Pocketful of Sand
Page 35

I clear my throat. “I don’t know if Mom and Dad knew about them. I like to think they didn’t, but…I could never be sure.”
I pause again, wondering if I’ve made a mistake by going back, back to a time that nearly killed me.
“Eden, you don’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have asked,” Cole says quietly, drawing my eyes back to his. His face is still handsomely inscrutable. It’s probably better that way.
“I want to.” And I do. Although it’s hard to think about and talk about this time in my life, I feel like I need to tell him. Like he needs to know this about me. About us. It’s like it has to come out. And maybe that’s good. It has eaten away at my insides for too long. “Ryan drank a lot. Always smelled like alcohol. He was up at all hours. Slept at weird times. He was the party boy. The arm candy. The trophy husband. And he was okay with that. I guess I should’ve known that it took a certain kind of man to live that kind of life. I just had no idea what kind of man.”
I take a deep breath and try to relax my tense muscles. I remind myself that I survived. That Emmy and I both did. And that we are safe. That calms me somewhat, but my stomach is still in a tight knot as the first words roll off my lips.
“The first night he came to my room, he said he’d heard me scream and thought I was having a nightmare. I didn’t remember screaming, but I couldn’t say for sure that I didn’t. I thought it was kind of sweet when he pushed me over and climbed in bed beside me. I’d never had someone who actually cared enough to check on me when I had a nightmare.” I hate the sadness in my voice. I hate that what I had thought was an act of kindness ended up being something awful and dirty, and that it devastated a young girl who only wanted to be loved. And to not be alone.
“But then it started happening more. He’d tell me that he heard me scream, even when I didn’t remember having a nightmare. But then one night, I realized what was happening. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted him to be someone in my life who cared about me. But he didn’t. He only wanted me for…other reasons.”
I’m staggered by a wave of nausea as, out of the blue, the sweetly alcoholic smell of Ryan’s breath assails me. It’s as though he’s kneeling beside me, whispering all the things he plans to do to me. Just like he used to. Just like I hated.
I focus on reality, on the scent of logs burning only a couple of feet away, and the subtle soapy aroma of the man across from me. All that is here in the present. Where the past can’t hurt me.
“The first time it happened, he’d crawled in bed with me and I’d fallen back asleep. I don’t know how long he waited, or how long I’d been asleep, but I woke to his hand under my nightgown, slipping into my panties.” My throat is tight, like a strong hand is curled around my neck, something that happened a time or two when Ryan was drunk. I struggle to swallow, to find my strength. To push the words through to my mouth, out past my lips, into the air where they’re free. “I stayed perfectly still for a few seconds. I didn’t know what to do. I think I even thought maybe he was dreaming. Or that I was. Only I wasn’t. And neither was he. The instant I reached for his hand, the minute I was going to ask him to stop, he rolled me onto my back and pinned my arms to my side. He was so strong and…he was so heavy…I-I couldn’t move. I-I…” I lean forward, fighting the burn in my lungs, the burn in my eyes.
He’s not here. He can’t find me. These are just memories. Memories can’t hurt me. Not anymore.
Cole says nothing, and I’m afraid to look up at him. I’m afraid of what I’ll see.
“I remember my heart was beating so fast, looking up into his face. He looked scarier than he did in the daylight. He wasn’t a gorgeous older guy anymore. He was...real. Like the way he usually looked was a mask and I was just seeing his real face. ‘Don’t scream,’ he said. ‘It’ll only make it worse.’ So I didn’t. I-I didn’t scream. I d-didn’t do anything. I just laid there and let him touch me. And the only other words he said to me were that I was tight. ‘God, Eden. You’re so tight’.”
My voice breaks as I think about the night my innocence was taken. How frightened, how shattered, how disillusioned I was. It was as though Ryan tore away my childhood and all of life’s possibilities with a few words and one sharp thrust.
“Jesus! Is that why…when I said that…? Is that why you…?” he asks, referring to my freak-out the night before.
I nod, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing myself to continue. I just want to get this over with. I just want to let it out and then put it behind me again.
“He came to me every night for a week. I thought maybe he would get tired of it, tired of me. But he didn’t. Each night, he would come earlier. He would pull the blankets off the bed, take off all my clothes and kiss me everywhere. Touch me everywhere. And if I started to struggle, he would stop and hold my arms at my sides. Like a threat. He didn’t have to say a word. That said it all.”
Anger begins to surface. I’m relieved to feel it. It’s easier to hide behind anger than drown in misery that can’t be changed. It saved me once before. It’ll save me again.
I dry my face, wipe away the tears I wasn’t even aware of shedding, and I press on. This isn’t the hardest part. If I fall apart now, I’ll never make it to the end.
“When that week was over, I knew I had to tell Lucy. I thought she would help me. She had to help me. When I came home from school that Monday, I waited for her. I didn’t know she was working late. Ryan brought takeout, like he was this caring, doting uncle. We watched a movie. He even made popcorn. It was so…normal in the sickest, most twisted way in the world. But it was always there underneath–the knowledge of what was coming. Like a clock ticking away the minutes. Or a bomb counting down to explosion. I was so afraid to go to bed, I fell asleep on the couch that night. I didn’t wake up until he was carrying me up the stairs.