Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) (8 page)

Out of nowhere my pointer finger taps the tip of her nose with every word I speak, and I swear I have no idea where these odd actions are coming from. “Sweetheart, I told you I didn’t need your help, your directions the first four times were more than clear. I told you not to sit in that stool any other way than its intended to be sat in. Not because I wanted to hear myself talk, but to keep you safe, young lady. Now, acknowledge you understand.”

I lean back after brushing my lips across her forehead and catch her red handed, mid eye roll. “Whadda bout the butta den daddy? Huh? You didn’t even get it out of the fridge when I come in heh. I had to do it.”

Did I mention my daughter is easily the smartest two year old on the planet? Her reasoning and thought process never fails to constantly astound me. And just when I think I’ve seen it all, heard it all, she leaves me impressed yet again with her very next breathe.

I nod to show her statement or rebuttal against my argument maintains my attention. Long enough to show my thought and consideration before speaking through a chuckle, “Well, Ms. Ivy Bean, I must give credit where credit is due, I’m afraid you might be closer to having it right than I do. Our dinner sandwiches’ would have been disastrous had you not saved the day with your fearless bravery and butter!” 

The squealing giggle of a maniacal toddler splits the air in the room as she throws her head back sending the stool falling over backwards and I have her cradled to my chest as the stool bounces twice on the floor.

I’m not sure if it’s Ivy or Heather who is blessing me with these random bursts of protective instincts, but I count every one as a blessing in their own. In a soothing tone I whisper to her while rocking her back and forth twirling the satiny ends of her hair around my fingers. “It’s okay, sweetheart, Daddy has you. But now you have to tell me. Ivy? Do you have the butter?”

I don’t know how I knew it was important that my next statement be a playful one, I just did. When she isn’t quite able to blink the tears from her eyes she wipes them away with her chubby fisted hands before piercing me with her royal blue irises and smiles so big I could count her pearly white teeth.

And then in her very next breathe, she leaves me impressed yet again. “Daddy, da butta was you’s as soon as it hit yo hand it was ‘post to be you only job.” After squirming her way down, I release her mid monkey or orangutan dance, I think it is orangutan dance, but then again, I’m not sure. She bolts from the kitchen headed for what sounds like the staircase squealing the words, “It’s bubby wubby wiff Mr. Bubbles baff time, daddy!”

“Okay, but dinner after bath, then bed. You hear me, Ivy bean?”

I come entirely too close to smashing my brains on the granite countertop than I believe can be deemed safe before I turn off the stove and head upstairs to get Ivy set up in a bath. While our system could probably use some tinkering, or more thought as I am the only one in danger of freaking out and becoming damn near deaf, blind, and catatonic when she informed me she indeed, did not know how to work the knobs or start her own bath, it is ours, and it works for us.

It consists of Ivy wearing a tank-top, her training panties and bloomers while she sits in the tub and I get the temperature of the water right, line up her shampoo and conditioner, bar of soap, a rag and her three bath fish toys on the side of the tub, then pour a half cup of Mr. Bubbles bath bubbles into the water. Once the water level is three quarters of the tub deep, I turn off the water and leave her to go about her business after lying out her pajama’s, bathrobe, and slippers on the bathroom countertop.

Then I cook our sandwiches and wait for her to join me in the breakfast room. I tried to get Ivy comfortable with the dining halls the first few evenings, but she insisted we sit in here, she said it was too stucky and she couldn’t ever hear what I was saying unless I was ‘yellin’ down the dinin’ haw.’ Now, I’m sure you think it’s because I’m partial because she’s my daughter. And yes, for some ignorant, self important bastards, I’m certain they are ill-conceived with the notion leading to them only being partial to their own offspring, but not me. Not a chance in hell will you find me ever allowing my opinion of Winter Ivy Payne being persuaded by her being my own heir or a product of her mother’s and my love. Not. Once.

I’ve become quite fond of the breakfast nook over the last few days, and it causes pride for my Ivy Bean to swell and unfurl inside my chest. As she walks into the kitchen she keeps her smiling eyes locked on mine and makes her way to the table, then after putting her napkin in her lap, and folding her hands, she prays, “Deh lawd, peeze take care of my momma, peeze take care of Nana D.. And pretty, pretty peeze take care of my daddy. Thank you fo tha bread and da peanut butta, da jewie, and da ottah butta, and the skillet and fire. I love your food, lawd, it’s dus the best.—Maymen.”

She then picks up a fourth of her grilled pb&j sandwich and nibbles a bite before nodding.

In her very next breathe, she leaves me impressed AND speechless yet again as she asks, “So, deed mommy dies cause she was old, or was her sick, or did sum ebil man kill her, daddy?”

Chapter 10

It’s been one week, two days, thirteen hours and fifty minutes since I scaled the gates surrounding that God forsaken hellhole known as Gorman Ranch. If I had to name only one reason I’m still alive it would be the endless hours I burned through the midnight oil reading and studying every piece of information I could find in the library pertaining to survival and diy guides.

However, right now they are currently doing jack shit to help me orient and determine my current location. I’m eighty-one percent sure I crossed the state line a few days ago. I just fucking hope to hell the increase in the number of Oregon plates I keep spotting when I venture out from under the protective canopy of the forest tree line means Oregon was the state line I did cross three days ago as well the state I’m currently hiking through from one end to another.

