Finding Alana Read online

  Finding Alana

  Meg Farrell

  Copyright ©2016, M. Farrell, Farrell Writes, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  ISBN: 069270163X

  ISBN-13: 978-0692701638

  Dedication

  For my Mama

  I love you, and still miss you every day.

  Acknowledgements

  My tribe—Amy, Paulette, Tara, and J-Vo: Thank you for retreats, wine, bong-bong, tattoos, chocolate, and endless laughter.

  The Shady Ladies – Thank you for allowing me to be me, and loving me anyway.

  Cover design: Cover Me Darling

  http://www.covermedarling.com

  Editor: Victoria Miller

  http://www.victoriamillerartist.com

  From the Author

  This book is loosely based on a true story. It contains episodes of domestic violence which made it very difficult for me to write. I’ve never experienced domestic violence first-hand, but my friends and family have.

  Get help if you or anyone you know is struggling with domestic violence. Lives depends on it.

  For help with domestic violence:

  Visit: www.thehotline.org

  or

  Call: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)

  Table of Contents

  1 - Death

  2 - Meetings

  3 - Coincidence

  4 - Trust

  5 - Shame

  6 - Time

  7 - Assent

  8 - Connection

  9 - Attack

  10 - Security

  11 - Confrontation

  12 - Recompense

  13 - Dawn

  14 - Beginnings

  15 - Happy

  1 - Death

  Oh, God! I suck in a quick deep breath. My chest aches as it heaves, and my head is spinning. I feel nauseated as I rub at the headache behind my eyes. Oh, my God! Pain crawls through my body. Taking a mental assessment, I note that everything hurts. Something large and heavy hit me. For some reason, I can’t get my head around it. What was I doing? I run my hand down to my stomach because it’s burning like I’m on fire. My hand comes away sticky and wet. Oh, God!

  Struggling to sit up, I try to open my eyes. There are light trails keeping me from seeing clearly, but I can tell it’s blood. My hand is covered in it. Blinking over and over, I try to clear my eyes, and I see it. My stomach is also covered in blood. Recollection floods my mind—the fight. We had a huge fight. Oh, God! He tore through me. He hit me so hard I flew into the bookcase and it shattered against the wall. Then there was the noise. It was loud and thundering. It echoes in my mind. At that moment, I remember… I’ve been shot.

  As the realization moves on, tears well in my eyes, fear fills every fiber of my being, and my breathing stutters. I test my legs to see if they’ll move. My knees protest, but give way to movement. I kick at a pile of rubble, and try to make room to get up. A low grumble comes from beside me and I freeze.

  Cautiously, I look around, and see my husband is asleep on the couch. I can tell by his snore that he’s sleeping off his drunk. The empties piled on the coffee table confirm my suspicions. As silently as possible, I pull myself up gingerly, and begin to move toward the back of the house. I hold the wall for support and grab my purse off our dresser. There’s no time to take anything else. Mentally, I begin thanking God that Ethan is at my sister’s, and I’m not dead.

  Tears are spilling down my cheeks, but I try to remain quiet as I make my way to the door. I don’t even close it behind me because it would make too much noise. I need to get away without waking him. I stumble down the steps of our trailer, trying to think of a plan. I start for the car, but then I think of the noise the engine would make. Think, think, think. I look around.

  We don’t have any close neighbors, and the car is definitely not an option. My only choice is the woods. If I can just make it through the woods, the road is on the other side, and I can hitch a ride to the hospital. I start praying there will be somebody out tonight. That old road never has much traffic. It would be a miracle if there was someone. I sling my purse over my head so it hangs across my body, and then I start for the woods.

  Survival mode must’ve killed the pain as I find my aching body begins to move faster the closer I get to the woods. I trip several times crossing through, but keep going. That’s all I can do is keep working my way through the woods. I have to make it. He’ll kill me if he catches me.

  Exhausted, and determined to survive, I stumble out on to the road. Headlights are coming toward me as I stand captivated, frozen in place. A large truck just misses me as the tires squeal. This is my chance. Somehow I manage to get my legs moving and I run toward the sound of the truck as fast as my body will let me. A man jumps out of the truck and is running toward me.

  He’s yelling, but I don’t hear him. Ignoring him, I run past him to the passenger side of his truck and climb inside.

  He follows me and rips the door open. “What are you doing?”

  I swallow hard. “Please help me.” I reach out and grab him with my right hand as my left protects the injury in my stomach. “I need help.” It’s all I can mutter.

  He must notice the blood because the next thing I know he’s lifting my shirt to look at the wound. When he sees it, all he says is, “Oh, my God. Hang on!”

  He climbs in on his side of the truck and the tires scream once more. I collapse deeper into the seat as the adrenaline ebbs, and exhaustion drags me into sleep.

  

  The nightmare never changes. I’m dying. Bleeding to death on the floor of the trailer I shared with my husband. Cold sweat dots my brow as I sit up and throw the covers off. My breathing is always erratic as I try to calm down and bring my brain back into the present. I’m okay. I’m okay. He can’t hurt me. I repeat the mantra to myself.

