Page 80 of True Colors

It’s a fair question. And it’s not like I haven’t thought about why I never wanted to and how now I finally did with him. But there’s so much of my past tangled up in my reticence to get close to people that I don’t know how to tell him without telling him about my mother.

I haven’t told anyone about her except the cops and Finn. Even the state-mandated therapists and Miss Helen only knew the details from the police reports, not from me. Dot knows some, but again, it’s just the highlights.

It’s not easy to talk about that trauma, but my walls are now down with Luther. I trust him.

“I…you know I grew up in a s-state home.”

He hums his acknowledgement.

“I went there when I was t-ten.” I take a deep breath and sit up, holding up the duvet to cover my breasts.

I want to look at him. I need to see his reaction to my life story, the one that I’m ashamed about, the one that still gives me nightmares, still hurts me.

“Hey.” He cups my cheek. “I can only imagine how hard this is for you. But I promise I’m not here to judge you. I just…just want to know you, Anouk.”

It was the best thing he could have said. He didn’t say I didn’t have to talk to him about it. He didn’t back away from my reluctance. He wants to know my truth, and he’s making room for me to tell it.

“My parents d-divorced when I was like two. My mother…she was a b-bigshot at a bank.”

He takes my hand in his.

“My father was a s-struggling artist who did odd jobs for art galleries on the side. So, she had custody. She had the lawyers.”

The words are taking their time, but it’s not as difficult as I thought it would be to tell him. I’m not choking on the words. I’m stuttering, but far less than I thought I would, talking about the past.

“Cristina…that’s my m-mother. She had a cocaine habit. Outside, she was composed, i-inside….”

He puts a hand on my thigh and soothes.

“She used to forget to feed me. Kept me locked up at home alone. I…she didn’t want to have a nanny, in case they called CPS and my father got me.” I close my eyes and let the old feeling of panic, of remembering being four, and afraid and hungry, subside.

He doesn’t say a thing, just listens.

“O-once she beat me b-badly. She didn’t even r-remember.” The old memories are bringing my anxiety back. “I went to s-school, and one of my teachers made a fuss about it. Mom came and lied. They b-believed her. I was like…five.”

He tightens his grip on me. “Hey, it’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re with me.”

I take a long, deep breath and give him a travesty of a smile. “I hid what she did after that. Even during the supervised visits with Papa. He saw me once a month. I didn’t tell him. Just spent time with him…didn’t let her t-taint that.”

I see something flicker in Luther’s eyes. I see an emotion I hate directed toward me.

“I don’t want your p-pity,” I warn him.

“It’s not pity, Anouk,” he replies gently. “I’m human. It’s compassion. I see little Anouk afraid, and it hurts me.”

How can he always say just the right things, just what I need to hear? It’s a miracle that he knows what to say and how to say it.

“When I was ten, she spiraled badly enough that an ER doctor refused to send me home with her. CPS got involved. Papa got custody while she was sent to rehab.” I pause. “For nine months, my life was…good.”

The rest of the story poured out of me. How she attacked my father and me, killed him, and ended up in prison.

He pulls me into his arms and wraps me tightly.

“Luther?”

“Please, just let me hold you,” he mumbles against my hair. “God! Just let me hold you.”

There’s solace in his embrace, so I stay in it.