We're All Broken Read online

  We’re All Broken

  O. L. Gregory

  Text Copyright ©2019 O. L. Gregory

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  We’re All Broken, Each in Our Own Unique Way

  Chapter Two

  The End of Paradise

  Chapter Three

  He’s Doing the Best He Can

  Chapter Four

  And the Hits Just Keep on Coming

  Chapter Five

  Supervised Visitation

  Chapter Six

  Therapy

  Chapter Seven

  This Just Isn’t Working for Me

  Chapter Eight

  Now This is Working for Me

  Chapter Nine

  Good Things Come to Those Who Jump Through Hoops

  Chapter Ten

  Wounds May Heal, but the Scars Remain

  Chapter Eleven

  Just One Change Makes All the Difference

  Chapter Twelve

  The Importance of Routine

  Chapter Thirteen

  Five Years Later

  Chapter Fourteen

  Re-Entry

  Chapter Fifteen

  What the Hell…?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Playing With Fire

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fire’s Not So Bad, If You Keep It Contained

  Chapter Eighteen

  One Match, One Flame

  Chapter Nineteen

  An Unnoticed Ember

  Chapter Twenty

  You Know What? Fire is a Necessary Evil

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ten Years Later

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Everyone Has Skeletons in Their Closet

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Some Skeletons Get Quite Dusty

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I Can’t Not Open the Closet, I’m Standing Right Here

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I Didn’t Go Anywhere Near That Damned Closet!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Old Bones Rattle

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There’s No Stuffing Them Back in the Closet Now

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Skeletal Descendants

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sentencing

  Chapter Thirty

  Five Years Later

  Chapter One

  We’re All Broken, Each in Our Own Unique Way

  My Dad was never like your Dad.

  Well, maybe he was, or still is. After discovering what I have about the man I share half my DNA with, who am I to judge anyone, anymore?

  I grew up on stories about how his mom died birthing him at home by herself, because there was a blizzard going on and his father didn’t know how to help her. Dad had always said he’d suspected that his father had refused to drive her, or help her, simply because that always seemed to be his way.

  I knew his father beat him. Knew, too, that he often went to school with bruises. Child Protective Services had come knocking on the door more than once, but his father always had reasons and excuses to offer them.

  One time, his father said my dad was standing on the edge of the bathtub, pretending to be a superhero, when he fell and caught his side on the edge of the counter, before hitting his head on the doorknob.

  None of the excuses were true.

  The teachers knew Dad was being beaten, the school nurse knew he was being beaten, but back in those days it took hospital stays to get someone to remove you from your parent’s home, and sometimes not even then. Dad’s bruises may have been visible, but they weren’t life-threatening.

  It seemed to him that he just wasn't beaten hard enough for anyone to care enough to do anything about it.

  Dad was eighteen when he picked up one of his father’s liquor bottles, intending to fling the thing across the room and into the trash, in an effort to clean up his father’s mess, when his father unexpectedly jumped up, fearful that the kid was throwing away good vodka, and the bottle clipped him on his temple, killing him before he even hit the floor.

  Or, at least, that’s the story my dad told the cops, to explain how his father had suddenly died in the same house, the same room, as his mother had.

  See, my father was a quick study, he’d learned to tell a plausible story from his father.

  My dad always said it was the one useful skill his father ever taught him.

  The cops could have chosen to press the issue and fully investigate. But they knew the family history, figured no matter what happened, the act had been in self-defense, and decided to let the kid finally live in peace.

  I know all this because I’ve read the file on my grandfather’s death. And while the report didn’t say what I’ve just said, I have learned to read between the lines. They let dad go because they chose to. It was a small town and my grandpa was one less troublemaker they had to worry about.

  Dad didn’t inherit much, but between it and his 4.0 average in school, it was enough to join together with a scholarship, to attend a local college that taught computer programming. He got a job at Circuit City, repairing computers, to keep the roof of the small house over his head throughout college. He didn’t have many friends, and couldn’t figure out how to relate to most people. He just kept his head down and his eyes on the prize.

  His father had always said my dad would amount to nothing in life. Dad figured a college degree would be a crucial step in proving him wrong.

  Along the way to his degree, my father, Roger Hayes, met Annabeth Scott.

  Mom thought he was handsome, smart, and too damned talented to put into words. She adored him.

  From his perspective, he didn’t know what to do with her at first. He’d never been shown love. People had claimed to care over the years, but she was the first person to ever make him feel cared for. And love? Well, he’d never understood the meaning of the word.

  Until Annabeth.

  He fell head over heels for her. He wanted nothing less than to give her as nice a life as he could possibly muster, because she had graced his life with her very existence. For the first time, he’d felt heard, valued, and understood.

  Dad was two years older, giving him two precious years after his graduation to become ready to provide for her, just after her own walk across the graduation stage. He became a man that any caring father would be proud to give his daughter away to.

