The Final Piece

by Maggi Myers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance living or dead, business establishments, events or locales are strictly coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Maggi Myers

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:1480055549

  ISBN-13: 978-1480055544

  The Final Piece

  By Maggi Myers

  For Bobby.

  Chapter 1

  I place the needle down in the worn groove of the vinyl, my hand moving without any thought. The soft hiss of contact sends a wave of giddy anticipation through me. I clasp my hands together and eagerly wait. Music fills up the space in my tiny bedroom and it sends me spinning in circles with my arms cast wide. I smile at the ceiling and open my mouth to sing. Loneliness releases its grip on my heart with each note that flows through me.

  This evening’s audience is carefully lined up on my overly girly four-poster bed. Prue the Bear and Raggedy Ann are watching me like they have hundreds of times. I use my hairbrush as a microphone and dig my toes into the chocolate brown carpet, trying to ground the rogue butterflies in my stomach. By the time the first verse ends and the chorus begins, I am no longer timid as I start belting out the notes, conjuring the vision of Olivia Newton John roller-skating her way through Xanadu. Relief falls over me like a soft blanket as the loudness of the party is silenced and I can finally disappear into my daydreams. If I am really lucky, they will have forgotten that I am up here at all.

  I turn to my reflection in the mirror above my dresser and attempt a pose that is supposed to be glamorous. I don’t have my mother’s stunning good looks or my father’s charisma. Blinking my eyes really fast, I try to blur my reflection into a pretty girl with flowing blond hair and hazel eyes like my mom or wavy black hair and bright blue eyes like my dad. The room starts to tilt, so I slow down and my face comes back into focus—my long, straight brown hair framing wide brown eyes and a freckled face. I am as plain as they are spectacular.

  Deep in critical thoughts of myself, I almost miss the faint sound of footsteps on the staircase. I lunge for the liquor cabinet that holds my record player, accidentally sending the needle screeching. The room goes silent and I pause to listen for the sound again. My heart begins to hammer a triplicate rhythm as I strain to hear movement in the hall.

  No one is supposed to be up here.

  Panic echoes in the empty space inside my ears as the commotion from downstairs finds its way to my bedroom door. I wish they would just leave me alone. My over-active imagination suggests flesh-eating zombies storming the staircase in search of fresh brains. It’s not a far cry from the crowd downstairs because they’re either drunk, high, or both; they might as well be zombies. There is a soft knock on my door followed by a quick shake of the doorknob, which is locked. I have learned the hard way that just closing the door doesn’t keep people out. Another knock accompanies a voice.

  “Mouse, are you awake?” I let out my breath and sag in relief. His voice drifts through the door again, “Mouse, sweetie, it’s ok. Open up.”

  Jumping over my bed, I unlock the door, crack it open and look up into his familiar face.

  “Hey there, beautiful, I brought you something.” He cocks his head to the side and wiggles his eyebrows up and down. I try in vain not to giggle at his antics and attempt indifference.

  I give him a calculated once over, noting his sandy hair is starting to silver at the temple and his clear blue eyes twinkle mischievously. I open the door a little wider and hear my mother’s laughter among several other voices carrying up the stairs. He is holding out a record-shaped present wrapped in Strawberry Shortcake paper. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be letting down my guard just because he comes bearing gifts.

  Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I am not a hard sell. Bring me a new record and I’ll be your best friend.

  My stomach sours at that thought and I eye him warily.

  “I missed your birthday last week. Ten is a big deal so I wanted to bring you something special.”

  He holds out the gift expectantly. I take it and he smiles at me—the kind of smile that softens his face but does nothing to hide the intensity of his assessment of me. I can feel my face flush so I drop my gaze to the gift in my hand, noting that all of the Strawberry Shortcakes are holding flags with the number ten above their heads.

  “Happy Birthday, Mouse. Let’s go open it.”

  His voice is gentle but his hands are firm as he places them against my shoulders and leads me back into my room. He turns to lock the door.

  “My name is not Mouse.” It comes out sounding petulant. I know this makes him mad. “My name is Beth, and besides, I hate Mouse.”

  I hate that nickname. My dad started calling me that because I reminded him of a timid little mouse. How he found that endearing is beyond my understanding. Mice are tiny, filthy pests that most everyone sets up traps to kill. It’s not cute and I don’t like the way it makes me feel when anyone calls me that. He turns back to face me with narrowed eyes that make me flinch.

  “I’m not going to hurt you” he croons, “I’d never do that. Jeez, you think so little of me? I love you, Mouse. You know that.”

  His expression is wounded and sad as he sinks down on my bed. His sigh fills the room as he pats the space next to him, his body squishing the pink comforter’s white clouds. He looks so out of sorts—this big man draped across my princess bed. It isn’t lost on me that he is and I wonder if anyone knows he is here.

  I continue to stare as I mull over his statement. Of course I know he loves me, doesn’t he? He pays attention to me when no one else bothers. He dotes on me. Isn’t that love? He listens to my records with me while my parents entertain all of their other yuppie friends. He’d rather sit with me than join the party downstairs. He chooses me, and that makes me feel loved. I should feel special. Instead, I feel my cheeks redden. I am ashamed and angry with myself for making him feel rejected. Climbing up beside him, I want to ask for his forgiveness. Before I can open my mouth, he pulls me onto his lap. I am stunned and don’t have a moment to think before he tucks me against his big body in an embrace.

