Protecting Her(7)

I was 16 at the time. After that incident, he kept a much closer eye on me. I didn’t drink again until I was in college. And the girls I dated in high school were all picked by my father. I didn’t actually date them. I escorted them to the events I was forced to go to with my parents. Sixteen was also the age my father told me about Dunamis, thus ending my childhood.

“I will never treat you that way,” I say quietly to Garret. “I will never be like him.” I lean down and kiss his forehead. “I love you. And I promise you, I will never be like him.”





CHAPTER THREE


3


PEARCE

The doorbell rings. I notice the clock says it’s a half hour later. I must’ve dozed off. I get up, with Garret in my arms, and go answer the door.

When I open it, my mother is standing there. She’s wearing a white cotton blouse and black dress pants. That’s casual for her. Usually she’s in a dress or a suit.

“Hello, Mother.”

She stares at my face like she hasn’t seen me in years. The last time I saw her was at a party, before Rachel was pregnant, so it’s been a while. And we didn’t speak at that party. She and my father ignored me.

“Hello, Pearce.” She says it slowly and quietly, which is different than her usual short, forceful speech pattern. She looks somewhat sad and regretful. It’s almost as though she feels bad for disowning me, which is odd because if she did feel that way, she’d usually try to hide it.

“Come inside.” I step aside to let her in, and as I do, she notices Garret in my arms.

She instantly smiles, her eyes on him. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” I turn him toward her. “This is Garret. Your grandson.”

She moves the blanket that’s around his head and just looks at him.

“Would you like to hold him?” I ask.

She glances up at me. “Yes.”

I hand him to her and she smiles at him. “He looks just like you.”

It’s true. At first I didn’t see it, but the more I look at him, the more I see the resemblance. But he definitely has Rachel’s eyes.

“Why don’t you sit down?” I motion her to the couch.

She nods and goes over to it. Once she’s seated, she glances around the room. “So how do you like the house?”

“I like it very much.” I hope she doesn’t start telling me what a mistake I made buying it. We’ve had that fight and I’m not going to relive it. But I don’t think she’s here to fight. I think she really wants to help. I wonder what my father said about this. I’m sure he wasn’t happy about it.

“You’re wearing denim pants.” I notice her eyeing them with disapproval. My parents never allowed me to wear jeans. What my parents consider to be casual pants are what most people would consider to be dress pants. This is the first time my mother has seen me in jeans.

“I wear jeans sometimes when I’m around the house.” I also sometimes wear them when I go out, but I can’t tell her that. She’d be horrified.

The baby squirms and fusses.

“Would you like me to take him?” I ask.

“He’ll be fine.” She bounces him a little. “Have you fed him yet?”

“No, but it is time for his feeding.”

“Where’s the kitchen?” She slowly stands up.

“Right this way.” I take her in there. I have empty bottles lined up on the counter, next to the container of formula.

“You take him.” She hands him to me. “I’ll get the bottle.”

I watch as she prepares it.

“Have you given him a bottle yet?” she asks, screwing the top on it.

“No. The nurses did, but I didn’t.”

She notices the family room off to the side and says, “Go sit with him over there.”

I do as she says, taking a seat on the couch. I turn the TV off. Garret is crying now, his face getting red.

My mother comes over, a kitchen towel in her hand, which she sets on my shoulder. “You’ll need this in case he spits up. Now lift him up slightly.”

She hands me the bottle and continues to give me instruction, including how to burp him. I learned all of this in the classes but it’s good to have someone actually here, making sure I’m doing it right. And I’m shocked that that person is my mother. Completely, utterly shocked. The woman is not the nurturing type at all. I certainly don’t remember her that way. I guess that’s not entirely true. There were moments where she expressed care or concern, but they were fleeting moments. I’m not saying she was a bad mother. She just wasn’t someone who gave hugs or tucked you into bed at night. She kept her distance. As long as I was healthy and growing, she felt she was doing her job as a mother. And she always protected me from my father, standing up to him if he ever even considered hitting me. Unfortunately, she wasn’t home that day he took me outside and beat me, but when she found out about it later, she made sure it never happened again.