  Two weeks after her graduation, on a beautiful Saturday in June, Roger and Annabeth became Mr. and Mrs. Hayes.

  I was born two years later. Dad had a job in computer software, and was teaching himself how to write apps for smartphones by the time my memory started kicking in. Mom was a Kindergarten teacher, so beloved that it was a common thing for past students to drop by her classroom after school just to say a quick ‘hi’ before catching the bus. Kids would come up to her in the supermarket to talk to her, the pharmacy, the post office, pretty much anywhere. She was darn-near a local celebrity.

  Our life was picture-freaking-perfect.

  I remember being nine, the night the phone rang and changed it all.

  My sister Charlotte was five, my sister Sophia was four, and Connor and Chloe were two.

  Chapter Two

  The End of Paradise

  Dad and I were stealing an extra hour of TV, with my little sisters and brother all upstairs in bed. Mom was out to dinner with a friend, taking a rare evening away from her little monsters.

  We had po
pcorn and juice boxes, and I had Daddy’s undivided attention… Until the phone rang.

  He answered the phone, but then stood and moved into the kitchen as he listened.

  I turned back to the television, watching the characters on the screen.

  It took a few minutes, and maybe Daddy made a phone call or two of his own, before he came barreling back into the room. “Penny,” he said, “I’ve got to go. Mrs. Davis is on her way.” He was already grabbing his jacket.

  “You’re leaving me alone?”

  “It’ll only be ten minutes, I promise. Everyone else is asleep, you don’t have to do anything but sit there and watch TV. I’ll leave the door unlocked for Mrs. Davis. Just sit tight.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and disappeared from sight.

  I’d never been left alone before.

  The house felt colder, quieter, and still, from the moment I heard the car leave the driveway. If felt like the house was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d somehow screw up. I glanced up the stairs, suddenly paranoid that one of the twins would come to the top, needing a diaper change.

  Mrs. Davis showed up soon enough, asking me if I needed anything before bed. I looked at the clock, seeing it was past my bedtime. “Why did Daddy leave?”

  She wouldn’t look me in the eye when she answered. “Um, I don’t know… He just said he needed me to come over because he had someplace important to be.”

  I looked at her, suspicious disbelief written all over my face.

  “Sweetheart, your Mom and Dad are in for a rough night. I don’t know all the details. What I do know is that you can worry about it in the morning, once we know if there’s even anything to worry about.”

  “But…”

  “Just let them take care of things, okay?”

  I sighed in disappointment. “Okay.” I didn’t pick up my glass and take it to the sink. I didn’t pick up the bag of popcorn kernels and throw them away. And I didn’t straighten the afghan on the back of the couch. I just got up, went upstairs, and put myself to bed.

  I didn’t pee first. I didn’t hug anyone goodnight. I didn’t even say ‘goodnight’ to anyone. The only good thing to come out of it all is that in my anger, I didn’t have to brush my teeth.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  “Mr. Hayes, I know this is a lot to take in—” the doctor started.

  “Just let me see my wife.”

  “Sir, I really advise against it.” The doctor moved to the side of the hallway, to allow a nurse to pass by their small gathering. The others shuffled aside, all but Roger.

  Roger didn't even notice the hustle and bustle of the hospital around them. His concern was singular. “Why?”

  “She’s already gone.”

  “I need to see it, to believe it.”

  “Sir, you’re not hardly going to be able to recognize her. The damage was catastrophic.”

  Tears filled Roger’s eyes, but he refused to shed them. “I want to see my wife,” he ground out.

  “No one wants to see someone they love look like that. Not ever. It is an image that will be seared into your mind, forever. Choose to remember her as she was before tonight.”

  Roger lifted dark, deadly eyes on the doctor. “If I don’t see it, I’m never going to believe it’s her. And if I don’t believe it’s her, the nightmare of wanting to track down where she really is will never end for me.”

  The coroner, hearing the exchange, stepped forward. “Let me take him in to her.”

  The doctor turned to him, shaking his head. “He’s going to regret it.”

  “You’re going to regret it,” Roger uttered under his breath.

  The police officer, who’d been holding his tongue after informing the husband of the severity of the accident, stepped forward. “Okay, gentlemen. We are not going to start hurling insults or threats. Doctor, the man would like to view his wife’s body, and you don’t get to stop him. I’ll go with him and the coroner, to make sure he’s okay. You can get back to your other patients.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow, but lifted his hands in surrender and left the trio in the hall.

  The coroner silently led Roger down the hall and into an exam room.

  Roger took a deep breath at the sight of a sheet laid over a body.

  The police officer quietly shut the door behind them.

  “She was dead on the scene,” the coroner said. “I’ve already had a look and given the nature of her injuries, I’d say death was instant.”

  “So,” Roger paused to clear his throat, “no suffering?”

