Tessa (From Fear to Faith) (2 page)

2

W
alter was standing, arms folded, in the lobby of the police station. He looked the same as always – stained zip-front jacket, oversized pair of dirty Levis, scuffed boots. Stubble covered his chin. A crumpled baseball cap, more pink than red after a summer of wear, topped a tangle of curly hair that should have been trimmed weeks ago. His eyes hardened when he saw me.

“So here’s the tramp.” He clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Told you I’d find you.” His steel blue eyes bored right through me.

I couldn’t breathe.

Walter wasted no time. “Well, come on. You’re needed at home.” Grasping me by the arm, he walked me out to the pickup. I fought to conceal the agony of each step. If he found out about my ankle, he’d take advantage of it somehow.

The familiar odor of smoke and stale mouse nests greeted me as I swung up into the warm cab. Walter slammed the door behind me and walked around to the driver’s side. The radio burst to life when he turned the key – the same disgusting rock station he always listened to.

I hunched in the seat, picking at the hole in my jeans as Walter pulled the truck away from the curb. He drove in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw set. Wasn’t he going to yell at me? Threaten me? Tell me how much trouble I’d be in when I got home?

Buildings slipped past my window – the bakery, the print shop, the senior center, the public library – all of them closed and dark. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Why was Walter driving up through the east end of town? He should have turned on Main Street, a block from the police station, and taken the bridge out of town.

I tried to quiet my fears. No doubt he was planning to stop at one of the taverns along the river.
But when he turned on Washington Avenue and crossed the river, leaving the city behind, I knew I was in trouble.

“Where are we going?” I ventured.

Walter didn’t reply. The road snaked through a large industrial development and bumped over three sets of railroad tracks before taking us out into the country. Fearfully I stared into the passing woods. Not only did I have no idea where we were, but the occasional houses were separated by long stretches of forest. I was alone in the middle of nowhere with a man I knew would hurt me.

I kept trying to think of a way to escape. But I had no weapon of any kind, and even if I managed to get out of the truck, I wouldn’t be able to run on account of my stupid ankle. Briefly I wondered if it would do any good to pray.

Rounding one of the curves, Walter braked and turned down a rutted dirt lane. Trees arched overhead and branches slashed the sides of the truck as we careened ahead. I gripped the seat with both hands and held my breath, too scared to ask what he was doing.

Maybe I should have talked to Pat.
The thought haunted me. It was too late now.

Walter kept driving and soon turned onto a one-lane gravel road. I strained my eyes through the darkness for a road sign, but could find none. My fear increased as I realized Walter could do anything to me here, even kill me, and get away with it. I contemplated jumping from the truck, but at fifty miles an hour, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If only I’d had the sense to escape while we were yet in town.

A short distance down the road, the trees gave way to grassland. Moonlight shimmered off a wide creek. Here Walter pulled partly off the narrow road and jammed on the brakes.

I had my door unlatched even before the truck came to a stop. Hurt ankle or not, I was determined to run. But my door wouldn’t open. I pushed harder, but to no avail. Walter had parked against a guardrail.

I had no time to react. Walter reached over and shoved me, slamming my head into the door frame. Then he began dragging me across the seat. I grabbed the steering wheel and we wrestled for a moment, but I was no match for his two hundred pounds of muscle.

He pulled me from the truck and threw me to the ground. “This’ll teach you to rat on me!” he yelled. “Nobody pulls that on me and gets away with it!”

What?
Too shaken and terrified to argue, I started screaming.

If anything, that seemed to fuel Walter’s rage. He grabbed me by the hair and began to smash my face into the hard-packed gravel. I could feel the sharp edges cutting into my skin. I quickly put up my hand to cushion the blows. Blood streamed from my nose and down into my mouth, gagging me.

Walter yanked me upright and shook me, then slammed me down again, this time on my back. I heard a sickening crunch as my head struck the rocks. I tried to roll over, but Walter grabbed my shoulders and slammed me down again.

As the beating continued, I realized he was going to kill me if I didn’t do something. But what?

Play dead.
The thought came automatically, as if it was programmed into me for situations like this. I stopped screaming and went limp.

