Chapter Twenty-Four

Luci

 

I rake my heel down the shin of the man holding me. He curses against my ear, his foul breath wafting into my nose as I lash out, kicking my heels and writhing violently.

His hold loosens. I start to break free when the man with the red beanie punches me in the stomach. The force he uses and the pain it causes shoots into my chest, curling me forward.

Acid roils my stomach and burns my esophagus, making me choke and silencing my scream. “Grab her legs,” the other man orders.

I’m gagging, sick, my head spinning from lack of oxygen as the other man clamps his hand tighter against my mouth. They drag me toward the dumpsters. I buck, fighting as hard as I can, knowing what they’ll do to me if they take me there.

Fear threatens to detonate my racing heart as the dumpsters close in. I’m thrashing, cold sweat pouring down my face and blinding me. I try to scream, but all that does is steal my last breath. I start to black out when I’m abruptly dropped on ground.

I land hard, momentarily disoriented.

“Motherfucker!”

The man with the red beanie crashes next to me, blood gushing from his mouth. I push up on my side, my hands shaking against the asphalt. I barely lift my head when Landon hauls me to my feet and drags me behind him.

I barely keep from falling over, confused and trying to make sense of what happened. The man with the red beanie staggers to his feet, his eyes wide as he backs away and toward a larger man I don’t recognize. It’s only when I see the gun Landon is holding that I realize why both men have their hands up.

I can’t control my breathing or the nausea twisting my gut. Landon is deadly calm, his hand steady and his aim trained on the larger man.

The man with the red beanie attempts to edge forward, freezing at the sound of Landon’s booming voice. “Get anywhere near her and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Freeze, drop your weapon. Drop your weapon, now!”

Landon drops his gun near his feet, kicking it toward the police and away from the other men. Several uniformed officers rush forward, securing Landon’s weapon and wrenching him back.

Knowing Landon is in trouble immediately snaps me out of my terror induced fog. “Wait, don’t,” I say. “He didn’t do anything—he was protecting me.”

He’s pushed against the wall with his hands out and frisked.

“He didn’t do anything!” I scream, ignoring the female cop who steps in front of me, telling me to calm down.

“Luci, it’s okay,” Landon says. He keeps still, allowing the police officer to check him for additional weapons. “Officer, I have my license to carry in my wallet, as well as a permit for the gun I used. I pulled my weapon when I found these men attacking my girlfriend.”

The police already have the two men who attacked me in cuffs when another female officer pulls Landon’s permits and I.D. out of his wallet. Landon keeps his glare trained on them as he’s led down the alley for questioning.

“Ma’am, you need to come with me.”

I barely hear the police officer’s voice, too focused on Landon as he’s led further away.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?”

I nod, but even that seems like too much of an effort, my ears pounding from the residual adrenaline rush. The police officer motions me to the side. “Are you all right, miss?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I reply. With how hard my voice quakes, I don’t appear remotely convincing.

“Miley, call an EMT.”

“Please don’t,” I say, looking back toward Landon. “That’s Landon Summers, an attorney at Ballantyne and Bradley. He’s my boyfriend. He was helping me. I-I-I was attacked.”

My voice cuts off when I realize this is the same police officer who patrols the area, the one I’ve seen at the park several times, and the same man who warned me not to be out here at night.

“It’s all right, ma’am. You’re safe now,” he says. “Just tell me what happened and we can get you out of here.”

I do, knowing I have to help Landon.

It seems to take forever and more than once it feels like I’m answering the same set of questions. When I finish, the men who assaulted me are read their rights and driven away in separate patrol cars.

Once it’s clear the investigator is done photographing the scene, Landon makes his way to me. The front buttons of his suit jacket are missing. I catch sight of one near the spilled contents of my purse and the demolished bag of food.

I shove my feet into my discarded shoes then bend to retrieve my belongings. My cell phone screen is cracked, and the display doesn’t appear to be working. I shove it, my wallet, and keys back inside my purse.

Landon lifts a pack of tissues and a lipstick from the ground. “You want these?” he asks, his voice gruff.

“No,” I reply. He’s angry. I know he is. Mostly, I’m just numb.

He tosses the remaining items in the dumpster. I look away from it, realizing what could have happened to me if he hadn’t arrived and sick over what could have happened to him if he wasn’t able to defend himself.

We walk out of the alleyway. He doesn’t touch me, but stays close.

