“Hey princess, it’s your new daddy Mike,” he whispers while slipping into my room. “You can stop pretending you’re asleep, because I know you’re awake. I don’t want you rolling around like that. You know I hate it when I don’t have easy access to you,” he says harshly. “I’m here to say I’m sorry. You know I feel bad for hitting you like that.” I don’t believe him. He isn’t sorry, or should I say this is his version of sorry, which is to say he isn’t sorry at all.
He’s not going to give up. “It’s your fault though. If you would listen and do as you’re told, then I wouldn’t have to discipline you. You know I don’t like to do it.” I refrain from rolling my eyes or reacting in any way, because it would only earn me another slap or beating, which would prompt him to apologize again. His way of apologizing sucks and I could do without it. I also hate that he calls himself my daddy. He’s not. My daddy was an amazing man, my hero. I could do without Mike, that’s for sure.
I try to roll away from his touch, but I’m not successful. I feel the tears, hot as they course down my face. I always fight the inevitable, and never seem to learn that it doesn’t matter how much I don’t want it to happen, because it’s going to anyway. I feel his hands fumbling with the blankets and tugging them away from my body. I whimper as the sheet slips though my fingers; that last bit of barrier now gone between us. I shake as his hands close over my breasts, hating the way I feel as he grips and twists them in his hands, as well as pinching and hurting my nipples. He’s eager and his breathing increases if I make any sound. He’s almost gleeful in my misery. Everything about this man rubs me the wrong way and I tremble in fear. I can’t hold in my cry of pain as his mouth closes down and bites me, hard. The tears are coming faster as I lie here staring at the ceiling, horrified at what’s to come. I’m hopeful Mama might hear and come help me, but then I remember she is away at work. I hear Mike pull at his zipper, the sound raising all the hairs on my body. He climbs over me, his knees on either side of my face as he leers down at me, pulling his private part from his jeans.
“Open up little one….”
I wake up with a loud gasp, breathing heavily and covered in a cold sweat. I bring my hands up to my face and the sobs start up again, my chest burning in shame. I was twelve years old when that happened and I knew what he was doing was wrong. I even went to Mama to tell her what Mike was doing to me while she was away, but she didn’t believe me. In fact, she slapped me hard across the face and told me to stop lying in an attempt to get attention. She said that we all missed Daddy, but that was no reason for me to make up ridiculous stories.
I have grown to hate my mother. She was only concerned about him, saying a man’s pride and reputation were sometimes all he had and I could destroy them both with my lies. She actually accused me of trying to steal her husband away with my youth and called me several vile names, my own mother. I thought she loved me, but I was wrong. Not only did she not believe me about the sexual abuse, but also she didn’t even step in when he was physically abusing me, telling me instead that it was my fault and that I had somehow asked for it.
I shake my head at the dirty memories, my empty stomach curdling, and I rush to the bathroom to vomit. I’m on my hands and knees on the tile floor, my body trembling and my stomach clenching from the memories wreaking havoc on my body. I manage to pull myself up onto my feet, my legs trembling in fatigue. I rinse my mouth out and brush my teeth all over again, getting the vile taste out of my mouth. I remove my wet pajamas and pull all the damp bedding off of the bed, putting a clean set of sheets on before dumping all the dirty stuff into a pile at the door. I guess I’ll have to make a trip to the Laundromat this weekend to do my laundry.
I climb back into bed and try to steer my thoughts to better things, like memories of Daddy or Grams. It’s getting harder and harder for me to remember things like his smiling face or how he smelled, and Grams, I can barely remember the wrinkles around her eyes and how deep they got when she smiled. Grams loved smiling and she said the wrinkles around her eyes were her proof that she was living a happy life. It hurts my heart and makes me feel hollow thinking that I’m forgetting them, especially Daddy. I can’t forget him, I just can’t. He’s the only bit of positive from my past. I fall back into a fitful sleep, trying to picture his smiling face in my mind.
***
I wake up about fifteen minutes before my alarm and I’m thankful for the extra time. I get ready as fast as I can and throw all my laundry into the bag, so I can grab it quickly and head to the Laundromat at the end of my shift. I also want to head home and see if I can sneak in to grab some more of my things without Mama and Mike seeing. I’m stupid for thinking they’ve even kept anything of mine, especially after this much time has passed, but I have to try. Fear has kept me away all this time, but it’s time to face it head on. At least then I’ll know. I have a large box of photos of Daddy that are an absolute must-have, and while I didn’t have many clothes, there are several things that I should grab while I can. Knowing Mama, she probably threw my things out long ago; after all, it’s been well over a year since I left.
I repeat my morning routine, calling out my daily greeting to Mr. Roland and our short order cook, all while getting the coffee started. I must look an absolute mess, because Mr. Roland pours a cup of coffee and hands it directly to me. I take my first sip and love the bold flavor as it explodes on my tongue. I think I’ve found a new obsession. Why haven’t I tried this before? I gulp my coffee quickly so I can rush out to the floor and start letting our patrons in.
“Morning, Roger,” I call out with a smile. I get a small smile in return as he slides into his seat at the counter.
