Chapter 33

"Mom, I swear I'm okay," I say, pulling back from her. "At least right now I am," I add, because there's no telling if that may change.

Athena and Scarlett are constantly in my head, tempting me to let them out. So far, I've held them back. What worries me more is the darkness. That darkness, a place I can go to and forget about the pain, is far more tempting.

I can barely breathe when I think about the horrors Eliana and Ryder endured. The pain I feel consumes every part of me, body and mind. But I don't want to forget them again. Forgetting that part means forgetting all the good too. Every minute I spent with them, except for the hours we all endured hell, was precious and special to me. I wouldn't trade any of those moments for anything. Even if it means facing my demons every day.

Mom looks at me the way moms look at their daughters when they're looking for lies or hidden meanings. I keep my expression as relaxed as possible, not wanting her to see the worry I constantly feel.

I guess I succeed, because seconds later, she nods and smiles. "Okay."

Dad steps up when she lets me go. Thankfully, he doesn't ask how I am. Just gives me a tight hug and says in my ear, "Don't let her get to you, sweetheart. You know she just worries."

With a smile, I kiss his cheek and pull back.

When we turn to enter the living room, I find Mom standing in front of one of the pictures on the wall. Since the pictures we originally had hanging on the wall years ago were destroyed, we had others printed. I wanted to fill every inch of space with pictures of our children and family, but I limited it to a few. There are also some on the entertainment center by the TV and a few on the end tables. We have more on our nightstands and on my dresser upstairs. It hurts every time I see them, but they also make me happy. For so long, I've kept their memories locked away.

I walk up to Mom, who has her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I rest my head on her shoulder and look at the picture. It's a black and white picture of Hunter lying on the couch in my parents' house with baby Ryder tucked in his arms against the back of the couch. I'm lying between his legs on my side, my head on his lower stomach with my hand resting on Ryder's back. On the other end of the couch, Eliana is leaning against the arm with her legs tossed over mine and Hunter's. All four of us are asleep. The picture was taken right after we had Thanksgiving dinner.

"I woke up with a crick in my neck from how I was sleeping," I say quietly, tracing my eyes over every inch of my beautiful children's faces. "But it was one of the best naps I ever had."

Mom laughs, the sound strained because I know she's fighting back tears. My own eyes water, but I force them back.

"I remember you saying that. Ryder had colic and had been keeping you and Hunter up at night."

"Yeah. It was mainly Hunter. Anytime Ryder would cry, it was Hunter who heard him first and was adamant he attend to him."

Her arm comes around my waist and she squeezes me. "I'm not sure if there were ever any children who had the most loving and caring parents as you and Hunter were."

My eyelids flutter, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. I still wasn't strong enough to protect them, no matter how loving and caring we were.

We spend a few minutes in silence as we take in the photos hanging on the wall, both of us left to our own thoughts.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Mom says, taking a seat on the couch, and I sit beside her. "Your dad and I were thinking of traveling to Max and Emily's for Christmas this year, but I don't want to leave you and Hunter alone. Ginger and her crew are already on board to go as well. How do you and Hunter feel about joining us?"

I look at Hunter and he shrugs. "Up to you, baby."

"What about Slate?"

"Silas and Katie's families are here, so they always stay in the area. We're closed on Christmas Eve and Day, so they won't be put out."

I look back at Mom. "Alright. Count us in."

Mom smiles brightly, "Excellent! It'll be nice to have a white Christmas for once. Tennessee is so unpredictable, so you never know if there will be snow or not."

I laugh at her excitement. "It's settled then. Does Max know?"

"I spoke with him about it yesterday. It works out perfectly, because he just finished the guest house a few weeks ago. Ginger, Mason, and the boys will take the guest house, and we'll have the two guest rooms in the main house."

I nod my agreement.

"We also wanted to let you know that we've dropped the yacht idea."

"Really?" I lift a brow. "Why the change of heart?"

"Because," she takes my hand, her eyes shifting to Dad's for a moment before coming back to me, "I don't like the idea of being so far away from all of my kids."

"Mom," I try to protest, but her tight grip on my hand halts my words.

