Lacy’s End
Victoria Schwimley
Dedication:
This story is dedicated to Sherri, who made me realize the choice to stay or go isn’t always that easy. Wherever you are, Sherri, I love you and hope you’re well.
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Acknowledgements:
As a writer, I value what my editor adds to my story. For all the hours of hard work and research he spent editing this novel, I’d like to thank Morris E. Graham dba Graham's Publishing House http://www.morrisegraham.com
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I’d also like to thank Jessica Morrison for all her valuable research and advice during the writing of this difficult subject matter.
And finally, this book would not have been its best without valuable input from my friend, Phyllis Entis, author of the Damien Dickens mystery series. https://www.facebook.com/DamienDickensMysteries/?fref=ts&ref=br_tf
Thanks Phyllis.
Copyright 2015 by Victoria Schwimley
All rights Reserved
No portion of this book may be reproduced for any reason, except promotional use, without written permission from the author. You may request permission by contacting the author through her website at www.victoriaschwimley.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. The towns in which the characters live are also a figment of the author’s imagination.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
About the author
Author’s note
Other Books By Victoria Schwimley
Chapter One
Lacy sat by the pond, one lonely toe poking into the water, swirling it around and around as she stared at her reflection. The action caused a ripple effect, sending tendrils of water outward in a circular motion.
She could still hear the yelling, even all the way out here. Even this far, the loud sounds caused her to flinch with each strike of his hand. Instinctively her hand went to her cheek, which still smarted from the sting of his whacks on her bare skin. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to, though. The beatings were so commonplace now that she no longer wondered when they would come but rather how hard they would be. Her ears still vibrated from the thump, thump, thump of the landing blows.
She glanced nervously toward the house. Should she go now? If she went in too early, he was likely to turn on her again. What kind of help would she be then? She wrapped her arms around her still sore ribs, guilt plunging like a knife through her heart, but it was her mother’s turn now. Hadn’t she already had enough today? She couldn’t even remember what misdeed had set him off this time. The types and number of infractions these days were always trivial.
Her mother cried out, screamed was more like it. Lacy winced as she heard each strike to her mother’s face. She closed her mind against the knowledge of what he was doing. After all, wasn’t she the one who should be protected? Wasn’t it her mother’s job to look after her? It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. Why her mother took it, she didn’t know. Couldn’t she stand up to him…just once?
Her mother screamed again, the sound so deafening Lacy closed her eyes and covered her ears. She feared this could be the one—the one time he’d go too far and kill her mother.
She knew, from experience, she would try to block the blows, first with her left arm, then with her right. Then finally, she would crouch low in the corner, trying to shrink herself as low as possible—hoping, against all hope, she could hide from him. Lacy knew that wasn’t possible. She had been there far too many times, and no matter how low she huddled, no matter how tight a ball she formed with her body, he’d still see her.
In her mind, she saw her mother trying to ward off his blows, and her heart swelled with sympathy. Lacy was young and strong, but years of abuse had weakened her mother. How much more could she take?
Her mother’s cries had become weak, diminishing as the strength left her. She knew her father’s hand would rise one last time and come down smartly on her neck. This blow would knock her unconscious and, mercifully, the beating would end.
Lacy looked toward heaven. “Please God—I need help. I can’t handle this on my own anymore.” She had no idea whom that someone would be. She had only one friend in the entire world, Millie Watson, and Lacy didn’t even understand why she was still sticking by her. The rest of her classmates thought she was a loser—not that she disagreed with them. One only had to look at her to see the qualities she lacked.
Her clothes were plain, her personality dull and lifeless. Her best feature was her eyes. They had a peculiar green color that sparkled like jewels. She liked stupid things like butterflies, daisies, long walks along the river, just as the sun was setting in the west and cast a fiery glow on the desert horizon. The thing she desired the most, however, was a soft, cuddly puppy. She wouldn’t dare own such a wondrous thing, though. Her father had enough punching bags as it was.
She started to rise, as slowly as she could to delay what she wasn’t looking forward to, even knowing her mother would need her, by the time she reached the house. She turned and as she did, she saw a figure standing across the pond. She was startled for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. She cocked her head at him, a curious expression coming to her smile.
He nodded his head toward the house, reminding her of her mission. She looked toward the house. All was quiet now, a sure sign she’d better hurry. Her mother’s head would need some ice.
She waved. She didn’t know why she did this. It just felt natural. She felt strangely drawn to the figure, despite the fact that her father had warned her—no, forbidden her—from having any contact with boys. She ran to the door, paused a moment in the doorway, turned back to see her visitor. He was gone. As suddenly as he had appeared, he disappeared.
