She knew she didn’t dare take the chance. She set her jaw firmly and, remembering her mother’s warning never to tell their secret, said, “She walked into a door.”
He looked her over, his gaze traveling first to her split lip, then to her swollen neck and finally, to the cut above her eye where her father’s watchband had struck her. “Did you walk into the same door, Lacy?” Dr. Petoro asked.
Lacy, unable to answer, simply stared straight ahead. She had walked right into his trap and saw no way out. She clutched at her stomach, an action not meant to be a clever ruse, but effective nonetheless.
Dr. Petoro stood abruptly from the bench on which they had been sitting. “I need a gurney over here.” When no one immediately moved, he snapped, “I said, I need a gurney over here!”
Several nurses and orderlies began frantically looking around. A red-haired nurse found one first and pushed it over to where Dr. Petoro stood, holding Lacy, one arm wrapped around her waist.
He tried to help her onto the gurney, but she pushed him aside, angrily declaring, “I don’t need that.” However, seconds later, she collapsed upon it, weak and weary from her ordeal of the day.
Dr. Petoro moved quickly, lifting Lacy’s slender frame fully upon the gurney. He barked orders as he pushed the gurney from the waiting room and through the double doors, entering the emergency bay. “Let’s get a line going, people. I need a head CT and portable x-ray.” He looked down at her arm, red, welted, and swollen. Anger flared inside him. He snapped off his exam glove and threw it across the room. He stalked off as a nurse bent to retrieve the glove.
Lacy woke an hour later. At first, she thought she was dreaming. She heard voices—low, murmuring sounds that she couldn’t understand. She heard a series of beeps. They were soothing, rhythmic, and in her mind, she began to count them—one, two, three, four—
“Lacy.” She stopped counting. She was vaguely aware that a young man was calling her name, but her mind was not registering that he was talking to her. “Lacy,” she heard again. She slowly turned her head in the direction of the voice, and he was there, standing beside her.
She stared for a moment, trying to register where she had seen him before. “You’re the boy from the pond,” she said, raising her finger slightly off the bed and attempting to point at him.
The boy looked surprised. “So you can hear me? I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to.”
“Of course I can hear you,” she said, somewhat indignant, acting as if he had insulted her. “You’re standing right next to me.”
Lacy looked down at herself. Her jeans and tee shirt were gone, and in their place was a gown, one of those ugly gowns that show off your butt when you walk to the bathroom. “Ugh,” she said.
To her surprise, the boy laughed. “What, you don’t like your party dress?”
She laughed despite her condition. “Well, I don’t think I’ll make homecoming queen.”
They both laughed loudly, drawing looks in their direction.
From across the room, she heard someone talking. She was barely able to make out what they were saying. She turned her head toward the voices when she caught, “Lacy’s awake, Doctor.”
When she saw them coming toward her, she turned back to her friend, but he was gone. When the nurse arrived, Lacy asked, “Did you see where my friend went?”
The nurse shook her head. “What friend, honey?”
“The boy who was just standing here not ten seconds ago.”
The doctor and nurse exchanged glances. “It’s the concussion,” the doctor explained. The nurse nodded in agreement.
Dr. Petoro looked down at Lacy. “You’ve suffered a concussion. You must have taken some blows to the head.”
Lacy shook her head, becoming agitated. “I didn’t imagine it. He was here just a moment ago, sitting by my side. We were talking about my cheesy gown.” Her eyes grew wide. “Not that I’m knocking your fashion or anything, but come on now—you have to admit I’m not going to win any runway competitions with this thing.” She held the hem of her gown out for emphasis.
Dr. Petoro laughed. “Maybe her head isn’t that bad,” he said to the nurse. He looked back at Lacy. “I would recommend you stay in the hospital overnight. I need to keep your mother for sure. We’ll check you in on the family plan.”
She wanted to protest, but at the mention of her mother, she grew concerned. “How is Mom?” she asked.
Dr. Petoro sighed. “Four broken ribs, a concussion, long laceration on the side of her neck—she required fourteen stitches for that one—do you want me to go on?” Dr. Petoro asked sarcastically.
