Turning Point
Deborah Busby
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © by Deborah Busby
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
For my grandparents, Richard Lee and Kathleen Quinn.
Thank you for giving me the purest example of true love and devotion.
"People are usually the happiest at home."
--William Shakespeare
Chapter One
Every time that a falling star would streak across the sky, my mother would tell me, “Sweetheart, make a wish!”
I would scrunch my eyes up tight and wish with all of my heart.
“That’s my girl,” she would say with a smile. “Now all of your dreams will come true.”
My mom always told me that dreams were like the stars. A person could have a million of them, but there were always one or two that burned brighter than the rest. When I was a young girl, we would lie out on the beach and stare up at the night sky.
Even though I’m all grown up now, sometimes I still find myself gazing up at the stars. When I do, my mom is right there next to me.
My name is Annabelle Clark Walters — but everyone just calls me Belle.
I gave up on my dreams a long time ago. The stars in the sky for me all dimmed.
My mother would have been so disappointed in me.
I have lived in Cannon Beach since the day I was born, a tiny town on the magnificent Oregon Coast. It is the type of place that draws in tourists from all over the world — a detour off the Pacific Coast Highway.
Every year, one million people come to play or to shop or just sit and soak up the fresh ocean air. Some come for just the day. Some stay for the entire summer. They fly kites, they build sand castles, and they take endless photographs of Haystack Rock - whatever tickles their fancy.
That's what the town and its citizens are most proud of here. There is no agenda in Cannon Beach, people just wander around and go wherever the breeze takes them. The people that visit come to forget their worries. Here, they haven’t a care in the world.
Tourists loved to visit Cannon Beach, drinking in the atmosphere and touting its hometown feel, making it their own somehow, but eventually they leave. Only about fifteen hundred of us have the distinct pleasure of actually calling it home. One of those people is me; however, as it stands now, I would do anything not to go home...quite literally, anything.
Home was the place where I was utterly miserable.
But my workday was ending, and as such, home was exactly where I headed. I locked the cash register, turned off the computers, closed the blinds, locked the front door, double and triple-checked every one — dragging it out for as long as possible — and then reluctantly made my around the back of the store to my car.
As the last streaks of daylight slipped through the clouds, the streetlights flickered on, illuminating the wet pavement of the parking lot and the street beyond. It was May and almost summer, but Oregon rain didn't care about the seasons, and it came and went as it saw fit. The gloom suited my mood perfectly.
I peered out the windshield at the street and let out a sigh, overwhelmed by hopelessness in the silence of my car, then sank back into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. As I gave it a little gas, the car lurched just slightly to the left.
Could I have a flat? I thought excitedly.
My hopes were dashed to bits as the car bumped through the pothole at the edge of the parking lot — the cause of the sudden wobble — and then I smoothly navigated onto the gleaming pavement of the street.
A flat tire. If only.
Those were the kinds of fantasies I had every day of my life.
Flash floods wiping out the road.
Volcanic eruption.
An Alien abduction.
Anything to free me from being forced to go to that house, to that man — my husband. People are the happiest at home, yeah right.
"Whatever, Shakespeare," I said to myself. "Come and live with me for just one day..."
As it stood on this particular rainy evening, after seven eternal years of marriage, I had mapped out the absolute longest route from the store to my home — which was a feat in and of itself when you consider that Cannon Beach is only about two and a half miles long from city limit sign to city limit sign.
What should have actually only taken me five minutes, I had been able to stretch out to a glorious seven and a half — and I relished those two and half extra minutes like a stay of execution.
Certainly, I could pull out onto the Pacific Coast Highway, push the gas pedal to the floor, and never look back. I considered doing just that nearly every day. But while my heart was out on the open road, the fear that strangled any dreams I had about being free, slowly guided me through the streets toward home.
As I pulled out onto Hemlock Street, the main street that went through town and the one that would take me home, I passed a car broken down on the side of the road.
"Lucky bastard," I muttered under my breath, cursing my own rotten luck.
Regardless of my husband, or the house that I shared with him, Cannon Beach was truly my home. My mom had stumbled, almost quite literally, across this small oceanfront town at an extremely difficult time in her life — 'difficult’ being an understatement of colossal proportions.
My dad was in the Marine Corps, and he had been stationed in Camp Pendleton, California. My parents got the joyful news they were pregnant with me and the devastating news of my father’s imminent deployment to Vietnam — all in the same week. The war seemed like a looming storm, always on the horizon but not yet a threat.
My older sister, Hannah, was only two years old at the time and my parents were ecstatic at the idea of giving her a little brother or sister. My mom, an only child, had always dreamed of having a large family. They thought of nothing else until the day he left.
On the morning that my dad shipped out, he handed my mom a note, knowing he wouldn’t be there for my birth or the first six months of my life, for that matter. He gave her strict instructions to wait and read it on the day I was born.
