Chapter Six
'Shhh…"
Mommy pulls me close, but I still jump when the mean man bangs on the door. I'm scared it will break. "I know you're in there!" he shouts, and Mommy holds me tighter.
"He'll go soon," she whispers. She's scared like me; I know because her hand is shaking.
I'm really, really scared when the door rattles. He bangs louder and says bad words—words Mommy said are very bad and that I should never repeat even though I hear grown-ups use them. "I'll be back!" he shouts, his voice so scary, it makes me shiver.
It's quiet now, but we stay behind the sofa for a long time before Mommy lets go of me. She makes the sign to be quiet and crawls to the door, and, then, after she puts her ear against it to listen, she stands to look through the peephole. She turns around and smiles at me, but her eyes are sad.
"It's okay, Edward," Mommy picks me up and kisses my cheek. "I'll have the money next week; we'll be okay," she says over and over.
"And were you?" Siobhan's asks, her voice pulling me back to the present.
"No. The guy returned with two others—one was the man responsible for Elizabeth changing," I say, scratching at a worn spot on the knee of my jeans. I sense her watching me, but I don't look up. I'm tired of talking about this shit.
"And that's your earliest memory of your mother?" she presses, her persistence really pissing me off now.
"No; I have other memories, but they're not clear." Elizabeth smiling at me, cuddling me, how happy we were before she changed—but I don't share that.
"And how old were you at the time of that incident?"
"Around five… six maybe."
"Edward, look at me," Siobhan says and waits silently when I don't respond. I know she won't give up. So I grudgingly do, hating that she'll see how close I am to crying. Liam would call me a pussy. I'm seventeen; I should be over all of this by now, shouldn't I? I have a family, a real family now, but it doesn't matter how happy they make me or how hard I try; my fucking memories keep pulling me back to that time.
"She loved you, Edward," Siobhan says as if it's a fact, as if she'd know. How the fuck would she? She wasn't there; she didn't feel what it was like being ignored, sent to bed hungry as her mother entertained men, as her mother's eyes glazed over until she completely lost sight of her child.
"Sure, she did. Are we done for the day?" I ask, trying to keep my sarcasm in check because if Siobhan tells Mom I'm not cooperating, I'll be stuck in this hell called therapy for longer. More than that, though, I know how much getting a bad report would hurt Mom; and I don't want that because I'd do almost anything for my mother. Well, this mother; because, as much as I may have wanted to, I couldn't do anything for the other.
In one of our early sessions, Siobhan asked why I never refer to Elizabeth as 'Mom' or 'mother'. 'Why do you always call your biological mother Elizabeth or simply her in that dismissive tone?" I think her exact words were. I shrugged, not wanting to discuss my feelings. Siobhan told me, then, that I was emotionally distancing myself, that it was my way of denying my hurt and repressed anger. She said it was a way for me to deny that I loved Elizabeth, that I love her, and that she'd loved me. After that, I refused to discuss her or anything relating to my time with her again.
Today, after a month of avoidance, four weeks of feeling angry and, yes, I admit, resentful at her questioning, Siobhan's probing proved too much. The memories refused to be ignored, and without meaning to, I found myself talking.
Each session, leading up to this point, I'd felt like she'd deliberately been picking at old wounds just to see them bleed again, and, so, my irritatation had increased with each session. But her methods, which, by the way, I still think stinks, have worked just as she must have known they would. She's a psychologist, like Mom; and if I'm to believe Mom, one of the best.
Mom once called Siobhan the earth mother type, and I suppose she's right because beneath the flowing skirts, multiple rings, and dangly earrings she is motherly. But don't be fooled, like I'd stupidly been at first, by her gentle smile and conciliatory approach. She's like a terrier with a bone, gnawing away, relentless in her determination to make you talk about shit you'd rather forget.
Fight all you like; she just keeps coming back, sitting there, observing your every reaction, asking question after damned question. It doesn't matter if you curse or walk out, the next time, she asks the same thing. She never quits until she gets an answer.
Like Mom, Siobhan has a gentle, caring nature that hides an unstoppable resolve. It's something to do with the jobs they do, I suppose, or maybe people like them gravitate to work like theirs. Social workers and therapists must need those characteristics to deal with the shit people like me dish up to them every day.
"Yes, Edward, we're done for today," Siobhan answers. "It was a good start—finally. We'll revisit this conversation next week," she adds with a note of warning. I nod, not willing to fight her right now: I just want to get out of here.
Rose is watching T.V. when I get home. "How was it?" she asks when I flop down on the sofa next to her.
"Fine," I say, reaching for the remote, but she avoids me.
"Don't lie; you're upset," she persists.
I'm okay," I sigh, knowing just how useless any attempt to resist her probing would be. "Siobhan just pissed me off as usual. She got me to talk about Elizabeth."
"How did you feel about that?" she asks, something I'd expect from Mom. I sometimes wonder if Rose's impairment makes her more sensitive to things.
"Shitty. I hate talking about her, and I hated it even more that Siobhan tried to convince me she loved me. That's just bullshit— how the hell would she know?" I look away, feeling myself get emotional all over again.
"Hey!" Rose grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. "Then tell Siobhan; she could help. "
"She can't. No one can make it better, Rosalie. Anyway, it's all in the past. I don't want to think about it, and I sure as shit don't want to talk about it, especially to some stranger. Just drop the subject, okay?" Angry, I raise my voice, and she scowls at me.
