Stand Alone

by P. D. Workman

  “I didn’t belong with you,” Katie pointed out.

  “I gave you the best home anyone could have. You were so thin when you got out of the hospital. Just skin and bones.”

  Katie just breathed, waiting for Em to admit that she was not Justine.

  “Nobody ever loved you like I did,” Em declared fervently. And it was probably true. Certainly Katie’s junkie mother hadn’t shown her any love. Had just discarded her like a piece of garbage. “I loved you no matter how you behaved, all those years, through all that  … all that crap you pulled. The tantrums, the running away, getting into trouble  …”

  “I just wanted  … to go home,” Katie murmured.

  Heat prickled behind her eyes. She remembered all of the exploration she had done on her skateboard. All of the abandoned houses she had searched out and stayed in, trying to recapture that feeling. To go back ‘home’.

  “Why would you want to leave me to go back to a place like that?” Em demanded. “Somewhere you almost died? It doesn’t make any sense, Justine!”

  “Katie.”

  Em was thrown into confusion. She shook her head and flapped her hand.

  “Whatever! You are mine. I am your mother. Why couldn’t you love me back? I did the holding. I did the regression. Play therapy. ABA. It was supposed to work. It was supposed to make you mine again.”

  “You stole me!” Katie yelled.

  “You were too young to know the difference!” Em shrieked. “You were tiny, still a baby! A baby doesn’t know the difference!”

  “I knew.”

  “You only thought you knew! You thought you could remember, but you couldn’t! You never really knew. You made it up.”

  “How?” Katie demanded. “How could I know my name? How could I know what it was like to be abandoned? I did know. You tried to take that away from me, but I always knew.”

  Em’s mouth twisted.

  “I hate that name—”

  But Katie couldn’t stand to hear her talk.

  “You told everyone I was a liar,” she accused. “You showed everyone Justine’s birth certificate and social. You showed them Justine’s old baby book, with my hair in it, and pictures of Justine, and you said that I was the liar! But I wasn’t! You acted like I was crazy, like I was sick. You pretended you were my mother, a mother that cared, when really you were just  … a jailor!”

  “You were sick,” Em protested. “All of that trauma  … it changed your brain. The whole biochemical makeup of your brain was affected by the—”

  “Shut up!” Katie screamed. She couldn’t stand to hear Em get all professorial and tell her again how messed up her brain was, to continue to act the part of the brilliant, caring parent trying to recover her poor, emotionally crippled daughter.

  “I did everything I could for you,” Em said softly. “All those years of therapy  …”

  “But you never told the doctors the truth,” Katie challenged. “How could they do anything but make a bigger mess out of me when you kept lying to them?”

  “I told them enough—”

  “You kept telling them lies! And getting them to give me more meds!”

  “You’re the only one I ever loved—”

  “No! Justine is the only one you ever loved, and you spent thirteen years trying to force me to be her!” Katie shook her head. Her throat was tight and sore. “Do you know what kind of hell that is? To have to be someone else?”

  Em looked baffled. Katie tried to make sense of it all. Did Em really believe her own lies? After so many years of telling stories, did she believe them herself? Believe that Katie was really her daughter? Frank had tried to explain to Katie that Em might be sick. Katie knew Em was unstable, knew that she could turn from nurturing mother to screaming banshee in an instant. But that was always Katie’s fault. It was Katie who forced her to the edge, and then willfully pushed her over. Wasn’t it?

  “Sweetie  …” Em said shakily, wisely not calling her Justine again this time. “Sweetie, I wanted to help you. You were so sick when I brought you home from the hospital. Do you think I wanted to hurt you? I wanted to make you better. I thought all you needed was love and nurturing, and that love could overcome  … all the terrible things that happened to you. I just wanted  …” her voice was teary. “I just wanted to help you.”

