Walter was unrelenting. He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Shut up and get going. You’re walking home. And stay on the road! Any more trouble, and you know what you got coming.” He rested a hand on the gun stuck under his belt.
I couldn’t stop crying. The tears stung as they ran down my battered face. I was still bleeding from my nose, and my face and hands and shirt were sticky with blood. Each faltering step was torture. I knew I could not make it very far in my condition, much less all the way home. I also knew if I didn’t, Walter would feel justified in punishing me further.
Gravel crunched behind me as Walter pulled the truck up. I could feel the hot breath of the engine on my back. For one awful moment, I thought he was going to run right over me.
“Can’t you go any faster?” he yelled.
His cruel words only brought on more sobs. Did he have to make sport of me too? He was so evil. I wished I could just drop dead there in the road and not give him the pleasure of tormenting me further.
Time dragged. The night air was cold, and shivering made my injuries hurt even more. Each agonizing step further cemented my despair. Ahead of me stretched a never-ending tunnel of misery. Why keep going? No one was going to rescue me. I might as well give up.
I wondered if it hurt to die. Even if it did, at least then it would all be over. Walter could never beat me or make fun of me again. The pain and fear and misery would be ended forever. In my thoughts I found myself pleading with a God I wasn’t sure existed. Please. Don’t make me stay in this hell and suffer anymore. Let me die. Please!
In a daze, I felt myself falling. Then, whump! I hit the ground hard. Shivers of pain reverberated throughout my entire body. Had I tripped over something? I tried to get up, but the earth under me heaved and rocked. Dizzy, I sank back to a half-sitting position.
The next thing I knew, Walter was standing over me with a thick wooden stake. “I said move! If you can’t walk no more, then you better crawl!”
I tried to move away from him, but my body wouldn’t respond. My legs felt like cast iron. Instinctively I ducked, shielding my head with my hand as Walter brought the stake down in a smashing blow. Everything went black, and I remembered no more.
3
In the fog of half consciousness, I thought it all just a horrible nightmare. Surely when I opened my eyes, I’d be back in the garage of the empty house on Spruce Street, lying on the pile of tarps I’d been using as a bed.
I’d had my share of bad dreams since I’d run away. Most involved Walter, but none of them had been quite this real. I felt the pain even in my sleep.
It was the pain that finally roused me. I felt like I’d been run over with Walter’s truck. Fire raged in my ankle. I had an excruciating headache and chills, and the harder I shook, the worse everything hurt.
I opened my eyes, but saw nothing but blackness. The stench of gasoline and fermented grass gagged me. From the smell, I knew I was in the shed out back of our house, where Walter had locked me up last time I ran away. I touched a hand to my face. It was caked with dried blood and dirt.
Nausea twisted in my stomach, then burst upward. With effort, I raised myself up on my elbows. Hot tears trickled down my cheeks. Hadn’t I been through enough without getting the flu on top of it?
My damp clothes didn’t help matters. I had no idea how I had gotten so wet. The fabric felt like ice against my feverish skin. I needed to change, but how?
For what seemed like hours, I lay on the gritty plywood floor, too weak and hurt to look for a more comfortable place even if there had been one. Fear consumed me – fear that I wouldn’t be found, fear that Walter would come back and beat me, fear that I was going to die. I didn’t dare call out lest I draw Walter’s attention. I dozed, only to face terrifying reruns of the beating. I woke up crying and threw up again.
Footsteps crunched in the dry leaves outside the shed, then paused. My heart lurched. What would Walter do to me now? The hinges creaked, splashing sunlight into the room. I froze. Maybe he would think me still unconscious and leave.
“Tess?” It was my mother’s voice. “Tess, are you in here?”
Relief surged through me. “I’m over here.” My voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
Mom hurried toward me. I tried to sit up, ashamed to be seen lying on the filthy floor, but sharp pains in my neck stopped me. Mom crouched on the floor beside me and tried to brush the matted hair from my face. “Are you all right?”
It was a dumb question, and she knew it. Compassion warmed her gray eyes and softened the lines twenty-five years of anxiety and cigarettes had etched on her face. For a minute, I thought she was going to cry.
“Oh, honey. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Walter didn’t tell me you’d been found.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. What hurts?”
“Everything. Especially . . . my ankle.”
Mom dragged the heavy lawnmower back a few feet and knelt down to take a closer look at my ankle. “Ooh. Not good.”
I drew a sharp breath as her fingers prodded the injury.
“Just a bad sprain, I think, though it’s pretty swollen. You’re not gonna be walking on this for a while.”
“It’s not broken?”
“Don’t think so.” Her fingers kneaded my ankle once more, harder this time. I was sorry I’d asked.
“We’ve got to get you back to the house,” she said. “Can you walk at all? Maybe if I help you up…” She reached to place her hands under my armpits.
“No. Please.” As much pain as I was in, the thought of trying to walk filled me with dread.
“Well, you’re not gonna get better out here. Either you let me help you, or I’ll have to get Walter.”
