Page 372 of Off Limits: The Firsts
“You know?” My words are barely audible.
“Of course I know,” she says, her eyes never breaking from mine. “You were like mine, Em. Your mom and I spent many nights together on the phone, sobbing one minute, screaming the next, and sitting in silence between so the other wasn’t alone.”
I blink rapidly, forcing back the burn of tears as my mind catches up with her words. With the piece of truth she just gave me.
I remember.
The murmured conversations in the back of the van when my mom thought I was sleeping. My eight-year-old self assumed it was my dad she was talking to, that she was apologizing to him because I had been such a bad girl, but it was Betsy.
“I didn’t know.”
“We both blamed ourselves, Em. How could the two of us—two intelligent, educated women—not see the signs that were sitting right in front of us? How could we be so busy with life that we failed you?”
“It isn’t your fault,” I say. My need to rid the pain in her voice all-consuming.
“You’re right. It isn’t. Just like it wasn’t yours and it wasn’t Grant’s. Though, to this day, I think he blames himself for not saving you sooner.”
Why would Grant blame himself?
The thought is staggering, and my head is so full of these new revelations all I can do is keep listening to her. “It was your father’s fault. He was pure evil. To make you feel like it was your fault? To trick you into thinking it was all dreams? He was evil to the core.”
My heart drops. How does she know this? How does she know the doubt I have and my mistrust of my own memory? “You knew about that?” My voice is barely audible.
“Who do you think sat and held your mom’s hand as we watched you with the detective and therapist on the other side of the two-way mirror at Children’s Hospital? It was me, sweetie. I know he tricked you. I know you doubted back then, and probably sometimes still do today, whether you were at fault or to blame. After all the games he played with your mind, that’s more than understandable. Let me tell you that you weren’t.”
“I didn’t realize that you were there after . . .”
“Do you think I would leave you and your mom when you needed me most?” She smiles a sad smile as she remembers. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’re remembering some of it. Will you keep remembering? I don’t know. Your mind might continue to protect itself from the trauma . . . or it might not. Just know that we are here for you if you need us. You can call me any time, day or night, and I’ll come to you, even if it’s just to sit with you in the darkness and so you know you aren’t alone with a new memory rattling around in your head. You’re not alone anymore, Emerson. You never were.”
“Betsy, I don’t know what to say . . .”
“Don’t say anything,” she says as she reaches out to squeeze my knee. “Obviously, if you stay and want to be a part of our family—in all our craziness and bantering—it will be on your own terms, your own time frame. And the offer remains regardless if you are or aren’t with my son.” She stands. “But I have to tell you he’s downright miserable right now. My bet is it’s because he misses you.”
You’re not alone anymore, Emerson. You never were.
Betsy’s words still linger in my mind when Desi walks in a couple of hours later.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I say with a sarcastic smile as I brush past her without saying anything else.
“You talk to him yet?”
Jesus. Is this the Save Grant brigade? First Betsy. Now Desi. If Leo joins the party, I might just leave after all. It’s really hard not to think about someone when they keep getting brought up.
“I have shit to do, Des. I have this class coming in to jump. I have . . . I just have shit to do.”
“You think that’s smart, Em?”
“What?” I busy myself with papers so that I don’t have to meet her eyes.
“Jumping. From an airplane. You know, thousands of feet above the ground. I sure as hell wouldn’t trust you to take me in the state you’re in. Like I said, you look like hell. And distracted. Exhausted. And if I’m honest—”
“By all means, don’t hold back.”
“Sketchy.”
“Sketchy?”