It worked. Walter slammed me down one more time and stopped. I lay motionless on the ground, in great pain, too scared to breathe. Would he leave me for dead? Or was he waiting for me to revive so he could beat me some more?

A slight chill passed over me, like a night breeze or maybe a warning. I inched my eyes open. What I saw made me gasp. Walter’s big .45 pistol was pressed into my forehead.

Terror constricted my throat so tightly I couldn’t scream. The gun stared unmoving, the smooth metal gleaming in the moonlight. I felt sick to my stomach. My vision blurred. Then, through a sort of haze, I saw Walter lower the gun and step back.

“All right, get up. Quit that stupid crying and start walking. You got a long ways to go.”

I just stared, unable to process what was happening.

“Come on, move!” He jerked me to my feet, then followed up with a shove which sent me sprawling.

“Move!” he screamed.

Somehow I managed to get to my feet. I stumbled a few dozen yards before I fell again, twisting my injured ankle worse than ever. I began sobbing uncontrollably.

Walter was unrelenting. He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Shut up and get going. You’re walking home. And stay on the road! Any more trouble, and you know what you got coming.” He rested a hand on the gun stuck under his belt.

I couldn’t stop crying. The tears stung as they ran down my battered face. I was still bleeding from my nose, and my face and hands and shirt were sticky with blood. Each faltering step was torture. I knew I could not make it very far in my condition, much less all the way home. I also knew if I didn’t, Walter would feel justified in punishing me further.

Gravel crunched behind me as Walter pulled the truck up. I could feel the hot breath of the engine on my back. For one awful moment, I thought he was going to run right over me.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he yelled.

His cruel words only brought on more sobs. Did he have to make sport of me too? He was so evil. I wished I could just drop dead there in the road and not give him the pleasure of tormenting me further.

Time dragged. The night air was cold, and shivering made my injuries hurt even more. Each agonizing step further cemented my despair. Ahead of me stretched a never-ending tunnel of misery. Why keep going? No one was going to rescue me. I might as well give up.

I wondered if it hurt to die. Even if it did, at least then it would all be over. Walter could never beat me or make fun of me again. The pain and fear and misery would be ended forever. In my thoughts I found myself pleading with a God I wasn’t sure existed.
Please. Don’t make me stay in this hell and suffer anymore. Let me die. Please!

In a daze, I felt myself falling. Then,
whump!
I hit the ground hard. Shivers of pain reverberated throughout my entire body. Had I tripped over something? I tried to get up, but the earth under me heaved and rocked. Dizzy, I sank back to a half-sitting position.

The next thing I knew, Walter was standing over me with a thick wooden stake. “I said move! If you can’t walk no more, then you better crawl!”

I tried to move away from him, but my body wouldn’t respond. My legs felt like cast iron. Instinctively I ducked, shielding my head with my hand as Walter brought the stake down in a smashing blow. Everything went black, and I remembered no more.

3

I
n the fog of half consciousness, I thought it all just a horrible nightmare. Surely when I opened my eyes, I’d be back in the garage of the empty house on Spruce Street, lying on the pile of tarps I’d been using as a bed.

I’d had my share of bad dreams since I’d run away. Most involved Walter, but none of them had been quite this real. I felt the pain even in my sleep.

It was the pain that finally roused me. I felt like I’d been run over with Walter’s truck. Fire raged in my ankle. I had an excruciating headache and chills, and the harder I shook, the worse everything hurt.

I opened my eyes, but saw nothing but blackness. The stench of gasoline and fermented grass gagged me. From the smell, I knew I was in the shed out back of our house, where Walter had locked me up last time I ran away. I touched a hand to my face. It was caked with dried blood and dirt.

Nausea twisted in my stomach, then burst upward. With effort, I raised myself up on my elbows. Hot tears trickled down my cheeks. Hadn’t I been through enough without getting the flu on top of it?

My damp clothes didn’t help matters. I had no idea how I had gotten so wet. The fabric felt like ice against my feverish skin. I needed to change, but how?

For what seemed like hours, I lay on the gritty plywood floor, too weak and hurt to look for a more comfortable place even if there had been one. Fear consumed me – fear that I wouldn’t be found, fear that Walter would come back and beat me, fear that I was going to die. I didn’t dare call out lest I draw Walter’s attention. I dozed, only to face terrifying reruns of the beating. I woke up crying and threw up again.