I let my eyes close, putting off the impossible decision. How could she suggest such a thing, after the way he’d treated me?
Mom sighed. “Let me see if he’s still around.” She turned abruptly and walked out, latching the door behind her as if she thought I might escape.
I cried when she was gone. Couldn’t she show me some tenderness? The thought of facing Walter turned my stomach, but I couldn’t muster the strength to get up.
Quite some time passed before Walter arrived. By the way he kicked the door open, I knew he was annoyed. Mom was right behind him; but even so, the sound of his heavy boots clumping across the floor filled me with panic. I knew it was going to hurt when he picked me up.
Hurt it did, a lot worse than I expected. Not only was I bruised all over, but my neck was so stiff and sore that every tiny jolt caused excruciating pain. I was terrified Walter would drop me or slam my injured ankle on the door frame. Somehow, he didn’t.
Walter carried me to the house and down the hall to my bedroom, where he dumped me on the bed. Then he left.
Mom rolled me onto an old blanket. Then she brought a dishpan of hot water and a big bath towel.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked, apprehensive.
“Get those wet clothes off of you and clean you up a bit. I can’t believe Walter let you lie out there all day without telling me. No wonder you’re sick.” As she spoke, she worked at the knots in my shoelaces. “Good grief, Tess, even your shoes are soaked. Did Walter drag you through the swamp or something?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” My voice choked.
Mom didn’t pursue the question. I wished she would. I needed to tell someone what he had done! But it was no use telling her unless she wanted to hear.
Mom talked of other things as she peeled off my damp clothes and sponged the blood and dirt from my cuts. It hurt, but I tried my best not to complain, knowing she’d get impatient and be less careful. At last she helped me into a clean nightgown and tucked me into bed with two ice packs bound in a towel around my hurt ankle.
“There, how’s that?” she said.
I nodded gratefully. Already I felt warmer.
“Are you up to eating something? I’ve got some chicken soup in the fridge that I can heat up.”
“That’d be good,” I said.
Minutes later, she returned with a steaming bowl. The soup tasted good, but my hand shook from the fever and I kept spilling. Mom finally took the bowl and spoon-fed me.
When the soup was gone, she gathered my wet clothes from the floor. “Well, I’m gonna let you rest. If you need anything, just call.”
She was going to shut the door and leave, and still she hadn’t asked what happened. I couldn’t hold the pain inside any longer.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you even care what Walter does to me?”
A look of puzzlement flickered over her face. “Why, of course I do. You know I do.”
“You don’t even know what he does.” Tears slipped down my face.
“Well, I don’t see much point in hashing it over. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her hand moved to the doorknob.
I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t she care about me even a little? Sure, she had addressed the cuts and bruises. But the real agony – the devastating fear and pain I would carry inside for the rest of my life – that she didn’t want to hear about. I would have to bear it alone.
The thought was too much for me. I broke down sobbing. Mom dropped the bundle of clothes and sat on the bed, rubbing my shoulder in an awkward attempt to soothe me. “I know. It’s been pretty bad, hasn’t it.”
More sobs shook me. “He . . . he’s evil.” I couldn’t say anything more.
Mom didn’t counter me. She just kept rubbing my neck and shoulders in slow, gentle circles until I stopped crying. Then she turned my pillow and slipped away, leaving me to rest.
***
I had contracted a bad case of the flu in addition to my injuries, and I spent the next week in bed. Mom faithfully applied cold packs to my swollen ankle and provided plenty of soup and tea. She was an excellent nurse and never grumbled. But whenever I brought up the events of that night, she’d go quiet and change the subject. As the days passed, I became increasingly frustrated. Every time I fell asleep, I had nightmares. I spent my waking hours brooding, unable even to concentrate on the novels Mom had brought me from the library. Constantly I berated myself for my carelessness in getting caught at the store that night.
But one thing kept puzzling me. I had never given Pat my name, yet she had known who I was and where I lived. There was only one way that could have happened.
I cornered Mom one evening while she was changing my sheets. “So, Walter actually called the cops on me, huh?”
Mom smoothed the sheet, tucked it in at the bottom, and spread a blanket over it.
“No,” she said, without looking at me. “I did.”
“You? But Mom!”
“Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?” She straightened and faced me. “You’re too young to be on your own, you haven’t got any friends, anything could’ve happened. I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.” She folded back the bedspread and plumped up the pillow. “There, your bed is ready.”
“Are you mad at me?” I persisted.
“Mad at you for what?”
I rubbed a hand across my forehead. “For running away.” I felt silly saying the words.
Mom sat down on the foot of the bed. “Well, I’d have to say I was. You caused me a lot of worry, and when the police showed up . . . you can imagine the scene that was. But Walter was pretty hard on you. I don’t approve of his punishment, and I guess I’m not really mad anymore, only I hope you don’t try it again.”
I wanted to protest that I had never planned to run away; I’d only done it to escape Walter. But I knew Mom would just tune me out as she had so many times before. So instead, I said, “Why is Walter so mean?”
She shook her head. “When something upsets him, he gets that way. You have to learn to get along with him.”
