When I got home, I saw Dwight’s truck was missing from the driveway, and I felt my stomach clench. He’d gone looking for me.
Cautiously, I crept inside the trailer. The lights were all on, and everything looked calm. It was quiet, though. The television, which always seemed to be turned on, was silent.
The area of the kitchen where my mother did hair was cleaned up; she must have finished with her client.
“Mom?” I called out. There wasn’t an answer, and I grew nervous. Had my mother gone out with Dwight to look for me? She hadn’t left the trailer in over a year.
I heard the small creak of a floorboard from the back bedroom, and I headed in that direction.
“Mom?” I asked again as I reached the bedroom. There wasn’t any stream of light coming from the bottom of the closed door.
I tried the handle, but it was locked. I knocked. “You in there, Mom?”
“I’m tired, Serena,” she answered. “I’m in bed.” It was a relief to hear her voice, but there was something in her tone that made me suspicious.
“Mom?” I knocked on the door again.
“Don’t come in,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Everything is all right.”
I knew it wasn’t.
The handle had one of those locks that were easy to turn with a thumbnail, and I opened the door.
“Serena, don’t—”
I flicked on the light, and my blood boiled.
The entire side of my mother’s face was bright red and swollen, and I could make out the shape of a handprint on her cheek. She turned her head away from me. I could see her tears had soaked the blanket she’d pulled up to her chin.
“I’m going to kill him,” I said, rushing over to my mother.
“It was my fault.” She wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, Serena,” she said. “I was trying to clean up, and I knocked his beer over on the remote. I tried to dry it up, but I pressed something and turned off his sports.”
“He had no right to hit you.” I had to concentrate to relax my jaw, I was clenching it so hard.
“I was clumsy.”
“Where’d the bastard go?”
“He went to the liquor store.”
I reached over to the nightstand and picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” my mother asked, her voice pitched high.
“Calling the cops.”
“No, Serena, don’t. They won’t do nothing anyway.”
What she said was partially true. I’d reported Dwight before, but when the cops showed up to take a statement, my mother wouldn’t admit what happened. Since he rarely hit me hard enough to make me bruise, we didn’t have any proof of his abuse.
I smiled at my mother. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell them about this. If they catch him behind the wheel, they’ll get him for drunk driving. This’ll be his third offense. They’ll nail the bastard to the wall this time.”
“Honey, don’t,” my mother said, but it was a feeble attempt at a protest. She didn’t say anything while I told the officer who I was, and explained what Dwight was doing.
“There.” I looked at my mother triumphantly. “They’ll catch him and lock him up for at least a month. That’ll give us time to run.”
“Run?” Her eyes widened in confusion. “Us?”
“What, you want to stick around here for the rest of your life and get beat every other week?”
“Where would I go? What would I do?”
“Come with me,” I said. “We can go to California. Start over. You can do hair, and I can get a job. By the time Dwight gets out of jail, we’ll be long gone.”
“What about your camp in Utah?”
“I was going to break out of there anyway.” I sat on the bed and held my mother’s hand. “Come on. This is our chance.”
“He’ll find us.”
“We’ll change our names, dye our hair a different color or something. We can do this,” I said. “Just you and me.”
“What about all our stuff?” I could tell she was running out of excuses. Her life here was a nightmare.
“We’ll get new stuff. It’s not important.”
The expression on her face changed to one of hope. “Do you promise he’ll never find us?”
“How could he?” I said. “We’ll disappear like ghosts. No trace.”
From outside came the sound of tires on gravel and squealing brakes. It was Dwight. He was home already. The cops must not have had time to stop him.
The hope drained from my mother, and she pulled the blanket up to her face again.
I could feel the rage filling me at what Dwight had turned my mother into.
I’d always run from him in the past, and I’d had every intention of running away permanently once I got to Utah. Realizing that if I did that, I would be sentencing my mother to a life of abuse, I knew I had to do something.
“Stay here,” I said, and raced out of the room back to the kitchen. I went directly to the hair cutting station and grabbed a pair of scissors.
The door swung open on its creaky hinges, and my stepfather came inside. In one hand, he had a six-pack of beer, in the other, his truck keys.
“Die, asshole,” I screamed, and flew at him, holding the scissors in my hand like a knife.
I might have had rage and surprise on my side, but Dwight had been in more than his share of bar fights. He had instinct and experience.
Before I knew what had happened, I felt the cold, hard metal of the beer cans strike me on the side of the head, the blow stopping me in my tracks. My vision swam, and I lost control of the muscles in my legs.
I folded in half, catching myself at the last moment with my hands before I fell face-first on the tile floor.
My stomach churned, and I thought I was going to puke out my guts.
Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Dwight yelling. “What the hell you thinking, you little twit?”
“I’m going to kill you,” I said, but the words came out in barely more than a whisper.
He said something that struck me as odd. “You’ve got the devil in you, just like your father.”
