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  "That’s because you don’t want to face the truth about Sonny Boy. You never have." She crushed out her cigarette. "You remember last spring when he needed $200 for a class trip? That money was for Dr. Nixon. Donald got some girl from South Carolina pregnant and took her to visit our incompetent dentist."

  "How would you know that?"

  She grinned. "I’ve got my sources." Helen jabbed her finger at Frank. "And she wasn’t the only gal he knocked up. There was a waitress who worked in a café near the university—"

  "Stop it!" Frank slicked back his hair with both hands. "You’re lying."

  Helen grabbed the door handle. "Ask him if you dare. Or ask the girls. No telling how many young women Donald has left in Dr. Nixon’s inept hands." She flung open the door and fled the room.

  Frank watched the door close. Like the lid of a coffin in a late-night vampire movie, the door closed slowly, with a low creaking sound. He sank down onto the straight-back chair again, closed his eyes, and wrapped his hands around his head as if trying to keep his brain from falling out.

  I knew how he felt. My own brain bounced around in my skull trying to make sense of Momma’s words. What did Dr. Nixon have to do with Donald? Why would my stepbrother bring his girlfriends all the way to Brockton just to see a dentist? Then, like the pieces of a horrible jigsaw puzzle, it all came together—Momma, my baby, and the red-stained white uniform.

  *****

  A week later, Frank stood in the open doorway of my hospital room. "May I come in, Ladybug?"

  I managed a small nod.

  "I brought some flowers from the greenhouse." He held up a silver vase packed with burgundy poinsettias, pink rosebuds, baby’s breath, and maidenhair fern. He put the arrangement on the table opposite my hospital bed. "Is here okay?"

  "That’s fine."

  Frank placed the straight-back chair beside my bed and sat down. "How are you feeling today?"

  "What is today?’ I asked. "Is it Christmas yet?"

  "It’s Christmas Eve."

  "No wonder the nurses are anxious to get me moved. They don’t want me to mess up their Christmas dinner tomorrow."

  One of the doctors had told me I was being transferred to a place called Havenwood. He called it a sanitarium, a fancy word for insane asylum. Momma told them I’d killed my baby and had tried to kill myself because a Mexican boy raped me.

  Frank told the doctors Momma was lying. He explained how she’d taken me to see Dr. Nixon, and how the dentist anesthetized me, and then botched an illegal abortion. But the educated and righteous chose to believe that champion Picker, Momma. After all, Dr. Nixon was an upstanding citizen of Brockton. I was an unlucky teenager from out-of-town who’d carried the illegitimate child of a pepper-belly rapist. Any young woman from a well-to-do white family might be tempted to kill herself under similar conditions.

  I pulled the blanket up under my chin. "Is Momma here?"

  "I see they untied your hands." Frank began massaging the red marks on my wrist.

  "I suppose Christmas got the best of them. Plus, they knew you were coming and weren’t in the mood for another fight."

  My hands had been tied to the bedrails for most of my hospital stay. Supposedly, for my own good. Standard procedure when dealing with a patient who’d attempted suicide. Frank untied my hands on three occasions and pleaded for them to remain unbound, but rules are rules. In the end, he’d only succeeded in getting himself banned from the hospital until today. The strangers in white who now controlled my destiny had allowed today’s visit because of my impending transfer.

  "Is Momma coming?" That murdering witch hadn’t come by since the day I woke up. Frank claimed she was too ashamed to face me, but I knew better. She feared I’d kill her if the opportunity presented itself. She was right.

  Frank reached for my other wrist. "Helen is cooking Christmas dinner, as if everything was normal. I think she’s lost her mind."

  I grabbed his sleeve. "You’d better not go feeling sorry for her."

  "I won’t. I just think all the despicable things she’s done have caught up to her, and the guilt is driving her crazy."

  "Don’t you believe it for one minute." I tightened my grip on his arm. "This is another act, another performance designed to get you to forgive her." I leaned back against my pillow. "It’s time you realized I know Momma better than anyone."

