Excerpt of Hope in Patience by Beth Fehlbaum

Chapter One, Hope in Patience

I wake up in a cold sweat most nights, and I think it's happening again. I think he's in my bedroom, and I can feel him running his hands all over my body. He's rubbing my back, squeezing my butt, and trying to push his fingers down into where the tightly-wrapped blanket makes a V, where my legs meet. He tries to roll me onto my back again and again, but I have my arms locked at my sides and my hands prayerlike across my breasts. My legs are pushed together and slippery from the sweat pouring off my body, and I am as stiff as a corpse.

I grit my teeth and force myself out of the nightmare. I roll onto my back and unlock my hands. Open my eyes so that I will see that I am safe in my bedroom, down the hall from my father and stepmother. The bathroom light stays on all night for just this reassurance. I snake a hand from beneath the covers and rub the rough-out cedar paneling, then pull the white eyelet comforter up to my chin, turn onto my side, and align my body with Emma's. She paddles her feet, and I know she is chasing rabbits in her dreams.

The memories intrude again. I groan in frustration and pull Emma against me, hug her hard. I whisper, "I am in the Present. I am in the Present. No one is going to abuse me. I am safe." Emma lifts her head and, if a dog is capable of giving a dirty look, gives me one. She jumps down, circles once on the floor right next to the bed, and emits a weary-sounding sigh as she closes her eyes and tries to catch up to the rabbit.

I breathe slowly in and out as I stare at the white ceiling fan spinning shadows, and it is as if I am falling into that place again. My old bedroom in Northside. My mother is asleep across the hall. My stepfather Charlie is standing over me in the night, and I am frozen.

I close my eyes tightly and hold my breath. My heart is racing and I feel nothing and I think of nothing but being numb and I am nothing, nothing but a shell encased in a cocoon of blankets. My head fills with a "Whoosh"-ing sound, like when you put a seashell up to your ear. I hear his ragged breathing and the tiny groans he emits once in a while. Why won't he leave me alone? Where is my mother?

In the daytime, I always promise myself that when he comes in the night, I will at least try to call for my mother, but when it is happening in the dark, I am paralyzed with fear and I cannot find my voice.

Many nights I escape his touch by sleeping in my closet, hiding behind the lower rack's hanging clothes. The heat is unbearable and I hold my breath so he won't hear me. I'm always thinking I hear his footsteps on the carpet in my bedroom. Every nerve in my body is on edge; I am convinced that he is going to open the closet door and turn on the light at any second.

Sweat slides down my legs as I wrap my arms tightly around my knees. I try to make myself as small as I can. I think I feel a draft. I'm not sure if it's the beads of perspiration running down my face that make me cool or if my worst fear has come true and he's discovered me. I loosen my grip on my knees enough to reach out and pull the clothes in around my body tighter. I check and double-check that my feet are covered.

Pitch. Black. Darkness. I bend as close to the floor as I can and lay my head against the carpet. My eyes want to close but I will not allow it. I use two fingers to part the curtain of clothes made by the pink fuzzy robe that Nanny gave me for Christmas and my winter coat. I stare hard at the thin line of space between the door and the carpet, thinking that if I wish hard enough, I can pull the sun up, make it daylight out there so that he will not come. I blink repeatedly, trying to focus my eyes on the pencil-thin gap, watching for signs of morning.

When I think I see light, I unwind my feet from the clothes and crawl from the back of the walk-in closet to the door. I don't stand up yet; I allow the fingers of one hand to walk up the door and quietly turn the doorknob. This is difficult to do while I am trying to keep my body hunkered down in a crouch.

Tension. Spring-loaded tightness. What if I imagined the sunlight under the door? Mom and Charlie say I can't tell my dreams from reality; what if they are right? What if I open the door and see him, his white underwear looking blue in the moonlight, at my bedside?

I close my eyes and bow my head. "Please, God," I whisper, hoping that Jesus or Allah or Jehovah or Somebody Up There is listening now, even though I know that He must not have been paying attention since I was nine years old, when Charlie started touching me and I started praying for help. I pause my shaking hand half-way up the door. Maybe I'll just go back behind the clothes. But what if I am right and it is morning, and it's time to get ready for school? I have a math test today that I need to study for. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and twist the doorknob. The cool air of my bedroom hits my face.

I was right; the morning sun was real. He will not come in the light. It's early yet. I get ready for school as silently as I can. Then, fully dressed, I set my alarm to go off in thirty minutes. I crawl back into bed, burrow under the covers, and close my eyes. I feel my body relax for the first time since the sun set the night before.

