Waiting Seventeen Years
Dolly Beckett
I sit in the driveway until morning, since I don’t have my purse or keys or anything to get into the house, and I don’t want to wake my surly stepmother.
I know the whole town would judge me for leaving, maybe the whole world.
But I can’t worry about what everyone thinks of me every second of every day.
Sometimes, I have to do what’s right for me, even if the world turns on me for it.
Sometimes, I need space to figure out what’s right for me, and I can’t let other people’s judgment hold me back.
As soon as the first light goes on in the kitchen, I slip out of the car, shivering as I make my way up the steps and knock on my own front door, praying she’s not the one up making coffee before it’s full light out.
The door swings open, and I rush in like I’m afraid they’ll slam the door before I can step over the threshold.
“Dad,” I cry, tackling him in a hug.
“Dolly,” he says, sounding utterly speechless with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I came back,” I say into his shoulder. “I’m home. I’m finally home.”
“I thought you went back to California,” he says, still obviously confused.
“No. I was at Grampa Darling’s. He—he wouldn’t let me leave.” Suddenly, I’m crying and shaking, as if the nightmare of being kidnapped and held hostage for a month is just now becoming real in my mind.
“What?” Dad asks. “You’ve been there this whole time?”
I nod into his shoulder, still clinging to him.
“But… You texted when you went home.”
Of course I did. Or rather, my phone did. I guess Preston took the liberty to use my phone to inform them I’d left after Christmas.
“It wasn’t me,” I blubber. “He took my phone.”
“Old man Darling?” Dad asks, trying to pry me loose. “He was holding you hostage? Oh, Doll… It’s like the nightmare with Royal Dolce all over again.”
“No, not him,” I manage, pulling back. “It was Preston.”
“Come, let’s sit down,” Dad says. “I made coffee. Let’s get you comfortable, and you can tell me everything.
I nod, wiping my eyes as I follow him into the kitchen and sit at the small table where we eat as a family.
When company comes, we use the formal dining room, but this one gets daily use.
I sink into the familiar, comfortable chair and accept the coffee Daddy hands me, black with sugar, just like he takes it.
For some reason, it makes the tears start again.
Preston knew better. Even after three years apart, he remembered I like creamer in my coffee.
He remembered everything I love, and he gave it all to me. How can I hate him for it?
“Tell me what happened,” Dad says, sitting across from me, his brows drawn together in concern. “Was he after your money? I know their income’s dried up in the past few years. Did they blow through their assets that quickly? Why didn’t he call me and demand a ransom?”
I shake my head, trying to stop the tears.
“He wanted me,” I admit. “He said I couldn’t leave until I agreed to marry him and…
And have his baby. I think he’s cracked up, Dad.
He has Grampa Darling locked up in the west wing.
Sullivan’s in the attic, and Magnolia’s there too, but I don’t know if they’re actually prisoners or not… ”
Dad’s eyes widen, and he swallows so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob. “We’ll get you to a hospital,” he says quietly, taking my hand. “I’ll get the sheriff on the phone right now.”
I nod, tears streaking my cheeks.
“He has Peanut,” I whisper, the tears coming faster. “I left her there when I ran away.”
“It’s okay,” Dad assures me. “We’ll get her back. Don’t you worry, sweetheart. We’ll get your dog back and take care of this Darling business once and for all. Preston’s been a menace to this town for a while now. It’s time we take him down for good.”
“No,” I protest, grabbing his arm. “Don’t hurt him, Daddy. He’s…”
I can’t finish that sentence. I’m too confused about my own feelings to know what to say about him.
I should hate him, but I can’t. Just like when I found out he took my virginity, like I have my whole life, ever since I saw the sadistic gleam in his father’s eyes when he beat him.
That incident soldered Preston’s pain into my soul, allowed me to see the world through his eyes.
I made every excuse for him because I knew the boy behind the destruction, the boy who was hurt instead of protected, who was not allowed to cry.
I knew that when he fought, when he did bad things, it was that pain sneaking out in other, insidious ways because tears weren’t allowed.
For the past month, I’ve rationalized his actions, felt for him, been grateful to him even as he kidnapped me and kept me prisoner. I couldn’t admit to myself that’s what happened.
But now that I’ve said it aloud to Dad, it feels all wrong to think of it that way.
