Tag Archives: Inspiration

Chapter 2-Part 2-A1A Beachfront Ave.


It’s a beautiful morning. I woke to the sunshine flowing through my window warming up my face. There is a cool breeze coming through also. I left the windows open last night because, even though it was 2am, the temperature was still up around 65 degrees. That is Florida for you. I get out of bed, brush my teeth, light up a smoke, and go to make coffee. Thank goodness there is coffee. I don’t seem to function too well without it. While the coffee is brewing I go grab Brian’s phone number. I really need the wi-fi password. Or maybe I just want a reason to call him. I find his number, grab my cell phone, and dial the number. It goes directly to voicemail. It is kind of early. I imagine him up early, at the beach before sunrise, waiting for that perfect wave. I hope it came in. I leave a message for him to call me back.

Well, now that is off my plate for now, I think of my journey today. I hear Vanilla Ice in my head singing “A1A Beachfront Ave. Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis, rockin’ lovers drivin’ Lamborghinis…”. Lame, I know, but who doesn’t know the reference? My coffee is done brewing. I pour a cup and grab my route information. I have a semi-long trip ahead of me, but not too bad. It will take me through a couple different towns and I will get a quick view of a lot of different sites. I’m not wearing a bikini, or anything less for that matter, but I will wear my bathing suit under my clothes. I am hoping to find work out by the beach, if I can, so I can’t exactly dress like your typical beach bum. I decide I am going to wear a business casual dress, with decorative flip flops. Still “beachy” but not too relaxed. I like it. I will also bring a set of clothes in my bag to change into in case my dress becomes a nuisance. Ok, time to get dressed, and ready to go.

Checklist: Bag with extra clothes? Check. Wallet? Check. Book for down time? Check. Bottles of water for the trip? Check. Cell phone? Check. Sunglasses? Check. Sunblock? Check. Bus information? Check. Keys? Check. Alright, I’m ready for the quarter mile walk to the nearest stop. My bus arrives in an hour. I’m pretty sure I can get there in time.

I step outside and it is humid. I heard from people before it isn’t as bad by the water, so I am even more anxious to get there. It is 9am and already 74 degrees. This weather will be my demise in this state, if nothing else. There is a slight breeze which is everyone’s saving grace here. I froze a couple bottles of water last night so that they were still cold when I needed them today. They feel good through my bag against my body. It’s helping more than you know.

I can see the stop ahead. I am always leery walking up to a new stop. I have no idea who I will run into. I don’t know anyone here, so that is good. No drowning conversation that I have to pretend to enjoy. There are two ladies sitting on an uncovered bench who seem to be  approximately in their 50’s. They are chatting away. Dressed in their golf clothes with their bright pink visors, they look like the stereotypical retiree here in Florida. I see a man leaning on the light pole smoking a cigarette. That will be where I will go since I want to try to keep the smoke in one place.  The man doesn’t look threatening at all. He looks to be about 35 and well kept. Just looking at him, you wouldn’t think he was a smoker. He has shades on so no one can tell where he is looking. It seems he is looking down towards the ground, and he is frowning. He must have something serious on his mind. On the opposite end of the bench is a kid with his bicycle. He looks to be about 13 but not in any danger. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. He has been here before. OK, I have scoped out the stop, and I feel like this will be painless.

I walk up to the pole and stand on the opposite side of the man. I light up a smoke, and if you know anything about waiting for a bus, you know that if you want it to come sooner, just light up a smoke. Sure enough, he is barely two hits into his, and I just lit mine, and coming around the corner is our bus. We both rush to put them out and put them back in our packs. Everyone grabs their things, and lines up. The ladies go on first, then the kid tries to get his bike up the steps. The buses here have a bike storage area up front near the driver where riders can strap in their bicycles. The kid is having trouble, so the man helps him out. As the boy hops up the steps, drops his money in, and turns around to grab the bike, the man pushes the back end up and the boy lifts it into the storage rack. The man puts his money in, and I follow him in doing the same. The bus is empty except for those of us that were at my stop. It’s great. It isn’t flooded with degenerates, and neglected people. I take a seat near the middle of the bus by the window so I have a panoramic view of the city as we drive through  to Daytona.

I don’t know what happened, but I missed most of my ride. I fell asleep. I don’t know if it was the drone of the semi-empty bus, or what, but I just couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. I have been super tired lately. I have chumped it up to all the excitement and changes in my life recently. I woke up just in time for me to see us passing the Daytona Nascar track. What a neat view of the track from the street. It looks massive, and intimidating. I would love to go there. There is a pedestrian bridge that crosses over the road and across it spells “Welcome to Daytona”. I am so excited. I can almost feel the sand between my toes. We drive down a few miles more, and I can see the ocean. We pull up to A1A and turn onto the main strip. What a site. There are massive groups of people everywhere. Some in bathing suits, some in less, some on motorcycles with leathers, and some on motorcycles with barely enough to cover their feet, much less anything else on their bodies. I see signs that tell me there is a motorcycle event in town. This place is crazy. Thank God there are signs for the boardwalk and I know there is a way to get to the beach without having to go through this mess. How scary. Everyone seems pretty drunk and disorderly. Not my style. The disorderly part anyway.