Footsteps crunched in the dry leaves outside the shed, then paused. My heart lurched. What would Walter do to me now? The hinges creaked, splashing sunlight into the room. I froze. Maybe he would think me still unconscious and leave.

“Tess?” It was my mother’s voice. “Tess, are you in here?”

Relief surged through me. “I’m over here.” My voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

Mom hurried toward me. I tried to sit up, ashamed to be seen lying on the filthy floor, but sharp pains in my neck stopped me. Mom crouched on the floor beside me and tried to brush the matted hair from my face. “Are you all right?”

It was a dumb question, and she knew it. Compassion warmed her gray eyes and softened the lines twenty-five years of anxiety and cigarettes had etched on her face. For a minute, I thought she was going to cry.

“Oh, honey. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Walter didn’t tell me you’d been found.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. What hurts?”

“Everything. Especially . . . my ankle.”

Mom dragged the heavy lawnmower back a few feet and knelt down to take a closer look at my ankle. “Ooh. Not good.”

I drew a sharp breath as her fingers prodded the injury.

“Just a bad sprain, I think, though it’s pretty swollen. You’re not gonna be walking on this for a while.”

“It’s not broken?”

“Don’t think so.” Her fingers kneaded my ankle once more, harder this time. I was sorry I’d asked.

“We’ve got to get you back to the house,” she said. “Can you walk at all? Maybe if I help you up…” She reached to place her hands under my armpits.

“No. Please.” As much pain as I was in, the thought of trying to walk filled me with dread.

“Well, you’re not gonna get better out here. Either you let me help you, or I’ll have to get Walter.”

I let my eyes close, putting off the impossible decision. How could she suggest such a thing, after the way he’d treated me?

Mom sighed. “Let me see if he’s still around.” She turned abruptly and walked out, latching the door behind her as if she thought I might escape.

I cried when she was gone. Couldn’t she show me some tenderness? The thought of facing Walter turned my stomach, but I couldn’t muster the strength to get up.

Quite some time passed before Walter arrived. By the way he kicked the door open, I knew he was annoyed. Mom was right behind him; but even so, the sound of his heavy boots clumping across the floor filled me with panic. I knew it was going to hurt when he picked me up.

Hurt it did, a lot worse than I expected. Not only was I bruised all over, but my neck was so stiff and sore that every tiny jolt caused excruciating pain. I was terrified Walter would drop me or slam my injured ankle on the door frame. Somehow, he didn’t.

Walter carried me to the house and down the hall to my bedroom, where he dumped me on the bed. Then he left.

Mom rolled me onto an old blanket. Then she brought a dishpan of hot water and a big bath towel.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked, apprehensive.

“Get those wet clothes off of you and clean you up a bit. I can’t believe Walter let you lie out there all day without telling me. No wonder you’re sick.” As she spoke, she worked at the knots in my shoelaces. “Good grief, Tess, even your shoes are soaked. Did Walter drag you through the swamp or something?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” My voice choked.

Mom didn’t pursue the question. I wished she would. I needed to tell someone what he had done! But it was no use telling her unless she wanted to hear.

Mom talked of other things as she peeled off my damp clothes and sponged the blood and dirt from my cuts. It hurt, but I tried my best not to complain, knowing she’d get impatient and be less careful. At last she helped me into a clean nightgown and tucked me into bed with two ice packs bound in a towel around my hurt ankle.

“There, how’s that?” she said.

I nodded gratefully. Already I felt warmer.

“Are you up to eating something? I’ve got some chicken soup in the fridge that I can heat up.”

“That’d be good,” I said.

Minutes later, she returned with a steaming bowl. The soup tasted good, but my hand shook from the fever and I kept spilling. Mom finally took the bowl and spoon-fed me.

When the soup was gone, she gathered my wet clothes from the floor. “Well, I’m gonna let you rest. If you need anything, just call.”

She was going to shut the door and leave, and still she hadn’t asked what happened. I couldn’t hold the pain inside any longer.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you even care what Walter does to me?”

