A Better Life, page 14
There were posters on the walls, too.
One, worn at the edges, featured Batman swinging into action. Another displayed a fat, green character from Ghostbusters. On another, a green, fish-like beast held a woman in its scaly arms. She couldn’t remember the creature’s name, or if it even had one.
But she could remember the poster.
She could remember that, just fine.
Oh, god, no.
Billy had loved that poster.
It had hung on his wall till it was worn down to nothing. When she’d finally deemed it worthy of only the trash, he’d cried and cried till his eyes puffed up, red and swollen with sorrow. She swung her head around, unwilling to believe.
The kitchen table was gone. Now a bed, sized for a small boy and adorned with Star Wars bedsheets and pillows to match, took its place. A bedside table stood by its side, topped with a small lamp, its shade decorated by yet more bright, shining stars like those that adorned the wallpaper. Comics littered the small table, all cheerful colors and terrible detail.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
“It’s real,” Emily stated, flatly.
“I’m not in Billy’s room. I’m not here. I can’t be.”
Lisa bowed her head under the weight of lost memories, once more rising from the dark to take form and rip her world asunder. There was no point protesting. She was here. She was in Billy’s bedroom, years in the past.
“Do you remember when he was five years old, your little boy?” Emily asked. “Do you remember how he was? It wasn’t so long ago…”
Lisa nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“He was always falling down, wasn’t he? He was always getting himself hurt. You’d turn your back for two minutes and he’d be cut or bruised.” Emily’s words dug into Lisa’s soul. She sat on the soft, impossible carpet of her son’s childhood bedroom and wept.
“If only you’d looked out for him. That’s what you told yourself, isn’t it? That if you could only have made more time for him. But life was busy. There were only so many hours in the day in which to do your own thing. It didn’t matter how you did it…beer or drugs or both…as long as you were free from your own misery. That was all that mattered.
“But you knew, didn’t you? You knew that Billy wasn’t clumsy. You knew he wasn’t falling down, or falling from his bike, or being beaten by the mean kids on your street. You knew what was happening to him, deep down inside you knew, and you did nothing.”
Lisa’s ears rang with a sound as familiar as it was unwelcome.
Her son, Billy, was crying.
His pained sobbing seemed to sound from every corner of the unreality engulfing her.
Then, as suddenly as the phantom cries were birthed, there was dead silence.
Somehow, the silence was worse.
From the center of Billy’s bed, the sheets began to rise.
Just a small mound at first, then, slowly, the form beneath the sheets achieved solidity. A small hand rose from the top of the covers, lifting them downwards. She saw the messy tuft of brown hair…
Just like his father’s…
Please no, this can’t be…it can’t be…!
Emily spoke, with a cold rage. “My father...if he ever was my father, used to tell me, ‘evil people thrive when good people do nothing’. He said that a lot. I think in some ways he believed it. I believed it,” Emily whispered.
“The thing is,” Emily continued, “when the good people do nothing and they look after only themselves, those they should be helping get hurt…they get hurt over and over and over again, until a piece of them dies. Something inside them…something that should be pure and good…is lost. It can never come back. But it can wait, Lisa. In the dark places, it can wait.
“Now look what you turned a blind eye to…” the girl sneered in disgust.
On her knees, Lisa stared in horror as the bedsheets were finally pulled all the way back. There, battered and bruised from head to toe, caked in blood from a hundred cuts and lacerations, rested her son, Billy. Not as he was now, but as he’d been when he was five years old, a little small for his age, but broad shouldered, lean, strong.
Billy’s head lifted from now blood-caked pillows and turned in her direction. His eyes bloodshot, peering from behind black and bruised eyelids, swollen almost shut.
He blinked red bloody tears that trickled down his cheeks.
“Why didn’t you help me?” the phantom Billy whispered.
Lisa found her voice. “Oh, Billy…please, baby boy…please. I never knew!”
But that wasn’t true, was it?