  The coroner shook his head. “If she survived even seconds of it, she would have been unconscious and in no pain.”

  Roger nodded acceptance.

  The coroner lifted an edge of the sheet and withdrew her hand just enough to reveal a broken ring finger. “Are these your wife’s wedding and engagement rings?”

  He nodded, his voice only a whisper, “I saved up money for six months, then made payments for a year.”

  The coroner replaced the hand and moved to the head, shifted the sheet, and exposed some of her hair. “Does this look familiar?”

  Roger nodded.

  “Do you want me to go on?”

  Another nod.

  He pulled the sheet back, exposing bloodied hair, to show her ear. “How about these earrings?”

  Roger had a hard time finding his voice. “Gave them to her last Christmas.”

  The coroner replaced the sheet. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Software coding,” he whispered.

  “Then I’m not showing you her face. You’re not hardened to visuals like that. Pick another feature.”

  Roger ground his teeth, but having seen the blood all over her ear and in her hair had him questioning his own stubbornness. “She painted her toenails last night.”

  “Okay,” the coroner said, moving down to her feet. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He lifted the sheet, and promptly draped it back over her foot.

  “What’s wrong?” Roger asked.

  The coroner’s face was grim as he shifted positions. “I need a foot that still has the flesh attached.”

  Roger’s face skewered up.

  “She was wearing open-toed heels,” the officer gently reminded him. “And the crash was brutal.”

  The coroner peeked in at the other foot, and lifted the sheet enough to expose two toes. He had to grab some gauze to wipe a film of gore off the nails. “Looks blue.”

  Roger nodded. “Peacock blue. She has at least a dozen bottles of it.”

  “Have you had enough?” the coroner asked.

  Roger felt as though he was having an out of body experience as he nodded his head.

  The coroner replaced the sheet. “I’ll take her down to the morgue myself, as soon as you’re ready.”

  Roger stared at the man. He’d wanted to say that he’d never be ready, but he couldn’t form the words. He glanced at the sheet covering Annabeth’s body and finally admitted to himself that he wouldn’t be taking her home. He couldn’t even face the officer when he asked in a harsh whisper, “Was this her fault?”

  The officer cleared his throat. “No. There are several eyewitness accounts, and a couple security cameras, showing that the other driver was out of control. He hit your wife’s car and continued on, despite the airbags and a flat tire. The wheel came off less than a quarter mile down the road, but it’s still considered a hit and run. He was made to take a Breathalyzer onsite and blew through the legal limit. This was a drunk driver, pure and simple. The hospital will run a blood alcohol test, just to back up our field data.”

  Roger’s spine straightened. “The driver is in this hospital?”

  The officer didn’t like the deadly calm tone of voice that had just come out of the husband’s mouth, nor did he like the way the guy was posturing himself now. “No. We don’t like to bring the victim and the offender to the same hospital. People flying off of pure grief sometimes do some wild things that only serv
e to land an innocent person in jail. Your kids do not need that on top of everything else.”

  “What hospital is he in?”

  The officer stared at the back of Roger’s head. “Couldn’t say for sure, I was assigned to follow her.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Listen, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not going to give you the name, because I’m afraid in your state of mind you’ll go after the guy. And I know you may not care much about your life right now, but you have a couple of kids at home. Right?”

  “Five.”

  The officer grimaced on the guy’s behalf, “Right. You need to keep it together, for them. Do not do something to land yourself in jail, and have those kids lose both their parents. They need you.”

  Roger turned and faced the officer. “How badly is the guy hurt?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Will you at least let me know if the guy dies in the hospital?”

  The officer let out a sigh. “He’s not terminal. He’ll probably be in whatever hospital for a few days and then he’ll go off to jail.”

  Roger angled his head. “He’ll definitely go to jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prison?”

  “I’m thinking, yes.”

  “Is he pretty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Roger didn’t even blink. “I asked, ‘Is he pretty?’”

  “I couldn’t really tell what he’d look like cleaned up and sober. Why?”

  “I hope he’s pretty, with curly blonde hair. I hope five incredibly well-hung guys make him their new favorite bitch.”

  The officer nodded solemnly. “I hope so, too.”

  “And if that happens, I’d like their names. I’d like to send them all the cigarettes they could ever use.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what Dad was trying to tell us. I mean, I knew what it meant to be dead. We have a bug zapper for the back porch in the summer. The bug touches the light, it gets zapped, bug remnants fall to the ground, no more bug. Right?

  “But when’s she coming back?” Sophie asked.

  Charlotte nodded agreement with the question.

  I resisted the urge to ask the same. I mean, I got it. The bug died. But the thing is, if you gave it another minute, another mosquito looking just like the last one would come along, in a never-ending parade. Same with flies, gnats, and whatever else the thing zapped. I couldn’t blame them for thinking another mom, looking just the same, would come in through the door any minute.