  Finally, I feel calm enough to start my day. I finish kicking the covers all the way off and put my feet on the icy, hard-wood floor. It must be below freezing outside. My room stays colder than the rest of the house, but this shit is ridiculous.

  I start the shower to warm up, and try to talk myself into going to pee. I know the toilet seat is going to be freezing, and I’m right. As soon as I sit, I let out a squeal because I feel like I’ve just sat on a block of ice.

  “Cold, huh?”

  I look up to see my roommate, Kate, standing in the bathroom doorway. She’s smirking and holding a cup of coffee.

  I groan. “Dammit, Kate! Would it kill you to give me a little privacy?”

  She laughs, “Whatever, Alana. We have the same bits and pieces. Do you want breakfast?”

  Wiping, I pull my sweatpants back in place. “No. Thanks anyway. I’m going to shower and head into work a little early today.”

  Shock passes over her face. “You hate that place. What has you acting like an overachiever all of a sudden?” Her dark eyes challenge me.

  “Remember me telling you about my friend Rhae? The girl whose husband died? Well, she quit last year, and they’ve just now decided to fill the spot. I applied, and I’m interviewing today. I want some time to do a little prep.”

  Her smile is radiant. “Oh, girl! I’m so happy for you! Think you’ll like it better if you report to someone other than the Dragon Lady?”

  “That’s my thought. Now, get out of here. I need to shower. We’ll talk later.” I push at her
as she nearly refuses to leave. She knows I won’t get naked in front of her. She’s always pushing me on this, though. Kate is an exhibitionist and will literally walk around naked in front of anyone. Anyone.

  Her body is killer. She should be proud of it. Her skin is a lovely dark brown, and her eyes are even darker. She changes her hair every other day or so. I never know if I should expect to see her with braids or in a big halo around her head. I know it will always be just gorgeous! I’ve told her a hundred times that she should be modeling.

  We’ve shared the house her grandmother left her for a couple of years. The house is about a hundred years old. Pretty typical for midtown Memphis. My suite is an addition that was built in the sixties. There are a number of updates I think would make it stellar, of which, insulation in the walls is a priority.

  Memphis doesn’t get a deep freeze like some parts of the country, but when the temperature drops, you can feel it in your bones. We only get one or two snow days a year. On average we just get ice. My room feels like a meat locker through most of the winter. Maybe, if I stay another year, Kate will let me help her finance the work to update it. The drafts can’t be good for the electric bill, and it’s not safe to keep a space heater on all the time.

  I jump in the shower and start preparing for the day ahead of me. I focus on the job description for the position I applied for. The requirements are in my mind like a photographic memory. I don’t have a photographic memory, but it’s so important I memorized them. The only obstacle could be my education. I didn’t go to a big, fancy, college for a bachelor’s degree. I had to settle for a community college, which I finished recently. Considering what I’ve lived through, it’s a miracle I got this far.

  Fact is, I’m twenty-eight, so my lack of education looks like lack of motivation. How can I tell a potential manager my story? I don’t generally advertise it. The only people who know that story in its entirety is my ex-husband, the women’s shelter, and the sweet lady who helped fund my college. I will be forever grateful to Cade’s grandmother, Irma.

  Cade is Rhae’s boyfriend. He was living with his grandmother, taking care of his grandfather, down the street from Rhae. It was a wacky chance thing when they met. After they decided to relocate to New Orleans together, they had a moving day party. That’s when I got to meet Irma. Boy, is she a fireball!

  Small package, and dynamite when she opens her mouth. Like most good, old southern women, she is in charge of all things. Her accent is a bit more Cajun than plain old southern. Of course, she is from Louisiana, though she’s quick to tell you she ain’t from New Orleans.

  She’s a petite woman with silver, curly hair, which she keeps knotted in a bun on the top of her head, and she smiles as if she knows everything about you without asking. That’s what happened to me. I smile when I think about the conversation she and I had the day I told her about my past.

  

  Irma asked me to walk her home. Being as small and frail as she seemed, I agreed. When we got to her house, she asked me to sit on the porch swing for a spell. She joined me, and then she began.

  “Girl, there’s all kinds of trouble following you.”

  Her proclamation surprised me. I must have been an open book to her because I could feel the blood drain from my face only to be replaced by the heat of a blush. All I could do was nod in response.

  Irma smiled at me. “Well, I’m glad you ain’t trying ta deny it, sweetpea. Let’s go see what we can see about this.” She stood and led me through her house to the back room. “Now, listen here, what we talk about in this room is only for us. You don’t need to share it with nobody if you don’t want to. Understand me?”

  Still in shock, and a little scared about where this would go, all I could do was nod. Part of me thought this was either one of those gypsy things you grow up seeing on TV, or this lady was out of her mind.

  “Good. Now, you be totally honest with me. Tell me about you.”

  I had to think about where to start. Remembering she’d demanded honesty, and I had her confidentiality, I decided I need to tell her everything. When I finished, she was crying. I felt like total shit making this old lady, whom I’d just met, cry like that.

