Lacy's End

By Victoria Schwimley

For most of Lacy Waldrip’s life, she and her mother, Brenda have suffered abuse at the hands of the man who is supposed to love them, cherish them, and protect them. To make matters worse, their abuser wears a badge and uses it to keep his deputies from interfering in his right to discipline his women. Both women have accepted, each determined to stay in the relationship to help the other. Then one day, the sheriff goes too far and Lacy and Brenda end up in the hospital where they meet Dr. Allen Petoro. Together with a determined social worker, Angela Martin, Dr. Petoro vows to help the two victims break free of their abuser. However, Sheriff Peter Waldrip isn’t going to let his family go that easily.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Schwimley
• Release date: May 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310774508

Victoria Schwimley

Victoria resides in Northern California. Her books include the Jessica Crawford series, Crime Solver's Detective Agency series, and Fath series, as well as several standalone books. She has also written, produced, and directed several stage plays. When not writing, she is often playing with grandchildren, reading, sewing, or chatting with friends on Facebook. 

Book preview

Lacy sat by the pond, one lonely toe poking into the water, swirling it around and around as she stared at her reflection. The action caused a ripple effect, sending tendrils of water outward in a circular motion.

She could still hear the yelling, even all the way out here. Even this far, the loud sounds caused her to flinch with each strike of his hand. Instinctively her hand went to her cheek, which still smarted from the sting of his whacks on her bare skin. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to, though. The beatings were so commonplace now that she no longer wondered when they would come but rather how hard they would be. Her ears still vibrated from the thump, thump, thump of the landing blows.

She glanced nervously toward the house. Should she go now? If she went in too early, he was likely to turn on her again. What kind of help would she be then? She wrapped her arms around her still sore ribs, guilt plunging like a knife through her heart, but it was her mother’s turn now. Hadn’t she already had enough today? She couldn’t even remember what misdeed had set him off this time. The types and number of infractions these days were always trivial.

Her mother cried out, screamed was more like it. Lacy winced as she heard each strike to her mother’s face. She closed her mind against the knowledge of what he was doing. After all, wasn’t she the one who should be protected? Wasn’t it her mother’s job to look after her? It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. Why her mother took it, she didn’t know. Couldn’t she stand up to him…just once?

Her mother screamed again, the sound so deafening Lacy closed her eyes and covered her ears. She feared this could be the one—the one time he’d go too far and kill her mother.

She knew, from experience, she would try to block the blows, first with her left arm, then with her right. Then finally, she would crouch low in the corner, trying to shrink herself as low as possible—hoping, against all hope, she could hide from him. Lacy knew that wasn’t possible. She had been there far too many times, and no matter how low she huddled, no matter how tight a ball she formed with her body, he’d still see her.

In her mind, she saw her mother trying to ward off his blows, and her heart swelled with sympathy. Lacy was young and strong, but years of abuse had weakened her mother. How much more could she take?

Her mother’s cries had become weak, diminishing as the strength left her. She knew her father’s hand would rise one last time and come down smartly on her neck. This blow would knock her unconscious and, mercifully, the beating would end.

Lacy looked toward heaven. Please God—I need help. I can’t handle this on my own anymore. She had no idea whom that someone would be. She had only one friend in the entire world, Millie Watson, and Lacy didn’t even understand why she was still sticking by her. The rest of her classmates thought she was a loser—not that she disagreed with them. One only had to look at her to see the qualities she lacked.

Her clothes were plain, her personality dull and lifeless. Her best feature was her eyes. They had a peculiar green color that sparkled like jewels. She liked stupid things like butterflies, daisies, long walks along the river, just as the sun was setting in the west and cast a fiery glow on the desert horizon. The thing she desired the most, however, was a soft, cuddly puppy. She wouldn’t dare own such a wondrous thing, though. Her father had enough punching bags as it was.

She started to rise, as slowly as she could to delay what she wasn’t looking forward to, even knowing her mother would need her, by the time she reached the house. She turned and as she did, she saw a figure standing across the pond. She was startled for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. She cocked her head at him, a curious expression coming to her smile.