  Katie shook her head. She closed her eyes, fighting against all of the warring images. Nurturing Em. Furious Em. The dark, lonely, coldness of her dreams. Hot and sweating, smothering in Em’s arms, while Em squeezed her, refusing to let Katie go no matter how much she screamed.

  Katie had her arms folded across her chest, and she dug her nails into the flesh of her arms, trying to lose herself in the pain, to block all the memories out. She could hardly breathe. Her heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. She dragged her nails down her arms and tried to focus on the room. The real, present surroundings. Focus on the pain. The light. On the walls. The floor. Her knees shook like jelly.

  The door to the room opened, and Frank stood there. Katie looked at him, relief flooding through her body.

  “Come on out, Katie,” Frank said softly.

  She staggered for the door. Em protested, but Katie couldn’t hear her. She could only hear Frank. She made it to the hall outside the room, and he shut the door again, locking Em in. Frank looked at Katie.

  “You’re safe,” he told her. “You never have to go back to her.”

  Katie swallowed and looked down at her arms, bleeding from the deep scratches she had torn in them.

  “You’re safe, Katie Kelly,” Frank said.

  Her own name. Katie. Katie fastened herself to the name, tried to anchor herself back in reality. Not Em’s reality. Frank’s. Frank had saved her. Frank was the one she could trust. Shivering, Katie drew closer to Frank. He tentatively put his arms around her, then pulled her close in a comforting embrace. Katie rested her face on his chest, eyes closed. She breathed in his familiar scent.

  “Can you get me a drink?” Katie questioned. “Of water?”

  Frank chuckled. It was safe and warm in his arms.

  “Of course, Katie Kelly,” he murmured. “Always.”

  EPILOGUE

  KATIE KELLY STOOD WITH her skateboard, her long hair streaming behind her in the breeze, waiting. A dark blue van pulled up, and Officer Frank Sylvan leaned over to open the passenger side door. They didn’t have much to say as they traveled to their destination. Frank pulled the van into the cemetery. Katie looked out the window, tightening her grip on her board.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” she said.

  He slowed the van to a crawl.

  “I think you will want to see this.”

  “If it’s my mother’s grave, I don’t want to see,” she said immediately.

  “It’s not.”

  Katie shifted nervously. She looked into his face to see if he was telling her the truth. Frank’s face was always open to her. He wasn’t lying. He stopped the van and waited for her to agree. Finally, Katie nodded.

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh.

  Frank drove through the winding paths of the graveyard. He seemed to know the route very well. Katie swallowed, trying to keep the flashbacks of Christian’s grave under control. This wasn’t about Christian. She wasn’t going to his grave. She didn’t know whose it was, or why Frank was bringing her here, but she trusted his assurance that she wanted to see what he had to show her. She could trust Frank.

  The van pulled over as far to the shoulder of the narrow driveway as possible, and Frank got out and waited for her. Katie took his arm when he offered it to her, and he walked her through the rows of small, modest headstones. Finally he stopped, and gestured to a headstone. The grass was carefully clipped around it. There was a bouquet of sad-looking dead flowers resting on the stone. Katie knelt down and moved them out of the way. She looked at the inscription. A death date thirteen years ago, and the name “Baby Kelly”. A few etched flowers and a che
rub. Katie frowned, looking at it in confusion. She hadn’t died, so it wasn’t her gravestone. And they had known Katie’s first name, not the anonymous “baby” inscribed on this headstone.

  Then it all came to her in a rush of emotion. She touched the headstone and turned and looked at Frank, tears streaming down her face.

  “Monica,” she sniffled. “I think my baby sister’s name was Monica.”

  He knelt down in the grass beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “She was dead long before we got there,” he said, his own voice choked. “I’m so sorry.”

  Katie nodded.

  “I wanted to help her,” she said, clinging to him, closing her eyes and feeling for the dreams, the ones where Monica was crying. The things that Monica whispered to her when they were in an empty house. “She cried a lot at first. And then  …” her breath hitched. “Then she didn’t cry anymore.”