  “You will always be my Mouse,” he breathes into my ear.

  My body goes rigid. I try to speak, but I cannot find my voice. An uncontrollable shaking starts in the center and spreads itself throughout my body.

  Stupid! You let him in! Why did you let him in?

  Tears overflow and saturate his shirt while he cradles me, murmuring soft words as he rubs my back in wide, languid circles.

  “Shh, don’t cry...” Each circle gets a little wider until his hands reach down far enough to cup my bottom. “Shh, sweet girl.”

  Stupid girl.

  ***

  Rays of sunshine warm my face, its light pulling me from a restless sleep. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling fan going around in rhythmic circles, like a helicopter’s blades. I pretend for a moment that the helicopter is here to sweep me away to a family where the mom and dad love and adore me and their friends don’t love me so much.

  Why? Why me? Why did I let this happen, again?

  The answer is simple—he promised not to hurt me and I believed him. I am overcome with shame; my tears fall steady and silent down my temples and into my hair. I want to disappear. I want to die. I want this feeling to go away more than anything in the world. Mostly, I wish we could’ve just listened to the album he brought me. My wishes are worthless and there is no erasing the vividness of his hands on me, in me.

  I scream into my pillow and pull the covers over my head as the evening comes back to me in detailed flashes. I remember the smell of alcohol on his breath as he panted against my neck. I can still
hear the guttural moan vibrate against my back as he reached around and slipped his calloused finger between my legs, then inside of me. I still feel the pinch and sting of his finger. I still hear the Air Supply song keeping time with way he rubbed himself against my bottom.

  My eyes focus in on Prue the Bear poking out between the pillows. Even his soft brown eyes are alight with sadness.

  Stupid girl.

  I struggle to reconnect my brain to my tattered body. Almost instantly, I am aware of my bladder and the need to use the bathroom overrides my need to hide. My legs swing over the side of the bed, making me wince at the soreness between my legs. There, on the floor are the remnants of the wrapping paper with the gift tag still visible “Happy Birthday, Mouse! We love you, Uncle Drew and Aunt Kristy.”

  Chapter 2

  “Elizabeth Bradshaw, you get back in here this instant!” My mother’s face is purple with rage. I’m fourteen years old—doesn’t she know I’m supposed to be uncooperative?

  “No! Nothing you can say will make me stay and have dinner with those assholes!” My arms are folded across my chest, my hip jutting out to the side in defiance. There is no way I am backing down. I refuse to play nice when it comes to that cockroach. Anger, thick and acrid, is boiling up inside me. Cue the angry tears.

  Crap!

  I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry so I stomp off to my room and slam the door shut. I flop down on my bed, face first, and reach for the power button on my stereo. It is a sweet solace from my mother’s raging diatribe. I slip my headphones on, turn the volume up and close my eyes. Songs are my best friends and the only thing in my life that has never let me down. I flip onto my back and survey my room. As always, my stereo sits on top of the antique liquor cabinet with my records and cassettes tucked inside. The comforter has changed as I have grown but I’m in the same four-poster princess bed, I have always been in. Even Prue the Bear is still around, although now he has an honorary position on my bookshelf. While I have been busy growing and changing, the space around me has remained oddly resistant.

  It’s been a year since “Uncle” Drew and “Aunt” Kristy moved over six hours away from us. An entire twelve months has passed, and yet in just an instant, he’s back. When they first moved, I trashed every single record Drew gave me. I didn’t have to hang on out of fear anymore. I purged him the only way I knew—by throwing away the things he used to bind me to him. I saved up my allowance to purchase new copies of the ones I especially loved. My copies. He took so much away from me, but the one thing he’d never touch is my music.

  A tremor starts in my lip and my eyes fill up again, more wasted tears. I jump as my headphones are suddenly plucked from my ears and my mother’s face comes within inches from mine.

  “You will not use that potty mouth when speaking to me, do you understand?” Cussing, of all things, really gets under her skin. I pulled the trigger on that purposefully, just to get a rise out of her. She deserves it for inviting those assholes back into our home.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I mumble.

  “Would you care to enlighten me, Beth?” sitting down next to my prone body. “What did Drew and Kristy ever do to you to deserve such ungratefulness?”

  Is she shitting me?

  I am almost disappointed that my thought didn’t escape the confines of my rattled mind.

  Tread carefully, Beth.

  I sit up slowly, making sure that she stays in my sights. I don’t trust her at all. I narrow my eyes in an effort to show her that I am not afraid, but, in truth, I am blown away that she’s even opened up the door to this conversation. She always pretended not to see Drew’s intent, but she had to know and then did nothing for eight years. She just let him and his airhead bimbo wife in and turned a blind eye. She is nervous; she has turned her attention to her wedding ring, spinning it on her finger. Afraid she will backpedal; I spill every thought at her feet.

