About Face

by Fern Michaels

  “Casey.” Her mother’s harsh tone bellowed down the hall.

  Peering over her shoulder one last time, Casey was assured her mother wouldn’t know what had happened to her.

  Casey suddenly realized there was a difference after all. She would think about it later.

  Casey entered the smoke-filled kitchen and hurried to the refrigerator, where she grabbed eggs, butter, and bacon. For as long as she could remember, she had made breakfast for Momma. If Ronnie was home, she made breakfast for him, too. All the while Momma would sit in silence, sipping a cup of coffee as Ronnie poked fun at Casey. Sometimes Momma egged him on.

  Thank God Ronnie was working the early shift at the mill. He’d know something was up. His eyes wouldn’t be glazed with alcohol at this time of the morning the way her momma’s were. His brain wouldn’t be as slow as Momma’s either. One thing about Ronnie, Casey couldn’t put anything over on him. He had his way of getting things out of her.

  “Damn, girl! Hurry it up. I’m hungry, and you’d better not be late for school.”

  Casey quickly placed the iron skillet on the electric burner and laid several strips of bacon in the pan. Within moments, the kitchen was filled with the aromatic sizzle of bacon frying and brewing coffee. The whirl of the whisk beat against the sides of the bowl as Casey whipped eggs into a froth.

  “I don’t know what’s up with you, girl. You been laggin’ behind. You shoulda been up for Ron. He’s got a hard day to put in at the mill, he needed to be fed,” her mother said between puffs of cigarette smoke.

  “Sorry, Momma, I didn’t know.” Casey hunched her shoulders in anticipation of a blow. When she didn’t receive one, she turned to observe her mother, who sat at the table chain-smoking.

  Evie Edwards was a beautiful woman. Alcohol and anger had roughened her features, but Casey knew it only took a few nights away from the alcohol to ease the lines and soften the expressions so commonly etched in her mother’s face. Yes, her mother could be beautiful on the outside. Inside, Casey knew, she was filled with rage. Rage at her lot in life. Casey didn’t know all the details of her mother’s childhood, but knew something tragic must have happened to turn her into a mean, bitter woman. It would probably all change now that she was “seeing” John Worthington.

  Her mother crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. Casey saw her hands shake as she held the match. A wave of pity washed over her. Pity that she couldn’t have the kind of mother she’d always wanted. Pity that her mother had lived as she had, never allowing anything but harsh, cruel words to exist between them. She vowed right then and there that if she was ever fortunate enough to have a family, she’d never allow a day to pass without telling her children she loved them. And when she said the words, she would mean them.

  Taking the bacon from the skillet, Casey poured the egg mixture into the hot grease, the smell gagging her. How her mother could eat like this first thing in the morning was beyond her comprehension. She could barely manage to force lunch down her throat. She knew she had to eat something or her mother would notice she had lost weight and all hell would break loose.

  “More coffee, Momma?” Casey knew the routine. She hoped this would be her last performance.

  Evie slid the cup to the edge of the table and waited while Casey poured the hot brew.

  “The eggs are ready.” Casey filled her mother’s plate with eggs, bacon, and a slice of white bread, lightly buttered just the way she liked it.

  “Took you long enough, girl. You look kind of funny to me this morning.”

  Casey froze in her tracks. “Sorry, Momma. That thick bacon takes a bit longer. Ronnie likes it. I thought he’d be here to eat with you.”

  Casey knew any mention of Ronnie would hush her mother. Anything for Ronnie. Casey couldn’t understand the unnatural relationship they shared.

  “I don’t think you have enough to do at that hoity-toity school. And you make sure you get home on time. I’m going out tonight with Mistah Worthington,” she drawled. “Ronnie will want supper early.”

  Dread caused her hands to shake, and the plate almost slipped from her hand.

  Evie speared a bite of egg and continued to talk as Casey sat across from her, waiting for the usual assault to end so she could go to school to get away from her mother, the house, and Ronnie.

