Stephanie's POV
I was sitting on the bed in Beca's room. She had bunk beds, which I thought was cool. Beca slept on the bottom bunk but offered to switch until I healed. I appreciated her thoughtfulness. When she first showed me where I would be sleeping, I groaned. "Try climbing the ladder," she said. "It's okay, Michelle. I'll change my sheets, and you can sleep on my bunk," she offered when it was physically impossible for me to climb into the top bed.
"Only until my ribs stop hurting," I replied. "The doctor said it should be better in four to six weeks."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Beca asked. I shook my head. "I'm here if you need me."
Beca efficiently changed the bedding after grabbing clean sheets from the linen closet near the upstairs bathroom. She passed me some towels and clothes to wear. I noticed the underwear contained the tags and smiled appreciatively. "Do you have any pads? I ran out," I asked.
"Mom keeps extra in the bottom drawer on the right. Help yourself. Let me know if you need a different brand," she replied.
"Thank you," I cried. I entered the bathroom and took the quickest shower ever. The house was strange, and I was afraid someone would enter the bathroom while I was vulnerable. Someone leaned against the bathroom door as I fumbled to fix the adhesive side of a maxi pad in my underwear. I wasted two until I finally got it to work. It was the brand that had those wings to protect your panties. Mom never let Valerie or me use them. She said they were too expensive and the old thick pads were good enough for us.
I opened the door, and Beca moved out of the way before falling over. "I sat here to stop people from entering," Beca explained. I threw my arms around her and cried on her shoulder. She helped me enter the bedroom and deposit my soiled clothes in the hamper. Beca disappeared briefly and returned with the peroxide and cotton balls. She sat me on the bottom bunk and gently cleaned the scratches on my face from where I tried to remove the feeling of Joe's lips on my cheek.
Before I could control myself, I told Beca everything as she tended to my wounds. "I wasn't curious about sex with the guy. He was cute but definitely not my type. Joe thought I wanted what he had to offer," I cried.
"I'm sorry you had to lose your virginity that way. When I lost mine a few months ago to my fifteen-year-old boyfriend, it felt like I was on fire down there. I can't imagine someone forcing me to do that. Have you experimented with a boy?" Beca asked. I shook my head.
"None of the guys were my type," I cried. "I wanted to save myself for marriage. Now any guy I date would think I'm a slut." Hopefully, Beca never asked my type. I went to Point Pleasant with my family a few years ago. While I was building a sand castle, I met a boy. His skin was darker than mine, but he had blond hair and green eyes. I couldn't remember his name.
"Michelle, a lot of people have sex before getting married. It's best to wait until you're mentally ready. I remember crying a lot after I lost my virginity. Mom was upset I didn't wait, but she helped me through everything," Beca explained. "Did you have a boyfriend back home?"
"No. I wasn't attracted to the boys in my school," I confessed.
"How did you stop the boys from asking you out?" I raised my brows, wondering why Beca would ask me about dating boys after I told her I didn't find anyone attractive. "Michelle, you're a beautiful girl. The guys were probably fighting to date you," Beca explained.
"My friends, Eddie and Carl, know my type. They were at Point Pleasant when I met that boy. Whenever a guy tried to ask me out, they would say we were dating. It kept the other boys away," I replied.
"What happened with the boy who hurt you?" She patiently waited for my answer, but I didn't understand what she wanted me to say. "The boy who hurt you, why did he attack you and not someone else?" Beca asked.
I told her about the incident with Joe when I was six. She gasped in shock. "I don't know how he found out about my job at the bakery. It was only my third shift, and it wasn't in the area of town where we lived. Someone had to tell him I was there, but I don't know who," I replied. "I avoided him for ten years."
"Michelle, you need to talk to a therapist," Beca suggested.
"I promised Grandpa I would talk to someone. You're only a year younger than me. I shouldn't have discussed it with you. I'm sorry," I said guiltily for troubling Beca with my problems.
"It's okay, Michelle. I know more about those situations than you realize. I've seen enough evidence at the school," Beca explains, making me feel less horrible for telling her the story.
"Do you or your parents know anyone accepting patients?" I asked.
Grinning, Beca replied, "My mom is a therapist. She specializes in assault and other sexual traumas. I'm sure she can remain objective to give you the help you need."
"What if she gets too close?" I asked.
"Her colleague will take over your case. Michelle, we're all here to help you. You happened to meet Dad and Bobby at that diner for a reason. Fate brought you to us. Let us help," Beca replied.
"Okay. Thank you," I replied.
