Sadie's Mountain (4 page)

I was in my house in Dillon’s arms and Daddy was yelling and pounding his fist into the living room wall. “Look at the dress she’s a’ wearin’,” he yelled. “It’s no wonder she got tooken advantage of!”

I fell or was pulled down and I was sitting on the floor. Momma was trying to pull me up but she was pushing Dillon away.

“Go home, Dillon!” Momma yelled. When I looked down there was blood streaked down the inside of my legs and all down the front of my too-short dress. I tried to rub the blood away from my legs but more came to replace it.

“Oh, God!” I screamed at my blood covered hands. Momma was trying to cover me with the blanket from the back of the couch.

“Get out of here!” Momma was yelling at Dillon. “You’d better not be here when he comes down them stairs!”

I was half covered by the blanket and screaming now in short, frantic squeals as I saw Daddy stomp down the stairs wielding his belt—the skinny one that hurt the worst. There was blood everywhere. It was my blood. “Am I dying?” I managed to say through the screams.

“Please, sir, don’t hit her,” Dillon said, frantically as he stood in the doorframe with his right arm reached out to me.

“This ain’t none’a yer concern,” Daddy said, “Go on home, Dillon,” he ordered as he came at me with the belt held above his shoulder ready to strike.

“Daddy, no!” I yelped as he slapped the belt into my back. I slipped on the blood on the floor. He whipped me again as I pulled myself up. The belt stung me over and over as I crawled on my hands and knees into the corner of the room. Momma was trying to grab his arm. She pulled like a slight wind on a steel frame.

“Stop!” Momma yelled.

“Don’t hit her,” Dillon said, his voice rough like a callous.

“Sinner!” Daddy yelled as he flogged me over and over. I curled into a fetal ball. “Please, God almighty! Forgive this child of her sins! Rebuke the demon enemy that makes her weak and wanton!”

“Dillon!” I screamed, as if my life depended on it. Through the hair covering my face I saw Dillon’s boots running toward us and he grasped Daddy’s now tired arm.

“Please, sir. That’s enough, ain’t it?” He sounded like he was crying.

I was so worn-out. My shallow breaths weren’t enough.

Momma was holding me. I don’t know where I was—maybe still in the corner of the living room. She wiped my feverish forehead with a warm cloth. She looked scared. She kissed me with small, newborn kisses all over my cheeks.

“You’re okay now, my baby,” she kept saying over and over.

I was on my bed. It was dark but I felt a bandage on my neck. I reached down and felt that my clothes were off and a nightgown was buttoned up over my chest and down my tummy. Missy wasn’t there. I was shaking so badly that the bed felt like an earthquake. “I’m s-s-s-so cold,” I said, to no one but myself. The chill was coming from the inside of me. Nothing would make me warm.

I was curled up on my bed.
Alone. Alone
.

Chapter Three—Come Home

 
I can do this!
I think, waking up on the airplane with a jolt as the little speakers are telling me to put my seatbelt on. Looking at my phone on airplane mode it’s 10:30 a.m. I’ve been traveling all night. I left last night from the Sacramento Metropolitan Airport at 10:20 p.m. There was the one layover in Charlotte, which I trudged through sitting anxiously in the first class lounge drinking a too-sweet cocktail with a plump fresh cherry slinking around on the bottom of the glass.

My mantra has been:
It’s just for a few days. Momma needs me. She’s so sick and all she wants is to see me again one more time.
This is what got my bag packed. What got my feet to actually propel me forward as I walked down the ramp to the airplane in the first place.

I haven’t been back there since, it’s been how long? Well, it was just before my fifteenth birthday when I left, so yes, it’s been ten years. I don’t have to stay long if I don’t want to. I can just rent a car at the airport, drive over to her house, hug her, talk to her, say our goodbyes and come back home the next evening. A quick trip won’t hurt me. If I don’t let it, that is.

The jet is making its descent, pulling my stomach down with it. But I know that’s not the only thing wrong with my stomach. Nerves are bouncing around in there like a boomerang in a cage of foil. I realize just then, as I have to concentrate to keep my horrible airplane salad down, that I’m nauseated. I can’t run to the restroom now with the little seatbelt light shining up above my head.

I hastily grab that little bag so nicely provided for people who are sick and push it up to my face in preparation for the impending projectile vomiting that feels imminent.

The wheels touch down and hop, pushing me into the back of my first class seat. I hold my breath and put my head back. The brakes do their job and slow the human-filled-missile to a stop. The pilot is talking now about arriving at the Roanoke Airport and having a good trip.

