nearly overwhelms me. I let him pull me and get onto my feet. I drop his hand. He nods.

“We get that. You’re not as hard to read as you think,” Noah says finally. “Is this what you want? Feeling like shit for no real reason? Look, you had a bad start in life, but you’ve also had a lot of good for the last five years. It’s in you too. So why not give some of the good a chance?”

I stare at Noah. He’s the one that I hate seeing me like this. He’s the one I’m most embarrassed with for being such an epic failure. I finally nod. “Look what I did with your gym idea.”

“I see what you did. I know what you do. I see what it’s gotten you. It seems reasonable to try something different at this point. Unless you have a better argument for why you shouldn’t consider it. I’d love to hear it.”

Shame. Noah’s good at finding the rational side of things despite all the bullshit and flares I send out. He uses calm, cool logic to explain why my behavior is so stupid and detrimental to me; why would any sane person want to be like me?

“You want me gone?” I inquire, my tone sounding defensive.

Noah holds my glare. He’s never one to back down from me. “I want you to not come home with the shit beaten out of you. I don’t want you out of here, I want you to find a way to live here without feeling the need for hurt—to yourself or others. You are going to get in serious trouble if you keep traveling down this path.”

I know. I finally nod. “I guess it’s not a real promising future.”

“No, and you need to figure that out. Not us. Not Derek.
You.
I think you have the ability to do that. Now it’s time to find your true calling.”

I turn my head and Derek and I stare at each other. We are both heaving. Our chests move up and down from the sudden exertion and strain of fighting with each other. We stare long and hard. I close my eyes as sharp stabs of regret fill me. “I’m sorry,” I finally whisper to Derek.

“I know,” he answers.

“I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know you don’t. You don’t want to hurt me. You just want to keep hurting yourself. Just stop it now. Please, Max. For all of us. Just stop hurting yourself.”

“How?”

I glance around the room at the three people that I know love me. Unfortunately, to date, it can’t make up for the two people who gave me life, but never loved me. But it will surely destroy me if I don’t start to let that go.

Derek shrugs and kind of lifts his mouth into a mock grin. “Try something else.”

It sounds so simple. I have no idea if I can do that. I look up at Noah, “Will you help me? Because I don’t know what to do.”

Noah nods back, and his gaze is solemn, but I notice the spark in his eye. I’ve never outright asked him for his help. “I will. I’ll always help you, Max.”

That simply and gracefully, he lets me off the hook. I glance at Derek who nods too before a smile breaks out on his face. I’m shocked, but smile back.

I still have no idea what the crap I’m going to do next week or tomorrow. But there is a strange lifting of my chest, like a burden has been suddenly removed. Maybe I won’t want to hurt my brother, or a stranger… or, most of all, myself any longer.

~Christina~

MY HEART STILL FOLDS in half when I hear his name mentioned, even casually. No one but Mom knows we don’t talk anymore. I play it off that we’re both just too busy. No one knows he so callously broke my heart. I still can’t believe I’m starting my new life, away at college, and we won’t be talking. We won’t be friends. We won’t be anything. I try to foresee my new life, while making Max a far, distant star that grows dimmer and dimmer on my horizon.

It’s such a depressing thought. I spend the next few days trying to stay maniacally busy while trying to forget the memory of Max in that locker room. I can’t stop obsessing over the image and the gut ache it creates inside me.

I’m also appreciating my time here, and helping my mom with the chores. I think that’s because I have a new understanding of how freaking blessed I am to have a mother that I can help; and since I’m leaving soon, I feel lucky I can do this with her still. That afternoon, I decide to tackle my closet. I move a bunch of old school awards and sport trophies to make way for more current stuff, like my shoes. Dragging the old stuff into my parents’ room, I find my way into their closet. It’s big. Mom has a bunch of boxes stored on top of it, beyond everyone’s reach, holding old baby mementos and schoolwork from all three of us. I start hunting through the boxes, pulling them down, and looking for mine. I have nothing else pressing; and it’s kind of hard not to indulge in so much nostalgia, so I give in. I sit on the carpeted closet floor and dig through piles of old pictures, school projects and certificates.

There’s even stuff from my dad’s Army service. There’re pictures of him that seem odd to me. He looks young and hot and badass. I spend quite a while going through his stuff. I think most of it was from before he saved my mom. There’re even pictures from his first marriage. So weird to see him kissing another woman. In another life. There is only a few of him when he was young. His mother was crazy, from most people’s accounts, and he pretty much raised himself. There’re a few school photos, his senior pictures, a straggling dance photo of him and Gretchen, who became wife number one. She later married his best friend, Tony. Gretchen and Tony are Olivia’s parents and Olivia is dating Derek. Such a weird roundabout making us all connected.

