Lacy's End (4 page)

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson.”

“Come here,” she said, calling Lacy out of line and leading her across the blacktop. She perused her face for a minute, tight-lipped. “What happened to you?”

“I had an accident.”

Mrs. Jackson crossed her arms, eyeing Lacy. “You sure have a lot of those accidents.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to have another one if I get detention one more time.”

Mrs. Jackson took a sharp intake of breath, trying to decide whether to pursue the incident. She sighed. “Run a couple laps and don’t be late again,” she said.

Lacy grinned. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jackson.”

Lacy took off on a run. Laps were nothing. She could do a hundred, and it wouldn’t bother her as much as her father’s fists.

Halfway around the first lap, he showed up again. Lacy almost tripped. “Damn it, Jake,” she muttered. “Quit doing that.”

He laughed as he jogged comfortably beside her. She looked over to see if Mrs. Jackson had noticed Jake’s presence. She hadn’t. Lacy said, “You’re going to get me in trouble if you keep showing up like this.”

He just laughed harder. By the time she completed her first lap, she was sweating and panting. “You should work out more,” Jake said. “You wouldn’t pant so much.” He took off on a fast run, leaving Lacy to stare after him as he sped around the track. She shook her head, knowing she would never catch up with him. She didn’t know where this unexpected friend came from, but she welcomed the reprieve.

“Gotcha,” he said, laughing as he pulled up behind her. He swatted her on the butt and kept on running.

“No fair,” she said, sprinting to catch up. She looked down at her legs, pounding as fast as they could. When she looked back up, he was gone.

After Lacy had left for school that morning, Brenda stumbled about the house, trying to get everything ready for her husband’s departure. His departure for work was her favorite time of the day. Only then was she able to breathe and be herself. When he was home, she walked on eggshells—never knowing what might set him off, wondering if it was a nice day or a mean day—a leftover-drunk day.

As she broke two eggs into a pan, his voice boomed from the bedroom, causing her to flinch.

“Brenda! Damn it all. I don’t have a clean shirt to wear.”

She grabbed the pan off the heat, knowing what was about to come. How could she have been so stupid not to iron his shirts right away? He shouldn’t have had to ask for them. A good wife would have had them hanging in the closet. She wanted to be a good wife, really she did.

Her heart beat rapidly, as she took in a huge breath, letting it out slowly to the count of ten. She had learned the technique at a stress management class that her doctor had recommended when her blood pressure had first begun to skyrocket.

She had done it secretly because Peter wouldn’t have approved of her spending the money on it. As it was, she had to skim from her grocery allowance to pay for the class, and that hadn’t been easy. She had practically starved herself for two weeks to scrape enough money together.

He entered the room, thundering across it, knocking into a large, potted plant and sending it toppling to the floor. “Damn it, woman, look what you made me do!” He didn’t stop to pick up the plant. In fact, the falling of the plant only seemed to fuel his rage. He reached out, grabbing her by the hair and yanked her toward him. She barely flinched but reached up to grasp her ponytail close to her head. This was nothing compared to what he could do and usually did. Lacy had been after her to cut her hair, citing the fact that it would be difficult for him to yank it if it was short. She didn’t dare, though. On some days, she wished she had the courage to chop it off at the root, if for nothing else but to defy him. What might Peter say or do if she cut it without his permission? Lacy had shown her several adorable styles that she loved, but it was better not to incite his wrath.

“My shirt,” he commanded.

“I’ll have it ready in five minutes.”

“Make it two,” he said, but she knew he’d give her the five.

He released her hair and strode from the room. She rushed to retrieve the ironing board and iron, knowing he would be watching the time. She set it up quickly, her hands moving rapidly, experienced as they were from years of practice. She watched the clock—two minutes down with the setup. She ran to the laundry room, grabbed his shirt, and returned to the kitchen, one minute. Good time, she thought. Peter returned to the kitchen in exactly five minutes.

Brenda had the shirt waiting on the ironing board while she stood at the stove finishing the eggs. Peter hesitated, hoping to find something wrong. When he didn’t he said, “Well, all right, then, how about some breakfast.”

No sooner had he said the words, than the toaster popped. She slid his eggs onto a plate, grabbed the toast, and placed the plate in front of him at the dining room table. He would slather it with butter and jam on his own.

