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Her hand continued massaging the back of her head. My mind tried to play catch up as she talked.
“‘I know what you were doing,
Ginger. I saw how you looked at him, but you’re mine. You’ll always be mine Ginger,’” she said in angry whispers.
I’d never said those things to her. I’d never talked to her like that. But she wasn’t repeating words I’d spoken to her. It was him. Without warning, she kicked the small seat that was under the vanity. It scraped loudly across the floor before coming to a stop right in front of me.
“‘You need to be reminded of what’s at stake, Ginger!’” she hissed.
She fingered the scar, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I listened in horror, praying to myself this story wasn’t going where I feared it was. My ears were hot, pulsating. My stomach twisted. My hands balled into fists at my side.
Tears ran down her face. She gripped the towel tighter. “He...he started cutting me out of the dress. I...I didn’t even know where the knife came from. There was so much blood. And pain. I tried...I tried to block it out...but...but he...he…the grip he had in my hair was so tight. The way he pulled my neck back. I cou...I couldn’t close my eyes. I...I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t.” She started to hyperventilate.
Ginger leaned forward, but lost her balance, I rushed to catch her.
I held her tight. She buried her face in my shirt, sobbing. I didn’t want her to keep going, but I wasn’t going to try to get her to stop. She had to get it out. It was clear she’d been holding this in for way too long, and like a cancer, it had been eating away at her. She needed to release it.
Through broken cries, she told the rest of her story. He’d raped her, and he’d made her watch in the mirror as he did so. He’d raped her, and called her Ginger during the ordeal.
The more she spoke, the angrier I got. Angry at him for what he’d put her through, for the hell she’d had to live, and apparently was still living. I was sickened over the knowledge I reminded her of that night each time I called her by that name.
I tried to never waste energy thinking about that asshole, but as I held her trembling body in my arms every interaction with him raced through my mind. The one that repeated the most was that Thanksgiving dinner. He’d asked me about the name. I recalled how she’d tensed and tried to deflect the question. I’d taken the shift in behavior as her being embarrassed, but she’d been scared. How could I—she’d clung to him, barely made eye contact—I’d missed it. Fuck! I’d ran my damn mouth and she’d paid the price.
“There was something...something in him that he had to let out. His eyes...they were so dead, so cold. My son...my son has those eyes…” Her words drifted off. She leaned her weight against me, crying softly.
I picked her up, carrying her from that room. I took her upstairs. The first door I came to was ajar; I pushed it open with my foot. The towel came open when I laid her on the bed, I instantly closed it again. In that short time, she’d dozed off. Walking over to the dresser, I was thankful to find I’d picked the right room. Pictures of her and Shawn sat atop it.
I hated going through her things, but she needed clothes on. After managing to get her dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, without exposing her too much, I got her tucked in bed. She turned her back to me, continuing to whimper in her sleep. My eyes went to the tattoo. I never imagined Ginger…no fuck, not Ginger. I couldn’t even think of her by that name any more. I never imagined Calida to be the type of person that would ever want a tattoo, but as I looked at the design something told me it wasn’t of her choosing. S-D-J. Shawn’s initials, but my gut told me that tattoo was for his sperm donor. Fury swept through me like wild fire.
That fucker! My hands shook. I balled them into fists and pushed them into my thighs. I sat on the edge of her bed, shaking my head and rocked back and forth. I needed to hit something, preferably him. Like when I’d seen her in the hospital, I wished he was alive so I could beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He got off too fucking easy being dead. After what he’d done to Macy, to Calida, he’d needed to suffer as they suffered. As she still suffers.
I took another look at Calida, letting out a forced breath. The sight of the tattoo and the top of that scar fed the hate and all-consuming anger that coursed through my body. I headed into the bathroom down the hall. Turning on the cold water, I splashed some on my face.
I wanted her words, and subsequent pictures that formed with them, out of my head. It was a case of having information you needed to know, but didn’t want to have.
How could she continue to live here? To willingly stay in a place that brought her so much pain. I’d learned the truth secondhand, and the suffocation of that knowledge had been instant. She’d experienced it, yet continued to live in the reminder every…single…day. Was she punishing herself for taking his life?
My stomach lurched. I gripped the sink, forcing exhales. Blood pounded in my ears. My fingers ached as I squeezed the porcelain bowl tighter. I fought against the overwhelming urge to punch a hole in the fucking wall.
I looked up at my reflection. “Get a fucking grip!”
Thankfully, Calida had passed out, so she couldn’t see me losing it. I’d wanted her to talk to me, to let me in, and that’s what I got, even if it took her being wasted for it to happen. She’d let me in, and we’d work through it.
I turned off the water and grabbed one of the hand towels sitting on the counter to dry off my face. She’d made quite a mess that needed cleaning. Keeping busy would be good for me.
Chapter 27
Calida
My head throbbed. Blinking even seemed to hurt. My mouth felt like I’d stuffed it full of cotton. Turning over made my stomach scream. I felt like shit. I was in my room but had absolutely no idea how I got here.
“You’re up.”
Malcolm stood in the doorway. Why was he here? Shit what happened last night? He looked tired, really tired.
“How are you feeling?”
I eased myself up. “Like crap.”
