Page 31 of Catching the Mistletoe

“My old man was an asshole.”

“That much I assumed.”

I actually smiled at that. “I don’t remember much about him. He was in and out of jail a lot. When he was home, he liked to drink and hit. He was full of himself, though. Always thought he was going to make something of himself.” I frowned, trying to access the memory. “I think that’s right. I don’t really remember. Curtis told me.”

“Curtis?”

“My older brother.”

Taking a deep breath, I let myself go further back into memories I’d barricaded for years. “Yeah, that’s right.” I said softly. “He had a tattoo on his arm, a snake coiled around a dagger. Used to tell me it represented the duality of life—beauty and danger, wrapped up in one. But all I saw was the danger. He was the fucking snake, and we were all just waiting to get bitten.” I glanced at Arabella briefly and then back to the road. “So, when he finally got arrested for good, it should’ve felt like freedom. But it didn’t.”

“How did he die?”

“I don’t rightly know. Prison.”

“And what about your mom?”

It helped, somehow, that her questions were so matter of fact. I thought of my mom. A vague memory of a heavyset figure, curly blond hair and a vacant, careless smile. Hazel eyes, like mine. “Mom liked to take a walk with Jack. That’s what she used to say. ‘Let me be, Lee. I’m taking a walk with Jack.’”

“As in Jack Daniels?”

“You got it.” I stopped for a moment, waiting for the tension in my chest to ease enough for me to go on.

“It’s hard to talk about.”

“Yeah.” The car felt too small suddenly, like the weight of my past was crowding in on us. My throat felt tight, as if the words had scraped a layer off it. I kept my eyes on the road, afraid to look at her, to see her reaction.

“When I was seven,” I swallowed hard, forcing the words out, “I found her unconscious in our living room. She’d had too much to drink, again. I called 911. They saved her, but it was the beginning of the end for me living there.” Another pause, another step down memory lane, with its sharp rocks and potholes, waiting to pull me down and cut at me. “They asked me questions, the paramedics. I answered truthfully. I didn’t know any better.” A bitter chuckle escaped me. “That led to CPS getting involved. I was placed in emergency foster care that night. Never went back.”

There, I’d said it. The Pandora’s box of my past was cracked open, and there was no going back. I felt exposed, vulnerable, raw. Yet, as I risked a glance at Arabella, her eyes were full of nothing but softness and a deep, aching kind of understanding that you only get from someone who’s seen their own version of hell.

“I can’t imagine it, Mack. You were so little. How did it play out? You just packed your things and went…where?”

“To the Newmans.”

“Were they…okay?”

“No. What happened there isn’t on file anywhere. Mrs Newman made sure of that.” I forced my hands to loosen their grip on the steering wheel. “But I’ll never forget it.”

“Oh.” There was a world of emotion in that one word and it made me flinch. “Was any of it ever okay?”

“Yeah, it was easier when I met Noah.”

“When was that? Like, how old were you?”

“Around nine, I think.” The relief of being able to talk about something good was immense. “We were placed with the same family, around the same time. We just got each other straight away. We were inseparable from day one.”

“He’s your person.”

I smiled. “I guess he is. Don’t you fucking tell him I said that, though.”

She laughed quietly. “My lips are sealed. I just have one more question, then I’ll stop pestering you.”

“Okay.”

“How did you get through it?”

“Therapy.”

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