Ruined

By D.E. Eliot

After living one way for a while, you tend to take certain facts for granted: the earth is round, the sun rises in the east, and the girl you’ve raised as your daughter is truly yours. 
 
Everything changes for Michael Crusher after a car accident leaves his wife and his daughter, Raven, at death’s door. When a routine blood test reveals that Michael can’t be Raven’s biological father, he begins to question everything.
 
Devastated, Michael investigates his wife’s past with the help of her sister, Zoey. As they hunt down the truth of Raven’s parentage, they find the truth to be more difficult to bear than ignorance. Zoey isn’t completely forthcoming with what she knows, and Michael doesn’t know whom to trust. 
 
Filled with searing emotions and heart-pounding suspense, Ruined is a thrilling mystery about skeletons in the closet and complex family dynamics. Each reveal adds a startling layer to the story that will leave readers yearning for more. Michael’s journey is arduous and very nearly consumes him, and this book maintains its emotional intensity all the way to the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.E. Eliot
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386297772

Book preview

Write On, Publishing

P.O. Box 40372

Cincinnati, OH 45240

/Users/dwild2/Downloads/21687137_1483006218458476_9119967599856020249_o.jpg

ISBN: 978-0692927618

ISBN-13: 0692927611

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017950354

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Preface

Prologue

The Accident Before

Chapter One

The Emotions Afterward

Chapter Two

No Answers Here

Chapter Three

Their Lives Have Changed

Chapter Four

What They’ll Leave to Find

Chapter Five

The Diary / Nine Years Earlier

Chapter Six

Somewhere other than Here

Chapter Seven

Capture/Release

Chapter Eight

The Turning of the Page

Content Continued

Chapter Nine

Her Mother’s Milk

Chapter Ten

Her Mother’s Malice

Chapter Eleven

Admission

Chapter Twelve

Confession

Chapter Thirteen

The Difference between Us

Chapter Fourteen

All the Affairs Are in Order

Chapter Fifteen

The Preacher’s Tale

Chapter Sixteen

Her Missing Pages

Chapter Seventeen

Let Us Say Our Good-Byes

Epilogue

The Life After

For Tayland

Someday we’ll meet

Author’s Note

TO BE READ BEFORE PURCHASE. First things first—Ruined is a work of fiction. It is not meant to be taken at face value (which means at times I may have stretched the truth a little to fit my own selfish need to keep the story rolling). Although I did do some research, you might find quite a bit of the medical and judicial jargon difficult to stomach and you might doubt it would ever hold up in a court of law. I ask that in these moments you don’t judge me too harshly for tweaking the circumstances in my favor. With any luck, my impertinent lack of knowledge in these areas won’t deter you too much from enjoying the story.

Second things second—this is my first real attempt at publishing a novel, and although Ruined is my baby, my firstborn, I cannot claim to be a single parent. A truckload of people has helped me get this book out of my hands and into yours. And they are to be commended. So, if you don’t mind, I would like to take this time to give a big special thanks to Kristen Sheri, Tiffany Stewart, and Leah McDaniel for enduring the insufferable punishment I put them through for six long months. There are others, but you three are truly my own personal Charlie’s Angels. I’m grateful for your insight, encouragement, and continued push. You are extremely appreciated. I would also like to give an absolutely tremendous thank-you to Dionne Thrower for being the first set of eyes on this manuscript. None of this would be possible without you.

Lastly, or should I say, continuing with the theme, third things third—I write for two reasons: for me and for you, my readers. Every writer, good or bad, wants to put out his or her best effort, hoping to beguile and seduce the readers into buying the next novel. And, if writers are lucky, the novel after that. My dreams are no different. After I pocket your money from this purchase, I only ask of you to do one more thing (I know, the nerve of me). Spread the news. If you love this novel as much as I loved writing it, I beg of you to leave a review on the page where you bought the book. Post pics of you with the novel on Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, or wherever you can to spread the word of my writings. I am nothing without my readers. And the more readers I have, the easier it will be to put out more high-quality books. You guys keep me plugging away, and as always, I say to you, Write On!

