His hand slashes through the air. “Keep your fuckin’ excuses. I don’t want to hear them.”
He’s not going to listen to me. Though in the state he’s in, he’d refuse to believe the truth even if I had the guts to tell it to him. I’m crying steadily, my hopes of a fresh start smashed into smithereens. All the strength has seeped out of me.How will I be able to protect Trip now?
Some resolve comes back, for Trip’s sake, not mine. I’ve just got to get him to hear whatever explanation I can cobble together. But I don’t get the chance. Before I can open my mouth to speak, from above us a scream sounds, then it’s repeated again and again, followed by a rhythmic banging noise, the explanation for which overrides everything.
Pulling myself out of the chair, using hitherto unknown strength to shove Short out of my way, I turn my back on the man who’s just eviscerated me as painfully as if he’d driven a knife through my heart. Taking the stairs two at a time, I throw open the door to Trip’s room. As I suspected, Trip’s screaming and rocking so hard that every time he comes forward, he knocks his head hard on the floor. His face is already looking red and bleeding.
I may be his biological mom, but I’ve never been allowed to act like one. Here, in Short’s house, where some of the truth has surfaced for the first time, I’ve no one to stop me. And no one to send me away while they attempt to calm Trip down. Every mother’s instinct within me suddenly roars to the fore, my one desire to stop him from hurting himself further. And maybe, for the first time, to show a mother’s love that I’ve always been punished for showing before.
I race for Trip, instinctively putting my arms around him, pulling him close for comfort and to stop him from hurting himself.
But this is Trip. This is not a normal child.
With a roar, he tries to get loose, finding inhuman strength in his panic, throwing me off him, where I land hard on the floor. Then his fists start flailing against me. Unsure what to do, knowing I can’t hurt him, I don’t fight back. Instead, I take all the blows. My only hope is he’ll wear himself out, and at least, while using me as a punching bag, he won’t be so likely to cause himself harm.
“What the fuck?” Short barges in and roars.
He does the worst thing possible, wrapping both of his strong arms around Trip and pulling him off me, then continuing to hold him tight. Unlike me, with his bulk and muscles, my son’s easy for him to restrain. While Trip keeps fighting and struggling to get free, Short ignores him and focuses his continued anger on me.
As a concession to Trip, he evens out his voice. If I wasn’t looking at his face, I’d have missed the pinched cheeks and the look of derision in his eyes. “So, this is how you got those black eyes, bruises, and that cut. It was your son, not your father. You’re just a lying cunt.”
Even his lowered voice does nothing to calm Trip down, probably as he’s unable to miss the tension in the man who’s holding him. Unable to get free, he starts screaming again.
Trip’s my child, birthed from my loins, and for the first time since he was born, I’m in a position where I can stand up for him. Swallowing my fear of the man more than twice my size, I get to my feet and crawl toward Short.
“Put him down,” I hiss. “And speak quietly. He’s triggered by sounds. And…” Pain fuels the grimace that appears on myface, knowing my initial instinctive reaction only made matters worse. “He doesn’t like human touch.”
“Woman, you’re crazy if you think I’ll let him go before he calms down.” Short swears, but it’s mouthed, and the vocalisation is kept under his breath. “And if you can’t constrain him, what the fuck did you do when he had a tantrum back in your house?”
“It’s a meltdown, not a tantrum,” I correct sharply. “He’s involuntarily reacting to stimuli that trigger him. He’s not playing up. He can’t help himself. And what did I do?” I’m so furious my face glows red, but I keep my voice controlled. In a soothing, almost sing-song tone, totally at odds with the situation, I fill in some gaps in his knowledge. “I wasn’tallowedto have anything to do with him. My mom and dad? They’d lock him in a closet until he’d calmed down.” A snort comes from my mouth, part derision, part sorrow. “They at least had it padded, especially so he couldn’t hurt himself.” And then I give Short the clue to another secret. “Trip doesn’t know I’m his mom.”
Short draws in a breath. “That you didn’t take responsibility for him is not an excuse. And if you objected to the way he was being treated, well, that’s on you. You’re a fuckin’ bitch.”
I wish I could see the humour in such scathing words being spoken in such a gentle tone. But though his manner of speaking might be soft, the fire blazing from his eyes is anything but.
Instinctively, having realised he can’t just let Trip go, Short starts rocking him, his arms still tight around him. To my surprise, Trip’s frantic efforts to get free start to slow. Noticing the same thing, Short lifts him, moves to the bed, sits down with him, and continues swaying to and fro, while I just look on in astonishment.
Open-mouthed, as I continue to watch, I have to admire Short’s patience. He just keeps moving back and forth, side to side, repeating his actions. And, gradually, it works. Trip seemsto relax in his arms, tension visibly leaving his body as his wide-open eyes start to shutter. Short keeps up his motion, as if he’s a natural, intuitively understanding he can’t stop too soon. But after a few more minutes pass, Trip’s a dead weight. It’s only then that, gently, he lets my precious boy go, laying him on the bed and pulling the covers over him.
My body trembling with the relief that floods through me, I approach and start to lean over, wanting to place a kiss on my now-sleeping son’s forehead. But Short’s sudden hold on my arm stops me. He drags me away, pushes me through the door, which I notice he leaves open, not closed, then directs me down the stairs.
Once there, he pushes me onto the sofa, then takes out his phone.
“Please, don’t call Dad. Please, Short,” I plead with him, getting to my feet, only to be shoved back and held down, so I can’t get back up again. I don’t struggle. I’d have no more chance fighting him than Trip.
“Pippa there?” The relief makes me dizzy as I realise I’ve got a reprieve. He’s not rung my dad. Not understanding why he’s calling Saint’s woman, I watch while he waits for an answer. Then, shamelessly, listen to his side of the conversation.
“Going to need someone to keep an eye on the kid… Why Pippa? Well, she’s pregnant, isn’t she? Must have some kind of maternal instinct. Isn’t that natural?” He glares at me as he’s speaking. “Would be fuckin’ grateful if you come here too. I’ve a situation I’ve fuck all idea how to deal with.”
His face glows as he listens to what’s being said on the other end of the phone, and the next sentence he articulates carefully, his words measured and slow. “No, I don’t fuckin’ want you here as babysitters to let me get my dick wet… What the fuck are you talking about?... No, I haven’t hurt Bron. Wouldn’t put my dick anywhere near this bitch if my life depended on it…Yeah, I’mtalking aboutsweet, innocentBronwyn. She’s a total shitshow… Yeah, appreciate it, Brother.” Stabbing at the off key, I guess he misses the time when you could actually slam down the phone.
Wide-eyed, I just stare at him, knowing everything’s just got a hundred times more complicated now that he’s called in backup. Pippa, I don’t mind. But Saint? While his woman has tamed him on the surface, underneath, he’s still the man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone who’d wronged him, without blinking an eye.
Why the hell did I run to this man who thinks he knows everything, when all he’s done is leap to conclusions without hearing the facts? Who hasn’t given me a chance to explain? Who’s made up his own narrative without listening to mine.
Eight years of having the fear driven into me of what could happen if anyone else ever learned the truth about Trip, and how he was conceived, make me tongue-tied and reticent even now. His reaction to only half of my story has stunned me. What’s he going to do when he hears the whole thing?
I thought Short understood me. I thought he offered to help me as a friend. Yet what friend jumps to conclusions? What have I ever done to make him assume the worst?