My clock radio clicks and a morning show host tells me that it's going to be a beautiful day.

I walk into the kitchen for breakfast. I say nothing to Charlie, just glance at him as I walk by.

"You're such a bitch in the morning," Charlie says, looking up from his plate of breakfast, "No man is ever going to want to marry you."

"Wipe that go-to-hell look off your face," Mom says.

"There is no look," I say dully, but inside I feel like screaming. I wish I could crawl out of my skin and kill someone: me. It is an exercise in self-control not to grab a knife out of the block of knives on the counter and stab myself in the neck. I want to die. I don't even know why I want to hurt myself so much, but I do. I feel like a ticking time bomb.

Mom slaps my cheek hard. "I wiped it off for you," she says.

"I didn't even know I had a look on my face!"

"Bullshit!" Charlie says. He rises, throws his plate of food into the sink, and storms out of the kitchen.

"Way to go, Ashley Nicole," Mom says.

It's just the start of another day in the Baker household. Thank God I don't live there any more. I'm sure I would have killed myself by now. Even though Charlie broke my arm a couple of months ago when he and my mom showed up here in Patience one night to take me home and I told him I wouldn't go with them, that visible scar of my relationship with him is nothing compared to the ones nobody can see.

***

My name is Ashley Nicole Asher. My parents got married young because they had to, and they thought my first and last names sounding so similar was "cute." The "Nicole" in the middle inspired Charlie to meld my first and middle names into the knick-name, "Ash-Hole". What a guy.

I guess my father, David, and my mother, Cheryl, didn't actually "have" to get married. My grandparents, Nanny and Papaw, were not enthusiastic about the idea of their eighteen-year-old daughter marrying a nineteen-year- old fledgling mechanic, the son of a father he had never known and a woman who changed husbands as often as she changed her underwear. My grandfather, who is a doctor, arranged with one of his friends to give my mom an abortion, but when my dad heard about that, he talked my mom into running off with him to get married. My dad, David, and my mom, Cheryl, landed in the tiny East Texas town of Patience, where my dad's older brother Frank had settled on fifty acres of land that has been in the Asher family for generations. Uncle Frank's still here; he and David own Asher Automotive, which operates out of a shop that looks like a barn in the pasture up the hill from our house. Frank's a single parent to my cousin Stephen, who is eleven. They live on the other side of the acreage from us.

When I was three months old, my mom had enough of my dad's drinking and temper and took off for her hometown of LaSalle, a suburb of Dallas. My dad never went after her, never tried to see me, and if Child Protective Services hadn't called him to come get me last May, I probably never would have gotten to know him, or find out that he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day my mom took me and left, and he went through counseling to get his rage under control.

Mom married Charlie when I was eight years old. Things were going pretty good at first, I think. A year after they got married, though, he started being creepy with me, and it just got worse from there. It was like the only reason I was born was to satisfy something in Charlie that I still don't understand, and I'm learning that trying to figure out why he did that stuff to me is crazy-making. I mean, did I ask for it? I was nine years old when it started, and I grew boobs pretty early. But I was a child, and my therapist, Dr. Matt, told me that what happened to me was not my fault. Then again, my mom said I flirted with Charlie, but I don't think little kids even understand flirting.. see what I mean? Crazy-making stuff.

For six years, Charlie became more and more aggressive; he went from watching me while I showered to touching me when I slept, to what happened last May when my mom went to pick up a pizza. I tried to get her to take me with her. She wouldn't. She told me I had to stay home and "play" with Charlie, who had been squirting us with a water gun he found on one of his construction job sites.

I know he chased me. I know he tackled me. I blacked out, and when I came to, the lower half of my body was covered in blood. I still don't know what happened when I blacked out, but the rape exam at the hospital showed signs he did. Rape me, that is.

Sometimes little pieces of it blip through my mind; it's as if you had a box of a million puzzle pieces and somebody threw the box in the air and the pieces flew everywhere. Meanwhile, you're trying to catch the pieces and assemble the puzzle in the air. I don't know a lot of what happened, but I do know this: even when I told my mom about Charlie molesting me, she didn't do a damn thing about it.

I was pretty much a mess, and when my best friend Lisa noticed how spaced-out I was, she made me tell our theater teacher, Mrs. Chapman. Mrs. C. called Child Protective Services and repeated what I told her.

