He's gone the next morning.
She wakes up to a crowd of police officers who want to take her home. As they swarm around with radio voices and endless questions, something inside Lisa breaks.
She's back inside Marty's house, trapped in that tiny, filthy room. Her long, greasy hair hangs down her back like a butchered pelt. Everything's disgusting: the sheets, the walls, herself. I've got to get out of here.
The hallways are lined with gaudy crosses, piss-yellow and so large they devour every inch of wall space. Hundreds of crosses hang over the never-ending corridor; it feels like Lisa's walked for miles when she reaches the cacophonous cave where Marty lurks. He's sheathed in darkness; the only light comes from the TV, which throws forth waves of demonic cackles that flatten Lisa to the sticky wall. She peels away and tiptoes towards the door that seems as far away as stars. Every step is slow, like she's wading through muck, but the doorknob is heaven on her fingertips, and she doesn't run, she flees out the door, escaping the house of horrors.
A policeman without a face stands before her. "Did your father ever touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?" Lisa hurries past him, but another policeman steps in her way. "We'll have to conduct a physical exam." Ghostly hands slither over her flesh, but Lisa slaps them away and breaks free.
No matter how far she runs, though, there's another shadow in a police uniform waiting for her.
"Don't be afraid."
"Your friend told us everything."
"Can you say this to a judge, as well?"
"Is it true that your father gave you these bruises?"
"You don't have to protect your father."
"It's illegal to lie in a courtroom."
Their words rush over her like a wave of knives. Lisa flees into an enormous world of white. It looks like the land's enveloped in snow, but she feels white grass beneath her toes. Dad stands beside a crystal-clear lake, dressed in his Sunday best. He doesn't stir when she approaches, only turns warm and loving eyes on her.
"Lisa, baby. It's a good day for a tea party." She doesn't respond. "Thanks for coming to see me. The whole time I was in prison, I thought about my baby girl growing up without her daddy. My little Lisa, named for my poor, dead ma… I wondered what you were like, what kind of girl you were becoming. Then I looked into your eyes, and it was the greatest feeling in the world…"
Lisa steps back; there are two statues between her, shaped like a man and a woman, and when she moves between them, Dad shifts before her eyes. He transforms into a vile, bloated beast, leaking sweat and pus over the blood-soaked ground. Vomit stains his tattered clothes, and he roars after her running feet.
Time flits away like a butterfly, and Lisa goes numb to the world. She doesn't know where she is half the time, and she doesn't care to answer any more questions. For a long time, she's silent, refusing to speak to anybody. She just wants to be still and safe.
Lisa is hugging her knees to her chest when something soft brushes against her ankle. It's a teddy bear. Without thinking, she takes the bear and smothers it against her chest. Its brown fur is a welcome comfort, and Lisa hopes it she doesn't taint its sweetness with the inherent filth that lurks within her. Every speck of beauty that comes into her life is corrupted: her clothes, her pendant, her friends... where is Dustin? Where is Bernard? They're long gone to her; only the feelings of ugliness and worthlessness remain.
She holds that bear for what feels like an eternity. She doesn't know why; it just feels good. But then she remembers the last time she held something that made her feel so warm and pure. She remembers the dream she had, of finding her mother in the woods. When Emily Armstrong turned around, she had His face...
Now, the idea seizes Lisa's heart. What if this is just another dream? She holds out the bear so she can see it more clearly. Please don't have His face, she thinks, and for once, her prayers were answered. The bear's dark, marble eyes look sweet above a little nose and smiling mouth. It has a black bandana and a shirt that reads "Bikers Against Child Abuse."
"I'm glad you like it," a stranger says. He looks like he hopped right off a Harley-Davidson, with boots, chains, and a black leather vest emblazoned with patches, including a fiery skull and a knife. "That's a gift from me and the guys."
Lisa looks past the man, but they're alone together. The guys? "I don't see anyone else." Her voice croaks from disuse.
"They're outside. Want to meet them?"
Sunlight warms her face as she steps onto Grandpa's front lawn. How did I get here? Before she can fall to her thoughts, she takes in the startling image before her: A gang of bikers with hardened looks lean against gleaming black motorcycles. Some have sunglasses and bandanas, and others have sprawling tattoos, but all dress like the man beside her, who looks down at Lisa with a warm smile. "Welcome to the family," he says. "We're all happy to meet you."