Oh shut up
, I think as I frown at the chipper flight attendant. I’ve never liked them. Their smiles always seem to be masking other feelings just under the surface. It’s unsettling and makes me realize that’s probably what I look like, too.

“Ms. Sparks,” she chirps. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to sign my book?” she asks as she takes one of the books from the
Fire Bound
series out from behind her back.

“Of, course,” I say, and smear my name all over the inside flap. “Thank you for reading.”

“Thank you so much,” she beams.

I get my luggage—just one small suitcase—and rent a car. It’s a decent one. A black, four-door Buick La Sabre, since that is the nicest one they have. It smells new and sanitary. At least I have that. Who knows what the house will be like when I get there in almost three hours.

 Momma was a good housekeeper but with four kids to pick up after, sanitary wouldn’t be the word I’d use to describe my growing up. My two little brothers, who I don’t even know anymore, are teenagers now. And Missy lives so close. She probably cleans the place since Momma is so sick. That eases my mind a bit.

As I pull into a fast food place to order a fruit and yogurt concoction and coffee, it dawns on me that I could rent a hotel room or a little cabin somewhere. That is an option. One night in my old room wouldn’t kill me, though. It would be the last time I see my mom, her illness being terminal and all. Her type of cancer most certainly is— I’m told. It would be wrong to leave her and drive into town for the night.

As I settle into the steady hum of the car cruising up the VA-311 North, I start to let my mind ease into the thoughts behind the thoughts. I can face this. I’m not some little victim anymore. I’m a successful author with sixteen books in print. Twelve of them are best sellers. I write paranormal new adult, and women’s fiction with strong female characters so different from me. Some of my characters have powers I wish I had like the ability to become invisible. Some can fly. All of them can kill demons. My platform usually includes an eco-theme with Biblical allusions and women who are anything but victims.

I’ve also written a trilogy, middle grade, about bugs on an organic farm. It was just optioned to be made into a computer generated movie in the coming year. They’re already auditioning celebrities for the voiceovers. I’m rooting for Ashley Judd for the voice of Polly—my praying mantis protagonist.

My point is that I’ve got everything I need: A custom home in the dreamlike hills of Newcastle, California, acquaintances, money, success. But do I have safety? That’s something I haven’t been able to buy.

Maybe I should hire a bodyguard?

My thoughts are blaring at me now. The person I’m really anxious about is not Donnie. Donnie almost seems like a figment of my imagination—a nightmare so bad that it couldn’t be real. It’s Dillon I’m really worried about. He still lives there, or rather he’s moved back there to work on some government grant. Missy had told me about that about three years ago. His job was rather a mystery to her, it seemed.

I’m sure I can avoid him. I’d done it for months before Daddy gave up on me and Momma finally took pity and sent me to live with my Aunt Lotty in Sacramento. Well, the difference then was that I hadn’t left the house for months. Maybe I won’t have to go anywhere.
I’ll only be there just the one night.

That whole summer, Dillon never gave up hope that I’d talk to him. He’d come to the door but I wouldn’t come out of my room. He brought me flowers he’d picked himself and leave them on my window sill. Sometimes he’d bring us some fresh fish from the creek for Momma to cook for dinner, or he’d write me letters and ask Missy or Momma to give them to me.

Dillon had gone off to college right after I left. I knew he’d move on if I gave him time. Right before he went to college, he got some huge scholarship because of his grades and an experiment that created some new type of fuel. He was in the local paper and on the news holding his medal. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen to him speaking on the TV back then.

I’m not sure what college he went to but I know he must be some type of scientist now.

My GPS just told me to merge onto the I-64 West in Quinwood, West Virginia. Someone left a CD in the car. Bruno Mars has been my background noise this whole trip. I like him. He’s singing about
‘Talking to the Moon
’ and it seems so fitting considering I was just thinking about Dillon.

His final letter to me talked about the moon and how it could bind us no matter where we were—no matter how far apart we drifted we would both be looking up at the same moon each night. I actually think about that every time happenstance causes me to look at the moon. I’m going to have to find that letter when I get to Momma’s house. I know exactly where I hid it.

The thing is, I knew then and I know now that I can’t talk to Dillon because he wants to know what happened to me. I have always worried about what would happen if Dillon found out. I’m sure he’d try and fight Donnie. He’d be no match for his dark-haired, tank of a brother.

Besides, Donnie promised death if anything happened between Dillon and me. That’s the crux of our relationship. Talking to him means danger—for both of us. I did talk to Dillon again. Just once.