DEVIN
New Year’s Eve
Can’t remember the last time I’ve experienced a New Year's Eve this chill. No drama. No drugs. No frustrations. I could get used to this. Two and a half hours shy of crossing over into the New Year, Faith finds us in the family room, her arms full, clutching tight to white poster boards and two pails of markers, pens, and scissors.
“You need help?” I ask, though I'd like to know what all that is for. She shakes her head, comes over to us and lays the materials on the coffee table and takes a deep breath. A smile creeps across her face as she looks at me, snaps her fingers and says, “We're going to need some wine for this.”
“Wine for what? What are we about to do?”
She comes back with two empty wine glasses and a bottle of Red Zinfandel in one hand and a box juice for Logan in the other and sets up this makeshift workstation.
“Aight, so we’re ‘bout to make vision boards.”
“What in the world is a vision board?” I ask popping open the bottle and pouring us both a glass.
“It’s those homemade posters you make when you want to achieve certain things in your life. You gotta cut out pictures that represent your goals and you paste them on the board.”
I've never done that either.
Skepticism lines my face as she giggles and tells me, “You'll like it. I promise.”
I take another sip of my wine. She makes her way to the floor, and Logan takes a seat beside her.
“Come on. Come sit down here with us.” Her smile brightens up the room. She's been planning to do this on her own for some time I bet, and I guess me being here makes it even more exciting for her. I grab my spot on the floor in front of them, opposite side of the table.
“You do this every year, don't you?”
“No….”
She's lying like shit. I look at her, which makes her laugh.
“Okay yes I do but for good reason.”
“Why's that? Has anything come true from it?” I ask because I really want to know. I've never heard of doing vision boards for your future. Where I'm from, we don't do that. We just dream and hope to God or osmosis that it'll come true. But the way she explains it, I guess it makes sense. Need to see it in front of you in order to make it manifest in some way or another.
“Well, not everything but I've got reasons to believe that this year will be better.”
“Why's that?”
I take my time flipping through some of the magazines.
“Because I have you guys.”
I wasn't expecting that answer. “Well, I hope mines come true too then.”
She nods and begins to focus in on her project. Logan wastes no time following in her shoes.
“Ms. Faith, there aren't many kid pictures,” she says.
“It doesn't have to be a kid picture. It can be anything. Like, say you want to be able to buy more ice cream this year. Who wouldn't like that right? So you find a picture of ice cream, and you find a picture of money and cut it out and paste them next to each other.”
“Okay, I think I got it.”
“You find anything yet?” Her questions come to me again.
“Not yet,” I say, even though I've been stuck on this one page that exemplifies everything that I've desired my entire life. But I don't know if I should cut it out and put it on my board. Instead, I fold the top corner of the page as my bookmark, in search for something more minuscule and less meaningful. I don't want to get my hopes up too much on this little project anyway. It's just wishful thinking.
The white space on her board is vanishing by the minute as she pastes the few pieces she's already had cut out. So many things I would have never thought she'd wanted to accomplish—all laying right there, eagerly waiting at her fingertips to be placed.
“You've got some pretty interesting things there,” I say. She continues gluing her pictures.
“Yeah. I can't wait to see yours.”
I flip back to the picture from before, considering it. What harm can it do but to put it on a board? So I take my time in cutting out the page, intricately cleaning every curve until it detaches itself from the book. I grab my glue stick, smother the back of my cutout and neatly place it at the top of my poster. Ripples of chills come over me like a stadium full of fans doing the wave, and a sudden rush of rapid heartbeats pound my chest. My conscious sends off an alarm for me to remove it before it's too late. She doesn't need to see it, stupid. Don't let her see it. But my gut is aching for someone to know—anybody to know. I need to know that this is what I actually want. This is what I desire, and there should be no shame in it, right? I toss with the thought back and forth as the glue begins to dry. To remove it or not to remove it is the question.
“I love that,” she says to me. The secret is out now.
“Thank you.”
