Letters From Rachel

by N L Westaway

  Next to her folded undershirts was a box of maxi-pads, which she grabbed, opened, then dug into to get the money she had hidden there. It was the safest spot. Her father would never touch it, and her mother in menopause now, wouldn’t need them, so it had been the ideal place to hide her earnings.

  She had been permitted the option to get a job at the library to have money to buy books—and only books, other purchases had not been allowed. Her father had plenty of money, but he never spent a dime on anyone but himself. She already spent a significant amount of time at the library studying so it seemed the perfect place for her to work, her father had said, and her mother felt it would keep her out of trouble and out of her way. They hadn’t known it, but Rachel had worked a heck of a lot more than they knew, and she had still managed to keep up with her excellent grades.

  She liked her boss, a typical librarian, exactly how you would picture one, and she appreciated Rachel’s love for books. She had even paid her under the table for the extra shifts she had worked, mainly because she did not like Rachel’s father, didn’t like that he limited how often she could work or even what she was allowed to spend the money on. “He was an arrogant misogynist twit, who knew little about books despite his teaching literature. He liked the sound of his own voice,” her boss had said to Rachel. She had attended his class and had taken an instant dislike to him, but she suffered through the class for her love of literature and library studies. She had told Rachel that he talked about great works, though he had never written anything, and had only read the classics, and just the ones that those in his field felt were worthy of reading. She knew Rachel hated him, hadn’t known why, but Rachel knew she had felt a kinship in the disdain.

  Leaning to the side, Rachel snatched up her school bag and opened it to empty out her graduation ceremony paperwork and the yearbook she had been given, onto the floor. She did not want or need either of these things. Then she tucked the wad of cash into the front zippered pocket. She followed next with placing the jeans and sweatshirt in the main compartment. Continuing, she pulled several pairs of underpants, some undershirts, and socks—all white cotton of course, from the open drawer, tossing one of each to change into onto the bed, transferring the rest into the filling bag. She didn’t own any bras—not one, her mother had never bought her one, as it had been an order from her father. All her clothes had been chosen for her, dresses mostly—which she had liked actually, were purchased two sizes too big to hide any marks from the beatings, and to hide her womanly body, another demand from her father. Her favorite dress, a dark green cotton long-sleeved one covered in yellow and white petaled flowers, the one she’d actually had a chance to grow into, had been thrown out by her mother—or so her mother had thought. Rachel had rescued it from the trash bin, washed it with the rest of her things and then had hidden it away with other treasures she had collected over the years. And today, today was the day she would wear that dress. She loved the colours and the soft cotton fabric, and she especially liked how it complemented her green eyes and long dark russet hair, hair that if the sun caught it just right, it shown gold ribbons throughout its dark wavy tresses.

  Reaching now behind the dresser, she slid out a plain brown paper bag, the one she had been keeping the dress in. She changed out of her undergarments and into the set she had laid on the bed. She pulled the dress from the bag and then gingerly, she pulled the dress over her head. With a grin, she yanked on her socks and then stepped her feet into her new black combat-style boots and laced them up.

  Before gathering up the last of her things and adding them to the bag, she used some of the gauze bandages she had hidden to seal up the cut on her leg. With only minutes before her name would be yelled from down the hall, Rachel swiftly secured back her hair into a long braid. She packed her remaining items into the knapsack and zipped it, then lifted it up over her right shoulder… and then she climbed out her bedroom window.

  Out of habit, she had left her bike near the side of the house out of view of the driveway. The bike was a one speed, front brake, piece of crap, that she’d had to fix any issues with it herself, but it had been the only way for her to get to and from school and to the library other than walking the 5 to 7 miles, depending on where she was going. She had even ridden it in the winter when the roads were clear, because otherwise she had had to walk.

  She slid both arms through the straps of the knapsack, then eased herself on to the seat. With a creak from the bike and one painful push, she was off peddling towards town as fast as her wounded legs could take her.

  Arriving at the police station, she rested her rust covered bike against the steps to the main entrance. She tidied the bandage on her leg, smoothed her hair back of any strands that had come loose, and then swung her bag over one shoulder before climbing the steps.

  Opening the door, Rachel spotted Officer Thompson, the one she had originally given her complaint to. “You’ll have to believe me now,” she spouted, pushing up her sleeves to show the welts. As she was showing her legs and pointing out the bandage, another officer walked in through the front doors to overhear what she had been saying.

  The two officers could not have been more different. Officer Thompson was average height and very thin, with jet black hair cut in a military crewcut style. He had a large nose and thin lips. This other officer was short and chubby, with barely-there carrot-top red hair and a shiny pink face to match his shiny pink balding head.

  “I know all about your attention getting antics young lady—we don’t have time to play these games with you,” pinky-pig face said. “I spoke to your mother at the house and then again over the phone—and your father too.” He stepped even closer, and she saw that his neck was covered in acne scars. He smelled like cheap cologne and sweaty body odor. He had almost certainly been bullied in school for his appearance and probably why he felt the need to be the bully now.