The bus stops at the entrance to the boardwalk. I get off and pray to God I don’t get attacked or run over by anyone. I have lived in LA County most of my life, but this is crazier, I think.  I walk over to the steps that take me down to the boardwalk. I walk along the storefronts as I feel the salty air on my skin. It is magical. The water is a different color, and the people are way more sexy here. I feel a little out of place, but I seem to fit into the scene just fine. I take off my shoes and walk onto the sand. It is early enough still that the sand is moist and cool on the bottom of my feet. This will give my feet a good scrub. Walking towards the water, I start to think of why I am here. How I made the decision to come here. I thought of the future I saw when I was dreaming of how my move would turn out. I thought about how I was alone, and wishing I was holding someone’s hand right now. I have dated, and been married once. None of which turned out to be my soul mate. Most of my situations, or relationships as most people call them, were results of my survival needs. Since my divorce I really haven’t felt the need for a man. I just got tired of someone else holding my destiny in their hands. They just didn’t care enough to make sure my life was their priority. Once I realized I was the only one that controlled my present, and my future, I was able to rely on my self and not have the need for a man to live. Now I realize, I need someone for companionship, and unconditional love. I need to feel that excitement when I see this person after being gone from them all day. I need to be loved.

I have walked down to the water. I am holding up my dress so I can feel the cool, crisp water on my feet. The beaches are beautiful here. It is still hot near the water, and the humidity is still obvious, but the cool breeze coming off the water makes it all a little more tolerable. I find a spot on the beach, and sit down to enjoy the scenery. The spot I am in doesn’t have too many people near it yet, but I can see there really isn’t any place on the beach that won’t fill up by noon. I think about making sure my phone is one in case Brian calls me back. I really need to be able to get online when I am home or I will go nuts. It’s only lonely when I don’t have anything to do to occupy my mind. I apply sunblock to all the skin that is showing and relax.

Following the same pattern lately, I fall asleep. I start to feel the heat on my face after a couple hours and that wakes me up. The beach is busier now, and there are more people near where I was sitting. I just can’t seem to stay awake, but I feel so good. Refreshed from my nap, and free of concern for just a little bit. The beach does that for me.

I decide to get up and see if there are any places I can apply for a job. I start to walk back to the boardwalk as I am dodging volleyballs, and cars driving up and down the beach. I make it back to the boardwalk safely and start my job search. Most of the shops are closed down, and there is a lot of rental space available. The main stores that seem to survive out here are surf shops, and restaurants. Even then, it is slim pickin’s. I may have to wait to look for work when the motorcycle event is out of town. I need to hit the strip. It is getting pretty busy here in town, and I have released my demons to the ocean, so I decide I am going to head back home. I wish I had more energy, but my anxiety is getting the best of me, and I feel all alone in someone else’s world all of a sudden. I just want to go back to my safety zone, and be alone.

I know, first I complain about being alone, and the next thing you know, that is all I want. This is my dilemma. I just don’t know what I want. I know what I need, but it doesn’t suit my life. I am just too into me right now, I guess. I find my stop, and pray that my bus arrives soon. I pull out the schedule and thank the Lord above that the bus is pulling up just as I do. I really don’t want to be left out here alone with all this chaos.

I sleep most of the way home, of course, and get off at the Elm stop, which is the one closest to my house. I get off the bus, walk home, slip my shoes off, drop my bag on the table and walk over to my couch. I lay down and wish I had heard from Brian. I would really like to get online. My eyes shut, and I sleep a couple more hours. I wake to a knock at the door. Who could this be? I don’t know anyone, and Brian hasn’t called me back yet. I am a little nervous but my house is hidden behind the main house, so I don’t feel too threatened. I walk over as I brush back my hair with my hands, and look through the peephole. It’s Brian. I thought he would call first. I open the door and invite him in. He said he was there to help me get online. I told him he didn’t have to come over, but he said he didn’t mind and was checking in on the main house anyway. His mother isn’t due back until tomorrow. I grab my laptop and he gets me hooked up in no time. He tells me he is finished, and I thank him. There is an awkward silence, and then he pops up out of the chair and asks me if I like pets. I told him I have had pets in the past, but not recently, but that I wasn’t opposed to the idea. He asked what I was doing tomorrow. I didn’t know why he was asking, but I felt like I was blushing regardless. I told him I didn’t have any plans, and he says “Good, I want to take you somewhere.” Now I know I’m blushing, and ask him where. He said it was a surprise, and said to be ready at 9am. I accept and he leaves. I feel like a little school girl. After he leaves the driveway, I dance around with a pillow in my arms, and think about how he is not my type in any way, but a little attention wouldn’t hurt.

My alarm goes off at 7am. I jump up and head into the shower to get ready for Brain to pick me up. I can’t wait to find out where we are going.


Chapter 1 – Part 3-Destination Unknown-18 yrs old, and she feels suicide is her only option…

It was all a blur. In the ambulance, I was terrified. They hooked her up to the heart rate monitor, and there was barely a pulse. They were pushing and prodding, probing, and tubing. It was one of the most intense situations I have ever been in. I may see someone die in my presence. Do I pray? I haven’t prayed in years.