A look of puzzlement flickered over her face. “Why, of course I do. You know I do.”

“You don’t even know what he does.” Tears slipped down my face.

“Well, I don’t see much point in hashing it over. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her hand moved to the doorknob.

I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t she care about me even a little? Sure, she had addressed the cuts and bruises. But the real agony – the devastating fear and pain I would carry inside for the rest of my life – that she didn’t want to hear about. I would have to bear it alone.

The thought was too much for me. I broke down sobbing. Mom dropped the bundle of clothes and sat on the bed, rubbing my shoulder in an awkward attempt to soothe me. “I know. It’s been pretty bad, hasn’t it.”

More sobs shook me. “He . . . he’s evil.” I couldn’t say anything more.

Mom didn’t counter me. She just kept rubbing my neck and shoulders in slow, gentle circles until I stopped crying. Then she turned my pillow and slipped away, leaving me to rest.

***

I had contracted a bad case of the flu in addition to my injuries, and I spent the next week in bed. Mom faithfully applied cold packs to my swollen ankle and provided plenty of soup and tea. She was an excellent nurse and never grumbled. But whenever I brought up the events of that night, she’d go quiet and change the subject. As the days passed, I became increasingly frustrated. Every time I fell asleep, I had nightmares. I spent my waking hours brooding, unable even to concentrate on the novels Mom had brought me from the library. Constantly I berated myself for my carelessness in getting caught at the store that night.

But one thing kept puzzling me. I had never given Pat my name, yet she had known who I was and where I lived. There was only one way that could have happened.

I cornered Mom one evening while she was changing my sheets. “So, Walter actually called the cops on me, huh?”

Mom smoothed the sheet, tucked it in at the bottom, and spread a blanket over it.

“No,” she said, without looking at me. “I did.”

“You? But Mom!”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?” She straightened and faced me. “You’re too young to be on your own, you haven’t got any friends, anything could’ve happened. I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.” She folded back the bedspread and plumped up the pillow. “There, your bed is ready.”

“Are you mad at me?” I persisted.

“Mad at you for what?”

I rubbed a hand across my forehead. “For running away.” I felt silly saying the words.

Mom sat down on the foot of the bed. “Well, I’d have to say I was. You caused me a lot of worry, and when the police showed up . . . you can imagine the scene that was. But Walter was pretty hard on you. I don’t approve of his punishment, and I guess I’m not really mad anymore, only I hope you don’t try it again.”

I wanted to protest that I had never planned to run away; I’d only done it to escape Walter. But I knew Mom would just tune me out as she had so many times before. So instead, I said, “Why is Walter so mean?”

She shook her head. “When something upsets him, he gets that way. You have to learn to get along with him.”

I nearly choked. But Mom was still talking, so I bit my tongue and waited.

“’Course, he wasn’t always mean,” she continued. “When your sisters were little, he’d play with them, make them laugh.” A half smile crept across her face. “I can remember him playing horse with them, down on his knees, both of them riding on his back. Then he’d pretend he was a bear and go growling and lunging, both of them rolling on the floor and laughing like they were having the best time.”

She stopped suddenly, and the half smile vanished. “Let me help you get back to bed.”

I knew better than to pry; but as I settled into bed, I could not hold back one final question. “My sisters, how old are they?”

Mom sighed, as if the question bothered her. “I guess they’d be twenty and twenty-two. That’s enough questions now, Tess. You need your rest.”

That night I could not sleep. For hours I lay awake, thinking and wondering. Mom rarely spoke of my sisters. I had never seen a photograph of them or even heard their names. I’d always assumed Mom had given them up for adoption. But why the secrecy about it? Why the pain in her eyes whenever she mentioned them?

Maybe,
I thought,
maybe Walter had something to do with their disappearance. Maybe they ran away, like I did, and Walter shot them dead on some back road.
The thought chilled me.
Next time I leave, I’ve got to have a plan. Some way to make sure he can’t find me again.

My thoughts turned to Mom’s account of Walter playing with my sisters. I knew it couldn’t be true; nevertheless, the story fascinated me. I wondered what it would be like to have a father who did those things. The more I thought about it, the bigger the ache inside me became. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.