“Morning, Doll,” he says. “Have you given any more thought to that job offer?” I did some research while I was at the library. I’m twenty-one, so in our state I can legally strip for him and serve liquor or consume alcohol. I hope the offer still stands, as I am very interested. I’m tired of being broke. I don’t know if I have it in me, but I need to survive and living on a cot in the back room of a diner isn’t what I had in mind for my life.
“Yeah I have,” I say under my breath. “I’m twenty-one. Are you still interested in hiring me?” I watch his face carefully, trying to see if he’s leaving me any clues as to how he might respond.
“For sure, Doll. The job is yours whenever you’re ready to take it. Just call that number on the card or let me know when you want to start when I pop in for my coffee and my daily fix of those gorgeous dimples.” At his answer I beam, showing off the dimples that he’s referring to. “Or,” he says watching my face carefully. “You can have the job now. I’ll pay you cash for now until you can fill out all the new-hire paperwork. What do you think?”
I watch as he writes something onto a piece of paper and then slides the paper towards me, waiting for my reaction. I look at the numbers on the page, but I’m not sure what they mean.
“That’s your salary,” he says with a smile as my mouth drops open in shock. “An average including tips, but usually more on the weekends. We can talk more business later, but I thought that might help you with your decision making.”
I nod my head and smile, glad that I’ve been doing some research. Most strippers have to pay a stage fee, like renting the dance floor for the chunk of time that is scheduled. In addition, it is expected that ten percent of the tips be shared with the DJ. Not only are the dancers expected to tip the DJ, but the bartenders are as well. The higher end clubs usually pay a flat fee to the dancers, which include a generous clothing allowance. Aside from sharing ten percent of tips, the rest is the dancer’s to keep. Judging by Roger, his club is probably a nicer one. From Sunday to Wednesday, a good night might be three or four hundred dollars, but the premium nights, which are Thursday through Saturday, are expected to earn up to eight hundred or more. I’m glad to have this knowledge so that I feel less guilty about what I’ll be doing, and when we do sit down and chat about it I’ll be prepared and well informed. I plan on doing more
research about Roger’s club specifically as you can never have too much information on hand.
My heart is beating rapidly. I’m so happy. For the first time since I was a small child, it feels like things are finally going my way. I take a deep breath. I need to make changes for my life, and this is a good one. It’s also a choice that I get to make freely, as opposed to others making decisions for me or forcing me into situations that I didn’t want to be a part of, like my stepdad. I shudder as I think of him and then shake my head to clear it.
“Yes,” I say softly. “I say let’s do this.”
“Great,” he says with a big smile. “You won’t regret it. Now when can you come in and see me so we can chat in more detail?”
“How does tomorrow sound?” I’m eager to have this conversation so that I can move forward in my new life.
“Tomorrow it is,” he says nodding his head. He thrusts his hand out at me and I grab it as I smile wide.
“To new beginnings. See you later, Roger. Customers are waiting.” He returns my expression and I get back to work as I daydream about my new opportunity.
***
Like yesterday my day goes by quickly and my feet are absolutely killing me. I say my goodbyes to everyone to avoid being rude and run for my back room so I can grab all of my belongings. I grab my laundry sack and my backpack and make a run for the side door, hurrying down the sidewalk. I can see my bus down the street, so I know I won’t have to wait long. It stops just as I make it to the stop, the door opening for me to enter. I smile at the bus driver to be polite and grab an available seat, blowing out my breath as I heave all my belongings into the seat beside me.
“Elizabeth Marie, are you paying attention to me?” I jump as I hear the voice coming from across the aisle. I look over to the young woman across from me and she is sitting with a little girl who I would guess is about four.
“Yes Mama. I’m a good girl. You said that I’m not supposed to bounce in my seat.” I smile at her sweet little voice and my heart pinches in my chest at their interaction.
“Yes, sweetie, you are a very good girl, and Mommy is so proud of you.” I’ve never been told those kind words; especially not after Daddy was gone. Mama was too busy pleasing her new husband and was blind to his violence. I always wished that I had a different relationship with Mama, but all the hoping and wishing didn’t change my reality. I read about great relationships between mothers and daughters and always wanted that for myself, but I’ve finally succumbed and accepted my reality. I think that learning to live within your limitations is a difficult thing, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job. I sigh and let out a soft breath, mentally shrugging my shoulders as I think of what Mrs. Arnold, the librarian, used to say to me.
She would pat my back and say, “Life may seem hard now, dear, but you just keep your head up, because things always seem to find a way of straightening themselves out.” I appreciated the sentiment, but at the time I thought that Mrs. Arnold was wrong, very wrong. I’m exhausted both physically and mentally from my mind constantly reeling. I feel like I’m barely living, only just surviving.
I close my eyes and lean my face against the window, allowing the warmth to seep into my skin. I’ve found a new happiness in the sun. Maybe Mrs. Arnold is right and things are straightening themselves out, one thing at a time.
Chapter Ten
Cherry
I startle at the sound of a ringing bell, realizing someone had pulled the cord for the next stop. Lucky for me it’s my stop. I yawn widely and smile again at the young mother and her little girl, before my thoughts veer back to Mama. “You’re only getting what you deserve, Charisa. I’m exacerbated over how oblivious you are to real life.”
