Disclaimer: Not mine. Cause this would never have happened.
A/N: A very special thank you to all the wonderful ladies who have taken the time to help with this. I truly appreciate it. This chapter also mention abuse and child molestation. Non-graphic but it is there.
Chapter 8
December 13, 2007
Sara wasn't sure how long she knelt there in the grass beside the road with rocks bruising her knees and shins. It could have been minutes or it could have been days. The tears that ran down her cheeks and dropped onto her denim covered thighs were hot, leaving burning tracks on the smooth skin of her face. Sobs racked her slender frame. The passing vehicles threw off gusts of wind and grit which whirled around the car and buffeted her body. In the small corner of her mind that was focused on the here and now, Sara was glad she had made it to the far side of the car before succumbing to the nausea. At least she was hidden from the prying eyes of people on the road. Hopefully, they would think the vehicle was abandoned and no one would stop to witness her humiliation.
Kneeling there on the side of the road she was still surrounded by him. She could feel his calloused hands as the tore her clothes and pawed at her tender skin. She could smell stench of sweat; the sweat of old booze and fear. She could taste the blood from biting her lip to keep from screaming. She remembered how he shoved his tongue into her mouth, making her gag. She was there, in that pink bedroom with the flowered bedspread. And she hated it. She hated the man and the memory and, most of all, herself. Twenty years of running and hiding and denying and it all came down to losing control on the side of the road. Another wave of nausea washed over her and she retched, bile burning her throat, but anything was better than the taste fresh blood and stale cigarettes.
Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she tilted her head back and tried to block out the unpleasantness of the memories. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on the play of light against her eyelids. Long minutes later, she stood on trembling legs and made her way to the driver's door of the car. Sara slid behind the wheel and sat there shivering. She couldn't remember a time when she had ever been so cold or so alone. Not just physically but emotionally. She was sure that her very soul was frozen.
Eventually, she put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road. As she drove she tried to keep her mind clear. She concentrated on the road and the simple familiarity of driving. When a memory would start to rear its ugly head, she would force it out – ruthlessly focusing on her immediate surroundings. Nothing mattered except getting back to the cottage.
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Laura stood on the front porch and watched as Sara's car disappeared from view. She had never meant to let it get this far. The shock at seeing her daughter again after so many years had given way to panic. What could she possibly say to explain anything? To make any of it better? She was just a woman and a damaged one at that. The years spent in the system hadn't been kind, and all she wanted was to live out the rest of her days in peace.
Hugging herself against the bite in the air, she fought back the emotions rising within her. The need to comfort Sara was almost more than she could bear. But who would be there to comfort her? Who had ever been there to comfort her? She chose to ignore the images of a chubby little girl with a gap-toothed smile who always believed her when she said that Daddy wouldn't hit them anymore. She closed her eyes against the memories of the serious, dark haired child who somehow managed to remain hopeful and loving in a house ruled by fear and pain.
With a muttered curse, Laura went back into the house. She refused to be drawn into the drama in her daughter's life. Seriously, she'd had enough drama to last her a lifetime. Sara just needed to realize that nothing was the same, could be the same, after everything that had happened. She needed to let go of the past and go home to that Grissom she talked so much about. Nothing that had happened then could possibly make any difference. Could it?
She had thought that by pretending to play along with Sara's question and answer game she could wait her out. Apparently, that wasn't meant to be. The girl was nothing, if not tenacious. Moving through the house, again, Laura remembered how Sara had looked before she bolted. Her face had been chalk white, bordering on green; almost as if she were going to be sick. Maybe a good mother would have chased her across the yard and begged her not to go. Maybe a good mother would have held her and wiped away her tears. But Laura had never claimed to be a good mother. She had tried, sometimes, and failed. Had the girl forgotten that, too? Shaking her head as if to clear it; Laura grabbed her coat, a blanket and a pack of cigarettes from her room and went out through the back door.
There was a gazebo in the yard that had a swing. She loved to sit there in the afternoons when all the rooms were clean and the house empty. After so many years locked away in prison the freedom to walk outside whenever she wanted was something she never took for granted. But today she couldn't find any peace in the crisp air, or the brilliant sunlight, or the call of the birds. For just a minute, she thought about what it would feel like to have a drink.
