Dear Emily (Forever Family) (7 page)

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Past

Age 19

It’s Friday!

Somehow, I managed to switch shifts at the diner with Dottie. Thank you baby Jesus!

I’m so nervous and excited to go see Alex at the High Note tonight. What am I going to wear? Who am I going to go with? I have no friends here. God! What I wouldn’t give for a girlfriend right now! Someone to help pick out
the
perfect outfit. Do my makeup. Fuss over my hair.

But…

I have no one.

I’m on my own.

My mood suddenly switches and I stiffen.

I’m sitting on my bed with my iPod on, ear buds in my ear, listening to Rage Against the Machine. This is bringing my mood down, but I need anger. Angry lyrics. I need to get out
my
rage. To feel my rage.

God, my mood is everywhere. My mind is racing trying to think of happy thoughts and at the same time, I want to punch something. Pull something. Pull my hair out. Scrape this scar from my face.

I close my eyes and see Sara. My baby girl. I miss her. I miss feeling her kicking feet in my belly, her baby hiccups tickling my womb. I start rocking back and forth on my bed, and I rip the earbuds out of my ears. I need to stop. No more rage.

I remember the week before Sara was born. Tony was in an exceptionally good mood, which meant that things were going to turn real bad, real fast.

We are having dinner at the club. The only place that I am ever allowed to eat. I push my food around on my plate. I have no appetite.

Tony is smiling across from me and pushes a packet of papers in front of me.

“What’s this?” I ask him.

“Open it,” he commands and sneers. He licks his lips like a snake would if a snake had a human tongue. Ick. My skin is crawling just looking at him. How did I let him get me pregnant? Touch me? Control me? Own me? What am I even doing here? Why can’t I muster the courage to leave?

I pull the packet closer and see across the top: Adoption Agreement. I stop reading.

I look up at Tony, and he’s smiling. Big.

“Adoption agreement. For what?” I ask incredulously.

“Your baby.” He emphasizes ‘your’ as if he didn’t force his cock into me repeatedly, getting me pregnant with his baby.

“What? I thought…” I start to say.

His look becomes menacing. “You thought what, princess? That you were going to have this baby, and I was going to pay for the two of you to live upstairs over my club?” he says with dripping sarcasm.

“Tony, I…” I can’t speak. My throat is closing up as if I’m being strangled. He can’t do this! He can’t take my baby from me! I need to get away. Get out of here!

I push the papers to the floor and watch them scatter in all different directions. I get up and start to run away when he grabs me by my bicep and pulls me back.

His face is inches away from mine, and his cold, dark eyes are shooting into my own. “You WILL sign these papers, princess. You don’t have a choice. I OWN you, and I OWN the right to have you and ONLY you. This baby is not welcome in my life, and I’m not ready for you to be gone. If you don’t sign these papers, you will regret bringing that child into my home. Do. You. Understand?” His hot breath is smothering me, and I try to back away. He’s too strong. I can’t fight him.

He just threatened me. But worse, he just threatened my baby. I have to protect her. But how?

Maybe signing these papers will get her far away from here. From Tony. From me. Maybe this will be the best thing for her. I can’t subject her to a life above this god-awful club. I can’t subject her to the almost daily beatings that I receive from Tony.

Oh. My. God.

I have to do it. I have to do what Tony wants.

He grabs me by the back of the neck, pulls my hair, and forces me to the floor to gather all of the papers that I scattered just moments before.

After I pick up all of the papers, he hands me a pen and pushes the papers around to find the pages that I need to sign.

I sign the consent to adoption and revocation of parental rights. Paper after paper I sign until my wrist hurts and my hand is shaking. I feel as though a knife is twisting into my gut as I sign away all rights to my daughter.

“Now,” he says. “The next thing you have to do is smile when the lawyer meets you in the hospital. You need to tell him that this is what is best for your precious little girl. That you want her to have a good and loving home. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes what?” he snarls.

“Yes, I understand Tony.”

He lets me go.

“Get the fuck out of my face. You look like a pig,” he says.

I leave the bar, walk upstairs to our apartment, and look around. He’s right. I am no good for this baby. Even if I were to get away. Escape this hell. What could I provide her? How could I take care of her?

I sink to my knees on the living room floor while holding my belly. I start to sob uncontrollably while rubbing my hands on my baby bump. I can’t even talk to her to tell her that everything will be OK. I don’t know that it will.

I continue to sob, keeping my wails to a minimum. I don’t want Tony to hear me. Oh God. What have I done? What am I going to do?

The choice has been made. I curl up on the floor holding my belly and whisper to my baby, “I love you, and I’m doing this all for you.”

Remembering Sara and my old life sends me into a downward spiral. I pick up my iPod and throw it across the room. Why didn’t I run then? I could have tried with Sara. I should have tried. But I didn’t. I’m a coward. I curl up on my pillow and let my rage slip into darkness.

~

I’m sweating, and tangled in my sheets. It’s dark with a hint of light from the street peeking through the curtains. I roll over and look at the clock.

Ten-forty five PM.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Fuck.

I’m
late
. Like so late that I’ve probably missed Alex’s entire set.

Fuck.

I throw on my boots and run out the door.

I don’t even know what I look like. I’d been crying, and I must be a mess.

I arrive at the High Note ten minutes later and there only five people outside waiting. I get to the back of the line and shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans. God what am I doing?