I nearly choked. But Mom was still talking, so I bit my tongue and waited.
“’Course, he wasn’t always mean,” she continued. “When your sisters were little, he’d play with them, make them laugh.” A half smile crept across her face. “I can remember him playing horse with them, down on his knees, both of them riding on his back. Then he’d pretend he was a bear and go growling and lunging, both of them rolling on the floor and laughing like they were having the best time.”
She stopped suddenly, and the half smile vanished. “Let me help you get back to bed.”
I knew better than to pry; but as I settled into bed, I could not hold back one final question. “My sisters, how old are they?”
Mom sighed, as if the question bothered her. “I guess they’d be twenty and twenty-two. That’s enough questions now, Tess. You need your rest.”
That night I could not sleep. For hours I lay awake, thinking and wondering. Mom rarely spoke of my sisters. I had never seen a photograph of them or even heard their names. I’d always assumed Mom had given them up for adoption. But why the secrecy about it? Why the pain in her eyes whenever she mentioned them?
Maybe, I thought, maybe Walter had something to do with their disappearance. Maybe they ran away, like I did, and Walter shot them dead on some back road. The thought chilled me. Next time I leave, I’ve got to have a plan. Some way to make sure he can’t find me again.
My thoughts turned to Mom’s account of Walter playing with my sisters. I knew it couldn’t be true; nevertheless, the story fascinated me. I wondered what it would be like to have a father who did those things. The more I thought about it, the bigger the ache inside me became. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.
4
Tessa!” My mother’s voice, sharp with irritation, penetrated the walls of my bedroom. “Get out here and get this stuff put away right now!”
I was sprawled on my stomach across my bed, too depressed to do anything except listen to the radio and munch some corn chips I’d swiped from the kitchen pantry. Physically, I had healed a lot over the last three weeks. Emotionally, I hadn’t.
“Tes–sa!”
I swore under my breath and turned up the volume on my radio a few more notches. Mom had been after me all day to take care of some stupid bag of groceries she’d brought home earlier. Never mind that I still couldn’t walk without my ankle hurting. As usual, Mom cared more about herself than me. I waited as long as I dared, then tugged a sweatshirt over my pajama top and limped out to the living room.
“What stuff?”
Mom sat on the couch, sewing up a sagging hem on her bathrobe. “You know what I mean.”
“What’s the big deal? I’m not your slave or something. Don’t I get any time to myself around here?”
She gave me a look and pointed to the kitchen. I complied, but resentfully, trailing my sore leg behind me in an exaggerated limp. Next to the stove were three paper bags of groceries. I grabbed them and dumped them out on the counter, making a tremendous clatter. Cans of mushroom soup and green beans tumbled to the floor, drowning Mom’s reprimand from the next room. Somehow, nothing broke.
The noise pacified my injured feelings somewhat. I gathered the dented cans and stuffed them into the pantry. Mom could arrange things later if she wanted to.
On the way back to my bedroom, Mom called to me again.
“What now?” I growled, and kept walking.
“Tessa, you’ve been smoking again, haven’t you.”
I paused in the doorway. “So? You smoke.”
“Don’t get smart with me. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Well, maybe you should quit then.”
Mom rose to her feet, her face red. “You sass me one more time, and you’re gonna be sorry! There’ll be no more smoking fo
r you. If I find any more of my cigarettes missing, I’ll see that you pay for it!”
“We’ll see about that,” I muttered, as I limped down the hallway to my room. I paused in front of the mirror and eyed myself. Inheriting my mother’s slender frame was a blessing, mostly. I could eat what I liked and still be the envy of the girls at school. But at five foot three and ninety-four pounds, I would never pass for eighteen at the convenience store. Not that I had the means to get there anyway.
Mom is so mean. The springs in my mattress creaked as I threw myself onto the bed. How am I supposed to survive without a smoke when she can’t? Grabbing my radio, I turned the dial until I hit a hard rock station, the kind Mom used to scold Walter for playing when I was around. This time, I didn’t care what she thought.
Another hour passed before the slam of the back door alerted me that Walter had come home. My heart rate kicked up and the muscles in my neck tightened. I hadn’t seen Walter since he beat me up. I made sure to stay in my room when he was around, and so far he hadn’t bothered me. But I knew my luck was running out. Any day now, Walter could demand that I start working for him again.
Clicking my radio off, I slipped from the bed and pressed an ear up to my door. Weary as I was of my parents’ constant fighting, I felt safer when I knew what was going on.
“Where have you been?” Mom greeted Walter.
“What do you mean, where’ve I been?” he shot back. “I’m not your kid.” Then he thought better of it. “I was out in the shop doing some varnishing. Told Jeff I’d have that desk done by next week. So, when’s supper? We gotta get going.”
Dread coiled in my stomach. I knew all too well what it meant when he used the plural pronoun. Out in the kitchen, Mom caught the word as well.
“We?” There was a scrape as she pulled out a fry pan. “Who’s we?”
Tessa (From Fear to Faith) Page 2