Fearless

by Mel Ballew

  FearLess

  Tucker Reeve’s Story

  A Novella

  By

  Mel Ballew

  FearLess

  Copyright © 2013 Mel Ballew

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Regina Wamba, Mae I Design & Photography

  2013 Edited by Jen Nastri

  2015 (Re) Edited by Katie Mac

  ** Listen to entire the FearLess Playlist on Spotify

  Dedication

  To every single person who believes in the power of self, one’s own inner strength, and facing fear. To all of the readers that help me overcome mine every time another story fills my dreams, drives me to write and each time I click that li’l publish button. Readers give authors strength, extinguishing our fear, and leaving us… totally FearLess! Blessings!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Available Now

  Interact With Mel

  “A child understands fear, and the hurt and hate it brings”

  Nadine Gordimer

  Prologue

  1999

  Age 6

  Elle shivers in my arms. We hunch down inside our secret spot, our hidey-hole in my bedroom closet. She sits between my legs, and I hug her as tight as I can.

  “Snug as a bug,” I say, trying to comfort her the only way I know how to.

  “Will he find us, Tuck? Are we safe now? Huh?” Her quiet voice quivers with fear.

  Her body trembles against mine and I smooth her hair with shaky hands. She is scared to death. I am, too.

  Elle and I are twins, and I’m older by four minutes. That might not seem like much, but to twins, it means everything. I am her older brother, and my new role in the family is to protect my baby sister. The responsibility is huge for a six-year-old.

  I can’t let her know I’m afraid. I have to be strong. “Be still, Elle. Be quiet, okay? I don’t think he’s gone. I didn’t hear the door slam. Yet. Hang on.”

  The light from the crack under the door isn’t so bright anymore. I wonder how long we’ll have to wait. My arms are tired, but I can’t let Elle go.

  When mama cries out, Elle tries to wiggle out of my arms. “Let me go, Tucker. Mama needs us. We have to go help her.”

  I squeeze her, my arms tightening around her. “No, not yet, Elle. Hold still and be quiet.” Even though my teeth chatter and my hands shake, I fight against showing it.

  A small hiccup escapes Elle. “I’m so scared, Tuck. Are you scared, too?”

  “Nah, he’ll be gone soon.”

  Boys aren’t weak. Boys don’t cry. Boys aren’t afraid. Not of the darkness. Not of the bogeyman. Not of fear itself. When I lean back, something sharp pokes my back, and it feels like it’s cutting deep into my spine. I jump, and Elle jerks in my arms, so I wrap them back around her to make both of us feel safer. When her shudders calm down, I free a hand to reach behind my back and grab hold of a wire coat hanger. It’s bent and the tip is very sharp, but not as sharp as the snake’s teeth I imagined it to be. A sense of relief comes over me, and I sigh, pushing it further away from us.

  To distract her, I turn her to face me, even though I can’t see her in the dark. “So, whatcha gonna ask Santa for, Elle?”

  When we talk about Santa Clause, it gets our minds off what he’s doing to mama downstairs. I hear them yell and try to ignore the bang and thump sounds.

  THUD!

  Elle sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “A baseball bat, I guess. What do you want, Tuck?”

  I don’t bother to ask why she wants it. I know. Elle is such a girl. She doesn’t play ball. She takes ballet. I want to tell her I don’t want to be scared either. I don’t want to live another day afraid, terrified of what he’s going to do. Of his hand cracking one of our faces or the back of our heads. If one of us will end up dead. But I can’t. I don’t. Instead, I whisper, “Me, too.”

  Every time we have to hide, it feels like forever until mama comes to get us. She tries not to cry, but does anyway. She tries to be strong for us. She always looks so beautiful, even when he leaves marks. He always leaves marks. Sometimes, they are on the outside and time is the only thing that can heal them. Sometimes, nothing can heal the scars. They’re on the inside and run too deep.

  We freeze. The doorknob jiggles, turns slowly, and then the door cracks open.

  We squeeze each other even tighter and hold our breath. We always hold our breath. We wait.

  “Tucker? Elle? C’mere, my babies. C’mere to mama.”

  “Mama!” we say, scrambling toward her, and wrap our arms around her neck as if our lives depend on it. She kisses us through her silent tears.

  “Fear raised from terror, incubates more fear.”

  Mel Ballew

  Chapter One

  2002

  Age 9

  A cold winter’s morning faces us on one of the most disturbing days of my young life. As we walk across the uneven church parking lot, Elle grips my hand, squeezing it for dear life. “It’s okay, Elle,” I whisper.

  We’ve never been much of a churchgoing family, and getting ready to walk into this one seems like a lie. We’re here to lay my dad to rest. If there really is a God, He surely can’t love this man. Can He?

  “I don’t want to go in, Tucker,” Elle whispers, tugging my hand and bringing me to a near standstill.

  Mom seems lost in her own thoughts, so I stop walking. Elle halts next to me. Tears well in her eyes, and I know she feels like I do, but I have to be strong. For Elle. For mom. For myself.