“My car’s up here,” he says. He huffs when I look at him. “One of the security guards called Kee-Kee, saying you went after some homeless woman, trying to give her food. He told her she didn’t look right. Kee-Kee called me as I was driving back from court. I circled around the park, figuring you went there. I wasn’t sure I’d find you. But I did.”

He hits the key fob to his car, causing the young teens who stopped to admire it to step away. Landon opens the passenger side door for me, his features hard and menacing. I slip inside and snap my seatbelt in place.

Landon falls into the driver’s seat, slamming his door shut before pulling on his seatbelt and peeling away from the curb.

I’m not surprised when he passes our building and keeps going. I’m not certain what I look like, but most of my hair is in my face and I can taste blood when I swallow.

“There was a woman passing by when I saw those men dragging you into the alley,” he bites out. “I told her to call for help and ran after you.”

His chest rises and falls with purpose, his fury building with each second that passes. “What in the hell were you thinking, Luci?”

I press my lips together.

“Anything could have happened to you,” he snaps. “You know that, right? When the police checked them the one with the hat had a knife and a syringe filled with some kind of shit.” He slams his hand against the wheel. “God damn it, I could have lost you!”

His voice cuts off when he sees how bad I’m trembling. “Christ,” he mutters. He slings his arm around me, pulling me against him when I break down. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

Landon doesn’t say anything else, he simply holds me, letting me cry every bit of fear I felt and appearing afraid to let me go.

We reach my condo complex several long minutes later. He pulls into the lot and parks in front of my house. When I moved in, I was assigned two spots. I never thought I’d have a use for the second one, until I met Landon and he showed me just how empty my life had been.

“Don’t get out without me,” he tells me.

Like I could move if I tried.

He comes to my side, helping me out and lifting the purse from my trembling grasp. As soon as he shuts the door, he places his arm around me and guides me to the front door.

Landon uses his key to unlock the door. The familiar surroundings and the aroma of bread I baked this morning offers me comfort, but not as much as the man who holds me.

His cologne, the one I like and sprayed into the lining of my clutch that morning I thought I was leaving him forever, drifts into my nose, mixing with a masculine scent triggered by his adrenaline. He may have feared losing me, but I could have lost him, too.

He leads me into my bathroom, lowering me to the edge of my tub before starting the water to the shower.

“I-I have to call work,” I stammer.

He kisses my head. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of it.”

The hot water from the shower mists the air in his absence. When he returns, it’s more like heavy fog. He doesn’t complain, nor does he ask why I haven’t moved. Perhaps he knows that I can’t. I’m physically exhausted and emotionally battered by what happened.

Landon flips on the exhaust and returns to my side, kneeling in front of me and helping me out of my shoes. “I’m okay,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No, you’re not, baby.”

With gentle grace he threads his fingers through my hands and helps me to my feet. It’s not much of an effort on his part. I allow him to undress me, relishing those large hands and tender touch to soothe me further.

My dress falls at my feet, he pulls me to him, encouraging me to step out of it.

“Jesus,” he says.

I glance down at the ugly bruise forming around my belly and scratches along my skin from my fall.

“He hit you?” he asks, his voice barely registering.

I don’t want to upset him further, but there’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”

He turns me around, examining me closely. “We should get you to the hospital. You could be in shock, have internal bleeding, or . . .”

“I’m all right,” I say, although it’s clear that I’m not. The bruises will fade, so will the lacerations. The emotional trauma is a different story.

I try to remember where I placed the contact information of the therapist I was seeing. I know I’ll have to start attending counseling again. Not just because of this incident, but for everything that’s happened since the last time we spoke.

I ease away from Landon and adjust the temperature in the shower. I step inside, thinking I’m ready to move on and not simply wait for my body to regain its composure.

For a long time, all I do is stand beneath the water, allowing it to bathe me and wash the filth and memories keeping me immobile.

The door rattles as Landon opens it. He pulls me to him, gathering me close. “I would have done anything to stop this,” he says.

And I would have done anything to spare him from danger.

My arms feel heavy as I embrace his bare form. I start to cry again without meaning to, but with Landon it’s okay to feel even the not-so-good feelings.

He washes my hair, my body, using care around the bruises and even more care when he dries and moisturizes my skin. I don’t mean to be so pathetic, but I know what’s coming and that I can no longer tuck my secrets away.

We slip into my bed naked. It’s just as well, I would have felt the same way with clothes. Water gathers along the ends of my towel-dried hair, trickling drops against my back. Along the busy street behind my house, a truck barrels down the road. Aside from that, only quiet lingers.