In the pictures Dad’s all buff and decked out in camo and paint. He’s smiling at the camera and hanging on the side of an Army Jeep, also painted in camo with a gun turret mounted on top of it. I find another eight-by-ten of Dad in full dress uniform. He is staring solemnly at the camera with an American flag in the background. There’s another picture of him with a gun slung over his back. He’s glaring at whoever took the picture. There’s a picture of him and Tony, with their arms around each other. Wow, it’s so weird. He went through some dangerous things. He did stuff most twenty-something men can’t even fathom doing. He looks so young. That’s the biggest difference from now that I can’t get over. He looks so young and tough and kind of
un
fatherly.

There’s some stuff from my mom. Not much, just miscellaneous photos of Lindsey and her. There are several of her own mother, whom I am named after. She died in a helicopter crash when my mom was ten. It still kind of shocks me, the never ending tragedy that comprises my mom’s history. I realize how lucky I am since my own life has been the complete opposite. My parents provided me with everything my mom ever lacked or wanted.

There is nothing to be said of my mom’s dad. I know so little of him other than not to talk about him. Bad subject, along with so much of my mom’s history.

This box is full of my parents’ souvenirs, long before my sisters and I entered the picture, I find funny things, like ticket stubs for Disneyland. That was on their honeymoon, I think. I’m looking through them when I pull out a wedding photo.
Weird.
I glance at it, staring hard. Yes, it’s my parents… but I know it isn’t
their
wedding photo. They are so stiff and almost unsmiling. There is a formality to both their dress and facial expressions, and they are not even touching. Their real wedding photo hangs front and center in a huge frame over the fireplace mantel. Its Mom’s favorite picture, and she treasures it. It’s sealed in a large, white frame with gold edging. She wears a simple, but lovely dress. Most distinctly, however, it is not a wedding dress. They are smiling on the front steps of a church and the sunlight seems to explode around them.  I have stared at their wedding photo for almost twenty years. Where the hell did this one come from?

Setting it aside, I dig further into the box. And find more. Newspaper clippings. My stomach tightens as I realize the dates and what these scraps of paper are. The same things I’ve never looked up online. I’m shocked my mom or dad would keep them. Most likely, it was my dad. He keeps everything. He prefers to have more information than less.

I read through them. The first announces their triumphant return from Mexico. There is a picture of my mom getting out of a truck. She’s trying to block her face. Dad looks pissed off. I almost crinkle the clipping in my fist. It looks like me getting out of the truck! It’s truly heart-stopping. We could be twins, but twenty-seven years apart in age.

There is one of Mom all dressed up at a dinner, honoring something Dad accomplished. She looks so pretty, my heart twists. She looks younger than I feel right now. There is something so sad and hurt in her eyes as she stares at the camera focused on her.

I move that newspaper to the next one, printed on the base’s own paper,
The Fort Bragg Monitor.
I read through it, and something strange happens in my brain. It starts humming all weird. My vision kind of blurs and I feel like I’m looking through a tunnel.
What the hell?

The article announces the surprising news that Jessie Hendricks is pregnant! My hand lets go of the paper as it slowly drifts to the carpet. I stare at it in horror. The date on the paper is nearly eight years before I was born. And also years before my parents’ wedding date. The date on their wedding photo that hangs over the fireplace mantel.

They have another child.

I feel every part of me go numb. I cannot believe that.
They have another child?
Why? Where is it? Did she miscarry? I start scrambling through the rest of the box, but don’t find anything until I come to the very bottom. There is a large manila folder, simply marked
Jessie
. I think I should stop now. My fingers are shaking and my stomach is all jittery. What more? What more can I possibly discover?

But I ignore the inner voice warning me, no, begging me, if not commanding me to stop. I open the envelope and shake out what’s inside. A stack of old-fashioned handwritten letters plop onto the floor before me. A large rubber band holds them together.

I carefully unwind the rubber band that seems way too casual for whatever I hold. I open the first letter and glance at the date. It’s from 2004. So long ago. Dad would have been serving in Afghanistan. They look like letters to him from Mom. I recognize her handwriting.

Don’t look.
I know that. I am breaking some kind of sacred code of honor by looking. It’s reading someone’s journal. A personal diary. And love letters.

Only these are not love letters. As I start scanning them, I know that instantly. They are… oh, my God, they are everything that happened to my mom, and in her own words. I stare at them in absolute horror.

No. No. Just no!
It’s so bad. So much worse than hearing about it. I’m reading her words, her experience, recorded by her when she was my age. I am crying before I finish the first one. She is alone. And pregnant. And in so much pain. She’s telling my dad about it. But there is something very odd about the tone of letter. This is no love letter from a wife to husband. It’s like he’s her priest and she’s confessing her sins to him.

