Lacy's End

by Victoria Schwimley

  She wasn’t sure if the sight of the blood or the need for his whiskey had made him stop. Brenda knew one thing. If he hadn’t stopped, he would have killed her that night.

  He left the room. She sat up, and when her breath returned, she pulled herself up to the bed and sat on the edge. Why did he do this to her? She bent over, her belly on fire, blood dripping from her mouth at a steady rate. Her lungs felt on fire as she coughed up more blood. The entire room spun around her. She could hear Peter in the other room, opening cabinets and slamming them, spewing expletives at a steady rate. “God damn it, Brenda!”

  She knew what he was looking for—the bottle she had hidden from him last month when he nearly knocked out Lacy’s front teeth. After the episode and the makeup sex that followed, he had promised her he’d stop drinking. He had begged her to help him, pleaded with her to throw out all the alcohol in the house. She hadn’t dared throw it out. She knew very well he wasn’t going to stop, and she didn’t want to be responsible for there not being any whiskey in the house.

  “Aha!” she heard him exclaim. She went rigid as she heard his footsteps coming back to the room.

  When he entered the doorway, he carried a glass filled with amber liquid. He watched her for several moments. She sat rigid, afraid even to move lest she set him off again.

  “You’d better get her back.”

  “I can’t.” She wheezed out her words, wincing from pain brought on by talking.

  She watched his breathing quicken. Reflexively she pulled back as he threw his glass against the wall and advanced on her.

  He picked her up, slamming her against a wall. She felt her ribs, still healing from his previous beating, crack. She cried out as a shooting pain spread across her chest. His hands tore open her shirt, ripping off her blouse. She yelped in pain as he roughly grabbed her breasts, bit down on one nipple and pinched tightly the other.

  “No, Peter,” she begged. It was the wrong thing for her to say.

  “What! You dare to deny me something that is rightfully mine.”

  He ripped off her skirt, tore down her panties so hard they ripped clean from her body. He entered her hard, so hard she cried out in pain—hyperventilating from the pain each thrust caused. He was so far inside her she felt his ejaculation. She cried out in pain and humiliation. Then he was done, and his panting in her ear nearly drove her mad.

  He turned and walked away, leaving her to slump to the floor. Stopping at the bedroom door, he said, “I want her home tomorrow, or you’re going to answer for it.” She knew he meant it.

  She heard his footsteps walking across the kitchen. Then she heard the front door open, and moments later, his car’s engine roared to life. She knew he would go to the bar. There he would find all the drink he wanted, and whatever mistress was handy.

  She held her stomach as she coughed up more blood. Frightened, she knew she needed help. She could call Angela Martin, but that would only worry Lacy—who would likely want to come home.

  She thought of Dr. Petoro, knowing he would help her. She had left her cell phone on the vanity when she was cleaning the bathroom sink. The bathroom was only ten feet away, but it was the longest ten feet she had ever known. Unable to stand, she dragged herself to the bathroom, stopping to cough every few feet. It was getting difficult to breathe. The distance stretched out before her, but she finally made it to the bathroom. She retched over the toilet, blood spewing as she coughed and vomited.

  After the retching stopped, with labored breathing and shaky hands she grabbed her cell phone and auto-dialed Allen’s number. It was cleverly disguised as her friend, Claire—just in case Peter decided to check her phone.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Petoro,” a welcome voice answered.

  “Dr. Petoro,” she managed to choke. “This is Brenda Waldrip. I need help,” she said, her voice raspy. She coughed again, spewing more blood into the toilet.

  “Where are you?”

  She didn’t answer. Unable to endure the pain any longer, she succumbed to the sweet darkness.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said to the emptiness. He didn’t need her to answer him; he knew from the sound of her panic she had to be at home.

  He hung up and rushed to the nurses’ station. “I need the home address of Brenda Waldrip,” he told the nurse on duty. He tapped his fingers impatiently as the nurse wrote down the address.

  “Thanks, Becky. Can you please send an ambulance to that same address?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but rushed from the hospital.

