Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (20 page)

“I’m sorry, Stephanie. You can’t go in there. You will be able to see your brother in a minute but I would like to ask you a few questions first.” She smiles and tilts her head. “You understand.”

I rake my hands through my hair and start pacing, mentally preparing myself for the firestorm ahead. There’s a lot I
do
understand. A lot Rebecca Conway couldn’t even begin to wrap her brain around

- but those are things left unsaid. What I don’t understand is the chaos built around these visits.

Interrupting our life, making it worse, leaving us in shambles to pick up after their exploration of our emotional rubble. Pacey by himself, answering questions he doesn’t know how to handle, dad coming home and finding these people prying into our lives again, the bruises that will most likely land on my skin later tonight once the blame is placed on my head....I fight the tears and force myself to calm down.

Do this for Pacey, Stephanie. Focus. Be calm. Be polite.

I take a deep breath and try to smile.

“Where do you want me?”

Rebecca smooths her jeans with her hands and motions for us to sit on the couch. She focuses on the empty cough syrup bottle on the coffee table and writes something in her tablet.

“Someone sick?”

My eyes follow her gaze.

Shit. No wonder my mom smells like cough syrup. The bottle that was half empty last night.

“Yeah. I’ve been having trouble sleeping with this cough....”

“I haven’t heard you cough since you walked through the door.”

“That’s because it’s a lot better today. It acts up mostly at night when I first lie down, you know, everything settles and stuff.” I look her straight in the eye and hold her gaze.

I can do this all day, lady. You aren’t taking my brother.

“Do you know why we are here, Stephanie?”

“Nope. Nothing has happened.”

“Someone called in a report about abuse—both sexual and physical—have you experienced any of these?”

I blink. Normally they aren’t so direct from the beginning of the interrogation. I can’t help but think of Kevin.
Did he call? Did he tell someone? He’s the only person who knows anything of what
really goes on in this house...

“I don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am.”

“Call me Rebecca”

“...Rebecca.”

“How’s your relationship with your parents?”

I fight a smile, and then think better of it. A smile would probably be beneficial.

“My parents and I are incredibly close. We’ve been through a lot and don’t take family for granted.” I hear my mom snicker from the kitchen and close my eyes.

Really, mother? Now is not to the time to suddenly have an interest in what I say.

“What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Spending time here. Eating. Watching football. Decorating for Christmas.” I start playing with my jacket hem and then pat it against my leg—reminding myself to make eye contact and engage in conversation.

“How often do your parents drink?”

“Alcohol?”

“Yes. Alcohol.” Her eyes travel to the empty bottle again and I speak up before she is able to make any correct assumptions.

“My mom has a glass of wine every night; my dad has a beer when he gets home from work.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes ma’am.”

For some reason my hands are shaking. I clasp them together and put them on my lap - bending my toes inward to keep from bouncing my legs up and down. I am a statue.

Rebecca looks at me for a while and smiles. Writing in her notebook, she glances back at me and continues her questioning.

“Stephanie, do you always have food in the house?”

“Of course.”

“Would you mind if I look in the cupboards?”

“I think that’s a question for my mom...”

“Or her father.”

My heart sinks as I hear my dad’s voice rumble through the hallway. I didn’t even hear the truck pull into the driveway. I close my eyes and squeeze my fingers together, hoping Rebecca doesn’t notice my change in demeanor. My dad walks around the corner and Rebecca stands to greet him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tiller.”

My dad says nothing and glares at her, then looks at me.

“What’s this about half-pint?”

“Dad, Ms. Conway just had a few questions for me. I think she was almost done.”

Rebecca looks from me to my dad and takes a deep breath. Holding my father’s gaze, she reaches out to shake his hand and she continues to stand there—a pillar of intimidation.

“Stephanie’s right, sir. I believe we are just about finished. My partner should be out any minute with Pacey.”

Like clockwork, Pacey walks around the corner slowly, his hands over his mouth like he just got caught telling a secret. Big tears roll down his cheeks and he makes his way over to where I’m sitting on the couch. Climbing into my lap, he buries his head in my neck.