Before I knew it, my dad-- who I couldn't have picked out of a line-up-- showed up in the CPS offices to bring me back to Patience, and I've been here ever since. I moved in with David, his wife, Beverly, and her son, Ben, who my dad adopted when Ben was two. Our home is a log cabin that David, Bev, Ben, Frank, and Stephen built several years ago. It's in the middle of a forest.

I did not have a choice about moving here; it was either David or the emergency shelter, because Nanny and Papaw were so pissed when CPS called them and said that Charlie did nasty things to me, they threatened to sue the state of Texas.

When the police investigated to see if I had been raped, my mom told the police that I was a slut with a track record of sleeping with a ton of guys, and that the rape kit found tears and bruising in my "region" because I liked it rough. Makes me sick to think about it, not only because my mom's the one who said it, but because it's not true. I'm not a virgin any more, but it's not like I chose to have a thirty-seven-year-old man tackle me and rape me in the front and back. I've never even held hands with a boy, much less had sex with somebody because I wanted to do it. To be honest, the idea of having anybody touch me at all just creeps me out. I'm still working on not cringing when David puts his arm around me, and I know he's not going to act like Charlie did with me.

When I moved to Patience, even though nobody was coming in my room at night to mess with me any more, I still hid in the pine wardrobe dresser in my room (because I have no closet), whenever things freaked me out. Over the past few months I've realized that none of that hiding works, seeing as how the stuff inside my head is impossible to hide from. If I could never sleep, I'd be home free. Maybe.

Another thing I found out is that I'm Mentally Ill. I figured this out because every week I see Scott "Dr. Matt" Matthews, who is a Mental Health Professional. Besides that, when I Google stuff like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, it pops up under the heading of Mental Illness.

***

Last July fourth, Charlie drunk-dialed me, told me I had broken my mother's heart, and that, because of me, she'd never be the same person. I broke apart inside, as the knowledge that she didn't care that he had molested and raped me clashed with the fear I felt that what Charlie was saying was true. Following his phone call, I held a knife, its sharp point right between my breasts, and begged David to let me die. "It's too hard! It hurts too much!" I told him. Ben was there, too, and what I did terrified him.

It's embarrassing even to think about what I did, now. Dr. Matt told me that suicide is a despicable thing to do to people who love you, and that if I kept thinking up ways to die, he, my dad, and Bev would have to put me in a place where I couldn't hurt myself. That got my attention. He helped me start to be able to see that doing things like holding myself hostage with a knife, clawing my skin, and tearing my hair out were all kind of like an extreme temper tantrum in reaction to not getting what I need from my mother.

I've always been "book smart." I learned the words for what was happening to me: molestation, sexual abuse, incest-- by snooping through the school counselor's books in his waiting room, when I was an office aide in seventh grade. So when Dr. Matt tells me that the reason I want to hurt myself when I'm angry about my mom is that it's like a temper tantrum, I get it on a "book" level. But really getting it-- like, understanding it in the same way that I understand that the reason it rains sometimes is that the water droplets in the clouds become so heavy that they fall to the ground? No. I can't wrap my mind around it; the way my mom is just hurts so much, I can't even describe it. When I'm upset, all that "book" thinking goes right out the window, and Jesus, Allah, Jehovah, or Somebody Up There only knows what I'll do that happens.

***

Right after I moved to Patience, I enrolled in an English II summer school class taught by Beverly. She used this cool book, Ironman, by Chris Crutcher, to teach us how to write responsively to literature. I didn't take English II in summer school because I failed it in Northside. I took it with Bev to get ahead, because, let's face it, I'm an ION: an Invisible Outsider Nerd. The popular kids always peg me as being really smart-- even though I'm not. But I love books and writing and besides that, what else did I have to do with my time? Reading about somebody else's problems was a lot easier than dealing with the shitstorm of my own life. Still is.

All of us in the class learned a lot about literature, writing, and ourselves. And though you'd never think we would have that much in common, we bonded in a way that I'd never experienced in a class. Besides learning how to write an expository essay, we discovered that all people are pretty much the same: they want to be understood and accepted for who they are. Bev told us on the first day of summer school that our study of Ironman was a Quest for Truth- and she wasn't joking.

Ironman was unlike any other novel I'd ever read in school. For one thing, the characters talked and acted like real teenagers do. They swore sometimes, and they talked about having sex. The main character, Bo Brewster, had problems with anger. He kept calling his football coach an asshole. He fought with his dad, but was close to his teacher, who it turns out was homosexual. I'd never read a book that had a gay character. Bo's girlfriend had been sexually abused-- and I'd never read a book with a character like that, either. Her home life sounded a lot like the one I had just escaped. It made me feel less alone, like less of a freak. Ironman wasn't on our district's "approved novel list"- but Bev chose it because she knew it would draw in people who were taking the class because they had failed it, and I suspect she knew it might help me, too.

