“I don’t know, honey.” Ruth shook her head. “What’s even stranger is that she kept saying her name is Faith.”
Charlie reached across the table for her mother’s hand. “What’s happening, Mom?” She stared into her mother’s tired eyes.
Her mother took Charlie’s hand in hers. “I don’t understand any of this. All I know is something’s not right and you’re going to have to be strong. How did Mira find out about Faith?”
“I don’t know. “.”
Her mother took her hand out of Charlie’s, reached into her pocket and handed Charlie a Kleenex.
“She’s too young to understand what happened to Faith.” Charlie dabbed at the tears welling in the corner of her eyes. “We were so careful.”
“Clint’s at his wit’s end,” Ruth said. “He doesn’t know what to do either. Men want to fix things, but I feel what’s happening to Mira is going to take more than a father to fix.”
Charlie leaned back in her chair. “Today I was told Mira has something called DID.”
“What’s that? And who told you that?”
“I took Mira in to see someone a couple of weeks ago,” Charlie confessed.
“That’s why I asked you and Daddy for a loan. So I could pay him. He told me today that Mira has more than one personality.”
Her mother waved a dismissing hand. “Oh, phooey. Doctors these days have no sense.” She stood, walked to sink and took out a glass from the cupboard. “No common sense at all, if you ask me.”
“She had to have heard about Faith from someone,” Charlie said, racking her brain trying to think of who could have possibly told her daughter about Faith. “Only Clint, me, Daddy and you knew about Faith. And even if Mira heard Faith’s name, why would she suddenly say she’s her? Faith has been gone for over —”
“Six years,” Clint finished coming into the kitchen.
Charlie turned around. “How is she?”
“She was a holy terror.” Clint moved his neck to one side and then the other as he walked across the room. Like her mother, he looked exhausted.
“Is she asleep?” Charlie asked.
“Yes. Finally.” Clint took a beer out of the refrigerator. “Any takers?”
Charlie raised a hand. “Me.”
Clint looked to Charlie’s mother.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get home. Your father’s waiting for his supper.” She put a glass under the spigot, filled it with water and took a few sips.
“I should have been here.” Charlie watched her mother walk to the door and take her coat off the rack.
Clint set a can of Bud Light down in front of Charlie. “There’s nothing you could have done. Mira was out of control." He sat down next to Charlie at the table and popped the top off his beer.
“Well, if what Charlie was told today is true, and I really don’t understand what it is he told you, Charlie, but it sounds as if you’re going to have to get Mira some help,” Charlie’s mother told them as she opened the door.
The hair on the back of Charlie’s neck stood up, knowing what was going to happen.
Clint whipped his head toward Charlie, his eyes turning a dark blue. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I took Mira into Omaha to see someone a couple of weeks ago. I met with him today to find out what he felt was wrong with Mira.”
Clint slammed a hand down on the table, sending splatters of beer shooting out the top of the beer can. “After I told you not to?”
Charlie leaned toward him. “Look, Clint Abbott, I have an opinion, too. And, you’re not—”
“I’m not what?” He stared daggers through Charlie. “I’m not a part of this family? I shouldn’t say what I think is—”
“It’s not always going to be your way or the—”
Charlie’s mother stomped her foot on the floor. “Stop this right now! And I mean right now.”
Charlie was stunned by her usually meek mannered mother’s outburst.
Ruth shook a finger at Clint and then at Charlie. Her face was beet red and her lips were in a tight frown. “My granddaughter is going through hell and you two are sitting here bickering over who’s right and who’s wrong. Shame on you. Now get your shit together.” She walked out, slamming the door behind her.
They sat quietly for a few seconds and then Charlie caught Clint’s eye, and they both burst out laughing. Charlie laughed so hard, she cried.
“Guess she told us,” Clint said.
Charlie cocked her head and smiled. “Get your shit together?” Her mother had managed to break the tension and bring them back to reality.
Clint’s expression turned pensive, his eyes searching Charlie’s. “We can’t lose each other.”