  “My mother lied,” Rachel said, through clenched teeth. She had had enough of intimidation in her short life. “Officer Stinson,” she said, reading his name tag. “When my father heard what she had done, letting a police officer into the house, he beat her too. She has a huge bruise on her face, a fat lip, and choke marks on her neck. Go check, see for yourself, I’m not lying.”

  “Your mother told us you often hurt yourself to get others in trouble,” Officer Stinson said, tossing the accusation out and sliding his thumbs between his waistband and the bulging heft of his belly, gripping his belt.

  The door to the police chief’s office suddenly flung open and a tall middle-aged man with salt ’n pepper hair stormed out.

  “Chief,” Officer Stinson said, stepping back from Rachel, clearly intimidated by the man, the years of receiving bulling himself even more evident.

  “What the hell is going on out here, Thompson?” the Chief said, addressing the other officer and ignoring Stinson.

  “Miss Rampton is back, Sir. She claims she’s been beaten again.”

  “Claims?” Rachel shot back. “What do you call this?” She stretched out her arms to show the welts, then bent to lift the bottom of her dress. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she spun, flinging an arm out and smacking the person accidently on the side of the face.

  “Whoa—ouch,” Jamie said, rubbing the side of his face.

  “Oh-my-gawd—I’m so sorry,” Rachel said, reaching and gently removing his hand from his face to see if she had caused any damage.

  In the middle of the commotion both junior officers began talking, explaining things at the same time.

  “Stinson—get in my office!” the Chief said, shouting the order. “Jamie, wait here until I’m done. You too have some explaining to do.” The senior officer turned away then and strode swiftly back into his office.

  Officer Stinson immediately followed, scurrying as if he were a bad dog, while Officer Thompson fiddled with a stack of papers behind the front desk, ignoring Jamie and Rachel as they stood silently in the front lobby.

  “Let�
��s sit,” Jamie said, extending an arm towards the chairs.

  Calming now, Rachel nodded and then sat in the chair closest to the main doors.

  “I’m Jamie,” he said, smiling and extending a hand.

  “Rachel,” she said back, shaking his hand. His smile was warm and his eyes, dark brown, were kind, unlike those of his father’s.

  “What happened to you?” Jamie asked, still holding her hand, turning it to examine the big purple wounds on her arm.

  She let go of his hand and took in a deep breath. “My father,” she said, letting her breath out in a sigh.

  “Your father did this?” Jamie asked, his anger escalating.

  “Yes,” she said, drawing back the hem of her dress to reveal more of her injuries. “But they don’t believe me. I told them this morning—they said they’d take care of things, but they didn’t, and when I got home from school… well… I just can’t take it anymore.” She pulled the sleeves of her dress down, covering the bruises as a sense of defeat flooded her.

  The door to the Chief’s office opened then and both the Chief and Officer Stinson walked out. Then Officer Stinson walked past them without saying a word, to exit out the main doors.

  “Jamie,” the Chief called, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the open door of his office.

  Jamie glanced at Rachel.

  “And you—Miss Rampton, you need to get on home, and stop all this foolishness with giving your parents a hard time—and wasting our time.”

  “Sir, I don’t think she should…,” Jamie started.

  “Don’t speak unless spoken to, son,” the Chief said, cutting him off. “You don’t know this girl.”

  “I know she’s hurt,” Jamie said, in defense of her. “She shouldn’t have to go back home to her father—she’s clearly been abused.”

  “I just spoke to her mother on the phone—she explained everything to me. The girl is a runabout, neglects her schoolwork, acts up at home, and is always disobeying her father.”

  Rachel’s blood pressure pulsed in her ears and her adrenaline rose as she stood. “She’s a lying bitch—and my father is an abusive sick bastard,” she screamed. Her composure crumbling, she turned away from the Chief, this horrible man who had glared at her with judging eyes, judging her over lies her mother had spewed. Then without another thought, she grabbed her knapsack off the adjacent chair and darted for the exit, pushing open the main door. The weight of the door swung back hard on its hinges as she raced through it and down the stairs.

  “Rachel, wait!” Jamie called after her.

  Outside Rachel fussed with her bike, the tire had gone flat while she had been inside. She gave the tire a swift kick just as she heard Jamie call her name again.

  At her side, he said, “I believe you.” She looked up, and he was smiling at her again. “My dad is an asshole.”

  “Yes, he is,” she agreed, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. A strand of hair blew loose from her braid then.

  “Where are you going,” Jamie asked, seizing the lose strand, and tucking it behind her ear.

  She glanced down at her bike and shook her head. “Nowhere by the looks of it,” she said, kicking the tire of her bike again. “Flat tire.” Where could she go now? Her rickety old bike had a flat, not that she could head out of Dodge on a bicycle, anyway. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, all she knew was that she had to get out—get away. But now what? “Piece of shit,” she added, letting go of the bike and letting it drop to the ground.

  “I can give you a ride,” Jamie offered, pointing over to an old motorbike parked at the corner of the parking lot. “But we’d better go before my father comes out looking for me.”

  Rachel glanced up at the main doors, then back over at the motorbike.

  “C’mon, I’ll take you to my favorite place,” Jamie said, his warm smile stretching across his face. “Gimme your bag.”