D.E. Eliot

Death Isn’t All That Bad

Perhaps death is like a spider: somewhat smaller than it appears, eight-legged, quick, dark, and yet more afraid of us than we should ever be of it. Constantly taken out of context and damn near purposely misunderstood because, unlike life, death refuses to tell all of its little secrets. It delights at being unknown, mysterious, obscure. It doesn’t crave the spotlight the way life seems to do. Death isn’t boastful or arrogant. Did you ever stop to think that perhaps maybe, just maybe, death isn’t such a bad guy? Maybe he’s just a fella who loves surprises? Cursed with a bad rap. Pegged with a poor name. A buzzkill at parties (no pun intended). Sometimes he might show up a minute or two too early; other times, he might drag his feet a moment longer than you would like to see. But make no mistake about it—death isn’t a villain. He’s nothing more than a lonely guy sitting on a park bench with no friends because everyone knows, one day, despite our great efforts (eating right, working out, love & happiness), we all owe him a very expensive debt, and we all hate him for that.

Prologue

The Accident Before

One

ZENDAYA CRUSHER WAS running late again, as usual. Every day, especially on Mondays. She was never on time on a Monday, scattering here and there from the master bath, to the walk-in closet, to the bottom drawer of the dresser facing the king-size bed. Had her husband been home to see her stride around so radiantly, in nothing more than a black skirt and Victoria’s Secret bra, her natural ’fro puffed out like a round, black bowl, while wearing six-inch platform pumps that made her calves pop, she might’ve had to forget about going to work altogether. This lasciviously delightful thought tickled her as she tossed blouse after blouse onto the bedroom chair.

I’m ready, Mama, her daughter announced, entering the room with a Hello Kitty backpack draped around her shoulders. She had half an orange in one hand and a matching Hello Kitty lunchbox in the other.

Just a moment, Raven, her mother said, hurriedly kissing the poor child on the cheek as she passed her on the way back to the master bathroom. Zendaya could smell the citrus on her daughter’s breath. Even at seven years of age, Raven Renée Crusher knew all too well that Just a moment, Raven meant at least fifteen more minutes of waiting, so she was going to spend this daily expected leisure time catching up on old SpongeBob SquarePants reruns.

Almost fifteen minutes later, her makeup and attire finally on point, Zendaya stared reflexively into the long mirror in the corner of the bedroom with a stoic look on her face. Seeing but not truly seeing herself. Voices, deep in the back of her mind, whispered overlapping encouragements: you are beautiful; smile more—it works; remember there is only one simple truth: white women aren’t shit—black women are queens; work, work, work, work, work, work. A tremendous sigh escaped her lips. This was her cue. All the fears about being a bad mother, or a terrible wife, or a bad employee would be left on the floor next to the dirty clothes hamper, thank you very much. She would step out of the bedroom ready to be great, looking splendid and beautiful. As she did every day, even though she was never on time.

Raven? Zendaya called, gathering her things. Are you ready, hon?

Yes, ma’am, the young child replied cheerfully, scrambling off the couch at once. But if we’re being entirely honest this morning, ladies and gents, then I’m sorry to tell you that this little girl’s response was nothing more than a barefaced lie. Raven’s routine was unconsciously designed to drive her mother insane. It was a design that played out each and every morning with perfection.

Zendaya woke her daughter up at a quarter till seven and not a minute before. Half-blind from sleep, the daughter rolled out of bed, clambered to the hallway bathroom, peed, brushed her teeth, headed back to the bedroom, dressed in the clothes laid out for her the night before, and then, repeating the hymn her father taught her, tied her shoes: Over, under, around, and through. Meet Mr. Bunny Rabbit, pull and through.

Little daughter checked herself in the mirror; her beads made a snap-crackle-and-pop sound as she ran a hand through her hanging braids. Deciding she looked cute enough, she made her way to the kitchen, ate a small bowl of Froot Loops, and then proceeded to pack her lunch, sneaking an extra brownie snack into her backpack—she would later swear to her mother and the almighty above that she had no clue where all the snacks were going. After all this, she grabbed an orange and was halfway finished with the citrus fruit when she entered her parents’ bedroom.

Just a moment, Raven. That was daughter’s cue to undo all the things she had just done to get ready for school. Socks and shoes off, backpack tossed somewhere out of sight, and only God knew where she’d left her lunchbox. So, when Zendaya came into the family room fifteen minutes later to see the state of her child, she exploded.

Raven! the mother cried incredulously. The child resumed her rush to get ready again while Zendaya watched in disbelief, staring down on her daughter with darken scrambled eyes, trying desperately hard not to go crazy. You were ready just ten minutes ago. (Fifteen actually.) What happened?

Raven spun round, mouth ajar, viewing the disarray before deciding it would probably be best not to answer the question. Her morning routine was complete. Her mother was now one mile closer to being driven insane.