As we walked down the stairs, I caught Beca's parents kissing. It felt like an intrusion on their privacy. I never saw my parents kiss or hug. They had sex because I could hear them a few times, but my parents never showed affection when Valerie or I were around. I mumbled an apology, which Beca laughed off and explained that her parents were openly affectionate.
"Why don't you girls help me prepare dinner?" Martha asked.
I panicked because me and cooking don't mix. Beca took my hand, "Come on, Michelle, it won't be so bad. Mom and I talk as we cook."
"But everything I touch will burn," I whined.
"Nonsense," Martha replied. "With the three of us cooking, nothing will burn." I hoped those words wouldn't come back to bite her in the ass. Beca and I washed our hands in the kitchen sink as Martha set the oven temperature.
Cooking with Martha and Beca was fun. I carefully measured the ingredients to make homemade meatballs. Martha had proper measuring spoons and cups, removing the guesswork involved with meal preparation. Why didn't Mom get these? My mom made cooking much harder than necessary.
"Michelle, why don't you and Beca prepare the garlic bread?"
"How do we do that?" I asked.
Martha pointed to the bowl sitting on the counter. She had a towel covering it, and I knew what was inside. Martha made bread dough for supper. I grinned and turned the dough onto a floured counter. After dividing the dough in half, I formed the round loaves. When I looked around the kitchen for a sharp knife, garlic and butter, Martha asked, "What do you need?" She quickly grabbed the items, including a garlic press.
"Thank you," I said, preparing the bread for dinner. Beca melted the butter in the microwave. She used the garlic press to squeeze four garlic cloves into it. I tasted the garlic butter before adding some salt and parsley. Beca whisked them together as I used the sharp knife to score the bread.
"Why did you cut them deep?" Beca asked.
"Better saturation of the garlic butter," I explained, shrugging. "Grandma Giorgia taught me this method." After soaking the loaves in the melted concoction, I put them in the oven and set the timer for twenty-five minutes.
Beca and I giggled as we formed the meatballs. It felt good to laugh. I arranged the meatballs on the baking sheet before putting the tray in the oven. Martha smiled in our direction. She put a pot on the stove to boil water for the spaghetti. Beca washed her hands and grabbed another pot from the cupboard to heat the sauce.
The Browns used Ragu pasta sauce, which I thought was an abomination. Great! Now I was sounding like Mom. "May I taste the sauce?" I asked, hoping it wasn't bland like most tinned or jarred sauces.
Martha nodded, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. "Haven't you tried this sauce?" Martha asked.
"My mom never used prepared sauces. Her "cheat" was using tinned diced tomatoes or crushed tomatoes. Most times, she made the sauce using fresh tomatoes from the market," I replied. I accepted the spoon Martha removed from the drawer and tasted the sauce. "It isn't bad, but it could use more seasoning."
"Would this work?" Beca asked, passing me the Italian seasoning.
I nodded as I read the herbs listed on the label. "It's great." Beca watched as I added some seasoning and took a taste. She laughed when I used the stirring spoon to drip sauce onto the one I used to sample the sauce. I repeated the process of adding herbs and taste testing.
"Well?" Martha asked, looking amused.
"Try it," I replied. Martha removed two spoons from the drawer, giving Beca one so she could try the sauce. They tasted the sauce and declared it was delicious. "It should compliment the meatballs."
"Thank you," Martha said. I blushed because I wasn't used to compliments.
"Crap! I forgot to set the oven timer," I groaned.
Patting my hand to get my attention, Martha replied, "Beca set it for you," pointing to the timer on the counter. I felt relieved Beca thought to set the timer. Hopefully, dinner won't burn.
I never realized Martha had everything perfectly timed. Beca and I removed the garlic bread and meatballs from the oven when Martha indicated the noodles were cooked. Martha strained the spaghetti and surprised me by pouring the sauce into the pot and mixing it all together. She winked and asked Beca to grab the shredded cheese from the refrigerator.
We set the table and called Rob and Bobby for dinner. Martha sliced the bread and passed the plate to me. I smiled and took a few. Beca raised a brow but never commented. Bobby and Rob knew how much I could eat. Thankfully, Martha made enough pasta for Bobby and me to have seconds if we were still hungry.
Beca's plate had a small mound of pasta, half a slice of garlic bread and a few meatballs on the right half. She filled the remaining space with a leafy green salad without dressing.
