The Battered Heiress Blues

by Laurie Van Dermark

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Laurie Van Dermark

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Cover photos courtesy of Katie Hallmark Photography.

  (The Arlington Home, Birmingham, Alabama)

  ISBN: 0615579914

  ISBN-13: 9780615579917

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62110-151-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962877

  CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC

  Please visit the author’s website at www.laurievandermark.com

  For Noah and Izzy

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A wise man once directed me to the writings of Gustavo Gutierrez, who says in part, “Neighbor is not he whom I find in my path, but rather he in whose path I place myself, he whom I approach and actively seek.” I have met many along the path who have contributed to the work in progress that is Laurie Van Dermark.

  First and always, praise and glory to my very patient God.

  Thanks to my dear parents for their support and encouragement.

  Nothing but love for Michael, my quick-witted brother, for our verbal sparring. Spending time with you is like going on a mind vacation. Thanks for the trips.

  My precious children who are so loved. The years have flown by since your adoptions in Guatemala. Your cooperation and humor have made this book a reality.

  Jacy, I feel bad that other people don’t have you as a best friend! You are the real deal- selfless and present. No matter the time or request, you are always there- no excuses. You are a rarity in this world.

  While living in New Zealand, I was fortunate enough to meet some truly stellar Kiwis. I would like to express a special thank you to Maureen and Daniel Tustin. The kids and I will always be in your debt. You taught me the meaning of Kia Kaha.

  Additionally, being in the presence of the following people has enriched my life so greatly: Shane and Jen Waters; The White family; Fr. Gerard Boyce; Hector Bosse for introducing me to humanitarian work; Monsignor Richard Lynch for our chats in Chimbote; The Bookalam family; Donna Estes; and Katie Hallmark.

  I met Fr. Jack Davis and Sister Peggy Burne in 2000 when I answered a call to experience the life of the poor in Chimbote, Peru. While our missionary group was bringing tangible goods to help the poorest of the poor, living outside the mission walls, we received far more than we could ever give. Jack and Peggy work tirelessly to try and meet even the simplest needs like food, water, and shelter, which most of us take for granted. Watching a large family crowd into a one-room estera shack with dirt floors, no roof, food, running water, or bathroom facilities is appalling. Not only do these heroes of humanity struggle to give the poor the dignity and care that is their God given right, they also work to raise funds for healthcare and education; without which, the next generation doesn’t stand a chance for a better life. Every time I travel to Chimbote, I leave a piece of my heart there. Please visit www.friendsofchimbote.org to help.

  John Tinney, my legal representation, for dealing with the distractions.

  I am blessed.

  PROLOGUE

  Sissy was the smallest black woman I’d ever laid my eyes on. What she lacked in stature, she far made up for in gumption. Her bark wasn’t worse than her bite. Her words, spewed forth with clear fervor, made white men tremble, but the bite- well my father shed more than one tear on her account. My nana often called her the greatest gift she’d ever given my mama, as if Sissy was of the character to stay where it didn’t please her most emphatically. She was four feet ten inches of pure stubborn power with micro braids down the length of her back. In so much as John Spencer felt he was the head of his own household, Sissy worked for Nana and no other. Father worked diligently to have her dismissed, but she never departed the mansion and never left my mama’s side for a second. Where one went, the other followed. When I came along, she became my devoted guardian, hiding me beneath her protective wings from John’s indifference to the birth of a daughter. In Sissy’s eyes, I was the grandest and most treasured gift she had. This shelter continued as my mama bore John a son- my brother, Thomas.

  Mama had grown tired and slept for stretches of time. Sissy made excuses, but I knew that all was not well. My father began making time in his busy schedule to take her on multiple shopping trips to Atlanta. I was young and naïve, but not stupid. Mama hadn’t been well since she turned up pregnant with Tommy. For all of Sissy’s convincing and her infinite planning to keep me busy, I saw Mama wither like a delicate rose on the vine at the end of a glorious season. Though she became a prisoner to her carved wooden bed, she seemed at any moment to arise and entertain the high cotton sort that was Savannah royalty.

  John blew through abruptly and left just as quickly, never staying longer than a night, unable to face the gravity of losing his beloved Grace. Thomas and I held vigil at her bedside daily until Sissy would muster the energy to half carry and half drag us down the hall to our beds. Mama had become a shell that housed multiple tubes. One snaked down her nose, one in her arm, and another in her chest. She’d wake briefly and shower us with smiles before drifting off again. Thomas was too small to feel the sharp sorrow that pierced my heart. She was larger than life to me.

  “I don’t want a sick Mama anymore, Sissy,” I cried, watching the nurse adjust the tubes that made the most beautiful woman in the world a human pincushion. Turning away, my body found its haven in the arms of my shadow. Pulling me close to her bony chest, she brushed the dark unruly curls back over my shoulders.

  “You wipe those tears dry, you hear? You’re a lucky girl, Julia Spencer.”