“We won’t, Clint.” Charlie crossed her heart. “I promise.”
Clint took off his hat, and finger-combed his thick hair back off his forehead and then put the Hawkeye hat back on, pushing it down on his forehead. “I’m not happy that you went behind my back, but since you did, what did he say?”
Even though she didn’t like the taste of beer, Charlie took a long sip of her drink, hoping it might calm her nerves. “He referred Mira to a psychiatrist in Kansas City. Says she needs someone who specializes in these types of situations.”
“And just what is the situation?”
The tones of his voice made Charlie know she had to be careful how to approach him. “He feels Mira has a personality disorder. She told him she was Mira and then when he saw her a few minutes later, she said she was Faith.” Charlie wrapped both hands around the cold can of beer. “He also said that Mira’s personality was totally different than Faith’s.”
Clint stared into space for a few seconds. “I need to think about this. The logical side of me says Mira is going—”
“Through a phase,” Charlie completed his sentence. “I’d hoped so, too.”
“God, Charlie, what are we going to—”
When a piercing cry came from upstairs, Clint flew out of his chair. “What the hell is going on now?”
Charlie wasn’t far behind Clint as he bounded up the stairs, her heart skipping beats.
“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” Mira shouted.
Clint flicked on the bedroom light. “Jesus.”
Mira was lying on her back in bed, her arms swinging and legs kicking, her eyes closed. The scene looked as if someone had ransacked Mira’s room. The sheets were balled up, her pillow was on the floor and, just like her mother had said, her dolls were all around the room.
“Mira?” Charlie took hold of Mira’s shoulders and gently shook her. “Wake up!” When she saw the red marks on Mira’s neck, she gasped. “Oh God, what’s that?”
Clint put his hands down on Mira’s chest trying to keep her still.
Charlie nodded at Mira’s neck. “It looks like someone tried to choke her.”
“Those weren’t there when I put her to bed,” Clint shouted over Mira’s shrills.
Mira’s body bucked as if she was having a seizure. Not knowing what to do, Charlie scooted her hands underneath Mira’s back and lifted her, seeing bruises begin to appear on her thighs, upper arms, and chest.
Suddenly, Mira jolted with such power she flew out of Charlie’s arms, landing on her back on the floor.
“Oh, God.” Charlie fell to her knees beside Mira.
“Help! Help me!” Mira cried, her arms and legs thrashing, her head rolling rapidly back and forth.
“I don’t know what to do.” Powerless to help her, the room whirled around Charlie. “Mira, tell Mommy what I can do to help.”
Mira’s body twisted and turned in every. “Stop,” she wailed to no one.
“Do something, Clint!”
When Mira started to cough and then choke, her lips turned a pale blue. Clint pushed Charlie out of the way and put his face close to Mira’s. “Mira! Mira!” He raised an angry fist. “You cannot have my child! Do you understand?” Clint said between clenched teeth. “Not now. Please, not now.”
“We're losing her!" Clint shouted. He looked up at Charlie. “Call for help. Hurry!”
Charlie jumped to attention and headed for the phone in their bedroom. Hank almost tripped her as he flew past between her legs on a dead run for the stairs.
Crazed, Charlie dialed 9-1-1, begging for help for her baby. She hurriedly gave the dispatcher their address before she tore back to Mira’s room.
Helpless, Charlie and Clint watched the marks on Mira’s neck grow darker and the bruises on her arms and legs turn a dark purplish blue. Her complexion was chalky white, her mouth wide open, and her neck arched as if gasping for air. Helpless, they witnessed their child’s arms and legs go limp.
“Breathe!” Clint shook his little girl. “Breathe, baby!” He tilted Mira’s head back, pinched her nose together, and covered her mouth with his. After he blew two short breaths into her lungs, he crossed one hand over the other and then pressed down hard on in the middle of Mira’s small chest. “Come on, honey, come on.”
