Tessa (From Fear to Faith)

by Melissa Wiltrout

  Walter began to whistle, ignoring the question.

  “Don’t you dare, Walter. She’s not going anywhere with you. She can barely walk.”

  “Oh yeah? Then how come you been bugging me to send her to school?”

  “Look. She can’t stay out forever. She’s a spoiled brat. She won’t listen to me, she’s smoking again, and she doesn’t get out of bed until noon.”

  Walter laughed. “Sounds like you’d have a heck of a time getting her there at all, much less on time. I wouldn’t bother.”

  “I can get her there just fine! Provided you don’t start working her til some ungodly hour again.”

  “Forget it, Julie. I need the help.”

  A fist slammed on the counter, rattling the dishes. “I will not allow my daughter to grow up to be the idiot that you are!” Mom yelled. “I insist she goes to school!”

  “Hey. I’m earning the money around here, just in case you forgot.”

  “You think that proves you’re smart, huh? Look at yourself! You can’t even read your own traffic tickets!”

  “Why, do I want to?”

  “You’re impossible. Tessa is going to school if I hafta drag her there in her pajamas. And if you get in my way, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Yeah? That’d be the day. You take one look at a cop, and you freak out.”

  I withdrew from my door with a sigh. My parents had been sparring on this topic ever since I’d recovered enough to crawl out of bed. Nothing ever seemed to come of it. Personally, I hoped nothing would. Going to school after Walter had worked me til two or three in the morning was a total nightmare. Last spring, my grades had slipped to the point I had to attend summer school just to pass. The opening week of school, before I’d run away, had been equally miserable.

  In the kitchen, I could hear the rise and fall of Walter’s voice as he made the usual assortment of phone calls that preceded a work night. I groaned and pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out his voice. How I hated working for him! Not only was the job detestable, but I had to endure his company the whole time as well.

  Mom came down the hall and rapped on my door. In a surprisingly cheerful voice, she said, “Supper’s ready.”

  Like I’m going out there. I rolled my eyes in disgust. Mom knew full well what Walter was doing, yet she pretended we were just a normal family coming together to enjoy dinner. This make-believe of hers could get so convincing at times that I’d question my own perceptions. But tonight I wasn’t buying it.

  Out in the kitchen, Walter was still on the phone. Who knew if he’d bother to eat before he left? As I had done many times before, I glanced around my room for something heavy enough to barricade my door. And once again, I discarded the idea as too dangerous and ineffective. The only thing that ever worked was running away.

  I rose and limped to the window, then returned to the bed and sat down again. I tore off my sweatshirt because I was hot, but put it on again because I started shaking with cold. My ankle began to ache. I rubbed it, wishing I could get a fresh ice pack from the freezer. Come on, Walter. Just leave already.

  The clatter of silverware on plates drifted in from the kitchen, mixing with TV commercials from the next room. My mouth watered as I caught a whiff of fried potatoes. I was hungry. Too bad I’d finished off the bag of corn chips earlier.

  A chair scraped the floor in the kitchen, and I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hallway. I leaped up, my heart racing.

  Walter shoved my door open without so much as a knock. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go. We got work to do.”

  I stammered as I tried to protest. “I . . . ah . . . can’t I eat something first?”

  “Supper’s done. Now move it; we’re already late for an appointment in town.”

  I wasted as much time as I dared tying my shoes and getting my coat. I hated going to town with Walter. He’d stop at the convenience store for a case or two of beer, then hang out with his friends at the bar for a couple of hours. Often it was midnight or later by the time we started working.

  Tonight, however, the bar stop was strictly business. Walter left the truck idling at the curb while he talked to a couple of guys in the side alley. Minutes later he was back, fuming.

  “Guess who didn’t show up. Again. I am not putting up with this. I’ll take you out there, and you can get started while I track him down.” He jammed the truck in gear and pulled out into the traffic.