  “You know what he did! You pretend like you don’t know—that you didn’t see—but you know what he did!”

  My stubborn, angsty teenage resolve shatters as memories slap at my face. I am swept up in a humiliating show of weakness, unable to control my sobs as they shake my body. Mom blanches, her mouth hanging slightly open.

  “What did he do, Beth?”

  Her voice is barely audible, but I can hear the fear she has for my answer. “He touched me, Mom! He did stuff to me...”

  I hesitate, pulling my knees up against my chest and dropping my head down between them because I can’t look at her when I say it. “From the time I was five,” I whisper, “until they moved away last year…”

  The second it comes out of my mouth I want to hit rewind and take it all back.

  Oh my God, I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t want to go there with her! Why did I have to open my big mouth?

  This will not end well, of that I am certain. I hold my breath and steal a peek at her face. It’s completely devoid of emotion. She speaks slowly, punctuating each syllable with her accusatory tone.

  “What do you mean he touched you? Why haven’t you said anything before?

  She glares, the whites of her eyes getting larger as she waits for me to give her an answer. I don’t have one.

  “I don’t know, I just couldn’t,” I cry.

  She shakes her head, looking down at me with ill-concealed disgust. “Drew touched you? That is an awful thing to say about someone who has adored you from the moment he and Kristy met you.”

  My breath hitches, getting caught in my throat. I had adored him, too. I loved him and he spent the better part of seven years twisting my brain into believing that he loved me, too. At five years old, the attention was confusing but flattering. At first, he refrained from touching me, choosing instead to use words to confuse my mind and relax my boundaries.

  “Mouse, I can see your underwear.”

  This is one of the first memories I have of hearing the subtle inflection change in his voice. The shift went from loud and jovial to soft and intimate.

  He started speaking to me in these hushed tones like we were in on a secret no one else knew about. It felt good and I started seeking him out for more of the attention he was willing to give me. That day, I was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, playing jacks. I had on a skirt. At my mother’s insistence, my closet was full of them. I, on the other hand, would rather climb trees and catch lizards. The skirts did little to deter me, despite my mother’s efforts. There I sat with my hands frozen in suspension, one holding the ball and the other my jacks. I looked at him wide-eyed, squirming where I sat. I moved to shift my legs underneath me, to allow my skirt to fall more modestly.

  “Don’t,” Drew whispered, “you are beautiful just as you are.” He winked at me. Confused, but giddy from his words, I smiled. I was a lonely little girl and he was an attentive friend.

  My mother would never accept such tarnish on her perfect family picture. She is delusional, maniacal even, about keeping up appearances—to the point that she displays these Norman Rockwell plates in a display case in the dining room. I hate those ridiculous plates; each one depicts its own lie. My head feels like a dinghy being tossed around inside a hurricane.

  Pitch. Lurch. I close my eyes and try to steady myself. This is going to blow up in my face. I desperately want to take each word back, but I know all I can do now is try to protect myself for the oncoming attack. I retreat into my defense strategies, systematically slowing my breathing and my heart rate as I have taught myself over the years.

  Detach. Float away. I tell myself as I let my mind go numb, a skill I acquired when Drew’s affections turned physical. If they can’t get in, they can’t wear you down.

  I size up the enemy, scoping out a potential weakness. Even in her anger she is stunning, staring at me, daring me to defy her. This is my Achilles heel: I am a notorious people pleaser and she knows it. She is banking on my need to say what she wants to hear and end this standoff. As much as I need for her to be pleased with me, I
just can’t find it in me to concede. I look directly into her blazing eyes and simply state, “He did.”

  Her beautiful face is awash with anger as her shaking hand strikes my cheek. I don’t know if it is the sting of her hand or the sting of rejection that sends the last steel shutter into place. All I know is the pain is fleeting. Numbness takes over in defense. I have secured the fortress. I’m checked out of this conversation, and she couldn’t hurt me right now if she set me on fire.

  “You are sick, Elizabeth! You don’t accuse someone of something like that to get out of being at dinner! He is affectionate with you because he loves you. You are special to him and to Kristy! They don’t have children of their own, they have always thought of you as theirs!”

  Her words bounce off of my armor and I am grateful for the thick iron gates I have erected around my heart.

  “He hugs you and what? Does he tickle you, Beth?” She mocks me. “Jesus Christ, Beth everyone gets tickled at some point!”

  I wonder if she can hear herself.

  She takes my silence as defeat and adds, “You will be at dinner tonight with your family, or I will take every one of those records and toss them in the trash.”

  With that threat, my armor cracks and I panic.

  She can’t take away my music—it’s all I have!

  “They are NOT my family! You think because you make me call them Aunt and Uncle that makes a difference?” I spit.

  With smug satisfaction she sneers at me, knowing I will choose my music over my pride. “No, Beth, they are not, but they are the best friends your father and I have. You will show them the respect they deserve.”

  Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she walks out of my room and closes the door. Once again, I am alone. I was before she left, and I am now that she is gone. For once, I am grateful for the solitude. Seeking the only comfort I know, I place my headphones back over my head, close my eyes and let the music carry me away.