Damaged: A Violated Trust (Secrets) (2 page)

I’m almost out the door when Sean stops me. “Take care, sis,” he mumbles, giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. For him, that’s quite demonstrative.

“You take care too.” I give him another hug, but just like with the last one, when I said good-bye earlier, Sean doesn’t respond. He just stands there hard and cold, like a big boulder or a marble statue of my brother. I can almost imagine he’s still in his army uniform, except that back then, back before he left for the Middle East, his smile was genuine and his hug was like a big friendly teddy bear. He didn’t get injured in Iraq, not so you can see, but he is like the walking wounded now. He’s definitely not the same Sean McLean who marched off to war, and I don’t know if my other brother will ever come home. I look into his sad blue eyes. “If Mom gets to you,” I whisper, “you could always come out and live with Dad and me in California.”

He just shakes his head. “Mom needs me.”

“Yes.” I pat him on the back. “Maybe you can help her.” I tell him good-bye for the second time, then, blinking back tears, I jog out to the SUV, slide into the passenger seat, and let out a huge sigh.

“Find what you were looking for?” Dad’s already starting the engine.

I toss my well-worn Bible into the backseat and shrug, trying not to give in to crying like a baby. The whole point of doing this is to show Dad and the rest of the world that I am mature, nearly grown up. It won’t look good to break down and cry.

“They’re going to be okay, Haley.”

I turn and stare at him. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, you know what they say, baby doll. Time heals all wounds.” He grins. “Or wounds all heels.”

“Mostly … I worry about Sean.”

He nods. “So do I.”

“Mom’s always telling him to just pray his way through everything.”

Dad shakes his head, but I can see his jaw tightening.

“I think Sean might be able to get some help,” I go on. “I mean at the VA hospital. I read online that they’re doing some counseling and psychological evaluations and stuff. But when I told him about it, he said he didn’t need any help.”

“Maybe he’s not ready.”

“But he’s so miserable, Dad.”

“I know. But sometimes people have to hit rock bottom before they look up and reach for help.”

“Has that ever happened to you? I mean
rock bottom.
”

Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel with a thoughtful expression as he waits for the light to change. “I’m not really sure. I mean, I felt pretty low when I left your mom — that was rough and it might’ve been my rock bottom — but then I kind of bounced back too. But you know me, Haley, the perennial optimist.” He grins again, and I’m suddenly reminded of better times and how when my dad smiled it always seemed like the sun came out.

“I think some optimism might be nice for a change.” I return his smile and start to relax inside.

“So, how about some music? We’ve got a long drive ahead, and I’m going to need something to keep me awake after getting up at two in the morning to come pick you up.”

“Music is good.”

So Dad turns on his stereo, and while he rocks out to some old fogy tunes, I ponder over what I’m getting myself into. I’ve only been to my dad’s place twice. Once for Christmas and once for a couple of weeks the summer before last. But back then I never imagined that life with Mom would get so bad I’d actually choose my dad over her. I find it hard to believe that only three years ago, I was solidly on Mom’s side. So much so that it was difficult to visit my dad — since he was the traitor who’d run out on us.

My parents split up shortly after my mom began going to a different church. I realize now that their marriage had already been in trouble, and she was looking for some answers. At first I thought this new church was just what she needed. Especially after the divorce. Her ladies’ Bible study group became her safety net. It even seemed to shake her out of her funk and bring her to life. And at first I didn’t mind going to church with her. It was definitely different from what I’d been used to, but I figured if it helped Mom, why not?

But after a year of this new church, Mom started going off the deep end. It was about this same time that I started to question things, and as a result Mom and I started to argue. It didn’t help matters when I quit going to church with her. But what was I supposed to do, check my brain at the door? The pastor acted like everyone should just believe everything he said — like he was God’s gift to these poor lost sheep. And I have to say that a lot of the stuff he said was pretty weird.

