Chapter 32

“Might be a sexy fresh look for you, Ems. You’re cute enough to pull it off.” He smiles at me and I sigh,
pulling myself back together and dry my face on my sleeve. I take the gadgets he hands me from my
desk and put them in the base of the suitcase, gently wrapping them in the protective sleeves I leave in
there. My mind is blocking out any thoughts about my mother lying in a hospital bed right now and I
don’t even want to process this anymore.

“I can’t let you come Jake … I don’t want you to see her like she is.” I glance at him nervously. Stomach
churning.

“Why, Emma? You haven’t told me what happened.” He moves behind me, taking a strand of my loose
hair and tucks it behind my ear; a normal Jake gesture which serves to make me feel fully calm. Safe.
His presence and touch like a balm.

“I don’t want you to know … It’s too … There are things about my life before here, that should stay in
the past.” I glance back at him pleadingly seeing his frown soften into a gentle smile as he hides his
disappointment well.

“Okay, Emma … I promised I wouldn’t push.” He inhales heavily, defeated in a way.

“But you better call me every night and keep me updated … If you need me, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.
Can’t leave my number one girl coping alone when she’s upset.” He brushes another strand of my hair
behind my ear gently, his fingers lingering, brushing softly over my cheek bone. His green eyes locked
on mine steadily.

“Promise me?”

“I promise.” I nod, basking in the caress and turn away to continue packing. Poor Jefferson has been
sitting down in the car for long enough already, and I have a two-hour flight to take, minimum. Then
after that I must face a sight, I already know will be unbearable in so many ways.



When I’m done packing, I go into Sarah’s room to leave her a note. I don’t want to call her and say the
actual words in front of Jake. Her bed is a riot of covers and clothes and I can only guess they’ve gone
for a night out on the town, not that it bothers me. We lead separate lives nowadays.

I leave the note on her mirror and close the door as I exit. In a way I’m glad she’s not here; not having
to explain with Jake so close by about what’s happened to my mother for the second time in my life.
Not having to deal with that knowing look on her face, thinking exactly as I do.

Will she ever change?

Jake accompanies me to the airfield and deposits me on the plane personally. Hugging me goodbye,
he makes me promise that I’ll call when I land in Chicago and every night that I’m gone. I am torn in
two at leaving him and not wanting him to see who I used to be. I need him far away from that part of
me right now, but I am distraught to walk away from him.

Reluctantly, I let him go; flanked by the onboard hostess taking my coat and bag, Jefferson depositing
my suitcase on the plane himself. He waves from the tarmac and I head to my seat, shutting out every
thought and emotion, holding myself in to focus on the long flight ahead and all that I’m about to
encounter.

***

It’s the middle of the night by the time we land in Chicago, and the hired driver takes me to West
Englewood. The streets are badly lit, but don’t conceal the grubbiness or derelict area from view. The
streets, although busy with traffic, seem almost deserted. The aura of poverty and hardship reflected in
the brown buildings and scruffy stores and I get that old ripple of trepidation as unease moves through
me and that weight of emptiness I used to feel at being here returns with a vengeance.

I’m to meet Sophie at my old home, the apartment that my mother has lived in since the day she
brought me home from the hospital. My mother is stable in St Bernard Hospital, but I won’t be able to



see her until morning to assess how much damage has been done.

I’m still numb with a tinge of anger even thinking about her. I know this isn’t natural—she’s my mother. I
should feel concern, devastation, worry even, but I don’t. I’m cold and empty and upset. Enraged at
her, that she just keeps following the same path in life, over and over. She’s my mother, yet all she ever
taught me was that the people who are supposed to be there for you, above everyone else, only have
their own interests at heart.

She did teach me one valuable lesson though: the only way to get through life is to trust no one except
yourself. Self-reliance is the only way to live, and never let anyone get close enough to damage you
irreversibly. She taught me that men will only look to overpower you and abuse you, that she is so
weak in her quest to find a man that she accepts any form of control they exert. Any punishments they
hand out.

She disgusts me. I’ll never be like her.

The car pulls up in front of the scruffy convenience store, its lights flickering in the dark, the letters
peeling, paint chipped, and exterior ugly. The apartments above are brown and grubby. The windows
appear dark and dirty from down here, an icy shiver coursing through me and I shudder.

Home sweet home.

The driver gets out and retrieves my bags from the trunk, but I tell him I’ll take them into the apartment
myself. I don’t want anyone in there, nor do I need his help. He reluctantly hands me the bags and
watches me walk around to the side door, which is concealed by shrubs, into the main foyer of the
building before he leaves. It’s narrow and stinks of rotten food and urine causing me to wrinkle my nose
in disgust. I push my way up the stairs to the top landing, straight to the scratched blue front door which
met me every day of my young life. There’s a light on inside shining through the glass indicating Sophie
is here as planned. I stop and knock on the door with a sharp tap.



Sophie opens it quickly. I guess she’s been watching for my arrival. She’s not what I expected and
appears a lot younger in person than the age she told me on the phone. She’s small and wiry with long
tawny hair and vibrant blue eyes. She looks exactly as I did at the same age, even the pouting lips and
innocent, naive expression. It tugs at my chest and I wonder if my mother sees me in this girl and that’s
why she feels compelled to help her. The thought makes me snigger internally.

My mother was always good at seeking out those in need of help, offering her shoulder and arms,
driven to be a good Samaritan. Yet she failed her own child in ways she has no way to fathom. Still, to
this day, completely oblivious to the fact she was no mother at all. All her energy at trying to be a better
person for other people, to help them. Ironic really.

Sophie is shy and sweet and leads me through to the open plan sitting room. She tells me she’s
cleaned up the apartment for me, removing all traces of the attack after the police were done in here.
She is obviously nervous.

I glance around numbly; it’s exactly how I remember it. Nothing has changed, not even the paintwork.
The bohemian, almost hippy like décor, cushions and throws and mismatched furniture, the odd pieces
of art from junk shops hung on the walls. The whole place crammed and cluttered. The smell of
cleaners and incense lingering in the air bring back memories of so many nights locked within these
walls, praying for the day I could run far, far away.

A memory of her battered and broken body by the couch when I was ten years old flits to mind, like a
bile in my throat but I push it down with the wave of emotions and anger. I’ll not allow myself to think
about her until I see her tomorrow.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve been staying in your old room …” Sophie blinks at me shyly, warily, but I give her
a friendly smile.



“It’s fine, I won’t be here for long … couple of days at most … I’ll use my mother’s room.” I appraised
her, up and down again as she heads into the kitchen and makes us coffee. Watching the childish
mannerisms and her obvious maturity for her age contradicting one other much like I always had. It’s
late, she should be in bed but I’m curious about her.

“So, do you know who did this to my mother?” I ask outright to get it over and done with; time to have
the talk I’ve been dreading. She flickers her lashes up warily and shakes her head abruptly. I catch the
apprehension and immediately wonder if she’s lying. I used to lie for my mother on a daily basis. I know
the signs.

“Does she have a new boyfriend?” I coax, although I know nothing of the men she knows nowadays.

What does it matter? Do I even really care?

“Yeah … I never met him; I don’t know his name …” She can’t look me in the eye, and I know pushing
her will tell me nothing. I had the same look of determination at that age, guarding my mother’s secrets
as though my life depended on it. I know she knows who he is.

“You found her? How bad is it?” I sit at the table, crossing my hands with precision; she comes over
with the mugs, sliding mine before me and sits opposite. There’s something so fragile about her yet so
strong and capable and I find it hard to believe she’s only fourteen despite how she looks.


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