"No. Your dad and I spoke about this. While we still love the idea of living on a boat, we'll settle for taking a vacation for a week or two on one and having a captain on board. Dad wasn't too keen on learning to navigate a boat anyway."

"Are you sure? Ginger and I would be fine without you guys here. I hate for you to give up on something you want to do because you're worried about us."

"Nope. We've already made our decision. While it may have been a sudden spur of the moment dream, I just cannot imagine, and I don't want to, being away from my girls. I already hate Max being so far away."

I dip my chin down. "Okay."

Mom and Dad only stay for a few more minutes since one of Dad's old friends is in town and they're meeting him and his wife for lunch. There is no mention of Scarlett, Athena, or Presley, which I'm grateful for. Talking about Eliana and Ryder is already difficult, but I refuse to keep them hidden. It's still hard for me to believe I'm not losing my mind when I think about my other personalities. They're a sensitive subject, and I'm not sure I'm ready to discuss them with anyone other than Hunter.

When my parents leave, I leave Hunter in the living room and go upstairs to grab a pair of socks. I've always had a problem having cold feet, something I hate.

Instead of grabbing a pair of my socks, I root through Hunter's sock drawer in the closet. He always has the warmest and softest thick socks. He picks on me because I steal them all the time.

After rummaging through his neatly folded sock drawer, I find my favorite pair. As I turn to leave the closet, I'm stopped by something on the top shelf. My stomach plummets and my heart squeezes tight in my chest. As if having a mind of their own, my feet take me further inside the closet, and I reach up, my fingers grazing the dark wood of the box on the shelf.

I should leave it alone. I'm not sure I'm ready to look at the contents. Yet something inside me urges me to pull the box down.

So, that's what I do.

Raising to my tiptoes, I tug the box to the edge of the shelf and into my hands. Looking at the beautifully carved initials on the top, my eyes sting.

E. P. S. and R. H. S.

Eliana Presley St. James and Ryder Hunter St. James.

My fingers run over the name Presley, our daughter's middle name. Although I forgot about my babies, I couldn't ignore them completely. The name I give the young girl I become sometimes reflects that.

Hunter's socks are forgotten on top of his dresser as I pull the box out of the closet. I start for the bed, but change directions at the last minute. Taking the box out of our bedroom, I go to the room across the hall. One of the rooms I forced myself to ignore for years.

As soon as I open the door I smell the familiar innocent scent of a little boy. Even after all these years, this room still has the faint aroma of Ryder.

I take a deep breath, and then another and another, desperate to breathe in that scent as much as possible. While it hurts, it also soothes my frayed nerves.

I smile when I see Ryder's Captain America comforter. Ryder loved all superheroes, but Captain America was his favorite.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I set the box beside me. My eyes catch on the mirror that Hunter punched the other day. Even though the shattered glass has been cleaned, the mirror's frame remains. Based on Hunter's violent reaction, I deduced that someone had written something on the mirror. I haven't asked Hunter what it was. I don't want to know.

Looking down at my hands, I run my fingers over one of the scars on my wrists. Hunter said the first time I was Athena, I tried to kill myself. I don't really have Athena's memories, but if I think hard enough, I can barely catch a glimpse of red covering my wrists and the slight niggle of pain that accompanied the attempt. Shame heats my face when I think about what I tried to do, even if I wasn't myself at the time. I hate what I put Hunter through, and I hate that I almost left him all alone.

With a deep breath, I push those thoughts aside and lift the lid of the box. The first thing I see is a light blue checkered baby book with Ryder's name written in calligraphy.

Setting it on my lap, I flip it open to the first page.

Ryder Hunter St. James

Birthdate: March 3, 2016

Weight: 7 lbs., 9 oz.

Birthplace: River Heights, TN.

My throat closes, and I force myself to swallow the lump.

Ryder would be seven years old. It's been five years since I've seen his beautiful innocent face, held him in my arms.

On to the next page, I read, lovingly, but painstakingly, all the things that made Ryder so special.

The color of his hair when he was born, with a small lock of strands taped to the page.

A description of his first outfit. Light blue with white elephants.

The first thought that came to mind when I first saw him. How utterly perfect he was.

