Say When (7 page)

I’d have to carry those painful memories from that fateful night for the rest of my life, wondering why he did it, why he blamed me, and then why he went on about his life like nothing happened.

And now it’s too late to ask him why, because he’s dead, hopefully rotting in some dark shithole. If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my dad to think about the consequences before deciding to sneak into my room in a drunken stupor. I’d tell him nothing could undo the emotional and physical scars I now carry with me after he took my virginity when I was only fifteen.

But I can’t travel back in time. I can’t undo what he’s done, so I scowl at his tombstone while my mother silently weeps beside me. Out loud, I tell my dad to rest in peace. Inside, I tell him I’ll never forgive him.

Never.

* * *

“So what did you and Jackson do last night?” Mom is dabbing her eyes with an embroidered kerchief while clutching the steering wheel with her other hand.

“Huh?” That “huh” was a knee-jerk reaction. What I really mean to say is, “Mind your own damn business.” Honestly, I don’t want to talk about what went on between Jackson and me, not now, not ever. But because Jackson and my mom have this strange little friendship, namely, they like to call each other and complain about all of my flaws, I know she’ll find out eventually, and I guess I’d rather she hear it from me than him.

“Did he take you out to that nice Chinese restaurant?” Mom asks with a dreamy sigh in her voice.

I glare at her. “You knew about the restaurant?”

She sets down her handkerchief and flashes her best condescending smile. “He called me yesterday and told me his plans.”

Okay, now I’m pissed. “You know I
hate
Chinese food.”

“Oh, pshaw.” Mom waves me away with a flick of the wrist, as if nothing I say matters. “Did you see the prices at that place? Easily a hundred a plate. For that much money, you can learn to like it.”

I blow out an exasperated breath. I’ve been thinking of the best way to break it to my mom, but suddenly I don’t give a shit about her feelings. It’s not like she cares about mine.

I turn up my chin and flash my own condescending smile. “I broke it off with Jackson.”

Mom’s hand flies to her chest. “Pardon?” she says in a breathy voice, looking as if she’s about to pass out. “I didn’t hear you.”

She must have taken her foot off the accelerator because the car starts to slow down.

I fold my arms across my chest and center my gaze out the front window, watching other cars speed past us. “I broke up with him. Gave back the ring.”

The car swerves, and I grab the door handle, praying that all the airbags in mom’s luxury car still work.

“Christina Marie, that is
not
funny.”

But her eyes just about pop out of her head when she looks down at my bare engagement finger. The car swerves again, narrowly missing a pickup truck beside us. The driver lays on the horn and speeds up.

Even though my stomach has practically launched into my throat, I hold my ground. “I’m not joking.”

She angles her body, her eyes more on me than on the road. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No, but you have. Pay attention to where you’re driving!” I holler.

She gasps and faces forward, but not before I witness a look of horror in her eyes. I know what she’s thinking.
How could my darling, obedient girl use that tone of voice?
She’ll probably need several extra weeks of therapy after my outburst.

We ride the rest of the way home in stony silence, which suits me just fine, but as we pull into the circular drive of our two-story upscale home, a lead ball settles in the pit of my stomach, because this silent treatment is just the beginning of something far worse. I’ve seen the extent of my mother’s wrath when other people have angered her. Up until this point, I’ve always done what I’ve been told. I cringe when I think just how far she’ll go to make me pay for my defiance.

* * *

I wake up to a blinking cell phone. No surprise there. I had turned off the volume because I knew my friends wouldn’t let me get any sleep. I stretch a cramped arm and pick up the phone, surprised to see it’s already six o’clock. I’d slept almost the whole day, although considering my wild night, I know I needed the rest. I scroll through my messages. Five voicemails from Karri’s mom and three texts from Jackson. I ignore the texts. Whatever the hell he has to say, I don’t care.

Karri’s mom, on the other hand, I can’t ignore. The woman is a saint, the kind of mother neglected, unloved kids like me have fantasies about. It pisses me off that Mrs. Peterson is Karri’s mom. Karri doesn’t deserve her. She deserves a mom like mine, one who is selfish and spiteful, just like Karri.

