The knock on the door to my office startles me. The person standing there does even more so.
I look like hell.
That’s the first thought that glances through my mind when I look up to see Grant’s mom in my doorway. My second is it’s her son who made me feel this way.
“Betsy.”
Is it bad that just the sight of her—my second mom—makes me want to hug her and just sob? I fight the tears burning my eyes because I will not fall apart. Not here in the office. Not at home. Not anymore.
“Em? You okay, honey?” She steps into my office.
“Yeah. Just . . . it’ll be okay.”
For a moment, she studies me as if she’s trying to figure out whether to believe me. “I’m sorry for stopping by unannounced, but I called earlier, and it went to voice mail. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. Come in and have a seat,” I say as I stand from my desk and shut the door to my office behind her. The last thing I need is for the staff to hear any part of this conversation. I’m certain they’re already wondering what’s wrong with me since I’ve been snapping at everyone. I wait for her to get settled and sit in the office chair next to her.
“It’s a wonderful little space,” she says with a sincerity I know she means. “I can’t wait to see how you improve it when it’s yours. I won’t stay long. I just . . .”
“What is it?”
“Grant will kill me for meddling, but I couldn’t stand by and not say anything.” I hold back my sigh when I realize why Betsy has come to see me. “He told me you’ve been remembering things you hadn’t before.”
I thought her opening statement was going to be about the file folder or some grand pitch about how I need to give Grant another chance—the same spiel I’m getting from Desi. So I’m a little taken aback by her statement. With anyone else, my guard would be up, but I find myself needing someone to talk to.
“Yes, they have. Ever since I saw Grant on the Fourth.”
“And you assume it’s because of him?”
I nod, curious but uncertain about where this conversation is going. “It isn’t a coincidence.”
“You know, sometimes it doesn’t take a reminder to trigger a memory. Sometimes your mind just knows you can finally handle it. It knows you’ve found the right people, the right support network to protect you from the fallout of the memory—keep you safe—and your subconscious just wants to rid itself of all of it and start fresh. Sure, the memory is going to screw you up. The devil is in the details after all . . . but sometimes, what you imagine might have happened is worse because your imagination magnifies it.” She shakes her head and corrects herself. “That isn’t what I meant. What happened to you was horrific. All I meant was that, maybe by knowing the truth, you’ll stop feeling the need to run from the constant and probably nagging unknown. Because I don’t want you to run anymore. You’re the only daughter we’ve ever had, Emmy. You left such a big hole in our family when you left before, and we don’t want you picking up and leaving again.”
I feel like something inside me breaks from her words. I spent months missing Grant and his family after we left Sunnyville. They were the one normal I could count on, and then they were taken away from me when I needed them the most. She has no clue how long it’s been since I felt like I belonged somewhere or how her words are like salve on an open wound. They aren’t enough to heal, but they are enough to soothe.
“I don’t want to leave again, either,” I find myself saying. The truth behind why getting the loan means so much.
“And since I’m being pushy, I might as well just get it all out. You can’t leave Sunnyville. Plain and simple. Grant is the one for you, Emerson. He always has been.” The stubborn lift to her chin is so similar to Grant’s that it makes me smile. “He’s patient and strong-willed and will put you in your place if need be, but he will also be the first one to pull you into his arms and hold you so tight that your demons have nowhere to go but out. I know you’ll keep him on his toes and make him work harder to be a better man because that’s what he thinks you deserve . . . but what do I know?” she says as she waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just his mom.”
“I wish it were that easy, Betsy. Grant’s a great man . . . but I have things I need to figure out first. Things I need to work through. I need to be able to trust him and . . .” I shake my head and exhale, unsure of how to explain it all to his mom.
“I know my son, Emerson. If he had looked at that case file, he would have been eaten up alive by what is in there,” she says so matter-of-factly that it takes me a second to process he told his mom about the file
“You know?” My words are barely audible.
“Of course I know,” she says, her eyes never breaking from mine. “You were like mine, Em. Your mom and I spent many nights together on the phone, sobbing one minute, screaming the next, and sitting in silence between so the other wasn’t alone.”
I blink rapidly, forcing back the burn of tears as my mind catches up with her words. With the piece of truth she just gave me.
I remember.
The murmured conversations in the back of the van when my mom thought I was sleeping. My eight-year-old self assumed it was my dad she was talking to, that she was apologizing to him because I had been such a bad girl, but it was Betsy.
“I didn’t know.”
“We both blamed ourselves, Em. How could the two of us—two intelligent, educated women—not see the signs that were sitting right in front of us? How could we be so busy with life that we failed you?”
“It isn’t your fault,” I say. My need to rid the pain in her voice all-consuming.
“You’re right. It isn’t. Just like it wasn’t yours and it wasn’t Grant’s. Though, to this day, I think he blames himself for not saving you sooner.”
Why would Grant blame himself?
The thought is staggering, and my head is so full of these new revelations all I can do is keep listening to her. “It was your father’s fault. He was pure evil. To make you feel like it was your fault? To trick you into thinking it was all dreams? He was evil to the core.”
My heart drops. How does she know this? How does she know the doubt I have and my mistrust of my own memory? “You knew about that?” My voice is barely audible.
“Who do you think sat and held your mom’s hand as we watched you with the detective and therapist on the other side of the two-way mirror at Children’s Hospital? It was me, sweetie. I know he tricked you. I know you doubted back then, and probably sometimes still do today, whether you were at fault or to blame. After all the games he played with your mind, that’s more than understandable. Let me tell you that you weren’t.”
“I didn’t realize that you were there after . . .”
“Do you think I would leave you and your mom when you needed me most?” She smiles a sad smile as she remembers. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’re remembering some of it. Will you keep remembering? I don’t know. Your mind might continue to protect itself from the trauma . . . or it might not. Just know that we are here for you if you need us. You can call me any time, day or night, and I’ll come to you, even if it’s just to sit with you in the darkness and so you know you aren’t alone with a new memory rattling around in your head. You’re not alone anymore, Emerson. You never were.”
“Betsy, I don’t know what to say . . .”
“Don’t say anything,” she says as she reaches out to squeeze my knee. “Obviously, if you stay and want to be a part of our family—in all our craziness and bantering—it will be on your own terms, your own time frame. And the offer remains regardless if you are or aren’t with my son.” She stands. “But I have to tell you he’s downright miserable right now. My bet is it’s because he misses you.”