  Irma held my hands, turning my palms to where she could get a good look at them. She mumbled something so low that I couldn’t quiet hear what she said. When she looked at me again, there was something new in her face. Determination. Then she laid out the plan. She was taking me as her own. She explained that she wouldn’t tell me where I’d end up, but she had seen it. She saw that she needed to help me in any way she could. To her, that meant helping me finish college.

  Irma is as important to me as my own grandmother once was. She helped set me on the path so my life could mean something.

  Here lately, she’s getting down more and more every day. I keep Cade and Rhae informed of her status. I think it’s just old age. She refuses to go to the doctor, so I can’t say for sure what’s wrong with her. I do my best to influence her to see a doctor, but she keeps saying she has seen what’s coming for her and when. Irma doesn’t want any of us to worry. It scares me, but Cade says that I have to trust her. It goes against all my better judgment, but I know he’s right. I’ve trusted her this far, and she’s never been wrong.

  2 - Meetings

  I arrive to work about an hour ahead of my normal start time. The office is a ghost town. The lights aren’t even on yet. I settle into my desk and start reading my resume again and check my calendar. I have several administrative things to do today. My interviews are interspersed between other obligations, and I don’t know why I always volunteer for so much. My current job is the lowest rung of the proverbial ladder. Sometimes I think it’s one step below entry level.

  It’s not about where you are; it’s about where you’re going. Irma’s reminder echoes in my mind whenever I think about her words. Her reminders sometimes feel like admonitions for a lack of faith. I look down at the tattoo on my wrist. It’s a beautiful script, which reads, “Actually, I can.”

  Six months ago, when I was having a really low day, I ran across this phrase and knew I needed it as a tattoo. It was such a bad day that I considered quitting school. The only thing that kept me going was knowing how quitting would hurt Irma. It was a day when I was thinking of Ethan, my son.

  Ethan was only three years old when I had to run for my life. His tiny face is always in the back of my mind. I don’t have any pictures of him, and I haven’t been able to see him in five years. I had become very good about keeping my thoughts off of him. He lived only in a tiny compartment of my mind that I accessed when I was alone.

  On that particular day, I met another Ethan. He was some guy in my civics class. We were doing introductions as it was the first day of the semester. When he said his name, I jumped and turned to look at him. He had light brown hair and green eyes. The same green as my own. The same as my Ethan.

  It was a silly, coincidental moment. It wasn’t enough to really call it coincidental. I think Ethan had been on my mind lately, and it was the tiny straw that destroyed the wall holding back all of those pent up emotions. I ran from class, and hid in my car. It was a hell of a thing to explain to the teacher when I returned to class on the following Thursday.

  How do you tell your teacher that the guy three rows back reminded you of the son you haven’t seen in five years? You don’t. You claim lady problems.

  That weekend, after I told the negative demon in my head—who tells me all that I can’t do—to shut up, I drove to see my friend Allie. She’s a tattoo artist. At first, she gave me shit about the phrase, but she drew it up anyway. She did a beautiful job. It wasn’t as painful as I thought it might be, and the script is what I need on days like this.

  It’s a reminder that no matter what shit I’ve been through, I can do anything I set my mind to do. Right now, I just want to get through these interviews.

  I start working through my emails, and printing reports that the Dra
gon Lady will be asking for. If I can do what she wants before she asks, my life goes a lot smoother. Naturally, the printer shared by the entire cube farm jams. I know because I can hear that dinosaur grinding and squealing. I start praying as I walk over to the beast.

  Last time this happened, I was less than successful in fixing it. I sincerely detest calling for the systems guy to come up and look at it. Invariably, they make me feel like an idiot for needing assistance.

  First, I read the display to see if it points out on the diagram where the paper is stuck. It does, but it says there are four potential locations for the jam. Oh boy. I set about opening all the little doors and turning all the little wheels. I have to be careful because the damn fuser is putting off so much heat that I’m scared to burn myself.

  Pulling pages out as I find them, I soon have a stack of torn, crumpled, remnants. I look a little deeper to see a tiny piece hanging behind a pressure plate. After studying the diagrams and arrows printed inside the printer cavity, I see I should lift this green lever that looks to release the plate in question.

  I can’t seem to move the piece-of-shit lever. So I step back and position my legs to help me. I’m also careful to keep my distance from the machine as my hands look like I’ve been grease-monkeying on cars, not fixing a printer. I really don’t have the money to start replacing my wardrobe due to toner mishaps.

  Taking a solid grip on the lever from hell, I bend my knees to leverage some strength from my legs. As I begin to lift, I feel the sudden success of something letting go. I’m just about to fist pump to celebrate my victory over the printer, when I look down to see the lever in my hand—no longer attached to the printer.

  “Motherfucker!” I say in frustration, a little louder than I intend. Suddenly, I hear someone behind me clear their throat. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I take a deep breath, bracing myself to see who I’ve offended. Slowly, I turn and plaster on a sheepish smile. Standing behind me isn’t someone I know. He’s grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.