He nodded his head toward the house, reminding her of her mission. She looked toward the house. All was quiet now, a sure sign she’d better hurry. Her mother’s head would need some ice.

She waved. She didn’t know why she did this. It just felt natural. She felt strangely drawn to the figure, despite the fact that her father had warned her—no, forbidden her—from having any contact with boys. She ran to the door, paused a moment in the doorway, and turned back to see her visitor. He was gone. As suddenly as he had appeared, he disappeared.

She shook her head, running through the doorway. Her mother laid, as usual, in a crumpled position in the corner of the dining room, peas strewn about her. The glass bowl that had held them lay in a shattered mess beside her. Blood trickled from a wound in her neck. Lacy gasped. He went too far this time.

She knelt down beside her. Mother, she said, keeping her voice soft—so he wouldn’t hear her. He would be angry if he knew she had come to her rescue. She shook her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. Mother, she tried again. An alarm rang inside her head.

She noticed a piece of the glass lying beside her, blood coloring the edge of it. Her entire body went cold at the feel of the blood-soaked object in her hand. She immediately dropped it, as if it were a rattlesnake ready to strike.

Her first thought was to call an ambulance, but by doing so, she risked his ire, which meant further blows for both of them.

She looked around for her purse, fearing she may have left it in her bedroom and would have to go there to retrieve it. Doing this would mean walking past his door, and if he weren't asleep…well, she could only hope it wouldn’t come to that. As luck would have it, she spied it lying in the corner of the living room next to the fireplace. Now she remembered dropping it there when she had come home from her shift at the diner the previous night.

She worked at the diner four nights a week. She was trying to save money for college, determined to earn a degree and blow this town as soon as possible. She just started her senior year and already had four thousand dollars saved. If her calculations were correct, and her tips were good, she would have saved another eight thousand by the time she graduated. It was at least enough to pay for Junior College. Mrs. Thurman, her school counselor, said she would probably get some scholarships and be able to go to a four-year university—albeit a state school, but she wasn’t fussy.

After she found her purse, she tried to find the keys. This action proved a bit trickier as she never used the keys. Her father never let her drive the car, so she had no idea where they were. If her mother had driven with them, they would likely be in her purse. However, if her father had them… She shuddered, not wanting to think about that.

It seemed God must have been looking out for her because she located her mother’s purse, and her keys, without much difficulty. She looked at her mother, concerned by her lack of movement or sound since she had entered the house. Normally by now, she would have begun to stir. She could hear her father. He was stomping around, throwing things against the wall. She waited, holding her breath for fear he would know she had returned to the house.

After a few moments, she heard him lie down on the mattress, his weight making the box springs groan. She knew it wouldn’t take him long to fall asleep. She only had to be patient. She glanced quickly at her mother. If only she could wait that long.

Her mother was a small woman; frail was probably a better word. Lacy got her size from her father. Thank God that was all she got from him. Her father was an alcoholic and, when he drank, he was meaner than a rabid dog. She knew this for a long time, too long in fact.

Lacy was around ten the first time she became aware of her father’s abuse. Although, if she were to be honest with herself, she would have said it was much earlier, and she had merely denied the suspicion. Her mother had done well hiding it from her. By age ten, she was becoming aware of many things around her. She noticed the way her mother always flinched when her father passed her in the hallway—and the way she would duck if her father raised his hand to run it through his hair. Then there was the way Brenda’s voice would become weak and timid if she had to ask Peter to increase her household allowance because inflation had reduced her ability to make ends meet.

She sighed and started to lift her mother. It wasn’t an easy task. Although her mother was light, she was still weak herself from the beating she had taken.

Lacy, her father called from the bedroom.

She froze, waiting to hear her name again. When she did not, she assumed he had spoken in his sleep as he often did, and she carried on with her task. She hoisted her mother onto her shoulders, staggering from the sudden bulk like a drunken bar slut. She established a firm footing and moved slowly toward the door. Opening the door was difficult, but somehow she managed. She stood on the porch, looked around for the car, and cursed herself for not having the forethought to move the car closer to the door. She couldn’t very well drop her mother on the porch, so she continued along, walking down the steps one at a time, stopping to catch her breath—and her balance—after each progression. She winced from the pain the exertion caused her already injured muscles.

