MOMMY, MAY I?
by
A.K. ALEXANDER
CHAPTER ONE
1968
Before . . .
That last night was so cold that Richard could see his own breath. Even the Beatles, his favorite group, belting out “Yellow Submarine” from the other room couldn’t warm him or make him feel better. The next few hours would be miserable no matter which record his mother decided to play. Hail barreled down outside, sounding like pellets from his BB gun hitting the roof. The constant drip from a leak in the ceiling hit the bucket his mother had set in the corner of his room, certain to be filled long before morning. He pulled the cape of his Superman pajamas tighter around himself as he listened to his mother read to him.
His light flickered inside the cramped room of the two-bedroom house, illuminating worn wallpaper and the young boy’s pale face. His stomach twisted into a knot so tight he thought it might burst open and release the snakes he imagined lived inside him. Then they would slither into the next room and bite his mother’s visitor to death.
When her visitors stayed over, Richard would bury his head under his pillow, trying to drown out the noises that came from the other room. Sometimes, when he heard the front door close behind his mother as she’d leave for a date, he would lie awake waiting to hear the click of the lock opening again, and her heels on the linoleum. The stupid babysitter would always sneak her boyfriend into the house and tell Richard to keep his trap shut. Then she’d laugh and say, “As if it really matters to your mom that I have a guy here.”
“‘But he never knew that it really was his own bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be real,’” Elizabeth Shelton read to her son. She closed The Velveteen Rabbit and patted Richard on the head.
“I love that story, Mom.”
“I know you do, honey.”
Beer on his mother’s breath mixed with the jasmine incense she’d lit in the other room in attempt to rid the house of its mildew smell made him pull his covers up tighter around his face.
The eleven-year-old boy loved when she read to him, when he could pretend they were like every other family. It was their nightly ritual. On many nights, some man—young, old, fat, or skinny—waited for her in the family room, along with the stupid babysitter.
“Do you have to go out tonight?”
Elizabeth Shelton kissed her son on the cheek, her lips soft. “I’m sorry, baby, you know I do. I wish I didn’t have to, but you’re gonna need new clothes for school when it starts next week. You’ll be in the sixth grade, and we can’t have you looking scrappy.”
Richard also knew that Mom liked to buy him the best clothes, and she usually bought a few expensive things for herself when they went into Portland. She liked buying clothes, shoes, and cosmetics much better than she liked fixing leaky roofs. She claimed that the money she earned was one of the perks of her trade, which, she explained to Richard, was being like a friend or kind of a nurse to people who were lonely. Men. Richard knew the truth. Everyone knew the truth.
“But, Mom, I want you to stay home.”
“If I didn’t have such wonderful friends, then we wouldn’t have food on the table. They’re kind enough to give us money and gifts, so please try to understand.”
A tear rolled down Richard’s face. He didn’t understand. He wanted his mother to be like everyone else’s mother. The kids in school called her a whore. Even so, he loved her fiercely. He’d do anything for her, and had been suspended more than once for fighting with the older kids who taunted him about her.
“Oh baby, no, don’t cry.” She wiped away the tear. “Tell you what, I won’t go out tomorrow night. I’ll cancel the date, and we’ll go to town and see a movie.”
“Really?”
“You bet.” His mother hugged him. “How’s my lipstick look?”
“Perfect.”
Elizabeth Shelton had a thing about her scarlet lipstick, always drawing the line around her mouth and filling it in just so. It was worth the effort; she always had beautiful lips. Richard loved them.
“Thank you, precious. Now remember, tomorrow it’s just you and me.”
She hugged him again, her body warm. He watched her leave his room. Her laughter from the other room echoed in his ears as he tried to fall asleep. He hated that men could make her laugh like that.
Had his father made her laugh? His father? Richard’s mother said that his father had been Mills Florence, the great cosmetics guru of the fifties. But Mills never had the opportunity to know about Richard. As his mother explained to him, their affair was brief, but they were very much in love. She’d met him on a vacation in Hollywood where she’d gone to try out her acting abilities. She’d wound up pregnant instead. By the time she planned to tell Mills, he’d been killed in a car accident.
There was no proof that he was Mills Florence’s son, and therefore, he wasn’t heir to the fortune his father’s company had produced. His mother never achieved her dreams, but made an existence for them the only way she knew how—with her looks and personality.
Richard was the outcast amongst his peers—the bastard son of a whore. No one ever believed that Mills Florence was his father, and so Richard learned not to repeat it. He knew, however, that he was not a bastard.
The next day Richard didn’t disturb her. He’d figured out early on that she was always tired in the morning. She usually didn’t rise before noon.
They lived in a small town in Oregon, right outside of Eugene. When it wasn’t raining, Richard liked to explore. This morning he walked along a dirt road lacing its way against the Cascades, playing kick the can and whistling. Buzz saws rang out in the distance followed by the rumble of falling timber as it hit the ground. It had rained earlier that morning and the dampness hung in the air. Richard was happy that tonight he’d be alone with his mother.
A truck full of kids passed him, then stopped about a hundred yards up. Richard watched as they jumped out. He knew he was in trouble.