  "I see that now." Frank placed my hand against his cheek. "If I’d listened before, I wouldn’t have failed you. I should’ve taken you away the day you told me about the baby."

  I yanked my hand away. "Yes, you should’ve."

  He went to the window and stood with his back to me. He raised his hand and wiped something off his face. I knew he felt guilty for failing to save my baby and me from Momma’s lunacy. But I had no pity for him or for myself. I’d ignored the pleadings of my heart when it tried to warn me something was wrong and had allowed Momma to escort me into that murderer’s lair. I’d underestimated her again. The last time I did that, Johnny paid the price. This time, our baby paid for my mistake with its life.

  Frank swiveled around. "I wonder how Helen found out about the baby."

  "I figured that out. Momma must have intercepted my letters to Johnny. She said he hadn’t written to me because he never loved me. I bet she got hold of his letters to me too."

  "I’d wager Roy Tate had a hand in getting them for her. I’ll get the letters for you, Becky. Helen will give them to me or—"

  "Don’t waste your time. Momma’s too smart to keep any incriminating evidence. She’s burned them by now."

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "Those things Helen said about Donald. Do you think they were true?"

  "It all fits. Remember Thanksgiving, when Momma took up for Donald? She wanted to get on his good side to get information from him on illegal abortions. She planned my baby’s murder for weeks."

  Frank came and stood by my bed. "I’ve got an appointment next week with another lawyer. I’ll find a way to get you out of Havenwood. I promise."

  "Don’t make promises you can’t keep. A new lawyer will tell you the same thing the others did. A stepfather has no legal standing, not like the mother."

  "She’s not a mother to you."

  "Legally she is. And legally, I’m crazy. So the law says she can put me away."

  He shook his head. "It’s not right, Ladybug. If they’d only listen to the truth."

  "People don’t care about what’s right or true. They never did. They only care about what’s convenient. It wasn’t convenient for Momma to have an illegitimate, half-Mexican grandchild."

  "Becky, I can’t—"

  "Let it be, Frank. If I go home, I’ll kill her."

  For a time neither one of us spoke. Then Frank asked, "What do you want me to do?"

  "With me gone, Momma will turn her wickedness on you. My advice is to run. Run like a hound from Hell was after you because she will be."

  CHAPTER 14

  "Your stepfather is here, Miss Cooper."

  "Tell him to leave," I said without looking up. After five months in Havenwood, I could easily recognize Nurse Bridger’s monotone voice. It was the one constant in this spittoon of a place where the virtues of remaining calm were often touted, but seldom followed.

  I marveled at her ability to remain composed despite the wailing, screaming, and throwing of objects by my fellow prisoner-patients. At first, I’d thought her unflappable nature stemmed from her role as a medical professional, but later I realized it sprung from her resolve to shut everything and everyone out.

  "Why didn’t you tell me today was your birthday?" she asked.

  I looked up. In her early forties, Nurse Bridger might be considered attractive, but definitely not pretty. She had cocoa eyes, braided dark blond hair piled into a bun, and an extra twenty pounds on her five-feet-six frame. The monotony of her speech and a small mole above her right eyebrow distinguished her from the other paid misfits in our floundering Havenwood family.

  "Woul
d you have baked me a cake?"

  "No."

  I smiled. Others might not appreciate Nurse Bridger’s straight-to-the point answers, but I did. In this outhouse of human remains, she served as my hero. I longed to duplicate her ability to walk through the day doing what she must to survive, while permitting no one and nothing to touch her. She sailed down the river of life unimpeded by those drowning around her. With a little luck, perhaps I too could cut out all emotions and just exist.

  She crossed her arms. "Mr. Wooten is waiting, Miss Cooper."

  Every Sunday for five months, Frank had made the 90-mile round trip from Sugardale to Havenwood, and every Sunday I’d refused to see him. But still, he came.

  "Tell him to go home." I resumed my reading.

  Nurse Bridger snatched the book out of my hands. "If you’re going to pretend to read, you should consider turning a page now and then." She flipped the page and handed me the book. "I don’t get paid to deliver messages. You can tell him to leave or he can sit on the patio until he comes to his senses and realizes you are not worthy of his loyalty."

