Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “That was Paul,” she tells them. “He and the girls are just leaving the house so they will be here soon. I hope you don’t mind us taking over your house like this, John.”

  John? I try to picture my father as a person, with a name, rather than just as my father. I can’t do it, but it doesn’t surprise me that Emma can.

  “I’m glad to have you. You have been a great help to me…and to my daughter.”

  What an amazing conversation. Seriously… my daughter?

  “Well, we all love her. She’s a good girl.”

  The doorbell rings and Henry comes into the living room to open it. He automatically looks my way, stopping when he sees my eyes open.

  “Hey, you’re awake,” he says, changing course and coming to me. Emma must have heard him, because she follows right behind him, continuing on to open the door to admit Dr Jamison and the two girls. I wonder briefly where Christine is, then find myself speechless when my father walks into the room a moment later, carrying her.

  Henry helps me to stand up so that I can hug the girls. And just like that it’s my own house that’s filled with the love and laughter that I’d thought possible only at Henry’s.

  There isn’t room enough for us all to sit around our small kitchen table with its three chairs—the fourth had been smashed against me on Thanksgiving and never replaced—so Emma decides we should all sit in the family room, balancing plates laden with food on our knees. Henry carries the three chairs into the room, which barely fit around the perimeter, then stakes out his place on the floor next to my knees, knowing that if he leaves it will be taken by one of his sisters.

  Much later, after everything has been cleaned up and all of the Jamison’s have left except for Henry, my father says goodnight—the first time I ever remember him doing that.

  “When do you start back at school?” I ask Henry. We had argued about him needing to be in school rather than sitting at the hospital all day, but we had finally agreed that once I was home he would go back. Emma and Dr. Jamison had adamantly taken my side on that.

  “Tomorrow.” He sounds put-out.

  “You should go home, then. Go to bed.”

  He turns to me.

  “I could stay here, and just leave in the morning.”

  “Henry…” my voice holds a warning.

  “I’m not saying miss school. I’m just saying—”

  I put my fingers on his mouth.

  “Go home, Henry. Go to sleep. Come back after school.”

  He looks at me for a long minute, then finally nods, pressing my hand tighter to his mouth for a kiss.

  “Okay, but you have the cell phone. You promise to call if you need anything?”

  I raise my right hand. “Promise.”

  He spends some time kissing me goodnight, which I don’t mind at all—in fact, rather enjoy—even though I know he’s just stalling. He insists on helping me up to my room, but I don’t let him in. I make him leave me at the door of my room, waiting until he has walked down the stairs, turning lights off as he goes, and hear him close the front door.

  I walk into my room, small and plain, but organized and clean. It feels even less like home to me now than it had before. I lay down, pulling my covers over me, tears falling to soak the pillow beneath my head.

  Three days later the police come by to formally charge me with my mother’s death, and to read me my Miranda rights. I’m grateful it’s during the day, my father still at work and Henry at school. Emma is here, as she is most days, standing pale and shaking while the Officer does his duty reluctantly. It’s humiliating having Emma as a witness, but I’m also conversely glad of her support.

  “Because of the extenuating circumstances of your health issues, the judge has agreed that once we take you to the station to be processed, we will immediately release you on your own recognizance. You will have an arraignment hearing within the next week or so, at which time you will be appointed a lawyer.”

  My mind reels at the words. What had been only a feeling of being a murderer has suddenly become reality. They don’t handcuff me, but require me to ride in the back of their cruiser to the station. Emma follows behind in her car, stopping to drop Christine off with one of her neighbors. So when we arrive at the station, I’m truly alone.

  The Officers are all kind to me, taking care with my injuries as they fingerprint and photograph me. I have to fill out some paperwork, trying to not notice the looks I’m getting from many of the other Officers, looks full of pity.

  When I’m finished, I’m led out to a waiting room where Emma waits for me. I can see she has been crying and remorse washes over me, that I’m putting her and her family through this, just because they’ve shown me kindness.

  By the time we arrive back at my house, I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. I lay down on the couch and sleep solidly, not waking until after dark. I can hear Henry and my father in the kitchen, talking low. I can’t make out their words, but just hearing Henry’s voice comforts me. I struggle up, walking into the kitchen.

  They both look up guiltily as I come in, obviously having been talking about me. My father looks oddly ashamed, and Henry looks furious. When he sees me, he tries to arrange his face into a pleasant expression, but it doesn’t work, only serves to make him look constipated, which almost makes me laugh—except that I wonder what’s made him so furious to begin with.

  He stands and comes to me, wrapping me into his arms.

  “It’s about time you woke up,” he teases, trying to mask the anger in his voice, and failing miserably.

  “What’s going on?” I ask suspiciously.

  He steps back, looking toward my father.

  “We heard about today,” my father says.

  “Oh.” My face darkens with shame.

  Henry hugs me against his side.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says.

  “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t so bad.” And other than the humiliation of it, it really hadn’t been.

  My father suddenly stands.

  “I’m going out for a while.”