“I was lost, baby. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do.”
“He beat me, Mommy. He beat me when he was drunk.”
All these years since leaving Pete, she’d grown, she’d changed, she’d found her strength. The past? She’d buried it, pushed it down deep somewhere inside. Forgotten it, moved beyond it, denied it. Now, all the lies she’d told herself throughout sobriety came crashing down, as, within her psyche, a tsunami of terrible truth washed away the self-deception.
“He beat me over and over and over again,” Billy said. Blood spilled over his lips as he spoke, running down his tiny chin and spilling onto his chest, painting crimson the bruised flesh of his little body. He sat up straight, his soft brown hair hanging awkwardly over a dark lump, the size of a plum, that swelled from his forehead.
“Please, Emily. Please. Make it stop,” Lisa begged. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was Pete doing it. I told myself it was other kids. I was depressed. I was a wreck.”
It wasn’t Emily who answered, but Billy.
“You’d have known it was Daddy, if you’d have stopped drinking and been my Mommy.”
It was true.
It was all true.
She’d never been there for him. He’d endured terrible things at the hands of his father while she’d been too damn drunk to protect him, to do the one job she’d been put on this Earth to do.
A cut here, a bruise there…no big deal.
Boys would be boys.
That’s what she’d told herself, during and after those terrible, wasted years. Yet somewhere, deep down inside, she’d always known. The realization crawled from its burial ground in her mind, surfacing in all its horror. Down in the darkness of her soul, she’d known. And she’d done nothing.
How many times had her son suffered since then, at his father’s hands? How many times had he endured Pete’s wrath, alone and afraid, because she was too weak to face reality head-on? Pete was a monster. She should have seen it. She’d gotten Curt killed, more than likely. Almost gotten Jess killed. But worse than all that, her delusion had left Billy in the cruel hands of a vicious, sick man. She looked at his bruised and bloodied body and saw every mark, every cut, every hurt his father had inflicted all at once, undeniable, a tapestry of her failure over all the long years.
Emily was right. The damage could never be undone.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, talking directly to him.
He was on all fours now, moving towards her, crawling across his bed. “I’m sorry too, Mommy.”
“Billy…” Lisa wept, hopelessly.
“I’m sorry Daddy was a mean man. I’m sorry he got mad when he got drunk and I’m sorry he got a drunk a lot. I’m sorry you got drunk too, Mommy. I’m sorry you fell asleep so often. I’d call out for you, but you never came. You’d see the marks on me, but you’d drink, and you’d forget. You didn’t help me. I was alone, Mommy. You left me all alone.”
“Baby, I was weak…I…I couldn’t face it. I was lost. I told myself your daddy would never hurt you like that.” She lifted her head, trying to summon what spiritual strength she had left. “I can face it now, though, Billy. I can face it now.”
The thing that was Billy smiled. It maneuvered itself till its legs were hanging over the side of the bed, then it slowly slid from the edge of the bed and stood before her.
“Yes, Mommy, you’ll face it. You’ll face all of it.”
Lisa closed her eyes to the horror, tried to will it all away.
She felt her son’s small hand brush through her hair. Her heart shattered for all the wrong she’d done.
It’s not Billy. Billy’s alive and well. He’s far from this place and he’s free of Pete. He’s free of me, too. God help me, he’s free of me.
But she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. The part of Lisa’s mind that understood this was not her son had eroded down to dust and ash. The only Billy that existed now was the beaten, bruised and accusing little five-year-old boy stood before her. His small hands left her hair, moved down her face, caressed her tear-soaked cheeks. She felt no heat in his tiny palms.
His thumbs moved to Lisa’s eyes.
“Billy…”
“You can’t look away anymore, Mommy. Not anymore.”
Billy’s thumbs pushed slowly inward.
The pressure was immediate, so was the pain. “You’ll see it all, Mommy…forever and ever and ever…”
Lisa screamed as her son’s thumbs dug into her eye sockets.