She goes back to fixing her poster, never looking at mines again, or so I believe. I go on to find another picture that speaks to me well. So many options, so much to choose from. All of them I thought to be too cheesy, now seems to have my interest…the interest of the real me and it's only fair to allow myself to see my life's goals before me on a piece of paper and no longer in my head. I can't believe she's actually got me doing a vision board. This is funny.
As the hour passes, Logan calls it quits informing us that she needs to rest her eyes so that she can be ready for the new year when it's time. But I already know that once she's out, she's out. It's getting late anyway, but we still have an hour and a half left. So we take the moment to chill, allowing the broadcast to look at us rather than we looking at it.
“How about we just sit and talk,” Faith says to me. She gets up and sits close enough, bringing up her vision board in our face.
“Yours is nice,” I say.
“Thanks. It’s a lot cleaner than my last one.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yea. I think I just want the New Year to be simple. You know, I want to find real love…” she says, pointing at the picture of a real heart.
“I want to be happy with who I am and where I am without the influence of others,” she continues to point at pictures.
“I would definitely love to run into some big money.”
I know that feeling.
“I want to travel, and I just want to be content, ya know?” She points again at two pictures—one of a tropical island and the other with a person sitting alone, zenned out.
“I feel you. Those are all really good goals,” I say.
“You think so?”
“Most Def.”
“Hmm. What about yours?” She asks, putting her board down and picking up mine. I'm not exactly ready to be vocal about it. I ain't never have this kind of conversation with nobody. Not even with Mia. But for the sake of killing time and because I do like her, I'll share.
“Well, I don't know if any of this will happen for me next year, but for the future, this right here,” I point, “I'd definitely love to travel. And this one, I want to be able to have my own home. Like actually buy one and everything,” I say, pointing to a beautiful white traditional house I picked out. She nods intensely.
“This…my own car. Nothing busted up like I had before,” I chuckle. “Make a decent living for me and Logan. Get a real job. Annnddd….” I scroll my finger all across my poster purposely looking for another pic I can talk about that didn't mean that much to me.
“What about this one at the top?” she points. And it's the one that I'd like to avoid for whatever reason. That secret stares back at me. I mean it's obvious what it means but of course I need to explain it in my own words, and she's waiting like a child listening to a good story.
I sigh, “Yeah that one. That one is touchy for me.”
“For real?”
“Yea,” I nervously laugh.
“Can’t be that bad. Just say it,” she urges me. My hand trembles a little bit. Kind of odd. I shouldn't be this nervous. It's just a picture.
“Aight, well what I really desire above all the others is to have my own family.”
The picture reminds me of everything I'm lacking. A family of three—Mom, Dad, and a son sitting out on the beach on a nice sunny day looking beyond the ocean waves; smiles coating their faces. The mother is expecting another one soon, as she lay back into the embrace of her husband’s loving hold around her protruding belly; their child laying across the outstretched legs of his mother like he's just seen a hilarious movie. They look perfect. They look happy. They look loved, and for me, that's what I want.
“I've never really had this,” I tell her. She scoots closer and lays her head on my shoulder. I set the poster down on the coffee table and sit forward, folding my hands into each other.
“Not even with Mia?”
I shake my head. “Not with anybody.”
“Hmm. What actually happened to you guys if you don't mind me asking?”
“Man, Mia and I started out on a bad foundation to begin with. Both of us young, dumb and full of…shit, I should say. I was in love with her. At one point, she really was my everything. I did whatever I could to keep her with me, but our lives were too opposite. Her parents hated me because I wasn't someone they wished for their daughter.”
“I know the feeling all too well.”
“Yeah. They thought I was the reason she got into drugs, but she kind of started that long before I came into the picture. It just so happened it got worse once she got pregnant and I went to jail for doing all sorts of crimes. I'm no saint, Faith,” I say as if that's supposed to make her move away, but all she does is fix her head on my shoulder again to get more comfortable.
“Listen, we all have demons, Devin. We all make mistakes,” she tells me.
“I guess. I mean things just went all the way left after she had Logan and I was sorta in and out of jail. For a long time, I blamed myself for all the strife I caused her. Mia was a good girl, in spite of. And her parent’s…man, they've said some pretty harsh things to me that will forever stick. And then you add that on top of what I already had to grow up with…shit, you think you're messed up. No, I'm messed up, man.” I laugh to keep from getting angry.