I’m a little surprised that so far on my journey to flee from my worst nightmare, the lowest point of rock bottom I’ve hit was staggering into a Wal-Mart at two thirty am to douche with the Normal Saline and antibacterial soap I mixed together as I straddle over the public toilet with one bare foot hiked up on one wall and the other firmly planted on the ground. I don’t know what solution I should be using on vaginal and rectal burns, nor do I know what soap I should be mixing in it, but this has to be more hygienic than resting my obliterated bottom on an algae covered rock submerged in a brook or a creek with fucking fish swimming by.

After I’ve done the best douching job a woman can in Wal-Mart’s public restroom stall, I stumble through the women’s clothing and randomly snatch pieces of clothing from their hangers before helping myself to a fitting room and layering as many outfits as I could without looking like I was…well, layering clothes for shop lifting purposes. 

I continue my escape through more wooded acreage.

After polishing off three of the ten apples as well as the handful of blackberries I foraged earlier today while trekking in the woods from sunrise to sunset, I swish the water I bottled from a pseudo clean stream around my mouth and through the spaces between my teeth before spitting it out in the grass. I wished four times and prayed twice while rinsing the seeds from the crevices of my teeth for a single goddamn toothbrush and some motherfucking toothpaste.

I’m hungry but not weak. I’m tired but refuse to allow my steps to falter. I’m at my wits end, but my grasp does not slip, it only tightens its hold. I’m scared to death, but I can’t afford to give my fear any power by looking too closely at it.  My only thought now: VENGEANCE.

I release a sigh of foreboding and impending defeat as I plump my belongings in my Louis Vuitton bag before using it as a pillow and snuggling as close to the fire I started when I stopped here as I can without catching ablaze. Once my body settles in, realizing the dewy earth will again be the bed we rest upon just like every night before and every night since leaving the Ranch, a calm contentment blankets me. I smile as my daughter’s face flashes behind my eyelids before I’m swathed in the blissful numbness that always accompanies my loss of consciousness.

Only instead of finding the blissful numbness I’ve secretly began to crave, the nightmares of what I endured in Gorman’s Ranch as well as my overactive imagination concocts one unimaginable offensive scenario after another to play out with my sweet baby girl being forced to endure fear, pain, loneliness or sadness at the hands of the monsters she unknowingly trusts. She believes they love her, believes they are the guardians who will keep her protected.

Let one hair on Winter Ivy’s head be touched with anything other than love or affection and I will fucking come unglued, tearing every last motherfucking one of them down to the lowest bowels of Hell and remain there in the afterlife to make damn certain Roman and Sebastian spend their eternity exactly where they belong.

These thoughts alone fuel my growing need for revenge. 

Then…finally, my blissful numbness consumes me and washes away evidence of the disturbing mess I’ve made of my life.

After I shove all my shit in my bag, I rake the ashes of last nights fire out with a make shift rake, covering it with a few handfuls of leaves and kick up the earth to cover any signs of my presence. I toss my bag over my shoulder and glance at the sunset before heading in the general north direction.

When I start seeing more footpaths in the wooded area I’m trudging through, I assume I must be getting close to the vicinity of a city or a town. After about five miles I’m skirting the city limits of Albany, Oregon. What was the city’s name again? I don’t know, because I don’t give a fuck, all I heard was Oregon! Bitches, what’s up?! Who found her ass in the city she intended? Yep, that would be your girl, Mace!

Well if this don’t put a pep in my goddamn step, nothing will, or at least that’s what I’m trying to explain to Mac, while nudging her out of the protectiveness of the woods and into civilization. Once the rubber sole of my Wal-Mart flip-flop slaps the asphalt it on its own accord, diverting my feet’s direction towards a strip mall. And do you know why? Because, momma needs a new pair of boots. And jeans. And a warmer, possibly long sleeve shirt. Panties, Bra, you name it, I’m probably going to jack it in 3. 2. 1. Oh yeah, write fucking jacket on that list too.

I know, you want to do this about as much as Mac does, but sometimes a bitch gets pushed to a certain point, and while Mac watched through drunken lenses from our mind and you only read the details, I would be the bitch lying there taking one for the team, okay? Now, pony up.

My hands connect with cool glass doors before my shoulders tense, shoving the double doors of DSW open. While making a quick detour through the accessories and handbags, I snatch up the most inconspicuous, drab hobo satchel I can spot. After scanning every aisle from newborn and toddler, size one to eleven and a half from the end of the aisle, I then take the next two and a half minutes memorizing the number of other customers and their locations as well as the two employees and at best, if at all, one manager in the back.

  Once the aisle containing size seven and seven and a half empties I use the number one play in the playbook, also known as, ‘make my first sweep while keeping an eye out the entire time for both possible trades and first round draft picks’. Now, any woman worth her fucking salt knows every female human has the ability to WEAR any shoe size in a four size limit, *clears throat* I said wear, not fit and feel comfortable. Okay, so with that being said, as I make my way down the next aisle, eyeing the eight and eight and a half sized shoes, I’m using my attentive abilities to portray a woman in dire need of a certain shoe while I’m actually tallying the score points between the potential and first round draft picks I catalogued in my first rough run through of the previous aisle containing size seven and seven and a half. And YES, we are still fucking talking about shoes.

After making my final sweep, I locate the position of other customers in our proximity, and also at or near the stores exits. Snatching a twelve pack of socks and tossing them in my drab, khaki hobo bag on top of the two pairs of boots, a pair of New Balance running shoes, and one…oh-fucking-kay… three pairs of heels.   Yes. I’m that good.  The heels were on the sale rack at thirty percent off. Yes, I know I paid zero percent, but if you want to get technical I sort of paid 30% because it was already taken care of before I stole them.