“I’m sorry, Sissy.” he whispers.

“Sorry for what?”

“I couldn’t tell a lie. They asked me questions and I couldn’t tell a lie.”

My blood goes cold and I glance at my father who is studying us with intense focus.

“Pacey,” I ask, “what do you mean? What did you say?”

I look toward Rebecca, and she’s talking with her partner in hushed tones. My mom sits at the kitchen table with what looks like a shot of scotch and her cigarette. The women are comparing notes. I notice the partner motion to her arm and make tiny circles with her fingers - as if she’s explaining something to Rebecca. I know with sudden clarity she’s talking about the cigarette burns on his arm. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.

Pacey doesn’t have a chance to respond to my question, but by now, I already know what

happened in the room. Rebecca walks over to the couch and kneels down eye-level with Pacey and me.

“Hey, Pacey. You’re going to come with us for a little while, okay?” Rebecca catches my eye and pauses when she sees the murderous look emanating from my face. I tighten my hold on my little brother and he moves his face away from the women threatening to remove him from my grasp. I hear his breath start to get heavier and small whimpers fall from his lips.

They can’t do this. They can’t separate us. Please don’t separate us.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

My mom starts choking back sobs in the kitchen—away from everything, hiding, as usual. Her glass clinks on the table from her shaky hands trying to get a firm hold.

“No - no - no - no - no....not my baby.” Her words are slurred and difficult to decipher. She never even looks our way, her eyes stay trained on her glass the entire time.

My dad starts yelling. Pointing fingers. Getting in the way of Rebecca and her partner who are threatening to rip my family apart and take the one person I love who shares my blood.

“Like hell you’ll take my son! Like hell! You ladies better find your way to the door right now

‘fore I get my gun. This is my
property.
He is my
son!
You can’t take him. You can’t.” His voice is echoing off the walls and it’s hard to miss the way he slurs the words. Perfect addition to an already strong case against us.

Pacey holds on tighter and begins to cry.

“I’m sorry, Stephanie.” Rebecca touches my knee and I flinch, moving away. She draws back, surprised at my reaction, and stands up to face my father. I hear police sirens in the distance and I beg someone, anyone, to wake me from this nightmare. Realizing she’s not going to get any help from me, she focuses her attention on my father.

“Sir. This residence is not suited for the safety of Pacey. We will be taking him into the state’s custody for the time being while we investigate further.”

My dad’s neck turns red and I automatically turn to hide from his wrath. His hands start shaking and he opens and shuts his mouth, unable to say anything.

Rebecca leans over to grab Pacey and I fight for as long as I can before she looks me in the eye and whispers, “Please, Stephanie. Don’t make this any harder.”

Pacey is screaming. My heart is breaking. Rebecca holds him and carries him away and I watch his face, contorted and wet with tears. His arms are reaching out to me and he’s begging and apologizing and kicking and screaming.

I can do nothing.

I am a statue.

Chapter Eighteen

The next few hours are a blur.

A cop shows up and talks to Rebecca and her partner for a few minutes before turning to my father and explaining what will happen. I have to turn away when the cop looks at me. I’ve seen him before - he’s one of the more violent clients my dad serves.

I sit there on the couch, head in my hands, when I hear the cop walk over to me and sit next to me, placing his arm around my shoulders like he’s comforting me. I feel his hand squeeze my upper arm and I gag with the memories.

His breath is hot on my neck.

“I’ll see you tonight....”

I close my eyes and wait to feel a reaction, but there is none. I just sit there. Numb. I feel the couch move with his weight as he stands and I glance up just in time to see him slip my dad some money.

I shake my head at how obvious everything is and how no one seems to notice or care, I’m not sure which one it is.

Right now, I don’t even know if I care.

My dad shakes his hand and claps his shoulder. Business. I study his face. He continues to whisper with the cop and shoots glances at mom, still sitting at the table, her face in her hands. He seems calm. He seems put-together. This is just surface level, though. I know my dad’s undercurrent rages violently beneath his skin. It will be minutes before he bursts.