  I know what that means, but I can tell Henry has no idea, only seeming irritated that he’ll be leaving when I’ve been through something so horrible that day. I feel my heart sink because my father has been sober for the last few days that I’ve been home, and “going out” has always meant coming home drunk.

  Henry makes me recount for him every second of my time at the station, several times until I finally refuse to tell him again. He heats me up some soup that Emma had left earlier, along with some homemade bread. Then he holds me while we watch an old movie on TV that I can’t concentrate on. My mind whirls with the implications of the day and what it could mean for me, but even more what it could mean for Henry.

  Later, as I lay in bed, I hear my father come home; hear the tell-tale sounds of his stumbling up the stairs. I lay frozen as his footsteps came down the hall and stop in front of my door. My stomach tightens with a fear I’ve known only all too well in my life, but which I had hoped never to have to feel again.

  I hold my breath, watching the door handle so intently I begin to imagine it turning when it isn’t. Frightened, my temperature rises even as I pull my blanket up higher, over my cheek, leaving only my eyes out, as I if I’m invisible this way.

  Finally, after what seems an eternity, he turns and stumbles back to his own room.

  Ten days pass before the arraignment. I’m met at the door by a harried, agitated man who says he’s my lawyer. He’s wearing a brown corduroy suit, has brown, curly hair that looks as harried as he does, and round spectacles. He’s juggling a folder jammed haphazardly with papers, walking quickly into the courtroom as if he’s in a race, without waiting to see if I’ve even followed him. I look at Henry, who’s holding my hand in support, then shrug and follow him. Henry looks as sick as I feel.

  My father sits next to me, looking uncomfortable in a too-small wrinkled suit, tugging at the collar as if it’s choking him.
r />   My case is called and there are a lot of long legal words spouted by the prosecutor, my lawyer and then the judge. I’m trying to follow along, only really understanding the “not guilty” and “self-defense”, but then the judge pounds his gavel, and suddenly my lawyer is hurrying back up the aisle into the hallway, motioning me to follow.

  I follow him, Henry right behind me.

  “Okay, so that was as expected,” the lawyer says, pausing. Even in his relative stillness, he gives off the sensation of being in motion. “You’re free to go; no bail. A trial date will be set. As soon as I know when that is I’ll let you know.” He digs in his jacket pocket and comes out with a slightly crumpled business card. “Here’s my card in case you have questions. I’ll talk to you soon.” And then he’s gone.

  I look at Henry; give a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

  “What was that?”

  Henry’s face is taut with strain as his eyes follow the man who is practically running down the hallway. His eyes come back to mine and I can see the agonized look there. I don’t like being the cause of that unnatural expression on his face.

  “It’ll be okay,” he tells me, but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

  A week later another man comes to my door. He’s tall, dark hair combed neatly, in an expensive looking pin-striped suit.

  “Kate Mosley?” he asks, when I open the door.

  “Yes?”

  He holds out a hand.

  “My name is Rufus Cain. I have been given your case to handle.” When I just stand there, he says, “I’m your new lawyer.”

  “Do you always make house calls?” I ask, distrusting him.

  “Not always, no. But sometimes yes. I knew you’d been injured so I didn’t want to ask you to come to my office.”

  I’m home alone. I’ve made Emma reduce the amount of time she’s spending at my house waiting on me since I’m now able to get around somewhat easier. She’s only coming three times a week, in the afternoons, which is still too often, I think. It’s the least amount of time I can get her to compromise to.

  Henry turns up the street just then. I can’t see him, but I’ve learned to listen for the sound of his engine so well I can now pick it out above all others. Rufus Cain turns at the sound of the car pulling to a stop in front of my house. He watches with me as Henry climbs out of his car, and I’m grateful for Henry’s broad shoulders and height that can be intimidating.

  “A friend of yours?” Rufus Cain asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind talking in front of him or shall I make an appointment to return when he’s not here?”

  “No,” I shake my head. “He knows everything. I want him here.”

  Henry comes up to the porch, eyeing the lawyer suspiciously. But Rufus introduces himself and I can see Henry relax. I have to admit, this man does inspire more confidence than the previous lawyer.

  He comes in and we sit around the kitchen table, Rufus pulling out a notepad and pen, as well as a tape recorder.

  “This is so that I make sure my notes are correct later,” he says, indicating the recorder.

  We go over some basic facts; name, parent’s names, and birth date. Henry jerks in surprise when he hears that; I have never told him when my birthday is. It is, in fact, only a few days away, on February 23.

  “Okay, I’m not sure how much you understood of the arraignment,” he begins. “That was just a formality for you to enter a plea, which was…” he flips through some papers, making sure he’s correct. “Not guilty by reason of self-defense. Okay. Good. That’s all right for now. Now, I’m not sure how aggressive the prosecutor will be in your case. You’ve been charged with involuntary manslaughter,” I feel the world tilt as he speaks the words, “but I want to have the charges dropped. That’s what we will be going for.”

  Henry reaches over and takes my hand. I turn my hand in his, interlocking fingers and holding on tight.

  “I know this is going to be difficult, but we need to go over everything that happened that night, in as much detail as you can remember. Then we need to go back over past offenses committed by your mother on you.”

