Page 14 of Graciously His

This is safer territory, and it’s easy to launch into an explanation. “The doctors call it functional somatic disorder, or sometimes conversion disorder. Basically, we don’t know what’s wrong, but I have a lot of stomach, muscle, bone, and joint pain as well as symptoms of chronic fatigue and some other stuff.”

“I see.” He makes a few notes. “I have a cousin with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It’s serious, especially when it’s not treated properly. Now, putting everything together, where does your mother come into it?”

“Well,” I hesitate, “she’s been my caregiver in a lot of ways. Nick is, too—rather, he was.” The back of my throat tightens, tears threatening. “Mother… sometimes I think she likes how sick I get. It’s not a helpful thought, but it sneaks in. That might be why I said what I said before. It’s really just nonsense. Old worries that pop into my head every now and then.”

“Such as when you’re in distress?”

Relief makes me smile. The officer, whatever his name is, gets it.

“Exactly.”

He holds my gaze, not returning my smile. I get the sense that I’ve somehow confirmed the wrong thing.

“It’s my experience, Grace,” he continues, “that victims often feel the need to protect their abusers. It’s completely natural. I’ve further noticed that those same people can sometimes become… shall we say, excessively candid, when they’re in crisis. So I’ll go ahead and tell you that I don’t think you were just worrying aloud when you said your mother might end your life in the future. I think you were being as honest as someone in an ongoing abuse situation can be. Now,” he holds up a hand to forestall my answer, “you do not have to confirm nor deny anything. All I want you to take away from this conversation is this: Number one, I believe you one hundred percent. I’ll say it again. You told me that your mother is a danger to you, Grace, and I believe you. Number two, I will stand up for you against her, should you need me to. And number three, you are not obligated to do anything, though I will offer you some advice. Can I do that, Grace?”

I sit, processing what he said.

Victims… Abusers…

He dropped the words almost casually, but the dread in my gut has subsided a little, and my mind finally seems capable of parsing what the officer is saying.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” I whisper, shame heating my cheeks.

“Understandable. I’m Tim.” He slides a card across the table. “You keep that so you remember. It’s got my direct line.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “What’s your advice?”

“It might be hard to hear, but I’m going to advise that you not return home until you’ve had the locks changed. Even then, I’d reconsider living next door to your mother for the time being. Distance can do a lot for someone in your situation, Grace, and you’ve already made a good start by accepting my help today.”

I blink, forcing the tears down again. Constable Tim slides a box of tissues across the table without a word. I dab my eyes, trying to collect myself while he makes some more notes. My entire body resists the idea of never going home.

Home.

Nick will never come home. And Mother might force her way in and then take me back—right next door—to end what she started. It feels like the worst sort of destiny to go back to her house, maybe forever.

An image comes unbidden: a hot summer day in the park. A grey-eyed boy who chased me down the slide and offered me an escape. I’ve drawn comfort from the memory for so long that it feels worn, like a photograph I’ve creased without meaning to.

“Nate…” I say, my voice quietly pained. I clear my throat and start again. “Nate might be able to take me away from her properly.”

“That, we agree on,” Tim answers, regarding me frankly. “As for your mother’s potential designs on Nick’s will, I believe Mr Hadley is bringing the latest version with him.”

His eyes shift to the window overlooking the main office. “Speak of the devil, that’s him now, I reckon.”

I follow his line of sight and catch my breath. Nate strides through the crowded office, stepping neatly between desks, his eyes already on me. From a distance, he looks just like Nick, though I’ve never seen an expression of such naked determination on my husband’s face.

“Did you mention they were identical twins?” Tim asks.

He moves forward even as I abandon my seat to step deeper into the room. Tim opens the door with one hand and reaches for Nate with the other. They exchange greetings, and I realise I’m half-hiding behind the table, staring as the two men talk like old friends, condolences on the one side, earnest thanks on the other. Nate hands the policeman a heavy manila folder, but I can’t hear what they’re saying: static has filled me from core to crown, and my head is full of useless words.

He looks just like Nick. Just like Nick. Just like—

The thought is as absurd as it is obvious. Of course Nate looks like Nick. But knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

I realise that my feelings are finally pouring down my face.

Fuck.

I force myself to listen as Nate tells Constable Tim something about giving us a moment. The big man leaves. I’m instinctively shrinking away, trying to close in on myself, crying like a child. Nate steps around the table, then his arms close around me, warm and solid.