Lisa frowns. "Why are you here?"
"We want to help you." The man crouches down to look her in the eyes, but Lisa flicks her gaze away, focusing instead on the long, sky-blue hair flipped over his shoulder. "If you want, we'll go with you when you testify in court. We'll stand in a protective barrier to keep your dad away. Trust me: With us around, there's no way he'll be able to come close to you."
"You can do that?" She looks at each person standing nearby; they look strong and grizzled from long hours on the road, but everyone has a welcoming expression. They look at her like a friend they want to hang out with. Lisa imagines these tough, burly bikers shielding her as she stands before the podium and speaks about terrible things she's hidden for years out of shame and fear. The mere thought is so impossible she's convinced it's all a dream. Maybe she'll wake up in Dustin's bedroll to early morning birdsong and his head nestled on her stomach.
Then the bikers pass around her teddy bear, holding it close to their leather-clad hearts. The man with long, blue hair tells her, "This bear is full of hugs now. If you ever feel scared or lonely, pick up your bear and take a hug out of it."
Lisa weeps.
Strong arms and soothing words surround her, and the men and women who have come to visit her stay with her until she finally calms down. They don't seem to care about how silly or pathetic she looks, and they close by until she can speak again. A blur of names she won't remember wash over her, but for the first time in months, she feels hope once again. I hope they come by again, she thinks when they leave, waving before they swing their strong legs over their motorcycle and zoom away.
For a short while after that, she thinks it's a dream, but the familiar teddy bear on her bed tells a different story. Soon they visit again, and she's so happy she could almost cry. This time she remembers their names when they introduce themselves again, and when she begs them not to run away as Dustin did, they assure her that they'll visit again. At first, she wonders if they're lying, but they're true to their words: again and again they visit her, and eventually she's allowed to ride on a motorcycle with them. With the wind rushing through her hair, zooming down the roads, she feels free for the first time in forever.
During one visit, the bikers give her a vest as part of a fun entrance ceremony. "Now that you're part of the family, you can have your own personal name to identify as," her new friend says. Everyone in the group has a cool title that's different than their day-to-day name. The blue-haired man is Dice Mahone, and some of his friends have alter egos like Rex Thunderstorm or Blade Londa.
"It can be anything you want," says one of the women in the group, a tall, thick woman who named herself Lady Tank. She's a beacon of strength and unwavering support, and Lisa finds herself wishing she could have that kind of confidence when she grows up. "Whatever your road name is, it should define who you are. You can be 'princess' or 'ninja' or even 'dragon.' One of our kids calls himself Batman!"
Thinking about something fun like a road name is a welcome change from the fear that plagues Lisa's mind on a daily basis, so she thinks long and hard about what she wants to be called. Having these strong, powerful people in her corner makes her feel safe, and she wants a name that's worthy of their company. Nothing feels right until she recalls a poem she once read in a library. She hadn't understood it at the time, but she remembers the last stanza clearly: I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air.
"I want to be called 'Lady Lazarus,'" she says, after the poem's title. Her new family cheers for Lady Lazarus, and she carries the strength they give her all the way to court. It keeps her from collapsing when she's called to the podium to deliver her testimony.
It feels like a thousand eyes are staring, judging her. They think I'm a bitch, a whore, an attention-seeking waste of space, she thinks, but then she looks to her side and sees Dice Mahone standing to her left. To her right stands Lady Tank, who gives Lisa a kind smile before glaring towards the rest of the court, looking for all the world like a mama bear ready to fight off a hunter. Lisa feels the presence of the rest of the gang around her like a blanket; Dice Mahone's fearsome friends are all here for her. They've deemed her as a friend, as someone worth protecting. She's not just Lisa Armstrong: she's Lady Lazarus, and although she can't fight her tears, she steps forward. It's the hardest thing she's ever done, especially because she's in the same room with her father. She's terrified, but she knows her friends will protect her. Marty would have to fight through a group of strong, burly bikers to get to her, and he's too much of a coward to ever hurt someone who could fight back.