  Casey took the long way to school; anything to drag out the minutes. Since it was going to be her last day, what did it matter if she was late? The only reason she was going at all was because her mother might take it into her head to call and check on her. She’d done it many times before.

  She turned the corner and saw Doc Hunter picking up his morning paper. She ran over to him. “Doc, do you think you could see me now instead of later? I can be a little late for school if it’s all right with you.” The old man looked at her over the top of his glasses and nodded.

  Thirty minutes later, a dazed look on her face, Casey walked down the path to the sidewalk. She knuckled her eyes as she tried to see past the tears that were blurring her vision.

  Her plan was to leave as soon as she finished her last class. She’d walk to the ferry and afterward hitch a ride.

  She turned when she heard her name called. She frowned at the sight of Flora, who helped her mother out occasionally. “Casey, hold on. You have to go back home. Your momma’s been taken to the hospital.” The tiny woman gasped for air as she took a deep breath and rambled on. “I just stopped by to tell your momma I’d help her today. I found her on the kitchen floor, white as a ghost, clutching at her chest. You’ll need to be taking some fresh nightgowns to the hospital and a few other things.”

  “What . . . what’s wrong with her? Did they say? Is she going to die?”

  “I don’t know, child. Can’t you make those feet of yours go any faster? Might be the best thing for your momma. Maybe those doctors can dry her out.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Flora. Tell me what to do.”

  “I’m tryin’ to, kiddo. First you have to call the hospital. Maybe you should go there. Pack a little bag for your momma. I already called the mill and told Ronnie. Hurry now, Casey. I’ll call you later to find out how she is. You might want to take a few posies from the garden.”

  And then she was gone, almost running down the street. Where did the little woman get all her energy?

  Ten minutes later, Casey let herself into the house through the kitchen door. She saw everything at a glance—the breakfast dishes, the overflowing ashtray, the littered counter, the chairs pushed away from the table. One of her mother’s slippers glared up at her from under the table. She looked around for the other one but couldn’t see it.

  Would her mother die? Probably not. Her grandmother had once told her only the good die young. Looking at the card she’d picked up, she decided to call them right away.

  The phone was in her hand a moment later. After making her call, she dialed information for the number of the hospital and copied it down carefully. It was ten minutes before she was able to speak to anyone who knew what was going on with regard to her mother. Finally, the charge nurse on the surgical floor told her Evie was undergoing some tests and more than likely would be discharged by the end of the day.

  Casey digested the information, thanked the nurse, and hung up the phone. A few more hours wouldn’t make a difference to her getaway plans. She could spend the time cleaning up the kitchen, run the sweeper, and do a load of laundry.

  The kitchen door slammed shut. The sound was so loud she heard it on the second floor.

  Ronnie.

  Of course he would come home. Anything to get out of working. She crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t go through her book bag and find her money. Tiptoeing quietly, she left her mother’s room, crossed the hall, and walked down to her own room, where she closed the door and slid the chain into place. She was shaking from head to toe. Don’t let him come up here. Please, God, don’t let him come up here.

  Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, as she stag
gered across the room to open the window. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped the screen to the ground. She had one leg over the windowsill when she heard Ronnie’s boots on the steps. She literally froze in position.

  “Open this damn door, Casey. I need to talk to you. I want to know what’s wrong with Momma.” He could see her through the narrow opening. How much of a chance did she have? Better to drop to the ground and make a run for it.

  She hit the ground hard. The breath knocked out of her, she had to wait till her breathing returned to normal. Gasping for breath, she picked herself up and ran around the house. It was her first mistake. Her second mistake was thinking she could hide in the tool shed. She looked around, frantic, for some kind of weapon. She saw the garden spikes leaning against an old wooden table. She thought of it as a spear as she hefted it in her hands, her eyes on the sharp point at the end of it.

  She smelled him the moment he burst through the door, his face as hateful as Momma’s was sometimes. She knew what he was capable of doing, knew every move because he was brainless and predictable.

