“I had a lisp all through elementary school, because I didn’t speak enough. I got picked on for it, but that didn’t even begin to compare to my home life.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and Ali brushes her fingers across my cheek and lightly kisses each of my closed eyes. After a long minute, she seems to realize that I don’t want to admit to anything, so she says it for me.
“Your dad abused you. Like mine.”
I nod and shudder, hating those words. Yeah, I was young, and yeah, there probably wasn’t anything I could do about it. But . . . what if there was? What if I could have stopped it, what if I’d tried harder, what if I just wasn’t strong enough?
Ali sighs, seeming to read my mind. “It’s not your fault, Jace.”
“But what if it is? He was obviously mentally ill, and I knew it, and I always went and pissed him off, anyway.”
“If it is your fault, then everything you told me the other night is a lie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You told me it wasn’t my fault that my dad hit me. So if you’re saying that it is your fault that your dad did the same thing . . . then I must be at fault, too.”
My breath catches, and I snap my eyes open, staring right at her. I hurriedly sign, “It’s not your fault, Ali. Don’t even suggest that. You did nothing wrong.”
She smiles gently. “Then you didn’t do anything wrong, either.”
Tears flow freely down my face, and Ali kisses each one away, her lips soft against my skin. I close my eyes, trying to figure out the emotions racing through me. There’s anger, of course, because that’s always there. But it seems subdued, and there’s also something else: relief. Other people have told me before that I did nothing wrong. But it feels different coming from Ali, knowing that she’s been through the same hell and believes I didn’t deserve any of it. She’s the first person who really understands.
She holds me for a long time, and I let her. We don’t talk, and Ali doesn’t try to counsel me or give me pity. She just presses me close to her, letting me absorb her warmth and strength.
Eventually, she holds up her hands and signs, “Can I ask you another question?”
“If you really have to.”
“Is this why you hated me so much at first?”
I frown. “I hated the fact that you were deaf and that you reminded me of my past. But I never hated you.” Guilt gnaws at me, and I add, “I’m sorry. How I treated you when we first met was wrong, not to mention idiotic. My dad had issues because he was too selfish to take care of his mental illness. It had nothing to do with him being deaf.”
Ali gives a slow nod, accepting this. She stares at me intently, and I can tell she’s trying to judge how fragile I am, and how many more questions I can take. I brush the back of my hand against her cheek, silently telling her it’s okay.
“Your whole obsession with health,” she signs, “I mean, all the health foods and exercise and stuff. Is that why?”
“Yeah. My dad had some sort of mental illness, and instead of getting real medication, he used meth to deal with it. He was always cruel, but when he shot up, he was downright vicious.”
“I’m sorry. You never should have had to go through that.” She hesitates, and then signs, “Is he in your life at all anymore?”
I shudder at the thought and shake my head. “No. He went to prison after he gave me that scar on my chest. There was no way he could explain away an injury like that, and he’d already been arrested before on a couple of minor crimes. So he got sentenced to five years.”
Ali relaxes a little and signs, “I’m glad he’s locked away now.”
I nod, silently agreeing. Then I add, “I guess the whole health thing is my way of making sure I don’t turn into him. My dad never took care of anyone, including himself. So I guess I’m into all the health stuff because of that.”
She stares at me, her eyes so serious that I have a hard time meeting them. “You do know that it won’t work,” she murmurs. “Don’t you?”
I freeze, stunned at her words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that eating healthy and running won’t ensure you don’t turn into your dad.”
I open my mouth to shout, to tell her she’s completely wrong. But all that comes out is a hoarse squeak. I stare at her, longing for her to take back what she just said, but she just shakes her head. Then she presses a hand against my chest, right over my scar.
“This is what will make sure you never become your dad.”
At first I think she’s talking about my scar, and I’m confused. Then I realize her hand is pressed over my heart. Ali places her other hand against me so both her palms are pressed against my chest. Comforting warmth spreads out from her touch, and I close my eyes and cover her hands with my own.
“It’s okay, Jace,” Ali murmurs. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
How many times have I told myself those exact same words? Everything’s going to be okay. But I’ve never been able to believe it.