Chapter 2
Beth
The house feels different without my mom.
I know it’s probably just my grief, but it feels cold and lonely without her.
Her rosary is still hanging on the key rack by the kitchen doorway, the one that says, ‘Home Sweet Home’.
I feel frozen and unable to move forward with my life.
Walking over to her rosary, I gently lift it off the hook.
Wrapping it around my hand, I tuck the cross under the beads and close my fist around it.
I can’t help but wonder how many thousands of times she used this rosary in her lifetime.
To say my mother was pious would be an understatement.
The part I can’t get past is how she was here one moment and gone the next.
She was so strong and resilient. I thought she’d be the one to beat cancer and be there for all my special moments in life.
I feel the beads pressing into my palm as I realize she won’t be there to see me get married, graduate from college, or have children.
The best I can hope for is that she’s watching from above as I struggle through life without her.
It’s been three months, and it hurts just as much as it did the day she passed.
I miss her so much. Sometimes, I catch myself wanting to show her something I found online.
I take my phone out before I remember she’s gone.
And then I find myself grieving her death all over again.
Father Michael says it’s all part of the grief process and things will get better.
I know he would never lie, but I can’t imagine how that would be possible.
My stepfather is grieving in his own way, I suppose.
He’s been drinking more, staying out a lot, and isolating in his study when he is home.
He wants to know where I am and what I’m doing every minute of the day now.
Maybe because my mother is not here to look out for me, he feels like he has to step up.
He also hugs me a lot more. When I come home, when I leave to shop for groceries, sometimes just because.
It feels weird because there have been times when he didn’t want to let me go.
My brain tries to rationalize it as him being extra clingy because I’m all he’s got left.
He’s always been cold, even controlling and belligerent at times, so this hugging business is totally new behavior for him.
He’s never been the affectionate type. I have the strangest feeling that something is seriously wrong with him.
I just have no idea what it is. Maybe my mother’s death broke him too.
People in the community think he’s golden.
He wears nice suits, has a respectable job, and attends church regularly.
According to all outward appearances, he’s a man of God.
Even Father Michael calls him a good man.
Of course, none of them have seen his dark side.
My mother and I saw it. We lived it for the last eight long years.
We suffered his dirty looks, sharp tongue, and various insults.
He shamed us for things that were beyond our control and occasionally hit the walls with his fist, leaving holes in the walls and terror in our hearts.
My mom always insisted he would never attack us, but I have lived in fear of the day she wasn’t here to soothe his anger away.
She knew how to manage him. I don’t have her talent for finding the right words to appease him so it’s a good thing her death took all the fight out of him.
Painful memories rise in my mind. My stepfather ruled our house like it was his little fiefdom.
He rolled right over us, teaching us to be quiet and not talk back.
My mother kowtowed to him. She worried about what people would think if they knew what we lived with.
She was afraid of not being believed because of his sterling reputation in this town.
She was terrified that if she exposed him, she would lose everything, including money to pay for the facility where my half-sister lives.
Now, she’s gone and it’s just him and me here living in this big, lonely house together.
We still go to church and put up all the pretenses we ever did to the outside world.
Inside our home, he hasn’t said ten words to me in the last three months other than to ask where I’m going and when I’ll be back.
This evening, he’s been locked away in his study for hours. I can hear him talking on the phone in a hushed tone. It worries me. That’s why I approach his study and quietly press my ear to the door. At first, I can’t make out what he’s saying. Then he raises his voice slightly.
“…failed project, bad timing, not my fault…”
There is a pause. Then lower, “…I’ll have it. I’ll make it right. Don’t bring her into this. She’s mine, now that her mother is gone.”
My pulse quickens, spiraling into a panic. I swallow thickly and strain to hear if he’s discussing me or my sister.
After another pause his tone grows darker. “Are you sure about that? Giving her to you will wipe out my entire debt? Oh yes, she’s beautiful, a younger version of her mother. Only nineteen and innocent as the day is long. Beth’s more than a fair trade for what I owe.”