I devour every word. Not because I've forgotten, but because it makes me feel closer to him.

Midway through Ryder's baby book, I notice movement in the open doorway. As tears stream down my cheeks, my eyes meet Hunter's. His brows are dipped in concern, but his expression is soft.

"Baby," he says gently, taking a seat beside me on the bed. He sits so close that his thigh touches mine.

I'm amazed at how gentle and soft Hunter can be with me, when to most people he seems hardened and unfeeling.

So we can both see, I slide the book over so half of it is on Hunter's thigh. "Look with me."

That's what we do. We look at each page, stopping every so often to reminisce over a memory. We laugh, I cry, and Hunter's there to wipe away my tears. My heart breaks at the thought of pushing away the memories of our children as if they never existed.

When we're done with Ryder's baby book, I set Eli's on our lap.

I gently trace her name. "When I forgot about them, do you think I, without realizing it, gave Presley her name so I wouldn't truly forget?"

Hunter takes my hand and laces our fingers together. "Yes, baby. It was your mind's way of keeping them with us."

More tears are shed as we look at Eli's baby book. She would be seventeen today. She'd be looking at colleges and fighting her father over the boys she dates. I'd be helping her pick out her senior prom dress and stressing over her leaving the house once she graduated.

My lungs fill with sadness when I think about all that we have missed and will continue to miss in their lives.

Rage sits beside sadness. Pure and raw, and so all-consuming to the point that I would relish in peeling the flesh off the bones of the people who took them away from us. I'd delight in seeing pain fill their eyes and bask in the screams of terror that would flee from their throats.

I'm not a violent person. I've never wished death upon anyone. I've always believed all people can be redeemed no matter what they do.

But not the man and three teens who tortured, abused, and murdered our children. It wouldn't matter if they felt true remorse for their crimes. No one, not even God, can stop me from delivering exactly what those bastards deserve when Hunter finds them.

It won't simply be payback. It won't even be about revenge.

It's wiping the bastards from a world they never should have been born into.

After looking through both baby books and returning them to the box, Hunter takes out a piece of paper from his back pocket. I take it from him, unfolding it to see what it is. I smile when I see the familiar handwriting. I find it strange looking at it now, because although my own hand wrote the words, the handwriting resembles that of a child.

It has always been a pleasure to receive the short stories Presley wrote me each time she visited. What I love even more is the subject matter of the stories. At the time, I didn't realize her words were so significant.

"When did you get this?" I ask, glancing up from the sheet of paper.

"The day Presley came to see me at Slate."

My brows pucker. "Why wait until now to give it to me?"

He grabs my hand into his big one and brings it to his lap, lacing our fingers together. "It was before your memories came back. For years, your mind has blocked out anything related to that night. Truthfully, I've been terrified what state you'd be left in if your memories returned. What you experienced would drive even the sanest person crazy." He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. "Don't misunderstand me, Cat," he says when he notices my frown deepening. "No matter how you reacted, I love any and all forms of you, so it wouldn't have changed anything, but I wanted to spare you that heartache."

Grabbing the front of his shirt, I pull him down until our lips brush. "I love you," I murmur.

"And I love you."

After letting him go, I turn my attention back to the paper. It becomes clear why Hunter was concerned after reading the first few lines. Presley held nothing back. No masking of her words or changing things to make the reader believe these are the thoughts of a child.

The thing I loved most about Presley's stories was her memories and thoughts of her childhood. But they aren't her memories or thoughts. They're mine. Every single story she's written was inspired by moments I've shared with Eliana, Ryder, and Hunter. She was telling me the story of my life, and I didn't even know it. She kept their memories alive when I couldn't.

Although I don't need to read these stories anymore since I have the actual memories, I absorb every word. And the more I read, the more guilt rises inside me.

What kind of mother forgets her own children?

I try to give myself some grace. What I experienced—watching the brutal rape of our children and then being asked which one I want to save, while the other dies and then watching both die—was more horrific than what the most disturbed person could conjure up.

My grace is always short lived.

I'll never forgive myself for not saving them. And I'll never forgive myself for letting them slip my mind for even a moment in time.