She shook her head, running through the doorway. Her mother laid, as usual, in a crumpled position in the corner of the dining room, peas strewn about her. The glass bowl that had held them lay in a shattered mess beside her. Blood trickled from a wound in her neck. Lacy gasped. He went too far this time.
She knelt down beside her. “Mother,” she said, keeping her voice soft—so he wouldn’t hear her. He would be angry if he knew she had come to her rescue. She shook her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. “Mother,” she tried again. An alarm rang inside her head.
She noticed a piece of the glass lying beside her, blood coloring the edge of it. Her entire body went cold at the feel of the blood-soaked object in her hand. She immediately dropped it, as if it were a rattlesnake ready to strike.
Her first thought was to call an ambulance, but by doing so, she risked his ire, which meant further blows for both of them.
She looked around for her purse, fearing she may have left it in her bedroom and would have to go there to retrieve it. Doing this would mean walking
past his door, and if he weren't asleep…well, she could only hope it wouldn’t come to that. As luck would have it, she spied it lying in the corner of the living room next to the fireplace. Now she remembered dropping it there when she had come home from her shift at the diner the previous night.
She worked at the diner four nights a week. She was trying to save money for college, determined to earn a degree and blow this town as soon as possible. She just started her senior year and already had four thousand dollars saved. If her calculations were correct, and her tips were good, she would have saved another eight thousand by the time she graduated. It was at least enough to pay for Junior College. Mrs. Thurman, her school counselor, said she would probably get some scholarships and be able to go to a four-year university—albeit a state school, but she wasn’t fussy.
After she found her purse, she tried to find the keys. This action proved a bit trickier as she never used the keys. Her father never let her drive the car, so she had no idea where they were. If her mother had driven with them, they would likely be in her purse. However, if her father had them… She shuddered, not wanting to think about that.
It seemed God must have been looking out for her because she located her mother’s purse, and her keys, without much difficulty. She looked at her mother, concerned by her lack of movement or sound since she had entered the house. Normally by now, she would have begun to stir. She could hear her father. He was stomping around, throwing things against the wall. She waited, holding her breath for fear he would know she had returned to the house.
After a few moments, she heard him lie down on the mattress, his weight making the box springs groan. She knew it wouldn’t take him long to fall asleep. She only had to be patient. She glanced quickly at her mother. If only she could wait that long.
Her mother was a small woman; frail was probably a better word. Lacy got her size from her father. Thank God that was all she got from him. Her father was an alcoholic and, when he drank, he was meaner than a rabid dog. She knew this for a long time, too long in fact.
Lacy was around ten the first time she became aware of her father’s abuse. Although, if she were to be honest with herself, she would have said it was much earlier, and she had merely denied the suspicion. Her mother had done well hiding it from her. By age ten, she was becoming aware of many things around her. She noticed the way her mother always flinched when her father passed her in the hallway—and the way she would duck if her father raised his hand to run it through his hair. Then there was the way Brenda’s voice would become weak and timid if she had to ask Peter to increase her household allowance because inflation had reduced her ability to make ends meet.
She sighed and started to lift her mother. It wasn’t an easy task. Although her mother was light, she was still weak herself from the beating she had taken.
“Lacy,” her father called from the bedroom.
She froze, waiting to hear her name again. When she did not, she assumed he had spoken in his sleep as he often did, and she carried on with her task. She hoisted her mother onto her shoulders, staggering from the sudden bulk like a drunken bar slut. She established a firm footing and moved slowly toward the door. Opening the door was difficult, but somehow she managed. She stood on the porch, looked around for the car, and cursed herself for not having the forethought to move the car closer to the door. She couldn’t very well drop her mother on the porch, so she continued along, walking down the steps one at a time, stopping to catch her breath—and her balance—after each progression. She winced from the pain the exertion caused her already injured muscles.
Just when she thought she would never get there, she collided with the car, adding yet another bruise to her already colorful thigh. She set her mother on the ground and used her body to hold her up against the rear fender panel. She opened the door and slid her mother inside. She didn’t bother with the seatbelt but slid in behind the wheel, started the engine, and raced furiously down the driveway.
The Waldrip’s home, situated on a lonely dirt road, branched off an even lonelier two-lane highway in the rural area of Southern Nevada. Diamond Springs, the community in which they lived, was a mere two hours from the booming Metropolis of Las Vegas, NV, but to Lacy, it might have been in another world.
She had never been to Las Vegas, but she had heard stories about it. Her best friend, Millie Watson went there many times. She told her all about the beautiful lights and gorgeous costumes all the dancers wore. Now, as she watched her house disappear into a cloud of dust, she longed to be there, or anywhere else besides the hate and abuse-filled place she called home.
