14. Under the Surface
Jonathan wasn’t in the house in the morning. Neither was my mother, who was once again fulfilling her obligations as executive assistant at the engineering firm. We didn’t see Jonathan for the rest of the week either, and she appeared to be adjusting to the separation.
I tried to keep her busy. I even suggested a cooking lesson one night, but after the smoke detectors went off and we had to open every window in the house for ventilation, we opted to eat out. She worked late a couple of nights, coming home after I'd eaten and joining me on the couch to watch television.
"I hope he doesn't leave me," she uttered one night with a glass of wine in her hand. She had kicked off work shoes under the coffee table, and her blouse was untucked from her skirt. She was staring at the TV, but her thoughts were obviously with him.
"He cares about you." I tried to sound encouraging, but it fell flat.
“When’s Evan get back?” she asked, changing the subject. Her gaze readjusted to the present, and she looked over at me with bright eyes.
“Sunday,” I answered slowly, not prepared for the "on" switch to her personality.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to take off to wherever you wanted, just because you wanted to?” She said this with an equal measure of envy and possibility. “We should have him over for dinner soon.”
“Uh, okay.”
"I'm going to bed," she announced. I watched her climb the stairs and hoped that whatever Jonathan was doing, it wouldn't leave her devastated in the end. I didn't think I could handle watching her heart break.
~~~~~
I met up with Jill and Casey the next afternoon; we ended up going to a movie that night. After a half day of incessant giggling, combined with soda and jujubes, my teeth hurt from all the sugar. I could only take the two of them in small doses, and I’d OD’d today.
I had barely taken off my jacket when my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket to see Rachel lit on the screen.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Is this Emily?” a deep voice asked. Not answering, I looked at the phone again to make sure I’d read it correctly. It had my mother’s phone number as the caller. I put the phone back to my ear, my stomach clenched.
“Hello?” he bellowed over the voices and music clashing in the background.
“Yes,” I replied, my heart picking up its pace. “This is Emily.”
My brain flashed through a thousand different images of what might've happened to her, inciting a panic.
“You need to come pick up Rachel. I can’t let her drive home.”
“Um, okay,” I responded with a heavy heart. I should have been relieved that she was okay, but then again, she really wasn't. “Where is she?”
“Mick’s Place, on Route 113 in Stenton.”
“Alright. I’ll be there soon.” I sank onto the steps with my phone in my hands, bowing my head in dread. I shouldn't have been surprised that she was drunk once again. It was what I'd become accustomed to as a child, but I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with it this time around.
My entire body hollowed with the acceptance of her condition, shutting off the emotion that threatened to take over. I just needed to focus on getting her home, and then I'd figure out the rest later.
I tried to locate the bar on the GPS on my phone, but nothing came up. I had no idea where she was. That left me with only one choice. I shook my head and groaned, “Shit,” not liking what I was about to do, especially since he was probably the reason she was drinking.
I dialed the number and held my breath as it rang.
“Hello? Emma? Is everything okay?” The urgency in his voice made it clear that he was expecting the worst.
“Um… not really,” I replied softly. “Can you help me?”
“Of course. What's going on?” he responded in a rush.
“I need to pick up Rachel, but I don’t know where she is.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” I exhaled.
Jonathan’s truck pulled into the driveway, and I stepped onto the porch to lock the door behind me.
“Will you drive my car?” I asked before he’d said a word.
“Sure,” he responded, taking the keys with a questioning look.
“I think she’s going to need to lie down,” I explained glumly.
He took in my drawn expression. “It’ll be okay. We’ll pick her up and everything will be fine.”
“Yup,” I answered, not believing a word.
I told Jonathan where she was, and his brows pulled together in concern.
"What?" I demanded nervously.
“It’s not the best place to hang out,” he noted with a heavy breath. “You should stay in the car while I go in and get her, okay?” I closed my eyes and nodded, trying to hold it together.
When we arrived, I understood why he didn’t want me to go in. The bar was a single story box with neon lights nailed to its roof. Several of the letters were dark, and the end of “Place” was flickering red, fighting to stay lit. The small slots that were presumably windows were covered with glowing neon beer signs. The building was a dingy shade of white that the years and lack of care had rotted away. There were shingles missing in some spots or broken in others. It looked like a strong wind could bring the entire place down.