  *****

  Frank sat on a cement bench that had cherubs carved into each leg. For reasons beyond my understanding, cherubs were the decorations of choice in this den of demons. The chubby angelic creatures were on sconces in the hall, above every door, and on murals in a room that served as an interrogation chamber during the week and the chapel on Sunday. I couldn’t escape their prying eyes even when I peed, for their images were infused into the bathroom wallpaper. The decorator had been either a lover of irony or a profoundly sick bastard.

  "Hello, Frank."

  He jumped up. "Becky . . . you startled me." He took two steps toward me, put his arms out, and then stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, he hugged me.

  I stiffened. In the past, Frank’s embrace had comforted me, but now his touch—or anyone else’s—agitated me.

  "How have you been, Becky? You look . . ."

  "I look like shit."

  His eyes widened. "When did you start cussing?"

  I shrugged.

  "Don’t they feed you?"

  I shrugged again. My weight had dropped from 116 to 101 pounds. Dark circles under my eyes testified to countless nights with little sleep.

  "When did you cut your hair?" he asked.

  I ran my hand through my cropped mane. "A couple of weeks ago. Somebody got head lice so they chopped off everyone’s hair."

  "It’ll grow back," he said. "Besides, it’ll be cooler now that summer’s on the way."

  Poor Frank, still trying to find a silver lining in every freaking cloud.

  "Didn’t you get my messages telling you not to come?" I asked.

  "I figured those were made up by the staff."

  "They were from me. You’re wasting your time here."

  Ignoring my comment, he pointed to two packages wrapped in shiny green paper secured with peach ribbons. "Happy seventeenth birthday, Ladybug."

  I ran a finger over the glossy ribbon. "Don’t call me Ladybug. Ladybug is dead."

  He frowned. "Don’t say that."

  "How’s the store? How’s Momma?"

  "Business is good. Helen’s been nervous and upset since you left."

  "She’s never come to see me. Not once. I hoped it was because she was dead."

  Frank rocked back on his heels. "I hate to hear you talk like that, Becky."

  "Then don’t come anymore," I said in a tone sharper than I’d intended. "What’s Momma telling the neighbors? Did she tell them I’m here?"

  He snickered. "Helen tell the truth? Not likely. She told everyone you’re in Alabama caring for my sick sister."

  "That sounds like her."

  He dropped down onto the bench. "I moved out of the house the day you came here."

  "Momma’s alone?"

  "Yes."

  I laughed. "No wonder she’s nervous. Momma never could handle being alone. She has to have an audience. Someone to pick on. I once overhead Grandpa Eli tell Papa that Momma didn’t like being alone because it forced her to see the truth about herself."

  Frank nodded. "So that’s why she’s so desperate to get me back."

  I joined him on the bench. "What do you mean by desperate?"

  "Helen offered to put the store in my name if I’d move home and pretend we’re a couple again."

  "Take it," I said. "Take it and anything else you can get."

  Frank picked at the peach ribbon. "I don’t want to live in the same house with her after what she did to you. I want a divorce."

  I grabbed his arm. "If you divorce Momma, she won’t let you visit me."

  He sighed. "That’s why I haven’t pushed for it."

  "Take the store, Frank. Take everything from her."

  "Don’t talk like that, Becky. You sound like Helen."

  "That’s because I’m her daughter. I tried to fight it, but it’s no use."

  "You’re not at all like her."

  "Momma’s black blood is inside of me. We might as well use it to our advantage." I squeezed his arm. "Who’s taking care of Papa’s garden if you’re not there?"

  "I send a guy from the store over to weed and mow."

  I stood. "That’s not enough. Papa’s garden requires a lot of work, especially in the spring. I thought I could depend on you, Frank."

  "You told me to leave Sugardale and Helen."

  I pulled at the little hair I had left. "Did I say that? It’s hard for me to remember things. It’s those damn pills they make us take."

  "Don’t worry, Becky. I’ll be here for as long as it takes. I owe you that much."