It didn’t take long until Mom started to sound just like the pastor. She was talking differently, thinking differently, acting differently. Almost like she’d been brainwashed. Anyway, I got the distinct impression I was losing her.

On my fifteenth birthday, she surprised me — not by making a cake, not by getting me a present or even a card, but instead by hitting me with this: “God told me you are not to date until you turn eighteen, Haley Michelle.”

Too shocked to respond, I just chalked it up to one more weird and fundamentalist thing she’d learned from her women’s group. I hoped it was only a phase, something she’d get over by the time a real opportunity to date occurred. But the no-dating rule only seemed to snowball. Not only was I not allowed to date until I was of voting age, I was not allowed to go to dances or other social gatherings where boys were present. Naturally that covered almost everything at my high school.

Even though I rarely even had a conversation with a guy, I was lectured regularly on the evils of boys in general and was spied on more times than I can remember. It came to a head at the end of last school year.

It was one of those delicious spring days, and I actually felt like a normal girl for a nice change. Bryce Thurston (my first and only boyfriend) was walking me home from school, and we were laughing and joking and holding hands — acting like what I assume normal teens are supposed to act like. And it was so fun!

Of course, I had no idea my mom was hiding behind the Schulers’ hedge as Bryce and I passed by. Seriously, whose mom does that? I nearly had a heart attack when she leaped out from the shadows.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, shaking her finger at me.

After recovering from the shock, I went into embarrassment mode when I noticed she was wearing an ugly old Christmas sweater and matted pink fuzzy slippers. Naturally, Bryce excused himself and took off in the opposite direction.

That was the day Mom decided she would find a way to afford the tuition at her church’s private academy — a pathetic little school with about twenty unfortunate kids between the ages of five and eighteen.

A few days later, I did some online legal research and discovered that at sixteen, I was old enough to petition a judge for the right to live with my other parent. And that’s exactly what I did. Much to my mom’s displeasure, after I presented my case, the judge ruled in my favor. It helped that my grades were high and I’d never been in any kind of trouble. I even presented some letters from my teachers and school counselor. Also, the judge seemed familiar with Mom’s church and she didn’t agree with forcing one’s religion onto one’s young adult children. But it’s a bittersweet victory.

As we get closer to the California border, I feel myself drifting off to the sound of my dad’s favorite band, the Eagles, playing “Hotel California.” “Such a lovely place … such a lovely face …” I imagine those lyrics are for me and hope I will be welcome here “any time of year.”

...[CHAPTER 2].................

“H
ere we are,” Dad says as he pulls into his space in the condominium parking lot. “Home sweet home.”

I hear the sarcasm in his voice, but I don’t really care. I’m just glad to get out of the car and stretch my legs. I’m surprised at how warm the air feels, especially for October. But then I’m not in Oregon anymore. Dad’s condominium is about thirty minutes from Fresno, where he works for a big insurance company. And while it’s not really Southern California, it feels like a different world to me. Instead of evergreen trees, there are palms, and the air feels dryer too.

“Is the swimming pool still open?” I ask.

“Oh, sure.” He opens the back of his SUV.

“Looks like not much has changed around here.” I reach for my guitar case and another bag.

“Nah, but sometimes that’s a good thing.” He grabs a plastic crate and a duffle bag. “Let’s get this stuff unloaded ASAP, okay?”

“No problem.” I follow him as he practically sprints with his arms full, bounding up the stairs to his third-floor unit. I’m still caught off guard by how much younger he seems than when he was living at home. He seems so much younger than Mom, even though he’s three years older. Maybe some people just age differently. Hopefully I’ll take after my dad.

It takes about an hour, but we get everything unloaded in time for Dad to make his racquetball date. “You’re sure you don’t mind me taking off like this?” He slings a strap of his gym bag over his shoulder.

“No, Dad, I’m fine. Remember our agreement: You’re going to treat me like an adult and I’m going to act like one.”