…”and ever and ever…”
She felt the delicate flesh of her eyeballs give way under the pressure. Something burst. Warm liquid splashed down her face, thick and slimy, like egg yolk.
“…and ever and ever and ever…”
Lisa screamed her agony into the endless darkness. Her son’s scratching, tearing fingers probed deeper still, exploring the pulped ruins of her eyes.
“…and ever and ever…”
“Pleeeeease!” she howled, as Billy clawed the punctured, deflated orbs from their sockets.
There was a flash of intense pain. Not from her eyes, where her son had his play, but from her chest. She seized rigid, as invisible hands clutched her heart and began to squeeze till it felt it might burst.
Heart attack.
Thank you, God.
Thank you.
Lisa’s relief at being free of the nightmare, and her gratitude to a forgiving God for freeing her, lasted right up until the moment of her death.
Then she opened her eyes anew.
35
Jess pulled up behind the old house. She killed the Chevy’s engine. Around her, the sounds of the desert night seemed to swell; a coyote howled its hunger somewhere out there in the dark, a soft wind brushed the dust up around the vehicle while a silence, louder than both, breathed deep.
“Are you ready?” she asked, looking at Curt.
“You know you sound crazy, right?”
She studied his wounds. The steady flow of blood from his arm had subsided a little. His other cuts were already healing over. He’d never be the same man again, nor a mechanic, but he’d live. That was enough.
“You think so?” she asked. “What’s crazy about the fact that the sweet little girl we kidnapped isn’t just a little girl? What’s crazy about the fact she can make a person’s nightmares real? What’s crazy about that? Sounds just as American as apple pie to me, honey.”
Curt raised a weary eyebrow. “My point, exactly.”
Her tone grew more serious. “I know it’s crazy, big guy. You think I don’t know it? What’s going on in that house, with Emily…it’s unbelievable, I know that. What I’m asking is, can you believe me, besides how crazy it is?”
Curt sighed. “You’ve never lied to me before.”
“Not that you know of…”
“Not that I…what?”
Jess laughed. It felt good, necessary. “I’m just messing with you.”
“What’s not to believe? We kidnapped a little witch, or a demon, or…”
“Do you believe me,” she interrupted.
He smiled his lop-sided smile. The skepticism in his eyes clearing. “I believe you.”
Jess took his hand in her own. He winced but allowed her to hold it.
“So, what now?” he asked.
“I wish I knew. I guess we go in there and we all sit down and talk…you, me, Lisa…and Emily. We’re off the reservation here, Curt, but we’re together. All of us. Whatever else she might have done, that little girl saved Lisa’s life. She saved my life. She’s more than just a kid, but she is a kid, do you understand? She’s good. She’s kind.”
“And she could kill us all, any time she chooses.”
“But she won’t. She won’t because if she wanted to, she’d have done it long ago. There’s no getting around this, baby, we brought her here to this place. We can’t just bail on her. Not out here. We need to get her home. I can live with jail, Curt, if that’s what fate has in store for me, but I can’t live with abandoning a child. I did that once before…”
Despite the pain he must have felt, he gripped her hand reassuringly in his own. “No, Jess! You’ve never abandoned anyone…”
Jess remained resolute. “I can’t abandon her, baby. She’s my responsibility…ours. I owe her my life.”
Curt breathed a heavy sigh of resignation. “We’ll make this all right. Somehow, we will.”
“Then come on. Those bandages won’t hold. Not for long. You need a much better nurse than me, big guy.”
“Lisa…”
“Yep…Mama Bear, herself. Come on. They’re waiting for us.”
36
Using his one good hand, Curt gripped the rickety wooden bannister leading up the house’s outside stairs. Jess guided him as best she could. He was grateful for the comforting warmth of her arm around his waist. It didn’t take the pain away, not by a long shot, but simply having her close was a blessing, just as it had always been.
