Revenge Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  How can you be so cruel? My daughter belongs here, with me, in her home. You are evil. EVIL. May God have mercy on your black, selfish soul.

  “Look,” Sam said. He held up a business envelope with a return address of Cook County Superior Court. Inside were papers describing the reassignment of custody for Yvonne to her grandmother. Within the text of the document, Lacey caught the words drunkenness and neglectful.

  She also noted something else: uncontested.

  “I wonder why Jean didn’t fight this?” she mused.

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “You’d certainly think she would, as much as she missed Yvonne. Maybe she couldn’t afford a lawyer?”

  “Or maybe she feared she wouldn’t win. She definitely drank, and she felt so much guilt over Lynette’s death; maybe she didn’t want her mother dragging all that up in court. Maybe she really believed she was not a fit mother.” Lacey sighed. “I have a feeling her mother wouldn’t have pulled any punches.”

  Sam regarded her quietly. “I think you’re right.”

  By the time they had pored through every letter, read every entry, more than two hours had passed. Lacey looked over her twin timelines and noted all the paperclips she had put on papers that had distinctly telling information for Yvonne.

  “Now I just hope to hell she’ll hear me out,” she said grimly.

  “Me, too,” Sam said.

  She turned her wide green eyes on her husband. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  ~~~

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sam got ready to leave for the studio early.

  “Got a lot of pottery to make,” he said. “Plus the glazer’s coming to fix that window. How many orders did you say you got on Friday night?”

  She tore the page from her notebook and handed it to him. “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen?” He scanned the sheet. “Bowls, platters, jars, vases. Traditional, Fauve. Holy cow. That’ll keep me busy for a while.”

  “My work here is done.”

  “Your work,” he said, “probably has a longer list than mine.”

  “Probably.” She blew out a breath. “Let’s just hope we both have good luck today.”

  At least, she thought as he drove away, he had control over what he did. Her success would lie in whether or not she could get Yvonne to listen to her.

  She arranged the letters and the diary on the table, all within easy reach. She had in mind to read a few passages if Yvonne would let her.

  “Well, no time like the present,” she grumbled to herself. Palming her phone, she hit the contact number for Yvonne.

  The line rang and rang… and rang. Then to voicemail. Lacey hung up. She didn’t want to leave a message. She needed to talk to her, convince her that the story she’d been told all her life was a lie.

  Lacey laughed without humor. Oh, sure, a stranger calls up and tells her everything she thought she knew was wrong. She’d believe that, right?

  She leaned her chin in her hand and stared at the letters. Wrong, she thought. She didn’t have to tell Yvonne anything.

  Jean did.

  She pulled out the very first letter, the one to five-year-old Yvonne. Then she dialed the number again.

  “Yvonne, this is Lacey Fitzpatrick. The present owners of your mother’s old house have found some things hidden away, things you may want. There’s a diary and many letters, letters she wrote to you but that you never saw. Here’s one dated 1961: My darling Yvonne…”

  Lacey read the letter as fast as she could without slurring the words. She was gratified that the voicemail didn’t cut her off. Dragging in a deep breath, she finished with, “Call me. Please.”

  She keyed off the call and tossed her phone down. It was in Yvonne’s hands now. She would either respond… or not.

  Lacey poured her last cup of coffee and stared again at the timelines she’d made up last night. If Yvonne didn’t respond, could Sam convince Jean to move on? They knew her story, now. The whole story. Yes, Lacey thought it was enough. At least she hoped it was enough.

  Her phone rang. She checked the screen: Yvonne.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fitzpatrick, this is Yvonne Lindlor.” She didn’t sound happy.

  “Yes, hi,” Lacey said. “Thanks for calling me back. As I said in my message, the owners of the house found a secret compartment underneath a stair, and there were several things there that belonged to your mother. They’re yours now, if you want them.”

  There was no immediate response, but then Lacey heard a deep intake of breath.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said. “There were no letters. I never got anything from her. Ever.”

  Lacey plunged. “That’s because your grandmother sent them back. Every single one is marked ‘Return to sender.’”

  Yvonne was quiet. Take your time, Lacey thought. Take all the time you need.

  “I… No, that can’t be right. She wouldn’t...”

  Lacey picked up the letter and its envelope. “Well, you tell me. The date on this is April 25, 1961. It’s addressed to you, Yvonne Hawkes, in care of Henrietta Clifton at…” Lacey read the address. “The address is marked though with a red pen, and ‘Return to sender’ is written beside it.”

  Lacey did a quick rough count of the letters.

  “I’ve got about forty letters here, all the same way.”

  “Forty…?” Yvonne’s voice was hushed.

  “Yes. Plus a couple that your mother wrote directly to your grandmother, which were also returned.”

  The phone line was silent. Silent but not dead. Lacey waited.

  “I—I can’t… That’s not… possible. My mother sent me away. She blamed me.”

  “Yvonne, I’ve read every letter and every entry in this diary, and I don’t believe that’s true. It appears that your grandmother came out after Lynette’s death, and your mother was so distraught, she offered to take you to Illinois while your mother grieved. Your mother agreed because she thought it was temporary. Then your grandmother cut off all contact. Your mother never blamed you. She blamed herself.” Lacey drew in a deep breath. “And she ended up losing both her daughters. That destroyed her.”