Mr. Walden, the principal of Patience High School, had given Bev permission to have creative license in the summer school class, seeing as how she found out she'd have to teach it at the last minute. As long as we learned to respond to literature by writing an essay, Mr. Walden didn't really care how the class was taught. Bev is a long-time teacher in the district, her students always scored high on the state standardized test, and he trusted her judgement. That all changed when some people got upset about Ironman for the very same reasons that I loved it, and things got uncomfortable for Mr. Walden.

***

Right before the school year started, Bev and I were working in her classroom. We were hanging a border above the white board when Mr. Walden's secretary, Marvella Brown, tapped on Bev's door. She stepped into the classroom, bringing with her the overwhelming scent of Chantilly perfume. She cleared her throat then said, in a very loud, nasty-sounding voice, "Mrs. Asher, I just want to make sure you know that you are expected to use district- approved novels in your class this year, not the sort of filth you taught in summer school." Marvella had a funny look on her face and kept jerking her head toward the hallway the entire time she spoke.

Bev's eyes were huge and her voice shook a little when she said, "Well, Marvella, I'm glad you told me how you really feel. At least I know where I stand with you now."

Marvella put an index finger to her lips, "Ssh," then tilted her head, listening.

We heard a CRASH! in the hallway, then Mr. Walden's voice. "Gabe! Why'd you leave that ladder right here in the middle of the hallway? Look at this mess now!"

"Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Walden. I was just changin' out light bulbs. Are you okay? Did ya.. did ya stub your toe?" Gabe said.

"No, I didn't stub my toe, I.. just clean up this mess! I oughta dock you for those bulbs, you dumb son-of-a-…" He continued his hallway tirade, and I moved to stand behind Bev. I started rolling the border strips, twisting them into spirals, unrolling them, and rerolling them again. Finally, it sounded as if Mr. Walden was leaving our wing of the school. He was still yelling at Gabe, but his voice was smaller .

In Bev's classroom, Marvella turned back to us, her hand clapped over her mouth, stifling a giggle. She listened a moment longer, then whispered, "Ashley, could you close the door?"

I peeked around Bev at Marvella. "Go ahead, Ashley. It sounds like he's gone," Bev said.

I left the now-curvy border strips on Bev's overhead cart and stepped into the hallway. Gabe had righted his ladder and was sweeping up the broken light bulbs.

"Is the coast clear?" Marvella whispered hoarsely.

"Gabe's in the hallway, but nobody else." I closed the door and slid into a student desk in the row closest to Bev's desk. My hands looked for something to do and I started tracing the boxy outline of a panther's head that someone had carved into the desktop.

Marvella exhaled, "Whew!" She looked around for a place to sit that was big enough to hold her. She finally hiked herself up onto the edge of Bev's desk, exhaled again, plucked a tissue from the box on Bev's desk, and dabbed her forehead with it. "I'm sorry, Bev. I didn't mean any of that."

"Then, why.. ?" Bev asked, shaking her head, her eyebrows furrowed. She took a few steps toward Marvella, the stapler still dangling from her hand.

"That jackass was in the hallway the entire time-" Marvella began.

"Marvella, you're going to have to let go of your anger with Gabe at some point," Bev said. Marvella's son, Gabe, a tenth-grade drop-out and all-around disappointment to her, got tangled up with a white supremacist group for a while.

Last July fourth, he and another man nearly beat to death Jasper Freeman, a mentally disabled African- American man who used to be a fixture on the streets of Patience. When Marvella found out about it, she nearly twisted clean off Gabe's ear. In exchange for agreeing to testify against the other man, Gabe was given probation. He's keeping a low profile, behaving himself and working as a custodian at the high school. I think he fears his mother even more than a potential cellmate named Bubba.

"Not my jackass," Marvella said. "The other one, our esteemed leader. He made me give you that speech. He was in the hallway, listening."

"So, you don't think the book I used in summer school was filth?"

"Heavens, no, Bev! But Walden's serious as a heart attack about you stickin' to the approved novels list. And, I just sent in an order for Exit Test workbooks. I think he's gonna expect you to do a lot of drill-and-kill this year."

"Drill-and-kill?" I asked. "What's that?"

