It was just the three of us.
We were his victims. His silent victims. My mom, the victim of his words, and me, the victim of his fists. I lived with constant, well-hidden bruises. Our home on Poinsettia Avenue, a prominent street in one of the most exclusive sections of Manhattan Beach, was not even close to being as beautiful as the Christmas flower, but no one ever knew. No one could ever know.
My parents met at the local country club where they were both members. My dad had been a member all his life and went often to be around what he called “The right kind of people.”
He didn’t abuse alcohol, drugs, or anything like that, he just abused me. He wasn’t homophobic and he wasn’t mentally ill. What he was, was a bastard! A mean son of a bitch who didn’t need anything to bring that out. Being alive just did that for him. He was the bully. I was the victim. I was his kid.
That wasn’t even an excuse, though. He was a very successful attorney who specialized in criminal defense. My father grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and used that to his advantage. He took over his father’s law firm after my grandfather’s sudden and untimely death from a massive heart attack. He recruited in his fraternity brother and closest friend, Charles Ericson, and changed the name from the Law Offices of Brandon Sinclair to Sinclair & Ericson LLC.
Charles never knew that I was beaten. No one did. My father made certain of that. He limited any and all evidence to my body, avoiding my face at all costs. He valued his reputation more than he valued me.
I could have taken him but I would’ve had to kill him to make him stop. Or, I could have just killed myself. That would have stopped the pain. By the time my mom killed him, I was old enough, strong enough, and smart enough to stop him, but I couldn’t because I knew it would destroy my mother if I got arrested for murder.
Over the years, I begged her to leave him. She refused, telling me this was her home and that things were going be okay. I loved her too much to leave her alone with him. I knew that he’d follow through on his promise to kill her. He hated her but he hated me more. I later learned that she was stuck in the cycle of abuse. I knew she was petrified to leave; she knew I was petrified to stay.
After my mom was cleared and the truth was revealed, I inherited his half of the firm. The practice was run by Charles while I was at UCLA and I wanted to show him that I was worth the effort. I have always been very ambitious and knew that I was going to be practicing law as a career so I went for a double major in economics and political science, with a minor in digital communications. I spent my summers interning under Charles and worked my ass off during the school year, graduating in just under four years at the top of my class. After graduation, I attended USC for my legal degree. The minute I passed the bar, I literally drove across town to assume my role as the Sinclair at Sinclair & Ericson LLC.
Charles became a permanent fixture in my life after everything went down. He was our rock and, long story short, he’s been my mom’s boyfriend since my father’s death. Charles is a very striking man, taller than my six-foot-one build, with salt and pepper hair, a strong face, and eyes that are a lighter shade than my own gray ones. He’s in great shape, a runner preferring to jog along the shoreline instead of the road.
My mom is a stunning woman. The opposite of my dad’s California blond hair, blue-eyed look. I look just like her. Another reason my dad hated me.
My mom moved to California from New York to study interior design but fell in love with jewelry design in college. After she graduated she got a job working for a well-known jewelry designer in Beverly Hills, someone who caters exclusively to movie stars and moguls. She made tons of connections and after much prompting from several of her clients along with family and friends, she opened up her own store in downtown Manhattan Beach.
Her store became popular quickly. Since the residents of Manhattan Beach are all about “show,” and subscribe to the philosophy of “It’s not what you know…,” “It’s not what it costs…,” and the ever-popular “See and be seen,” her store became the “It” place to buy their jewelry. Buying from my mom is a show of status and saying the name of my mom’s shop while showing off their latest purchases was second only to the volume of carats they wore. She was utterly overpriced because she could be and they ate it up. After the shooting, she had a dip in sales but bounced back quickly. Apparently, status trumps murder.
She also got a license to carry a concealed weapon in the state of California and bought a gun the second she opened her store. She bought it “just in case,” but as far as I’m concerned…?
Best decision she ever made.
“DADDY! PLEASE!
“No, Daddy, I’m asking you to stop.
“Please, stop, Daddy. You’re hurting me.
“This is so wrong. So very, very wrong.
“Don’t do this.”
It’s been four years of living in an endless cycle of pain, fear, and misery. It started out innocently, cuddling, lying next to me all night. When he first started touching me I thought it was normal, that every father acted this way. I later found out that what he did was not normal and should never have happened.
He wasn’t always like this. He had been a man hardened by years in the military but my mom brought out his soft side. He was a kind, giving, wonderful man because of her and a great father. My mom died of ovarian cancer when I was twelve, and when she died, he died with her, on the inside. His soft side disappeared and all that was left was a monster. I have no siblings so it’s just the two of us.
During the day he was a loving, wonderful father. Never missing a school function or after-school activity. He was a high-ranking officer in the army and is always well respected in every community we live in, always encouraging kids to come hang out in our home and everybody loved him.
Everyone except me, I hated him and always will.
I can’t remember what he said when we were alone together. I only remember what he did. I was constantly terrified, existing in mental anguish. I stopped sleeping at night because that’s when he would come into my prison. Yes, that’s how I viewed my room, my home, my life.