At half past eight, with her daughter strapped down tight in the back seat, a nice hot venti peppermint white chocolate mocha (courtesy of Starbucks) in the cup holder, ’90s R&B music on the radio, Zendaya and Raven Crusher were finally on their way. They were in the middle of singing Mary J’s Real Love when the cell phone rang, ruining the fun, cutting off the music. Zendaya tapped the flashing green button that was silently screaming accept. There was a subtle click, and then a second later, her husband’s voice could be heard through the car speakers.

Hello? he called out.

Good morning, Dad! mother and daughter both screamed.

G’morning, my princess and my queen. Running late again, I see. He chuckled.

It was not my fault this time, so you can stop laughing, Zendaya protested. Your child is a villain.

Now, honey, you know princesses can’t be villains.

That’s what I told her, Dad, the princess agreed.

You stay out of this, traitor, Zendaya said playfully. She then picked up the cell, taking the call off the intercom so that their daughter couldn’t hear. Are you home, Michael?

No, he answered in a soft, morose tone. In an hour or so.

Don’t forget about tonight.

I won’t, he promised. Now say something sweet.

Chocolate covered strawberries, she replied instantly. They both began to laugh.

I love you, chump, Michael said softly.

I love you, too, jerk, Zendaya said before ending the call. Her mind wandered for a moment, the smothering thoughts about tonight choking the blood to the brain, as she pulled up to the stop sign three blocks from her child’s school. Perhaps, had she not been distracted, she would’ve seen what her daughter was staring at. Perhaps, had her daughter been older than seven, she would have told her mother to brace herself. The moment Zendaya’s sedan started to move, it was impaled by an old, rusty Chevy pickup.

Two

Dale was told several times, on his way out the door that morning, not to forget his pills. He was told when he put his breakfast plate in the sink. He was then told, ten minutes later, about those damn pills when he took a piss in the downstairs crapper. Then his wife’s voice, shrill and condescending Your pills! shouted up from the laundry room in the basement. Dale felt the muscles at the back of the neck stiffen. And finally, he was told about those fucking pills on the way out the door as he headed over to the old run-down Chevy pickup he utterly refused to get rid of.

He hated when his wife nagged him about shit. The worst part was she knew he hated when she nagged him about shit. It was like she was asking for a small taste of the backhand, and Dale Patrick Sr. had no problem serving it up. She never knew when to quit; that was her damn problem. If he had a couple of six-packs during the Reds’ game, nag. If he smoked a Cuban during the weekly poker game, nag. Extra piece of bacon on his egg sandwich, nag. She would keep nagging him until—BAAAAM.

Every time Dale gave her the ol’ backhand salute, her reaction was always the same: first the look of confusion and then, only for the slightest moment, the look of recall. Something had been there. Something from her past, before Dale, that reminded her how normal it was to be hit. To be put down. To be put in her place.

While she rubbed her face, which was stinging white hot under her palm, Dale gave the speech.

You had more than that coming to ya, he had said, sounding strangely like his redneck father who, like him, didn’t take no shit from a ditzy cunt living off his dime; no sir, he did not. His father was a war hero. He kicked ass and he smoked cigarettes. So that was what Dale was going to do. He was sixty-three years old, a man with brass balls, and he’d be damned if he let anyone nag him about it. I don’t like hitting ya, but sometimes I think you’re not happy or you feel unloved if I don’t pop you in the mouth. I don’t need you nagging me during the game and I don’t need you nagging me now. You understand me, Kat?

Kat, which was short for Kathleen, nodded almost imperceptibly. Her hand remained on the cheek where he’d struck her. She didn’t cry or even tear up. She didn’t wanna give the fat fuck the satisfaction. She would remain quiet for a while, a day or two, before going back to nagging him again. She loved him. Only God knew why, but she did. And if the doctor said Dale needed to stop smoking, drinking, and eating like a pig, then that’s what she was going to nag him to do. When the doctor said Dale needed to take his pills, she was on it.

Kat knew Dale wasn’t too bright; however, he did pay the bills. They didn’t have much, but to her, it was plenty. They raised two kids in this home, a three-bedroom cottage. Two kids who couldn’t wait to bolt the second they turned eighteen. Yet, what they had was enough even if Dale didn’t think so. It’s a poor country we live in when niggers got more than God-fearing Americans, her husband would say. She would never engage or explain to him how utterly stupid he sounded. She was just relieved he was smart enough not to say these things at work or in public.