“You're not messed up at all.”
“Easy for you to say. But you know what, I'm dealing with it in my own way, I guess. Regardless of it, I'd still like to believe that there is better for me out there and that I won't be homeless forever. I gotta remember that. Each day I'm trying my best to look at the positive. I have to for the sake of her,” I point over to Logan.
“I've seen a lot of strong men in my life, but for real, you broke the mold. I don't know how you do it.”
“I don’t know ‘bout all that cause’ there have been so many days where I just felt like giving up. I thought that maybe this is actually how my life is supposed to be. No good. No positive coming from it, but then I met you and then your uncle,” I laugh. She laughs too. “I don't think you really know how much all of this means to me.”
She doesn't say anything.
“Maybe God has been hearing my prayers after all. I don't know. I'm even more grateful that my daughter loves you so much. You've been our saving grace.” I tell her, now looking down at her resting head on my shoulder. She never looks up at me, but she reaches for my hand to put in hers, taking the tips of her fingers and rubbing the back of my hand back and forth.
“You mind if I tell you something?”
“Nah, go ahead.”
“I know exactly how you feel. Truth be told, I was once you. Me and my family,” she says. Whoa. I was not expecting that. But now it all makes sense when we had that talk the other day.
“Really?”
“Yeah. We were homeless for a long time. I remember those days like it was yesterday.”
“I would've never guessed. How did that happen?”
“It was my dad. He was the breadwinner of the family. Growing up, we lived in a great neighborhood. We were among the elite if you will. My dad was a mathematical genius. Had a very good paying job. Was the company's top financier back in the nineties, but somehow that all changed. The dummy got involved with some other woman at the company. He started gambling every time he got paid. I remember coming home one day from school and my mother was sitting in the kitchen in the dark, crying her eyes out. I go to turn on the light switch and nothing. Weeks would go by and the same issues like the lights being cut off kept happening. One week it would be the water. The next week it was the electric. The next it was something else that we needed. Late nights I would hear them argue about it and about her and me being the youngest, I didn't fully understand what the issue was but I had a slight clue. Arguments occurred any time he got home from work. She would be screaming at him, ‘why are the lights always being cut off. We have kids to feed and bathe and take care of. What are you doing with your money? Da da da da da.' She would go on and on about it. It was just always a screaming match. And then after it was all said and done, he'd just walk out the house. We'd watch him leave. Weeks at a time we didn't see or hear from him. Strange men came knocking on our door looking for him, threatening us. But by the grace of God, nothing ever happened to us. Eventually, we found out he got fired from his job. The woman he was sleeping with, set him up. Being a black man and in an all-white company…well, you know how that goes. So once the paychecks stopped, the repossessions started. One by one, our stuff was taken away to pay off my dad's debts.
I can recall the night before actually getting put out, we slept on the living room floor, and I could hear my mother sobbing into her pillow into the morning. The next day, was the beginning of our homelessness. Neighbors saw it all. My Aunt Valerie came and got us for the night but she was in an apartment so imagine a family of four moving into a one bedroom to live,” she says.
“Yeah, that would blow me too. That sounds uncomfortable.”
“Mmm hmm. So, after about two weeks living there, she and my aunt got into an argument about my dad. My mother just uprooted us without warning. I wanted to stay, but she wasn't having it. We bounced from home to home and then eventually ended up in shelters. For a year that was our life. We never knew when we'd catch a break. We never knew when our next meal was coming. It forced Trish to grow up quickly. My brother left without warning and Trish was on the brink of graduating, so for them, it's not like they had to stay around and go through it. But for me, I was only twelve and stuck up under my mother for the longest time. And I think that's when my people pleasing started to happen. I just wanted her to be happy, so I did whatever I could to make it happen. Long story short, we were homeless for a while before my Uncle Vincent started his program at the church and that's where we stayed until my mother could get on her feet again. And of course, she and my dad ended up back together, never remarried though. As you see, he wasn't at the dinner.”
“Wow!” I say, truly at a loss for words. I would have never known she was just like me.