The parking lot was poorly lit. A single spotlight hung from the corner of the building, casting more shadows than light. The dirt parking lot was covered in patches of ice. It was a hazard to walk on while sober, forget about after drinking until you could barely stand. A rough group of men stood outside, smoking cigarettes and making comments to the patrons coming and going. Their faces were dark and stubbly. I was convinced they hadn't showered in days. A line of motorcycles would undoubtedly be lined up in front of them if it weren't the middle of winter. They blended with the dilapidated background perfectly―the sight of them made me squirm in disgust.
“Stay in the car. I’ll be right out.” Jonathan instructed, shutting the door behind him.
I sunk into the seat with my arms crossed, watching one of the men in leather clasp the hand of another who approached from a Camaro. The guy from the Camaro had a shaved head and broad shoulders, and wore a pair of black sunglasses, even though it was nearly midnight. Creepy characters flocked to this place, making me wonder why my mother would ever stop here.
One of the smokers glanced in my direction, and my heart started racing. I quickly looked down, hoping he couldn't see inside the car.
“Keep your f*cking hands off me, John,” a woman threatened, redirecting my attention.
The men were laughing as a woman with tight jeans and a cropped leather jacket thrust the door open to enter, glaring at them. The man with the leather trench coat and long, thick mustache was still watching me. I shuddered and tried to sink further into the seat. He nudged the tall guy with the heaving waistline next to him, nodding toward me and saying something. The guy laughed and nodded his head.
“Jonathan, where are you?” I whispered, anxiously staring at the black door, begging him to come through it. I looked back and the mustached cretin grinned at me. My heart spasmed and my hands started shaking. I quickly flipped my eyes down, hoping he'd lose interest.
“Come on out of the car, sweet thing,” he beckoned, making the rest of the men take notice. “Let me buy you a drink.” There were laughs and sinister grins in reaction to my panic-stricken face. I made sure the doors were locked and silently pleaded once again for Jonathan to appear with my mother.
The scruffy man made a move toward the car, and my breathing faltered. I was trying to decide what to do when the black door thrust open, stopping him in his tracks. Jonathan emerged with my mother passed out in his arms. I exhaled in relief, unlocked the doors and jumped out of the car to open the back door for them.
Jonathan gently laid her across the backseat. I threw a sideways glance at the man standing at the front of the car. The grin on his face was abhorrent. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking while I waited for Jonathan to adjust her. I just wanted to get away from there as fast as possible.
“Hey, buddy,” the man hollered to Jonathan. I remained frozen by the door. Jonathan shut the back door and started to walk around the back of the car, not paying attention. “Hey, you.” Jonathan stopped, recognizing the burly man in the trench coat was talking to him. “Why don’t you let me take one of those girls off your hands? I could show this one a good time.” I cringed as he molested me with his eyes.
"Are you talking to me?” Jonathan bit back, his threatening tone making my eyes widen in alarm.
“Yes, I’m talking to you,” the man growled. “I want a taste.” His mustache spread into a detestable smirk, and he started in my direction. I pressed against the car, blindly feeling for the handle while keeping my eyes on him. I was fearful of provoking him with any sudden movement―move slow and he won’t attack.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jonathan's deep voice warned through clenched teeth. I flipped my eyes toward Jonathan, shaken again by edge in his voice. The rest of the men became quiet and squared off toward Jonathan, whose hands were slowly flexing into fists by his side.
The man crept toward me until he had me in his direct sight, not giving Jonathan any consideration.
“I think you’d taste good,” his cigarette and alcohol laden breath coated my face. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, paralyzed. Fear held me hostage as he leaned in. The car rocked, and I opened my eyes to find Jonathan gripping the man's collar, pinning him against the car.
“Don’t you f*cking touch her,” Jonathan grunted. The guy was taller than Jonathan, but Jonathan was broader. Jonathan glowered inches from his face. The crowd shuffled forward, prepared to join in if necessary.
The two men stared at each other for a second before the cretin snarled, “What are you going to do?”
Jonathan raised his fist.
“Jonathan, don’t,” I begged, released from my paralysis when I realized what was about to happen. “Please, let’s just go.” The crowd was prepared to brawl. My entire body shook as the tension mounted.
Jonathan caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye. His face was hard and full of rage, but his expression flickered when he saw the fear on my face. The fire smoldered and his eyes softened. He slowly lowered his fist.
