Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) (11 page)

I look at Andrew from across my desk, “No, I don’t need to speak to him, just read his notes. He may leave if he’s finished with my wife.”

“I’ll let him know.” Andrew leaves me alone in my office and I turn my attention back to the files and paperwork on my desk.

There is only one person I’ve ever met who has been able to sneak up on me and that person is my daughter, Ivy. Before I realize she’s in my office the top of her dark curly haired head pops up on the opposite side of my desk before her dimpled chin rests on the dark mahogany wood and she smiles. “Hey dare, daddy. You werkin’?”

“Good evening, Princess Ivy. I am, love, you playin’?” I ask as I motion for her to come around the desk and she answers by flying towards me and lunging herself into my lap.

“I is playin’ daddy!” She giggles.

“You are playing, or I am playing. Not ‘is’, princess.”

“I are playing? I am playing.” She beams.

“Yes, only to the second statement. What are you playing?” I chuckle.

And Ivy’s facial expression falters revealing a sadness I didn’t see before. “How long will mommy be bwoken, daddy?”

Have you ever been decimated with less than ten words? It humbles you, especially when they’re spoken from the mouth of your own child.

My eyes water and my voice cracks but I shove the words out, “Broken? She’s not broken, angel, why do you say that?”

Tears spill over her lashes when her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head, “You not looking at her if you don’t see her is bwoken. It’s in her eyes, Daddy, you can tell her heart is bwoke by lookin’ in her eyes.”

My hand cupping the side of my daughter’s face pulls her to my chest and as I kiss the top of her head I mumble into her ink black curls, “Is that right, baby, that’s what you see when you look at mommy?”

She answers, “Mmhmm.”

We stay like this for the longest time. Neither of us move a muscle, or speak a word.

I can’t say how much time passes, or at what point Ivy falls asleep, but when Andrew comes in its well after dark. “Ms. Dolores arrived about thirty minutes ago. She’s settling in.”

Nodding, I stand and make my way through the office carrying Ivy and whispering to Andrew when I’m close enough for him to hear, “I’ll go lay her down, if you would tell Dolores the three of us will be meeting in the library after her things are put away.”

Once I’m upstairs I tuck Ivy in tight, whispering, “Snug as a bug in a warm fuzzy rug.” I kiss her goodnight and wish her sweet dreams before turning on her nightlight and leaving her door ajar. As I look back over my shoulder, my heart swells with pride and shatters with uncertainty.

As a man, I can’t say for certain the decisions I make are the right ones or are wrong. I only know the decisions I make are ones that needed to be made, a yes or a no, a right turn or a left, but all decisions in the end are a bet or a fold…which all come down to ultimately affecting the ones I hold dearest to my darkened heart.

The first night Dolores left me alone with Ivy I swore to never try to numb the pain and guilt again with liquor. It’s been difficult and I almost caved more times than I like to admit.  If I’m honest, tonight I’m sure I’ll come close to caving again.

I’ve been staring at the liquor cabinet for over fifteen minutes when Dolores and Andrew walk into the library and sit blocking it from my view. It takes some effort not to bark at them to move.

“Mr. Payne, how is Ms. Ivy?” Her tone tells me she’s nervous and this knowledge calms me.

“She’s very well. It’s my wife who concerns me. She’s endured a journey through hell and back and I’m afraid the road to normalcy is further in the future than either of us originally anticipated.” I shake my head in exhaustion looking at nothing though my eyes settle on the table between us. “The authorities have yet to speak to her, her mind frame isn’t able to withstand it. I have a specialist meeting with her here tomorrow, but I doubt there will be anything illuminating.”

After she clears her throat she asks the question no one has had the guts to mutter, “Do we know who’s to blame? Who’s responsible for what’s happened to the poor child?”

My eyes pierce hers and I watch as she visibly shutters, “I know exactly who’s responsible. I just pray to whatever god is listening I can get my fucking hands on him before the authorities do.”

Her eyes dart to her wringing hands in her lap, “Him? Umm…him who, Sir?”

Without blinking an eye or changing my tone I say, “Sebastian fucking Gorman.”

And her eyes fly up to mine as her face goes pale white and shock carves her facial features.

Chapter 15

“Heather, what is the last thing you remember on September 21
^st
, 2009, the last night you were here, in your home, with your daughter Ivy?”

I can’t bring myself to look at Dr. Sharp’s concerned face, much less swallow the lump in my throat and answer her question. Her accent is lilted to pure Texan.

“Heather? Or do you prefer Mac?”

Her simple question morphs from just that, a simple question, to a life altering identity crisis before her voice is finished speaking it.

My friend, the man I turned to for companionship, emotional shelter, advice, love, everything…the man I’d handed the role of being the father of the most precious blessing I held closest to my heart, my daughter, called me Mac. Even hearing the three-letter one syllable word now causes shudders to rattle my bones, however the very next memory to wash over me is of my brother, Bobby, tugging on my teddy bear I snuggled up with to sleep as a child and excitedly whispering,
“Mac! Mac! Santa came! Come on, get up, get up, I can’t wake up Cody and Rick, so we get first dibs on the stocking candy!”

I’ve been home for almost a week now, and as the days swiftly come and go, I sense my husband’s disappointment mounting. I also witness my daughter withdrawing from me, becoming more and more afraid of being alone in my presence, and it sends my mind into an even deeper refuge within myself.