Laura's eyes slid closed and she smelled the bittersweet tang of the bourbon she had loved. It was a heady thing and she almost moaned at the memory of it. She could feel the cool glass between her fingers, feel it as it pressed against her lips. Then she was drinking. The burn of it flowed over her tongue and down her throat, lighting a fire in her stomach that quickly spread outward in a warm glow. Her muscles relaxed, tension giving way to the peacefulness she could only find in the bottom of a bottle. She sat perfectly still for a long moment, holding the memory close to her.
Slowly, her eyes slid open and she reached for her cigarettes. With trembling fingers, she managed to shake one out of the pack and bring it to her lips. Lighting it, she drew the smoke deep into her lungs and held it there, relishing the calming effect of the nicotine moving through her bloodstream.
Laura was amazed at how real her fantasy drink had felt. In the years that she had been without a drink she hadn't really missed it. It was as if her desire for the numbing effects of alcohol died when Mike did. She just didn't need it anymore.
Honestly, she didn't remember a lot about those first weeks. That was the time she referred to as the silence. There were just brief flashes of doctors and nurses and doors with reinforced windows. There were mumbled words – catatonic state, murder, battered wife syndrome, schizophrenic. She heard them, but couldn't seem to summon the energy to worry about it, to tell them she wasn't crazy, to tell them what he had done to her baby.
What she thought about instead, during the silence, were the good things. She remembered the day Mike asked her out for the first time. He was so handsome with his curly dark hair and hazel eyes. Tall and lean, with a wicked sense of humor, he was every one of her sixteen year old fantasies all rolled up in one incredibly irresistible package.
He wooed her. There just wasn't another word for it. Flowers and soft kisses and holding hands. Parties and movies and make out sessions in the backseat of his '57 Chevy. God, how she had loved that boy. If he sometimes got angry for no reason, if he yelled or shook her a little, it was a small price to pay for his attention. Besides, he always said he was sorry afterwards and she always, always believed him.
Oh, the plans they'd made; the things they were going to do and places they were going to see, the fun they were going to have. They planned for months to move, to leave their families behind and go west. Two days after her graduation from high school, they packed their meager belongings in the trunk of the car, cleaned out Mike's savings account and took off. Laura left her mother sobbing in the formal living room of the house where she had grown up. Mike left his home and nobody noticed.
They got married in Las Vegas. With a mirthless laugh, Laura thought about the irony and all that it entailed. They stopped in San Francisco because they ran out of highway. They couldn't have gone any further even if they'd wanted to. They rented an apartment in a rundown building on the outskirts of the city and furnished it with other people's castoffs. The year was 1963.
The lack of light suddenly registered to her and Laura looked around in surprise. She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting in the swing, but she realized that she was freezing. With a sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and gathered her things. She would go in and make some coffee. Then, when she was a little warmer, she would call Sara. It was time to put an end to this nonsense.
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Sara stumbled through the door of the cottage and locked it behind her. She was weak and still a little queasy. Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart. She kicked off her shoes and dropped her coat and purse on the little dining table. Wandering into the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet, avoiding her reflection in the mirrored door, and pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen. For a second she wondered when she had become so comfortable here that she had moved her supplies out of her suitcase and into the medicine cabinet. The pounding in her head made it impossible for her to follow that train of thought for very long. She just needed something for her headache and she'd be fine. Her hands shook as the wrestled with the childproof cap.
"Fuck!" she screamed in frustration. Finally, she forced the cap off only to have it drop into the sink and rattle around; the sound grating on her already frazzled nerves.
She shook the bottle over her outstretched palm and at least ten of the oblong brown tablets come out at once. With another muttered curse, she slammed the bottle down on the counter and dumped all but three of the tablets into the trash. Heading back to the kitchen, with her pills clutched safely in her left hand, Sara filled a glass with tap water and swallowed them in one gulp. Habit had her placing the glass in the sink before she moved over to the sofa and lay down, covering up with the blanket draped over the back.
The house was so quiet. She had never realized how quiet it was here. There was no noise from the constant traffic and the crowds of people. For a second she missed the sounds of Las Vegas, simply because they helped cover up the memories. She was tired. So very tired. And so incredibly alone. She huddled, shivering under the blanket, closed her eyes, and begged for peace. Slowly, she drifted into a restless sleep.