  Get started . . . by myself? I swallowed the protest, but my head spun. This was asking too much. One tiny mistake, and the whole building would explode in a giant fireball. Or so Walter liked to tell me.

  The truck careened around a corner and sped down Second Street, heading toward the bridge. I hunched in the passenger seat, too preoccupied to notice how fast he was going. As he rounded the next corner, a flash of red and blue lights caught the back window. Ice touched my heart. Last I heard, Walter didn’t have a driver’s license anymore.

  Walter saw the lights as well. He swore and made a quick left in front of several oncoming cars. The police car followed. Cursing, Walter knocked a small newspaper-wrapped bundle onto the floor and kicked it under the seat before pulling to the curb.

  “What do you want?” he demanded of the officer who tapped on the window. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I noticed that. I’ll need your license and proof of insurance.”

  “What for?”

  “License and insurance, sir.”

  With an oath, Walter pulled out his billfold and began digging through it. “I ain’t got the money to pay your stupid fines,” he grumbled. With two grimy fingers, he extracted his license and thrust it at the officer.

  The officer studied it a moment, as if making sure it was valid. “Do you still live at 16187 Vance Road, Northford?” he asked.

  “Most of the time; why?”

  “Is this truck titled in your name?”

  “It’s my truck, so it better be.”

  “Walter, I stopped you for going 40 in a 25-mile-per-hour zone and not wearing a seat belt. I’m going to run a check on your license before I write you a ticket.” The officer walked back to his car.

  I sank back in the seat and closed my eyes. Please, don’t find anything wrong, I pleaded silently. The thought of another ride in the back of a police car, followed by another long wait in the booking room under the stern gaze of an officer, was more than I could bear.

  Walter smoked part of a cigarette; then muttering that this was taking too long, he opened the door and got out of the truck. A second officer quickly intercepted him.

  “Get right back in that truck,” she said. It was too dark to see her clearly, but I recognized her voice. It was Pat.

  “Oh yeah? I don’t have to listen to you,” Walter scoffed, and let loose a string of obscenities.

  I drew a sharp breath. What was he doing – trying to get arrested?

  Walter must have had the same thought, for he stopped in the middle of his rant and got into the truck. He slammed the door and sat revving the engine, muttering unrepeatable things until the other officer returned with his license and ticket.

  5

  The dilapidated two-story farmhouse where Walter had set up shop loomed up against the night sky like a huge dead thing. Overgrown lilacs, taller than a man could reach, choked the boarded-up front windows and the little decaying porch that led to the door. Giant trees stretched their heavy arms above the steeply pitched roof, groaning slightly with the wind. The empty blackness of broken windows stared back at me from the second story.

  I had to force myself to step out of the truck. I was shaking all over. Entering an abandoned property alone, after dark, was enough to frighten anyone. Never mind that what I would be doing was blatantly illegal, or that I could get murdered if one of Walter’s deranged friends showed
up.

  Behind me, the pickup idled as Walter waited for me to slam the door and start toward the house. “What’re you waiting for?” he hissed. “You got your keys, don’t you?”

  I did have my keys; but I dug a hand into my pocket anyway, stalling for time. “I don’t know,” I said. “Can’t you just get me started?”

  With a sigh of disgust, Walter slid from the truck. “What’s the matter with you? Scared of the ghosts?” He strode past me onto the porch and undid the heavy padlock.

  I followed reluctantly. Even with the fresh breeze blowing, I could smell ammonia. I made a wide circuit around the rusted-out Volkswagen that sat near the corner of the house. Bees nested in the old car during the summer, something I had learned the hard way. One by one, I climbed the creaky steps, careful to keep to the edges where the wood was not as badly rotted. Walter waited at the top with growing impatience.

  “Hurry up,” he said, and gave me a push through the door. “You know what’s gotta be done. Now get at it!”

  I held my breath as I entered the dark room, but it didn’t help much. The fumes were so strong they stung my eyes. I groped through the darkness until I located the switch on the battery-operated work light on the table. I knew what to do, all right. At least I hoped I did.