  I sigh, fighting against the fear and squaring my shoulders. “We can do this. C’mon.” I smile at her, offering her the little strength I’ve found to reassure her, and then dig even deeper for more, so I don’t make a liar out of myself.

  We walk through large wooden doors leading into the church. I almost feel like we’re entering a haunted house, but not quite. The inside is dim, but not dark. The light coming through the colored windows paints rainbows on the floor. It doesn’t have that ghostly smell like haunted houses have. It’s a similar scent, like when daddy used to burn leaves, and it stings my nose. Everyone is quiet, but the organ plays, and the music sends goose bumps over my body. A strange feeling creeps up my spine, so I close my eyes in the hopes it will disappear.

  My eyes pop open when I hear a sob. My mother is a wreck with tears flowing down her face, eyes swollen and red, and her face blotchy. “Tucker. Elle.” She struggles past a few strangled breaths. “Sweeties, why don’t you go have a seat in the first pew on the right. I’ll be right there, and then we’ll say goodbye to daddy.” She tries to smile and nods her head to direct our way.

  Her shaky voice confirms the reality of what we are facing. Inside, I want to move, but can’t. I try to open my mouth to talk to her, but the words won’t come out. Instead, I nod, letting her know I heard her. Mom makes her way toward the large thing she called a casket, sitting front and center in the sanctua
ry, like it’s on display. I guess it is. It’s creepy, and fear suffocates me. I can’t breathe.

  “Tucker, I don’t want to do this.” Elle’s voice calms me, reminding me I feel the same way.

  I don’t want to do this. Honestly, what if he’s not dead? What if he is pretending? I’ve seen him fall asleep for a long time after he drinks a lot of that stuff in a can. He even sleeps longer than that if he drinks the colored stuff in a bottle. It looks like apple juice, but to me, smells better than that crap in the can. Yeah, I smelled it once. I was curious why he loved it more than us. There had to be something about it to take him away from us. Right?

  I whisper, “Elle, I know. Me either.” If I tell her more than that, I’ll be confirming my fears aloud, and ‘boys don’t fear anything.’ So I remember what dad used to always say, and ‘suck it up, boy.’

  “Don’t leave me, Tuck.” Tears stain Elle’s cheeks, and I feel some stinging in the back of my nose again as it burns my throat. My instincts tell me I am not going to like what I am about to see, and I will need to protect Elle.

  “I won’t, Bugs.” I call her my favorite nickname with a rough voice and gently squeeze her hand into my own. I’ve called her this for years. Most of my friends’ sisters squeal at the sight of anything creepy-crawly. Elle is always the first one out there catching them with me and is never grossed out by bugs of any kind. She reminds me of a little ladybug, cute as a button, and always brings me luck. Every time dad would start one of his fits, as we have grown to refer to them, it helped to have Elle right by my side because she makes me feel lucky and safe. Although we are only nine, I suspect she will always be my little Bugs.

  Hand in hand, we make our way down the long aisle to the seat mom chose for us. After sliding into the pew, we stay silent, yet much seems to be said between us. We recognize some people, but not many. Mom looks uncomfortable talking to the strangers, and I can’t blame her. Most of the townsfolk talk. Always have. I know it includes rumors about us, and I’m sure she knows this, too.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” A deep, soft voice speaks to us from over our heads.

  Elle scoots closer to me and grips my hand tighter. I peer up into the kindest eyes I have ever seen.

  “Thank you,” I mouth, not sure what else to say, but feeling older than my nine years. During the car ride here, mom instructed Elle and me on what to say if someone spoke to us.

  His strong hand reaches for my shoulder and grips it with a light, comforting pressure. Tears flow from my eyes. No, no, no! Inside, I cringe. I wait for what I know is coming. Boys don’t cry. I know I’m going to get it now. I hold my breath.

  Because I expect his words to cause me pain, his reply shocks and surprises me. “Tucker, it’s okay. Son, it’ll be okay. I promise. It’s over now.”

  He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t say anything mean. Not at all. He smiles down at me before walking over to our mother. He places his hand on the small of my mom’s back, and they engage in conversation. He is gentle and kind, a stark contrast to what I’m used to, and so, I notice this the most.

  Elle rests her head on my shoulder, and I lean my head against hers. We remain like this for a long while until it’s time to say our goodbyes. Of course, neither of us is ready for this, no matter how much time passes.

  When mom steps up to the end of the pew, we scoot over to make room for her to sit on the outside edge. She glances at Elle and then makes direct eye contact with me. “You’re a good son, Tucker. And you’re a good big brother to your sister.” Her fading smile says it all. She turns toward the black-suited man, staring at us from the stand on the altar.

  I don’t feel good, I think, as my eyes travel over his body. He seems kind. This makes two nice men I’ve met since I’ve been here. Something about this seems off, but I push it aside as soon as I hear him clear his throat. It echoes throughout the entire room, amplified by the microphone clipped to his suit collar.

  “Good afternoon. I am Pastor Todd. On behalf of the family, I would like to thank you for coming out today. It is my honor to conduct this service.” His eyes scan the crowd. Mine follow. As I glance around, the number of people here shocks me. I never knew my dad had this many friends. None of them ever came to visit.