Just when she thought she would never get there, she collided with the car, adding yet another bruise to her already colorful thigh. She set her mother on the ground and used her body to hold her up against the rear fender panel. She opened the door and slid her mother inside. She didn’t bother with the seatbelt but slid in behind the wheel, started the engine, and raced furiously down the driveway.

The Waldrip’s home, situated on a lonely dirt road, branched off an even lonelier two-lane highway in the rural area of Southern Nevada. Diamond Springs, the community in which they lived, was a mere two hours from the booming Metropolis of Las Vegas, NV, but to Lacy, it might have been in another world.

She had never been to Las Vegas, but she had heard stories about it. Her best friend, Millie Watson went there many times. She told her all about the beautiful lights and gorgeous costumes all the dancers wore. Now, as she watched her house disappear into a cloud of dust, she longed to be there, or anywhere else besides the hate and abuse-filled place she called home.

She turned onto the highway that would take her to the interstate. That’s where one can leave all the backwoods shit behind and enter the real world. That’s where some semblance of sanity sets in, where Sheriff Waldrip and his deputies have little say over what happens—at least most of the time.

She glanced over the backseat at her mother. She was worried that she hadn’t made a sound. What if her father had hit her so hard as to kill her brain? Was that even possible? She’d read about people whose brain was dead, and they had to live with machines doing all the work their brain should do.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the hospital sign came into sight.

As if sensing what was happening, her mother stirred in the backseat. Lacy said a silent prayer, adding another marble to the tally of favors she owed God.

She pulled into the hospital parking lot, nearly running over two men walking toward the emergency room door. One of the men grabbed hold of the other man’s elbow with one hand and shook his fist at her with the other one. She didn’t have time for saying sorry, so she ignored him. She came to a skidding stop and almost ran over an attendant, who also shook his fist at her. Then he rushed to her aid as he saw her struggle with her mother.

What happened? he asked as he took her burden from her tired arms.

Here is where she had the most trouble. Her father—a mean drunk, appeared to be a sweet man—when he was sober, that is, which was hardly ever. He was also the sheriff and respected by the community, or at least people pretended to respect him. It seemed nobody, including herself, wanted to cross Sheriff Waldrip.

That is why when the attendant looked her in the face and asked for the second time, What happened? she lied—for about the millionth time.

She tripped over a log while we were hiking.

Father didn’t fool everyone with his false affection, but nobody ever stood up for her—until that day.

I suppose you tripped over the same log, he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

No, of course not, she said, and then quickly ran her tongue over her bruised, swollen lips as she followed his gaze to her battered face.

He didn’t say anything else as he pushed open the double doors leading to the trauma room. She gasped when she saw the words TRAUMA written on the door. Her mother wasn’t a trauma case. Wasn’t trauma for bad car accidents, or careless men who got too close to the wood chipper? Her mother was neither of those. Her dad simply went too far this time; that’s all. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were blood spattered. Her lip busted open, and she was having difficulty seeing out of her left eye because of the swelling.

She ran alongside the gurney on which they placed her mother, but they barred her from entering the exam room. She fought to get past Attila the Nurse. Stay here, she commanded. We need space to work.

Lacy sat in the waiting room, wringing her hands in worry. She picked up a magazine and began paging through it—anything to take her mind off what was going on in the other room. None of the articles about prom dresses, makeup, or designer bags interested her—especially not the article on how to dress like a million bucks for less than a hundred. Those were for normal teens.

After several long moments, someone came up and sat beside her. She looked up into the face of a man whom she had a vague recollection of seeing before. He smiled at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Even though, she had nothing at which to smile. As she did so, her lip split open again, and she tasted fresh blood. Then she felt a trickle of wetness ooze down her chin.

The man took out a handkerchief and dabbed her lip with it. Your mother’s going to be fine, he said.

