From Lies to Promises (22 page)

 
Just as I finish the statement Ryder pulls in behind the two cop cars left. He doesn’t even acknowledge them, instead he comes straight to me in an all-out sprint. He grabs my shoulders and looks me over from top to bottom, then shoves for me to turn. Once I am back to facing him, his hands go to my face. His eyes are full of concern. “You’re ok? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Ryder. I’m fine.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? You should’ve had the EMT check you out when they were here. We should take you by the hospital to check.” He rambles out.

  I place my hands over his on my face and look him deep in those eyes that have turned into brown, which I’ve come to learn happens when he is uneasy or worried. “I am ok. I promise.”

  “You are getting better with this whole promise thing.” Ryder pulls me into his chest and I don’t hesitate to wrap my arms around him. His scent, his warmth; they are all I need to calm the rest of my antsy nerves.

 
Once I can pull myself from Ryder, I give my statement to the officer who stayed with me and we head to the hospital to check on Jamie and her mother.

             
It’s been almost a month. A month since everything happened with Jamie and her family. Every day that has passed I realize how strong she is, what an amazing woman she is becoming. Jamie gets her strength from her mom. After a couple of days of observation she was released from the hospital and the next day she was back at work.

 
I don’t know if he has been doing it purposely or not, but Ryder has either stayed the night at my house or conned me into staying with him each night. I am ok with that, though. Why would I argue with being wrapped safe in his arms every night? He took off early this morning, something about fixing a piece on some car before a show. After he left I fell back asleep. I woke up a little bit ago to find out I’ve slept half the day away.

  I lay back on my bed and look around my room. I realize that it is ridiculously bare. There are no pictures on the walls or on top of my dresser. It looks exactly the same as it did when I moved in. I have been living on the thought eventually this fantasy would end. I didn’t want to put roots too deep just in case I had to leave. I thought it would be easier that way, but turns out I was
wrong. My gaze travels back to the dresser. The middle drawer mocks me. Well, what is in it does.

  A paper that holds words from my mother are in that damned drawer. I haven’t even looked at it since I stuffed it underneath the clothes there. No matter how I try to forget it, it still taunts me. Telling me how much of a coward I still am. Still scared. I pull myself from the security of the covers, walk over and open the drawer. I pull in a long slow breath, then pull ba
ck the layers of clothes to reveal the envelope.

 
Lies. All lies.

  The words come to me in my mom’s
voice and I am pulled into the memory of our last conversation. Six months before I left.

 
“
Liar. You’re lying. Why would you say something like that about your father, Katrina?” Momma ask.

  “He isn’t my dad. He isn’t any
thing to me.” I yell back.

  “How could you say that? He has been
a father to you since you were just a baby and your real father abandoned you?”

  I don’t know what to say to make her see. I am at the point I don’t know if she knows what he is doing and just refuses to acknowledge it because she don’t want to lose his income, or if she is really that blind.
Anger pushes out my next words, “No, mother. He couldn’t stand the sight of YOU!! Grandma told me how awful you were to him and he left because he couldn’t stand the sight of you.” I tighten my hands into fist at my sides, “And neither can I. Soon, I will walk out of your life too.”

  Walking out the
front door and slamming it behind me is the most relief I have gotten from my pent up anger, ever. I can’t wait to walk out of it forever.

 
I smile remembering just how it really felt to close a door on that life for good. Or so I thought, but here I am shaking just thinking about what cruel words she could have said to Victoria. After a few choice words, I yank the letter up and walk over to the bed. I take a few calming breaths and shake off the jitters, then open the envelope and pull out the interview. I lean back against the headboard and begin reading.

 
Darla Mills was very reluctant to talk about her daughter and the situation. After coming by several times she finally agreed to answer a few of my questions. The poor woman looked older than her mere age of 48. The bags under her eyes are so dark you could only assume she had been up for days. Silver blankets most of the dark hair she has left. Frail. Worn.

 
The whole time I open my small laptop, she sat restlessly in her chair, constantly fidgeting with something or moving. As soon as I found the questions I already had thought about for her, I ask if she is ready. I get a barely visible nod for an answer. Below is the results of said interview:

Me: Darla,
from what I understand you don’t believe what your daughter said all those years ago was true. Why is that?

Darla:
He raised her as his own. It just wouldn’t be right, especially him being the man he was.

Me: It’s not right no matter who he is. Do you
agree?

Darla: Of course, I do. But you didn’t know him, the man that he was. He was an honest, hardworking, Christian.

Me: And? Are you saying that a man with those qualities are unable to do wrong?

Darla: No Christian should commit such a foul act. It’s just not right.

Me: Sin has to come from somewhere, ma’am.

Darla: True
.

Me: So, between the man he was supposed to be and his word, you believed him over your daughter?

Darla: She was ten! How in the hell did she know any of what she was telling me? She could have very well heard about that stuff from school and thought it was just normal talk.

Me: Is this what you told yourself so you could forget about it? Did you ever think that she could be telling you the truth and needed help?

Darla: YES! I did every single time I saw her face! But then I would see my husband and couldn’t even fathom him being that sick.

Me:
She is your daughter.

Darla: I took her to the doctor and they checked her out. I even put her in therapy. Nothing was telling me otherwise. What else could I have done?