Of course, he knew that she wouldn't wait. She tore it open and read it before the bus carrying my dad had even pulled out of the parking lot.
Sweetheart and my new little one,
What I wouldn't give to be there with you both. I know you are so beautiful.
Even though I am far away, all my thoughts and love are there with you today. I promise I will be home to see you all very soon.
Love,
Daddy
P.S. Hannah - I love you so much and miss my little girl.
Killed in action two months before I was born, it was a promise he did not keep.
In Pendleton, everywhere my mom looked, she was reminded of my father. While she didn’t want to forget him, she needed the peace only a fresh start could bring.
Therefore, my mom, almost seven months pregnant, distraught and in mourning, packed up her car with everything it could carry. She sold all the furniture to a neighbor and gave the rest to a thrift store.
She was never coming back.
With no particular destination in mind, my mom strapped Hannah into her car seat and started driving north.
The way she always told it was that she had a complete emotional breakdown while driving through Oregon. The song my parents danced to at their wedding — “At Last”
by Etta James — began to play on the radio, and she started sobbing uncontrollably in the car. It was impossible to see the road, she said. So, she pulled off the highway and drove right into Cannon Beach.
She said it felt as if she were home. Oak and Maple trees lined the streets. People who walked their dogs down the shady sidewalks gave her welcoming waves as she drove into town. She rolled down the window of the car, and breathed in the smell of freshly mowed grass and fresh blossoms on the trees.
It was pure Americana.
Even though she had never been here before, it felt as though she had lived in Cannon Beach her entire life. It would be the perfect place to raise her children...alone.
I couldn't refute the fact that my childhood in Cannon Beach was enchanting. Most people only dream of having the ocean right out their front door. Every summer, I met hundreds of people that came to visit our little town, trying to soak in as much of the ocean air and serenity as possible before returning to their hurried, hectic lives. How many times had I been reminded how lucky I was to live right on the ocean? To feel as though I was on vacation all the time. I didn't deny it, but I had always dreamed of what lay beyond the city limit signs
And I did get away...for a while.
Yet fate has a strange way of stepping in and changing the course of our lives in ways that can seem cruel and unfair. When I returned to Cannon Beach, after having been away for only five short years, all the dreams I had for my future had vanished into the surf mist that constantly concealed those stars I used to make wishes on…almost as though they had never existed.
As I trekked closer and closer to home — moving at the exact speed limit I hoped, in a brief moment of madness, that perhaps just this once the fates would look down kindly on me and bless me with a husband who was late from work. Would it be too much to ask for just thirty minutes of peace?
Seven and a half minutes later, though, I rounded the corner and laid eyes on Derek's pickup truck, parked in front of our house.
A typical red brick house, it looked just like any of the others on our street. We had a small front porch with a never-used swing at the end farthest from the front door. A bright, cheerful ‘Welcome to our Home’ sign hung above the doorbell, even though the sentiment was rarely ever seen by anyone. Our perfect home even had perfect shutters on the windows with flower boxes suspended underneath them.
The house was flawless; yet, whenever I looked at it, I wanted to laugh. As though we were a normal, happy couple with a normal, happy home. The porch swing, the flowers, the welcome sign, all part of a sham to hide the truth. Inside, where no one could see, the monsters inside Derek spawned our need to lie and threatened to expose our deception at every turn.
On this wet and dreary evening, I hoped that I could have a night of peace, no matter how unrealistic the wish. Derek was home, after all. One of the many drawbacks to having a husband in construction was that when it rained, he didn't work. And when he didn’t work, he drank. And when he drank…
Shivers ran down my spine and I refused to complete my own thought.
I pulled into the driveway; my tires crackled and popped over the gravel underneath. I turned off the car, gripped the steering wheel for support, and dragged in a deep breath. I looked up at the back door of our house and prepared myself for what might be waiting for me on the other side.
That was one thing about Derek. I never knew what I was going to get.
“Just breathe Belle. Get through one more night. That’s all you can do. That’s all you’ve been doing for years. Survive. Don’t feel anything, just get through it.”
My pep talk finished, I knew that he’d probably heard my car. The longer I waited — put off going into the house — I only prolonged my upcoming misery. I opened my car door and stepped out into the rain, ran up the stairs of the small wooden porch and in through the back door. The familiar pungent odor of stale beer hung thick in the air, and my stomach dropped, even though I should have expected it.
Growing up, the most familiar scents to me were my mom's pancakes on a Saturday morning, the smell of my shampoo, or even Hannah's patchouli oil. How sad that the smell of stale beer was a more vivid memory now. Even though his drinking was a daily occurrence, and the smell a constant, it still burned my nostrils and made my eyes water the instant I walked into the house.