We enter the ER drive-up for the ambulance, and I jump out. The EMT’s are racing against time to get her to a surgeon. They are almost positive there is internal bleeding, and she is not doing good at all. I am scared for the girl. We have no way of knowing who she is. Not yet anyway. They cut off her clothes and asked me to check her pockets in the ambulance. There was a gas receipt, $3.53 in money, a post-it with a phone number, and a bar tab receipt. She did wreak of alcohol, but I failed to notice among the chaos.

Nurses are asking me all kinds of questions I don’t know the answers to. I don’t even know why I’m here. I don’t know her, I did my civil duty, yet I can’t leave until I hear an update. I feel like her destiny is either going to reward my good deed, or make me feel like I didn’t do enough. Either way, I need to know.

The Dr. came out and said “She isn’t out of the woods yet. She had no internal bleeding, so she should be ok. She is stabilized and her leg was dislocated at the hip and the knee.” I wasn’t sure how to feel. I felt awful that this girl went through something so tragic, and we don’t even know her name. At least if someone knows your name, you have a better chance of being remembered. Devastating. My stomach is churning. I told the Dr. “thank you”, and he walked away.

I just sat there. In the waiting room. Waiting.She is in ICU and since I am not family I can’t go see my Jane Doe.

I fell asleep in the waiting room. Later I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a nurse waking me up to tell me “she is asking for the person who saved her life. You are the only one here”. I jumped up and asked for a restroom. I needed to wash my face real quick, as to not make her any more uncomfortable than she already is. The nurse leads me down the hallway, passing all of the rooms of existing patients. I hate that part of being in a hospital. I really shouldn’t be privy to the most private thing about people; their health. Or lack there of.

I’m ready to face her. I feel nervous, but I’m not sure why. The nurse leads me to her room and opens the door. She is hooked up on every available piece of skin, with every available piece of machinery. I’m not sure if her blood is really pumping by itself, or what. She’s injured, and bruised, but beautiful. In the most devastating way. She looks hopeless. Her eyes lack expression, and her face cannot show true emotion due to the morphine. I walk in and say “Well, hello there. You sure clean up nice.” She barely smiles, and reaches for my hand. I grab her hand and she grips it with all her strength. She doesn’t say a word, she just lets the tears run down her face silently without any other emotions. Broke my heart. I cried too.

Her leg is in a sling hanging above her bed. They realigned it but it just needs to heal. Almost every tendon is ripped and rebuilding is in the process. Her scapula was broken, and her dreams shattered. She hasn’t spoken a word, she is still holding my hand, so I ask her “what is your name?” She mutters something but I can barely understand her, much less hear her. She is drugged up so much trying to fight off the anesthesia and the morphine at once.

Her hair is red, not naturally, but pretty. She has green eyes. Part of her face is bandaged so I can’t really figure out the rest of her features. She is still gripping my hand. Almost as if she knew me. She falls asleep. Peacefully this time.

A nurse came in to check on her so I asked her if they were able to get her name yet. She said yes, and looked at her chart. Her name is Abby. She had no I.D. on her at the time, so they didn’t know until she told them. Funny, to me, she doesn’t look like an “Abby” from what I can see.

I sit in the chair they have placed next to her bed for me. I am exhausted. I just wanted to sit for a minute, then go home, but I fell asleep as soon as my muscles relaxed. I woke the next morning when the nurse brought in Abby’s breakfast. She is sitting slightly upright, her leg is out of the sling, while she is awake, and she seems to be awake, aware, and hungry. This is a good sign.

She speaks immediately saying “Good morning.” I replied with the same, and then there was a pause like we were waiting for each other to go first. She stated “Thank you for saving my life. It seems to be a trend with you.” I was puzzled by this. I asked “What do you mean?” She replied “You saved my life before. I know I look different, because I dyed my hair, and I am a little thinner than before. I told the hospital my name is Abby because I was scared. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. I told the Dr. this morning my real name. It’s me, Rachel.” I squinted my eyes and dropped my head like I was trying to focus on something a mile away. I was so shocked. I couldn’t believe she was in my life….again. Someone or something beyond us definitely has a hand in this.

A little thinner was putting it mildly. She was half the size of when I saw her that night. Her face was sunk in, and her skin, almost translucent. As I was struggling with my disbelief of who she was, she continued to tell me “I have had two children. One boy and one girl. I’m a meth addict now, though, and I asked my family for help, but I didn’t get any. I am going to school, but I’m not getting anywhere. I am failing now, because every night I go, I always stop a friends and get drunk on the way home  before going home to my kids. By the time I get to my grandmas, she watches them for me while I’m in school, they are in bed. I haven’t even gone to the last few classes. I just told my grandma I was going so  I could go drink. I get drunk every other night while getting hyped up on meth when I get my hands on it. My life is in a downward spiral. This was no accident. It was my failed attempt at suicide. I don’t know what to do. I mean, look at my life right now. I almost died in a car wreck, and you, of all people, are the only one here. Where is my family? They have been called. They know I’m here.”