  “Okay,” Rachel said, giving in and handing him her knapsack. What did she have to lose? Then the two of them darted over to the motorbike to make their getaway.

  Jamie handed her his leather motorcycle jacket, then took a second helmet from one of the side bags. “Put these on,” he told her. He buckled up his own helmet, put her knapsack on backwards with the big pouch in front on his chest, then he straddled the bike and quickly started the engine. “Climb on,” he said, over the roar of the motorbike.

  Rachel gathered up her dress, pulling the back hem through her legs to the front and then sat astride the seat behind him. As the bike kicked forward, Rachel wrapped her arms around Jamie’s midsection and then they were off.

  Rachel had no idea where they were going, but anywhere was better than home, better than the police station. As the bike sped along, she clung to her rescuer for both safety and comfort. She had never been this close to a boy, but Jamie wasn’t a boy, he was a man, and for the first time in her life, she actually felt safe. She didn’t know what she was going to do next, but what she did know, was that right now this is where she wanted to be… with him.

  At the end of a long country road and as the bike slowed, an old worn red barn came into view. “This is my grandfather’s property,” Jamie said over his shoulder, bringing the bike to a stop. “The barn isn’t used much these days. There’s a new one closer to the house. He pointed to a house way across the field. She could see a more modern structure adjacent to a modest white farmhouse. “But I love coming out here to this one,” he said, helping her off the bike and handing back her bag. “It’s a great place to get away to… away from my father… for some quiet, just to think, ya know.”

  Rachel nodded. She knew what he meant. The library was like that for her. She had loved the quiet and the opportunity to be out from under her parents. “Thank you,” she said, “for getting me out of there.”

  “Ya, well, I wasn’t interested in sticking around there either,” Jamie admitted. “My dad said we needed to talk, but he pretty much just yells.”

  Rachel nodded again. She knew what that was like too, though she knew worse than that. However, she appreciated that he was sharing with her, trying to relate on some level. She didn’t get to talk with many people, none really, maybe her boss at the library occasionally, but the library was a quiet space, not a chatting space, and she was enjoying this, enjoying his company, enjoying him. And she had never had a friend like him before.

  She watched as Jamie slid the large barn-door aside and then pushed his motorbike into the open space of the structure. “Coming?” he asked, motioning for her to come in. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she followed him in.

  Rachel glanced around the barn. It looked like what you would expect. An open space with bales of hay on one side and empty stalls on the other. Pleasantly surprised, all she could smell was the dry hay, and she figured that no livestock had been housed in here for years. It was two storeys, she established, and next to the stairs that led to the second level, was a large red plastic cooler with a white hinged lid.

  “What does your grandfather use this for now?” Rachel asked, walking in further to check out the stalls.

  “Surplus mostly,” Jamie said, strolling over to the cooler. “Any hay that can’t fit in the main barn gets put in here—and up there.” He pointed to the stairs, then bent to open the cooler.

  She watched as he removed three bottles of water and two full-sized bags of what she recognized as potato chips. She had never been allowed to have any, though she had thought of sneaking some when at the library, and she had seen a few bags stashed in the cupboard when she had put the groceries away for her mother. Had her father been put in jail today, she might have taken a bag, been brave enough to.

  “Sorry—I don’t have much to offer on food,” Jamie said. “I’m the only one who comes here, so I just keep some water and snacks.” He grinned. “Are you hungry?”

  She was starving actually, now that she had a moment to think about it, and thirsty. “Yes,” she said,
grinning back. She walked over and took a bag of chips and one of the bottles of water from him.

  “Follow me,” Jamie said, heading up the stairs.

  On the second floor there was a huge opening on the far wall, large enough to fit hay bales stacked ten high and ten wide, and the view from it was breathtaking. It was to her anyway, her views had been limited to school, the library, and home. But here, the farmland stretched out bordered by beautiful red maple trees. She understood why he liked to come here. It was peaceful and quiet, and the scenery was spectacular. A breeze blew in through the opening then, causing the old walls of the barn to creak in rhythm with the wind.

  She leaned against the framed opening watching as the sun began to lower behind the trees. Then she pulled open the bag of chips and inhaled. The smell of the chips was so intoxicating that she grabbed several up and shoved them into her mouth. She closed her eyes, crunching and savoring the salty crispy goodness. “Chips,” she said, exhaling, then turned back to see Jamie spreading a large blanket out over a low stack of hay.

  “This is the best,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the blanket. “You can see the sun set and then the stars come out from up here.” He kicked off his boots and then scooted back on the blanket to lie down. She liked that he wore only a simple white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. She watched as he tucked both his hands behind his head and then exhale in contentment. “You should try it,” he added, crossing his legs at the ankles. He wiggled his sock-feet and grinned at her.

  “You should try these,” she said, referring to the bag of chips in her hand. “These are the best.” She gave her eyebrows a couple raises up and down.

  “Oh—I know—they’re my fave,” Jamie said, smacking his lips.

  She walked over then to the stack of hay with the blanket and the handsome man now lounged across it and sat down on the edge. Like Jamie had done, she removed her boots and then shifted up the blanket to lie alongside him, chip bag and water bottle in one hand.