Kat heard Dale’s rusty excuse of a Chevy start up, back out of the driveway, and then pull off, sounding like a busted chainsaw. She brought up a basket of clean clothes, folded them, and put them away. She began to clean the kitchen. In the middle of wiping down the counter, what did she see? His pills. That stupid son of a bitch.

And yes, Dale Patrick Sr. was a stupid SOB who felt as though his wife had gone way past the brink, way past the nag jar capacity. He could still hear Kat’s voice jackhammer its way into his brain as he drove to work. This caused his blood to boil. Had Dale not been so mad, he might’ve noticed then that his heart was pumping intensely. He punched on the radio in an attempt to change the subject in his mind. It didn’t work. Some country song blared back at him, and in a snap, the fuse to his anger was relit. He was getting tired—damn tired—of hearing country singers sound like niggers. Bring back the good ol’ days of Hank Williams, Johnny Rebel, and David Allan Coe, when country music was country.

Ba-boom, ba-blam. His heart thudded in his ears. He had swallowed a couple of pills before he left the house and then he put the pill bottle in his––shit where did he put the pill bottle? He placed a hand against his chest. He could feel his heart pound inside his rib cage like a bass drum. Now he was nervous. Now he wanted more of his pills. He scrambled through his shirt pockets and his lunchbox, he checked the passenger’s seat—no pills. His heart was really thumping. Ba-boom, ba-blam. The vein in his neck pulsated. When his left arm locked up with piercing pain, the last thing he remembered before drawing his last breath was the stop sign up ahead—but there was no time to stop.

Three

Some people might think ten years old is too young to allow a child to walk to school. Jimmy Collins begged to differ. If he could ride his bike fifteen blocks to Harmon Park on Saturday mornings for baseball practice, walking five blocks to school was nothing more than an afterthought. Especially when Big Bertha, the silver-haired, heavyset, crossing guard, patrolled the main intersection. He followed all the rules. He looked both ways before crossing the street and he never left the sidewalk. That was the agreement between cars and humans. Humans stayed on the sidewalk; cars stayed on the road.

At quarter till nine that Monday morning, Jimmy Collins was on the sidewalk. Right where he was supposed to be. From there, he saw two things happen. An old Chevy pickup barreled past Big Bertha, despite her screams for the driver to stop, and then he saw the old pickup smash thunderously into the car waiting at the intersection. The car had been hit so hard that it rolled over on top of Jimmy, killing him instantly.

Four

Michael Crusher couldn’t sit down. He paced back and forth, back and forth. His emotions were all over the place. He wanted to scream, to cry out, but he couldn’t. He felt alone, yet at the same time, he felt as though the entire world was watching him. Waiting for him to do something, to say something. He paced, back and forth. And a thought—no, not a thought—an emotion, a trickle of unease rose inside of him, dark. It spoke to him in his own voice: Are you there, Michael? Can you hear me? He could hear, but he was not perfectly sure he was there, in the flesh, breathing air. So, he paced; back and forth, back and forth.

They took blood from him. He remembered that. Not enough to save a life but enough to run a test. Everyone spoke very fast. They seemed to move even faster. Or was he not moving at all? Just standing still while the world rushed around him, not bothering to ask him to carry on, somewhere, out of the way. His father, had he been there, would’ve told Michael to (pardon the expression) shit or get off the pot, boy. Southern Negroes didn’t slave for this country so you could sit around on that pot and not take a shit. Get off your ass, move with haste, and make a difference.

So that’s what he did.

Against his mother’s and all his friends’ wishes, he joined the Marines straight out of grad school. He remembered his mother bellowing, Have I not taught you nothing, boy? Why the hell do you wanna go die in some white man’s army? Michael wanted to tell her that he had to shit or get off the pot. But Michael Allen Crusher knew, all too well, not to dare think of back talking his mother (even when she was wrong or not willing to see reason) while his father was in the room. Oh, noooo, no, no, buddy, Michael Crusher was not that damn bold or that damn stupid.

Michael stood his ground, silently, of course, but he stood his ground. Yes, Lord, he did, even after his mother pulled out all the tricks—the oldies but goodies. She begged. She pleaded. She told Michael she felt betrayed. She had done all the things that normally worked on him yet he stood his ground. She turned toward her husband, hoping beyond any thinkable hope, for a backup singer to this song. Robert Crusher said nothing. His stare wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

Bobby, she had exclaimed in a loud whisper.

He’s a man now, his father had told her, not a child.