  My mom taps my leg, snapping me to attention. Did she read my mind? I shuffle in my seat, sitting upright, as the minister speaks in his calming voice.

  “When someone we love dies, there is a tremendous amount of shock…” His words fade.

  Ugh! This tie is too tight. I tug at my collar, trying to loosen it. Swinging my feet back and forth, my mother’s hand on my knee jolts me.

  She leans down. “Tucker, pay attention.”

  The pastor’s next words puzzle me. “We are here today, as the people of God, to find comfort in the truth of Scripture, and to surround Daniel with our love, our faith, and our prayers.”

  I fidget on the hard pew. I’d rather be playing marbles.

  Mom puts her arm around me and pulls me against her side. She says nothing but smiles. Her love proves everything. Yet, as I sit here, next to my two favorite people in the world, I’m confused. People of God reminds me of Sunday school when Miss Fletcher taught us about God’s love.

  Love? Daddy didn’t love us. He beat our mother. He beat us, too. Is that how he showed us his love? If so, do I beat him, even though he’s dead? Will that surround him in love, faith, and prayers?

  Yeah, well, one time my best friend Derek saw my black eye. When he told his mom, she told him to pray for me. He showed me how she taught him to do it, so I tried, too. It didn’t work. That night when I prayed, I got another beating, and I did NOT pray for that. So, now, I know the truth about prayers, and there is no faith in that.

  I just want to go home. I don’t want to be here.

  The preacher goes on about resurrection and living after death and being at the right hand of the Father, or at least that’s what I caught in bits and pieces.

  When he says, “Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,” it rattles me to my core. This one thing has me hyperventilating. A cold sweat forms on my forehead and my palms feel clammy. My scalp and hair dampen from the perspiration.

  Why? Well, it would figure, a man like my dad would never really sleep. I had a nightmare that proves it. Last night, I dreamt he opened his eyes and looked at me when I walked up to view him. The memory makes me shake.

  Elle must sense my nervous tension because she leans over. “Hey, you okay?” she asks in her sweet, quiet voice.

  I don’t get a chance to respond. Mom stands and then pulls me to my feet. I turn to Elle and help her up from the pew. The pastor gestures to my mom, and she steps out into the aisle, leaving enough room for Elle and me to slip out in front of her. When mom gestures for us to walk toward the front, toward him, everything inside of me wants to resist. The smell of the flowers surrounding him start choking me, but Elle gives me strength. “C’mon, we can do this.”

  I fight the rising fear. Together, we make our way up to the casket. Mom goes first, stepping around us to view him. Through her noiseless cries, I can tell she was fighting, but can’t understand why she’s not happy he’s dead. Elle shows such bravery and strength. She is such a trooper and I am so proud of her. I should be protecting her, yet here I stand, frozen in fear.

  Next, it’s my turn. The closer I get, my knees feel like they are going to give out and I want to puke. My eyes become blurry, but not because I’m crying. I can’t see past my own panic.

  Just then, I take a deep breath.

  The horror becomes reality when my dad sits up and pure terror overcomes me. My nightmare has come to life! He is risen!

  “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

  C.S. Lewis

  Chapter Two

  Still shaken from my anxiety at the funeral service, I keep to myself during the wake, closed-off and alone. Elle cradles her doll as she sits on the tree swing in our backyard.
Part of me wants to go over there. The other part wants to watch from where I am to make certain she is okay. I glance from Elle to the table spread with dishes brought by my mom’s friends, our neighbors, and women from the church. With the smell of dead people’s flowers still stuck in my nose, I stare back and forth between pasta salad, potato salad, and cold cuts, none of which looks good to me. Elle pretends to feed her doll, Gracey, a bite of her brownie. Now, that sounds good.

  Reaching for one, my hand touches another hand smaller than my own.

  “I’m sorry about your dad.” Her soft voice calms my nerves, and my trembling hands still a little. I lift my head so I can see who is speaking.

  “Thanks,” I reply, lowering my eyes back to the tray of brownies. I am numb.

  “Chocolate always works for me. Hi, I’m S’renaty,” she offers.

  “S’renaty?” Clearing my throat, I try not to look like a dork, but need to make sure I heard her right. It’s such a pretty name for a pretty girl.

  “Yeah, chocolate always makes me feel better.”

  I offer her a small nod since it is the best I have to give right now. The sound of her voice catches my attention more than the feel of her hand. I mean, girls are always yucky. I just never get all of the dress-up, Barbies, or tea parties Elle loves so much. Only, she doesn’t seem yucky.

  “Hi, S’renaty. Tucker. I’m Tucker,” I spit out before taking a bite of my brownie.

  She interrupts me. “Cool. I’m gonna call you Tuck. You can call me Ren.”

  I don’t know what else to say to her. I want to keep talking to her, but I also want to be alone. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do or what to say. My eyes travel the room before I take another bite.

  “Um, I lost my puppy, Jasper, last year. Eat a lot of brownies!”