“No,” she said, her voice growing soft.
Dr. Petoro knelt down beside her bed and looked her directly in the eye. “I can help you both, Lacy, but I can’t do it alone.”
Lacy shook her head. “I can’t,” she squeaked. “You don’t know what he’ll do to us.”
This last part was barely audible, but Dr. Petoro had heard well enough. He patted Lacy’s hand. “That’s fine, Lacy. We won’t let him get to you.” Turning to the nurse, he said, “Judy, call social services. Have them come down and talk to our friend here.” He turned to walk away, adding, “And get someone from security up here…just in case.”
The nurse looked at him and raised her eyebrows, shook her head and turned to carry out the doctor’s instructions.
Lacy cried out, “No. I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t call them.” She fell silent. Sobs began to fill the void. Dr. Petoro sat down in the chair next to her bed. He wrapped his arms around her and held her while she cried.
Lacy fell asleep in Dr. Petoro’s arms, and when she awoke, she was in a room that was silent except for the occasional beep the monitors put out. She glanced to her left and saw her mother lying on the bed next to hers. At least she thought it was her mother. The woman’s face was so badly bruised that it was hard to tell who it was.
“Mom,” she tentatively called. “Mom, are you all right?”
Her mother didn’t answer. Lacy tried to get up but the pain was too intense, so she lay back down. The room was dark, but that could be because the curtains, pulled tight across the window, closed them off from the outside world.
The hour seemed so late that she began to panic. She was afraid he might have awakened and missed them. “I’ve got to get us out of here,” she said aloud, just as the door was opening.
“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere for a while,” a woman said from the doorway.
Lacy jumped, turned toward the woman and thought how nice she looked. She was short with shoulder-length brown hair. She wore a dress that was too long for her height and made her look as if she had short stubby legs. “Who are you?” Lacy asked.
“I’m Angela Martin,” the woman said, extending her hand to Lacy in greeting. Reluctantly, Lacy took it. It was so warm, so soft, and her nails were prettier than any nails Lacy had ever seen—even the one’s the prettier-than-thou girls at school wore. “I’m the social worker assigned to your case.”
“Go away,” Lacy said, dropping her hand like it was a hot potato. She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing herself inward and putting up the walls as she so often did. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. A complaint has been filed, and it’s my responsibility to follow up on it.” She looked at the chair next to Lacy’s bed. “Do you mind if I sit down?” Lacy didn’t answer, so Angela chose to take it for consent and sat down. “Can you tell me what happened, Lacy?”
Lacy raised one thumb and gestured toward the door. “I already told them what happened. Can’t you read it in the report?”
Angela sighed and pulled the chair closer. “I read the report, Lacy. The problem is your injuries don’t match what you told the doctors and nurses—either version.”
Lacy looked away, trying to remember what she had told the doctor. “I can’t remember what happened,” she said.
“Half an hour ago you gave a rat
her detailed description of the accident.”
“I have amnesia. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”
“You have a concussion, not amnesia.”
“Whatever. I still can’t remember.” She wrapped her arms more tightly and raised them higher.
“What about six months ago?” Angela prompted.
“What about it?” Lacy asked. Hackles began to rise on her neck.
Angela paged through Lacy’s chart. “Six months ago your mother brought you in because you had fallen out of bed and broken your arm.”
“Yeah, so, what about it?”
“I don’t know too many sixteen-year-olds who fall out of bed.”
Lacy let her arms drop and smoothed the covers around her body, trying to cover her nervousness. “It can happen.”
Angela thumbed through more pages. “Eight months ago, you slammed your leg in the car door. Twelve months ago, you slipped on oil at the gas station. Oh and by the way, the gas station has no record of that incident.”
“We didn’t tell them,” Lacy objected.
Angela pretended not to hear her. “Eighteen months ago you slammed your right hand in a silverware drawer and broke all four fingers.”
“So, I’m a bit of a klutz.”