“Hey, look, it’s whore boy,” they yelled. “How’s that whore mama of yours?”
Anger rose inside Richard at the words, like the giant Grizzly known to stalk the woods. But there were too many of them to take on, and basic instinct urged him to run. He sprinted through the pines, their taunts filling his head.
“Bastard boy, where are you?”
Richard kept going, but they were impossible to outrun. The boys surrounded him. There were about eight of them, all at least fourteen. They closed in on him. He tried not to cry, tried to break through them as his heart pounded hard against his chest. Trapped, he could hear his own breathing and wanted to scream, Leave me alone! His legs grew weak, and the trees swirled into one big blur.
The gang closed in. “I’d like to fuck your mama, she’s pretty sweet.”
“Nah,” another one said. “I’d just make her suck me. Who knows what she’s got crawling inside her.”
Richard covered his ears. He hated what they were saying, hated them. His skin burned. His mother was beautiful and good. They were evil. If only he was bigger…
When the largest kid hit him first, Richard went down and curled into a ball. They kicked him hard all over while cursing and spitting on him. One blow to his head almost caused him to lose consciousness. As the beating, angry words, and sound of his own heart pounding against his chest blended into one, a loud gunshot rang out disturbing the attack, and the boys rapidly dispersed.
“Get on outta’ here!” someone yelled. Richard felt strong hands lift him up. “You’re a mess, boy.” A lumberjack, one of his mother’s friends, dusted him off. “You okay?”
Richard nodded. “I think so.” He was still dizzy.
“Well, you got a few cuts and bruises, and that gash on your head lo
oks like it hurts pretty bad. Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
Richard replied, “That’s all right.” He was afraid the man might want to come inside and see his mom.
“Hmmm, well, okay then. But them kids might come back for you.”
“A ride halfway home might be okay,” Richard said.
The lumberjack respected that, and dropped him off down the road from his house. He washed up with a hose outside, not wanting his mother to see him this way. She should be up by now. He prayed she hadn’t been crying this morning. She did that a lot. He wished he could make things better for her.
He opened the front screen, then stopped for a moment and listened. The house was silent. Normally, she would be in the kitchen making her coffee and his lunch right about now.
“Mom?”
She didn’t answer. He peered inside the kitchen. The coffee canister was still in the pantry—untouched. The shower wasn’t on. Richard went on back to her bedroom, where her door was shut.
He knocked. “Mom?” Still no reply. His stomach started hurting. His mouth went dry. He was afraid he’d find her in bed with a man, but he had to find out why she didn’t answer.
He opened the door a crack, then wider.
“Mom!” he screamed. His mother lay there on the bed, sheets stained with blood. She was not breathing, and when he pulled back the sheets he could see the gaping wound caused by a gunshot. He grabbed the phone on the nightstand, his hands shaking as he tried to dial the number to the police station. He was crying hysterically by the time a voice on the other end answered. He could barely get the words out as his voice quivered with emotion, “My mom, my mom’s been shot.”
In minutes the police arrived. Several had been friends of his mother’s. All the men liked Elizabeth.
The chief of police took off his hat as he walked into the bedroom, bowing his head. “What a shame,” he said. “She was such a pretty thing, too. A sweet lady, and she loved you very much.” He patted Richard on the head, but Richard had no reply as fresh tears filled his eyes.
It didn’t take but a matter of hours to make an arrest. In a fit of rage, Trudy Walker, the wife of one of Elizabeth’s customers, had decided enough was enough upon reading a love letter that she found tucked inside her husband’s jacket pocket. Trudy had known about Mr. Walker’s visits with Elizabeth for some time, but when she discovered that he had real feelings for her, she became enraged. She’d taken her husband’s revolver, gone to Elizabeth’s house that morning, broken in, and shot her. She’d actually even confessed when the police had gone to question Mr. Walker.
“Yeah, I killed that husband-stealing whore. She was nothing but a disease-spreading slut. And, I’m not sorry for it,” she said to the police as they arrested her.
Even though his mother’s killer was behind bars, nothing could pacify Richard. Hatred brewed deep in his heart. He spent the night at the police chief’s house, sobbing and waiting for morning, when the aunt and uncle he’d never met would arrive from Redding, California, to take him home to live with them.
CHAPTER TWO
Present day . . .
Helena Shea cradled the tiny infant in her arms, understanding now what she’d missed for years. She twirled a tendril of his silken hair between her fingers. Looking at him at that moment, it was hard to believe that his entry into the world had been less than desirable. “He looks wonderful, Rachel.”
The baby stretched, opening his mouth, blinking his eyes.
“It’s all because of you. If you hadn’t helped when I was using, who knows where Jeremy and I’d be. You know, I’m just sorry I didn’t quit sooner. Then maybe he wouldn’t have had to stay in the hospital for so long.” Tears rolled down Rachel’s face. She had celebrated her eighteenth birthday and the homecoming of her son three days earlier. He’d been hospitalized for two months with an addiction to crack cocaine, caused by his mother’s drug use while pregnant. The doctors and nurses who’d worked on him were dedicated to healing him, as was Helena Shea who continued to be an angel to both of them.
