Scarred Soul of a Grieving Daughter: Inspired by True Events

By Bette Hepler

An accidental encounter with her father's killer leads her down a dangerous road of revenge and murderous madness where the only outcome seems to be total destruction of her or the killer...or both.
A psychological drama that portrays the disruption of an idyllic, vital, beloved father-daughter relationship and how the contrasts of the wounds of loss, and development of a kind of justice, payback, and compassion unfold.
Readers will immediately identify with the main character's struggle to come to grips with a loss so deep that she thought she would never find resolution.
A mix of truth and fiction plays out in the unpredictable way the minds of both perpetrator and victim react when caught in the warp of rage. At every turn, the tension mounts, the suspense is sustained until the blessed moment of truth descends to the relief of both character and reader.Energetic, lyrical, and figurative language keeps it fresh throughout as the greater story of challenge and deliverance are revealed. An authentic narrative voice informs the whole story so that the characters remain true to their natures.
The detailed and vivid sense of the protagonist's family and her background and her marriage and the turmoil and grief she feels about her father's death are moving.
The transformation that she experiences as she plunges into the depths of hysteria and actually finds a way to bond with the man she hates is riveting. Her inner-life proves the strength of character that-ultimately-is her salvation.
Scenes and cultural allusions comprise an unforgettable foray into the past, a time and place made visible with specific detail and description.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543998429

Book preview

Inspired by True Events

Cover design by Kage Parker

Scarred Soul of a Grieving Daughter was inspired by actual events and persons. However, some names, characters, events, incidents, places, and dialogue are used in a fictitious manner for purposes of dramatization.

© 2020 Bette Hepler All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-54399-841-2 eBook 978-1-54399-842-9

For my siblings, Lynn, Paulette, Sam, and Brunnie,

for our treasured memories of Daddy

A GRIEVING DAUGHTER

You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

JULY 12, 1984

Lying on my kitchen floor, balled up in a knot of unbearable pain, with the phone still pressed to my ear, I’m breathless and feel like I’m about to pass out.

Alease, Alease! Are you okay? Alease, say something, the voice on the other end says.

I’m here, I whisper.

That day it was sunny, hot and humid—nothing unusual for Washington, DC in July. Our AC, thank goodness, was working overtime to keep the house cool. Before receiving the call, I was upstairs in my office taking care of some paperwork I had procrastinated completing too long.

After finishing up, I went downstairs to the kitchen to prepare something to eat before heading out to my office. As I went about preparing the omelet, dicing tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, and green peppers, I fondly reminisced about the many times my father made omelets for dinner—one of our favorite treats.

As the pan warmed, I got the cheese out—had to be extra sharp—scrambled two eggs in a bowl, and added a little water, because Daddy always said water made the eggs soft. My mouth was watering for this delicious meal I was about to consume when the phone rang. I thought to let it ring but changed my mind, turned the fire down, and picked up the wall phone, thinking it was most likely my mother checking in to see how everybody was doing. She knew my work schedule and probably figured I would have time for a short chat.

Hi, Ma. How’s it going? I only have a minute. Got to eat and run.

But it was my younger brother.

Oh, Steve. I thought it was Ma calling. What’s up? Ready to christen our cabin this weekend? I can’t wait—

He interrupted me. Daddy’s been in a car accident. I don’t have all the details, but it’s bad, Alease, terrible. I don’t think he’s going to make it.

That’s when I fell to the floor.

I slowly pulled myself up and placed the phone back on the receiver after screaming to my brother to find out what happened right away. I yanked at my hair, which I often do when I’m upset, turned around in circles, and screamed to God to please not let my father be dead. I turned the stove off, grabbed my car keys, flew out of the house, and drove to my parents’ home. I don’t know who called my husband Grant, but he came right away.

I saw her as soon as I got out of the car—my grieving mother sitting on the porch crying and in a state of shock. I knew then that he was dead. Steve arrived shortly after and told us Daddy had been killed instantly by a red light runner. He had been on his way to pick up my mother from the hair salon. Their plan had been to go home, pack up, and leave for our mountain cabin where the rest of the family would be joining them for the weekend. Instead, a traffic light and a careless driver changed all that in a split second. And my life would never be the same again.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday, July 7, 1984 was the last time I saw my father, five days before he was killed. He was sixty-five years old. He, along with a few close friends, had generously agreed to help Grant and me move into a vacation cabin we had purchased in the mountains of the West Virginia Panhandle, ninety minutes from DC.

We worked hard from sunup to sundown, and by the time we finished everyone was exhausted. When we left, our beautiful retreat was fully set up, ready for our family getaway the following weekend. Everybody was coming—my siblings and their children, Mother and Daddy, and, of course, Grant and I and our kids. I would figure out where everybody would sleep in our three-bedroom cabin when I got there. I assured Mother and Daddy they would have their own bedroom with an en suite bathroom. This made them want to come even more.

We all headed back home around 6 pm, hungry but satiated by our success in getting everything set up. Grant returned the U-Haul somewhere in DC. Our friends headed home in their cars and Daddy and I returned together in my 1980 reliable Volvo station wagon with me behind the wheel.

The day had been hot but with low humidity and by evening, the weather had cooled off to a comfortable temperature. Daddy and I rode home, just the two of us, with all the windows down, taking in the cool breeze along a back road of open fields and trees that formed a canopy over the narrow road we took to get to I-81, the interstate we had to take to get back to DC.