Poor, poor girl. From the moment she came into my life, to now, has been nothing but a battle for her. She doesn’t even have the will to live. How can someone pull out of that with no support. I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, or not, her grandmother finally arrives. She walks into the room, and looks at me, then at Rachel. She walks over to Rachel and said “Well I hope you learned your lesson.” I wanted to slap her. No hug. No words of love, or concern. “The Dr.’s say she will be fine. Glad you are here for her”, I said. The woman was ruthless. “If I had any questions about her health, I would ask her. Thank you for the update” she scowled. I wanted to hit her. I was thinking she should have asked her about her health years ago. Mental and physical. She asked for a few minutes alone with Rachel. I hesitated, but I had no right to say no.

When I saw her leave I went back in the room. Rachel was crying. Her grandmother really laid into her making her feel bad. I asked Rachel if she knew about her suicide attempt. Rachel said no. She was afraid to tell her.

A Dr. entered her room and picked up her chart and asked “How are you feeling?” She replied tired, and in some pain. He ordered more pain meds and put her leg back up in the sling for the rest of the day. Right before he left, he said she should be able to go home in a couple days. “Do I have to go home that soon? Can I stay a little longer? I don’t want to hurt my leg any worse than it already is” she begged. I knew it wasn’t because of her leg. She just didn’t want to go home. The Dr. replied “We’ll see how it goes.” He left.

The nurse has already given Rachel more pain meds and she is starting to doze off. I told her I was leaving and would come back tomorrow to visit. She said ok and went to sleep. I waited until I knew she was asleep and left my number by the phone with a note to call me if she needed to before I came back.

Well, I missed my appointment, again.  I better call them, but not now. I would usually take the bus home, but I’m tired and just not in the mood to deal with other people right now. I call a cab. It takes about 15 minutes for the cab to get there. My head is pounding and I’m feeling pain in my legs. Must be from all the excitement and trying to get Rachel out of the car. My stomach is feeling queasy and all I want to do is lay down. I get in the cab, tell him my address, and we pull off. He asked “Rough night?” I replied with “To say the least.” My apartment is not that far from the hospital. I don’t know if the cab driver thought I was the sick one, or what, but for some reason he didn’t charge me for the ride. I tried to give him money, but he refused and said “This one’s on me. Pay it forward.” He smiled, and pulled away as I waved and thanked him.

As I walk up to my apartment, I hear a whimper in the bushes right out front. I look in the bushes and see a kitten. Her eyes are swollen, and she is covered in fleas. I used to have a cat, but she got hit by a car. I hesitate to do anything other than call animal control. I am just so fatigued at this point. I try to walk away and think I will call them from inside. Just as I opened the door, I hear the whimper again, and can’t resist trying to help. After all, I am supposed to pay it forward, right?

I pick her up. Her fur is matted, and she is frail. She purrs as I pick her up, but she is definitely injured. She is no more than 2 or 3 months old. She can’t walk, and she is shaking. I use my sweater to wrap her up in, and take her inside. I still have all my toys, food, and meds for my cat that died. I giver her a flea bath, feed her some food, and give her some water. I will take her to the pound tomorrow. After she eats, her and I fall asleep soundly on the couch.

I don’t wake until later that evening. I have completely messed up my sleeping schedule now, but I feel much better than earlier. I check my cell phone, and there are no missed calls. I hope this means Rachel was able to rest too. I wish I could help her. This girl has haunted my heart ever since I met her. I didn’t even get to tell her I met her mother. I wanted to find out how all of that panned out. I will ask her next time I see her.

Suddenly, I hear screaming coming from the upstairs apartment. I hear a man and his wife or girlfriend fighting. He is yelling at her telling her she is a stupid whore, and that she is worthless. She just cries. Next thing I know, I hear shattered glass, slamming doors, running, her screaming, and then BANG! A gunshot. I hear more running, and then nothing. I call the police.

Chapter 1 – Part 2-Abandoning the Route-a mother leaves her 11 yr. old daughter leaving her to deal with the torture alone…

Glinda looks older than she is. She is heavy set, and has short, brown hair tightly pressed against her head. I assume she doesn’t want to mess with it much. It seems more low maintenance than pretty. She has beautiful crystal- water blue eyes, but they have lost their sparkle. She is worn, tired, and looks like she’s had a rough life. You can read about her life in her wrinkles that seem to be prematurely forming on her face.

The picture of her daughter has been the only picture she has had to remember her daughter’s smile. The corners are torn and withered, and the color has faded on the print. It is stained with the tears Glinda has poured out thinking of the way she left her little girl behind.

“She was 11 when I left Glendale. That was where we all lived. I married her father and we had a good life, but his mother didn’t like me. So, he and I divorced when our baby was 2. I couldn’t afford to keep her, so she went to live with her father. I had an apartment and she would visit me every other weekend. Everyone criticized me for being the mother and not taking my child. I knew my husband could provide for her better than I could. He had his mother to help, and I had no one” she said, as she started her story.

Hearing that kind of rose some questions in my head. I wondered why they divorced because of his mother. That didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t understand why Glinda didn’t do everything she could to fight for her little girl. I don’t know the missing pieces, but for some reason, it didn’t matter.