"It's where you drill students so much on test prep, you kill their love of learning," Bev said. She walked around her desk, opened a top drawer, and tossed her stapler into it. She stood behind her desk, rolling her chair back and forth. "There's more to learning than that damned test! "

"You're preachin' to the choir, Bev. But Mr. Walden's not thinkin' that way. He's just determined to keep you under control."

Bev sat down hard in her chair, ran her fingers through her hair, and said bitterly, "Oh, yes, I'm such a rebel… God, that guy is a.."

"Jackass?" Marvella and I said together.

Bev managed a tiny, rueful smile.

"Well, he's gonna be a spotted, itchy jackass! He's so mad that you're still teachin' here, he can't even mention your name without gettin' covered up in polka- dots." Marvella's hand went into the pocket of her tent- sized denim jumper and withdrew a tube of ointment. "Every time he goes to lookin' for his anti- itch cream, he can't find it, 'cause I keep hidin' it from 'im. Then that famous temper of his heats up and he breaks out in more hives. It's.. it's.." Marvella got tickled with herself and couldn't continue. When she laughs, every inch of her jiggles.

Bev sighed as she stood and started back toward the white board. "Marvella Brown, you are a trip. I'm lucky to have a friend like you."

"I do what I can," she said, heaving herself off Bev's desk and walking toward the door.

"Yeah," Bev said softly, biting her lip, nodding, and looking lost in thought. "We all do, don't we?"

***

I wasn't that nervous about starting a new school, seeing as how Bev's a teacher there, I already had friends, and I spent so much time there over the summer, I knew the layout of the school. What I wasn't prepared for was being repeatedly asked, "How'd you break your arm?"

If I told people the truth, that would lead to more questions, and I feel awkward enough about myself as it is without having everybody and their brother knowing about what happened to me. I just answered their questions with questions.

"How'd you break your arm?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

"How'd you break your arm?"

"I'm so lost. Where's the cafeteria?"

"How'd you break your arm?"

"Do you know where Coach Griffin's room is?"

***

In spite of the questions, I was still glad to have the routine of school again. I nearly went crazy(- er), the week after my arm was broken. That happened on August 10-- and school didn't start until the 28th. I had to lay still with my arm elevated for the first week, and that was not a good thing because I kept thinking about my mom, and it hurts to do that. I wanted to start running with Bev again-- she got me started on distance running this past July, and it really helps me relax and cope with all this shit-- but I had to wait until an x-ray showed that the bones were fusing.

After that, I was given the go-ahead to start running again, casted arm and all, which was cool, because I had signed up for the cross-country team, and it started before the school year did. I was slow and my arm ached, but that didn't really matter because I'm a slow runner any way, and I was pretty much covered up in pain, inside and out. I was so full of darkness, I was surprised when the sun came up every day. There was one thing I looked forward to every day, though: seeing Joshua Brandt. He's seventeen, a junior, and he went to State in cross-country last year. He's about four inches taller than me; he has dark blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes, and a killer set of dimples. He's lean, but his legs are very muscular. The thing I like most about him is that he seems like a really nice person. I don't think he knows I exist, and that may be a good thing, because I don't know what I'd do if he asked me out.

My feelings about dating are similar to the ones I have about my mom: in a "book-smart"-way, I can think about going out with a guy, and I like hearing other girls talk about what it's like to have guys paying attention to them, but actually doing it and taking a chance on being touched? Jesus, it just wigs me out. My heart starts racing, and I end up with my shoulders around my earlobes, every muscle in my body wanting to go on lock- down, and this thought, scrolling through my mind at warp- speed: "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" So I guess anybody can see what a "catch" I'd be for some guy.

I wanted to hurry up and heal from what happened to me-- all of it. I wanted my arm to mend overnight so I could get the cast off and be able to forget it all-- everything that happened the night that Charlie broke my arm, and the six years before that. I craved being able to scratch the dry itchy skin inside the cast as intensely as I yearned for a new start, just to wiggle my nose and have all my hurt about my mom and my scaredy-cat nature to disappear. I sometimes wish that the reason she isn't there for me is because she is dead, instead of the way it really is. And sometimes I wish it was true that I had been with guys my own age before, because at least that would mean that I had the ability to CHOOSE to be with somebody in a physical way, instead of having it taken from me like it was. If I could, I would just cut off those parts of myself-- but I wouldn't even know where to start with the blade.

***

I finally got my wish to be free of the cast when the second week in October rolled around and the day came for getting it off. David and I were just walking out the door to leave for my appointment, when the phone rang.