“So I understand your struggle. I get it,” she says. Maybe that's why it was so easy for her to take us in. We share that in common too.
“Damn, that's a lot.”
“It is. I've tried to erase it out of my head. There was even a point in time where I almost turned into my mom. Or like Clay. Trish and Robert can get like that sometimes too. I just hated that part of my life so bad that I didn't want to have anything to do with it. I was looking down on people, never once considering that maybe they were just like me. It's not like it's always their fault that they fell into hard times. Maybe they had irresponsible parents too. I think I was just so angry. And my mother didn't help it. She pounded in my head to never fall for anyone who I have to take time out to build up and make them who they already should be. If I get with someone, they've already got to have their shit together.
Financially, physically, emotionally, whatever—I shouldn't build with anyone, otherwise, I'll end up with my dad.”
“So you know that's the real reason why she hates me so much.”
Her brows turn down, confused and she says, “But you're nothing like him.”
“That doesn't matter. I'm none of the things she put in your head.”
She goes silent momentarily.
“I guess. I've never shared that with anyone.” Her gentle caressing of my hand stops. I tighten my grip a little more just to let her know I hear her.
“Thanks for sharing that with me. I’m honored.”
She lets out a faint laugh and grabs a hold of my hand almost just as tight as mine.
“That's one of the reasons why I had to let go of Clay. Crazy as it sounds, even more than the abuse.”
“He never knew about that?”
“No. I never felt I could trust him with it.” She goes back to rubbing the back of my hand with her fingertips again.
“You’re a tough soul.” I rest my cheek upon her head and slip my hand down her arm to pull her in close.
“It's the reason why my mother thinks that I'm supposed to be with him.”
“Security reasons?”
“Exactly. But nothing is secure when you have someone who only thinks of themself. Just like my dad, I would have been falling into the same trap.”
“Yeah, I see.”
“And I didn't need his money, little did he know. He always held that above my head like I was supposed to be subjected to the amount of money he made.”
“He was making bread like that?”
“I mean it was a good salary. One hundred and thirty thousand a year and climbing. His folks are made of money too. So, he swore he was rich.”
My eyes widen. If I could just make thirty thousand, I'm good. But one hundred thousand and some change a year, seems like that kind of money is reserved for them uppity type boys. But then again, Clayton is one of them so I shouldn't be too shocked.
“Girl, what you doing in here with me then?” I ask jokingly. We both chuckle and she says, “If money could buy happiness or love or inner peace, maybe I would.”
“Nah, I’m messing with you.”
“I don't feel like being fake no more,” she tells me. And I hear her very well.
“Did you ever really love him?” I ask so seriously. She gets quiet on me.
“To be honest with you, no. I had some type of love for him, but I never loved him, if that makes sense. For a while, I kept asking myself why I was staying with him. Could never figure it out. Not until you guys came along. And then I had already lost something so dear to me before because of him, so I just couldn’t risk that again.”
I nod as if to understand, believing that it's the miscarriage she's talking about. He's cruel for reminding her about it that day they broke up, and if I didn't know any better, I suspect that he was glad it happened. Knowing it crushed her gave him an orgasm. Bitch nigga masturbation. That's what I call it. She needs to grieve over that. It'll help her heal.
“Can I ask you something?” She says. “I mean I know you talked a little bit about your growing up and stuff but what was your life really like?”
For a second I wait, allowing the memories of my mom and dad to resurface. There's been nothing I've told her in great detail, so I brace myself and ease my way into it.
“My childhood was horrible. I grew up poor. My mom worked dead-end jobs. My dad was in and out of my life until he just decided one day to leave forever. I haven't seen or heard from him since I was eleven, maybe? My mother, she just…I don't think she could stand me sometimes. And I don't mean the kind of ‘my boy is getting on my nerves, but I love him anyway.' Nah, I really do feel like she wished she didn't have me. I remember a time when I would get in trouble for the dumbest thing, like taking a dollar from her purse and she would just turn into this evil monster. She would beat me like I was a slave.”
That memory ushers me into that dark place again.