Lisa almost breaks as she delivers her testimony, talking about degrading and horrible things that happened to her. She doesn't look at anyone in the court; she stares at the corner of the room instead, standing as tall as she can. Dad's looking at her—she can feel it—but she refuses to meet his eyes, because then she would collapse. By the time she's done, both her legs and her voice shake uncontrollably. For a long moment, the courtroom is quiet.
Then dad shatters the silence. "Lisa, baby, stop lying!" Now she can't stop herself from jerking her head towards him: He's wearing that suit he always wears when he wants to hide his evil, and Lisa nearly drowns in the tidal wave of hatred that washes over her. "Do the right thing," he cries. "Tell them the truth! I can't go back to prison. Please, Lisa—!"
Fuck you, Lisa thinks. Her face twists into a dark expression of hatred and disgust. "You're pathetic," she snaps, vitriol burning her throat as she speaks. She doesn't care if this makes her seem like a "bad victim" to the jury; she doesn't care if being honest about her hatred will steal the courtroom's sympathy and make them blame her for what she did. Grandpa's lawyer told her to try to be as sweet and innocent as she could, so the jury would feel sorry for her, but she can't hide the truth of her feelings. All she can think about is how pitiful Marty is. He beat her and raped her when there were no witnesses, but now that his sins are brought to the light—now that he stands before a jury of his peers—he collapses like a human house of cards.
You called me worthless, but at least I'm honest about what I am, she thinks. If they don't throw you in prison, I'll kill you myself. I'll take a knife to your throat and this time I won't give up. I'll set your house on fire and block the doors. I'll hurt you... I'll make you suffer…I'll give you what you deserve...
"Order!" The judge yells, pounding his heavy gavel. When he dismisses her, Lisa leaves immediately, unable to stomach the sickening atmosphere. Before she escapes, however, she takes her last glance at Marty Armstrong to find him on his hands and knees, sobbing. Then Lisa's friends surround her, giving her words of encouragement as they walk her out of the courthouse. They tell her she's brave, but she worries that their kind words are wasted on her, like pearls before a swine. Did I just ruin everything? Her heart pounds so hard that she can only think about the blood rushing in her ear and the fear that washes over her. I got angry. I called him pathetic, she thinks. Will the jury think I'm a bitch because of that? Will they think he's innocent because he's crying? Will they think I'm a dirty, lying whore who's making it all up?
A leather-gloved hand squeezes her shoulders. Dice Mahone's sky-blue eyes sparkle with encouragement as he smiles down at her. "You're safe now," he says.
I'm not safe, she thinks. I will never be safe. But she won't voice those ugly thoughts. Instead, she smiles up at him, squinting in the sunlight's glare. Under the bright sky, Lisa and her new friends go to an ice cream parlor, and the looks they get are priceless. Lisa imagines the image they paint: a crowd of beefy men and women, all wearing black leather, thick boots, spikes, and tattoos are crowded in a booth with a tiny little girl. It must be an unusual sight, and Lisa feels pride well up in her chest. They're here for me, she reminds herself. If they think I'm worth their time, maybe I am.
Lisa tries to enjoy the moment; she tries to push the past to the back of her mind and be grateful for their support, but it's hard.
Life taught her that she will never be safe. Even if dad goes to prison, he'll probably be let out early for good behavior again. Or if that doesn't happen, she might meet another man who tries to kidnap her, like the bastard at the bus station, or like the evil man in the rain, who talked about his daddy and is the reason she can't enjoy the taste of chocolate anymore.
Lisa can't ever forget what happened. All she can do is be vigilant — and work to be a better person, according to the therapist Grandpa makes her go to every week.
The first few times Lisa meets Thomas, she stays silent, stubborn, and angry with Grandpa for forcing her to do this. But Thomas is a patient man; although he looks sweet and nonthreatening with his chubby frame, jolly smile, and bright, purple clothing, he's just as stubborn as she. Every week, he asks her the same questions: "How are you?" or "What's the best thing that happened this week?" until she feels guilty for ignoring him or giving him one-word answers. Eventually, she opens up to him, albeit reluctantly; she mostly wants to stop hearing his endless stories about his mundane life, which she suspects are a trick to wear down her resistance. It works: she first starts talking just so she can stop hearing his countless stories about his cats.