  There was no sound except quiet breathing. Finally a long sigh.

  “This can’t be right. I just can’t…”

  “Look, you don’t have to take my word for it. How about this?” Lacey asked. “How about you give me your email address. I’ll scan the letter and the envelope and send it to you. You can see it for yourself.”

  “Oh. Uh, okay.” Tentatively she read off her email address to Lacey.

  “Great,” Lacey said, feeling she was making a dent. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll scan this right now and send it over.”

  “All right.” Yvonne’s voice was soft.

  “Thanks, Yvonne. I know this is a shock. But I think it’ll all come clear once you see this. Then you can decide what you want to do.”

  “Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Lacey ended the call and immediately took the letter and the envelope to her scanner. They both fit on the flat bed, side by side. The scanner worked its magic and she checked the image to make sure the contrast level made the writing clear, then she sent it on its way.

  “All right, Yvonne,” she said quietly. “Meet the real Jean Hawkes.”

  ~~~

  For hours, she heard nothing back. She half expected Yvonne to call or email, perhaps with questions, but heard nothing. She forced herself to put it all aside and keep busy around the apartment. Waiting.

  She hated that word.

  Finally in mid-afternoon, the email arrived. It was terse at best.

  Thank you.

  Well, she thought, so much for that. Yvonne was one tough nut to crack, but she supposed she couldn’t blame the woman. For over sixty years, Yvonne had believed the worst of her mother—and no doubt believed her grandmother had “saved” her from a neglectful and unloving life. Now, suddenly, it had all been turned on its h
ead. Now she found out her entire life had been held hostage to her grandmother’s need for revenge. No, Lacey couldn’t blame her.

  She reported her progress—or lack thereof—to Sam over dinner.

  “Hmm,” he said. “I guess that’s as much as we can do. If she still doesn’t believe, or if she’s not interested in having her mother’s things, so be it. We can’t force her.”

  “No, we can’t. I was really hoping, though.” Lacey sighed.

  Sam covered her hand with his. “We may not be able to reunite mother and daughter on this plane, but at least we know the full story now. We should be able to convince Jean to move on. Any reunion will have to wait until Yvonne enters that next level of existence.”

  Lacey nodded. She fully recognized the validity of Sam’s words, but still felt morose. “So when do you want to do the releasement?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “How about Wednesday evening? That seemed to be a good time for the Reeds before.”

  “Okay. I’ll call them and set it up.”

  ~~~

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wednesday morning after Sam left for the studio, Lacey gathered up all the letters and the diary and put them in the plastic bag. She’d still held out hope that Yvonne might call and ask her to mail them to her, or perhaps to even scan a few more to email, but she’d heard nothing.

  She felt bad that Yvonne had apparently decided to cling to the lies her grandmother told her, rather than accept the truth. It had to be hard to live with seething condemnation. Lacey suspected Yvonne’s entire life had been tinged with it, that sense of blame, of being sent away. And now redemption was at hand... and the woman turned away.

  Lacey set the bag on the floor by the front door, ready for them to take back to the Reeds’ tonight. It was interesting how some people locked themselves into life narratives that caused them pain. Yvonne, fed lies from the time she was five, and even with the truth in front of her, could not release her grip on the hurt. Henrietta Clifton, taking revenge on her own daughter for Jean’s attempt to create a life independent of her controlling mother. Even Reynaldo Macias, blaming Sam and Lacey for his brother’s death, as if that death had not been the consequence of a life of crime. People believed what they wanted to believe, she knew. Whatever soothed their bruised egos. Whatever supported their twisted emotions.

  Imperfect, all of them. All of us, she amended.

  In mid-afternoon, her phone rang. She glanced at it half-heartedly, did a double-take, and grabbed it up.

  Yvonne.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Lacey, please,” she said.

  “Lacey, yes. This is Yvonne. I, uh, want to thank you again for sending me that letter. I—I’m still having trouble believing it, but… may I see the rest? And the diary?”

  “Yes, of course,” Lacey said. “They’re yours. I can mail them out to you tomorrow. I’ve got them right—”

  “No, no need for that.”

  Lacey blinked. “No need? I don’t—”

  “I’m at LAX right now. We just landed. Could we meet you somewhere?”

  Lacey had to kick her brain into gear to catch up. “LAX?”

  “Yes. We flew out this morning. I—I couldn’t wait. I had to see them. My husband and I decided to just fly out ourselves. I haven’t seen that house since I was five. Do you think… the owners would let me see it?”

  Lacey laughed. “I can practically guarantee it.”

  “Oh, good.” Yvonne sounded relieved. “Where can we meet you?”

  “Come on over to our apartment. Here’s the address…”

  By the time Lacey hung up the phone, she was giddy with excitement. She’d actually told Yvonne very little about the true nature of her and Sam’s investigation. Once Yvonne and her husband arrived—and Sam got home—she knew she and Sam could supply more than just letters.

  Much more.

  Two hours later, a quiet knock on the door signaled the arrival of the Lindlors. Lacey let them in.