  He saw her crouching behind the barrel that held peat moss. He lunged, but she held her ground. He lunged again. This time she let him see the spear in her hand. He laughed, a maniacal sound that she’d heard so many times before. This was going to be the last time.

  Her shame would stay with her forever.

  Always.

  Like a fingerprint, it was a part of her.

  She had to be cunning.

  She brought up her arm, the spear clutched tightly in her hand. He lunged and grabbed her arm just as she drove the spike downward into the fleshy part of his thigh. His scream was high-pitched, almost a feminine squeal. She yanked the spike loose and prepared to strike again. He cursed her as he clutched at his leg. She brought the spike down a second time but he rolled away, and the bloody spike hit the edge of the battered table.

  He lunged for her, a clay pot in his hand. He whipped it across the side of her face, and she fell to the floor. As she scrambled away, she could feel the warm blood trickling down her neck. Where are the spikes; where are the spikes? She crawled toward the door just as Ronnie’s work boot shot forward. She took the blow to her stomach and doubled over. He lunged again, but she scrambled backward out of the way.

  She was outside now, clutching her stomach as she tried to straighten up so she could run to the house. He was coming after her; she could hear him dragging his injured leg across the rough boards of the garden shed. She could hear him cursing, words she’d never heard before.

  She had to get out of there. Stumbling, falling, she made her way to the steps of the back porch, where she collapsed. She reached for the railing to pull herself upright. He was less than twenty yards from her when she saw the broom leaning against the steps. Using every ounce of her strength, she whacked it hard over the banister. The jagged edge of the handle was her reward. She held it out in front of her; it was her lance, and she was preparing to joust. It wavered in her hand.

  “Come one step closer and I’ll ram this down your throat, Ronnie. I mean it. One more step, and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you dead.” Either her weapon or her tone of voice slowed him down, giving her just enough time to get into the house and lock the door behind her.

  Frantically, she looked around for the portable phone. When she didn’t see it, she started to cry. It could be anywhere. Her mother was forever taking it with her, then leaving it. They had to wait for the phone to ring so they could find it. This was one of those times. No, no, that wasn’t right, she had used it when she came home. Oh, God, where did I leave it? Where?

  The only room in the house that had a lock on it was her room.

  Her belly was on fire as she made her way to the second floor and the safety of her room, the broom handle still clutched in her hand.

  She fell on the bed and for the first time was aware of a trail of blood leading from the door to the bed. She looked down at the bed and saw the pooling blood.

  Her blood. She closed her eyes to blackness.

  Three hours later, Eve Edwards walked into the quiet house. She felt foolish and even a little embarrassed. Taken to the hospital for heartburn. Still, it had felt like a heart attack. Better to be safe than sorry. It’s all Casey’s fault, frying those eggs in all that grease. That girl can’t do anything right. Well, it’s time she learned.

  Chapter 3

  Sweetwater Island

  August 1997

  Casey took a final glance around the room that had been her home for the past ten years. A sad smile touched the corners of her mouth as she scanned the institutional gray walls, softened somewhat by the dime store prints she’d hung on her arrival in a rare moment of lucidity. The pictures looked desolate and faded. Like her. A shadow of her former self.

  Sun trickled in through the small second-story window, its thick glass covered with what she had laughingly termed chicken wire. Severe in its bareness, it remained unadorned. No attempt made to suppress its austerity. No attempt was allowed. The view forever the same. The bars that held her captive awaited their next victim.

  Casey heard the rattle of keys and knew it was time. She looked around one last time. Many times she had wondered what it would be like to walk out of the asylum. Her heart gave a sudden leap as Sandra, her nurse, placed a hand on her shoulder. Her wish was about to be granted.

  “It’s time, baby. C’mon. You have your things ready?”

  “Yes. I’m ready.” And had been forever, it seemed.