  “There were empty bottles in her bassinet,” Frank said. “Little bits of food that she was too young to eat. You must have tried to take care of her.”

  Katie shook her head, tears dropping off her chin.

  “But I was only a baby myself,” she told herself as much as him. “I just couldn’t.”

  He rubbed her back, trying to give her comfort.

  “You were a baby, all by yourself. You could barely keep yourself alive. You were lucky to survive. There’s no way you could have saved her.”

  “Monica,” Katie said, touching the etched words on the headstone. “Baby Monica Kelly.”

  Now Monica had a home. Now, she could rest.

  About the Author

  FOR AS LONG AS P.D. Workman can remember, the blank page has held an incredible allure. After a number of false starts, she finally wrote her first complete novel at the age of twelve. It was full of fantastic ideas. It was the springboard for many stories over the next few years. Then, forty-some novels later, P.D. Workman finally decided to start publishing. This is the fourth book out so far, and lots more are on the way!

  P.D. Workman is a devout wife and a mother of one, born and raised in Alberta, Canada. She is a homeschooler and an Executive Assistant. She has a passion for art and nature, creative cooking for special diets, and running. She loves to read, to listen to audio books, and to share books out loud with her family. She is a technology geek with a love for all kinds of gadgets and tools to make her writing and work easier and more fun. In person, she is far less well-spoken than on the written page and tends to be shy and reserved with all but those closest to her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Please visit P.D. Workman at pdworkman.com to see what else she is working on, to join her mailing list, and to link to her social networks.

  ~ ~ ~

  If you enjoyed this book, please take the time to recommend it to other purchasers with a review or star rating and share it with your social networks!

  Preview of “Tattooed Teardrops”

  TAMARA FRENCH HAS BEEN a model inmate throughout her incarceration.

  Great reference. You could go far on that one. Tamara sat on an uncomfortable bench in the brightly-lit lobby waiting for her ride. It was strange being on the other side of the guard booth. She stared at the too-white sneakers that stuck out below her dark pant cuffs, wondering what kind of life she had to look forward to with that ringing endorsement. She jiggled her legs up and down, trying to resist picking her nails. Eventually, a tall, middle-aged woman with a bun came in and stood before her. Tamara stared at her boxy black shoes for a moment before reluctantly looking up at her.

  "Tamara?" the woman said.

  "Yeah."

  "Ready to get out of here?"

  "I guess."

  "I expected a bit more enthusiasm,” the social worker said with a hint of a smile in the corners of her lipsticked mouth.

  "I'm sorta nervous,” Tamara said.

  "I guess that's understandable. Come on, let's go."

  Tamara sat there for another moment, then finally stood, and followed the woman out of the juvenile facility. She got in the car and buckled up, holding her bag tightly on her lap.

  The social worker introduced herself, but Tamara paid no attention, completely forgetting her name the next minute. The woman attempted small-talk a few times, but Tamara turned on the radio and stared out the window, freezing the social worker out. Eventually the woman got the message, and stopped trying to engage her.

  They pulled up in front of a brick house that was a least a hundred years old and needed some work. There had been an attempt made at landscaping, with some flowers and bushes bunched around the concrete steps leading up to the porch and the front door. There was peeling paint on the fence and mailbox post.

  "Here we are,” the social worker announced. “Let's go in."

  Tamara unbuckled and got out slowly. The social worker took her in, knocking on the front door and entering without waiting for an answer.

  “Hello, Marion, come on in,” a woman’s voice called from up above. “I’ll be right down.”

  Tamara stood beside the social worker, waiting. She held her paper bag awkwardly at her side, wishing that she didn’t have anything to hold onto. She made a show of examining the front hall and living room of the house, but in all honesty, she didn’t care what it looked like. It wasn’t prison. Her concern was not with the house, but what the foster parents were going to be like. The front room was fairly neat and presentable. No children’s toys scattered about. A load of laundry neatly folded in the basket sitting on the couch. The TV shut behind the doors of an entertainment center so it would not be the central focus of the room. The furnishings were nice, not thrift store or destroyed. There were footsteps on the stairs, and Tamara looked up for her first glimpse of her foster mother.