"This is David.. Who? And who are you with?" David turned his back to me, then glanced back over his shoulder to see if I was listening. "Ashley, could you excuse me just a sec?"

I walked out of the kitchen but stopped just inside the hallway and listened.

"No, I am not interested in a meeting between the Bakers and Ashley… counseling? Yes, she sees a counselor, a psychologist.. why?...No, she does not need to see your-- no, I will not ask her that. She's fifteen years old, Mr. Sanger; she's a child, although I know that didn't matter to your client. You're filing a motion to do what?.. Are you kidding me? Look, you need to speak to Alejandro Guzman, the Anderson County Prosecutor. No, there is no way we will consider asking him to drop the charges. Alright then. Well, you do whatever you think you have to do, but-- right. I guess we'll see you in court."

I stepped back inside my bedroom doorway, then came out of it as if I hadn't been eavesdropping. "Who was that, David?"

David sat down heavily on one of the barstools and a horrible screech filled the room. He rose slightly and Loki, our habitually-angry cat, shot out from beneath him, a gray streak of indignation. "Damn cat," David sighed, shaking his head. He was looking at me, but he seemed to be staring right through me.

"David?"

"Oh, hey, Ashley. How are you, sweetie?"

"Who was that on the phone?"

He didn't answer at first, then he opened his arms to me. I moved near him but did not enter his embrace. He reached out, put his hands on my shoulders, and pulled me closer to him. I crossed my arms over my breasts and looked at my feet. It's just habit.

Finally, he said, "That was Charlie's lawyer, Ash. Charlie's insisting on havin' a trial. He's not going to plead out like we had hoped he would. They're tryin' to get us to drop the charges."

I felt my body tighten up, my spine curving in, and I stepped back from David's grasp. "So.. I'm going to have to see him again?" I said, my voice getting high.

"Yeah, I guess so." He sighed and then asked, "Do you.. you don't want to drop the charges against him, do you, Ashley?"

"If I do, does that mean I don't have to see him again?" I asked, surprised at how much I sounded like a little kid. I felt like I was about four, too.

"Well, yeah, I guess. But.. is that the right thing to do?"

"I don't know, David. All I can think of right now is how much I don't want to see him again. I'm.. scared. I'm scared of him." My throat was getting tight, and I held my breath.

"I know, sweetie, but--"

"Whoosh" whispered in my head. I hadn't heard that in a few weeks. I couldn't meet David's eyes. It felt like my chin was Super-glued to my chest.

"Ash, look at me. Will you try to look at me, please?" I shook my head and a tear ran down my cheek. He gently pulled me a little closer to him, then leaned down to try to get me to look at him. "Are you in there, Ashley?" He gave me a hopeful smile.

I forced myself to meet his gaze, tried to smile back, but I couldn't. Feeling my body relax a little, I allowed him to pull me closer in a hug, and lay my head on his shoulder.

Barely above a whisper, David said, "Ashley, honey, I know you're afraid, but he won't be able to touch you any more, he--"

"It's not just that, David," I breathed into his shoulder then inhaled his scent, a mixture of Right Guard deodorant and fabric softener. I exhaled a shuddery breath and wiped my cheeks and nose against his shirt, then lay my head on his shoulder again. He gathered up my legs and held me in his lap, rocking me back and forth like a little kid. It felt so good, it was like being covered in warmth and love. It wasn't sick, like when Charlie made me sit in his lap and held me there tightly so he could touch me wherever he wanted.

"What is it, baby?" he said into my hair.

It took me a little while to be able to put it into words. "I-- it hurt so much last time I saw my mom, David. She-- she's really mad at me for.. telling--"

David abruptly stopped rocking me, and his voice was angry when he spoke. " I need you to hear me when I tell you this, so listen. Are you listenin'? Are you?" He held me by the biceps and shook me a little, and I stopped breathing. "Look at me!"

I forced myself to look at him, and his eyes were like black coals.

"Ashley Nicole Asher, you are the best thing that ever happened to your mother. And if she can't see that? Fuck her. You matter, honey. You matter to all of us who love you, and don't you forget that. If your mom is so selfish and fucked up that she can't see that you are the best thing in her life, then that's her loss. HER loss. Are you listenin'? Do you hear what I'm sayin' to you?"

"Let me go. Please," I said, trying to get my arms loose and sliding my legs out of his lap, my old "run like hell" instinct kicking in.

He abruptly let go. "Ashley, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you-"

"Let's..let's just go, okay? We're going to be late," I said, going out the front door. "I'll be in the truck."