I added croutons and bacon bits to my salad before smothering it in the creamy garlic dressing Martha purchased from the store. Everything was delicious. Bobby and I fought over the last meatball. I cut it in half and shoved it into my mouth. Laughing, Bobby took the other half to eat.
After dinner, Bobby and Rob cleaned the dishes. I was surprised because that never happened in my house. Mom did all the cooking and cleaning, and Dad would retire to the living room to watch television. The Browns managed their household differently from what I was accustomed to, but I loved the changes. It showed equality.
"Yup. If you cook, you don't clean," Beca laughed. "We take turns, too."
"Are you telling me that your dad and Bobby cook?" I asked, shocked by the news.
"It's been this way for years. Dad had to cook dinner whenever Mom got stuck on a case. After a few weeks, it became the new normal. Mom uses those days to work later," Beca explained.
"Your dad's still active. How do you manage the meal preparation during those days?" I asked, hoping to learn more about her family dynamics.
"During Dad's deployments, Bobby and I are old enough to fend for ourselves if Mom has to work late. When Mom knows about those days in advance, she prepares something for the next day. Most times, it's a casserole, but those are easy to reheat in the oven," Beca replied.
"Thanks for listening earlier. I never meant to unload my problems onto you," I said.
Beca waved it off, "I'm used to boys and girls sharing their trauma. Usually, I had to tell them the story about my aunt before they would agree to ask my mom for help."
"Oh? What happened to your aunt? Was she nice? When did she die?" I asked, trying to get all my questions on the table before Beca shared the story.
Laughing, Beca said, "Hold on a few minutes. I'll get to your questions."
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"Okay, from the stories I heard, my aunt Rebecca was really nice. She died a few months after Mom married Dad. It was a tragic story," Beca said. She sounded sad upon mentioning her aunt's story was tragic.
"You can tell me. I won't share it with anyone else," I assured her.
"My aunt had a boyfriend. Mom and Dad said he seemed really nice. Everything went well until he got mad at her for talking to another man, who happened to be my Dad. Mom explained that Aunt Rebecca's car had a flat tire and that she needed to get to work. Dad picked her up to give her a ride. He called the tow truck to take her car to the closest garage to replace the tire. Aunt Rebecca worked in the same building as her boyfriend. He noticed her leaning into the car to arrange a pickup time with Dad," Beca said.
"What was the boyfriend's name?" I asked. The story sounded familiar. I was trying to figure out why. My stomach felt squishy as I tried to recall when I had heard the story. A boy my aunt Eleanor dated when she lived in Miami was sent to jail for murder. Her family moved to Trenton, New Jersey when she was thirteen. The boy was verbally abusive, and my grandparents wanted to get her away from there. Mom was only ten. I hoped it wasn't the same boy.
"Mark Gobel," Beca said, making my blood run cold and goosebumps erupt across my skin. "Michelle, did you know him?"
Shaking my head, I replied, "My mom and aunt used to live in Miami. When my Aunt Eleanor's boyfriend, Mark Gobel, threatened to harm her, my grandparents moved them north."
"How old was your aunt?" Beca asked.
"Thirteen," I replied. "Please, continue the story, but I have a feeling I know what happened."
"Aunt Rebecca tried to explain it was her brother-in-law, but Mark wouldn't listen. A few days later, Mom went to check on Aunt Rebecca. Her work called to say she never arrived. When Mom got to the house, she found it surrounded by the police. The officer told her the woman was beaten nearly to death by her boyfriend, who they had in custody. Aunt Rebecca's neighbours called the police when they noticed someone breaking into her house. It was too late. My aunt died before reaching the hospital."
"I'm sorry for your loss. When did your mom become a therapist?" I asked, curious if what happened to Rebecca triggered that chain of events.
"Mom already had her social work diploma and her master's. She was trying to determine her specialty. Once my aunt died, my mom decided she wanted to assist abused women and children. It's her way of getting them out of the situation before more lives are lost," Beca replied.
"It's the perfect way to honour your aunt," I said, grabbing her hand. Beca rested her head on my shoulder. "I understand why your dad wanted to help me."
We sat in silence for several minutes. Beca asked, "Would the boy who hurt you come here?"
"Only as a ghost," I replied. Beca raised her head to glare at me. Realizing she wanted more details, I added, "I stabbed him in the neck with a pencil. He died."
"Oh. Wow," Beca said, seemingly lost for words.
"It was self-defence. I know that, but his family won't understand. My mom is probably blaming me for everything," I quietly replied. I moved away from Beca, releasing her hand.
"Where are you going?" Beca demanded.
"To our room. I need some time alone," I whispered.