Thank you, she managed to say, her voice squeaking like a mouse. She looked closer at him. She took in the white lab coat, the stethoscope around his neck, and the funny-looking mask doctors sometimes wear, and felt slightly more at ease. He had pulled his mask away from his face and now wore it like a necklace around his neck. She cleared her throat and tried again. Thank you for helping her.

He nodded. You want to tell me which door she walked into this time? he asked.

She quickly searched her brain for a lie, trying to decide which door would cause the most damage. The garage door, she said, forgetting about the log over which her mother had supposedly tripped. I was in the kitchen making salad for dinner when I heard her scream. I rushed to the garage and there she was. I think it must have fallen on her or something.

The doctor dabbed at her lip again and then looked at her. Or something, he said, alternating his glance between her injured lip and her eyes. How about the truth this time? He continued to dab at the split lip as fresh blood pooled on the surface.

I am telling the truth, she protested, jerking her head sideways, away from his hand.

Yeah? Then why did you tell the attendant she tripped over a log?

I-I-I, she stammered, realizing he had busted her.

She lowered her head, an outright refusal to answer, and suddenly remembered why the man had looked so familiar. He had used the words this time when he had asked which door her mother had walked into. This doctor with the kind face and gentle voice had treated her mother before, but when had that happened—last year, last month? Maybe it even was last week.

He cupped her chin, raising her face to look directly into his eyes that were so trustworthy. Lacy, he said. She tried to pull away again, but he held firm. What happened? he asked, and his voice was so soft, so comforting that for a moment she almost caved. For about ten seconds she thought somebody might be able to help.

She knew she didn’t dare take the chance. She set her jaw firmly and, remembering her mother’s warning never to tell their secret, said, She walked into a door.

He looked her over, his gaze traveling first to her split lip, then to her swollen neck and finally, to the cut above her eye where her father’s watchband had struck her. Did you walk into the same door, Lacy? Dr. Petoro asked.

Lacy, unable to answer, simply stared straight ahead. She had walked right into his trap and saw no way out. She clutched at her stomach, an action not meant to be a clever ruse, but effective nonetheless.

Dr. Petoro stood abruptly from the bench on which they had been sitting. I need a gurney over here. When no one immediately moved, he snapped, I said, I need a gurney over here!

Several nurses and orderlies began frantically looking around. A red-haired nurse found one first and pushed it over to where Dr. Petoro stood, holding Lacy, one arm wrapped around her waist.

He tried to help her onto the gurney, but she pushed him aside, angrily declaring, I don’t need that. However, seconds later, she collapsed upon it, weak and weary from her ordeal of the day.

Dr. Petoro moved quickly, lifting Lacy’s slender frame fully upon the gurney. He barked orders as he pushed the gurney from the waiting room and through the double doors, entering the emergency bay. Let’s get a line going, people. I need a head CT and portable x-ray. He looked down at her arm, red, welted, and swollen. Anger flared inside him. He snapped off his exam glove and threw it across the room. He stalked off as a nurse bent to retrieve the glove.

Lacy woke an hour later. At first, she thought she was dreaming. She heard voices—low, murmuring sounds that she couldn’t understand. She heard a series of beeps. They were soothing, rhythmic, and in her mind, she began to count them—one, two, three, four—

Lacy. She stopped counting. She was vaguely aware that a young man was calling her name, but her mind was not registering that he was talking to her. Lacy, she heard again. She slowly turned her head in the direction of the voice, and he was there, standing beside her.

She stared for a moment, trying to register where she had seen him before. You’re the boy from the pond, she said, raising her finger slightly off the bed and attempting to point at him.

The boy looked surprised. So you can hear me? I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to.

Of course I can hear you, she said, somewhat indignant, acting as if he had insulted her. You’re standing right next to me.

Lacy looked down at herself. Her jeans and tee shirt were gone, and in their place was a gown, one of those ugly gowns that show off your butt when you walk to the bathroom. Ugh, she said.

To her surprise, the boy laughed. What, you don’t like your party dress?

She laughed despite her condition. Well, I don’t think I’ll make homecoming queen.

They both laughed loudly, drawing looks in their direction.

From across the room, she heard someone talking. She was barely able to make out what they were saying. She turned her head toward the voices when she caught, Lacy’s awake, Doctor.

