Heart on a Chain (28 page)

When I finish speaking, Rufus is leaning back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. He’s silent, and in that silence I dare to glance at Henry. His face is pale, lips pulled tight. His eyes are staring straight ahead.

Finally, Rufus sighs and leans forward, pulling a folder out of his briefcase. I sit back down next to the icy, still Henry.

“
I will be typing your statement up and presenting it to the prosecution,” he says as he opens the folder on the table between us. “I will also be providing these photos, which were taken of you at the hospital.”

He slides the folder across the table, turning it to face me as he does so. I look down and see a photo of something puffy and purple. I’m confused, then I look closer and realize it’s
me
. I pass through picture after picture of myself, sickened and shocked at how I unrecognizable I had been. By the time I’d woken up from the coma, and been able to get up and near a mirror, most of the swelling had gone down and the bruises had begun to fade to a softer purple, ringed with yellow and green.

There are photos of me lying in the bed after I had been bandaged, with the monitors and tubes attached to me. I look like a movie version of someone who has been in a horrible accident, where the make-up artist has gone a little overboard in the dramatics.

I glance at Henry again and see that he’s looking away from the table, refusing to look at the photos. With horror, I realize that he had actually seen me like this.

“
Do we have to show these in public?” I ask softly, despondently.

“
It’s our best support of the self-defense theory. No one can look at these and not know you were in a fight for your life.” A single tear rolls down my cheek, and I absently push it away. Rufus clears his throat. “Kate, this is your life we’re fighting for now. I had been told there was some previous abuse…” he clears his throat again and I get the distinct feeling he’s fighting some emotion of his own. “But after what you’ve told me, well, it’s criminal the way you’ve been treated. This is one of the worst cases of abuse I have dealt with. You are the victim here, and we need to make the judge see that.”

He looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair. “I need to ask you a question that needs an honest answer, Kate.”

I nod.

“
Are you absolutely
certain
there has never been any abuse from your father?”

I think about the one time he
had
hit me, and about how he turned
his
abuse on my mother. I had seen her from time to time with her own black eye or puffy lip. I think about his footsteps outside my door and how I now sleep with a chair wedged under my door handle. Then I think about what might happen if he were arrested for the one time he did hit me: would that spark his anger, which he would then turn on me, now that she was no longer here for him to take his frustration out on? I don’t know for sure, but I do know that I don’t want to find out.

“
No,” I say. “Never.”

Henry relaxes fractionally next to me and I realize he had been stiff with tension, waiting for my answer.

“
Okay, just one more thing. Did you, with any forethought or intent, plan to kill your mother that night?”

“
Of course not!” I explode, upset that he would even ask such a thing.

He holds up a hand, “Okay, I know you didn’t. But you will probably be asked that very question.” He reaches across the table and gathers the photos and folder back to himself, stuffing them back in the briefcase.

“
All right, that’s it then. I will let you know when to expect your trial.” He passes a card across the table to me. “My office and cell phone numbers are on there. Call me at anytime if you have questions, concerns, or just have something else you need to tell me.”

I look down at the card which is printed on expensive looking cardstock, with raised gold lettering, and I wondered how a public defender can afford such a luxury. He stands and shakes my hand—oddly formal after what I’ve just shared with him. He also shakes Henry’s, then leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, there’s a stiff silence between Henry and me.

“
How was school?” I finally ask—anything to break the strange spell.

He doesn’t answer, just turns to me and opens his arms. I gladly go into them, though I‘m surprised by the gesture. He just holds me, rubbing his hands lightly up and down my back in between tight, reassuring squeezes.

“
I had no idea,” he finally says.

“
I know. No one did.”

“
Why did you keep it a secret?” he asks, tortured, “Why didn’t you ask for help?”

I shake my head. “It’s complicated. I was young when it all started, and I didn’t know where to turn for help. I didn’t have any friends, no adults who I trusted enough. By the time I thought to ask for help, I was embarrassed that I had let it go on so long. And I thought that she must have a good reason for it, that there must be something really wrong with me, or bad about me, to make her hate me so much.”

Henry’s arms tighten.

“
I’m sorry,” he says, sincerity in every line of his body and ringing in his voice. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I’m sorry for everything you are going through now. But I promise you one thing.” He leans back, taking my face between his hands and gazing intently into my eyes. “You will never be alone again.”

Chapter Twenty-One

My trial date
has been set for the end of May—just before graduation—which means I have more time to recover, but it also means I have to pretend to live again, to act as if I have a life that will continue past May.

I’m suffering from some pretty severe headaches, which I’m told will eventually ease, but it makes school work difficult. So for now I’m still excused from both attending school and from the bulk of my schoolwork. I remember not so long ago when I would have given almost anything to have been excused from school, now I would give almost the same to be able to
go
to school.

