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“You’ll be okay, FC,” Nana reassures me.
“We’ll make sure of it,” Dad says from the front seat, surprising me. I would’ve thought Mom would’ve driven my car back instead of theirs.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask when we slow to a stop. “Are we home already?” I manage to sit up and puke rises to my throat. “No.” I can’t go into a hospital. There will be questions I can’t answer and I’m sure it’ll be documented that I’ve fucked up and have been drinking.
Nana cups my cheek. “FC, your back is in bad shape. You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine. Dad, I can’t go in there. How am I supposed to explain what happened?”
He turns to look at me. “Think of it this way: this will be further evidence to use against her in the future.”
“No,” I snap. “I’ll get custody and prove she’s unfit without telling them about our relationship. I’m not doing it.”
“Then why are you documenting every time she’s hit you?” he retorts.
Mom walks up to the car and opens the passenger door, getting in. “What’s going on?”
“He doesn’t want to go in and says he’s not telling anyone about the abuse.”
“She’s not abusing me!” I shout. Licking my lips and tasting salty tears doesn’t slow me down. “It’s…it’s…” I try to think of some other explanation. To think of something I could say other than my girlfriend is abusing me. A lightbulb explodes. “I’m an alcoholic. There’s no telling what happened and how I get these injuries.”
“FC,” Mom whispers.
“No! I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being this way. I can’t take it anymore. I’m not going back. If that means I lose my son, then I’m a big fucking deadbeat and sorry ass dad, I don’t care. I can’t take three more months of this. I’m not being abused!”
Before anyone can respond, I pass out again. This time when I wake up, it’s in a hospital bed. Apparently, being whipped and drinking so much alcohol after being sober wasn’t a good combination and my body couldn’t handle it. I ignore my family as they attempt to talk and tell me what was done to me. I don’t want to be in a fucking hospital bed.
When two police officers walk in, I struggle to sit up, but I’m easily able to glare at my family.
“What did you do?” I accuse them.
“You said you were done and we don’t think you should go back. When the nurses asked what happened, we told them,” Dad answers.
“Sir, your parents say you’ve been in an abusive relationship and it’s escalated to where she’s using a whip on you. Is this true?”
“No,” I lie.
“FC.” Nana surprises me with her chide. “Don’t lie to them.”
“How am I supposed to get custody of my baby if I can’t prove she’s unfit for him until he gets here?”
“We will get custody another way,” Mom says. “You can’t go back there, FC.” She walks to the side of my bed and squeezes my hand. “Tell them what they need to know. Do it for Sawyer.”
We have a staring contest for about thirty seconds before I give in and answer the officer’s questions. This is not how everything was supposed to happen.
When I’m officially on my way to my parents’ house, my phone buzzes incessantly in my pocket. There’s no way I want to check and see who’s calling. The only person it can be is Lila, and police officers were supposed to talk with her yesterday after speaking with me. It’s been recommended that I go in first thing next week, after the holidays, and get a restraining order against her.
My nerves are shot to hell. She’s called me over twenty times already. All I want is my son and to have him away from her. I don’t know what will happen now. Reluctantly, I check my phone. Surprise stuns me when Idaline’s number is on the display. She’s not supposed to call me, which makes my gut twist in agony and my soul automatically cry out in pain at the thought of something being wrong with her.
I swipe my finger and slowly lift my phone to my ear, hearing, “FC? FC?”
“Idaline? Is everything okay?” A bump jars me and I wince. Being an alcoholic sucks. Pain killers weren’t prescribed, especially since I just relapsed. I can find a way to deal, like I deal with everything else. Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror, but I ignore him.
“I’m fine. I know I’m not supposed to call and I’m sorry, but I’ve had a bad feeling since yesterday. A seriously bad gut feeling that’s nearly panic-inducing and it has something to do with you because I haven’t been able to stop thinking that something is going on with you, something really bad, and I needed to call, hear your voice, and make sure you’re okay. Are you okay?”
“Never been better,” I grit
as we hit a hard bump driving onto a bridge.