I wandered slowly into the kitchen — empty beer cans were scattered around, covering nearly every surface of the small room. The garbage was overflowing, and empty cans lay next to it, too. Derek at least had the decency to put some of the cans in the general vicinity of the trash this time. Normally, he just left them wherever he finished them.
I counted the discarded cans. At eighteen, my eyes landed on the torn open and empty 24-pack sitting on the table.
In one afternoon, Derek drank every single one. I looked around in disgust, feeling the dread that I had grown accustomed to over the years wash over me. I placed my hands on the counter for support; the spilled liquid seeped in between my fingers. I pulled my hand back, revolted, and wiped it on the towel hanging on the oven handle. A shiver ran down my spine as I looked around the kitchen again and thought of how mean my husband could get when he was drunk. This was not going to be a good night.
"Fanny? S’ that you?" He slurred from the living room, too lazy or drunk to come see for himself.
Derek had his own special nickname for me: Fanny Annie. Most of the time he just called me Fanny, because saying all four syllables was too much effort to waste on me. He gave me the name Fanny Annie because he said that my butt was too big and that it only got bigger every year. The size of my ass was a running joke for him. He sometimes called me a ‘two-tripper’, because when he told me to haul ass, I had to make two trips. He also thought it was hysterical to smack it as hard as he possibly could, claiming that he actually could count the waves going through it.
The nickname was humiliating, but then, Derek always humiliated me. The first time he came up with it, I turned a bright shade of red and tears welled up in my eyes. My reaction only made him laugh harder and repeat the name over and over, guffawing when my face turned crimson. After that, I refused to react. To say I had grown used to it would be a lie, but if I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, I found he didn’t do it as often. Regardless of the frequency, my humiliation and the hurt he caused remained.
"Yes, Derek. It's me. I just walked in." I called back, clearing several beer cans off the counter in order to set my bag down.
"It's about time, woman! I'm starving!” With that, he let out a huge belch and laughed. Derek always thought his gas was hilarious — like he was a high school boy in a burping contest. He was so disgusting sometimes that I wanted nothing more than to jam my fist right into his balls and walk away smiling.
"Relax and breathe,” I whispered to myself.
“Just give me a few minutes and I'll have something ready for you," I called out to him from the safety of the kitchen, having even less desire to lay my eyes on my husband than he did me.
"Whatever," was his only response.
I opened the fridge and looked for the most appetizing thing I could feed him and, therefore, the most placating. My life had become an exercise in anticipating and navigating my husband's moods. When Derek got this drunk, the last thing I needed to do was make him mad.
One time, not too long ago, I dropped a dish in the kitchen and it shattered all over the floor. Worse yet, the noise startled Derek out of his drunken stupor. The bruises he left took over a month to heal. And it was nearly impossible to keep bruises hidden for that long when they covered my arms, my neck, and my back. It became even more difficult when I had to try to explain long-sleeved and high-collared shirts in the middle of a spring heat wave.
Shaking out of my thoughts, I quickly decided on his favorite meal: frozen pizza. In a rush, I turned on the oven and placed the pizza straight on the wire rack, not waiting for it to preheat. Once dinner was cooking, I took a quick look around the k
itchen. A small, but efficient space, the counters were laid out in a u-shape, with the kitchen sink at the center. A window above it overlooked the back yard. The refrigerator and stove sat next to each other on one side and a breakfast bar on the other that opened up to the dining room beyond.
The living room was next to kitchen, separated by a wall. The living room was Derek’s domain, and when my husband was home, I only entered that sacred space when necessary. I had no hand in decorating it, and as such, it had no pictures, no sentimental knick-knacks — just what was necessary for Derek to be comfortable while watching television and drinking beer.
I had seen open concept homes on the Home and Garden Television channel and was horrified at the thought of being able to see Derek while I was in the kitchen Or worse, the thought that he could see me too. If he could watch me while I prepared his meals, washed his dishes, and cleaned up his beer cans, he would surely see my eyes roll, or the dirty looks I had grown accustomed to giving him in the safety of the secluded room.
I had some time while the pizza was heating, so I set to work. Moving fast, I cleaned up the beer cans as quietly as possible, placing them all neatly in the garbage can. If he knew I was cleaning, he would think I was judging him.
And if he thought I was judging him...well, that would be extremely bad for me.
Besides, I always tried to do as little as possible to draw attention to my presence. I rarely wore shoes in the house, and tiptoed around so much that, at the end of the night, my calves ached. One time, I got an extremely bad cold and was so concerned that my coughing would irritate Derek in some small way, that I held it in and got walking pneumonia.
Every day, I prayed he would forget that I was even in the house.
"Fanny, where the hell’s my dinner? Don't make me hafta come in there, lazy! It's th’ last few minutes o’ the goddamn game!"
Turning Point Page 1