If we were in Kiawah, all we’d hear is the lull of the ocean, tempting us outside to watch its soothing waves spill across the endless shore. I wish we were there, far from the city and the memory of the day. But we’re too close to everything that transpired and mere moments away from the truth.

I watch the way his chest rises and falls, not knowing where to start, my heart heavy with the words preparing to spill from my lips.

Landon strokes my face. “She led you to them,” he says. “That woman you go to the park to feed, gave you to those men.” His voice sharpens despite how he’s fighting to keep it gentle. “It was her, wasn’t it? The one who always wears that yellow coat.”

My first instinct is to deny it or make excuses that could explain Fernie’s actions away. It’s what I’ve done all my life and something my grandmother conditioned me to do. Mamita, was like that, always defending her until she died and I stepped up to take her place.

“I know you want to help her, Luci. And God knows, she needs to be helped. But not by you, not anymore. Not when she cares more about her next fix than your safety.”

I don’t respond, listening and waiting for the right moment, and wishing I didn’t have to say what I do.

“You can’t help her,” he says. “She’s beyond what you’re capable of.”

“I have to find a way.” My voice cracks, revealing the traces of my splintered soul.

“Why?” he asks. “Look, I’m the first person to help someone who needs it, but not at the expense of my life—”

“She’s my mother.”

Landon doesn’t move, horror claiming his features in a way I wish they wouldn’t.

“Her name’s Fernie,” I add.

There are a million things I could have said a million ways better. As it is, I barely managed as much as I did.

“Why . . .” He swallows hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My eyes sting, although I don’t want the tears to come. “It’s not something you tell anyone.”

“Ever,” I want to say. But that’s not true. Not anymore.

I use the sheet to wipe my eyes. “I don’t have the kind of mother you do, Landon. But your mother is the kind I always wanted.” Thinking of Landon’s mother, and how much they adore each other makes everything so much harder to say. “Fernie started using marijuana young, in middle-school from what I understand. By the time she reached high school, she was experimenting with heavier drugs. My grandmother told me she stopped when she became pregnant with me, and for a long time, she didn’t use anything. But then she did.” I try to steady my voice, but simply can’t. “As sick as she was, she realized she could no longer take care of me.”

“Is that why you were raised by your grandmother?”

“Fernie was young,” I reply. “Only fifteen when she had me. She promised Mamita she could do better and be better, and sometimes she could. But her addiction was always stronger than she was.”

I give myself a moment, and maybe give Landon one, too. He had been waiting for me to tell him more about my past. I can tell by the sense of compassion lighting his brown eyes.

“What about your father?” he asks. “Where was he?”

Yet another strike against me. “I don’t know who he is,” I say, shame finding its way into each syllable. “I never met him.”

Landon waits, guessing there’s more to say. He’s right. “There was speculation about a young man who lived close by. But no one was completely sure. I don’t think Fernie knew either. The lifestyle she fell into was one of promiscuity or men who didn’t care much about consent.” I try to pull the sheet closer to my chin, feeling more exposed. But it’s already as high as it will go. “I saw him a few times, and he always looked at me when I walked by. He never approached though, and I never felt right approaching him.”

Landon rubs his eyes, the way he does when he’s stressed. I almost expect him to stand and pace. Instead he drops his hand away, unveiling the sympathy claiming his features. “Is Fernie the reason you left New Jersey?” he asks. “I get the feeling she made her way down here first.”

I nod, thinking back. “Mamita died unexpectedly my sophomore year of high school. No one could locate Fernie to tell her, and no one knew where she was. It wasn’t until she called one of my uncles asking for money that we realized she was in Charlotte. I finished the few weeks of school I had left, took the G.E.D., then left to find her.”

“By yourself?” Landon asks. “You were just a kid.”

“I was sixteen,” I explain. “Already a year older than Fernie was when she had me.”

“But still just a kid,” Landon repeats. “Didn’t anyone—your uncle, another relative, shit, anyone try and stop you?”

“They did,” I agree. “But they had their own problems, and it wasn’t uncommon for kids to drop out of school where I grew up.” I shrug. “I didn’t have a choice. Someone had to take care of her.”

Landon’s voice takes a reflective tone, trying to process everything I said and likely envisioning it as well. I expect a firestorm of questions, instead he summarizes everything in a few simple words. “All this time, you’ve been taking care of her.”