“What?” I demanded. “How do you know what my father was like?”
I could see his expression turn dark. Then he drew back his foot and kicked me in the ribs so hard he lifted me into the air. I landed under the kitchen table, hitting the back of my head on the legs.
Dwight dropped the pack of beer on the floor, the foam spraying everywhere. He reached down and picked up the scissors, which I’d dropped.
I held a hand out in front of me. “No,” I said, struggling to get the word out. He was going to kill me; I knew it.
“Time to do something about that damned green hair of yours,” he said in a low growl, a twisted grin on his scarred face.
A body flew across the room and hit him from the side. It was my mother!
Dwight was a big man, and held his footing. My mother bounced off him and landed on the floor between him and me. A strange gurgling sound came out of her.
Looking just as surprised as I was, Dwight could only stare. The scissors were no longer in his fist.
“Mom!” I screamed, and held out a shaky hand for the the scissors, which were impaled in her chest.
“What the hell?” Dwight said, stepping away from me and my mother and looking out the window. “Where’d they come from?” He cursed and raced from the trailer.
At first, I couldn’t figure out what was going on, but then I saw the flashing of police lights through the window.
I heard the crunch of gravel as Dwight ran, and then another set of heavy footfalls as an officer gave chase. Another officer raced inside the trailer, surveyed the scene in a heartbeat, and immediately shouted into his radio.
All this barely registered in my mind. My mother was still alive, but her eyes were unfocused, and a trickle of blood streamed from the corner of her mouth.
I still h
ad my hand on the scissors, but it was like I was paralyzed. I couldn’t bring myself to pull them out.
The officer knelt beside my mother and said, “Don’t touch them. They’re probably all that’s keeping her alive at the moment. An ambulance should be here soon.”
My mother lifted one hand to me, and I held it in both of mine.
“Dawson,” she said, her voice thick.
“What?”
“Norman. Rosy.”
“Mom, don’t talk. Help is coming.”
“Go,” she said. “Go to them.”
“Who?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“They’re your father’s parents.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “My grandparents?” I never knew I had any.
“I’m sorry I never told you. It was horrible…”
“What was horrible?”
“You … only good thing…” The last words she said to me were, “I love you.”
The ambulance arrived too late.
Chapter Four
The first time I’d stood up for myself against my stepfather, I ended up in juvie jail. The second time, my mother died.
If there was a lesson from all this, it was better to run.
So I did.
The officer shouted, “Hey!” as I sprung up and pushed past him. I was still off balance, and my ribs hurt so bad that it felt like I was being stabbed every time I took a breath.
He reached out to grab me and caught the back of my shirt. From his kneeling position, he wasn’t able to keep hold when I twisted away. Though he let go, I stumbled into the wall, missing the door, and fell on my side.
Both of us got to our feet at the same time, but I was closer to the door. I darted out and slammed it behind me. The extra seconds it took him to open it again were enough for me to get away and race off into the dark.
I ran as hard as I could, at least until my lungs felt like they were going to burst and my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest.
My throat screaming as I tried to breathe, I stopped when I reached the ocean. I took a few steps into the cold water and fell to my knees. The tears would not stop flowing from my eyes. They ran down my cheeks and were swallowed up by the sea.
A part of me wanted to start swimming out into the deeps and never look back. If I drowned, no one would care. I was completely alone in the world, and the only people who knew my name wanted either to hurt me or to lock me up.
My mother was dead. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t believe it.
It was only at the end she had told me of the existence of my father’s parents. Why had she kept them a secret from me all these years? Did she keep me a secret from them as well? Did they even know who I was? My father’s last name was Dawson…
What had happened that was so horrible?
Dwight had said something startling as well, I recalled. As far back as I could remember, he’d never so much as mentioned anything about my father, but his last words told me that he’d known him, and had been hiding the fact all these years.
I had no idea if the cops had caught my stepfather, or if he was still on the run. Either way, there was no chance for me to get any explanation out of him.
There were two people out there who might have some answers.
Norman and Rosy Dawson.
* * *
By the time I made my way to the nearest strip mall, my jeans and shoes were mostly dry. I headed for a payphone inside a coin laundry and flipped open the telephone book.
I had a moment of panic when I realized that the Dawsons could be from any other town or city in Maine; for all I knew, they could be from another part of the country. Opening the book to the D’s, I ran down the list of names with my finger and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw one entry for N Dawson. There was an address and a phone number. They lived on the other side of Portland.
Ripping the page out, I stuffed it inside my pants pocket and hurried out of the laundry before someone spotted me.
I couldn’t very well show up at the Dawsons’ house in the middle of the night, even if I could find my way there directly. I had no money for a bus, and I wasn’t going to chance thumbing it—that was just asking for more trouble.
There was a diner at the end of the strip mall, and they had a dumpster around back. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone there for some scraps when I was hungry, and I didn’t hesitate tonight.