  Mrs. Henson had a pleasant, round face. Blond hair that had been lightly styled in an attempt to hide that it was starting to thin. She didn’t look more than forty. She was overweight, but not grossly. She just looked soft and comfortable. She was wearing a sweater and pants, and inconsequential gold jewelry.

  “Hello!” her voice rang out cheerfully.

  “Gerry, this is Tamara,” Marion introduced as Mrs. Henson reached the bottom of the stairs. “Tamara, Mrs. Henson.”

  “Hey,” Tamara muttered, without meeting her eyes. “Where do you want me?”

  “Your bedroom is at the top of the stairs. First door on the right,” Mrs. Henson offered. Tamara made the trek up the stairs. There was a dark wooden bannister, ornately carved. Not too scarred for being in a foster home. Tamara turned at the top of the stairs and opened the door to her right.

  There was a bed and a crib, and Tamara stood there, her heart speeding up, wondering if she’d been sent to the wrong room. Surely they wouldn’t have given her a room with a crib in it? She could almost see Julie’s still form on the high mattress… Mrs. Henson was there a moment later, having said a quick good-bye to Marion. She breathed a little heavily after her trip back up the stairs.

  “Go on in,” Mrs. Henson encouraged. “We sometimes take teen moms, to help teach them how to take care of their babies. We don’t have any right now, so you get this room. That way you don’t have to share.”

  Tamara walked into the room. The walls were a light green, freshly painted, with a white board wainscoting all the way around it. There was a pull-down blind with gauzy green curtains around the window. Tamara tossed her bag onto the bed, where it sat looking pitiful and inadequate.

  "The others will be getting home soon," Mrs. Henson offered. "I'll introduce you then."

  "Yes ma'am."

  "I'm happy to have you join us, Tamara. I was very impressed with your file."

  Sure. It was bound to be the last place she went that anyone was impressed with her prison record. She'd wowed them all at her parole hearing. There had been tears, and not all of them hers. So many of the inmates protested their innocence and refused to take responsibility or express remorse at their parole hearings. Tamara had been working on her perf
ormance for three years, and it was good. The board's vote was unanimous. Now she was free. But to what kind of life?

  Mrs. Henson stirred, making Tamara jump, startled. They both looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Mrs. Henson smiled and nodded.

  “Make yourself at home,” she encouraged, motioning around the room.

  Tamara nodded. Mrs. Henson backed off, and left her alone. Tamara stretched out on one of the freshly-made bed to wait. If there was one thing she was used to doing, it was waiting.

  There were no bells that rang to mark the passage of time and the transition from one time slot to another. Instead, time flowed along with small shifts and gradual transitions. Tamara heard the front door open and close several times, with voices reaching her ears even through the closed bedroom door. Mrs. Henson did most of the talking, others answered her questions or made comments during the pauses. Tamara couldn’t tell what any of them were saying, just the tone of voice. They all seemed to be casual and relaxed.

  There was a knock on Tamara’s bedroom door, and before she could get up to answer it, Mrs. Henson poked her head in.

  “We’re going to get dinner going,” she said. “Why don’t you come down and help, and you can meet everyone?”

  Tamara studied her for a moment, assessing her options. Was it an option? Was there a consequence for not complying? She was so unused to making her own decisions that she wasn’t sure what to do when faced with one.

  “Come on,” Mrs. Henson encouraged, motioning for Tamara to come.

  Tamara got up slowly and followed her foster mother down the stairs and to the kitchen. She was suddenly confronted with a whole pack of new people to meet. All bigger and older than her. Tamara made an effort to unclench her fists and not look confrontational. This wasn’t juvie. She didn’t have to prove herself physically.