Then came the threats. “If anyone finds out about our secret time, we’ll go far away and you won’t ever be able to see your friends and school again.”
I knew he’d make us move. He’d done it before. I didn’t want that, I never wanted that. Each time he said, “We need to move, military transfer,” and we’d move, once again, to another post where I didn’t know a soul and was utterly alone. I quickly realized his lie. We didn’t have to move because of the army. He kept moving us to protect himself. Every time I start to make friends or feel like I was home…we moved.
I like it here, I like the people and I like my school. It’s the only time I feel truly safe. I feel like I belong here and I want to stay, so I endure.
He speaks, I stay silent. He smiles, I cry.
I’m dead on the inside.
And once he penetrated me…I learned the meaning of true physical pain.
We were scheduled to move, again, after that night. Daddy told me that it was because somebody had heard me. That they heard crying. I was about to lose my best friend and everything I had grown to know and love. Instead of promising myself I would cry quieter, like I always do, this time I knew…I had to escape.
I stalled the move, telling him the words he wanted to hear and letting him do the things he wanted to do, I need more time.
I took on every job that came my way, working tirelessly in order to be ready when the time came to run. I babysat, dog-walked, took care of the elderly; you name it. I was also very frugal. I never touched any of the allowance my dad gave me. When I needed clothes, I’d take a bus to The Salvation Army. When I went out with my friends, I’d lie and say I already ate and when I did eat with them, I’d spend the least amount possible. It’s because of this that I’ve managed to stash away some money.
I have my backpack and a small duffle filled with clothes hidden in the coat close
t behind our winter jackets, jackets that aren’t needed in California. I put them there because it’s the closet closest to the front door for a quick getaway and there’s zero chance of it being discovered.
My plan is to hop on a city bus and head from Bakersfield to Los Angeles. I’ve been using the computers in the public library to map out the bus routes so he won’t discover what I’m planning. I plan on changing busses several times along the way to mask my trail. It’s not going to be an easy journey and it’s not going to be a quick one but it’s a journey that I have to make. While online, I search for shelters for runaway teens and find one in Hollywood called Covenant House. Their mission is to “help abused or neglected youth who have nowhere else to go.” That’s me.
My chance to flee comes when he leaves to consult at another base. I spend the day on pins and needles, checking and rechecking my backpack and duffle to ensure I have everything I need. I have my money, all my mom’s jewelry, some personal items, and a picture of my mother and me. The one I would stare at all night, or until my tears clouded my vision. My treasures.
I had recently taken up jogging on a daily basis. I told my dad it was for exercise which he thought was a great idea. It was really to look for the least secure area; the place where I could leave, undetected…and I found it.
Once night finally falls and I am able to escape under the cover of darkness, I take one last look at my personal hell and I run. Quickly and quietly, I head towards freedom.
I also leave my phone so my dad can’t track it. I know he can find me. He’s always kept a tight rein on me and has used my cell phone before to keep tabs. He will never find me, I won’t allow it.
My name was Annalyse Cartwright. My name is Lysee Wright.
The bus stops in a cute little coastal town between transfers. I exit the bus and look up at a sign that reads, “Welcome to Hermosa Beach,” and immediately decide that for now I’m staying here. Something about this place just feels…right.
“Hermosa Beach,” I say on a smile. “Well, Lysee, welcome to your home.”
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the warm breeze washes over me like an ocean wave. The ocean! That’s right, I’m by the ocean. I’ve never been to the beach before; military bases don’t usually double as prime vacation destinations. I head down to the water and my feet come to a sudden stop when they land on the soft sand. So beautiful…
I breathe it in. Miles of golden sand stretch out before me. I watch as the waves cover the golden sand with white foam before retreating once again. It’s all-encompassing. The sight of the blue water fills my eyes. The sound of the crashing waves fills my ears, the smell of the salty ocean air fills my nose, and the serenity of it all fills my soul.
I stop at the edge of the shoreline, take off my shoes, and roll up my jeans. I hoist my bags up over my shoulder and walk alongside it, laughing as the cool bubbles tickle my toes. “This is so, so beautiful,” I say again, reverently. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
After walking a while I sit down to enjoy the view and hear my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since the Pop Tarts and orange juice I bought at my last stop and that was hours ago. I’ve been eating as little as possible in order to hold on to every penny until I can get my feet on the ground. For the first time I see the silver lining around my stormy past. I know how to exist off the bare minimum and I will survive.
I walk into town and stop when I spot this cute little restaurant, that so happens to be named, The Spot. It’s small and white with a bright red awning and bright red front door. The words “NATURAL FOOD RESTAURANT” are written below the name so I figure it’s probably a safe place to search for food in the dumpster. I set my bags down on the ground, where I can keep an eye on them, and climb into the bin to find something to eat. Just as I go to grab the first thing that looks edible, I hear a female voice.
“Can I help you?” I bolt up from my crouched position ready to run. Oh God! I have to get out of here! She is going to call the police!