  The room I was standing in had once been a kitchen. Decayed pink linoleum, heavily tracked with sawdust and mud, covered the floor. Warped wooden cupboards and a narrow counter topped with the same ancient pink linoleum lined the mustard-colored walls. The counter was cluttered with junk – mason jars full of yellowish liquid, empty medicine boxes, dirty rags, old rubber gloves, pie tins, pop bottles, rubber tubing of all sizes and lengths, and some glass measuring cups Mom was probably looking for.

  A substance that resembled dried cake batter had dribbled down the front of one cupboard and pooled in a crusty mass on the floor. An ancient refrigerator stood near the boarded-up windows, its rusted door held closed with a brick and a bungee. Piled against the refrigerator and extending most of the way to the door was a huge heap of trash. In the middle of the room stood a battered Formica table and a single-burner stove connected to a propane tank.

  The first deep breath I took scalded my throat and set me to coughing. Was it worse than usual in here, or had I forgotten how bad it was? I longed to crack the door for fresh air, but Walter had strictly forbidden that. My best recourse would be to move ahead and get the job over with as quickly as possible.

  Taking an empty glass coffeepot from the counter, I wiped it out with a paper towel and set it on the table. Walter usually worked in the sink, but I preferred the table because the lighting was better. I reached over and lifted a gallon-size can of camp fuel down from the cupboard. The can was full and much heavier than I expected. It slipped from my fingers and fell, smashing my left big toe.

  The pain was intense. Rage boiled up in me. I could almost hear Walter’s caustic laughter. Without thinking, I pulled back my right foot and kicked the can as hard as I could.

  Instant pain shattered through my partly healed ankle and leg. I doubled over gasping. How stupid can I be?

  Over by the refrigerator, the fuel can lay on its side, dented nearly in half and leaking fluid into a growing puddle.

  “So sit there!” I hissed at it, as I hobbled around the table to the only chair, a very rusty kitchen stool. “See if I care.” I’d have to mop up the mess before Walter returned, but for now, the sight of the ruined can appeased some of my anger.

  My ankle, though, was hurting terribly. Within minutes it began to swell. Knowing what would happen if I didn’t address this, I retrieved a handful of half-melted ice from the refrigerator and began to massage it.

  The rhythmic motion was soothing. I could feel the pain seeping out of my ankle. The anger and anxiety seemed to seep out with it, leaving me relaxed and almost sleepy. Even the smell in the room was less noticeable. I knew I should get back to work, but I delayed, not wanting my ankle to start hurting again.

  Time slipped by. I was daydreaming when the soft bump of a car door jerked me to reality. Walter’s back, and I haven’t even started. Now what? Leaping up, I began frantically rearranging the junk on the table so I would look busy. I strained my ears for footsteps on the porch, but all I could hear was a buzzing in my head.

  My heart settled back into place. I could have been mistaken. But it was definitely time to get going.

  I didn’t pause to ask why I was feeling so dizzy. My thoughts revolved around how furious Walter would be if he returned to find nothing had been done.

  Hobbling over to the counter, I hoisted down a new can of fuel, pried the cap off, and began pouring the clear liquid into the coffeepot. The pot was brimming before I realized I’d made another stupid mistake. Several inches in the bottom would have been plenty.

  “What on earth is wrong with you?” I scolded myself, as I pawed through the junk on the counter for a funnel. My voice sounded distant, drowned by the ever-increasing buzz in my ears. I set the funnel on the can and began pouring the extra back in. Fuel dribbled down the side of the pot as I poured, splashing the table and the front of my jacket. I dabbed at the mess with a wad of dirty paper towels and tried to move on with the next step of the process.

  But something was wrong. I had a weird sense of being disconnected from my body and my surroundings. I kept tripping over my feet and dropping things. The buzzing in my head had grown to a steady roar. Why was Walter running the air compressor?