Jonathan was about to let him go when the man warned, “Listen to the girl. Why don’t you just get the f*ck out of here before I have to mess up that pretty face of yours.” Jonathan narrowed his eyes at the threat, his jaw flexing. I inhaled sharply.
“Please, Jonathan,” I begged, reaching for his arm in desperation. His muscles eased up at my touch, and he slowly let the man go, backing away.
“Get in the car,” Jonathan ordered gruffly. He opened the passenger door and I crawled in. He slammed it behind me, not taking his eyes off the guy, who was smoothing the crinkles out of his jacket with a malevolent grin. I watched the silent showdown as Jonathan crept around the car, prepared to attack if the stubbly faced man made a move for my door. My heart was pounding so hard, my chest was about to explode.
“If she weren’t here…” Jonathan began as he opened the driver’s door.
“Then we wouldn’t even be talking, now would we?” the man interrupted. “Don’t come back unless you’re willing to back that up.”
Jonathan slid in and shut the door. His eyes were hard coals, fixated on the man standing at the front of the car, who was focused on me. He moved his lips to form a kiss and then challenged Jonathan with a snarky grin. My whole body convulsed in disgust.
“Let’s just go,” I repeated urgently. Jonathan gripped the steering wheel so tightly his tendons stood out along his forearms. He backed out of the space with such speed I had to grab the handle above the door with both hands. The tires squealed when they made contact with the road. A cloud of dust blew up behind us as we tore out of the parking lot.
Except for my hands that were shaking on my lap, I couldn't move. A few miles down the road, Jonathan finally slowed and darted his eyes in my direction. Released from the rage that had possessed them, his dark eyes were soft again. I let out a quivering breath and blinked away the tears clouding my vision.
“I’m sorry about that,” he offered softly, darting sideways glances in my direction while he drove. I stared out the window, trying not to cry. “Emma.”
I slowly faced him, swallowing against the tightness in the back of my throat.
“Are you okay?”
I could only nod. His eyes searched mine. I pulled away from his probing, too vulnerable to let him see how shaken I truly was.
My mother groaned, deflecting his attention to the backseat.
“What’s going on?” she mumbled, blinking around but unable to sit up.
“We’re taking you home,” Jonathan answered, pulling the car back onto the road.
“Jonathan?” she rasped.
“Yes.”
“I called you,” she whimpered. “I called you,” she repeated in a slur.
“I know,” he pacified, staring at the road.
I turned toward her, and she tried to focus on me.
“Emily?" she asked as if uncertain. "Oh, you're not supposed to be here." She sounded so sad, I had to turn away.
I followed Jonathan up the stairs when he carried my mother to bed. After removing her shoes and covering her with a blanket, I looked down at her calm face with a broken sigh. I left the room and collapsed on the couch in the dark living room, drained. My hands were still shaking, and my chest ached.
“You should get some sleep,” Jonathan said from the opening of the room. I looked up at him, dazed.
“I don’t think I could if I tried."
He came over and sat next to me on the couch. We listened to the silence, letting the stillness settle in around us. My mind searched for understanding, unable to find solace amongst my thoughts.
“I don’t know what to do,” I uttered in defeat. "I really wanted it to be different."
“This is my fault. I should have called her back."
I knew his need for space had triggered this catastrophe, but this was how my mother handled things when she was upset. Unfortunately, that hadn't changed as much as I'd hoped.
"It's not your fault," I assured him. I thought of my mother in her bed and wanted to believe this was just something she was going through, that she’d adjust and get over it. I wasn't certain how far hoping would get me.
"What are you thinking?" he asked when I was quiet for too long.
"What was she even doing there? That place was awful."
"I don't know," he replied, just as confused.
The night replayed itself in my head: the phone call, the sketchy bar, the confrontation with the creepiest guy on earth.
"Were you―" I began, just as Jonathan asked, "What did―”
We both stopped and he encouraged, "Go ahead."
"Were you really going to hit that guy?"
Jonathan pressed his lips together, like he was considering his words carefully. "You mean, if you hadn't stopped me?"
I nodded.
"Definitely." He answered without hesitation. My eyes widened at his bluntness. He looked down and rubbed his hands together. "It’s a part of my past that I don't like to talk about." He raised his head. "But that's never happened before."
"What?"
"No one's ever been able to stop me. I usually lose it, and there's no holding me back."