She poured him a cup of coffee, poured another for herself, and joined him at the table. “You’re not eating?”

She shook her head. “I’m not feeling well this morning.”

He eyed her, a look of sympathy ever so slightly touching his eyes. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

He reached up to touch the damage. Instinctively she pulled back. He didn’t try again.
You could try not using me for a punching bag
, she thought. “No. I’ll be okay in a little while. I think it’s the change in the weather. It has messed with my system.” She lowered her eyes, opening and closing them to clear the tears forming in them.

He dismissed the conversation for another one. “What’s on your list today?”

She sighed. “I have a PTA meeting this morning, then a dental appointment, and then I’m home to tackle that hall closet. It hasn’t been cleaned in ages.”

The conversation was strained and awkward, typical of the morning-after chatter. Each time he moved she flinched involuntarily, and he would stare at her with a questioning look.

He thought for a moment and then nodded, approving her schedule. “See that you don’t overdo it.” He grinned at her and for just a moment, she caught a glimpse of the boy that had first caught her eye. “I want you ready for some lovin’ tonight.” He reached over and squeezed one breast.

“Okay.” She managed a weak smile.

He finished his breakfast and stood, leaving his plate and cup on the table for her to clear. “Gotta go.”

She nodded and began to clear the table. He kissed her and exited out the side door to the carport. Just another ordinary day in the lives of a suburban family, except this day would likely end with ten stitches, or a bump on the head at the very least.

She watched his car back out the driveway, watched him waving as he drove past the kitchen window.

She stood there a few more minutes before she turned and walked into the bathroom. She turned on the shower, disrobed, and stood before the floor length mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door.

She surveyed every inch of her body. She was still a young woman, thirty-two. Her brunette hair was long, a no-nonsense style—who had time, after all, for fussing with hair when your time was in such demand? She picked up a strand and examined it—shiny, but lifeless, and was that a bit of gray starting at her temple? Most of her friends were dying their hair to cover the gray. Peter would never consent to that. Aside from the fact that hair dye cost precious money, he’d never allow the vanity. Her frame was trim, her breasts round and firm. Peter had always said these were her greatest asset. Her smile, although rarely seen, was radiant. She tried smiling then, just to see how it felt. It felt wrong as if she were trying to fool someone.

Her dimples were there, however. When she was a child, people used to stop her mother and comment on her dimples. “How cute,” she had heard many a time. One time, when she was around five, she and her mother had been sitting in the waiting room of her pediatrician. Her mother told her a joke. Brenda had smiled so big, that the entire waiting room smiled back. A man walked up to her mother and handed her a card. “She has a smile that will sell,” he had said. Her mother thanked him kindly and returned the card.

“Brenda’s going to do great things with her life,” she had said. “Not sell silly products to the public on a television commercial. I don’t even own a television. They’re a terrible waste of time.”

The man took back the card but didn’t say anything as he left the waiting room, embarrassed.

“What did he want?” Brenda had asked.

“Never mind, Brenda, you just concentrate on what you have to do to have a happy, successful life.”

Brenda let the smile drop.
There, that feels more normal
.

She lifted her hair, holding it loosely piled on top of her head. She turned sideways and looked at the large, ugly, purple bruise. It started with a thumbprint on the left side of her neck, wrapped around the neck, ending in a larger print on the right side. She counted the dark, ugly bruises on her right side—seven in all. “Well, he’s perfecting himself,” she said aloud. “Last time there were only five.”

Sighing, she stepped into the shower and let the water cascade down her body. The water stung the open cut on her leg and she winced. “I didn’t even know I had that,” she said. She completed her bathing, turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself. She dressed quickly, applied makeup, and then styled her hair.

When the grooming ritual was done, she assessed her appearance in the bathroom mirror: neat hair pulled back into a ponytail, smooth skin —compliments of concealer. Foundation and lipstick were the only cosmetics she permitted herself, and that was mainly to hide the bruises. Her made-up face screamed of the lies her eyes hid. “Lie, lie, lie. It was all one big lie!” She no longer could stand the false smile.

A large soap dish in the shape of a swan rested on the vanity. It easily weighed five pounds and was a gift from her grandmother. It was the first thing her fingers found when they blindly reached out, searching for something to throw.

