Bullet(65)

He was right. I might have complained about being sexually repressed, but my parents had been loving, kind people who had wanted the best for me. I’d never known starvation, neglect, or abuse, some things Ethan had apparently survived. But these were the kinds of things he rarely talked about. So I just nodded my head slightly, but I didn’t want to say a word. After a few seconds, he said, “I’ll bet you never had to see your mom getting the beating of her life, just laying helpless on the kitchen floor, while you had to watch…and just listen to her begging that he wouldn’t touch me. Jesus…you’re little, but you try. You grab him around the knees and cry and beg, but he just swats you away like a fly. Like you’re nothing. And you watch while he just unleashes on her. Her eye gets so swollen she can’t see through it…it’s black and purple and so ugly, you don’t even want to look at her. It makes her look…ugly, so ugly. But at least it blocked out the scared animal look in her eyes.

“And I’ll bet you never had to hear that the only reason why they ever got married in the first place was ‘cause the stupid cunt let herself get pregnant. And so that makes you the most worthless little stubborn sperm alive.”

He was quiet for a while before he resumed. “But…one day he left her for dead. She was on the concrete floor in the garage…blood everywhere. I called 911 first, then my grandpa, and Burt was never to be seen again. I find that f*cker, though…he’s dead.” He whispered, but I heard him say, “And I’m comin’.”

What should I say? What could I say? Anything would sound lame at that point. He was right. I’d never seen or felt any of those things. And, knowing what little I did from basic psychology courses in high school and college, I supposed I should count myself lucky that he didn’t think beating women was normal. What the hell kind of relationship would we have had then?

But I felt like I had to say something. I couldn’t just say nothing. I wanted him to feel like he could talk to me and that I was there for him. I stroked his chest again and said, “I will never hurt you, Ethan.”

Then he snorted. Actually snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause women are innocent, right?” I took in a breath, but I didn’t want to look in his eyes. I knew the look that would be in them—that distant, angry, mean look, the one his face reverted to when he wasn’t trying.

“I didn’t say all women, Ethan. But I will never hurt you.”

He was quiet. I was too. He was in a dark place, a place I couldn’t save him from. I knew that already. He was too far away. Only Ethan could choose to save himself. And he had to reason it through without me. So I decided I’d be there, but I wasn’t going to say another word. “Heidi…she was a hot little thing. She liked to wear these short skirts, and she’d drop her pencil in front of me and bend over to pick it up, just so I could see how her underwear hardly covered anything. She didn’t have a reputation as a bad girl. I know. I would have known, because…we dated. For a long time. I found out later how much she liked older guys. Lots older guys. Teachers, coaches, some guy at the bank. But she just had to make a move on Brad. I hadn’t said a word.

“She started sleeping around on me…but she stayed with me, still trying to get to Brad. She knew my weakness, and…I guess she was right. As long as you love somebody, why should you let it bother you if they’re with someone else? But Brad…that was like a punch in the gut.”

Did he not see how he was doing to me what this girl had done to him? I stayed quiet, hoping he would come to that same conclusion himself. But he didn’t say anything else, not a word, and I fell asleep wondering if he would ever see that he had become that which he hated. In the back of my mind, though, I also wondered how long I would be able to hold on, to fight to keep him…to fight to keep on loving him.





Chapter Twenty-seven

Present



THE BABY WAS a year old in what seemed like no time to me. He’d already passed so many milestones in his short life, and I was glad I’d been home with him to enjoy them all.

Now, though, he was experiencing one of his worst illnesses. He’d been feverish and throwing up, and I called the pediatrician. It was evening and, while I knew I could take him to the emergency room, I wanted to find out if that was actually warranted or if there was something I could do at home to care for him. It was cold and snowy out, and if I could keep him out of the weather and then take him to the doctor in the morning, I’d feel better about it.

The doctor on call asked me lots of questions and gave me plenty of advice too. Bottom line—I needed to keep my baby hydrated or I would have to rush him to the hospital. The doctor recommended that I give Christopher Pedialyte, among other remedies.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have Pedialyte at the house, so I was back to square one: taking the baby out in the cold. Ethan and the band had started getting together two or three nights a week again as they started working out new songs, writing and practicing before recording. I decided to call Ethan to ask him if he could pick up some Pedialyte on the way home. Maybe I could persuade him to come home early too, explain that the baby was sick. I could use his moral support if nothing else. I’d been nervous and almost sick myself with worry over my precious child.

I held Chris in my arms as I speed dialed Ethan’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. That wasn’t surprising because he hated to be interrupted when they were working on music. I’d always known the music was the most important thing in Ethan’s life. I respected that, but I knew he would want to know what was happening with his child. I left a message, but called again fifteen minutes later. Impatient, I finally decided to call Brad. He could let Ethan know what was going on.

Unlike Ethan, Brad answered his phone after two rings. “Val. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine. What about you?”

“Can’t complain. And what about the little guy?”

“Well, actually, that’s why I’m calling. He’s been really sick tonight, and I can’t get hold of Ethan. I wondered if you could pass a message on to him.”

His hesitation was palpable. “I haven’t seen Ethan since Tuesday, Val.”

My heart sunk. I didn’t want to give away the ideas already forming in my head. “Uh, well…if you see him, would you please ask him to call me right away?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Goddammit. I knew what Brad was thinking, because I knew his mind had already formed the thoughts mine had about where Ethan was and what he was doing. It had to be one of two things: either drugs or women.

Knowing Ethan, it was probably both.





Chapter Twenty-eight

Past



IT WAS ONLY a matter of time, but now that it was here, we were nervous as hell. An indie paper reviewed one of our concerts. Jet called Brad to let him know. Brad pulled up the paper online and found that we’d have to find the actual f*cking hard copy to read the review. The website listed locations of where the paper version could be found, one of which was at a nearby Chipotle. Ethan and Nick couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed, but Zane, Brad, and I got in Brad’s van. We had to wait a few minutes for the restaurant to open, but as soon as they did, we went in and found their newspaper racks.

The little paper was free. To be cool, we all bought a drink and then sat down to find the review. It might have been excessive, but we each had a copy.

I was painstakingly turning each page, afraid I’d miss it. Zane finally said, “Found it. Page forty-four.” Brad and I both turned the pages of our copies in haste.

But I was nervous too. I got there and saw a grainy black-and-white photo of us onstage. Wow. That was pretty cool. I read through part of the review and wasn’t sure if it was positive or not. It described our band sound as gritty and raw, unrehearsed and unpolished. I started feeling angry. And then I saw my name. “Oh, God…I can’t read anymore.”

That didn’t stop Zane. “At first, Quinn seemed to be holding back. By mid-show, however, her vocals were strong. Her style alternates between singing and screaming, and she can hold her own doing either.” It also mentioned that by about song three, I’d whipped the crowd into a “headbanging frenzy.” Whew. That was it. Short and sweet. There were also some other small compliments about the band and some of our songs. The reviewer mentioned that (as I’d observed in the past) it seemed like Ethan was in another world while onstage but he didn’t say if that was good or bad.

But the reviewer heaped the praise on Brad, complimenting him on his precision, his energy, and his shredding abilities. But Brad was humble about it. He almost acted embarrassed by it. “Brad,” I said, “you should be proud. Everything he said about you is true.”

He looked down at his hands. “Not everyone in the band is going to be as enthusiastic as you, Val.”

“Yeah, well, he needs to get the f*ck over it. It didn’t say anything bad about him, and you deserve every word the article said.” I smiled and patted his hand, resting mine on his. “I’m proud of you and glad to be your friend.”