The five people in front of me aren’t getting into the club. They sound frustrated and are huffing and puffing. The bouncer repeatedly tells them that they are at capacity, and their names aren’t on ‘the list’.

The list!

My name is on the list!

I clear my throat and say, “Excuse me?”

The bouncer looks and scowls at me.

“I’m on the list.” I crack a small smile.

He looks down at his clipboard. “Name,” he says sternly.

“Tabitha Fletcher. I’m with Alex.”

He scans the clipboard, running his finger up and down and he finally stops, resting on a name.

He looks me up and down and waves me forward.

The rest of the people in line are agitated and are now throwing insults my way. I tune them out and walk up to the door.

Mr. Bouncer lets me in. That’s it. Easy. No ID needed. Victory!

I almost chuckle as I walk in. What right do I have to be so cocky? None.

My smile evens out as I start to scan the crowd.

The music is what hits me first. It’s deep and melodic. Heavy base, steady drums, haunting voice. I feel the music in my chest, beating in time with my heart.

I look up to find the stage.

Alex.

The lighting is dark and dim, and he seems like a shadow on the stage. He’s holding the microphone with two hands, his guitar hanging from his back, and his eyes are closed. He’s singing deeply with such emotion. I don’t hear the words. I only see his lips moving. Like he was doing the other day with the bookmarks.

I’m so drawn to him and the melody. I stand still and just stare. I begin to sway with the music until I hear the words that he is singing.

“Jaded… I’m jaded.”

He breathes.

“Alone and damaged.”

His voice is reverberating throughout the bar.

“I need hope…”

“But I’m hopeless.”

“Tattered and used.”

“No end in sight.”

He begins screaming the lyrics.

“Jaded!”

“Weary!”

The music stops. The drums beat one last time.

He whispers, “Alone.”

The lights go out completely; the crowd screams for more. Alex has left the stage.

Jaded, damaged, and alone. He could have been singing that directly to me.

For me.

About me.

It’s my anthem. How could he know?

How could he know that I am damaged?

I touch the scar on my cheek. My fingertip is cold as I run it up and down the four-inch length. I can feel my scar burning now as my emotions start to wrestle with my brain. I stand here as I rub my cheek and stare at an empty stage.

I don’t know how long I am standing still when I feel a soft pressure on my lower back. Someone’s hand is gently pushing me toward an open booth.

I turn to look.

Alex.

I shiver as I look into his eyes. His gaze is intense and freezes me into place. We stand there staring into each other’s eyes for a moment, then he nudges me softly, and somehow my feet start moving. He removes his hand, I sit down in the booth, and he slides into the bench across from me.

“Hey, Tabitha Tabby Fletcher,” he says. He clearly likes to say all of my names.

“Hey,” I respond. “Thanks for getting me in here tonight. And you can call me Tabby.” I crack a small smile. I’m so nervous. “I’m sorry I got here late. I lost track of time.” I lie. I can’t tell him that I had a total bipolar melt down and passed out from exhaustion.

“I feel bad…” I look away, embarrassed. Does he suspect that I’m crazy?

“Hey.” He chuckles. “No worries. I was actually worried about
you
. I thought you might blow me off.” He looks me in the eyes again, and I am now lost in his gaze.

“Wow, your music is incredible. What I heard of it anyway. Just Wow.” I can’t get anything else out of my head. I need to tell him how his song found its way into my soul, all one minute that I actually heard. I need to tell him that he must have written that song for me. I can’t go all fan-girl at this point. He’ll head for the door. He doesn’t seem like the ‘groupie’ type.

I’m overwhelmed by his presence. He is nothing like Tony. His demeanor is soft, edgy, but still somehow soft. He is intense, but not in an intimidating way. He also seems guarded, like me. What could he be hiding?

There is so much I want to ask him.
Need
to ask him. I just need to know
him
.

“How did your writing go the other day? You know, with my notebook?” What a stupid question, Tabby.
I’m an
Idiot
.

He looks away from me, and his eyes are now darting all over the bar. Shit. He doesn’t want to talk about his music.

He waves his hand in the air to get the attention of the waitress across the bar. She makes her way over and immediately heaves her chest out in front of Alex, entirely ignoring my presence.

“Yes, sugar, what can I do for you?”

“Two ice waters please,” Alex replies.

She seems surprised by his order. “Anything else?”

“Nope.” And he immediately looks back to me.

The waitress walks away in a huff, but manages to shake her ass as she goes along.

“You’re not twenty-one, are you Tabby?” He asks.

“No,” I say softly.

He laughs heartily for the first time. “Neither am I. I’m only twenty, and besides, I don’t drink.”

“Oh,” I say. Wow, I’m really carrying this conversation, I think sarcastically to myself. I must seem like flat soda to him.

“Where’s the rest of your band?” I ask, quickly looking around the bar for any sign of them.

“Who knows? They are probably in the back. We aren’t a very social group.” He winks. “We’d rather sit in the back room between sets than be out here with these people. They all think they get us, but they don’t…” His voice trails off.

I boldly reach across the table and grab his right hand. “’E-P-I-C’. Nice tattoo. Does it signify something major that happened in your life?” I ask as I run my finger along his knuckles. I smile into his eyes. I can’t believe how brazen I’m being. His hand is cool to the touch.

He quickly puts his left hand in view, and I see ‘F-A-I-L’ across his other knuckles. “Oh,” I say quietly. “It goes together.” Duh.