“I hear the ambulance,” Charlie said between sobs, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
Clint covered Mira’s mouth with his again and blew air into her lifeless body slowly and evenly.
“Oh, God.” Charlie looked up, her words barely audible. “Please, don’t take another baby from me.”
The sound of Charlie and Clint’s prayers for their daughter’s life resounded down the stairwell and through the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN HER PHONE RANG, Shannon Patterson’s eyes flew open. Hells bells, it was almost midnight. Who the hell would be calling at this time of night?
“Hello,” she slurred. “Who is this?”
“Ms. Patterson?” the male voice asked.
“What d’ya want?”
“Um… this is Officer Reed Jergens. From… um… Sheffield.”
Suddenly, she was wide awake. “What’s going on?”
“We have a situation.”
Shannon struggled to get her legs over the side of the bed, her flannel nightgown wrapping tightly around one beefy thigh. Tugging at the garment, she said, “Situation?”
“I’m at the Abbott farm in Sheffield.”
Did he say Abbott? “And?”
“And there’s a child here who…”
“Is in need of assistance,” she finished.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shannon was the only DHS worker for three counties: Sheffield and Lenora were twenty minutes in opposite directions from her home in Jamestown. It was her job to get to a child in need of assistance as quickly as possible.
Shannon fought with the lamp, knocking it over before she found the switch. “What’s going on?”
“It appears she’s hurt. I mean um… she’s only six and badly bruised, plus…”
“Are you talking about Clint Abbott’s farm?”
“Yes. That’s the one. Clint and…”
“Charlie.” She cradled the phone between her neck and ear and bent over, letting out an “ugh” as she did due to carrying about forty-pounds of extra weight. She picked up a pair of jeans off the floor. “Off Highway Thirty-Four, right?” She knew damn well where Clint Abbott lived.
“Right,” he answered. “How long will it take you to get here?”
“Fifteen to twenty.” With one hand trying to manipulate her jeans, she tried to put a foot in one pant leg, but gave up when she almost toppled over. “You say she’s bruised?”
“Yes. And marks on her throat.” He paused. “Like someone tried to choke her.”
“Hells bells, you’re kiddin’ me, right?”
“No ma’am.”
Shannon couldn’t believe her ears. “Father do it?” she asked.
“Child is sayin’ it was the mother.”
Shannon held back a smirk. After she had hung up, she zipped her jeans and then searched for a clean sweater. Laundry was not her forte. In the only bathroom in the small two bedroom house, she put in her contacts, and then stared at herself in the bathroom mirror.
Stupid hair, she thought as she tried to brush through the dry, split ends. She looked like hell, as her mother would tell Shannon if she were still alive.
She pulled her brown hair up on top of her head and secured it with a band. She turned to the side not liking the way it looked, but it was better than letting it hang down like dog ears. No way was she going to look like a hayseed because, holey moly, she was going to Clint Abbott’s house. Her legs felt like jelly as adrenalin pumped through her veins. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Five, maybe six years?
Hurrying through the square living room off the galley kitchen, Shannon tripped over a plate she’d left on the floor, but caught her balance before falling flat on her face.
“Clumsy ox,” she let out. She needed to lose weight, but God, working out was a bore, and who the hell wanted to eat rabbit food for days on end?
The place reeked of leftover Stouffer’s lasagna and Swanson potpies, which Shannon paired every night with a glass of wine or two. Well, if she were honest, there were times she polished off an entire bottle in one sitting. No one ever came to see her, so what the hell?
She found her purse and locked the door behind her, although she didn’t know why. There was nothing in this cracker box rambler that amounted to a tinker’s damn. The paint was peeling, the window frames were rotting, and the grass had turned to weeds long ago.
Walking to her car in the dark, she looked around apprehensively. God only knew if someone was stalking her. She was twenty-seven and attractive, and sex addicts might be lurking.
