The Boarding House
Read The Boarding House Online
Authors: Sharon Sala
by
Sharon Sala
Bell Bridge Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-146-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-133-3
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Sala
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
House © Gary Blakeley | Dreamstime.com
Child’s Face (manipulated) © Lane Erickson | Dreamstime.com
:Mhb:01:
We come into this world as pure and innocent as a soul can be, and from the moment of our first breath, we are at risk.
As a parent, our greatest fear is that something or someone will harm our child, and the vigilance and ferocity with which we protect them is at a life and death level.
It is the perfect pairing – a helpless child and a loving and protective parent - except when the parent is the wolf and the child, the lamb, with nowhere to run.
I dedicate this book to all the children who grew up without a hero.
I applaud your instinct for survival, and I pray you have found peace.
Memphis, Tennessee—1993
Despite the long blonde curls and crybaby blue eyes, Ellie Wayne wasn’t like most five-year-old girls. Momma said she was fragile. Not fragile like the stuff Momma ordered from the QVC—fragile like sugar flowers on the bakery cakes at the Piggly Wiggly.
Daddy said she was ephemeral. Ellie didn’t know what that meant, but she thought it was good. It sounded better than being fragile.
Fragile
was something that didn’t last. She didn’t really remember it, but they all said she’d been a sickly baby and even now was still prone to every kind of ailment that came along, unlike her twin, Wyatt, who was her shadow.
Fern Wayne, Ellie’s mother, came from sturdy stock, but her large breasts and wide hips had been misleading. One would have assumed she would be perfect for childbearing—perfect for the family Garrett Wayne wanted, and to be fair, Garrett hadn’t been looking for beauty when he’d gone after Fern. He’d wanted a daughter. He didn’t care how many boys she birthed to make it happen, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he got his girl.
It had been easy for him to overlook her odd, androgynous features by focusing on the blonde hair and blue eyes she’d inherited from her Swedish ancestors, and there was the money she would one day inherit as the only child of Johan Strobel, as well. Strobel Investments was well-known in Memphis. Garrett always said you would be surprised at the number of people who traded on the New York Stock Exchange.
He and Fern had married within six months of their first date and were pregnant before the honeymoon was over. Everyone assumed Fern would birth fine, healthy babies, and yet her first attempt had been dismal. Garrett had been disappointed in Fern, but had taken one look at the four pounds and seven ounces of Ellie’s frail, naked body and fallen deeply, madly in love.
His silent condemnation of Fern hung over her spirit like a swinging scythe, taking swipe after swipe at her failure to breed hale and hearty children, until she imagined she could feel the sharp slice of the blade only a breath away from her throat. To counteract a future failure, Fern began hanging all sorts of religious icons upon the walls in the nursery. There were small crosses and large crosses—plain ones and ornate ones—crosses that had been blessed by holy water and some that had been blessed by her tears. She hung framed pictures of the Virgin Mary, of Jesus Christ, and of angels—all kinds of angels in every size and color—as physical proof of her piety in the hope that God would let Ellie live.
The fact that Ellie was now five years old had proved to Fern that all of her praying had worked. But the guilt of birthing a sickly child, along with the burden of raising her, had done a number on Fern. She’d grown old before her time, complaining constantly of womanly ailments usually left to middle-aged women and had taken up a life that revolved around bottles of pills and numerous glasses of wine—enough to get her through each day.
As for Garrett, he knew his worth down to the penny and ignored his flaws. He was a lanky man with a long, narrow jaw and a wild shock of red hair. His beak of a nose over-powered his face, centered between a pair of wide-set eyes in a shade of watered-down green so pale they seemed to have no color. His lips were thin, but curved often in a smile upon seeing his daughter.
Despite Ellie’s fragile hold on life, Garrett was determined she would not die—tending to her when Fern took to her bed to pray. He bathed the little runt of a babe, changing her diapers, delicately cleaning her lily—which was what Fern called her girl parts—doing everything for Ellie but the nursing. And if his teats could have produced milk, he would have done that, as well. But no matter what he did for his infant daughter, from the time she could voice an opinion, her allegiance had always been to her twin, who was the boil on Garrett’s life. From morning to night, it was always about what she and Wyatt played and where she and Wyatt went. Garrett found himself angry, even jealous, over her single-minded devotion.
And, the older Ellie got, the more withdrawn her mother became. She was no longer available as a wife for Garrett or a mother for Ellie. Garrett believed it was because Fern feared a second pregnancy would be a repeat of the first—something she knew he would not abide—but the truth was Fern Wayne had run clean out of prayers.
So this was Ellie’s life—a father who dominated her every move—a mother who was little more than a ghost—and the center of her world, her twin, Wyatt.
It was Sunday, and Ellie
was in her bedroom in her silk panties and socks, waiting for Daddy to come dress her. She knew how to dress herself, but Daddy always made her wait. She kept digging her toe into the thick pile of the carpet, wishing she could dig a hole big enough to hide in.
“You could dress yourself, you know,” Wyatt muttered.
Ellie frowned. Wyatt had the adjoining bedroom and got to dress himself, but Ellie didn’t have that freedom, even though they ran back and forth between rooms. “Daddy says no.”
“You don’t have to do everything he says.”
“Yes I do. So do you.” Panic edged her voice. “Right?”
“I’m sorry, Ellie.” He reached out to calm her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You’re right.”
Ellie nodded, but she was getting cold without any clothes. Chill bumps were breaking out on her skin and being undressed was making her nervous.
When she finally heard the sound of footsteps hurrying toward her room, she slapped her hands on her chest, covering the tiny raisin-like nipples just as Daddy came rushing into her room.
“There you are, my darling,” he said, eyeing her thin, reedy limbs. “Oh no, you’re cold, aren’t you? Here now. Let’s get dressed lickety-split and you’ll be all warm again, okay?”
Ellie felt Wyatt’s disapproval, but he made himself scarce. He didn’t like Daddy, and Daddy tolerated Wyatt, interacting with him only when Ellie insisted. She didn’t understand how a parent could love one child more than another, but she was only five. She figured things would become clearer when she got older. Grown-ups were always telling her, “You’ll understand when you get older,” so she assumed it was a fact.
She stood like a mini-mannequin waiting for window dressing and bore Daddy’s ministrations like a soldier; then one foot at a time, she slipped her tiny feet into the stretchy white stockings he was holding. Her breath caught in a moment of panic as Daddy pulled them up her legs, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles with his long slender fingers.
“Don’t want to leave any droopy spots, do we?” he asked as he finally pulled them up over her panties.
Ellie exhaled. “No Daddy. No droopy spots.”