When she saw them coming toward her, she turned back to her friend, but he was gone. When the nurse arrived, Lacy asked, Did you see where my friend went?

The nurse shook her head. What friend, honey?

The boy who was just standing here not ten seconds ago.

The doctor and nurse exchanged glances. It’s the concussion, the doctor explained. The nurse nodded in agreement.

Dr. Petoro looked down at Lacy. You’ve suffered a concussion. You must have taken some blows to the head.

Lacy shook her head, becoming agitated. I didn’t imagine it. He was here just a moment ago, sitting by my side. We were talking about my cheesy gown. Her eyes grew wide. Not that I’m knocking your fashion or anything, but come on now—you have to admit I’m not going to win any runway competitions with this thing. She held the hem of her gown out for emphasis.

Dr. Petoro laughed. Maybe her head isn’t that bad, he said to the nurse. He looked back at Lacy. I would recommend you stay in the hospital overnight. I need to keep your mother for sure. We’ll check you in on the family plan.

She wanted to protest, but at the mention of her mother, she grew concerned. How is Mom? she asked.

Dr. Petoro sighed. Four broken ribs, a concussion, long laceration on the side of her neck—she required fourteen stitches for that one—do you want me to go on? Dr. Petoro asked sarcastically.

No, she said, her voice growing soft.

Dr. Petoro knelt down beside her bed and looked her directly in the eye. I can help you both, Lacy, but I can’t do it alone.

Lacy shook her head. I can’t, she squeaked. You don’t know what he’ll do to us.

This last part was barely audible, but Dr. Petoro had heard well enough. He patted Lacy’s hand. That’s fine, Lacy. We won’t let him get to you. Turning to the nurse, he said, Judy, call social services. Have them come down and talk to our friend here. He turned to walk away, adding, And get someone from security up here…just in case.

The nurse looked at him and raised her eyebrows, shook her head and turned to carry out the doctor’s instructions.

Lacy cried out, No. I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t call them. She fell silent. Sobs began to fill the void. Dr. Petoro sat down in the chair next to her bed. He wrapped his arms around her and held her while she cried.

Lacy fell asleep in Dr. Petoro’s arms, and when she awoke, she was in a room that was silent except for the occasional beep the monitors put out. She glanced to her left and saw her mother lying on the bed next to hers. At least she thought it was her mother. The woman’s face was so badly bruised that it was hard to tell who it was.

Mom, she tentatively called. Mom, are you all right?

Her mother didn’t answer. Lacy tried to get up but the pain was too intense, so she lay back down. The room was dark, but that could be because the curtains, pulled tight across the window, closed them off from the outside world.

The hour seemed so late that she began to panic. She was afraid he might have awakened and missed them. I’ve got to get us out of here, she said aloud, just as the door was opening.

I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere for a while, a woman said from the doorway.

Lacy jumped, turned toward the woman and thought how nice she looked. She was short with shoulder-length brown hair. She wore a dress that was too long for her height and made her look as if she had short stubby legs. Who are you? Lacy asked.

I’m Angela Martin, the woman said, extending her hand to Lacy in greeting. Reluctantly, Lacy took it. It was so warm, so soft, and her nails were prettier than any nails Lacy had ever seen—even the one’s the prettier-than-thou girls at school wore. I’m the social worker assigned to your case.

Go away, Lacy said, dropping her hand like it was a hot potato. She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing herself inward and putting up the walls as she so often did. I don’t want to talk to you.

I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. A complaint has been filed, and it’s my responsibility to follow up on it. She looked at the chair next to Lacy’s bed. Do you mind if I sit down? Lacy didn’t answer, so Angela chose to take it for consent and sat down. Can you tell me what happened, Lacy?

Lacy raised one thumb and gestured toward the door. I already told them what happened. Can’t you read it in the report?

Angela sighed and pulled the chair closer. I read the report, Lacy. The problem is your injuries don’t match what you told the doctors and nurses—either version.

Lacy looked away, trying to remember what she had told the doctor. I can’t remember what happened, she said.

Half an hour ago you gave a rather detailed description of the accident.