She opened the door to the eight-year-old Honda and slid behind the wheel. God, it stunk in here. As she started the car, she glanced at the McDonald sacks, empty pop cans, and Kit Kat wrappers that littered the passenger seat and floor. Kit Kats, yum. Oh man, she wished she had a couple of them right now, but couldn’t take the time to stop at the all-night gas station. When duty calls, duty calls.
She backed out of the driveway and drove through the neighborhood, passing house after house that, except for the color of the siding, looked exactly like the shit box Mama left her when she died. Shannon didn’t make enough money to fix it up, and she doubted she’d win the lottery anytime soon.
On the highway, her thoughts went to Clint Abbott. She was a senior in high school when she first saw him. It was unusual for Shannon to attend a football game, but found herself alone in the stands for the game between Sheffield and Jamestown. It was probably one of those nights where Mama was in crazy mode and Shannon needed to escape the wrath. She was immediately smitten with the Sheffield linebacker who was tall and physically fit. Clint Abbott looked like an Adonis in his tight-fitting football uniform with the number fifty-three on the back of his jersey.
But hopes of Clint Abbott being the love of her life were squelched when, after the game, she watched a cheerleader with long, strawberry-blonde hair run out on the field and fly into his arms.
She’d thought about him through the years, and had even gone so far as to find out where Clint and Charlie Cheerleader lived. Too little too late, her Grandma would say. Whatever. Nothing good ever happened in rinky-dinky small town Iowa. At least, not to Shannon. However, maybe it was karma that she was called to the Abbott house tonight. Butterflies danced in her tummy.
In her neck of the woods child-in-need-of-assistance cases weren’t common. She instigated maybe four or five cases a year, and most of the accusations were unfounded, usually made by the almost ex-spouses who’d been dumped.
When she turned into the Abbott driveway, she drew in a deep breath and blew it out, trying to calm her nerves. Would Clint remember her? She’d dreamt about him for years.
Even at her five-year high-school reunion no one knew who Shannon was. She was a nobody who'd been teased about her big ole man-hands and told she walked like a duck. Screw high school.
She parked behind the
squad car next to the ambulance and hurried up the steps. Before she had time to knock, the door opened.
“Miss Patterson?” the young, pimple-faced policeman asked.
“That would be me,” she answered. “What’s going on here?”
After Officer Jergens introduced himself, he told her again about the bruises and the red marks around six-year-old Mira Abbott’s neck. Shannon gasped when the cop told her that the Mira Abbott hadn’t been breathing when the ambulance had arrived.
Memories of her Mama leaving Shannon with a burning butt that hurt so bad she couldn’t walk for days, and the time when she’d knocked Shannon out with a rolling pin to the head came rushing back.
The therapist she saw occasionally wanted Shannon to have a brain scan to see if there was any damage from that attack, but Shannon pooh-poohed the idea. He also wanted her to take crazy pills, but she wasn’t nuts. She was pissed she’d been given the devil for a mother.
“Where is she?” Shannon asked. “The Abbott child?”
“Upstairs.” He nodded at the arched entrance. “Second bedroom on the left.”
“Do they know I’m coming?” Outrage curdled in the pit of her stomach as she thought about what had happened in this house tonight. Visions of a little girl running to hide in the closet; her mother chasing her, but she couldn’t escape. How well Shannon knew that feeling of total helplessness.
Standing guard by the back door, the officer shook his head. “Nope.”
She turned and walked through the living room, her eyes moving over the furniture. Everything looked so dowdy, like old people lived here: the worn brown couch; the frayed cloth recliner; even the shades on the lamps looked ancient.
She wrapped a hand over the thick oak railing and went up the stairs. Hearing a male and female voice that Shannon assumed was Clint and fancy-pantsy Charlie, her free hand clenched into a defensive fist. She never knew what she was getting into on these late-night calls.
As she entered the bedroom, Shannon noticed the little girl had her arms wrapped around herself and her eyes moved over the multiple bruises on her arms and legs. Inching closer to her, Shannon leaned over, and found the red marks on her neck. Poor little thing.
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