  "You owe me more than that, damn you. You promised to protect me and my baby."

  Frank shoulders slumped. "It’s true. I failed you again."

  "You can make it up to me by moving home, caring for Papa’s garden, and taking the store and the house from Momma."

  He stood, walked to the edge of the patio, and started pacing. "Helen might agree to sign over the store, but never the house."

  "She would if you threaten to tell everyone she had her own grandbaby killed and had me locked away for her crime." I walked over to Frank. "Momma will do anything to keep up appearances, to stay perched on her pedestal. We can use that against her."

  "You’re talking about blackmail, Becky. That’s the kind of stunt Helen would pull."

  "Exactly. That’s why she always wins." I took Frank’s face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. "I need to know Papa’s garden is being taken care of, and I have to beat her this once."

  "This doesn’t seem right."

  I slipped my arms around his waist. "Do this for me and I’ll forgive you for everything."

  Frank hugged me tight. "Will you promise to see me when I visit?"

  "Yes," I whispered.

  "I don’t like it, but I’ll do it for you . . . if you’re sure it’s what you want"

  "I’m sure." A bell rang twice. "That’s the signal to return to our rooms."

  We untangled ourselves and Frank retrieved the presents he’d brought. "The top one is a couple of journals. The big box is a pretty robe for my pretty Ladybug."

  I accepted the gifts and forced a smile for his sake.

  *****

  I buttoned my jacket and kicked at a pile of leaves. From this corner of the asylum grounds, one could see the houses in town and smell the smoke from their chimneys. On the porches, the flags of summer had been replaced with pumpkins, corn stalks, and cardboard monsters in anticipation of Halloween. The scent of burning leaves hitched a ride on a gust of wind headed our way. I wished for a broomstick that could fly over the eight-foot fence that separated us certified loony birds from the alleged sane.

  "What’s wrong?" Frank asked. "You’ve hardly said a word during my last two visits."

  "Nothing."

  He cupped his hands, blew on them "Something is troubling you."

  I shrugged.

  "Is someone giving you a hard time? Nurse Bridger, perhaps?" />
  I picked up a limb and used it to scatter more leaves.

  Frank ripped the stick out of my hand, tossed it aside. "Damn it, Becky. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me."

  "We’ve walked too far. I can’t hear the bell ring from here." I ran toward the main building, not stopping until I reached the patio.

  Frank caught up with me. "What are you afraid of?"

  "Nothing. You ask too many questions. I’ve got to go in now."

  He studied me. "You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?"

  I nodded. "I’ll try to save the plant." My stepfather had brought me a half-dead miniature rosebush from Papa’s garden. Frank had received permission to place the wounded plant in the Havenwood solarium. I didn’t want him to leave it, but he reminded me of the deathbed promise I’d made my papa—a promise to take care of his garden. Working in the garden comforted me. I suspected that was the real reason Frank had brought the sad little plant.

  What I really needed was a rocking chair, but the Havenwood Gestapo had denied my request. If I got a rocking chair, the other patients would want one too. Personally, I couldn’t imagine any place that needed rocking chairs more.

  Frank kissed my cheek. "I’ll see you next Sunday."

  "Okay." I hated Sundays. Hated for Frank to see me like this, yet hated his leaving even more. He kept promising me that one day soon, I’d leave with him. But after ten months in this abyss, my hopes were dying faster than Papa’s rosebush.

  *****

  May 1, 1968, my eighteenth birthday, finally arrived. I looked around my room. My bed was made, the trashcan emptied, and my suitcases packed. I’d said goodbye to the few souls I considered friends and thanked the cook for the combination birthday-going home cake she’d made for me. The only thing left to do was finish my letter to Claudia.

  As usual, Nurse Bridger entered my room without knocking. "Mr. Wooten is downstairs, Miss Cooper."

  "I’ll be down when I finish this letter."

  She frowned. "It’s not polite to keep such a nice gentleman waiting."

  "If I didn’t know better, Nurse Bridger, I’d think that you have a crush on my stepfather."