The first few voicemails, Mrs. Peterson asks if I know when Karri is coming for Tyler. She sounds concerned because she has church at eleven and Karri isn’t answering her phone. The next two messages, Karri’s mom says she took Tyler with her to church and he cried during the service. Would I let Karri know she has bridge club at six-thirty and she’d like to spend time with her friends? The final message, Karri’s mom actually sounds frantic. Do I know if Karri is okay? She hasn’t heard from her daughter all day. She goes on about all the weirdos in Karri’s apartment complex and how she fears for her daughter’s safety.

The images of two particular weirdos flash in my mind, Karri’s greasy fuck buddies, and probably her drug dealers as well. Karri has to be back on meth. That would explain why she doesn’t have the funds to change the oil in her car when she makes good tips bartending, especially considering the tight tank tops and pushup bras she wears on the job.

Poor Mrs. Peterson. She deserves a better daughter. Now she is stuck with Tyler, when I’m sure she needs a break. The woman isn’t in the best health, and I know Tyler can be a handful. He’s just learned how to crawl and is into everything.

I dial Mrs. Peterson, not surprised when she answers on the first ring.

“Karri, is that you?” she cries into the phone.

I’m fairly certain Karri’s mom has caller ID, but she doesn’t know how to use it.

“No, Mrs. Peterson.” I sigh. “It’s Christina.”

“Have you seen Karri? Is she okay?” Even through the receiver, the woman’s fear is palpable.

“I saw her last night,” I say, hating to be the one to tell her the bad news. Mrs. Peterson has already taken on so many of her daughter’s problems. “They had to tow her car. The engine blew up.”

“Oh, damn.”

Wow. Karri’s mom rarely swears, and I feel terrible for upsetting her.

“I’m sure she just needs a ride.” I do my best to sound upbeat, even though I feel this sinking feeling in my gut. Karri has to be back on drugs. “Do you want me to go get her?”

I instantly regret my offer. The last thing I want to do is go to Karri’s apartment, but I feel partially responsible for my friend’s fuckups. Maybe because the last time Karri was doing meth, I did the stupid thing and helped her conceal her addiction, not to protect Karri, but to protect Mrs. Peterson. I knew the poor woman would keel over if she found out. Karri had promised me she’d quit, and like an idiot, I believed her.

“My bridge club will be here in a half hour,” Mrs. Peterson says, and there is no mistaking the desperation in her voice.

“Okay. I’ll come over and get Tyler,” I say. I make no promise to take Ty to his mother. If Karri wants her baby, she can come get him. Besides, if she’s back on meth, I don’t want to leave the baby in her care, anyway.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Mrs. Peterson’s tone is a mixture of relief and despair.

“You know I love Ty.” I’m already slipping on a pair of jeans as I scan the room for my flip flops.

“You are such a dear girl,” Mrs. Peterson says through a sigh. “I don’t know what we’d ever do without you.”

And there is the reason I haven’t broken off my friendship with Karri. Because no matter how badly she pisses me off, Ty and Mrs. Peterson depend on me. This, of course, makes me resent Karri even more. In a way, I resent myself, too, for standing by and doing nothing while she makes a mess of everyone’s lives.

Chapter Eight

A half hour later, I pull into my driveway with a strawberry-haired, pudgy-faced infant in the back seat. He’s sleeping, so I decide to let the car idle a while. If I try to move him, he’ll only wake up and proceed to throw a tantrum. My mom would freak if she saw how his car seat digs into the pristine leather of my expensive guilt-mobile.

Yes, that’s right, a Lexus RX my dad bought for me for high school graduation. I wasn’t expecting it, not after the money they were shelling out for college, and not after my dad’s secretary embezzled millions and almost bankrupted his company.

But I guess after nearly three years of feeling like shit for raping me, my dad finally caved and bought the Lexus. Maybe he thought I’d forgive him when he came home with the shiny silver SUV. As if a material thing can make up for him violating not only my body, but my mind and spirit.

After the rape, I went through a total transformation. I withdrew, not just physically, but mentally, from the world. I dropped out of my school clubs and stopped hanging out with my friends, preferring solitude to the company of others. In fact, I would have abandoned all of my friends if Karri hadn’t hounded me. She was the one person I let in, and the one I finally confided in.

