I swallowed. “I was raped.”
He didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Nothing. I don’t know if he’d even heard me because he didn’t react at all. After what seemed like a minute, but was probably ten seconds, maybe twenty, he closed his eyes and tilted his head down as if he didn’t want to look at me.
Bile rose in my throat. “Vic?”
He squeezed my hips. “Baby, I need a sec.”
“Oh. Umm, yeah. Of course. Sure.”
He scowled. “Look at me.”
I did, biting my lip, uncertain of what he was thinking. Did he think I was lying? That somehow it was my fault? Did he think I asked for—
“Jesus, baby.” His hands cupped my face. “Get out of your head. I need a sec because some fuckin’ piece-of-shit bastard put his hands on you. He fuckin’ raped you. I need to pull my shit together before I rip this place apart and scare the shit out of you and your kid.” His voice softened. “Okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
The screen door squeaked open, then bounced shut. “Can I skip rocks after breakfast?” Jackson asked.
Vic pushed away from me, and without saying a word, he stalked from the cabin.
“Can I?” Jackson asked again.
“Oh, yeah, sure, Jacks.” I picked up the spatula and flipped pancakes while staring out the screen door. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his combat boots on the porch, which meant he hadn’t left.
He was pacing. Not something I’d ever seen him do or could have imagined him doing.
I left the pancakes for a minute and walked on trembling legs over to the fridge. I took out the orange juice, then reached for three glasses in the upper cupboard and placed all of them on the table. I was trying not to care whether he walked away or not. But it was an impossible feat.
Jackson hopped up on one of the bar stools. He perched his elbows on the counter and rested his chin between his hands.
“I like pancakes ’cause they make me really full,” Jackson said. He paused and his teeth snagged his upper lip as if he was debating something. “I never eaten pancakes before I lived with you.”
“Really?” I managed to force from my constricted throat.
He shrugged. “We didn’t have them ever. Sometimes if I was really good, I got a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich. But mostly just bread, except at school.”
Oh God. No. My chest squeezed, and it took everything not to run over and pull him into a bear hug. It was the first time Jackson had mentioned anything about the abuse. I’d like to think I wasn’t capable of killing anyone, but after hearing Jackson’s screams, and witnessing him flinch or cringe when anyone went to touch him, and then finding out that he’d been hungry. I just didn’t know what I’d do to those monsters who fostered him.
It had taken two years to find him, and then several months to get through all the red tape and legal bullshit to get Jackson back, and when I saw the bruises and how skinny and pale he was, I wanted to kill them.
Why hadn’t social services done anything? Why hadn’t they noticed the abuse? When I showed them Jackson’s bruises, all the social worker said was that he’s a kid and they get hurt. If it wouldn’t have risked having Jackson taken away, I’d have punched the woman. I ended up filing a police report, so they’d at least look into the foster home because I never wanted another kid to experience what Jackson had.
I shovelled three pancakes onto a plate, then moved to put them in the toaster oven to keep them warm. I put more butter in the pan, then poured batter in. “Well, you can eat as many pancakes as you want. Have you ever eaten waffles?”
He scrunched his nose and said, “Uhhhhh. Grooooosssss.”
I laughed, and some of the tension in my shoulders released. “No, silly. Not your pet Waffles. I mean waffles. They are like pancakes but have these big holes in them everywhere so that the butter and syrup pool in them.”
His mouth formed a big “O.” “Can we have waffles next Sunday?”
“Sure.” I’d have to go buy a waffle maker.
I heard Vic say into his cell, “Thirty minutes,” just before the screen door opened and he strode in.
My hand shook, making the spatula tap the side of the frying pan. I was nervous. I was afraid he’d leave. That he’d be disgusted.
He glanced at me, and it wasn’t anger swimming in the depths of his eyes. It was calm. He was calm, and in that look he was telling me to be calm.