“And maybe that was due to my father's behaviors and actions towards her. I don't know, but all I can remember was getting the lashings whenever he did something stupid. Usually, I'd get it when he'd leave for weeks at a time. It got so bad I would run and lock myself in the bathroom screaming and crying until she got tired of yelling at me. I would spend nights in there, too afraid that she was waiting for me on the other side with whatever weapon she had. And I didn't have family I could run to. We lived far away from them or at least that's what she told me. Sometimes I wonder if they even know I exist because she kept me away all my life. So I honestly don't know who they are.”
“Wow, that's crazy that she would do that to you.”
“Yeah. As I got older, her beatings didn't really phase me as much anymore because of course I got bigger and learned how to take a punch or two, so she'd just insult me. I was always ‘you stupid motherfucka. You ain't nothing but a dumb ass black boy. You retarded. I hate you.’ This, that, and the other. I don't know if she had any mental problems. To me, she was just mean. I never knew a mother could be that mean to her own flesh and blood like that but would love someone else's kid in a heartbeat. I could admit, I would act like she didn't phase me, but the more hurtful she became, the more I let it breed and I think that's why I am where I am now, you know. I never believed in myself. I never knew emotional stability. I grew up to only know that everything was my fault. Everything I ever loved and held onto could leave me in an instant, and I'd be the blame for that. It was a lot. So my childhood was not great.”
“Damn. That's really tough to have had to go through that,” she says. I nod and continue.
“Yep. You know, me being the only child, I had no other person to talk to about it. I had to deal with a lot of her abuse by myself. I tried talking to my mother, but she would always say she didn't care or that I was lying. Boys shouldn't be having feelings like that, so I need to get over myself. Stop being a punk. All sorts of stuff you know. Just…she just tore me down so often. I don't ever recall her telling me she loved me.”
She never has. I hate to think about it.
“My dad never told me he loved me. It was like I was a bastard orphan trying to gain some sense of identity and the only thing I came up with is that I am just a product of worthlessness. I'm nothing to no one. I was born to be the punching bag because of their mistakes. So you know, as I grew up, I held on to that. I still do. Ain't nothing worse than feeling like a ghost in your own home. I always felt invisible. I'm older now, but a lot of that still haunts me. There's not a day that goes by that I don't get reminded of my past situations and circumstances,” I shrug. She tightens her grip on my hand.
“I know what you mean.”
A beat of silence comes as I close my eyes to feel all of that. It's definitely here. My stomach doesn't feel right. My hands are sweating and knees trembling and my heart thumping some kind of ridiculous.
“And Mia?” She says. I quickly open my eyes and look at her.
“What about her?”
It gets quiet.
“Do you still love her?” She asks. Hmm. I'm not really sure how I should answer that question. Since being here, I haven't given too much thought about Mia. I blocked her from my memory some time ago subconsciously thinking that maybe…just maybe that my feelings for her have faded. Thinking of her is a lot different than bringing up my parents. They've been gone for so long, I've learned to accept that that part of my life happened and ain't nothing I can do about it, but as I think on this one, this very question I have refused to even give thought to, it does make me wonder. Do I still love that girl?
I close my eyes, and she pops into my head. Coldness fills my body. Tension sets in. I hope my pause doesn't make her question.
“No. Not in love. Will always have a love for her though,” I say.
“Do you think you could ever be with her again?”
And that image of Mia sneaks into my thoughts again. How she abandoned me…abandoned us. The needles, the burnt spoons, the laced dressers and such, I try to shake the remembrance from my head like a mini etch-a-sketch but it ain't going nowhere.
“I don't know, probably not. Why do you ask that?” I gently stroke the tips of my fingers against her arm, feeling the cool bumps rise on her skin. She snuggles in closer and then shrugs. But I have a feeling I know why she wants to know.
“Just thinking about Logan. She's got to miss her don't you think?”
I find myself shrugging too. To be honest, I haven't given that any more thought either, seeing how well Logan is doing here. I still remember that picture she drew not too long ago, wishing for a new mom. I don't doubt that she loves Mia, but something in that little six-year-old head of hers is feeling something else. I wanted to change it for my baby girl but her mother made her decision, and there's not much else I can do about that. My daughter is smart, I can say that much. Maybe she knows that mommy isn't coming back. Maybe she's somewhat untouched and unscathed by the brutal reality we lived in and knows that there is something better for both of us. At least that's what I'm telling myself these days.