“Jax, her father, started dating a woman when she was 4.   Her name is Chrislene. He married her when our daughter was 6. At first I heard all good things about Chris. They all lived with his mother, and then once they married, they got their own place. I guess that is when it all started. Jax and Chris did drugs and drank a lot. So did I. Cocaine, and marijuana were all of our drugs of choice. I didn’t know my baby knew I was an addict, but she did. After a while, Chris started hitting her. First, it was just a slap across the face, but it got much worse. The problem is, I didn’t know. They scared her so bad, that she never told me about it. The only issue I knew of was when she came to visit and was undressing to take a bath I had started for her. I saw her bottom was covered in bruises. Not just a small bruise here or there, but massive, dark, disturbing bruises. I asked her what happened, and she said Jax had made a paddle for her. I couldn’t believe he hit her that hard with a wooden paddle. She then said that he always made her pull her pants down too. I called Social Services and they came out and questioned her. They didn’t like what they heard, so Social Services made a surprise visit to their house. Nothing ever came of it. She never said another word about anything to do with Chris after that” Glinda remarked.

Now at this point, I am not sure what to think. You would think Glinda would say more about good times her and her daughter had, telling me more about her daughter than the issues in her life. She hasn’t even told me her daughter’s name yet. It was almost as if she were just trying to let someone else hear what happened to get someone to tell her it was ok, and we all make mistakes, blah blah blah. I am not feeling that sympathetic right now. It is 78 degrees and I am hot. We are sitting in the sun and there are several other passengers waiting with us. It is uncomfortable as the streets are filled with trash, and the people around me look like they enjoy it. Maybe they are just used to it, but I hate it when I have this transfer. I just want to get on my bus and go. I am not feeling well. My legs are cramping and my migraine is only getting worse.

“Anyway, as you can imagine I didn’t have much to do with the decisions in my daughter’s life at that point. I got shut out by her father. My relationship with my baby was dwindling and I could tell she felt like she couldn’t talk to anyone. I thought I wasn’t doing her any good by staying around making her life miserable every time she went home only to get questioned about every detail of our visit. I wasn’t doing right in my life, and felt the only way I could be the mother she can be proud of was to leave and join the ministry. So when she was 11 I left for North Carolina. I didn’t say goodbye because I didn’t want her to think this would be a forever thing. I just needed to straighten my life up. Well, she found me, and here we are. I got a letter from her not too long ago, though, and it was pretty disturbing. This was how we got back in contact. I guess there has been so much that has happened to her. She says she has been raped, molested, and beaten for most of her life. She’s going to counseling, though. That’s all she told me. How could I let this happen to her?” she asked as she started to cry.

What is it with the children in this country? Why is it they are being tormented so bad without parents as their support system? “I’m sure everything will work out fine. We are human beings and have it in our nature to want to forgive those we love. Especially if we need them so much” I say, trying to just calm the woman down.

Glinda looks at her watch and starts bouncing her knee. She is getting nervous. Her hands are shaking, and her forehead is wrinkled with worry. She has a small bag, the picture, and tattered Bible with her. It looks as if she tried to dress nice, but I can tell the clothes she had on has probably been the nicest thing in her closet for years.

The bus starts to turn the corner at our stop. “Here it is finally. Thank you for listening to me ramble about my life and all its glory” she said as she laughed at the sarcasm. The bus pulled up, the door opened and she started to walk on. I followed her up the steps. I have a bus pass, but I had to wait for her to put her money in. I look to see where I am going to sit, and the bus is extremely full. I am thankful I can’t sit next to Glinda. She was getting depressing.

We both find seats apart from each other. I see her pull the chord when we are coming up to her stop. I get up quickly. I want to ask her a question before she disappears out of my life forever. The least I could do for her daughter was know her daughter’s name. “What is your daughter’s name?” I ask quickly before she gets up. “Rachel. Her name is Rachel” she replies.

I knew the face in the picture looked familiar. This answers a lot of questions in my mind regarding Rachel. I now know why she couldn’t call her parents the night she got raped. I couldn’t believe I just ran into the woman who potentially ruined her life. This must be the roughest time in her life right now. A baby? Are you kidding me? I guess Rachel started looking for love in all the wrong places. I thought foster care would prevent this kind of thing from happening, but I guess you can’t watch every one all of the time. Wow, Rachel had a baby. She must be terrified.

We arrive at my stop. I get off the bus and go in the grocery store that is right on the corner. I grab a few items, just enough to still be able to carry them on the bus. I go to the bus stop across the street and wait for the 12. This bus takes me home with no transfers.

My Dr.’s appointment is coming up. I had rescheduled it after the whole incident with Rachel, but I never made it. I am terrible when it comes to going to the Dr. Anyway, it has been another year now. I better make this appointment, I guess.

