Page 102 of Ridin' Free

“What are you doing here? God—you look awful.”

I ignored her slight, folding my arms across my chest as I replied, “We need to talk.”

She studied me skeptically, shaking her head all the while.

“Not sure I’ve got anything to say to you.”

“Maybe not, but I have somethin’ to say to you.”

“What gives you the right? Hmm? You think you can just show up, unannounced, and expect me to welcome you with open arms? Fuck that. You didn’t show me the courtesy, or have you forgotten already?”

“That’s—that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of. I mean—it’s about Tommy.”

“Oh, yeah?” She popped a hip, propping her fist against it. “You want to talk about the hospital bill we’re still payin’ for?”

“No. I want to—I…” My voice trailed off as I felt my nose tingle, the urge to cry knocking me square in the middle of the face.

I was so tired of feeling small and vulnerable. Even after all this time, it was like I was still that scared teenager, too ashamed to say the words aloud. Too worried about how the truth of what I’d done foryearsdefined me.

Was I as much to blame as him?

“For god’s sake,” she mumbled, reaching for her door handle.

Panic rushed through me as it became apparent my opportunity was slipping through my fingers. I needed to say the words. I needed to spit them out. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to come back again another day.

“He’s a perv, mom,” I cried.

She froze, her eyes pinned on me, her expression giving away nothing.

“He sexually abused me from the time I was fourteen until I moved out. And I should have told you. Fuck, I should have been honest about the man you married. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I never said anything. I didn’t know how.”

I hiccuped, trying to calm down and slow my tears.

Georgia merely stared, guarded and cautious.

Finally, in a hushed voice, she asked, “He ever lay a hand on you?”

There was something about the way she phrased the question that made me pause. I frowned as I replied, “No. But he’d make me take my clothes off. He?—”

“He put a roof over our heads, is what he did.”

“What?” I gaped at her, searching for evidence of her denial.

I saw no shock in her expression. No surprise. No disgust or alarm.

“He never laid a hand on you, Ali-Mae,” she stated cooly.

My arms fell to my sides as my heart sank, heavy as a stone.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak; could barely conjure more than a single thought, realization widening the chasm which had separated us for most of my life. I understood, with an assurity and a finality so astute, I wondered how I never noticed it before. I wondered how it was possible I ever bought into the lie that she cared about me at all. The truth was, the depth of the fissure between us was so wide, so deep, no amount of love could careen itself from one side to the other.

My mother—my own fucking mother—had known all along.

“You…you knew.” It was a statement, not a question, the words uttered so softly, even I could hardly hear them.

Then, for the first time in all her god forsaken life, Georgia said not a word.

I nodded slowly, too stunned to feel anything other than angry at the fact that I couldn’t stop my tears. Neither could I move my feet. At least, not right away. I stood there, staring at her, knowing this would be the last time I laid eyes on her.