Enjoying the quiet of the inside of the car and the picturesque outside, I was uncharacteristically moved to say to my father, with some awkwardness, that he was the best father a daughter could ever have. He blushed, squirmed in his seat, and quietly said, Thank You. It was my last opportunity to tell my father how much he meant to me.

My words found their own way out and I couldn’t have been more proud of myself for finally finding courage to speak those precious expressions of love and gratitude to the person who had devoted his life to his family, as we were not typically a family of physical or verbal expressions of love.

Given what was to happen just a few days later, I’m forever grateful I told him how I felt. I have often wondered if I had a premonition that I would never see him again and was moved by the spirit to let him know how much he meant to me. I think so, because the next week, he was gone.

On the day of his death, my father had dropped my mother off for her Thursday, 10 o’clock biweekly hair appointment at Benita’s. My mother, sisters and I had been going to Benita’s Capitol Hill Hair Salon for longer than we could remember. She called us the Crouch (our family’s surname) Girls and treated us like family. Her salon was typical of Black beauty shops back then: old-school R&B playing in the background, Ebony, Jet and Essence magazines scattered around, customers flipping through them, enthralled with the latest Black entertainment gossip. If you were lucky to have a midday appointment on any given Friday, Benita treated you to a perfectly fried whiting fish sandwich from the renowned Horace and Dickie’s Seafood carryout off H Street. She had a hookup at Dickie’s, and all she had to do was to call her order in and in less than an hour the sandwiches would arrive piping hot with salt and pepper, hot sauce and ketchup on the side.

Most of the time my father waited for my mother to finish getting her hair done, but that day he decided to drive to our old 63rd Street neighborhood and pop in on Mr. Ellis and his wife, a couple my parents had been close friends with for eons. He visited with them until my mother called to let him know she was ready. He said his goodbyes, hopped in his beloved 1982 shiny blue Volkswagen Beetle, and headed back to Benita’s. Why he was so enamored with this car was beyond my understanding, but he drove it everywhere, even numerous times to Ithaca, NY to visit Steve and his wife when Steve was in graduate school at Cornell.

From 63rd Street, he got onto East Capitol, a straight shot to Capitol Hill. He stopped for a red light at East Capitol and Benning Road, a busy intersection where the once-popular, two-story, unapologetically grandiose and gaudy, boat-shaped Shrimp Boat seafood carryout still stands.

When the light changed, he proceeded across the intersection, continuing on East Capitol while another driver in a Chevrolet Impala was barreling down Benning Road at an insane speed−frighteningly over the posted 25 mph speed limit. His light turned red. He ignored it, jumped it and smashed into my father’s car with such force that my father was thrown out of the car onto the street where he died. My brothers Steve and Lawrence told us later that when they saw the car, wrecked beyond description, they were overcome with grief and revulsion. Throughout the years, they have never described in detail what they saw, to me, my mother or my sisters, in an effort, I’m sure, to spare us any added emotional pain. I’m thankful for this and I have never wanted to hear the details.

My memories of the days and weeks following his death are surreal—the funeral when my mother lovingly laid her head on the casket of her beloved husband of forty-four years for her final goodbye; the casket slowly making its journey down the aisle of my parents’ place of worship, St Francis de Sales Catholic Church; the hearse waiting outside to motor my father’s body to the gravesite at Fort Lincoln Cemetery; the courtroom where my father’s killer was sentenced; and my meltdown in the courtroom, crying, sobbing, tormented by my loss.

It’s been thirty years since his death, and I still grieve like it just happened. Every year, July 12th, is a bad, bad day for me. I can depend on my body to warn me that the day is near even if I’m not consciously aware of its approach. Physical ailments ranging from tension headaches, heartburn, insomnia, and fatigue to overall malaise signal the pending date.

Over the years, I have regularly cloistered myself in my office for hours at a time to talk to my father. I tell him about my day, how the kids are doing, what I ate for lunch, and many mundane bits of trivia about my everyday life. A red-lettered Do Not Enter sign on the door keeps intruders out. I put it there when my children were young, and I have no intentions of taking it down even though they are grown and on their own.

My private space used to be an attic we used for storage. After many years of my asking and pleading for a space of my own, my husband and his brother Lamont finally got around to it. With my help, they created a large, open room with a picture window overlooking the backyard.

They finally finished it in 1983, the year before my father was killed. About three months after he passed, I planted a Japanese Maple, his favorite tree, in the backyard. The tree is huge now and symbolizes the enormous presence he has had in my life.

I often look out at this magnificent tree from the beautifully aged oak desk that my father and I lovingly restored to its original luster and weep.

CHAPTER 3

Since my father’s death, I’ve had random encounters with people who are still stuck in their loss—just as I am. I think we wear an invisible I am still grieving sign on our chest that draws us together.

I’ll never forget one such encounter with a woman who lost her husband on 9/11. Our paths crossed in the surgical waiting room at Georgetown University Hospital. I was waiting for my husband to be discharged from a minor in-and-out procedure, and I assumed she was waiting on someone as well. She was an attractive white woman with mixed gray stylishly cut hair. However, her face was etched in sadness as she sat staring into space. I assumed that a family member or spouse was very ill and she was waiting for the bad news she knew was coming.

Perhaps it was her droopy body and bowed head that prompted me to reach out to her. She seemed so sad. Usually, I would leave a person like this alone, but something moved me in a different direction. She was pleasantly open to my overture to engage in conversation with her. Shortly into our chat, she told me about the death of her husband.

His name was Phil, she whispered, as she looked blankly at the floor. We had been married for only five years when he died. It was on 9/11, she whispered again in