Angela sighed again, put down Lacy’s chart, and picked up her mother’s chart. “Shall we review your mother’s various injuries?”
As if sensing someone was speaking about her, Brenda Waldrip stirred in her sleep, mumbled Lacy’s name, and began beating at the air. Her fists flailed with all their might as she called out, “Bastard! Leave her alone.” Then she screamed, and Lacy jumped from her bed, ignoring the nausea that enveloped her, pushing through the pain in her head as she reached out to her mother.
“Mom,” Lacy called, whispering in her ear, “I’m right here, Mom.”
She stroked her mother’s back and ran a soothing hand down her long hair that shone with natural highlight. It was a little gray with age, but nothing a little hair dye wouldn’t cover. But she couldn’t—her husband didn’t believe in spending money on grooming products. He would rather spend it on booze.
“Lacy?” Brenda asked, groggily. “What happened, baby?”
“We’re in the hospital, Mom.” Lacy paused, cast a cautious eye over her right shoulder, and tried to recall which lie she told the doctor. Finally, “Don’t you remember, Mom? Those boxes fell on top of us.”
A flash of anger raged through Angela. How could this innocent girl protect her father so much? How could this mother so carelessly subject her child, the one she gave birth to—the one she promised to care for, to the daily abuse of such a wretched man? County Social Services had been investigating charges of abuse against Lacy Waldrip for over a year now. The hospital had alerted them after one of many emergency visits, but each time they tried to interview either Lacy or Mrs. Waldrip, Sheriff Waldrip had intervened. Mrs. Waldrip even had gone as far as to threaten to sue the county the last time they had tried to interfere, no doubt threatened by her husband.
Angela gritted her teeth and counted to ten. She had to cool her temper or she would never get Lacy to cooperate. She had to win the girl’s trust. She began to scribble on her notepad, aware of the girl watching her. Lacy had calmed her mother and was now back in her bed, covers pulled up as far as they could go, knees pulled up to her chin. Her head rested on her knees, and she stared at Angela.
Lacy watched her unwanted guest as she scribbled something on her notepad. She knew, from the expression she wore, that Angela didn’t believe her. She had told yet another version. Would she drill her mother for answers now?
She watched her rise. She walked across the room and stood beside Brenda’s bed. Lacy froze. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Waldrip?”
Brenda tried to speak but her throat was dry, and no sound came out. She licked her lips, trying to get moisture to them. She struggled to sit up but moaned against the pain. She fell back against the mattress.
Angela, seeing the poor woman struggle, reached across her, picked up the bed control and raised her head a few inches. Brenda groaned with relief. Next, she picked up a pitcher of water, poured some into a cup and put a straw into it. She raised it to Brenda’s lips. After she had a few sips, Angela pulled it away. “Not too much,” she said.
When she had settled back down, Angela asked, “Do you feel like talking?”
Brenda shook her head, a tear escaping down her cheek. Angela extracted a tissue from the Kleenex box beside the bed and wiped Brenda’s tears away. “It’s okay, we can talk tomorrow.”
Lacy watched the display of compassion and softened her resolve. She began to wonder if this woman really might be able to help them. What if she told her about her father? Would she be able to stop him? If she were unsuccessful, would the beatings increase in frequency, or worse—in intensity. If they took her away but left her mother behind, what would become of her mother?
Lacy bit her lower lip and continued watching as Ms. Martin administered tenderly to her mother. “Ms. Martin,” Lacy began. At first, the woman didn’t turn around, and Lacy almost lost her nerve. Then she slowly turned. Lacy saw the tenderness in her gaze, a sympathetic, almost understanding look.
She smiled. “Yes, Lacy. Do you want to talk now?”
Lacy nodded an almost imperceptible nod and choked back tears. “I—” she began, and then jumped when the door burst open with a loud bang and her father’s voice bellowed, “Lacy!”