  My mind seemed to be full of sticky molasses. I lost all sense of what I was doing. In total confusion, I decided to look at the instructions to see if the place had caught fire yet. With clumsy hands, I pulled the poster-sized sheet off the front of the refrigerator. Why was the room reeling around me? Breathing heavily, I leaned on the table and stared stupidly at the diagrams on the page. The little ink lines seemed miles away. Why could I barely see? Was the light dying?

  Air. I’ve got to get some air. It wasn’t even a conscious thought. Raw instinct drove me across the room toward the door. Back at the table, the poster slid to the floor with a slap.

  Grasping the knob with both hands, I tugged at the door. It didn’t budge. I braced myself and yanked harder, but still no luck. Crazed with panic, I began kicking and beating the steel with my fists. The exertion only intensified my critical need for air. I clung to the slippery knob as the world dissolved into a vibrating blackness. The roar in my ears was deafening. A powerful force seemed to be pressing down upon my ribs, crushing the breath out of me. The roaring grew until it swallowed me up. Underneath it, barely audible, someone was talking very fast in a monotone, or was it the radio?

  My thoughts fractured into multiplied thousands of tiny pieces, like shining bits of glass dust. I watched as they continued breaking down into ever smaller particles, then began falling like meteors. Only they were falling ever so slowly.

  6

  I awoke to the familiar sound of my own coughing. My bedroom was dim, lit only by what little daylight permeated the drawn window shade. Flashes of things from the night before swept my mind like strobe lights. Confused voices, bright lights, someone pounding me on the back. Muffled arguing that droned on and on. And my own desperate attempts to escape an intangible terror. Had it been only last night? It seemed like weeks ago.

  Pushing back the covers, I stared bleary-eyed at my denim-clad legs. What was I doing in bed fully dressed? My eyes were watering so profusely I could hardly see. I slid out of bed and managed to stand up, but the room wobbled and turned around me in a slow, drunken motion. I blinked, trying to clear my vision and get my bearings. Hadn’t I taken a shower last night? My clothes, my hands, everything was filthy. My eyes locked onto an ugly raw spot on my left hand near my thumb. About the size of a half dollar, the wound had blistered like a burn and was stinging like fire. What on earth had happened?

  I collapsed onto
the bed as another fit of coughing shook me. Even lying down, the room was spinning. My throat burned as if I had a bad cold. Was I dying? I recalled the strange dizziness of the night before. Maybe the fumes had grown so powerful they’d knocked me out. I pictured Walter returning late and unlocking the door to find me slumped behind it, cold and dead. Maybe that was what had happened. But then how could I still be alive? Was I alive?

  I tried to shake off the irrational thoughts that clung like cobwebs in my mind. I had to find a way out of working in that stupid drug lab before it was too late.

  But what could I do? I had tried everything – running away, hiding out in the basement, faking illness, outright refusal. I had even tried appealing to Mom, but for whatever reason, she turned a deaf ear to me. I couldn’t talk to the police. Walter had made it clear that if I did, we’d both end up in prison, but first he’d kill me. Was suicide the only option I had left?

  Tears slipped down my face. Sure my life sucks, but I don’t want to die! There’s got to be another way. But in my weakened state, the only thing I could think of was to talk to Mom again. Somehow I had to make her understand.

  It took me several hours to muster enough willpower to get out of bed again. I tugged on a cleaner pair of jeans, swiped a damp washcloth across my face, and stumbled out to the kitchen.

  I found Mom at the table, dozing over a cold cup of coffee. She stirred and yawned when I entered. “Oh good, you’re up. How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I was scared to say more. Suppose she belittled or laughed off what had happened? Avoiding her gaze, I sank into an empty chair and pulled a banana from the bunch in the center of the table. I pulled back the yellow peel and took a bite, but all I could taste was ammonia.

  Mom poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, added a pinch of sugar, and stirred it. “You had me pretty worried last night. You sure you’re okay?”