Page 49 of Saxon

"Yeah, I'm not mourning my dad. If anything, I'm due a drink in celebration. But Mom? I just…" I glance at Terra, unsure how my next admission will land with her. "I'm not sure how I feel. She loved us. She tried to soften him. To make up for how much of a fucking monster he was. But I…I just never understood why she stayed with him. For a lot of my life, I sort of assumed she was just weak for not taking us boys and leaving. Why did she let us endure the verbal, emotional, mental, and physical abuse? Why did she put up with it herself?"

Terra is quiet for a long time. "You can't understand, Saxon. You cannot—even if you try. Because you're not a woman."

"There's truth to that, I guess," I say. "Because I have tried. And I still don’t get it."

She turns those turquoise eyes to me, serious, deep, intense. "Did she have her own money?"

"Mmmmm, I don't know." I think about it. " Her parents are loaded, too. Not like Dad's family, but pretty fuckin' rich. She may have had a trust fund. I don't know."

"Did you ever see her ask your father for money? Ever? For any reason?"

I consider it, and nod. "Yeah. She'd take us boys out for ice cream after sports practices, we'd go shopping with her, and she'd pick up a purse. But she had this car. A Jaguar. Dad had gotten it for her for a birthday or anniversary or somethin', I don't know. It was fancy and expensive, but it was a piece of shit. Kept breaking down. Spent more time in the shop than on the road. She wanted a different one. I remember the fight. He was drunk—shocker—and was all insulted that she didn't like his present. Even though he bitched more than she did about the repair bills and how much of a piece of shit it was, when she told him she wanted a new car, he just…he lost his fuckin' mind. Slapped her silly, called her a greedy, money-grubbing whore. Said other shit to her I won't repeat, basically telling her how she could earn the new car."

Terra nods. "And was she close to her family? Mom and Dad, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins?"

I shake my head. "Nah. We never saw them."

"Why?"

This is making me uncomfortable, all this shit I've never considered. "I…I don't know. They live in Connecticut, so not that far away. She has a sister, but she didn't come to the funeral."

"So, let me lay it out for you." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Your mother had three boys, close in age, I'm assuming. She didn’t have access to any money of her own, for reasons we can’t know. Not close to her family for the same unknown reasons, but I'm gonna guess it was because your father isolated and alienated her from them years ago, before you boys were born. That’s textbook abuser strategy—make sure they don't have money or family, keep her dependent on you and only you. No money, no support system, nowhere to go, no skills or experience to get a job.” She looks at me with sadness in her eyes.

“Your mother wasn't weak, Saxon, she was trapped. Where is she gonna go with three boys and no money and no family? A shelter? From the lap of luxury to the streets? It takes a kind of desperation most people can't fathom to take your children away from everything and everyone they know. You'd be away from the abuse, yeah, but how will she feed you? How will she clothe you? Where will you go to school? Where will you live? If she has no life experience, no work history, no degree—because your father kept her that way, mind you—what was she supposed to do?" A long pause. "She could’ve done what mine did, and be thankful she didn’t."

"Which is what?"

"Die when you're five, leaving your already abusive and alcoholic father in even worse shape." She shakes her head, turning to look out the window. "At least you had brothers to share the pain. There was just little ol' me. Not making light of what you went through, or acting like my shit was worse. Just sayin'."

"Misery is relative, and subjective," I say.

“Damn right." She flicks a glance at me. "So, you're really not gonna ask?"

"Nope." I wince as the wound in my back aches and burns, randomly. "I know how that shit goes: once you open it up, you gotta tell the whole story. I want to know. But only when you're ready to share it."

"True enough, and fair enough." She grins at me. "Let’s play twenty questions—but nothing serious."

I snort and shake my head. "Fine. Shoot."

"Favorite color."

"Blue."

"What shade of blue?"

I tilt my head. "Turquoise." I glance at her. "Not making it up, and not just saying it. My mom had this set of turquoise jewelry. She loved it. Wore it all the time. Your eyes are that exact shade."

"So you think of your mom when you look at my eyes?"

I laugh. "No. Well, yes, sort of. But not exactly. Not in a weird Oedipus complex sort of way."

"Good," she laughs. "Your turn."

"Why do you dye your hair red?" I pause. "If that's too serious of a question, don't answer."

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. "I just like red. I think it goes well with my skin tone and my eyes. I hate my natural hair color."

"Which is?"