  Sandra opened the door and directed her to the hallway. Chipped gray paint covered the walls. In some places you could even see where the plaster had been patched over. Another glob of plaster of paris couldn’t disguise the years of neglect. Her heart pounded as she took a final step into the hallway. Fear enveloped her, suffocated her like a plastic cloth. Casey drew in a deep breath in hopes of calming her sudden burst of fear. What would it be like? Could she function outside the hospital? Would the world accept her? Knowing what awaited her on the path to freedom, she paused. Unprepared for the rush of emotion that flooded her, she lingered before taking that final step down the solitary hall of madness. She knew. She’d been there.

  Her first clear memory after her arrival was of being jabbed with a needle. Voices, some muffled, some painfully loud, asked if she could remember. Her mouth had felt like cotton balls were lining it. She’d been in a fog, and her eyes felt like hot bricks rested on them. Her legs were heavy, sluggish when she tried to move them. Raw. She remembered being too sore to move. And empty. Then came the nothingness, the hours of trying to focus on the blank state of her mind, all to no avail.

  After weeks, or it could have been months, she couldn’t recall, Dr. Macklin had left her alone for a while. But that was before the drugs began. And the nightmares. She’d lived in a state of fog for so long, those last weeks seemed unreal. No drugs. She could actually think. And she was starting to remember. Slowly she was returning from her journey into the black pit of hell.

  The echoes of the lost ones continued their cries down the lonely halls. Casey heard their desperation. The sadness. This had been her home, its occupants her family. She had to leave. She could never return.

  Sandra gently pushed her forward, bringing her back to reality. “Keep going, and you’ll be out of here in no time,” the nurse whispered.

  Tears glistened in Casey’s dull green eyes. “I know. I just feel sad leaving.”

  Wheels on dinner carts whined, and the clatter of metal lids bounced off the flimsy walls lining the long corridor. Mrs. Mullens, or Mrs. M. as some called her, chose that moment to enter the hall.

  “You must go, Casey. Meet me in the main hall in ten minutes. Your ride should be here by then. And your clothes, don’t forget them,” Sandra said as she glanced at her watch and excused herself to tend to the elderly woman.

  “Now look, Mrs. Mullens, what are you doing with that?” The nurse’s hoarse voice could be heard across the room as she took the bedpan
from the petite woman.

  “I want to give Casey a gift. She’s my girl, you know that? She knows that. Everyone knows that. Don’t they? You know that?” Mrs. M. whimpered to Sandra.

  Casey watched as Sandra took Mrs. M. to the dayroom and led her to the sagging green sofa by the door.

  “Yes, Mrs. Mullens, I do. You sit here, I’ll be right back.” Sandra’s muffled footsteps could be heard from across the hall.

  After her arrival three weeks earlier, Mrs. M. had assigned herself as Casey’s official mother since she had no family of her own to speak of. Or if she did, Casey pondered, they’d never visited in the short time she’d been coherent enough to notice. She would miss the elderly lady and the unusual gifts she lavished upon her in recent weeks. She walked into the room and sat next to the poor soul. Giving her a last hug, she turned so the old woman wouldn’t see her tears.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. M. I’ll write to you.” She wondered if someone would even bother to read the letters to her. Sandra was the only decent nurse in the hospital. She could barely keep up with the patients as it was. Suddenly, Casey had reservations about leaving. What would become of Mrs. M.?

  The woman’s ragged voice jolted her back to the present.

  “Will you? I want those chocolate-covered cherries, the kind with the white stuff.” Dull gray eyes held hers, seeking a promise.

  “I’ll get you the creamiest-filled cherries I can find.” She blinked back another round of tears. Casey vowed to herself that she wouldn’t abandon this woman who had treated her like a daughter in such a short time. She’d been especially close to Mrs. M. since the doctors had eased up on her medication. She didn’t recall being close to anyone before that. Ever. Somehow, she’d arrange for a visit. Sandra told her the hospital frowned on former patients returning to visit, not that she’d ever witnessed any such happenings. Maybe Sandra would help her. With Mrs. M. returning to oblivion, she walked to the doorway, peering into the hall.