Saving Meghan(103)

But now that my mom was here, I was feeling better already.

“Baby, it’s so, so good to see you,” Mom said, stroking the same cheek where my dad had struck me.

“I didn’t think I was coming back here,” I said to Mom as we broke apart.

“Let’s talk,” she said.

We sat on colorful plastic chairs at a round table in the back of the room, just my mom, my dad, and me, with everyone else keeping watch from afar. Being here with Mom made me miss the apartment we had shared—more than I missed my bedroom, even. I loved the cool furniture and the hip neighborhood I could explore only from the rooftop. But mostly what I had loved was being with my mom. I wanted us to be on the run again. Thelma and Louise back in action. I wished we’d gone to California and forgotten all about Dr. Zach Fisher. Forgotten about my dad, even.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” said my mom.

Dad sent Mom a nasty look. “Becky, don’t.”

“Don’t what, Dad?” I said with attitude.

“We don’t need to go there, is all,” Dad said.

“Go where, Dad?” I asked.

“The doctors told us to keep it positive.”

For the first time in a long time, I could feel switches going on, not off, firing up my anger at my father. He had backed Dr. Nash, and she had backed my new shrink. Just because he had paid Mom’s bail didn’t mean he was on our side.

“You look so thin,” Mom said, unscrewing the thermos lid to the chicken soup. “Eat something. I made it special for you.”

“Please eat, Meghan,” Dad said.

I took one whiff and wanted to gag. In truth, all I wanted to do was sleep. I wanted to crawl under the covers of my bed and sleep the day away, sleep away the night, my life. I wanted to close my eyes and never wake up, not unless I was magically transported somewhere else. Mom screwed the lid back on the thermos. Dad looked disappointed, but Mom knew there’d be no convincing me.

“Dr. Fisher quit,” Mom told me. “Did you know that?”

“Why?” I was genuinely surprised by the news.

“Because he thought you were going to be treated, not returned,” Mom said.

“Becky, please, this isn’t the conversation—”

“No?” I said, fixing my father with the kind of “leave me alone” look he must have grown accustomed to seeing by now. “Are there other things we should talk about?”

I looked at him piercingly, assuming Dad would get the hint. He looked over at Mom, and I knew they had talked about “the Slap,” which is how I’d come to think of it. Hit or slap, it was still assault—it was child abuse. It was also kind of ironic that my mom was accused of abusing me when, in fact, it was my father who’d hit me.

I guess that’s what finally changed things for me, why I decided to tell her the truth. Will the real abuser please stand up! I didn’t even care about being a family anymore. I’d come to a new realization after the police took my mom away: she’s the one I needed in my life, and it wasn’t fair that she didn’t know the truth about my dad. I’d been trying to protect everyone, but I could see now how strong my mother was, how much she could handle. Finally, I could get rid of the weight I’d been carrying because I had nothing more to fear. But, of course, I couldn’t say anything in front of my father.

“Dad, could Mom and I be alone for a minute?” I asked.

Dad looked unsure. “I don’t think—”

“Carl, please,” Mom said with force. “Just give us a minute to ourselves if that’s what she needs. Don’t worry. I’m not going to run off with her again.”

Dad sized up the situation. He knew he was outnumbered, outvoted. He groaned as he stood. It was his way of voicing disapproval. He jabbed a finger at the thermos of soup. “Get her to eat something, will you?” he said. “She looks emaciated.” He stormed away.

Mom took hold of my hand and squeezed it. A tear leaked out of my eye. The truth was hard. It hurt. It had a crushing weight. But keeping secrets, well, that had weight, too.

“What is it, sweetheart? Talk to me. Did someone hurt you?”

I lowered my head because I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Remember what I told you about Dad?”

“Oh yes,” Mom said, her blue eyes darkening. “He had a very different story to tell.”

I’d always adored and idolized my father. I had always wanted his approval, wanted him to notice me on the soccer field, anywhere. He was my hero. I knew he was charming, attractive, that women noticed him. Hell, some of my friends noticed him. But I wished I could bring back the image of him I’d had when I was a little girl. I wanted that feeling of pure awe, of sweet love. I wanted to adore him again. But I knew too much to ever go back.

“Well,” I said, my gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s lying, and I wasn’t entirely honest either.”

“He didn’t hit you?” Mom sounded perplexed.

“No, he did hit me, but not for the reason I told you. It wasn’t about Sammy.”

“Why, then?”

“Well…” My leg was bouncing with nervous energy. “A few months ago, I figured out the password on his cell phone. The code was my birthday. I was just goofing around to see if that was it, and it was.”