It’s Tuesday and my appointment is in a few hours. Going to my stop to catch the 22 again. As I’m waiting, I am watching the street. There isn’t much traffic right now. In fact, the streets seem pretty lifeless. My stop is right in the middle of where the road curves. It is 4 lanes, two going one way, and two going the other. All of a sudden I see this car going at least 60 mph down the wrong side of the road. It is headed straight for a telephone pole. Next thing you know, BAM, straight into the pole. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I get my cell phone, and call 911. I run over to the car to see if I can help. There is a girl in the driver’s seat. She looks about 18. Her air bag deployed, thankfully, but her face is covered in white powder and little cuts from the windshield. She is almost half-way under the steering column, and her left leg is twisted back behind her with her foot almost sticking out the driver’s side window. I yell out to her “are you ok?” with no response. I hope she isn’t dead. I try to feel for a pulse, but I can’t feel one. I’m too shaken up. The car is now on fire and no help on the scene yet. I need to help this girl get out of this car. I try to open her door but it is jammed. I run to the other side, and thankfully, can open the passenger door. I crawl in and try to pull her out. I can’t. She is wedged under the dash and there is no way for me to help her. I run up to someone’s house, as people start flooding out of their homes. I scream “I need a fire extinguisher! Please hurry!” An older gentleman runs to the car and asks me to help get her out. I assist the man and we are finally successful. She is unconscious and can’t feel her pain. Her leg is not connected to her hip so it just dragged behind her. A woman is now putting the fire out with an extinguisher, flooding the air with bicarbonates. I hear the sirens. Paramedics jump out and run to the girl quickly. They hook her up to all kinds of contraptions, put her on a board and lift her to the gurney. They asked us if any of us were relatives. No one replied. I said “no, but can I ride with her to the hospital? She shouldn’t wake up alone.” They approved.

The Beginning-An Appointment in the City

 It’s 5am and my appointment is at 8am. Bus 9 is right before bus 22, which is the one I need. It is always running late. It’s been raining all night, and the streets are now nothing but reflections of the day’s chaos. The wind is atrocious at times. I have a stall to wait in, but it only blocks so much. My heavy rain coat with the wool lining is performing wonderfully under pressure as the temperature has only come up to 40 degrees so far. My coffee is keeping my hands from turning into icicles, and my boots are insulating my walkers.  I am not comfortable but I am not unfortunate either. I would usually read right about now, but it is too damp and the pages would soak. I look around as the rain lightens up a bit to a mild drizzle. Across the way under a sheltering tree is a young girl. I can’t see her face, but if she were to look up I would never know she was crying. She has blonde hair that doesn’t seem to be brushed. Her blouse is thin and wet, barely covering her shivering torso. She has pulled her knees up and is holding them close to her body, letting me in on her shame. Not a day older than 16, she has just  fought the battle even an older woman couldn’t walk away from unscathed. I grab my umbrella out of my satchel and decided to find out her name. I walk over to her and lightly rest my hand on her shoulder. She flinches abruptly and shouts out for help. I wasn’t sure how to react, but she quickly settled that issue when she stood up and said “please help me…I’ve been raped”. “My name is Natalie” I reply, and I took her over to the bus stop shelter…..

Chapter1 – Part 1-Waiting in the Rain – a story of a young girl whose world was ripped apart one button at a time….

I reach for my cell phone in my pocket to call the police. I give her my coat.  I ask for her name, and she replied  “Rachel, but please don’t call the police” while trying to talk in between her pleading cries. I gasped from surprise, and told her they would be able to help her and take her to the hospital. She pleaded for me to rescue her however I could, but restricted me to no outside sources. I wanted to phone her parents but for some reason, she didn’t want anyone to know. Rachel. Rachel who? Who was this girl and who did this to her? Why can’t Rachel call her father to come whisk her away in his arms making her feel like it will all be ok? Why is it her mother wouldn’t be the first person she would reach to when she has been pillaged of her soul by a demon in the alley? Why would Rachel feel more secure getting help from a stranger and not from the people who are supposed to protect her? I am troubled and filled with angst. I call the Dr. and cancel my appointment. It is just an annual physical anyway.

Bus 22 pulls up, but I had to make a decision. Do I take her on the bus and take her to the police station downtown? Do I betray her trust that she barely has for me when she can’t trust anyone else? My apartment is only a few blocks away. The street is filled with honking horns and the sun is starting to come up. Everyone will see her like this. I grab her hand, pick up the umbrella and briskly walk her to my apartment. The rain has picked up again. Perfect timing.

My apartment is humble. I don’t like too much clutter, and I can’t really afford it in the first place. Lately I have just been too tired to do much with decor. Rachel is hesitant to step in as she is covered in mud and dirt. Her shirt, barely there, is trashed. She managed to get her pants back from where the perpetrator threw them aside in a puddle, tossing the only shred left of her self esteem with them. With one shoe missing, Rachel’s foot is bleeding from running across the pavement. The other shoe barely on as she had to use the shoelace to hold her jeans up. He ripped off the button when he tore into the denim.  I explain it is ok to come in, and guide her to the bathroom. I start the bath and removed the rugs so she can undress and not have to worry about how I would feel if she soiled them. We need to bag up the clothes she has left for the police when she finally decides to report the rape. I explain that she needs to also try to wipe her vagina to get any DNA that may be left behind. Rachel looked at me like I just asked her to jump off a bridge, but I explained it would be the only way to punish whoever did this to her if she went through with contacting the authorities. My paper bag collection on the side of the refrigerator now has a purpose and my sandwich size baggies should preserve the DNA sample good enough for now. I give her the bags, a towel, and show her all the toiletries she can use while she is trying to scrub the filth from her body. Remembering her missing wardrobe, I grab a pair of old, but comfy, pair of grey sweats, a v-neck plain white t-shirt, a dark blue hoodie that is missing the draw string for the hood and has a corner ripping on the pocket. I gave her things I didn’t mind losing. Shutting the door behind me was a switch turning on her flow of tears. I hear her fall to the floor and just cry. And cry. She did this for an hour before finally embracing the steaming hot water in the shower.