  “My mama’s dying. That’s not lucky,” I whimpered, burying my face against her.

  “Well, God sure didn’t see fit to give me a mama like yours. My mama was as mean as a cottonmouth snake. She used to make me pick my switch before she beat me with it. Your mama is an angel. Now, look at her. Is she not the finest woman we know?”

  “Of course,” I replied softly, shaking my head in agreement, as I turned to see the pile of bones under Sissy’s homemade quilts. Only her head was visible, displaying the exquisite ebony silk that sprung forth from her scalp, meticulously coiffed by her old friend.

  When the nurse left, Sissy laid out a picnic blanket at the bottom of Mama’s bed and presented Thomas and I with a basket of food to explore. He thought Mama was merely sleeping but we knew her silence was from the stuff that flowed through the tubes- the medicine that kept her quiet and free from pain. Sissy grabbed our hands, blessed the food, and prayed over Mama for healing before we broke bread. We talked about the blue water that stretched out into the horizon just beyond our backdoor and made plans to swim in the morning. Sissy
handed out her special chocolate chip cookies and fruit punch that we held tightly while she sang old hymns. The sound radiated beautiful tones that filled the room- almost visible. She didn’t miss a note as she spied my brother’s body beginning to slant in the direction of the soft mattress. Rescuing the glass from his tight grip, she placed it on the vanity dresser where Mama once sat and brushed her hair.

  Footsteps pounded heavily against the wooden floor in the hall, getting louder as they approached the bedroom. The melody stopped mid-phrase. Suddenly, the door flung open and my father filled the space between us with anger and rage, sucking life’s air out of the room like a vacuum. His face was as red as the inside of a watermelon. He walked with determination to where Thomas lay and grabbed him harshly, disappearing from our sight. The cries of my startled brother became more muffled as Father stormed further down the hall. Only moments passed before he returned and instructed me to leave with haste.

  “I’m not leaving my mama,” I said defiantly.

  “Oh yes you are, young lady, and I mean directly,” he replied, pointing to my exit.

  Sissy took a step toward me, volunteering to incur his wrath on my behalf.

  “You best stand back, Sissy,” he said, shaking his fist in her direction.

  Looking to her side and then the other, followed by a lingering glance behind, she responded with an equal amount of hostility, “Just who do you think you’re talking to? You see a slave in this room? You forget yourself, Mr. Spencer.”

  “You’re fired. Leave.”

  “Well, you’ve already fired me one hundred and thirty-five times and I am still here. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that. I don’t work for you. I work for Nana- the one who bankrolls your business and bought you this fancy house. Grace is my best friend. You have no authority over me. Collect yourself before you scare your daughter.”

  Opting to go around the mountain instead of through it, he slipped by her to the opposite side of the bed and started to pull my right arm with conviction, causing the red juice to splash against the ivory quilt.

  “Look what you did. You let that child loose,” she demanded.

  “Or what? Your benefactor is not here, is she? Run along, Sissy. Go tell Nana.”

  Father was committed to his present course of action, but a scrappy African goddess who was part sugar and part salt raised me. I wouldn’t go down without a fight and I had absolutely no intention of being removed from my mama’s presence. “Leave Julia. Now,” he yelled, making Mama flinch, though her eyes remained closed.

  “The hell you say,” I responded, grabbing hold of Mama’s hand that barely fell below the edge of the quilt.

  Both Father and Sissy said my name in unison, in its entirety, the very second the profanity left my lips, “Julia Grace Spencer”. Just as quickly as they came together on common ground they receded back into their corners.

  “I am sleeping in Mama’s bed again tonight and I’m not leaving,” I said with resolve.

  Father scooped me up from behind, breaking my connection to Mama, and began making forward progress toward the door, but my hands found the wooden posts at the end of her bed. He pulled and pulled until the sweat began to gather around my fingers, causing me to lose grip. Catching the doorframe as we passed through it, I recommitted to my cause. Sissy began speaking with wild contempt at a speed that no mere human could understand, cursing him to be sure. Thoroughly frustrated and impatient, John finally grabbed my hands and ripped them across the metal doorplate, sending a stabbing pain straight through me. Blood spattered across the planked floor and Sissy spun into action, removing the scarf from around her neck and winding it around my hand.

  “You’re wicked. You’ve done gone crazy, John Spencer. Get out of here. Go on, you hear? Your heart has turned as black as the night. You’re no good to no one.”

  Father looked at me with both hostility and remorse. He was as broken as the woman that was bound to her bed. I had one parent dying of cancer and another dying to share her fate. Thomas and I weren’t enough to keep him engaged in reality. We were reminders of the life he had envisioned with a beautiful Southern sorority girl all those years ago.