"You're a fighter?" I clarified, not expecting the confession. For the first time I noticed a thin scar under his chin, and another above his right eyebrow, both barely visible.
"Used to be," he corrected. "My past, remember. I haven't gotten that angry in a long time. It scared me."
"It scared me too," I admitted.
He stopped rubbing his hands together, troubled by my admission.
"The whole thing scared me," I said, still feeling the after effects trembling beneath my skin. "Let's just say tonight sucked all around."
"Yeah, it did," he exhaled. Jonathan leaned toward me to make certain he had my attention. His dark brown eyes focused on me, pulling me in when he said, "I don't ever want to scare you again." I couldn't say anything. The conviction of his words poured into me, and I could barely breathe.
He leaned back against the couch, releasing me from the connection. I took a deep breath to ease the pounding in my chest.
"What were you going to ask me?" I was finally able to get out.
"You said you thought it would be different. What did you mean?"
“I haven’t lived with her for almost five years,” I explained evasively, staring out the window into the night. "She's been hurt before, and I don't want her to go through that again. I just want it to be different for her, for us."
“Where were you during those five years?”
“In hell,” I breathed, resting my head against the couch. He was quiet. I continued to stare into the dark, eventually breathing myself to sleep.
~~~~~
When I opened my eyes, the room was a warm gold as the sun filtered through the trees. My heavy lids closed again, and I pulled the blanket over me. I was about to drift off when I set my hand down and felt the hard lines of his thigh beneath it. My eyes stretched wide. My instinct was to jump up from the couch, freaked that I fell asleep with my head on his leg. But I didn't want to wake him, so I sat up slowly. Jonathan remained seated on the end of the couch, his head lolled to the side, breathing deeply.
I found my jacket draped over the arm of the rocking chair and my shoes placed beneath it―knowing I’d had them on when I fell asleep. I rubbed my eyes to ward off the remaining drowsiness and carefully rose from the couch. A floorboard creaked when I stood. His head rocked in response, and his eyes blinked open.
“Sorry,” I whispered, my heart beating quickly. I’d really wanted to be gone when he woke up.
“What time is it?” he asked, squinting as he read his watch. “I should get going.” He yawned and stretched his arms over his head.
“You’re not staying?”
“Um,” he stalled, not expecting the strain in my voice. I bit my lip, realizing how I sounded.
“I mean,” I fumbled, searching for a way to fix it. “I thought that…”
“I can stay,” he interrupted. He sighed as his eyes climbed the stairs.
“You don’t have to.” I could tell he was unsettled by his decision.
“I don't understand what happened last night,” he said, resting his head on the couch and searching the ceiling. "I've seen her drunk, and I've seen her get emotional. But I've never seen her that bad before.”
I hesitated, taking in his troubled face―debating if I should just go up to my room. He was obviously concerned about her, and so was I.
I sat down on the couch, with one leg folded under me so I could face him. “She was upset.” He rolled his head over to look at me. “I'm sure it's been hard having me move back in, too. I remind her of my father, and that... hurts her. I want to fix us, but I don't know how if I'm the reason she's in pain.”
Jonathan studied my eyes, as the truth of my words swallowed me.
“You didn’t do this to her,” he soothed. I averted my eyes. "And as much I feel guilty for not calling her back, I didn't do this to her either."
We sat in silence for a minute. I tried to convince myself that what he said was true, and I knew it was. But I couldn't help feeling that if I hadn't forced myself back in, she wouldn't be forcing herself forget.
“Can I ask you something?” Jonathan inquired hesitantly.
“Sure.” I turned back toward him, waiting.
“What happened to your ankle?” He eyed the scar on my right foot, which was curled under me. I pressed my lips together, not prepared for the question.
He opened his mouth to say something when I answered, “A going away present.”
He was quiet a moment. “From hell?” I raised my brows in confirmation, not expecting him to get it. “I have one of those.” Before I could react, he lifted the right side of his shirt to reveal a long, thin scar that ran under his ribs. “Lived there once too.”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but shock stole them from my tongue. I eventually excused myself to my room.
Jonathan remained on the couch, not leaving as he’d promised―but not making any attempt to go to my mother's room.
Despite being exhausted, I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I wondered if he was downstairs lying awake as well, trying to figure out what might have happened to me. I couldn’t even imagine how to begin to ask someone to reveal their nightmares.