“No, Rachel, it was because of your own willpower and love for your son. Now, you have to learn to love yourself.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
Helena set the baby down in his bassinet. She put her arms around the petite girl. Rachel was now very pretty with coffee colored skin and a face resembling a young Lena Horne. The scabs that only a few months ago ran along her arms had faded into scars and her face had cleared from the acne caused from the drugs. She hadn’t gained more than fifteen pounds during her pregnancy, and Helena was constantly bringing her food in hopes of keeping her healthy.
“Remember, that’s your past, and right there lies your future,” Helena said gesturing to the baby who’d fallen back asleep.
“I know, but it’s still hard.”
“Yes it is. And, that’s why you’ve got me, the staff here, and the new friends that you’ve made.”
“You’re right.” Rachel smiled and tucked a piece of loose hair back into the braid Helena had plaited for her. “Speaking of new friends and the staff, how are things coming for Shea House? You know, Lindsay gave me thirty days notice to move, since I turned eighteen and I’ve been sober for six months,” Rachel said. Lindsay Covner ran the Sober Living House for teens.
“I actually spoke with her the other day about you and the move. I assured her that it’s not going to be a problem as far as Shea House being ready. The plumbers are supposed to finish up this week, and then, once we’ve passed the final inspection, you and your little guy can start moving in. We’ve been told by the city that it might be as early as next week, but I’m betting it’ll be more towards the end of the month. Anyway, no worries. It’ll be ready by the time you need to be out of here.”
“Good. I can’t wait. I love it here, you know. But I like the idea of a new place with more girls my age, and being able to focus on getting a job and such. I’m really excited, Helena. Girls like me don’t get much in the way of second chances.”
“You deserve it. Well look, I hate to go, but I’ve got a meeting to get to, and it appears that Mr. Jeremy here wants to rest. Maybe you should get some sleep, too.”
“I need to study for that diploma.”
“That’s true. But you also need to keep up your rest. Balance is key.”
“You’re our angel, Miss Helena. You are certainly our angel.”
“No, you two are mine,” Helena said, shutting the door to Rachel’s dorm room.
Smiling, Helena walked down the hall, confident that in a few weeks the adult residential center she’d funded and designed for addicted mothers would be ready. Many of the teens here would be fed into that center, to continue their recovery program and adapt to the responsibilities of parenthood. She finally felt like she’d done something right in her life, because it felt like the entire world knew nearly everything that she’d ever done wrong, thanks to her bad choices and a few unscrupulous people. This was her own second chance, and maybe her own child would be able to find it in her heart to forgive her if she did this right.
Despite the light sprinkle falling, Helena decided to walk to the community center where her AA meeting was held. It was less than a mile away, and she’d always liked the rain. It, too, reminded her of new beginnings and that things never stay the same.
On her way, she passed a newsstand. A familiar face on the front of Weekly Entrepreneur caught her eye. There he was—Patrick. Her stomach sank as it always did when she saw his face. At least his being on the front cover had nothing to do with her or anything that had happened between them. And, thank God, it was a business magazine, leading her to believe that they wouldn’t mention Frankie in the article. To ease her mind, she went ahead and bought it. Flipping through it quickly, she saw a small blurb about her daughter that read, “Frances Kiley appears to be doing well after moving from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara last year with her father. According to Mr. Kiley, she sees Helena Shea often, and the two are form
ing a relationship after the bitter scandal that rocked the family.”
“Even a damn business magazine has to get a blurb in there. Unbelievable.” Helena took a deep breath, wondering if it would ever really be over. Reporters, gossip, “friends” looking for tidbits of information had taught Helena a thing or two, and she’d become a woman who’d learned to be cautious of the world around her. But after glancing through the magazine, her mind began filling with kaleidoscopes of taunting memories. She didn’t even see the headlights approaching until the van slammed to a stop only inches away.
Stumbling backwards, Helena jumped back, nearly tripping over herself, the magazine flying out of her hands. Blood rushed through her ears—she wanted to scream, but fear and the stench of burning rubber clogged her throat. The headlights of the van switched off, but there was no other movement. What the hell was this guy doing? A few seconds passed, and she couldn’t get her legs to move. They were like cement and Jello all at the same time. And damn if her heart wasn’t going to come right out through her chest. There was an unreal quality about the situation. Wasn’t this guy going to get out and apologize? The only visible sign of life from inside the van was the glow of a cigarette. Somewhere in the distance a horn honked. Then a powerful fear began to crawl over Helena’s skin like a rash.
She fought to compose herself and bring her stomach back up from her gut, as the driver continued the bizarre standoff. Her heart raced faster. The driver revved the engine, blasted the horn, and flashed the high beams on her. She protected her eyes from the blinding light.
Not so long ago, she would’ve flipped the finger at him, but not now. Fear coursed through her, and running at this point seemed a good option. The only option.
Helena bounded across the street and through the front door of a Denny’s. Several patrons turned to look. She ducked into the restroom not wanting to be recognized. The strong odor of ammonia made her dizzy.
She splashed her face with cool water. Her cell phone rang. The number came up as unknown. God, not now. Still trembling, she answered.
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