What kind of mother can’t participate in a tea party hosted by her own daughter? What kind of wife isn’t able to attend a formal, or hell, an informal dinner? What kind of woman lets herself become the one asking these pathetic questions I’m asking?

If I had to name this multi-faceted yet fractured woman, what would I call her?

My voice is as uncertain as it is shaky, “I don’t know, I don’t care, call me whatever.”

Her hazel green eyes clash with mine as she crosses her legs before brushing her hands down her black pencil skirt and pins me to my seat with a lift of her eyebrow, “Don’t care? Call you whatever?” She inhales before showing her irritation with an exasperated sigh, “Which name causes you happiness when heard, which causes anxiety?”

Anger, white hot with fury ignites within me before blazing through my veins so quickly my words are growled through gritted teeth, “What the fuck did I say? I don’t give a damn what you call me. Heather, Mac, Mace, Ms. Mackenzie, Mrs. Payne, call me any of the above and I’ll respond, okay?”

I narrow my eyes on hers before taking the woman before me in, detail by detail.

Her wavy, honey-colored hair falls from being tucked behind her ears before she composes her ill-portraying facial features to smile serenely. I know none of this is her fault. I know she’s only here to help and do her job, but all I really want to do is run away. Pack all my things and just run, never looking back.

Dr. Sharp, a renowned specialist in counseling for dissociative or identity disorders, verbally sounds out her every word. “I’ll ask once more, which name do you feel most comfortable with me using?”

“Heather.”

“Alright, Heather. What is the last thing you remember on September 21
^st
, 2009?”

“I’d come down stairs for a glass of milk. I don’t usually drink milk, but during my pregnancy and while I was nursing I craved it, needing a full glass of milk before bed. I rinsed out my glass and set it in the dishwasher before making my way back to my room to go to bed. When I walked into the living room I saw Roman. I was startled because I wasn’t expecting to see him and I hadn’t seen him in a good while. I-I didn’t, I mean I couldn’t,”
Shit. What can I say?
“There was an argument between the two of us, I-I…umm, I can’t,”
Shit. Shit. Shit. More damn lies.
“I don’t recall what the argument was about, it’s odd, the only thing I remember is seeing the light from the fireplace flickering across his features, I remember being angry, I remember being sad,” I look up into Dr. Sharp’s eyes, “And I don’t remember anything else after that. It’s like my mind just goes blank.”

She nods as she writes whatever shrinks write on a legal pad before looking back at me, “Heather, in order for us to get to the root of the problem, trust and truth must be established in this phase of your counseling therapy, whatever you tell me will not be repeated, okay?”

“I understand.”

“Good, now I’ll ask again, what is the last thing you remember on September 21
^st
, 2009?”

“Dr. Sharp, my answer remains the same.”

After jotting down more notes she looks up and smiles, “Okay, what is the next thing you recall?”

“I woke up. I was in a room I’d never seen before. It was dark, so I could only make out dark and light contrasting objects.” I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, I’m freaking the fuck out and I feel the panic attack swelling and growing inside me. My heart is racing and a cold sweaty sheen breaks out across my brow and the nape of my neck.

Then, suddenly from nowhere…peace. Everything is calm. I feel like I’m swinging on a swing in the park, back and forth. It’s perfect stillness.

“I gotcha baby girl, go play on the rainbows and swing sets for a while, mmkay?”

“…Heather?”

“I’m sorry, the boredom in here is stifling. You know what I think? I think we should bring my loving husband in here, don’t you? Two birds, one stone. Cure the crazy bitch suffering an identity crisis and some good ole’ fashion marriage counseling. It’s perfect! Rome! Where ya at, babe? You’re needed in aisle crazy fucking town.”

Will this get me an ass whooping, definitely. Stitches? Probably. A visit to an OR to reset bones, followed up with a few casts? Not without a fight and mark my every damn word when I say: I’m dragging him down with me.

“Shit. Okay, this was a bad idea.”
I hear Mac mutter.

“Ehh…probably.” I mentally shrug.

As soon as Roman enters the room a war is waged. The battlegrounds are within my rib cage, the opposing sides are me against myself, and the winner walks away with whatever is left of my wrecked heart and soul.

I hate this man.

I love this man.

He breaks me apart.

Only to merge the pieces back together, forging Mace with Mac into his Heather.

“Mouse? What is it? Do you need something?” I shake my head keeping it down like a guilty child awaiting her punishment.

“Heather has requested your presence for this therapy session, Dr. Payne. Would you like to join us?”

I cast a sideways glance at Roman as he unbuttons his suit jacket before sitting next to me on the love seat and resting his left hand on my knee. “Absolutely, whatever I can do to help.”

Dr. Sharp looks down at her legal pad before looking back at us, “Heather, would you like to include your husband in the conversation we were just having or is there something else you had in mind? Anything you wanted to discuss with me now that he’s joined us?”

“I-well, we, I mean, Dr. Sharp asked about my first and last memory’s on and after September 21
^st
, 2009.” When I glance up at Roman I am immediately aware of my mistake. I should have steered clear of eye contact with the man sitting beside me. After he converges ‘us’, he gracefully claims proprietorship of…me. All of me. Like he has time and time again throughout my life.

I love this man, but goddamn it I don’t want to.

Chapter 16

There are a thousand different thoughts and emotions racing around in my mouse’s head and every one of them are like revolving masks, a carousel of expressions on her beautiful, flawless face.