I miss my morning rides with Henry, sitting next to him at lunch and in photography. He still comes over as soon as school is over, only now we go to his house until ten or eleven each night when he’ll then take me back home.

I dread home, because my father has returned to his old patterns, staying out drinking half the night and I worry that he’ll be there when Henry drops me off. I haven’t told him about the drinking and don’t want him to witness it.

For my birthday Emma’s planned a party, inviting my father to come to the Jamison’s house for dinner. He comes, eyes bloodshot and haggard looking, but sober. He even brings me a gift. I realize sadly that it’s the first birthday gift I’ve received from him since my swing set so many years before.

Emma and I talked a few days earlier about how it helps her during times of stress to write things down, and so Emma and Dr. Jamison give me a journal and pen set for my birthday. Amy gives me a framed picture of me with the whole Jamison clan taken in Florida.
Christine
gives me one of her books—those are her most prized possessions.

Claire is nearly leaping out of her seat as I open her present, which she made me save until last (except for Henry who, once again, is making me wait until we’re alone later). By the size and weight of the box I know it’s clothing, but when I open it, I’m stunned.

In the box lays a white dress made of the silkiest material I’ve ever felt. I pull it out and see that it’s a dress--a gown really. The bodice is sleeveless, an intricately weaved pattern of the material covered with a sheer overlay of silver material that falls down the back of the dress, forming a sort of cape. The skirt flares out from the waist, again covered with the sheer material.

“
Claire, it’s beautiful,” I tell her.

“
It’s for you to wear to prom,” she says with a wide smile.

“
Prom?” I look at her. She’s beaming, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no way I’m going to prom. So I just hug her, telling her I love it, which I really do.

“
You can try it on for me later, when you don’t have your cast on anymore. Also, when Henry isn’t around. I don’t want him to see you in it before the big night.”

I don’t answer, just try to smile at her. I must look odd because Henry cocks his head questioningly at me, but doesn’t say anything.

Emma brings out a cake that she made, and that the three girls helped her decorate. It’s three tiers tall and she let each girl decorate a layer. The bottom layer is clearly Claire, very bright and covered with intricate swirls and flowers in pink and purple.

Amy took the middle layer and in her own quiet style had only put a few decorations—beauty in simplicity.

Christine
did the top layer, which is mounded with all colors of frosting, messy and colorful, with one large candle sticking out the top.

It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen.

They sing to me—another first for as long as I can remember—then we eat cake and homemade ice cream. My father leaves soon after that. As soon as the mess is cleaned up, Emma makes sure everyone has an errand or task which takes them to some other part of the house, leaving Henry and I alone. There’s a fire blazing in the fireplace, and Henry pulls their oversized bean bag up in front of it so we can sit there together.

“
You want your gift?” he teases.

“
This
is my gift, being here alone with you,” I tell him.

“
That’s thanks to my mom, though.”

“
I know. I’ll have to thank her for that.”

Henry digs into his pocket and pulls out a small box. The last small box he gave me had been my necklace at Christmas, which I wear always. So I’m excited to open it and see what he gives me now.

My heart stops when I see what’s inside.

“
I know this isn’t very romantic,” he tells me with a grin, “and it isn’t how I would really like to do it, but…” he shrugs, turning so he’s facing me.

“
I love you, Kate. I know we’re really young, but I
know
I want to spend my life with you. I don’t want to waste any time. I want to be with you every day, to wake up next to you every morning. I want to marry you, Kate.”

I looked from his face to the ring nestled in the box. It’s simple; a square cut solitaire with a plain silver band. It’s perfect.

I look back at him, see the hope in his eyes.

“
Henry…. We’re too young, still in high school.”

“
I know that, Kate. I know what people will think of us getting married right out of high school, but I don’t care. I’m not ever going to want anyone else; only you.”

“
Henry, I can’t.
We
can’t. There’s so much—”

He cuts me off, pressing his mouth to mine.

“
Don’t say no,” he whispers against my mouth. “Say maybe.
Please.
”

But I’m shaking my head. Henry’s going away to college. As much as I hate the thought of that, dread it with horror and trepidation, I’ve known it all along. That’s his destiny.

I’m realistic about his future which means at least eight to twelve years of school—or more—to obtain his dream of becoming a doctor, and that isn’t going to happen if he’s saddled with a wife, especially a wife who comes with my kind of baggage. Not to mention that realistically I might be in prison soon.

“
I can’t,” my heart is breaking, the hated tears coming again.

“
You can,” he counters. “
We
can. You love me, right?”