  He beat the ambulance by four minutes. Not bothering to knock, he turned the doorknob and found the door unlocked. “Brenda?” he called. No response. He walked in, calling her name repeatedly as he advanced through the house.

  He found Brenda lying next to the toilet in the master bathroom, spatters of blood and vomit all around her. He knelt down, felt her clammy skin and the blood around her mouth. He reached up, taking a washcloth from a towel rack. He wiped away the blood, looking for signs of an open laceration. When he didn’t find any signs of an open wound, his hands traveled down to her ribs. He felt the four broken ribs from the earlier beating. He suspected one of them had been re-broken and was causing internal bleeding.

  He felt her stir and looked into her eyes, seeing the panic there as she struggled for breath. “Brenda, it looks as if you have a punctured lung. An ambulance should be here any second. Do you understand that?” She nodded.

  He pulled her head against his chest, stroking her hair and offering comfort. When he looked back into her eyes, she was crying. “He did this to you, didn’t he, Brenda? Please don’t lie for him.”

  She nodded again as tears began to stream down her face.

  Just then, they heard a loud knock on the front door, followed by the sound of voices as the paramedics trailed down the hallway looking for their patient. “Hello. Is someone here?”

  “Back here,” Allen called.

  Allen saw the stretcher first, and then Guy Bartle appeared around the corner, followed by a gasp and a look of incredulity on his face.

  “Wow! Oh hey, Dr. Petoro,” he said, “strange seeing you here.”

  “She’s a friend,” he said.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  Guy’s partner, Wendy stuck her ashen face in the doorway. “Hi, Dr. Petoro.”

  He nodded. “Wendy.”

  “What’s up?” Guy asked.

  “Her husband likes to use her for boxing practice,” Allen said, sarcasm soaking his words. “One of the ribs broken in a previous injury was re-broken and has punctured her lung. I’ll call ahead and alert surgery. Dr. O’Brien’s on call today.”

  “He’s a good one, all right,” Wendy said. “He did my dad’s surgery,” she added.

  Brenda moaned when they lifted her onto the stretcher.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Waldrip,” Wendy said. “We’re trying to be careful.”

  Brenda nodded, pulled Allen close and whispered in his ear, “Lacy.”

  He rubbed the back of her hand, understanding what she wanted. “Don’t worry about Lacy. She is fine right where she is. I’ll make sure she knows what’s happening.”

  Brenda felt the sting of a needle, and then one of the paramedics placed an oxygen mask over her mouth. Then she faded out into a dream state, where nothing could touch her, and life was perfect.

  As the paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance, Allen called Angela using his cell phone. The phone rang five times before Angela finally picked it up. She was laughing. “Yes,” she said. She paled, and Lacy bolted out of her chair, preprogrammed to receive devastating news.

  When Angela hung up, Lacy said, “It’s Mom, isn’t it?” Angela nodded. “Oh, God—I knew it.”

  She started pacing the floor, hitting her palm with a closed fist, which she shook at Angela in anger. “I told you this would happen. I knew if I left he would get angry.” She stopped pacing, looked Angela directly in the eye and said, “Is she dead?”
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  “No,” she said, shaking her head, surprised by the assumption. “She’s quite alive. They’re taking her to surgery, though. She has a pneumothorax.” Lacy looked at her, shaking her head. “One of the broken ribs from the last beating was re-broken and punctured a lung.” At Lacy’s look of panic, she rushed to add, “It’s not bad, but she’ll need to stay in the hospital a few days.”

  Lacy shot to the door, opening it with record speed.

  Angela, anticipating her reaction, beat her to it and slammed it shut. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Lacy gave her an incredulous stare. “Where do you think?” Talking rudely to adults was unlike her. Her mother’s teachings and her father’s fists had taught her this lesson. Nevertheless, the thought of her mother taking a beating because of her, while she sat there laughing and relaxing, was more than she could handle. She balled up her fist, drew it back, and said through clenched teeth, “Get out of my way, or I swear I’ll hit you.”