I just didn’t have the strength to face the world, not after what I went through. I close my eyes and try to shut out painful memories of that night, but the images still plague me, raping my mind, just as my dad had once done to my body. After he’d rolled off me, he slapped me across the face and told me it was my fault for dressing like a whore. I remember scooting against my headboard and crouching in a ball, blood dripping down my thighs and smearing my sheets. I shivered as the fan above me chilled my nude flesh, but I was too terrified to reach for a blanket.

I remember the hurt, confusion, and fear that had welled up inside me. I didn’t know I’d been dressing like a whore. Even though I was a high school sophomore, I still let my mom pick out my clothes. She had insisted, saying she had a better eye for the current fashions.

But my dad had told me I was asking for it by wearing low-rise skinny jeans and tight T-shirts. After he stumbled out of my room and left me sobbing into my pillow, dark thoughts tormented me. I thought maybe he was right, so the following week I opted to wear oversized shirts and heavy jackets. I brushed my hair forward so people wouldn’t see my face. I was afraid if people noticed me, they might see the shame I carried, or worse, they might want to rape me, too.

Every night I double-checked to see I’d locked the door. I even wedged a chair beneath my door handle for good measure. I didn’t want to take any chances of being molested again.

My clothes continued to get bigger, and I barely ate as I withdrew from the world more and more. The change in appearance distressed my mom to no end. As the months dragged on, my dad kept repeating that I was just going through a phase. Never once did he let on what he’d done.

Karri knew the truth. I carried feelings of inadequacy and guilt like a noose around my neck until Karri convinced me to snap out of it. It wasn’t my fault, she kept telling me. Finally, one day, I believed her.

That was the day I decided I’d no longer punish myself for what my dad had done to me—I’d punish him instead. I treated him with cold indifference until he died a year later.

A tap on my window startles me, and I look up to see my mom standing outside my door, hands on hips, giving me the death stare. I hear a soft whimper behind me before it turns into a loud wail.

No doubt the Wicked Witch frightens Tyler, too.

After I unstrap Tyler’s seat from the car, Mom gives me the once over and turns her gaze to the baby in my arms, scowling at Ty like he’s a case of the plague.

From day one, Mom has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t like Karri’s baby. She refused to go to Karri’s baby shower. All the times I’ve babysat Ty, she wouldn’t come within ten feet of him.

“It’s not the baby I despise,” she once told me. “It’s what your stupid friend has done with her life.”

“It’s not Ty’s fault,” I’d told my mom. “You could at least be nice to him.”

“Why should I?” Mom pouted. “And encourage your friend to breed more bastards?”

“News flash, Mom. Karri doesn’t care whether or not you approve of her lifestyle.”

But nothing I said ever worked on my mom. She was determined to hate this poor, defenseless baby, all because he wasn’t conceived by the right parents.

* * *

Tyler and I play upstairs in my bedroom so my mom doesn’t have to be offended by his “obnoxious giggling” and “strange baby odor.”

I keep a little basket of toys in my closet for Tyler’s visits, so he crawls after a windup toy until he becomes bored, and then he giggles at a few hand puppets I made for him in one of my art classes. I have to keep redirecting him because he desperately wants to topple my easel and paints.

We play like this for a half hour until he finally tires us both out and rests on my bed with a bottle. I build a fortress of pillows around him so he doesn’t roll off.

When he finally falls asleep, I get a text from Karri.
Mom says you have Tyler?

How do I respond to her message?
No, I sold him on eBay.

Cruel, I know, but she deserves it after neglecting her child for an entire day.

Ha, ha!
She texts back.
Robbie is bringing me to get him.

Every muscle in my body tenses up when I think about that greaseball inside my house.
I don’t want him to know where I live.

Oh, please,
she responds. I imagine her rolling her eyes through the phone.
It’s not like he can’t use Google to find you.

He’s not allowed in my house,
I answer back.

Don’t worry. He doesn’t like snakes.
By snakes, she’s referring to my mother, AKA The Spitting Cobra, a name Karri pinned on her years ago.
Be there in twenty,
she adds.