He grins and grabs a ball cap off the coatrack. “There’s not much in the fridge, but help yourself to anything. Or if you want to wait, we can run out and grab a bite to eat when I get back.”

“Sounds good.”

After he leaves, I lock the front door. It’s not that I’m scared exactly, but I’m just cautious. We lived in a pretty small town in southern Oregon, but my mom always insisted on locking and dead bolting the doors, whether we were home or out, and I guess old habits die hard. I check my pocket for the key Dad gave me, worried I might’ve lost it already like I did last time I was here, but thankfully it’s still there.

Now I take a quick tour of Dad’s condo, which looks almost exactly like it did before. Same black leather sofa and easy chair (Dad’s attempt at a bachelor pad). Same metal and glass-topped tables and same big-screen TV that I was so impressed with. Same fake ficus plant (probably the same dust, too). It’s in a gigantic pot wedged into a corner by the sliding doors that lead to the terrace and overlook the pool. I’ll admit the pool looks pretty good — a bright turquoise spot surrounded by hot-looking terra-cotta tiles and white lounge chairs.

In the kitchen I find the same black granite countertops and the same stainless steel appliances Mom was jealous of after I blabbed about them following my first visit down here. I still think she sent me down to spy on him that time.

But I did feel sorry for her since she didn’t have any of these “luxuries.” It didn’t seem fair — not to her or me. Now I check the contents of the fridge and wonder if Dad’s help-yourself policy applies to the six-pack of Corona. Not that I’d go there — I most definitely would not. But I do know Mom would have a hissy fit if she knew. Instead I take a Coke, then dig around the mostly empty cabinets until I find a bag of Cheetos. If Mom could see me now.

Satisfied that I’ve sufficiently cased the joint, I set to work unpacking my things. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t have time to clear his junk out of the guest room, which is now my room, but he told me I could put it in the storage closet off the back terrace. Of course, the storage closet is full — at least it seems full on first appearance — but with a little rearranging I can make room for his things. By the time I’m done, it’s so stuffed I barely get the door closed.

Now I set to work putting my room in order. First I set up the old computer. Dad gave it to me right before he left Mom. I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to pack the bulky thing up or if he thought he was being generous. But I’d really rather have a laptop. Next I hang up my clothes, and when I run out of hangers, I sneak into his room to see if he has any extras.

Finally, I see something that’s changed. He’s gotten himself a real set of bedroom furniture! It’s made of sleek-looking dark wood in a contemporary design, with a king-sized bed. Naturally, this makes me curious. Why does a single man need a
king-sized
bed? However, it’s none of my business. Like we agreed, we will treat each other with respect and act like adults. I study a painting above the bed. It looks kind of Italian with rich tones of red, gold, and black, and it’s obviously not an original. But in a way, it’s attractive. I bend down and touch the garnet red velvety bedspread. Is this really my dad’s taste? Or is he trying to be someone or something else? In some ways this all seems like such a stereotype. Really, he could’ve done better.

I stand there for a long time, just looking at this foreign world, comparing this space to the bedroom my parents used to share — and the difference is extreme. I would describe their old room as painfully traditional and boring, with a floral bedspread and pastel-colored pillows and too many ruffles and my mom’s porcelain knickknacks on every flat surface. I suppose it’s not a surprise that Dad decided to go in the exact opposite decor direction.

Suddenly I feel like an intruder and fear I may have just broken my “grown-up” agreement, but I still need hangers. Dad should understand. I ease open his closet and see his neatly hung clothes, arranged by color and style. My dad has always been a meticulous dresser. He even shines his shoes. My mom used to complain about the expense of his dry cleaning, claiming she could do his laundry at home and save them lots of money. But Dad insisted that dry cleaning was a business expense for him and if he didn’t go to work looking like a
GQ
ad, his job might be in jeopardy. And since a lot of employees got laid off at the onset of the recent recession but Dad managed to get a transfer to an even better job, I suspect he was right.