  I don’t want Henry to hear this, to know the entire depth of my shame and humiliation, but somehow I can’t find the courage to let him go. So I tell my new lawyer everything, while he records my indignity, and Henry sits next to me, still as a statue except for the slight trembling that shakes him as he listens to the horror that has been my life.

  Chapter Twenty

  I came home from Florida, from a vacation I had taken with the Jamison’s,” I begin.

  “I assume you were given permission to go?” Rufus questions without looking at me, writing on the yellow legal pad.

  “Of course. I really didn’t think she would say yes, really wasn’t even planning on asking.” I shoot an apologetic look at Henry, but he isn’t looking my way.

  “She was actually being nice, something that’s rare. I think she was feeling guilty about how badly she’d hurt me on Thanksgiving.” Rufus glances up, but doesn’t interrupt, going back to his note taking. “Up until that last night—” I stumble, clear my throat and continue, “Well, up until then, the worst she’d hurt me was on Thanksgiving. I think she knew she’d gone too far.

  “Long story, short, she said yes. Maybe out of guilt. So I went. I guess while I was gone, she took enough pills to forget where I was.”

  “Pills?” Rufus interrupts.

  “Um, yeah, she had a problem with pills.”

  “What do you mean by ‘problem’?”

  I refuse to look at Henry as I confess this new humiliation in front of Henry. “She took a lot. Too many. It was the only way she could cope.”

  “Were these pills prescription, or…” He doesn’t speak the words, lets the question hang.

  “Prescription, as far as I know. At least, they were always in prescription bottles.”

  Rufus is scribbling madly. I wait.

  “Okay, so she was angry that you’d been gone.”

  “Yes, but…” I trail off, remembering. “She came at me almost immediately with the bat.”

  Henry winces, and Rufus looks up again.

  “She had the bat with her? And this was unusual?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I’m not even sure where it came from. Somewhere in the garage, I guess. But always before, if she’s hit me with something, it’s been a weapon of convenience, you know? Like a chair, or broom or something that was handy.”

  Henry shudders, and once again the thought flits through my head that I should tell him to go. I’m just selfish enough to ignore the thought.

  “So that was weird—different, I guess. I don’t remember a lot of detail, just her coming at me again and again with the bat. I honestly thought she was trying to kill me.”

  Henry squeezes my hand tighter.

  “I grabbed the bat once when she came at me with it, and shoved. She fell. I heard her hit her head.” I swallow loudly, realizing that must have been the moment of her death. I remember the sick fear that had choked me, trying to get away before she could get up and finish what she’d started. I take a deep breath. “I was on the floor, Henry called, and that’s all I remember,” I gush out on a single breath, “That, and crawling through the blood, to get away.”

  “Okay, Kate, that’s fine.” Rufus reaches out, as if to take my hand, then pulls back and clears his throat. “I know this isn’t easy, but we need to talk about past abuse. Do you remember when it started?”

  “When my brother died,” I tell him. He looks startled.

  “You had a brother?”

  “Kind of, I guess. My mom was pregnant, and they knew it was a boy. But she and my dad had a fight, and she lost the baby. I was nine.”

  I look at Henry, pleading with him for…what? I don’t even know.

  “It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when we were a normal family, when they loved me. But my dad…he lost his job, and everything
changed. He started drinking, but she would still try to protect me. She loved me.

  “But when she went to the hospital, and came home alone, she changed too. I think I must have been too strong a reminder of what she’d lost. I was the one who found her and got help. Maybe I wasn’t fast enough, or I waited too long. I don’t know…maybe it was my fault.”

  “No, Kate, no,” Henry murmurs.

  “She started taking the pills, to forget, I guess. And then she got angry, and took it out on me.”

  There is silence, stillness in the room. Henry looks at me, eyes wet with anguish, mouth tight, jaw clenched. I can’t stand to see it, so I look at my new lawyer. He’s suddenly searching for something in his briefcase, with some suspicious throat clearing going on. Finally, he looks up, and I pretend not to see the pity shining in his eyes. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s pity.

  “Can you, uh…can you give some specific examples of some of the abuse?’

  I laugh, but the sound holds no humor. My fingers are beginning to go numb from Henry’s grip.

  “Besides being starved, sometimes for days on end?” I ask, caustically. “Or do you mean other than being forced to stand in a corner for hours at a time? Or there’s always the classic forcing me to sit in the closet for a few days, knowing that when she let me out I would be beaten, because it’s impossible to go that long without going to the bathroom. Also, I don’t suppose it’s normal to get hit, pinched, slapped or kicked for breathing the wrong way.”

  In agitation, I throw myself backward, rising to my feet in the same motion as I jerk my hand from Henry’s. I turn and stalk a few paces away, crossing my arms protectively. I’ve held the memories private for so long, it feels almost like a betrayal to let them go.

  But a betrayal of whom?

  “Did your father abuse you as well?” Rufus’ question is almost too soft to hear.

  “No,” I say, hoping he didn’t catch my slight hesitation.