Initially, Lisa tells him why she ran away. Then she talks about what it was like. She focuses on the good parts of the experience, like her friendship with Dustin or the great books she read at the many libraries she went to. Later, they visit topics that are harder to talk about. Often these discussions touch upon the topic of shame. Thomas coaxes painful truths out of her, like:
"I wish I had been an easier child for grandpa to raise."
"I wish I didn't fight so much with the other kids."
"I wish I listened to Brad instead of asking to meet my dad."
Whenever Lisa shared her regrets, Thomas would have the same question: "Why do you feel this way?" Her answers usually boiled down to, "Because then my life would have been better."
"Not necessarily," he says. "It would be different—and then, you might be a different person, too."
"That would be a good thing."
"Why?"
"Because then, I'd be good," she usually says, but other times, she's more specific: "Then, people would like me. I wouldn't be hurt. I would be normal. I would be happy."
"No one goes through life unhurt," Thomas says. He likes to dissuade her guilty thoughts and reframe her ideas with leading questions, all of which lead to a stern lesson: "Guilt is the feeling that what we've done is wrong. It can serve a valuable purpose: Guilt lets us know when we've made mistakes. It makes us responsible for improving our behavior. Shame is different: It's the feeling that who we are is wrong. Shame does not help you. It holds you back. I want us to overcome that shame."
It's an idea that takes Lisa a long time to understand. She'd spent her whole life being called messy, rude, loud, bad — then she went to school, where teachers labeled her a disruptive problem child and classmates called her creepy, bitchy, white trash. She longed for a fresh start, a place to be loved unconditionally, so when she heard her dad was finally free, she jumped at the opportunity to meet him. Yet all he taught her was that she was a slutty tease, a worthless whore, an ingrate.
Week after week, year after year, Lisa works with Thomas to unravel the strangling rope of other people's expectations. Nothing was easy; life marched on, and Lisa limped 10 feet behind, struggling to catch up to her peers, all of whom seemed to have a huge head start. Thomas tells her not to compare herself to others. "We're all on different paths," he says one day. "We all grow in different ways. The bonsai tree doesn't compare itself to the oak tree—"
"Well, it's way smaller, so it should. It's clearly inferior."
"They're both beautiful in their own ways. They can't be pitted against one another."
"Fair enough," Lisa says. "At least you didn't compare me to a cactus. Then I'd be insulted."
"Cacti are a highly celebrated subject in Southwestern art, you know."
"I was joking."
"I was reminding you that there's value in different things, even if they're deemed 'strange' or 'unusual.' There's beauty in differences."
"I see. So if I try hard enough, maybe I, too, can become an iconic aspect of Southwestern art?" She jokes.
Thomas stifles a laugh. "Lisa, anything is possible if you put your mind to it."
His optimistic platitude sours her mood. "Even going back in time and stopping my past self from being a stupid piece of shit?"
"Lisa…" Thomas takes a deep breath. "You should be more forgiving of yourself."
"Why? I fucked up and hurt myself!"
"We can't change the past. We can only move forward."
"Well, duh. What else can we do?"
"We can learn to love ourselves, regardless of what we've done."
"Why? What's the point?"
"Lisa, at every second of every day, you're keeping yourself company. Imagine being stuck with someone you strongly dislike. Doesn't that sound unbearable?" She nods, so he continues: "Thus, you should be kind to the one person you spend all of your time with: yourself. Maybe, you could even learn to love her."
"…I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm too mad at myself! Don't you understand? Every bad thing that ever happened to me was my fault! I'm the problem!"
"No, you're not! Nothing that happened was your fault!"
"But — when I called him, grandpa said—"
"It wasn't your fault," he says, refusing to back down, and Lisa starts crying so hard she can barely speak. Thomas hands her a box of tissues; he never makes her feel bad for crying. He just waits for her to get it all out. When the worst of it is out of the way, and she's sniffling and wiping her nose, Thomas speaks again. "I want you to tell yourself 'It wasn't my fault' whenever you go back to what happened. Say it aloud or think it, again and again. Make that phrase a part of your permanent thoughts."
"For how long?"
"Until you believe it."
That would take forever! As if he can read her thoughts, Thomas nods sternly. "It wasn't your fault. Say it with me: 'It wasn't my fault.'"
Lisa's throat is tight from her sobs, so her voice comes out as a croak. "It wasn't my fault."
Thomas nods. "Never forget that."