Hearing her in there tore me apart. Poor child of God. Precious innocence stolen from her. I’m pissed . My heart beat is extreme, and my adrenaline is starting to make me tremble. I have been thinking about her resistance to help from everyone in her life. The troubles start building in my mind as I try to figure Rachel out. I need to think. What am I going to do with her? What is she going to do when she gets out of the shower? Is she going to want to stay? I want to help her but she is some one’s daughter. I need to call the police. I am hoping we can do it together. Maybe she will be ready after the hours of trying to erase the images from her brain with soap and a washcloth. Yeah, that sounds plausible. This is almost too much for me. I run into different people all the time, all with their own individuality, and cultural disparities. I have encountered mental disabilities, physical disabilities, or just broken down homeless people who aimlessly wander the nights with no fears or even recollection. None of them have ever brought me to a place where I start to question my purpose, my reason for being here. Rachel. Rachel who?

The bathroom door slowly opens as the steam rolls out releasing the turmoil that was just spilled out inside for two and half hours. Rachel grabs the bag off the toilet after hanging her towel on the shower curtain bar to dry. Her hair wet, but combed, hangs just to her shoulders. Her eyes are red from crying, cheeks swollen, and one eye blackened from the weak attempt to knock her unconscious.  Now what? She stands waiting for direction as she lifts the bag to me. I made sure all her belongings were in there. The now button-less blouse with one sleeve ripped off completely, her jeans with a shoelace belt, her one tennis shoe, and the baggie with the only weapon she has to defend against this monster in court. No bra. No panties. I took the bag over by the front door. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” I ask. Without a voice, she says no. “Then we need to talk about this. Are you ok with that?” I said, walking slowly over to her for guidance to the couch.

It was approximately 5:15am when I first saw Rachel. It is now 8:42am. Rachel decided she can walk me through the nightmare that happened about 11 hours earlier. Yes, just after 930pm the previous night was when it happened. She was alone, scared, withered, beaten, bruised, raped, and just plain destroyed for all that time, in the bitter cold and rain, and didn’t feel a thing.

Rachel had  a curfew of 9pm that she hardly ever followed. The knight I pictured as her father was a “functioning” alcoholic and drug abuser. The guardian angel I saw as her mother was the exact opposite, following the general stereotype of a wicked step mother. Rachel’s step mom had a heavy hand and a weak heart. She took that out on Rachel often, I’ve learned.  I was enlightened now a little more than before, but I still didn’t understand why it would be so hard to call on them for help if Rachel was truly in trouble. I can’t imagine not being able to count on your parents for something like this.  Rachel then started to paint a picture I wish I had never seen. “If I don’t make it home by curfew, my dad says to not come home at all. I thought he was joking the first time he said it. So one night I was late by 5 minutes and he wouldn’t let me in the door. I called a friend and stayed with her for the night” she explained. “Last night I was already late by half an hour when I realized what time it was. I was already halfway home, but knew I’d never make it through the door. There is an alley not too far from our apartment and I knew I could sleep in a doorway for the night. I don’t own a cell phone. I am only 16 and now I just want to die” as she started to jump from subject to subject, bawling silently due to the gut wrenching facts of the night. Tears are now flowing slowly down her face. Rachel has experienced so much pain, but this is different. This is hopelessness bound by neglect. This is abandonment, at the least. “You don’t have to go through the details with me Rachel, but you need to talk to someone who can help you whether your parents will or not. Please let me call the police. I will ask for a female officer to come here instead of us going to a station. Can we do that? At least tell them what happened. That man is still out there and he could be preying on another girl right now. We’ll hear what the officer has to say and then we’ll decide what to do. Is that fair?” I asked, hoping she would agree to the compromise. Like she hasn’t compromised enough. Thankfully she agreed.