He dragged his feet up the stairs, his eyes fixed on the front door. From within, the kitchen’s dim light shone outwards, illuminating the porch and the old swing-chair that resided below the window. The chair swayed slowly in the cool western breeze, as though ridden by a long-traveling spirit, grateful for rest and the chance to take in the warm night.
Something was making him uncomfortable, something besides the pain from his legion of wounds, or the knowledge that there was a child with supernatural, unknowable abilities somewhere on the other side of that door. She was probably sat in the kitchen now, conversing with Lisa. Lisa had a way with kids. She loved them. Always had, even when she’d been down in the deepest depths of her alcohol-induced illness. Still, for all the love she held in her heart for the young, she carried, too, a muted sadness, always evident when she was around children. Whereas Jess had gravitated towards the little girl from the first moment, Lisa had been subdued.
He would never say anything to Lisa on the matter, but Curt had an idea why.
We all have pasts, he mused. We all have places we’ve been and things we’ve seen. Some of those things help us shine. Some diminish us. And we don’t get to choose which of them cling to our souls as we grow - the good or the bad.
Lisa, for all her bravado and good cheer, was weighed down by a terrible guilt and though he never knew the finer details, Curt believed he knew the cause.
Had he known of her plight with alcohol or the damage it had wrought in her household – helped along in no small part by Pete, a heavy drinker himself – he’d have intervened far sooner than he had. But those had been different times and he a different man. It had been almost nine years since he’d seen his older sister when he’d showed up, unannounced, on her doorstep.
He’d missed her badly. The time had come to reconcile. He was a different man, renewed by love, able to forgive and move beyond the past. What was more, he knew that Lisa would love Jess. Billy, too.
He’d found his sister and her son living in squalor and filth.
Pete had recently left - for good, most likely - and Lisa was trapped in a depression so low he feared for her chances to pull through. Curt had made damn sure she stayed sober on that first evening they reconciled, and Lisa been sober ever since. She’d beat her addiction for her son, for her Billy, and she’d never looked back. The intervening years had washed away the awfulness of her previous life, but the scars ran deep and would always remain.
She’d been a drunk, an addict and a deadbeat mom.
She’d missed much of her son’s life, having been drunk for most of his few years in the world. The things she hadn’t missed, Lisa had confided to him, she’d forgotten. There was nothing there to grasp onto. Only faded snapshots, fragmented moments, confused and disjointed.
Occasionally when memories surfaced, Lisa would open up as best she could about those dark times, though he’d never urge her to probe deeper, afraid of what they both may learn. Instead, Curt had done all he could to help her move forward.
Even if it meant hiring that son of a bitch, Pete, so the bastard could pay for little Billy’s upkeep.
Thinking of Pete in the light of what had transpired, Curt shivered. The man was…
…had been…
…a psychopath. As devious and cold-blooded as they came. He’d always known the man was no good, but in the last few hours his employee and one-time brother-in-law had proven to be something much worse.
It made Curt wonder just exactly what had driven his sister to the bottom of a liquor bottle. He shuddered at the thought, mentally noting that as soon as he had a chance he’d sit Lisa down and listen to her story, for better or worse.
Pete, it turned out, had been capable of anything.
Anything.
Don’t think about it. There’s nothing can be done about the past. Pete’s dead, Lisa’s alive and Billy is growing into a strong, quick-witted and kind young man. The ghosts may linger, but they can be dispelled. They will be.
His tried to clear his mind as Jess left his side and made for the door. The first-aid kit swung in her hand. She smiled at him reassuringly. “Lisa will do wonders with this. Can you stand okay?”
“Steady as a rock, honey.”
“Now please, remember…she’s just a girl. She’s good. She needs our help and she saved us. She saved us all. You were great with her earlier this evening. Be great now.”
“I’ll try,” he said, but he felt like he was standing on a jostling funhouse floor, his footing close to slipping at any moment. The pain was one thing. The fear was another.