Maybe she was right. I had been awfully naïve, constantly lost in a world of fairytales, but I wouldn’t understand that about myself until later. After it was all too late. I grab my stuff and step off the bus, throwing my bags over my shoulder for the ten-minute walk to the trailer. I can tell from down the road that the car is gone, meaning Mike isn’t there. I need to go around to the back to see if Mama is around. I know I don’t have much time, but I have to hope that my things are all where I left them so I can get in and get out. The place is small, so either it’s all still there or Mama has long since trashed it. I look from side to side. Thankfully the place is surrounded by lots of trees helping to disguise me from any prying eyes. I leave my belongings outside and peer into a back window, my hands shaking in fear.
I luck out, noting Mama isn’t there and breathe a little sigh of relief. I pull the door open, the familiar creak causing a bit of a twinge in my chest. This place holds nothing but bad memories for me. Every last minute of my time here was a living, breathing, nightmare, and one that I haven’t woken up from. I step inside and the familiar smell hits me, taking me back to that time as if more than a year hasn’t passed.
“You stupid moron! Anyone with half a brain can cook a better dinner than you. You’re a worthless, good for nothing bitch, and stupid too. Think of your poor Mama, having to put up with your special brand of stupid.” Mike’s rage had known no bounds that night, and I had tried desperately to swing myself out of his reach. Mama was away on a girl’s night, but she wouldn’t have helped me anyway. Her words are always coming back to haunt me. She was a very repetitive person, making it stick all that much more.
“You need to get your head out of the clouds, Charisa. Dreamers never get anywhere and only live a life of difficulty. One way or another, you’ll need to learn your lesson, and I’m getting tired of telling you the same thing day in and day out.
She left me to fend for myself, left me with that monster. I knew better than to talk back or make a sound when Mike was in a mood, otherwise it would be like poking a sleeping bear. Giving him any type of reaction only fueled his fire, but for whatever reason I had not heeded that advice. Not that day.
“You’ll be rid of me soon enough,” I screamed while my body shook with frustration and anger. “I’ll go away to college and you won’t ever have to see me again. I want better for my life, better than this shithole, and better than a man like you. You’re not my daddy and I will never look up to you. You’re a weak, spineless coward who beats and abuses girls.”
I don’t know what I’d been thinking, but he didn’t just get angry, he lost it. I hate that I can’t forget. He kept beating me until I could barely see out of my eye. The swelling was profuse. My nose and lip were bleeding, the smell of blood heavy in the air. I remember silently begging for it to stop, but he didn’t stop. In fact, he took it one step further and began biting me. He loved to bite me. I remember finally relenting and allowing my whimpers and grunts of pain to come out, because the pain was so severe. I had leaned against the wall as my legs were trembling with pain and fatigue, but even the wall couldn’t hold me up as I slid down in a heap.
“You are a worthless little shit,” he screams at me as he squats down to my level. “You think you’re better than everyone else, walking around with your nose stuck up in the air. You’re a joke, a pathetic loser. You don’t have one single friend that wants to hang out with you. You think I don’t see that? Do you think I’m blind?” I’m horrified as I watch him inhale and hock deep in his throat, then spit the large wad of snot and spit right onto my face, laughing.
I give myself a little shake. I’m standing in the middle of my former home, tears tracking down my face as I remember him standing and grabbing a beer from the fridge as if nothing had just happened, and then stepping over me on his way back to his recliner.
I use my hands to wipe the tears from my face and hurry towards what was once my bedroom. The first thing I see is the lock on the door. I remember the day it was installed. My stomach is tight with anxiety and I’m not ready to think about any of that. I need to get my things and get out. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I open the door and my room looks like it always did. I’m surprised. I would have thought with the way Mama treated me that she would be happy that I was gone
and make this room into something else. Everything is in its place, exactly as I left it that last day I was here. I shake my head, tears still falling from my eyes. Maybe there is a small part of Mama that regrets what she did to me.
I step into my room and kneel beside my bed, feeling underneath for the box I have hidden there. I sigh as my fingers touch the side of the box, grabbing it and pulling it out. Every treasure and memory I have of Daddy is in this box. I slide it out and put it by the door, hurrying to gather up my clothes, shoving them into my backpack. I didn’t think this through. I will definitely be struggling to cart all this around. I manage to juggle everything and I rush to get out of here, not wanting to be caught. Once I’m out the front door I scurry around to the back, the cover of trees not calling attention to me and to my armload of items. I hurry down the road as fast as my legs can carry me while I struggle with all my belongings. When I’m safely back on the bus, I release a sigh of relief and use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my brow.
My last stop is the Laundromat to get to this bag of laundry. Maybe I should have split this into two different trips, but bus fair isn’t cheap when you don’t make much money. I’m exhausted, overwhelmed, and lonely, but other women do this every day, so I need to figure this out. I can’t waste time feeling sorry for myself. There is too much to do. The bus stops right in front of the Laundromat and I haul my stuff into the building.
Accepting Cherry Page 8