Two officers showed up at my door in lest than 15 minutes. One female, and one male. The woman was older, maybe 45 or 50 and was from the Child Rape and Abuse unit. Her partner, a young spry kid, no older than 25 was a little too energetic but ready to solve the case. The female officer introduced herself as Maggie. “Officer Mureau, but please call me Maggie” she said to Rachel as she holds out her hand to make her introduction with a handshake. Rachel doesn’t move other than to look up and say “hi”. “This is Officer McIntyre, my partner, but you can call him Jim” Maggie explained. Jim just held up his hand as to wave and said hello to Rachel. I offered a seat to the officers and went to put on water for tea. I live in a one bedroom apartment and there is a breakfast bar to my kitchen which allows me to see through to the living room from the kitchen sink. I still felt like I was doing something wrong by leaving Rachel in there by herself, but it was only for a second. By the time I returned to the couch, Rachel was in mid memory. The pain on her face, fear in her voice, and the crawling of her skin shattered me. I listened to the foul details of the penetrating disgust this man laid on her. Rachel described him as a tall male, smelled of liquor and wore a knitted ski mask to hide behind. Maggie asked if she could see whether he was black or white, or another ethnicity. Rachel shook her head no and looked ashamed. Maggie reassured her that it would be ok and told Rachel to take her time.  “Do you remember any specific smells, or tattoos maybe?” Maggie asked, hoping Rachel could give a little more detail. After thinking for a few minutes, Rachel responded with “I remember his breath smelled like a spice my grandma uses to cook with ham”. We all looked puzzled by this, trying to figure out what that could be. After asking Rachel a few more questions regarding the smell, Maggie rattled off brown sugar, and butter for a glaze, but that wasn’t it. We all looked around still trying to come up with the impossible. I made everyone jump when I busted out with “Cloves!” That was it. We concluded the man smoked Clove cigarettes, or maybe a cigar. It was a start.

An hour and half has passed now. We all have had some tea, and a very rocky conversation. This was the most uncomfortable situation for me, but I was glad I could help. The officers grabbed the bag for evidence, and looked inside making sure they had what they needed. Rachel allowed them to call her parents, but there was no answer. “We need to take you with us, Rachel. I know you don’t want to go, but you should go to the hospital. I want to be sure you aren’t hurt or that he didn’t have a disease of some sort”. Rachel refused the visit to the emergency room. The officers would have to take her anyway. Rachel’s parents would have the ultimate say-so but they aren’t here, and can’t be reached.  They take Rachel only to be probed and prodded all over again by more strangers in the ER. Before she walks through the door, she pauses, turns around, and throws her arms around me. She quivered a whisper and said “thank you.”

A week has passed. I think of Rachel often. With everything that happened I never thought to see if I could check in on her. I called Maggie but it was an ongoing investigation and I couldn’t have much to do with it. I think of the bus stop. The place where I saw a young girl with no where to go after an event that made death sound pleasant. I hope she’s ok.

Two weeks have gone by now, and I still can’t erase Rachel from my mind. There is still a blood stain on my carpet from her lacerated foot. The phone rings. It’s Maggie. “I have someone here who would like to talk to you” she says with excitement and puts Rachel on the phone. “Hi Natalie” Rachel said, with much more cheer in her voice than before. She sounded good, and almost happy. “Rachel! I am so glad you called. How are you?” I asked, not really sure if I wanted to know the answer. “I just want you to know that when you found me I was contemplating jumping out in front of the next fast vehicle that drove by. I wanted to die. My life has not been textbook by any means, but I am smart and now can see my future because of you. Maggie had social services take me out of my house. I am now in a foster home. There are 6 of us there, but the house is nice, the foster parents are fun, and I just had my first full night of sleep last night. I don’t know where this road is leading me but I finally feel like I am moving forward instead of one step at a time into a grave. Thank you Natalie. You changed my life” she revealed. Rachel was not the battered child under a tree that I knew. She was a grown up 16 year old with hope in her heart, strength in her voice, and passion in her future. I can’t have Rachel’s phone number, but she knows if she ever needed to just talk, she could call me. I hope she does.

I need to go to the store. I have hardly any groceries. I find my bus route guide and head back out to the stop. Bus 22 is here and I’m on my way to the city again. I need to make a transfer at Wilcox Blvd. I will have to wait an extra half hour for bus 19. I don’t really like that stop. I never see a smile there. It’s a dirty neighborhood that has been torn down by each generation and their digression in society. The hood, they call it. I’m not afraid to be there, just a little disgusted. There is only one other person on the bus and he is sitting in the back. I stayed up front close to the bus driver. It is warm out, enough to wear shorts. My flip flops are thinned from wearing them so much, and my shirt is a little faded from all the washing. I don’t dress up much. I need to blend in.

We arrive at the Wilcox stop. I get off the bus, and go over to the bench where a woman sits with a picture in her hand. She looks over at me and says “this is my little girl”. I told her she was pretty and she said “I’m sure she is. I haven’t seen her since she was 11. She is now 17. She just had a baby and I get to meet my grandson for the first time. It has been 11 years. Do you think she will still know me?” she begged, looking for support. Who is this lady and why does she think I will have any insight on her life? I told her I didn’t know but to stay positive. I kept it short for a reason. I really didn’t feel like talking. I had a migraine,which I had been getting a lot of lately. “My name is Glinda. What’s yours?” she asked. “Natalie. Nice to meet you” I replied, but I don’t reach for a proper handshake. I pretend my hands are too full with my sweater and bag. I turn my head to look as if I’m looking for the bus. “Are you waiting for the 19?” she asked. I said yes. “Oh, don’t you know? That bus is cancelled today. The next one going that way is the 6. It won’t be here for another hour, though” she explained. Well this is just fantastic. Glinda proceeded to confess her story of how she abandoned her daughter to find God as a cocaine addict and alcoholic. Intriguing. Who ever does that? Who admits their unforgivable faults, much less to a stranger at a bus stop? An hour huh? Guess I will be entertained during the wait…