  Angela put a hand on her arm. “No, you won’t Lacy. That’s something your father would do.” Lacy took a deep breath as tears came to her eyes. “Lacy, please, relax. I’ll get you to the hospital, but first you need to calm down before your blood pressure skyrockets. Do you want to end up back in the hospital?”

  Lacy lowered her fist, swallowed deep breaths of air, trying to calm her racing heart.

  “Let me get my purse.” Lacy nodded. “There,” Angela said, returning with both of their purses. “I got yours, too.”

  “Thanks,” Lacy said.

  They made their way to Angela’s car, both of them watching for any sign of Sheriff Waldrip. They got in, looked at each other, realized each of them was holding her breath.

  Angela put her hand over her heart. “I never fully understood how much panic one man could cause.”

  “Welcome to my life,” Lacy said.

  She was silent as they drove to the hospital. Angela periodically glanced over at her to make sure she was okay as if she might jump out the window.

  “I’ve got no place else to go,” Lacy said.

  “I wasn’t—” Angela began, but Lacy interrupted.

  “You were,” Lacy said. She tapped on the glass. “I’m not going to take a nosedive out the window.”

  Angela sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  Lacy shook her head. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “Do you? Do you really understand how much frustration this is causing all of us who want to help?” Lacy sat silent, looking at her hands balled up into fists and resting in her lap.

  They pulled into the parking lot. As Angela slowed for a pedestrian, Lacy jumped out of the car, running straight toward the hospital at breakneck speed.

  “Lacy!” Angela shouted. Lacy did not stop. Angela parked the car and rushed after her.

  Lacy rushed through the glass door and threw herself on the charge nurse’s desk. “My…mom…was...brought...in...” she wheezed.

  Angela caught up. Taking Lacy by the arm, she gave the nurse an apologetic glance and led her away. “If you had bothered to wait for me, I would have told you I know right where to go.”

  Angela guided her to the elevator. They rode it to the fourth floor. A sign on the wall had an arrow pointing to the left that read SURGICAL WAITING AREA. They followed the sign and found Dr. Petoro sitting there reading the newspaper.

  Lacy threw herself down on a chair beside him. “What happened?”

  He looked at Lacy and then Angela. He shook his head. “I’m not sure, exactly. We’ll need to wait until your mother’s out of surgery and able to talk.”

  He looked at Angela and smiled. “She called me for help.”

  Angela returned the smile. “Bravo.”

  “What?” Lacy asked. “What’s so big about that?”

  Angela put her hand on Lacy’s shoulder. “It means your mother’s finally coming around. How bad is it?” she asked.

  Allen shrugged. “She’ll be okay. I don’t think it was a deep puncture. It shouldn’t take too much to repair it.”

  A surgeon, still dressed in a surgical gown, came through double doors that read NO ADMITTANCE. He began to strip off his gown and mask, wadding them up into a ball as he came to a halt before them.

  He acknowledged Lacy and Angela but addressed Dr. Petoro. “All done,” he said. “She’ll be good as new in no time.”

  “Assuming she doesn’t keep walking into walls,” Allen said, looking at Lacy chidingly. Lacy blushed and looked away. Allen extended his hand. “Thanks, Phillip.”

  Dr. O’Brien grasped his hand, shaking it firmly. “My pleasure, Allen.” He turned and walked back in through the doors from which he had just come.

  “Can we see her now?” Lacy asked.

  Allen shook his head. “She’ll be asleep for a while.” He looked at Angela. “Why don’t you girls go and get us some coffee or something.”

  “Okay,” she said, “but when I get back, I’ll get started on the restraining order.”

  Allen shook his head.

  “Okay, thank you.”

  She smiled and led Lacy away.

  Allen watched them leave. Then he turned toward the door Dr. O’Brien had come through earlier and found his way to Brenda. She lay sleeping in the recovery room. A nurse stood beside her, checking her vitals. “Hey, Dr. Petoro,” she greeted.