Me: Believed her. Supported her. Got that monster away from her.

Note: Throughout this whole conversation she has not made eye contact. She has averted her eyes to everything else in the room other
than me. But when I ask this next question, her eyes snap to mine.

Me: Why have you been referring to your husband in past tense Mrs. Mills?

Darla: He is dead! Been gone for a year now.
She pauses.
And the fucker had the audacity to confess his sins before he passed.

Me: What do you mean?

Darla: He wanted to clear his conscious. He called me in the room with him and held my hand as he told me that my baby girl was telling the truth all those years ago. Looked into my eyes as he told me the sick things he done to my daughter and made her do to him.

Note: She broke down crying
here. I didn’t really know what I should do. Comfort her for her sorrow she must be feeling for never really being there for her only child when she needed her, or to be disgusted that she would choose a man over her own baby. So I did nothing, but sit here and watch her breakdown.

Me:
I, um…

Darla: I don’t need any sympathy. I deserve to live my days out lonely. I should have never doubted my baby, Katrina. I know you are here interviewing about her story, but do you know where she is? Have you talked to her?

Me: No. I have my team looking for her, but she has done a pretty good job at staying hidden. Why?

Darla: Could you tell her something for me? Please?

Me: If I am able to find her, I will.

Darla:
If you do, tell her that I love her. That I am so sorry I didn’t allow myself to listen to what she was saying or pay attention enough to see it. Let her know that I am aware how much of a sorry mother and person in general I am. I understand now why she left and never looked back, and understand if she never thinks about me again. Most of all, let Kat know that I hope she is able to let go of her past and find the happiness she deserves.

Me: Ok.
I, uh… I can do that for you when, or if my people can track her down.

Darla: Thank you.

She stopped talking here. As I put my things away, I understood now why she looked so weak. Guilt has been eating her alive since the death of her husband. When she found out the truth. I am still conflicted, but I felt for the amount of blame she has cast upon herself. No matter how very well placed it may be. I packed the rest of my stuff and left.

  I fold the paper back up. I have so many emotions playing on each other all at once, dumbfounded being the biggest. It should be overwhelming, but it’s not at all. I feel relieved.
Like I have the closure that I need to completely move forward. Walking back to the dresser I open the drawer and toss the paper in and shut it without so much of a care.

 
Christmas is next week and the whole group of us (So weird to think I have a group of people that care about me) have decided that we are going to do a big dinner here. While everyone else still has to go to work, I am free. No school for me. Which means I have been put on grocery duty for all the things Lexi and I are going to cook.

  After I get dressed I walk into the kitchen and grab the list we made last night off the counter and head out. It is a beautiful day.
Snow is falling gracefully to the ground. I know it won’t stick yet, but it is beautiful all the same. At my car I stop and take time to just soak it all up.

***

  Pushing the overflowed buggy to the register at the grocery store was a task, to say the least. I look over the mound of food and think that the girls and I might have went a bit over board. Then I remember how much Ryder can eat and can only imagine what the other boys can stomach. I finish unloading all the food on the belt and wait when I see the magazine rack. I look over all the celebrities and their latest scandals, and there on the shelf is a Strong Woman magazine. It stands out like a sore thumb compared to the others.

 
I take it out and see that it is the December issue. The one with my article in it. The casher grabs it and rings it up, when she passes it down to be bagged she starts telling me about how that is the best magazine ever. How she was a drug addict just a couple of months ago but an article in that magazine helped her realize she was better than the life she was living. Now she is clean, working, and taking night classes at the school.

 
Her story makes me all the more happy that I did the article with Victoria. Once the bag boy has all the groceries back in the buggy, I push it to my car and unload it to the trunk. And backseat. It feels like it takes hours to unload all the groceries and get them put up. Lexi and Skeigh walk through the door as I finish putting up the last bag.

  “Isn’t that just perfect timing!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Skeigh ask.

  “
I just finished getting all the groceries put away for Thursday and you walk through the door.” I say as I toss the plastic grocery bags into the trash.

  “Like we both drove around the block a few times just so we wouldn’t have to help you.” Skeigh huffs out.

  I look up at the girls and smile, “I wasn’t trying to be snappy. I was just saying that it would’ve been nice for y’all to get here a ten minutes earlier.”

  “It came out pretty dang snappy
, whether or not you meant it to.” Lexi replies. “Anyways, let’s go get hit up the mall and get some last minute Christmas shopping done.”

  “I’m sorry.” I glance at the counter where I l
eft the Strong Woman magazine, I know what’s in there. I can look at it later. “I’m game for a shopping trip. Let’s go.”

  The mall is crazy crowded, but the few shops we have bought things from we gotten in and out in fairly good time. Buying presents this year is going to be odd. Normally I just bought gifts for Lexi, Skeigh,
TJ, and Jamie. In just a few months the list of people I care for has doubled. A smile comes to my face and it’s a real one. It’s been happening a lot lately.

 
My stomach growls at me and reminds me I haven’t eaten anything today. “Can we stop by the food court? I am starving!”

  “When aren’t you starving?” Lexi jokes.

  “Right?” Skeigh quips.

  Arriving at the food court I say, “Like you two are any better.”

  “True.” They say together.

 
“What shall we choose to feast upon?” Skeigh says in her fake British accent.