As if she senses my fear, she immediately says, “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not going to call the police.”
I don’t look good, I know this. I have dark circles under my light-blue eyes. I don’t ever sleep well, but lately, I haven’t been sleeping at all. My long blond hair is dirty and limp—it’s been a long journey. I also know I’m all skin and bones. But this woman seems nice and for some reason…I feel safe.
Still, I say nothing.
I can’t. I’m frozen, mute and I’m scared. So scared. Acting on my silence, she asks, “Sweetheart, are you hungry?”
Again, I say nothing.
“Please,” she implores, “let’s go inside. It’s quiet right now. Come in and let me get you something to eat.”
I’m still petrified and can’t speak but I’m starving, so I lightly nod and follow her.
Tonya, the owner, as she introduces herself, is a very attractive woman possibly in her mid-fifties. She has dark hair that’s tied haphazardly at the back of her head. She also has a great body but what else could you expect from a woman who owns a “natural food restaurant”? As she holds the door open for me, her soft, chocolate-brown eyes smile, warming my frozen soul and immediately putting me at ease.
She sits me down at a table in the enclosed patio and leaves. I hope she’s making me something to eat and not calling the police. My heart pumps a staccato rhythm in my chest and sweat starts to pour down my back. I am about to get up and flee when she comes back carrying the most colorful dish I have seen. The green of the broccoli sits in harmony next to the orange of the carrots, as the white mashed potatoes in rich brown gravy join in their silent symphony. It smells like heaven and my stomach cries out in want.
“This is the blue plate special. It’s my favorite dish,” she tells me as she sets the plate down in front of me. When she goes back into the kitchen to grab me a drink, I take a bite and moan. So good!
When Tonya returns, she sits across from me and quickly bursts my bubble. “Do you have a place to live?” she asks.
I’m glad she doesn’t ask me what my story is because I’m not about to tell her. “No,” is my reply around a mouthful of the delicious food that I can’t get enough of.
I’m supposed to be in the eleventh grade, not homeless.
“Well, you’re in luck because I have a place for you to stay.” I know I must look weary because she immediately follows with, “I have an apartment above the garage in the back of my house and the front door has a dead bolt on it so you’ll be safe.”
Again, my gut tells me she’s trustworthy and my gut is rarely wrong.
So after I finish my meal, she tells someone to cover for her and we head out. As she’s holding the door open, she says something that makes my heart stop and start at the same time and I smile for the first time in…forever.
“Your home is just up the street and I know you’re going to love it.”
My Home…
I WAS SITTING IN A private room in the maternity ward of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles with my closest friends when the call came in.
My best friend, Ean’s, wife, Dani, just gave birth to the most beautiful twin girls, Hope and Allie. They both look exactly like him, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that already have that twinkle. The twinkle that says, “Buckle your seatbelt, Justin, you’re in for a bumpy ride.” The twinkle that I love. The twinkle that he lost after his life became a nightmare. The twinkle that I thought was gone forever.
Ean and Dani each lost their spouses in the same horrific car accident almost two years ago. Ean also lost his son and unborn daughter that day and until Dani, he was lost too. Dani put that twinkle back in Ean’s eyes and I thank God for her every single day.
When I entered the room, I gave him a slight nod which he returned because he knew exactly what I was thinking. “You made it, buddy, you survived,” I silently said, to which he responded, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
The room was filled with laughter an
d joy but the call quickly shattered the joy and eliminated the laughter. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t stop shaking, I couldn’t think or speak. Ean caught my phone as it was falling out of my hands.
Austin House is on fire… An explosion…
While frozen, my mind became flooded with memories. The people who saved me…the people I saved…
And I run.
I need to be there…
I’m almost at the front entrance to the hospital when the sound of my name stops me in my tracks. I turn around and notice my girlfriend, Lysee, and Ean running towards me, followed by the rest of my friends. I want to take the time to appreciate how the people I love are always there for me but—right now—getting to the shelter is infinitely more important.
Austin House is a shelter where victims of domestic abuse seek refuge after escaping abusive relationships and misplaced teens can turn their lives around. It’s a safe haven. A place for them to get back on their feet. Austin House provides job training and skills that help the people who live there find jobs while providing in-house schooling. It’s also the place that I have dedicated my life to over the last decade.
“I have to be there!” I shout as I start moving again.
“And I’m fucking driving!” Ean shouts as he jogs to catch up with me. “You really think I’d let you face this alone?”
Ean, Lysee, and I jump into Ean’s car along with his sister, Riley, and her boyfriend, Luke. As we race to the shelter, the silence in the car is deafening, the air is thick with worry, and all I can think, over and over, is…I need to be there…
When we arrive at Austin House, it looks like a scene out of Armageddon! The street’s blocked off and flooded with red and blue flashing lights, along with about one hundred people huddled together, hovering under blankets to stave off the early fall chill. I can feel my lungs burning and realize that I haven’t taken a breath but can’t figure out how to.
Saving Each Other (Saving Series Book 1) Page 20