  “Hello. Nice to meet you. Come in.” She shook their hands and led them into the living room. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Yvonne settled on the couch next to her husband. Mid-sixties, they were both trim and fit. Yvonne’s dark hair was threaded with gray, while her husband, Phil, was full-on salt and pepper.

  “No, thanks.” Yvonne said. “We had a bite at the airport.” She glanced around. “Do you have…”

  “Right here.” Lacey retrieved the bag and laid the contents out on the coffee table. “Here’s the diary,” she said, pulling that out. “I think you’ll be particularly interested in the first entry.” She handed it to Yvonne.

  Yvonne took the small book carefully, almost reverently. She turned an awestruck look to her husband, and he smiled at her. They huddled close together so they could both read.

  “You know what?’ Lacey said. “I’m going to leave this with you and go fix dinner. My husband will be home shortly. Do you folks like chicken Alfredo?”

  “Oh, no, we couldn’t impose,” Yvonne started.

  “It’s no imposition at all,” Lacey said. “I really think you should just plan on spending the whole evening with us.”

  Yvonne tipped her head in surprise.

  “Believe me,” Lacey said, “you’ll be glad you did.”

  Sam arrived home just as Lacey was mixing up a salad to go with dinner. She made the introductions, then Sam followed her back into the kitchen.

  He didn’t speak, but raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I was amazed. And the best part? She wants to go see the old house.”

  Sam’s eyebrows inched even higher.

  “Should we call Price and Vicky?”

  Lacey shook her head. “I have a feeling they’ll be perfectly fine with the extra company.”

  Sam helped Lacey set the table, and when all was ready, she called Yvonne and Phil.

  “Can you break away?” she asked.

  “Oh, my God,” Yvonne said. She dashed tears from her eyes and swallowed to ease her roughened throat. She laughed quietly and rose from the couch. “I think I need a break. This is all just amazing.”

  They gathered at the table and Lacey waved the couple to chairs. Once seated, she passed them the salad and the steaming bowl of Alfredo.

  “How much have you gotten through?” Lacey asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Yvonne looked to her husband. “Maybe half?”

  He nodded. “It certainly tells a sad story,” he said.

  “Doesn’t it?” Lacey agreed. “But a story that needed to be told.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Yvonne said, “is how you two are involved. When you first called me, you said you were looking into—I don’t remember—strange things happening in the house? What does that mean?”

  Here we go, Lacey thought. She nodded to Sam.

  “I’m a medium,” he began. “I’m called in when people have trouble with ghosts. I get in touch with the spirits and then Lacey and I research their story. Once we understand why they’re tied here, we can release them and send them on their way.”

  Yvonne’s eyes widened as he spoke, her dinner forgotten. “Are you saying my mother…?”

  “Yes. She’s been bound to the house ever since her death. Bound by grief and guilt.”

  Yvonne was quiet, but Lacey could see moisture starring her eyes.

  “So, she’s… still there? Now?”

  Sam nodded.

  “You’ve… you’ve talked to her? Seen her?”

  “Not the way you might think. Mostly I pick up on the emotions. I feel what she feels.”

  The wonder of that was evident in Yvonne’s wide eyes. “So you feel… her pain?”

  Sam nodded. Yvonne looked down at her plate, and Lacey could see a raw red infuse her face. She guessed what Yvonne was thinking. Jean’s pain that Yvonne—and her grandmother—had caused.

  “We tried to re
lease Jean before. We thought her grief was all about the loss of Lynette, the guilt about not being aware of the well at all. But the releasement didn’t work. She couldn’t let go. Now that we’ve read those letters, we know the full story. We know her grief wasn’t just for the loss of Lynette, but for the loss of you, as well. And we believe her guilt was not just for being unaware of the well, but for her own failing to be the mother she wanted to be to you. She couldn’t fight her mother. She couldn’t get to you through her. All she could do was mourn you.”

  Yvonne reached for her napkin and dabbed her eyes before she lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed with more unshed tears.

  “So, now,” she said softly, “now, you can… free her?”

  “Yes, now that we know the full story, we can. And we want you to come with us.”

  Yvonne’s mouth dropped open. “Come…?”

  “We’re releasing her tonight. We want you to come with us.”

  Yvonne’s eyes darted from Sam to Lacey and back. She swallowed down a lump in her throat, choked on tears. She looked to her husband. He took her hand and nodded.

  “Really?” Yvonne said, glancing back at Sam.

  “Really,” Lacey said. She grinned at the woman. “You may not see her; you may not feel her, but she’ll know you’re there.”

  “Oh, my,” Yvonne breathed.

  ~~~

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sam pulled into the driveway behind the Reeds’ cars and parked. Lacey looked back over her shoulder at Yvonne and Phil in the back seat.

  Yvonne was staring openly at the house, her eyes darting, her lips softly parted. She drank in the sight. Lacey thought the house looked particularly lovely with the soft pastel hues of sunset behind it.

  The four of them exited the car and walked to the door. Lacey rang the bell and Price answered.

  “Hello. Good to see you.” Price’s smile faltered a little when he realized there were two extra people. Lacey was quick with the introductions.