She turned onto the highway that would take her to the interstate. That’s where one can leave all the backwoods shit behind and enter the real world. That’s where some semblance of sanity sets in, where Sheriff Waldrip and his deputies have little say over what happens—at least most of the time.
She glanced over the backseat at her mother. She was worried that she hadn’t made a sound. What if her father had hit her so hard as to kill her brain? Was that even possible? She’d read about people whose brain was dead, and they had to live with machines doing all the work their brain should do.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the hospital sign came into sight.
As if sensing what was happening, her mother stirred in the backseat. Lacy said a silent prayer, adding another marble to the tally of favors she owed God.
She pulled into the hospital parking lot, nearly running over two men walking toward the emergency room door. One of the men grabbed hold of the other man’s elbow with one hand and shook his fist at her with the other one. She didn’t have time for saying sorry, so she ignored him. She came to a skidding stop and almost ran over an attendant, who also shook his fist at her. Then he rushed to her aid as he saw her struggle with her mother.
“What happened?” he asked as he took her burden from her tired arms.
Here is where she had the most trouble. Her father—a mean drunk, appeared to be a sweet man—when he was sober, that is, which was hardly ever. He was also the sheriff and respected by the community, or at least people pretended to respect him. It seemed nobody, including herself, wanted to cross Sheriff Waldrip.
That is why when the attendant looked her in the face and asked for the second time, “What happened?” she lied—for about the millionth time.
“She tripped over a log while we were hiking.”
Father didn’t fool everyone with his false affection, but nobody ever stood up for her—until that day.
“I suppose you tripped over the same log,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
“No, of course not,” she said, and then quickly ran her tongue over her bruised, swollen lips as she followed his gaze to her battered face.
He didn’t say anything else as he pushed open the double doors leading to the trauma room. She gasped when she saw the words TRAUMA written on the door. Her mother wasn’t a trauma case. Wasn’t trauma for bad car accidents, or careless men who got too close to the wood chipper? Her mother was neither of those. Her dad simply went too far this time; that’s all. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were blood spattered. Her lip busted open, and she was having difficulty seeing out of her left eye because of the swelling.
She ran alongside the gurney on which they placed her mother, but they barred her from entering the exam room. She fought to get past Attila the Nurse. “Stay here,” she commanded. “We need space to work.”
Lacy sat in the waiting room, wringing her hands in worry. She picked up a magazine and began paging through it—anything to take her mind off what was going on in the other room. None of the articles about prom dresses, makeup, or designer bags interested her—especially not the article on how to dress like a million bucks for less than a hundred. Those were for normal teens.
After several long moments, someone came up and sat beside her. She looked up into the face of a man whom she had a vague recollection of seeing before. He smiled at her, and she cou
ldn’t help but smile back. Even though, she had nothing at which to smile. As she did so, her lip split open again, and she tasted fresh blood. Then she felt a trickle of wetness ooze down her chin.
The man took out a handkerchief and dabbed her lip with it. “Your mother’s going to be fine,” he said.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice squeaking like a mouse. She looked closer at him. She took in the white lab coat, the stethoscope around his neck, and the funny-looking mask doctors sometimes wear, and felt slightly more at ease. He had pulled his mask away from his face and now wore it like a necklace around his neck. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you for helping her.”
He nodded. “You want to tell me which door she walked into this time?” he asked.
She quickly searched her brain for a lie, trying to decide which door would cause the most damage. “The garage door,” she said, forgetting about the log over which her mother had supposedly tripped. “I was in the kitchen making salad for dinner when I heard her scream. I rushed to the garage and there she was. I think it must have fallen on her or something.”
The doctor dabbed at her lip again and then looked at her. “Or something,” he said, alternating his glance between her injured lip and her eyes. “How about the truth this time?” He continued to dab at the split lip as fresh blood pooled on the surface.
“I am telling the truth,” she protested, jerking her head sideways, away from his hand.
“Yeah? Then why did you tell the attendant she tripped over a log?”
“I-I-I,” she stammered, realizing he had busted her.
She lowered her head, an outright refusal to answer, and suddenly remembered why the man had looked so familiar. He had used the words “this time” when he had asked which door her mother had walked into. This doctor with the kind face and gentle voice had treated her mother before, but when had that happened—last year, last month? Maybe it even was last week.
He cupped her chin, raising her face to look directly into his eyes that were so trustworthy. “Lacy,” he said. She tried to pull away again, but he held firm. “What happened?” he asked, and his voice was so soft, so comforting that for a moment she almost caved. For about ten seconds she thought somebody might be able to help.
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