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach. He’s definitely talking about me, trading me to pay off a debt.
I immediately realize that doesn’t make sense.
Maybe he’s offering for me to work and pay off his debt.
Although that makes more sense, it doesn’t explain why he’s talking about me being pretty like my mom.
I hear the familiar sound of a glass thumping down on the desk.
He’s drinking again. He mumbles something else I don’t catch and the laugh that follows is low and ugly.
“My daughter will do as I say. Don’t you worry about that.
You’ll get your beautiful blushing virgin.
As long as my debt is cleared, I’ll deliver her to you kicking and screaming if I have to.
What you do with her after that is no concern of mine. ”
The truth slams painfully through my brain. My stepfather is using me as payment for some kind of debt. There is no mention of marriage or anything like that. It sounds like he’s just going to give me to some stranger.
I back away from the door, careful not to make a sound.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m shaking.
All I can think of is getting away before my stepfather makes good on his promise.
I quickly creep upstairs and gather up everything that’s important to me and begin filling an oversized duffel.
My hands are shaking as I start with a few outfits, then dump in my makeup and empty my entire jewelry box into the top, everything I was ever gifted and what I inherited from my mother.
These items are too precious to leave behind.
Flipping the jewelry box over, I grab the envelope taped to the bottom and throw it into the duffel, along with my purse.
Pocketing my car keys, I open the window and climb out, using the emergency ladder my mother bought in case things ever went from bad to worse and we needed to escape.
When I hit the ground, I run straight to my car, throw my duffel bag into the passenger seat, and climb behind the wheel.
Firing up the engine, I ease out of the driveway and head to the only person I think will help me.
***
While I drive across town, I realize my mom’s rosary is still twisted around my hand. I have to admit this whole situation seems surreal. I keep thinking that I must have misunderstood, but no, he said it all out loud and in no uncertain terms. I can’t believe this is happening to me.
When I reach Sycamore Street, I turn into the driveway of my mom’s best friend. Caroline Patchett is a good woman. She’ll help me. I just know she will. Even now her kind face rises in my mind. I can see her warm brown eyes and dark hair that is always pulled back in a neat French twist.
The porch light is off and it’s late, but I know they’ll answer if I knock.
I’ve spent many afternoons here while the two of them visited.
Most recently, my mother and I had been coming for her book club, and we helped with community food drives together a couple of times a year.
My mother always said if she had one true friend in this world, it was Caroline Patchett.
That’s why she made her my godmother all those years ago.
My trembling hand presses the doorbell, not just once but a couple of times in rapid succession, because I’m still panicking.
I hear footsteps approaching on the other side.
Only when I see Mrs. Patchett standing there in her cute little old lady pajamas, do I realize it’s almost eleven.
Before I can speak, she notices my expression and reaches for me.
“Elizabeth. Honey, what on earth are you doing out so late?”
Her eyes drop down to the duffel slung over my shoulder and my mom’s rosary that’s now cutting into my hand. Before I can answer, she pulls me inside, shuts the door, and locks it with a firm click. When she turns around, she has an angry expression on her face.
Behind her, Mr. Patchett leans in the doorway. His glasses are sitting low on his nose and concern is stamped clearly on his face.
I immediately begin to apologize. “I’m truly sorry about coming here so late at night.”
“It’s that stepfather of yours, isn’t it?” She practically spits the words out.
Relief floods my mind when I realize she’s not mad at me, but at him. I nod, “Yeah, and I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“What did he do, honey?” she says. Then her expression changes, “He didn’t—”
I shake my head cutting her off, “No, but something bad happened.”
Mr. Patchett doesn’t speak. He just murmurs, “Call me if you need me,” and disappears towards the back of the house. When I realize he’s giving us women privacy to talk, the tightness in my chest loosens just a bit.