There is little mention of her pregnancy. Except, how she’s feeling, and how bad it is for her to be pregnant.

I can’t do this. I realize that as finish the first letter. This is going too far for even me. This is the equivalent of typing her name into the internet; that kind of bad. I start to restack the letters when I hear a noise. I freeze, horrified at being caught, and see Melissa standing in the doorway. Swear to God, she must have sensed me crying.

“Are you okay, Tiny?”

“What? Yes. Yes. I was just reading something sad. I’ll be right out.”

I repack everything. My head rushes with the mystery and what ifs, and what all of it means.

I try to make dinner. I listen to Emily’s infatuation over a boy who keeps showing up at the local pool all summer. But all I can think about is what I found. It keeps tumbling around in my brain. Marriage. Letters. Pictures. A pregnancy. Another child. Did it live? Where is it? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?

I can’t find any kind of rational explanation for the second wedding picture.

My parents both come home from work. They kiss each other and chat about the mail, their days at work and who’s taking Melissa to the dentist tomorrow. They act so ordinary, while I feel like I’m ready to combust.

I guess I should never seek a job anywhere that I need to hold onto secrets, or have to wait. I can’t. I’m so impatient to know all the details, I decide to risk asking.

I give them the respect of waiting for my sisters to go to bed. It’s past ten. I enter their bedroom. Mom is lying there, reading, and I see Dad standing at the sink, flossing his teeth. He wears sweats and no shirt. I sit on the bed, staring at the intricate, lacy design. Mom lowers her book. “Something up?”

I nod. She glances off towards Dad. “About Max?” she asks quietly. I shake my head no. I don’t know if I should do this. I don’t know what to say. I have been trying out different intros to the subject for three hours, but nothing feels right. Now that I have my mom’s complete attention, I feel flummoxed. Her eyes are big and she encourages me to talk.

“Did you… what happened to the first baby?” I blurt out. I bite my lip and the heat flushes my face. I didn’t mean to throw it at her like a dirty bomb. I also didn’t mean for it to come out of nowhere, nailing her when she isn’t prepared to dodge it. That’s me, always keeping everyone on the ready, eager for my next attack.

My poor mom. She instantly drops her book and her mouth pops open. Her eyes go wide and something close to tears shines in them. “H—How do you know?”

“I was looking through some things. I shouldn’t have, probably, but I was, and I saw something and…”

Mom closes her eyes. Dad, by this time, notices her change in demeanor and realizes something is up. I swallow with apprehension. Dad is nothing if not scary protective of Mom, even from us kids… and me in particular. I question, or at least, I used to question her behavior more than the others. He steps into the bedroom and comes up behind me.

“Christina?” His tone is low and almost like a growl when he says my name.

I put my shoulders back. I’ve grown up a lot since our first conversation. But I guess I still want to know those things. I want answers. Do they owe me any answers? Maybe not. But if there is another sibling… I don’t even know what to begin to think of that.

I pull out the other wedding picture. “Were you two married before? Like, years before?”

Mom leans forward and stares at the picture. I instantly regret flashing it in front of her. Her face visibly pales and her eyes grow larger as she stares at it. She lifts her hand and takes the picture, coming out of the bedcovers. She gets onto her knees, almost reverently sliding her fingertips over the images.

“My God, I was just over a year older than you are now. Look at us.”

She’s not talking to me. She’s lost inside the memories of that picture. My dad sits down next to her and stares at it. She glances at him. “Do you remember…?”

He nods. “I remember.” He takes the picture and folds it in half, then reopens it, and rips it along the fold line. I am shocked. So is Mom. “Will!”

“It was a shitty day. Why do we need a picture of it?”

I am so confused. “So you were married before? And… there was a baby? Back then? Before me?”

“How do you know that?” Dad asks. He wants to know how much to tell me. I know he’s feeling me out.

“I saw some things in a box.”

Dad’s eyes narrow on my face. “Did you read the letters?” His tone sounds clipped and annoyed.

“No. I swear. I started to, but I realized they were—”

“Extremely private? You’re our daughter, but there are some things you don’t have a right to pry into. Or know about.”

Dad is
pissed.
I mean, clenched jaw, and grinding his teeth. He’s full on, cougar ready to pounce on me pissed off.

“Maybe. But I did. I was looking through old pictures of us. You know of
our
family. I didn’t mean to stumble on an entirely hidden life!” Okay, I’m feeling guilty and trying to deflect what I did by hurling my anger at them.

“There was. There was another baby.” My mom’s very calm and her quiet tone stops me dead. I turn towards her. She’s digging her fingernails into her palms until they start turning white. I lean forward and touch them. “Mom. Please. Don’t do that.”

Dad takes her hand in his. He glares at me. “If we wanted you to know, we’d have told you.”