After a helping of cold fries and a half-eaten hamburger, I ducked into the narrow space between the dumpster and the concrete divider. I sat with my back to the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. It wouldn’t be the most comfortable place to sleep, but I was sure I was pretty well hidden from any cops who might be looking for me.
In the morning, I would go out and panhandle for enough change to get on the cross-town bus.
Then I would find out who my father was and why he’d abandoned my mother and me.
* * *
It was near noon the next day by the time I got to my grandparents’ house. On the way, I’d imagined their place would be a mansion, and that they were rich. They’d take me in with open arms—their long-lost granddaughter—and I’d spend the rest of my life safe and secure.
The reality was different. They lived in a small bungalow with an untended lawn filled with weeds and bare patches in the grass. Dirty windows and peeling paint decorated the outside of the building, and the roof looked like it needed new shingles ten years ago.
There was an old, rusted sedan in the driveway with balding tires and a large dent in the rear bumper.
Almost, I decided to keep walking past the house, but even if they weren’t the answer to my prayers, I still needed other answers.
Sucking in a deep breath, I strode up to the front door and rang the bell.
No one answered, but I saw a curtain draw back. A shadow grew larger, and then disappeared. I felt my heart racing.
Half a minute later, I rang the bell again.
This time, the main door swung open, and an old man with silver hair appeared and fixed a nasty look at me.
“Go away,” he said. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it. If you’re looking for a handout, we don’t have anything.”
With that, he stepped back and started to swing the door closed again.
“Mr. Dawson,” I said, moving closer and reaching my hand out to stop the door.
His expression darkened. “They’re making them pushy and rude these days, aren’t they?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dawson. I’m not here to sell anything. I just want to ask a few questions.”
“I’m not in the mood for a survey,” he said, but didn’t try to shut the door again. “You’re a little young for that, aren’t you?” He squinted at me. “How do they expect anyone to talk to you when you’ve got one of those outer space hairdos like that?”
Self-consciously, I touched my hair. “I’m not doing a survey, sir,” I said, trying to be as polite and respectful as I could.
Sighing, he asked, “Then what are you doing here, bothering me like this? Who are you, and what do you want?”
“My name is Serena Rogers. I think I’m your granddaughter.”
“Impossible,” he said. “We don’t even have any children.”
Did I get the wrong house? I wondered.
“My mother is—was—Ally Rogers. Allison Rogers.”
For the briefest of moments, I saw a flash of recognition in his face, but then he turned stone cold. “I don’t know who you are. Go away.”
Before I could stop him, he slammed the door, and I heard the sound of the lock snapping into place.
I rang the bell several more times, and slapped the door with my hand, but Mr. Dawson didn’t return, not even to threaten me with the police if I didn’t go away.
Lost as to what to do, I stepped off the front porch and walked to the edge of the property.
My mother had used the word ‘horrible’. I now decided she’d been ta
lking about my grandfather. What an old bastard! I understood why I was never told about that side of the family. I was better off not knowing him.
As I reached the sidewalk, I cast an angry glance back at the house and, to my surprise, saw that the side door was open. A woman stood there, her hand raised.
It took me a moment to realize she was waving me closer.
Gray hair tied back in a bun, she had plump cheeks and a kind smile.
I took a few steps closer, and she waved me near again.
“Serena … is that your name?” she asked.
“Yes. Rosy Dawson?”
She smiled at me. “You have to forgive Norman. It hasn’t been an easy time for us. Please, come in.”
Hesitating to do as I was asked, I said, “Do you know my mother?” I had to be sure.
“We never met her.” Her smile faltered. “My son only mentioned her once, but that was before…”
I could see her pain as she shut her eyes and pressed her lips together.
“Before what?” I asked as gently as I could. Her son, my father; who was he? What had happened?
Rosy Dawson composed herself and gestured for me to go inside. “You look starved, dear. Let me make you some lunch, and then we can talk.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson,” I said, and entered the house.
“Call me Rosy.”
* * *
In protest, Norman stormed out moments after realizing that his wife had invited me in. I could see him through the kitchen window as he went into the garage and slammed the door behind him.
I felt completely out of place, and wondered if I’d made the right decision to show up here.
“You have to understand,” Rosy said as she set about making a sandwich for me, “we had no idea our boy had a child. He never said anything.” She gave me a questioning look.
Holding my breath, I finally nodded. “It’s the last thing my mother said before she died. Norman and Rosy Dawson are my grandparents.”
“Oh,” Rosy said, putting a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry to hear about that. When did she pass?”
“Last night.” I said it a little harsher than I’d intended. “Is … my father here?”
My grandmother—it was hard to wrap my mind around that—went stiff for a moment. “I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. He sends me a card on the holidays, and called me on my birthday once a few years ago, but things didn’t end well between us. Norman and I couldn’t get over the accident, and our son couldn’t forgive us for blaming him.” She shook her head. “We shouldn’t have blamed him…”
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 62
