More foggy minutes pass as we move into the hospital. It’s the second time for me today. What are the damn odds? I’ve managed to stay out of this place since Gavin was born, which seems to be a miracle in my life with my history of clumsiness. Now, I’m following the stretcher down the hall, watching as the paramedics continue to work on Tori. I’m not sure what they’re doing or trying to do, and the description they give a nurse who steps in, sounds like gibberish.
I’m sent to the waiting room while they tend to her, giving me time to debate whether or not I should call her parents, considering the conversation we had just an hour ago regarding them not being her actual parents. However, I have to assume if a man is important enough to walk Tori down the aisle, he’s important enough to know what’s going on with her at a time like this.
“Sir, It’s AJ. I—ah, I have some bad news…” For a man who is supposedly not her father, he’s pretty bent out of shape when I tell him what’s going on. He tells me they are both on their way.
I settle myself into the hard, uncomfortable chair, resting my head back against the stone wall and close my eyes, trying again to place all the pieces together. There is so little explanation for such a sudden decline in mental stability. Something had to have triggered this, something beyond seeing me with Gavin in the hospital this morning. My mind is so completely blank of possibilities that I’m blaming myself for not divulging our pasts to each other before we got married. Being ashamed of my past with Cammy and our daughter, and yet still having the ability to live through my pain tells me that whatever her past consisted of had to be worse. How much worse though? Was my past really worth hiding? The pain I still feel today when I think about my daughter has forced me to build a wall up around the thought of her—one that I didn’t feel was necessary to break down and share after all this time. In any case, it was never because I couldn’t talk about it. Whatever Tori’s hiding, though, it’s obviously something she can’t talk about.
Tori’s parents arrive quickly, finding me with my head still flattened against the wall. I haven’t moved in the last thirty minutes. I give them the longer version of what happened, filling them in on everything that occurred today. They both listen intently but don’t have much to respond with. “Has this happened before?” I ask them.
Tori’s mom closes her eyes tightly as her lips quiver against whatever words she’s having trouble saying.
“She’s had a mental illness most of her life, but it has been under control for the past five years,” her dad explains.
“Mental illness?” I question.
“She has post-traumatic-stress-disorder from—”
“From what?” I push, feeling the number of questions I have trigger the fears I’ve been trying hard to suppress these past few hours.
“We don’t know,” he says.
“You’re not her parents, are you?” I ask them.
“Birth? No,” her mother finally answers with a sternness behind her words. “But we’ve raised her since she was thirteen. We legally adopted her.”
How do I know absolutely nothing about my wife and the mother of our son? How did I let this happen? What the hell was I thinking? “Where was she before that?”
“No one knows, AJ. She was picked up off the street when she was twelve and put into our foster care. We were fortunate enough to be able to adopt her a year later.”
“How can no one know? Tori must know if she was that old, right?” I question.
“People can only be pushed so far before they break, AJ,” her dad says. “I can’t tell you how many times our poor daughter has broken.”
Then what the fuck broke her this time?
CHAPTER TEN
TWELVE YEARS AGO
SIX MONTHS IN, two to go until…I have absolutely no plans. The idea of being home for the summer has created a pit in my stomach every time the thought has crossed my mind. Part of me is looking forward to the home-cooked meals and laundry service Mom is always kind enough to offer, but the other part of me is afraid to go home to nothing I used to know. It feels like everything has shifted, and I’m supposed to be here now. Maybe here is just a purgatory between what I’ve left behind and wherever I’m headed, but in any case, it brings me the most comfort.
“Duuuude,” Brink says, jogging into our dorm room. “Do you have plans to do anything next week or are you just chillaxin’ here?” Spring break is for those who have money, an excessive amount of money. I definitely wasn’t about to ask Mom or Dad for extra after they’ve been killing themselves to help me pay the room and board fees that weren’t included in my scholarship, so broke is a constant state of reality for this poor schmuck.
I lean back in my desk chair and fold my hands behind my neck. “Nothing in comparison to Cancun, man. I’m not sure what I’m doing yet, though.” Maybe that’s why I’m already feeling sick about this summer. I can’t even make up my mind about going home for spring break.
“So, you know Chad, the guy who lives in 410?”