  He smiled in response.

  He let the nurse finish, and when she walked away, he picked up Brenda’s hand, cradling it tenderly in his own. She flinched at the touch, and he wanted to cry from the sadness of it.

  As he watched her sleep, her face covered with bruises, a strange emotion filled him. He wondered just when he had begun to fall in love with Brenda Waldrip.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sheriff Waldrip staggered into his office, slamming doors and upending chairs he encountered along the way. His deputies couldn’t understand what he was saying, but it sounded something like his wife was a witch who drove her car into a ditch.

  Charlie Renton, his second-in-command, shook his head in disgust. He was fed up with the sheriff’s behavior, and he was just about getting ready to do something about it. He reached for the phone. It was high time someone contacted a higher authority.

  “Charlie!” the sheriff shouted. “Get your lazy ass in here.”

  Charlie shook his head, rolled his eyes, pushed himself up out of his chair, and began to walk to the Sheriff’s office. “Come and get me in five,” he said to John Thornton as he walked past him.

  John snickered, waved him off and returned to reading his magazine.

  Charlie knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. The sheriff was rummaging through some papers, desperately looking for something.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  He looked up at him. Charlie cringed from the snarl on his face. “I can’t find that damned restraining order.”

  “How does that affect me, Sir?”

  “I want you to help me find it.”

  “What for, Sir?” The sheriff snapped his head up. “I mean, you know what it says, so why is it so important to have it in your hand?”

  “Because I’m going to cram it down her throat.”

  “Who, Sir?”

  “That idiot social worker.”

  Charlie sighed. He had been working for Sheriff Waldrip for five years now—five very long years. He had seen him in every kind of mood possible. If anyone were to ask him—which they never did—the sheriff was long overdue for getting his ass kicked out of office. In fact, Charlie had no doubt that if people weren’t so afraid of him, Peter Waldrip would not be anywhere near the coveted chair. Those who feared him backed him so heavily that they intimidated everyone else.

  “I don’t think that would be advisable, Sir,” Charlie said, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. If the mighty sheriff could see himself right now, rummaging through stacks of ignored paperwork, and overturning vases, fishing trophies, and all sorts of his precious
mementos, even he would have to laugh.

  Peter shook his head. “I want it because I can’t remember the name of the damned judge who signed it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that? Of course, it matters. I need to know who’s against me in this town. I would have laid odds there wasn’t a single judge who didn’t owe me a favor.”

  There was a knock on the door. Both men turned and stared, unable to believe anyone would dare interrupt. A small man, whom Charlie recognized as a process server, waved to them through the glass. Charlie stepped to the door, opened it. “Yes?”

  “I’ve got something for the sheriff,” he said.

  Charlie held out his hand.

  “Sorry, Charlie, I have to give it to him directly.” He stepped into the room, gave the sheriff the paper, and walked out.

  Peter looked down at it. “What the hell is this?” He opened it, and his mouth dropped open. His face turned red, his chest nearly exploding from the increased air his lungs took in. The sheriff looked like an inflated balloon and Charlie considered running as fast as he could.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  Peter let out the air in his lungs and dropped into his chair. “It seems they’re ganging up on me.”

  “What is it?” Charlie repeated. When the sheriff only sat there shaking his head, Charlie walked to his side and held out his hand. The sheriff placed the document in it.

  Charlie skimmed the notice, grinned, and said, “Well at least now you know the name of the judge.”

  “Another restraining order? What does that woman think she’s doing?”

  Charlie returned the document, shrugging. Inwardly he was cheering her on. He wasn’t about to make his real feelings known, though. He had to live and work in this town and take orders from this man sitting before him. “Maybe she has a hero complex. I’ll bet it all blows over in a couple of days.”

  “Damn right it will. Just wait until the first adolescent tirade rears its ugly head. Then we’ll see how much she likes butting in her nose where it doesn't belong.”

  Charlie pointed at the document he had just handed back. “Sheriff, that restraining order is for your wife, not Lacy.”