“She wasn’t so bad at first and tried to get help on her own. She followed a friend down south and was in and out of rehab. But she couldn’t stay clean and her mental state deteriorated the more drugs she used.” I look up at him. “She was better than this, I swear she was.”

I stop speaking when anger flashes across his features. “Does she hit you?”

He mutters a curse when I don’t answer. “The other week, you didn’t fall, did you? You went to her after I left and she attacked you.”

I’d planned to tell him. This just wasn’t the way I intended. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? Luci, what does that even mean?” He sits up, digging his fingers through his hair. “I . . . you have to come clean with me.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t lessen the blow. I sit up, gathering the blanket at the foot of the bed around us. “We had a lot of food that night. I couldn’t stand the thought of her not having any. I found her with another woman and . . .”

“And what?”

My muscles stiffen as I remember. “Someone grabbed my hair when I tried to pass a bag of leftovers from my car. I didn’t see who it was. It could have been the other woman.”

He angles his chin to face me. “I don’t believe you, not because I think you’re lying,” he adds quickly. “But because I think you believe in her too much. So let me ask you again, has she ever laid her hands on you?”

“You don’t understand,” I say.

“Then help me. Tell me if she’s ever hurt you.”

Somethings aren’t as easy as a yes or no. “She wasn’t always like this,” I say instead.

I’m certain he’s going to lose it, instead he pulls me to him, that same way he did in the alley when his body shielded mine. “You sound like an abused woman, and I fucking hate it,” he bites out. “You have to know you deserve better than this.”

“She deserves better than this,” I counter, curling into his chest. “Fernie was the smart one, Mamita always said. The one who would make something of herself and leave a neighborhood no one else could.” My fingers trail down his skin. “She believed that this young woman who loved animals and fed the pigeons in the park, who worked hard in school, and who all the little girls wanted to be was still in there, and that I could help her.” My eyes scrunch closed when tears stream down my eyes. “I’m not stupid, Landon. I just want to help her. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Landon pulls away, his hands firm along my shoulders. “Not like this, not by giving her food and chasing after her.”

“I know,” I say, ignoring the latter. “But feeding her and giving her clothes is as much as she’ll let me do.” I wipe my cheeks. “That coat she wears, I gave it to her. I’m the only one she trusts.”

“That’s what you think, but she’s not capable of trusting anyone. If anything, you’re the one who trusts her, and today, she used it against you,” he tells me. “She lured you into that alley, Luci. She risked your life to get what she needed from those men.”

I think to the way she glanced back at me right before those men grabbed me. She saw what happened and did nothing to help me.

“I know,” I agree. “But I can’t give up on her, not yet.”

“Even after today, and what it almost cost you?”

“No,” I reply, my voice breaking. “No matter what, she’s still my mother.”

It’s hard for Landon to see where I’m coming from. His mother and father have always provided for him and loved him. And regardless of what she feels, I still love Fernie, the beautiful young woman my grandmother never stopped believing in.

I leave Landon to his thoughts as all those stories my grandmother would tell me flood my mind.

“She had pretty hair,” Mamita would say as she braided mine. “Just like you. And a smile as bright as the sun.”

I don’t know when that smile faded. I only know my grandmother would have given anything to see it again.

“The police are looking for her,” Landon says after a moment. “If they charge her, and if I can prove she was an accomplice, I can make a plea for drug testing and counseling.”

“You want to help her?” I ask.

“No, I want to help you.”

My stare welds into his as his thumb swipes away the last remaining tear. Traces of his anger don’t lie far from the surface, yet here he is, offering to help in a way no one else has.

“There’re a lot of ‘ifs’”, I say. “What if we can’t manage it?”

“Then we’ll try something else.” His expression grows sad. “I’m not going to keep you from helping your momma. But I swear to Christ, I’m going to keep her from hurting you.”

It’s what he said, and I believed him. If anyone could help me, it was Landon.

But we never had the chance.

Fernie was found dead from an overdose the next day, in an alley a few blocks from the last place I saw her. Landon went with me to identify the body. He did a lot of things, including holding me close when the coroner pulled away the sheet covering her face.

The woman lying on the metal stretcher had deep set wrinkles that didn’t belong on someone so young and bruises that clustered along her withering shoulders, each indentation and injury painting a picture of the hardships she’d endured in her short life.

She’d laid in the cold rain overnight, the exposure discoloring her skin and leaving the hair that resembled mine in matted clumps.

But she was still Fernie.

She was still my mother.

Dying was the last thing she did to hurt me.

I’ll admit, it hurt more than the rest.