Angela spun around, coming face-to-face with the demon in the sheriff’s uniform. He looked first at Lacy, then to Brenda, and finally his eyes came to rest on Angela. Finally, understanding became clear. She knew why Lacy was so reluctant to name her father as her attacker. Sheriff Peter Waldrip’s reputation stood alone. Sheriff Waldrip instilled fear in even the toughest criminals in their little town. Hard on youth, tough on thieves, even the gang leaders bowed to respect him. She wondered—would even his deputies turn their backs in the face of domestic abuse. She had no doubt they would. What recourse did either Lacy or Mrs. Waldrip have against them?
“What is going on here?”
Angela saw Lacy cringe against his anger, even Brenda, lying helpless in her bed and half-comatose, jumped when she heard his voice.
No one spoke for several seconds. Then Angela took a deep breath, plunged on, “We’re having a private conversation here,” she paused, drew up tall and, squaring off with the sheriff added, “Sheriff Waldrip.”
The sheriff relaxed his stance. “I’m not sure who you are,” he said, looking her up and down. He grinned at the sprite woman who was more bark than she could be bite, “but you shouldn’t be in here. It’s obvious my family has been in an accident of some kind and need their rest.”
Angela ignored the dismissal. “I’m Angela Martin from social services.”
The sheriff laughed. “We don’t need social services. This town pays me just fine.”
“I’m not that kind of social worker,” Angela said, gritting her teeth. “If you’ll excuse me…” She stepped around him, stopping at Lacy’s bedside. “I’ll be back tomorrow so we can talk again.”
“Don’t bother,” Sheriff Waldrip said, “she won’t be here.”
She looked him in the eye. “The doctor hasn’t released them yet.”
The sheriff grinned. “He will. One way or the other, Ms. Martin, I’m taking my family home.”
“Then I’ll just see her at home,” she said and stalked out.
When the door shut, Peter turned to Lacy, staring her directly in the eye.
Emboldened by Angela’s bravado, Lacy stared right back, shooting him with a venomous stare. “I didn’t say a thing.”
Peter smiled. “Of course you didn’t, Lacy—you’re a good girl.”
Lacy turned over in bed, away from her father. She heard him walk to the head of her mother’s bed. She could tell he was bending over her, and she shuddered when she heard him kiss her on the cheek.
“What’s wrong, baby? How’d you get
here? Who did this to you?” he asked as if some alien being had invaded his body. As if nobody in this wretched town knew what Peter Waldrip did to his family on a routine basis.
Lacy gritted her teeth. How many times had she heard those words come out of his mouth? She knew the pattern, could almost tell you how long each stage would last. They didn’t need to worry. The punishment phase was over for now. They were in the remorse stage, now. This stage angered Lacy the most. This stage made her father think all was well. He would be nice for a while—the drunk was over.
From the bed beside her, she heard the murmuring, the whispering of, “I love you,” from her father. Then the sobbing from her mother. The noisy caresses of her father, complete with the moaning and grunting. If they were at home, her mother and father would head off to the bedroom, where she would have to listen to them have wild makeup sex while, in the bathroom, Lacy would clean her bloody lips and tear-stained cheeks. She would bandage the superficial wounds while the emotional ones festered and grew.
When she finished, she would lie on her bed with the stereo cranked up loud, so she wouldn’t have to hear them. Certainly, he wouldn’t do it here, would he? But he might, it was part of the steps.
She heard her mother beg with her dry, cracked voice, “Please, Peter, not here, not in front of Lacy.”
“She’s a big girl, baby—she knows about these things.”
Lacy gagged, and her stomach rolled in waves of nausea. Apparently, her father was going to insist. “Please, Daddy,” she whispered. “Not in front of me.”
She waited for the slap, the kick to the kidneys, the pulling of the hair—not that there was much hair left to pull. She had grown tired of having her hair pulled, and one day, in a fit of anger, she stood in front of the mirror with her mother’s sewing scissors and chopped it all off. When her father saw what she had done, he just shrugged and said, “Like that really would stop me.” Even though it had not stopped her father from pulling her hair, she had decided she liked it and kept it short. Now as she lay there, waiting for the expected, all she heard was the sound of drawers as her father pulled them open.
Lacy's End Page 2