“I don't know. She never really talks about her.”
“That's gotta be sad.”
“Maybe. I mean for me I don't mind. The last memory of her mom, I can't fathom to even try and bring a logical explanation as to why I would want to go back to her, let alone have my child back in her presence after what she did. I just…I can't do it,” I tell her. I have now let this woman inside of every part of me. She sits up and gets cozy, looks at me face to face. Her eyes dancing into mine but I try to look away out of fear that now the vulnerability is about to get me into trouble. She takes my hand in hers once more and stares hard.
“What do you mean? What happened?”
I shake my head. I don't want to visit that place again.
“Please tell me.”
I sigh deeply, needing to avoid this. I haven't revisited that day on purpose and now is not a good time. She already got me to confess about my childhood. Why bring that into the New Year too? We don't have that much time to relinquish all those bad things that happened to us this year in just thirty minutes. I shake my head no, all the while hurrying myself to quickly shut that door before the overflowing dam breaks through. But I don't know if these floodgates are going to hold.
“Devin…please?” She softly says to me with urgency, but it's not like a pushy urge. It’s more like an, ‘I'm with you while you travel back down that road,’ kind of urge. And as I look at her to try and find where to begin, the impulse to cry quickens almost as fast as the memory that happily makes its way back into my head. I stifle that unwanted gesture and deeply sigh one last time, head hanging low as the uncontrollable feelings of shame sting the back of my neck instead.
“What did she do?” She takes my chin into her hand and lifts my head. Between reliving this and reliving the days of old, my eyes drown in pain. I try holding back my floodgates again with all my might and instead clutch onto her other hand tightly as she gives me her eyes to stare into.
“Talk to me,” she whispers, her thumb smooth's over my hand. I cave into her beckoning call.
“She ummm…” I swallow the lump in my throat, shaking and still trying to keep down all of my emotions.
“I left Logan with her one day when I had to go to work. I had no idea that she was going to do what she had planned. I just…I didn't know,” I say as I think back on it. Just as I thought I had successfully held back the river and secured the overflow, a fault in my system finally breaks, and the reservoir that once bubbled over now thunderously comes crashing in. I can't run. I can't hide. The memories engulf me unremorsefully and swallow me whole. I see it all again. That unpleasant day; leaving for work, taking that long ride on the bus and train only to turn in and get fired from my job; the anger and frustration brewing as I leave John's office from being terminated. That stupid ass paycheck that wasted away like dust in the wind. All of my hopes and dreams I worked for, lost. Stolen. Raped from me. Me heartbroken. Afraid and no one to turn to for help. It all replays in my mind.
“That was the day I got laid off from my job,” I say while those very words sting me with the stinger of a thousand bees.
“I had to return back to the motel. All I wanted to do was to just get back home and figure out what was next. But I didn't expect to come back to what I came back to.”
The visuals of fear that set in my child that day brings about that same helplessness I had felt. That moment where I believed I had broken her heart and her trust. Where I was no longer her hero.
Seeing that precious face in tears has now moved me into mine, and I can't help but let them fall. I hate crying, especially in front of people. The only woman I've ever given my tears to was Mia. And those tears I wish I had never spent on her.
“My little girl was scared,” I say through my brokenness. “She was scared.”
“Scared of what?” The concern in her eyes draws me in, but the scared part of me hesitates to let her know. I look away, shaking my head and turn up my face to avoid having to go any further. Her grip on my hand strengthens and I bring myself to look at her again.
“I told myself I'd never share this with anybody,” I mumble and then sniffle and wipe my eyes. She smiles at me and continues to look me in the face. One tear and then another starts back up, rolling hot down my cheeks. The recollection I just wish would fade away.
“She was supposed to be protecting her and keeping her safe while I was gone. That's what mothers are supposed to do.”
She understands.
