Worth It
Worth It
Copyright © 2014 by Nicki DeStasi
Editing: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing
Cover design: Robin Harper, Wicked by Design
https://www.facebook.com/WickedByDesignRobinHarper
Interior Design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To victims of abuse: Get help from a friend, a parent, a confidant, a partner, or a professional. Don’t let your pain fester.
“The greater the difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it. Skillful pilots gather their reputation from storms and tempests.” —Epictetus
Also, to my husband, family, and the friends I’ve made on this journey. I love you. Three simple words, but they say it all.
This story contains graphic sexual violence and abuse. Unfortunately, this is a common occurrence that damages young women and men. This story, in no way, condones violence.
Please also note that this story contains self-harm. Unfortunately, this is also very common, especially among adolescents who are hurting and look for an outward way to express their pain.
If you know someone who might be showing signs of abuse or self-harm, please do or say something. Acknowledging the person’s pain or offering help could mean the world to the person who is lost.
Through this story, I hope I can help even if it’s only one person.
“Anna!” Mom snaps as she flicks on the blinker and switches lanes. “Would you cut the knee-bouncing shit? I’m stressed enough without you fidgeting all over the place.”
Putting a hand on my knee, I attempt to keep it still, but I’m so nervous right now, and the energy wants out. My heart is sprinting, my palms are sweating, and my nerves are way beyond frayed, but I try to relax anyway because I know my mom is having a hard time with this. It can’t be easy for her to see the man who once knew all her demons and who impregnated her at fifteen before abandoning her. I was told that when he’d made her take a paternity test, she had been shattered. Her love for him was unrequited, and that killed her. Ultimately, in the words of Maury Povich, “He is the father.” I guess his mom, my grandmother, forced him to visit on occasion. Then, he bolted completely when I was two, and my mom met my stepdad, Mike. I guess Rick—my biological father—thought Mike had the father thing covered, and he does—kind of.
“Sorry, Mom,” I mumble, looking out my window. I focus on the afternoon summer view, attempting to calm my jackhammering heart and brace myself for what’s coming.
How can I possibly prepare to meet my biological father? In my fourteen years, not a day has gone by when I haven’t daydreamed about meeting Rick. I don’t know how to describe the desire to know the man who gave me life. His absence eats at me and makes me wonder why he’s not there for me. What’s so wrong with me that he doesn’t want to know me? I ask myself that question every day. Every single time we take the trip from our small town of Groton, Massachusetts to Green Bay, Wisconsin where Rick along with my extended family lives, I’ve envisioned what it would be like to meet him. Almost every year, we come back to Green Bay to visit family, and every time, Mom contacts him to ask if he wants to visit with me.
Every time, he says no.
But this time, he said yes. I have no idea why he agreed to see me, but my heart swells with hope that I’ll finally have Rick in my life, and I’ll finally have someone who can love me like I need to be loved.
“I’m sorry, Savannah. I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Mom says quietly while running a shaky hand over her blonde hair, which is haphazardly thrown together on top of her head. “I’m so fucking stressed about having to see him that I could vomit. Not only do we have to come back to this shit place with all the shit memories it brings, but I have to see this asshole, and I’m barely hanging on to my sanity.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I understand,” I mumble, wringing my fingers now that I’ve managed to still my knee.
A piece of me is hurt that she’s not more understanding of the emotional roller coaster
I’m
riding, but I brush off the self-centered thought. I’m getting used to it, and what she’s been through is much worse than having an absentee father. She’s struggling now, and it’s selfish to let her lack of concern wound me. I don’t know what triggered it, but for the last year, she’s been locking herself in her room and crying, only surfacing to lash out. I want to be there for her to help her, but I don’t know how. My dad, Mike—well, technically, stepdad, but he’s my dad in every way that counts—can’t help Mom either. He’s broken, too. He’s quiet and doesn’t show his love for me or the two sisters he gave me, but I know he loves us. He adopted me, and that in itself speaks volumes for how he
must
feel about me. He also works his butt off to provide for the family, and he gives up almost all his time to do it, too.
The car turns into the parking lot of the park where the visit will take place. My hope is overwhelming, but I’m also shaking with nerves. What if I’m not good enough? What if I’m not pretty enough, smart enough, skinny enough? What if he meets me and decides I’m not worth the trouble? The idea that my hope of having a relationship with Rick might be for nothing has my heart beating out of my chest.
I have to be perfect.
Mom steers the car into an empty parking space and roughly throws the car into park before turning off the ignition. When she sighs heavily, I glance over to see her face is drawn, and she looks a lot older than her thirty years. I wait for her to make the first move as the summer sun begins to bake us in the car now that the air conditioner is off. I don’t say anything though. I’m afraid that I might set her off.
She leans forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She lets out a soft, choked sob. “I can’t fucking deal with any more stress right now, so just be good, Savannah, okay?”
“Okay,” I whimper softly.
I don’t want to be the reason she withdraws further, so I’ll be as good as possible.
I’ll be good. I’ll be strong. I’ll be perfect. Not just for her, but for me, too. For us.
I have to be perfect for us.
The pressure makes my throat tighten and creates sweat along my forehead.
Failure is not an option. I have to be better than perfect.
She opens her door without another word, and I do the same. I round the corner of the car and meet my mom by the trunk, and we begin walking toward the park entrance where my actions will make or break the future I want, the future I yearn for, the future filled with someone who can love me.
I know my parents—my mom and Mike—love me the only way they know how, but I need
more
. I’m starved for a simple “I love you” or a hug.
A man dressed in jean shorts and a navy blue T-shirt, seated on top of a picnic table, comes into view. When his gaze lands on us, he stands to his full height that must be over six foot, and he begins strolling in our direction. My heart rate picks up as I watch the man, who has my jawline and my dark brown hair, approach closer and closer until he stops in front of us.