The mirror shattered, sending shards of glass all over the room. One of the shards hit her on the cheek, leaving a wide gap. She grabbed her cheek. Blood flowed through her fingertips. She slumped to the floor in a catatonic state, oblivious to the blood that now covered her neck.

It seemed as if she sat there for ages before she came out of her stupor. Slowly she stood, looked into the mirror, and assessed the damage. The blood still flowed, although much slower now. She opened a drawer on the bathroom vanity and took out a washcloth. She pressed the cloth against her cheek. She held it there, checking every few seconds to see if the blood ebbed. “Way to go, Brenda,” she said. She leaned closer to the mirror. “That’s good for at least five stitches.”

Chuckling at the irony, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed for the door, wondering all the way to the hospital what excuse she would give them this time. Then she laughed when the thought struck her that she wouldn’t need an explanation. Peter hadn’t been anywhere near her this time.

She drove to the emergency room and waited for an hour in the waiting room, cloth still pressed against her cheek. Finally, the nurse called her back. When asked how it had happened, she didn’t know what to say. Should she tell them the truth or another lie? “I dropped something, and it hit the mirror in the bathroom and shattered.”

The doctor looked at her eye, scanned the two-inch thick hospital record and eyed her with suspicion. “Mrs. Waldrip,” he began, “your file,” he held it up for her to see, “is two inches thick. That’s a whole lot of accidents. Do you really expect me to believe you dropped something, and it shattered so badly that you need ten stitches to close the wound?”

She nodded her head. A brief image of Peter and the Wolf flashed through her head. They had all gone to see the play the year before last when Peter was in one of his rare “family time” modes. The thought that she had lied so many times that the doctor didn’t believe her when she told the truth was hysterical. She began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. She laughed until she was laughing so loud she was out of control.

The doctor eyed her in amazement and pushed a button on the wall, summoning help from one of the nurses. When the nurse entered the room, he said, “Jody, get me 2mg of Ativan and call for a psych eval.” The nurse nodded and left the room.

Brenda attempted to bring the laughter under control, but she was still laughing when the nurse returned to the room carrying the Ativan. She was still laughing when the doctor plunged the needle into her arm and depressed the plunger. Within moments, she was calm and lying back on the bed.

“You just lie back and rest awhile, Mrs. Waldrip.”

The doctor and nurse left the room. They entered the corridor, and the doctor turned to the nurse. “Did you get hold of someone from the psychiatric unit?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.” She smiled apologetically at his frown. “They’re really backed up today.”

“Every day,” he said cynically. He sighed and softened his glare. “I guess they can’t help it if they’re busy.”

“They’re short-staffed.” He raised his eyebrows, questioning. “Budget cuts,” she said. “See if you can get Dr. Petoro for me. He saw her two days ago. Maybe he’ll have some insight.”

Dr. Petoro was in the middle of stitching an arm laceration on a five-year-old when Jody found him. “Sure, I remember Mrs. Waldrip,” he said. “And I will tell you right now, you’re wasting your time. Even if her husband is responsible for this, you’ll never get her to admit it.”

“Could you at least try, Doctor?”

He pulled the last suture through and smiled at his young patient. “There you are, Susan. What a good, brave girl you are.” Susan beamed a toothless grin at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lollipop. He looked at Susan’s mother. “Okay?” She nodded, and he handed the girl the lollipop. She threw herself into his arms. He laughed and returned the hug.

“Please, Dr. Petoro,” Jody pleaded again.

“I’m sorry,” Suzy’s mother, Alice, said. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Jody blushed and knew she’d get a scolding for discussing a patient in front of another.

“I know Brenda Waldrip. You should try. We are all aware what’s going on in that house, but neither Brenda nor Lacy will admit to it. Someone has to get through to her.”

Dr. Petoro sighed. “I’ll try again,” he said, “but no promises.”

Jody walked jubilantly from the room, beaming a smile. When Dr. Petoro caught up to her, she paused, rushing to chastise herself before he had a chance to. “I’m sorry, Dr. Petoro. I know I shouldn’t have said anything in front of Mrs. Briar. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have,” Dr. Petoro said, “but that isn’t what I was going to say. I just wanted to ask what frame of mind Mrs. Waldrip is in.”

“Hysterical.” She began to walk again, and Dr. Petoro followed her. “She just kept laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. Dr. Davis gave her some Ativan, which appears to have calmed her down a bit. We’re waiting for a psych eval.”