  He left that night and didn’t return from New York, until the day that Nana signed the papers to shut off her only child’s life support. After the funeral, I rarely saw Father, with the exception of holidays. Sissy died soon after Mama in a terrible car crash, leaving me disillusioned and jaded. No doubt, her exit was planned all along to reunite her with her dear white sister Grace. Nana did her best to trudge on in Mama’s place, giving Tommy and me many years of happiness and affection before leaving to join those rowdy women in heaven.

  But I was heir to the Spencer fortune. There had been no contingency for sorrow. Weakness wasn’t an option. I grew up, only sure of one thing-my father and I were done, forever.

  1

  Slowly surrendering to the fate of dying alone, I struggled to keep my eyes open. The clinic’s light swung overhead casting shadows on the dusty floor, making me question whether he was gone. A strange voice, angelic in nature, commanded me to remain still. As my body shivered with each shallow breath, the warm red blood pooling under me was oddly comforting. I was cold.

  An eternity seemed to pass in silence. No one came, but I remained obedient to the voice that made me motionless. In the distance, I heard the faint sounds of crying, but my mind was too detached to assign a sense of familiarity to the voices. I was slipping away. I welcomed the end.

  There she was- the African goddess of my childhood, sent to protect me. I felt my body move upward and find its rest in her small lap. Leaning toward me, the braids brushed over my beaten face and the smell of my blood was replaced by the fragrance of a hundred honeysuckles. My guardian had returned to keep me safe. I called and called to her in a loud whisper, still fearful that my attacker was not quite done, but she never answered. Sissy only began to sing as she stroked my matted hair. His Eye is on the Sparrow, filled the room- its notes forming a cocoon around my frail and lifeless body. The song became harder and harder to hear until the melody and my angel disappeared altogether. I was alone again, but no longer afraid.

  Peace washed over me. My mind displayed a montage of life experiences- small triumphs and heart wrenching losses. The images appeared one right after the next until a strong kick summoned me, with a fortitude that no longer matched my own. Clutching my belly, I let out a guttural scream. I’d forgotten him. I was dragging him into this abyss. He was an unwilling participant; his kick reminding me that our fates were linked. Climbing out of the quiet, I found my voice. “Help me. Please help my son.” With my strength fading, the tenseness in my body relaxed and my eyes closed. My body was becoming his tomb.

  Chimbote was a far cry from the privileged life I led in Manhattan. Fleeing to Peru was my most masterful escape to date. John Spencer the third, my father, labeled my trip a vacation. He related stories of me traveling in style to tourist destinations like Machu Picchu, neglecting to share that my departure was precipitated by finding my husband in bed with his associate. Somehow, disclosing that information would have embarrassed the family. I was certain that he blamed some inadequacy on my part for Jackson’s little indiscretion. And so, I broke through my shackles and outran the search parties. The only person to eventually locate me was Henry. He was the only man I had ever loved. He was my Tru.

  Henry Truman Walker was my father’s right hand man. He was his lawyer, confidant, and all around errand boy. I had no doubt that my father would play upon our past, in asking Henry to find, and persuade me to come back to the States. He hadn’t taken into consideration that I was my father’s daughter. As much as I despised John, I could be every bit as stubborn as he.

  Henry had it all- a Harvard law degree, stellar relations, and the good looks to match his English pedigree. He came to our family business as an intern, but quickly surpassed the skills of John’s upper level executives. You couldn’t help but b
e dazzled by his charm and dedication.

  Deep down, I knew that Henry would have insisted on coming. College sweethearts- we were now the best of friends. I preferred his empathy to my father’s work the problem mentality. We had a history. He was the first person I called when Jackson cheated on me. Henry was the clear choice. The priest in Tommy would have instructed me to pray, and my father would have cautioned about the impending scandal, but Henry just wanted to kick his ass. I loved that about him.

  I felt his warm touch as I tried to open my eyes, squinting to shield them from the bright, harsh lights of the hospital room. I’d lost time. My body felt very heavy.

  “Jewels.” There was an apprehension in his greeting.

  “Tru?” My head was pounding and my stomach uneasy. The room began to turn circles as if I were looking through a kaleidoscope. I tried to focus on his eyes.

  He rose over me and kissed my forehead. His image was clearer now as I adjusted to my surroundings. “Thank God you’re awake.” His delivery was solemn, as he sat next to me on the bed. He was never very good at disguising truth- it just poured out of him.

  “What’s the matter?” I said, becoming keenly aware of the immense pain in my abdomen as I reached to greet him.

  “You’ll be okay, Jewels.” He stroked my forearm without meeting my gaze. His evasiveness betrayed him and I began to panic.

  Memories flooded back into my hazy consciousness. I was stabbed. My baby. My Conner. My hand slid down to my belly and anxiety swept over me. “Where’s Conner? Take me to him,” I demanded angrily.

  His head dropped and after a long pause, he whispered, “He’s gone.”

  “What? Gone where? I don’t understand. Just take me to him.” My mind wouldn’t allow his words to register- self protection. I would find my son alone, if need be.