“Then why…?”
“Because I’m human, honey. Simply human, and I needed some intimacy. Mario offered it, and I accepted. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you control yourself?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She doesn’t have an answer.
Just like I, the self-professed queen of control, have no answer as to why I want the neck binding with Braden.
I just want it.
But he doesn’t.
Maybe if he told me why, I’d understand.
But he’s right. Knowing his why won’t bring me any closer to my own.
Finally, my mother speaks. “I should have resisted. I should have controlled myself. I have no reason except that I wanted it, and I gave in.”
“So you admit you were weak.”
“Yes, Skye. I’m not you. I’m not strong like you and your father are. I gave in.”
“That’s an excuse.”
She sighs. “Perhaps it is. I had a chance to take something I wanted, and I took it.”
“Did you give a thought to Dad? To me?”
“Of course I did.”
“But we lost, and you won out.”
She lowers her head and fixes her gaze on the soil in front of her. “There’s no use arguing about it. You’re right.”
“I feel no satisfaction in being right, Mom.”
“Honey, this is why I resisted telling you everything. Dad and I worked through it. We’re good now. In fact, we’re better than we were before Mario. And we both love you so much, Skye. We always have.”
Yes, they have.
Despite the fact that my mother apparently found me difficult—finds me difficult—there was never a time when I felt she didn’t love me.
I don’t feel that now, either. I know she loves me.
Still, I need one more answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Mom,” I begin, “why were you in bed with Mario while I was in the house?”
“That was unfortunate,” she says with a sigh. “You were supposed to be at your friend Myrna’s house, but her little brother developed a high fever, so Myrna’s mom dropped you back home on her way to the doctor. She called, but I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Who let me in the house?”
“The door was unlocked. You were seven. You let yourself in.”
Myrna. I haven’t given her a thought in years. She and her family lived on a neighboring farm, but they sold out and moved when we were in fifth grade.
Right. I remember now. I opened the door and walked in the house. I yelled for Mom, but she didn’t answer. Then I heard sounds coming from her bedroom.
So I opened the door, and—
Funny how clear it is now. How did I forget? The concussion may have had something to do with it, but I remembered the praying mantis. I remembered getting lost in the cornfield. The china plate…
I never saw Mario again after that, so it was most likely easy for my seven-year-old mind to block out such an unpleasant memory.
And of course Mom didn’t hear the phone. She was… God. My instinct is to fight her on that as well. What was she thinking, not hearing the phone?
But it’s seventeen years in the past.
Perhaps I need to let it go. Perhaps…
Perhaps I need to choose my battles.
I don’t need to fight everything.
Perhaps I need to choose my battles with Braden as well.
…
“It’s so strange,” I tell Rosa the next day at our session. “It’s clear as day now, but for the longest time I didn’t remember catching my mom in bed with that guy.”
“Childhood memory repression isn’t unusual,” Rosa says. “Especially something so unpleasant. Then you have the added issue of the concussion, which can cause retrograde amnesia.”
“It didn’t, though. I remember chasing the praying mantis, and I remember getting lost.”
“But did you remember being at Myrna’s that day?”
“No, not until my mother told me.”
“See? You don’t recall everything from childhood. No one does.”
“But finding my mom in bed with a farm hand… That I should remember.”
“You do. Now. Like I said, it was unpleasant for you at the time, and children often repress unpleasant memories as a defense mechanism. My guess is you didn’t repress it at the time, but it faded away after your parents got back together and everything went on smoothly. The young mind is very resilient, Skye. I’ll say it again. What you’re describing doesn’t sound unusual to me at all.”
“It’s not like me, though. I prefer to be in charge of everything, especially my own mind.”
She smiles. “You were seven.”
I sigh. I know. I was seven. Just a kid. But still…
“Let’s see if we can’t pull some of this together,” Rosa says. “Do you feel responsible for your parents’ breakup?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
She nods. “What if I told you that I think, on some level, you do?”
“I’d say you’re wrong.”
“Let’s go back to you and Braden for a moment. When you asked him to bind your neck—to choke you—and he refused, he said he was concerned that you were becoming dependent on his punishment. In effect, he thought it was no longer a part of the sexual experience for you, and that it was becoming too real.”
“I disagreed then, and I still disagree.”
Rosa makes a few notes and then meets my gaze. “What if I told you that I think he may have a point?”
“Then I still disagree with you. I enjoy kinky sex. So does he.”
“But he’s in charge, right?”
“You told me last time that I’m in charge.”
“You are, in some respects. But so is he. He can refuse to do something you want. That’s his right, but you’re resisting him.”
“That’s not it. He won’t tell me why he won’t do it. Why it’s his hard limit.”
“Should that matter? You’re resisting him. You’re not letting him have the control in the bedroom, which you said you gave up.”