He’s my child! she roared with long streaks of tears glistening on her face. Michael’s mother glared at the pair of them. And finally, when she saw she couldn’t make a dent, she walked away without saying, I love you, miming washing her hands of the situation. Michael, her youngest son, knew then he had won. He looked over at his father, who was beaming with pride, and they shared an understanding. Are you doing this for you or for some ditzy skirt you’re trying to impress? he remembered his father asking. I’m doing it, Michael had said back, because this is what you taught me to do. His father hugged him slightly, and five minutes later, they shared their first of many beers together.

Mr. Crusher?

Michael’s eyes were closed, but he heard the voice nonetheless. It wasn’t his voice, not this time, but he heard the voice. Are you there, Michael? Can you hear me?

Mr. Crusher? the voice called again. Firmer this time. It was a woman calling him. It wasn’t Zendaya. He had hoped it was; he nearly expected it to be her. Yet he knew. The voice lacked his wife’s softness. It lacked love. She would never call him by his surname. Michael snapped open his eyes and nodded. I’m Dr. Romansky. We need to talk.

She led Michael into a room off to the side, not an office but an exam room. There was an X-ray machine of some kind behind them. The thought that she pulled him in here to kill him surfaced briefly in his mind and then sank again. Old habits? That thought was ridiculous but not too farfetched. She brought me here because she has bad news that’s going to kill me, he thought, noticing the fear cooking in his stomach.

Romansky was tired, not physically but mentally. He could see it in the way she stood. She looked careworn. The clipboard was heavy in her hands. Michael wanted to slap the clipboard away from her. The clipboard was poison. The clipboard was not meant to be touched. It had been more than eight hours since the accident and somehow, whatever happened since, was the clipboard’s fault. She coughed into a closed fist before saying softly, Your wife suffered a—

How bad is it? Michael cut her off. He didn’t want to hear the fluff or the rehearsed apologies or the practiced fake concerns. He wanted the doctor to come right out and say it. Shit or get off the pot.

Fatal. It was like the word slipped out of her mouth. Spilled milk that can’t be put back into the bottle. Michael winced at the word. Then he began to notice his heart speeding up; he could feel it beating in his ears, racing in his wrists as well as in his chest. Romansky was trying to find a rhythm, an adult tone of speech, but failing. She’s...she’s still alive, but...we do not believe she’s going to make it past a day or two.

A long pause.

Are you there, Michael? Can you hear me?

Uh-huh, Michael moaned out.

Mr. Crusher? Romansky tried to begin again. We will do—

My daughter, Michael erupted, louder than he intended. But he needed to know now—right now. It was the most important thing in the world. My daughter? Is she alive? Is she OK?

Romansky took a half step back from him, worried.

Doc, please!

Your stepdaughter is stable, Romansky announced, but her words did not dissipate his boiling fears. And something else she said. It sounded strange coming off her lips. But he couldn’t place it. This is why I’m here. Your stepdaughter’s kidneys have been crushed. We’re capable of keeping her alive with a machine, but it’s only temporary. After viewing your records, we ran a blood test, and you’re not a match. We were wondering if you were in touch with her fa—

There it was.

The word that sounded odd coming off her lips.

The word he understood. But it made no sense.

So, for the third time, he rudely interrupted her. Why do you keep calling Raven my stepdaughter?

Michael saw a dark realization dawn on Dr. Romansky’s face, followed by innocent guilt and tremendous apprehension. She sighed deeply. Your wife’s blood type is O. Your daughter’s blood type is O. Your blood type is AB. It’s not remotely possible for Raven to be your child.

Chapter One

The Emotions Afterward

One

HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW far back he would have to think for some sort of resolution. But there was a bitterness building up inside of him. An animosity that would manifest itself into a loathing he couldn’t stop from eating away at his heart like termites. He didn’t want to think about the pain. He knew he wouldn’t decline the feeling once it arrived on his doorstep like a package from Amazon Prime, because denying the pain would only make it worse. He understood this the instant the results of the retest came in. He would let the dull ache consume him. Let it wash over his mind, soothingly, leaving behind noticeable streaks of residue, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not at the moment. Not while he watched Zendaya cling to the edge of life.

However, although crude and repugnant it may seem, a large part of him wanted to help her along the way by stamping down on the fingertips clutching the jagged edge of the rock. He saw himself digging a boot heel into the back of Zendaya’s soft, warm hand, a grim reaper grin on his face. That same large part of him wanted to watch her fall off the side of life’s towering wall; clawing, screaming, and kicking on the way down. He imagined her body exploding like a water balloon as