“But I get back, and my little girl is nowhere to be found.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I find Mia standing outside with another guy. Logan was nowhere near them.”
I think about it. And it repays me an unwanted visit. I thought I had let it go. Thought it was past me now, but here it is taunting my existence. Drowning me. Stealing from my peaceful place and draining me dry to the bone.
“Well, where was she?”
Immediately, my chest caves into itself as I try to stifle the aggressive and thirsty demon that beats on me from the inside. Shallow breaths release themselves as I try to gain control of my breathing but the heavy fall of each exhale begins to take my breath away the more I come close to explaining what happened.
“She was locked in the room with another guy. And I couldn't get in there. I was trying to get in. I didn't have my key.”
I remember it.
Faith's grip stiffens, but she never stops looking at me. The pain in the back of my mind comes forward with the slightest reminder of what was going on. I wish it away, but it denies me for the fourth time.
“All I could hear was her screaming for me. I needed to get my baby,” I say, as the breathing gets worse.
“He was gonna…” I gasp. The sorrow and pain so deep collapse my breaths each time I try to say it.
“She was selling our daughter. He was gonna rape…my little…girl,” I gasp even more as I fight through the words. Each syllable punches me hard in the stomach, waiting for me to fall over in a hunch. It's like being raked over hot coals continuously; fire burning the protective layers of my soul's skin. I break, shatter into a million pieces in each lungful. My tears cascade like rain. For a moment, I sit, waiting for the next rhythm of breath to come but the blatant images rob me of the ability. It squeezes my throat with all the strength they have, leaving me in a silent yearning for air.
“It's okay. Breathe Devin. Breathe,” she says to me. The ache in her voice hurts me more. She touches my shoulder, never taking her eyes away. The encroaching darkness falls back some, and I shudder into one deep moan. My tears refuse to stop. I look to her for something—an explanation maybe—but suddenly grief strikes her too. Her lashes now heavy with tears.
“Jesus,” she utters and moves her hand to cover her mouth but the quivering of her chin breaks through, and all my scars have now become hers.
“He didn't…she's okay, right?”
But that short time span I had comes back as a reminder. I nod.
“Oh Jesus, thank you,” she mutters and then throws herself into me. We hold each other as if our lives depend on it.
“I'm so sorry, Devin. I'm so sorry you had to witness that.” She holds me. I hide my face in her shoulders and release every piece of sorrow. Every bit of pain. Every ounce of guilt, trauma, regret, the shame that has ridden my back for so long and I weep for all of us.
“I don’t want her to have to go through what I did. She don’t deserve that. What did my baby do to deserve that? I don’t get it,” I cry. “That was her mother. Her own mother did that to her.”
She keeps me close in her arms, hand gently pressed against the back of my head, gently rocking me.
“I don’t want her to be like me. I DON’T WANT HER TO BE LIKE ME, cause’ they didn’t love me. They didn’t want me. She…does not deserve that,” I sob louder and hold on tighter to her.
“I love you and I want you. You hear me? You don’t have to hold on to that anymore. She's safe now. You did all that you could, and you did it well. She's safe. You did it, Devin. You protected her. She's safe, and you're safe.”
I want to believe her. It feels so good to release it. I don't know what this woman is doing to me, but I need it.
“They can't hurt her. Mia can't hurt you anymore. Your parents can't hurt you. You're safe right here with me,” she says and then takes my head into her hands and stares me deep in the eyes. I try to regain composure as I wipe my face. Her eyes dance all around in mine again.
“I need you,” I tell her, meaning every part of it. She nods.
“She needs you.” My heart aches so badly. The pressure of this suffering is killing me slowly. I need this woman in my life.
In the background, the faded yelling of excited and crazed New Yorkers scream wildly for the famous ball drop countdown to begin. But our attention remains on one another as if everything we are thinking is being said in silence. All of my fears and worries now hushed. My memory bank of that vicious past is overcome with a burning fire of love and belonging. She encloses me with arms of solidarity forcing my eyes to close. The tiny countdown chant begins, and in my mind, I follow, steadying my breaths with each number …5…4…3…2…
“I love you,” she whispers.
…1.
Happy New Year!!