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“My parents,” she said softly.
“Oh,oh. When did you hear from them?”
This was one of those landmine topics. After my stepfather had basically banished them from our lives, we never heard from them. I didn’t even know how to reach them.
My mother took another swallow of water. When she lowered her glass, she traced her fingertip along the side of it, the motion restless. “I reached out. Told them Gerald died.” She cleared her throat. “They’d love to see you.”
My heart pounded in an unsteady beat, a painful, unsettling ache in my chest like a cold ball. I took a breath, setting my fork down, and reaching for my napkin. After dabbing at my mouth, I twisted the napkin nervously in my fingers. “Where are they?”
“They never moved. Dad had a stroke, but he’s okay.”
Anger jolted me briefly. Over the years, I sometimes wondered if I had subconsciously trained my anger to pass through me swiftly. Anger wasn’t a safe emotion to have when my stepfather was alive. I couldn’t act on it, and it was futile.
“Mom, why did you let Gerald cut them off? I’m not even asking for myself, but for you. I don’t understand.”
My mother’s face was pale. For a moment, it almost felt as if the ghost of my stepfather—if that was even possible—hung in the air between us. The look on her face was so painfully familiar. There was a blankness to her expression, a careful control where all emotion was wiped away. There could be nothing to misinterpret, nothing to react to, nothing to elicit any guessing or wondering. Just nothing. Just blank. That nothingness represented so much for me.
My anger rose again, like the roar of a lion inside my chest. I clenched the napkin in my fingers. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re allowed to have a feeling, Mom,” I said, my voice low, vibrating with pent-up anger tangled with sadness, resentment, and helplessness. Because I couldn’t fix anything that had happened before. Not at all.
My mother’s lips pressed together, and she took in a slow breath, her nostrils flaring. “I know. I didn’t know how to get out. If I could change it, I would. Gerald threatened to kill me if I left. He told me he would win custody in court even though he was only your stepfather. You know how much money his family had. He was a lawyer; his father was a lawyer. You know he could’ve made life a living hell for both of us. Worse than it was to live with him. I didn’t ever want that to happen.” She blinked quickly, and I saw a tear slide out of the corner of one eye.
Abruptly, I felt terribly guilty for even asking. “Mom,” I began. “You don’t have to—”
She shook her head swiftly. “I do.” Her voice was stronger this time, and color was returning to her cheeks. “I would’ve died to protect you, but I didn’t know what would happen to you if I tried to leave and something happened to me. Sometimes I wanted to die. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it doesn’t make sense unless you experience something like it. It didn’t start that way with him.”
I had seen pictures of them when they started dating. Maybe we hadn’t talked about it at length, but my mom had looked happy in those pictures. It had been a whirlwind courtship. They’d been married within months of meeting.
I knew how Gerald could come across. He was a lawyer from a family with money. He wasthatguy, the one who could sweet-talk anyone. I’d heard whispered threats from him when he told her no one would believe her. He rarely, very rarely, used physical violence. Instead, it was the pressure of his emotional manipulation, his constant berating of her, and the ever-present threat he might raise the stakes. I imagined it was like living with a venomous snake always poised to strike. It was unfair to snakes to even compare them. Snakes were just snaking. Gerald was a broken, cruel man.
“He told me he would win custody if I tried to leave. As awful as it was, I preferred he target me rather than you, so it seemed better to stay.”
“He would’ve,” I whispered, that old sense of defeat rising like a tired wave. I let out a soft sigh.
She nodded, just once. “I couldn’t protect you from him, but I tried to protect you from the worst of it. I’m sorry, more sorry than you’ll ever know.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” I said the words that had dogged me for two whole years. “Are you?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Glad isn’t the word. A part of me is relieved, and a part of me is sad. No one is all good or bad. I’m relieved not to have—” She moved her hand quickly back and forth in the air. “All of the awful. I don’t even know how else to describe it. But sometimes Gerald could be good. If I’m being honest, I suppose, more than anything, I’m relieved. I wish I could fix it and make it so it didn’t affect you.”
She studied me for a quiet moment, and I took a swallow of water. My hands were actually shaking. After I set my glass down, I tucked them on my lap under the table and shook them, trying to discharge the unsteady energy cycling through me.
“I worry that you’re cynical about relationships,” she said gently.
“You don’t need to worry.” My voice was clear even through the static of discomfort I felt inside. “I am cynical, and I like it that way. When I was in college before I did my vet tech training, I took a class on gender and violence, and they had a whole section on the frequency of violence against women. It’s wildly common. The odds are against me finding a good man. Not just me, but most women. It’s the world we live in. It was good to learn that it wasn’t just us. It wasn’t just you. I don’t need a man. I don’t ever intend to fall in love. I can’t imagine it happening, and that’s for the best.” My voice had risen to the point of sounding shrill.
I paused. A sense of defensiveness flared inside when I saw the look in my mother’s eyes. She felt sad for me. “Be honest with yourself, Mom. You’re not going to date again.” My angry tone dared her to contradict me.
Her lips twisted to the side as she let out a sigh. “No, I’m not. I don’t really want to worry about it. I like living with my friend and not worrying about men. If I can scrape the money together, I’m going to fly your grandparents up here, or I’ll go down to see them. I thought they might like the trip, though. What do you think?”
I resisted the urge to point out that she never had to lose so many years with her parents. But I also understood why she stayed. It wasn’t safe. Pushing back against my stepfather only led to more misery.
“I’d love to see them. Is travel okay for Grandad?”
My mother nodded quickly. “Yes. Mom said he recovered almost fully from his stroke. They said they’d love to see Alaska.”
“I’ll help pay for any travel.”
She didn’t get much of anything after my stepfather died. He spent excessively even though he made good money. Because he was a stingy, vengeful asshole, he had refused to get a life insurance policy for her. His family was as unhelpful and hateful as he had been. All she had was his Social Security benefits. She’d quit working when they married because he’d told her she didn’t need to work. I viewed that as yet another way to limit her world, her contact with others.