"What are you two shouting about?" Mom demands as she walks in.
"Edward's being pig-headed like always," Rose says, and Mom raises her eyebrows at me.
"It's nothing. Rose is just being a pushy busybody like always." I glare at her, warning her not to say anything more.
She waits until Mom turns before raising her middle finger. Yes, flipping someone the bird is the same in sign language, Rose and I both discovered when we decided to learn ASL curse words. The deaf community, I also learned, has and uses profanity as much as the rest of us.
I retaliate by mouthing 'bitch', but Mom catches me. "Edward, please don't use that word, especially, when speaking to or about your sister!"
"You didn't see what she said," I grumble. Mom turns to Rose, who stares back angelically. "What?" she asks.
"I'm watching the pair of you," Mom warns before going upstairs.
.
.
It's been three weeks since Siobhan first got me discuss Elizabeth. I turned up for my next therapy session as evasive and uncooperative as ever—as if that incident hadn't happened— but she saw through my bullshit and, finally running out of patience, called me out on it last week. "These sessions aren't for my benefit, Edward, and you don't have to work with me; but I'd be remiss in my professional duty if I failed to recommend that you continue to work with someone," she said. And so, out of concern about my parents' disappointment and faced with the potential of indefinite therapy, potentially with someone new, I opened up. I talked about how mad I still am about Elizabeth's choices, her death, and how much I hate Edward Winston, his money, and what it represents.
When Siobhan failed to convince me that Elizabeth had loved me and that Winston had tried, if belatedly, to make amends for his past behavior, she changed tack. She turned her attentions to helping me explore how I could come to terms with my feelings about Winston because, despite her insistence that I hadn't dealt with my feelings about Elizabeth, I insisted that he was the reason mad all the time. Instead of discussing either of Elizabeth or Winston, she explored ways I could use my anger as motivation to become the best man I could be. A man nothing like my biological father, she cunningly said.
"You say the only positive thing you gained from what you've learned about Edward Winston and the inheritance he left you is that the law can serve the less privileged in society? Tell me why you think that?" Siobhan presses, and then, as she always does, sits back, watches… and waits.
I huff out a frustrated breath. We've been over this point many times; I wish she'd just tell me what she thinks because as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, she has an opinion. But she won't, and I know by now that it's pointless avoiding the question.
"Edward Winston was not my father; he was a sperm donor," I correct her. "And yes, that's the only positive thing that's happened since we first heard from his lawyer and our trip to New York. Oh wait, that's not true. I enjoyed seeing the sights with my real Dad. But, do you know what the most positive thing was? It was when I found out Edward Winston died."
"Edward, I know you don't actually find enjoyment in someone's death," she says, not an admonishment, she's stating a fact.
"Okay, maybe I wasn't happy that he died, but I was fucking ecstatic that I didn't have to meet the coward." She doesn't bat an eyelid at my language, which tells me she's determined not to get sidetracked.
"Tell me again how you came to the realization about the law," she asks, so I tell her how, weeks ago, we received a letter from Deborah, Winston's widow, informing us of their intention to contest my inclusion in his will. I, of course, wanted Dad to write back to say that they're welcome to the money. But he told me he had no intention of relinquishing a cent of what he insisted was my entitlement. He met with his lawyer, and together, they decided to respond by informing the Winstons that we welcomed their action; in turn, our letter stated, we'd counterclaim for my rightful share of Winston's nearly billion and a half dollar fortune.
In the end, they didn't contest the will. Instead, we received another letter from their solicitor demanding that we don't capitalize on the Winston name in any way and that my relationship with the family not be made public knowledge. Dad instructed his lawyer to respond, informing them that their request had been unnecessary because we would never, under any circumstances, blemish the Cullen name by associating it with that of the Winstons. He demanded, in turn, that they not reveal my relationship to their family. We've received no communication from them since.
"When we received that first letter, and Dad refused to return the money, I thought, because they were rich and powerful, they'd ride all over us," I tell Siobhan. "But Dad and his lawyer took them on and won. I liked that; I like that the law is based on fact, that our lawyer beat the big-gun firm from New York. A good lawyer, no matter where he's from, can prove the difference in someone getting justice or not."
Siobhan contemplates me; her mouth turned up in a small, almost smug smile. "What? You think I'm spouting garbage," I challenge.
"Not at all. I'm amazed and pleased if you must know. Edward, that's the first time I've seen you so animated about anything other than your family. Don't you see the possibilities?"
"What possibilities?"
"You were so passionate about your discovery regarding the way the law works, or should work. You could turn that interest into helping others, just as your dad's lawyer did. Channel your anger and frustration into something productive rather than destructive because that's all you've been doing up till now. You're a brilliant student; you could get into almost any law school in the country if you put your mind to it. Just think about it, Edward," she says, and, then, as I remain silent, announces that our time is up.
I stand, almost unconsciously, and unlike each time before, I feel reluctant to leave. Equally surprising is that I'm not seething with resentment. Instead, I find my mind already spinning, thinking about the possibilities she's presented.
"You see it, don't you?" Siobhan's eyes gleam with excitement as she too stands.
"I do," I say, giving her a smile, probably the first genuine one since meeting her
Thank you, as always, for reading :)
For those interested in the published character version of this story; Lost is available to read on my website. This latest chapter will be up by tomorrow morning.