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With a wrathful smirk, I affirm, “Y’ve never had me in the first place. Ya could have, but ya turned yer back on me, like ya did my mum. I’m a Kelly. I’ll never be a Foster. And for once in my fucking life, I’m proud of that.”
She nods, accepting my insult because how can she refute the truth?
With nothing further to say, I go to turn, but she offers me the photograph she has in her hand. “Y’ll always be a Foster, Puck. Yer ma’s blood runs through ya whether ya like it or not.”
Accepting the photo, I don’t look at it. Instead, I shove it into my pocket and leave. I don’t bother with goodbyes because I didn’t even say hello. Cian and Rory’s footsteps alert me that they’re following, but I can’t talk to them right now.
I can’t do anything but think about what Keegan said.
“Whatcha think, lad? Yer da is responsible for yer ma’s death. She wanted to leave him and had a secret that could ruin him. What do ya think he’d do?”
Those words haunt me, and I break into a sprint, wishing to escape the pain they bring. But the faster I run, the deeper they cut, and I know only one thing will center my world once again. The gravel kicks up under my feet as I run toward my car, and when I’m within reach, I unleash my anger the only way I know how; the only way I was taught by the monster who murdered my ma.
I bate my fist into the car bonnet over and over again, but it does nothing to subdue the demons. It only feeds them. And they’re hungry.
“Ah, stop it, y’ll break yer hand,” Cian says, attempting to calm me down. But that ship has sailed.
Only when I’m hitting or destroying something do I feel better. However, there is only one person who will be able to stop me ragin’. I need to go home. I need to look my da in the eye and ask him if he killed my ma.
And if he says yes…then I’ll do unto him what he did to my ma.
“Whatcha gonna do, Punky?” Rory asks, keeping far back, knowing better than to touch me.
“What I have to,” I reply, lamping the bonnet one last time.
“Ya believe them?” he asks, but that’s the thing—I don’t know who to believe.
With a roar, I kick the tire and finally contest defeat.
Breathless, I dig into my pocket to retrieve the photograph, and although it’s dark, the moonlight allows me to see the image is that of a woman and a wee boy. That wee boy is me.
With bloodied fingers, I bring the photograph closer so I can look at the woman sitting in front of an easel with a set of paints close by. Her blonde hair matches mine in color and so do her eyes. I trace over her kind face, unbelieving this is my ma.
The images of her in my head match this woman perfectly. I didn’t even know I knew her…until now.
I remember her tender voice, singing to me as she rocked me to sleep. I remember her sweet smell; she always smelled of roses. I remember how she shoved me into that wardrobe, protecting me with her life.
I remember…
And I’ll never forget.
Digging into my pocket, I give the keys to Rory. “Well there ya are now.”
He nods, realizing this is far from over.
I want nothing more than to kick open my dad’s bedroom door and beat the truth outta him. But I can’t.
When that happens, and it’ll happen soon, the twins can’t be here. Neither can Fiona. It just needs to be me and my dad because this is between us.
On the drive home, I thought about calling Uncle Sean and confronting him with what I’ve uncovered. But honestly, I am fucking knackered. I need a clear head when I tackle this because I know I have one chance, and one chance only.
The boys left some hours ago, and although they offered to stay, I told them to go home. I can’t be around anyone right now. I can’t even be around myself.
I’ve showered, but I haven’t left the bathroom. I’ve stared at my reflection for hours, hoping to see the resemblances between my ma and me. Her photo is taped to the mirror, and as I stare at her, memories begin to materialize.
I remember bouncing on her lap as she sat in front of her easel, painting colorful images which made no sense to me, but they did to her. Regardless of how unhappy she was, her paintings helped her escape, just as mine do for me.
Gripping the sink, I arch my back, measuring my breathing as I attempt to calm these images racing inside my head.
