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16
Ellis
“There’s a possibility they might never find the people who broke into your apartment, so we need to work past that reality in your head,” Alicia said.
My stomach revolted at the thought of those fuckers never being brought to justice the way they deserved. “Yeah, I have that impression too. Some cases go unsolved, and I guess I wouldn’t be the only one living with that.”
In fact, I’d met Harriet for coffee right around the corner from our apartments the other day, and she was wondering the same thing. It was nice to have someone who understood what you were going through. She had also lived on the first level of her building and was recently able to move three floors up when there was a vacancy. It didn’t stop her nightmares, but they were becoming less frequent.
Mine too, except for the recurring one about the night of the robbery that weighed heavily on my mind. They occurred less frequently when Nolan was with me, which I knew I couldn’t rely on if I wanted to keep moving forward.
“How have you been doing with the baby steps and sleeping on your own?”
“Better.”
Should I tell her that I still sought Nolan out because of other reasons?
She made a note on the chart. “And your music?”
“It feels different, like it means more. I don’t know how to explain it.”
The night we’d played in Cleveland, I’d felt transformed, like I’d really let myself go and fed into the excitement of the crowd. It felt so damned good. It would’ve been even more perfect if I’d been able to touch Nolan freely afterward.
“Well, you know what they say—art is born out of tragedy and hard times.”
“I can see why now.” I dipped my head. “And I’ve been writing more too.”
“That’s good.” She smiled. “It’s a release for you, and any little bit helps.”
“And throwing myself into work. The kids definitely keep me busy.”
Parent-teacher conferences were coming up, and I was very interested in meeting some of the moms and dads, including Chase’s. He’d come into class looking rumpled lately, and the kids were ruthless in teasing him about his wrinkled clothes.
“I’ll bet. How about your nightmares? Are they still the same—about your biological father and the night of the robbery?” She knew the details of the latter, but I hadn’t been ready to share about the former.
I winced. “I definitely thought more about how the two dreams might be related.”
“It’s normal to have dreams where you relive trauma—or maybe the feelings of your trauma if the sequence of events doesn’t quite make sense in your sleep. We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”
Obviously, the crime itself had affected me deeply, but it wasn’t until I’d thought more about my childhood that a subconscious reason surfaced. I shut my eyes, figuring this was the time, so why was it so hard?
“When I was a kid, my biological father was a real prick.”
She nodded, waiting for me to gather my thoughts. It was something she’d heard me say before, but I had never delved much deeper. Until now.
“I was a hyper, impulsive kid. I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD yet, so I was super scattered, inattentive, a real handful.”
I could see the compassion in her expression, and that helped me get out the rest.
“He would get so frustrated with me. As punishment one time, he made me kneel in the corner of the room for hours. Said if I moved, he would beat me, and I didn’t put it past him because he’d done it before.”
She frowned. “Where was your mom at the time?”
“If memory serves me right, she was running errands. When she got home, she pleaded with him to let me move, but he refused, and she was afraid of him too.”
“Did he ever hurt her?”
I nodded. “They had horrible shouting matches, and I’d witnessed him pushing her around and raising his fist. I’ll never forget the fear in her eyes.”
“That’s terrible. I’m sorry you grew up like that.” Her jaw was clenched tight, and I wondered how many stories like this she’d heard in her career. “Your parents eventually divorced?”
“Yeah.” Somehow my mother found the strength to leave him. “A couple of years later, she met my stepdad—I think of him as my real father, and I’m grateful he came into our lives.”
“I’m grateful too.” Her smile was sad. “Have you had contact with your father again?”
“Not in years, and I’m okay with that.”
“So what happened during the robbery brought back that memory of you on your knees?”
“The not-moving part. Like I knew if I did something stupid, I might die, and I felt as helpless as I did as a kid from my father’s wrath.” Suddenly my eyes filled with tears, and I couldn’t stop them from leaking out, no matter how much I swiped at my face.