I have amnesia. Didn’t the doctor tell you?

You have a concussion, not amnesia.

Whatever. I still can’t remember. She wrapped her arms more tightly and raised them higher.

What about six months ago? Angela prompted.

What about it? Lacy asked. Hackles began to rise on her neck.

Angela paged through Lacy’s chart. Six months ago your mother brought you in because you had fallen out of bed and broken your arm.

Yeah, so, what about it?

I don’t know too many sixteen-year-olds who fall out of bed.

Lacy let her arms drop and smoothed the covers around her body, trying to cover her nervousness. It can happen.

Angela thumbed through more pages. Eight months ago, you slammed your leg in the car door. Twelve months ago, you slipped on oil at the gas station. Oh and by the way, the gas station has no record of that incident.

We didn’t tell them, Lacy objected.

Angela pretended not to hear her. Eighteen months ago you slammed your right hand in a silverware drawer and broke all four fingers.

So, I’m a bit of a klutz.

Angela sighed again, put down Lacy’s chart, and picked up her mother’s chart. Shall we review your mother’s various injuries?

As if sensing someone was speaking about her, Brenda Waldrip stirred in her sleep, mumbled Lacy’s name, and began beating at the air. Her fists flailed with all their might as she called out, Bastard! Leave her alone. Then she screamed, and Lacy jumped from her bed, ignoring the nausea that enveloped her, pushing through the pain in her head as she reached out to her mother.

Mom, Lacy called, whispering in her ear, I’m right here, Mom.

She stroked her mother’s back and ran a soothing hand down her long hair that shone with natural highlight. It was a little gray with age, but nothing a little hair dye wouldn’t cover. But she couldn’t—her husband didn’t believe in spending money on grooming products. He would rather spend it on booze.

Lacy? Brenda asked, groggily. What happened, baby?

We’re in the hospital, Mom. Lacy paused, cast a cautious eye over her right shoulder, and tried to recall which lie she told the doctor. Finally, Don’t you remember, Mom? Those boxes fell on top of us.

A flash of anger raged through Angela. How could this innocent girl protect her father so much? How could this mother so carelessly subject her child, the one she gave birth to—the one she promised to care for, to the daily abuse of such a wretched man? County Social Services had been investigating charges of abuse against Lacy Waldrip for over a year now. The hospital had alerted them after one of many emergency visits, but each time they tried to interview either Lacy or Mrs. Waldrip, Sheriff Waldrip had intervened. Mrs. Waldrip even had gone as far as to threaten to sue the county the last time they had tried to interfere, no doubt threatened by her husband.

Angela gritted her teeth and counted to ten. She had to cool her temper or she would never get Lacy to cooperate. She had to win the girl’s trust. She began to scribble on her notepad, aware of the girl watching her. Lacy had calmed her mother and was now back in her bed, covers pulled up as far as they could go, knees pulled up to her chin. Her head rested on her knees, and she stared at Angela.

Lacy watched her unwanted guest as she scribbled something on her notepad. She knew, from the expression she wore, that Angela didn’t believe her. She had told yet another version. Would she drill her mother for answers now?

She watched her rise. She walked across the room and stood beside Brenda’s bed. Lacy froze. How are you feeling, Mrs. Waldrip?

Brenda tried to speak but her throat was dry, and no sound came out. She licked her lips, trying to get moisture to them. She struggled to sit up but moaned against the pain. She fell back against the mattress.

Angela, seeing the poor woman struggle, reached across her, picked up the bed control and raised her head a few inches. Brenda groaned with relief. Next, she picked up a pitcher of water, poured some into a cup and put a straw into it. She raised it to Brenda’s lips. After she had a few sips, Angela pulled it away. Not too much, she said.

When she had settled back down, Angela asked, Do you feel like talking?

Brenda shook her head, a tear escaping down her cheek. Angela extracted a tissue from the Kleenex box beside the bed and wiped Brenda’s tears away. It’s okay, we can talk tomorrow.

Lacy watched the display of compassion and softened her resolve. She began to wonder if this woman really might be able to help them. What if she told her about her father?