Preston loves me. He made me a library of records that people would probably pay millions for.
He made a recording studio just for me. He brought me my dog, made me incredible food, made sure I had massages and yoga classes and someone to dance with.
He made me cum like… God. Like no one on earth ever has or ever will again.
I feel my face flushing just thinking about it.
But I can’t deny the truth anymore. He’s the villain in my story. He always has been.
So why do I feel like I’m committing the deepest betrayal when Dad gets up and goes to retrieve his phone, and I know he’s calling the cops?
I know I’m doing the right thing. That what Preston’s doing is illegal and wrong.
But my heart cracks inside my chest when I think about him in jail with his father.
When I think of facing him in court, taking the stand and trying to explain what he did to me.
When I think of my baby growing up with a father in prison.
“Daddy,” I say, shooting to my feet. I stumble into the other room, my mind clinging desperately to this singular goal.
“I’m in the study,” Dad calls, stepping out.
“Don’t call the cops on him,” I say, relieved when I see he’s not on the phone.
“They’ll have to get things ready to go over there,” he says. “Why don’t you get some sleep, Dolly? After what you’ve been through… Rest up, and then we’ll take you to the doctor and get you one of those…”
He looks away.
“One of what?” I ask.
He swallows before looking at me, and there’s something else in his eyes, like he’s seeing me with sadness and pity now, just starting to realize what I’ve been through and that I’m not his sweet little girl anymore.
He clears his throat. “A rape kit.”
“But—he didn’t rape me,” I protest.
Did he?
I’m delirious with lack of sleep after staying up for twenty-four hours, the chaos of last night, and the adrenaline that drained away hours ago, leaving me limp with exhaustion.
Dad gives me a sad smile. “Go on and lay down in your room, Doll,” he says. “We’ll take care of the rest. Don’t worry about anything, okay, sweetheart? We just want you to recover. Let’s take this one step at a time. Sleep first. Then we’ll take the next step.”
I nod, gulping down the lump in my throat.
Suddenly I’m so tired that I’m not even sure I can climb the stairs.
Somehow, I manage to stumble up them and fall into my old bed.
The one where Preston came to see me after I broke up with Devlin, where he first did something to me that I didn’t agree to.
At least not at first, while I was sleeping.
If I’d been awake when he started, I probably would have never let it go that far.
But no. The first time he did something I didn’t agree to was when he took my virginity.
The familiar sting of betrayal hits me again, and I decide he deserves whatever he has coming. I fall asleep with the events of the night still tumbling through my mind and confusion still tugging me one way and then the other.
When I wake, it’s nearly dark outside. I shower, running my fingers lightly over the word on my lower belly, the tattoo imprinted there. His name. My fingertips tremble as I touch the letters, remembering last night. Will that be the last time we’re together?
Why does that fill my heart with such anguish?
I shove the feeling down and turn off the shower.
In my room, I dress in a pink velour track suit and pink Ugg boots.
I need comfort now, something that hugs me and makes me feel warm and safe.
I’m surprised the outfit still fits me so well, since I’d lost a few pounds in LA.
Seems I’ve gained them back while luxuriating at Preston’s and eating his delicious cooking.
I’m surprised by how little that bothers me.
I don’t have to be slim to be accepted in Faulkner.
When I step out into the hall, I notice how strange everything feels here.
This isn’t my home anymore. It will always be my childhood home, but it’s part of my past now, just one piece in the puzzle of my history.
I walk down the empty hallway, remembering how I danced here with my imaginary friends.
I descend the stairs, running my hand along the banister I slid down when no one was looking.
Every inch of the house is familiar, yet devoid of meaning in the present moment.
Every room is full of dreams that died like flowers left too long in a vase.
“Oh, there you are,” says Caitlyn when I pass the den. She pauses the TV and rises from the leather sofa.
“Hi,” I say, smiling awkwardly at my stepmother. “Is Dad in?”
“He’s down at the station, coordinating with the police,” she says. “I’m supposed to take you to the doctor.”
I wonder what Dad told her, how much of what I said was repeated to this stranger who shared my house for a handful of years but never my confidence. What version of the story did he paint for her? Does she know things about me that even my closest friends don’t?
Not that I have many close friends anymore.