“I appreciate your willingness to cooperate again, Mr. Tiller. We’ll see you around.” The cop turns around to walk out the door and throws me a wink as he motions for Rebecca. I turn away, unsure of how to react or even respond. The tension in the air is palpable and I’m still waiting for something—

anything—to explode.

As soon as Rebecca and the cop leave my dad goes nuts. He and mom start yelling in the kitchen; I hear glass breaking; I hear mom weeping—and I just sit here.

My dad, in his rage, starts beating my mom senseless. I raise an eyebrow at the severity but can do nothing. I have lost all feeling, all reason, to fight. Pacey is gone and I don’t know how to get him back.

“You are good for
nothing
. You bitch. You just sit there, drunk on whatever you can find, and let our baby boy get taken away. My son!
You are worth nothing.
” He’s leaning into her now, his fists cinched around the front of her shirt, her feet dangling six inches off the floor as he lifts her up and slams her against the wall. I flinch, but not because of the beating. Mostly it’s because pictures are falling and shattering around them. I glance away, feeling as though I’m witnessing something intimate, and focus on the family pictures lining the hallway.

I hear a thud and turn my head to look. My dad throws my mom across the room and starts barreling towards her. I study my mom—it looks as though she’s passed out either from pain or drinking, which one I don’t know. I breath deep and close my eyes, still waiting for some kind of emotion, some kind of feeling, to well up inside of me.

Still nothing. I just sit here. A statue. Pacey’s screams and face etched into my memory like a horrible song that never ends.

My dad grabs my mom by her arms and starts dragging her towards the front door. She cries out in pain as her shoulder dislocates. As he pulls her by me, I move my legs out of the way. I wouldn’t put it past him to kick me in the legs or grab one of my arms to pull us both out of the house at the same time.

He looks at me and sneers. “Get ready. You’re next.” I stare at him and force my gaze to move to my mom. As soon as she’s below me one of her eyes open and I freeze. Her look says it all.

She’s given up. She doesn’t care anymore. I really didn’t mean anything to either of them. It was Pacey all along. Pacey. If I were younger, if the state decided to take me, they wouldn’t have cared. The only thing they would be upset about is their live-in babysitter and prostitute would be gone.

I feel a tightness in my chest and then it disappears - my one moment of feeling vanished.

Out of pure curiosity, I follow my parents outside, ignoring the small trail of blood my mom left behind on the floor. I walk outside and my dad is in the middle of the front yard, screaming and kicking my mother, and just as soon as he starts, he stops and stares at her for a split second before collapsing to the ground and covering her body with his arms.

I cross my arms over my chest and wait.

“Oh, baby, baby I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please forgive me.” He starts kissing her arm, her cheek, her hair. My mom moves slightly and whispers something to him - I can’t hear. His back stiffens and I know what’s coming. Slowly, he lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes destitute.

The second round is about to begin.

I brace myself for impact. Clinching my hands together, my nails digging into the skin of my palms, I close my eyes.

He makes it over to where I’m standing within seconds. He punches me in the face first. I fall to the cement, my breath knocked out of me and my nose throbbing. My head bounces against the concrete and I scream out in pain, lifting my hand to touch my nose. He grabs my fingers in his own steel lock. I try to ignore the popping sounds and the way my fingers twist unnaturally. He rips me up from the ground and pulls me inside.

“We don’t want to entertain the neighbors, now do we?”

I hit the wall with my whole weight, my face running into a picture of me in kindergarten, a fake bookshelf behind me and an apple on the fake desk. I’m smiling in the picture. A foreign smile. The glass shatters and I feel a piece break the skin on my cheek. I wince and feel my hair pull from my scalp as he maneuvers my face so I have to look at him.

“Why’d you do it, huh? Why’d you say something? Why’d you open that pretty little mouth of yours? You just can’t keep quiet, can you? Was it that prissy little Emma? Huh? Did you tell her what goes on in this house? Did you?”