Unbreakable

       
Ebook by
PDAFiction.com

Copyright © 2004
by Blayne Cooper (Advocate)

          
Disclaimers & General Information

These characters and this story originated in the deep dark recesses of my mind, and thus belong to no one but me.

Sexual Content/ Violence/ Profanity:
This is work of alternative fiction containing, among other things, a romantic/sexual relationship between two adult women. The story also contains profanity and sexual violence. It is intended for mature audiences only.  If you're under 18, please move along.

Acknowledgements:
Steph, Eileen, Judith, and Medora MacD–your beta reading assistance was invaluable. Susan–your feedback helped make this a better story.

Comments/ Questions/ Feedback to:

[email protected]

I'd love to hear what you thought.

This is for the women in my life.
I love you. I hate you. I love you.

UNBREAKABLE

Present Day
Town & Country, Missouri

S
LENDER HANDS TREMBLED as fingers bejeweled with several rings and one thick gold band poised over the keyboard, hovering with uncertainty. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, tears filling them as she forced down several gulps of air. With a final burst of willpower, she clicked the printer icon at the top her screen, reluctantly acknowledging that the words would be no more horrible on paper than they were on the screen.

"Honey?" a deep male voice called from outside her closed office door. "I'm leaving now."

She sniffed once, blinking back tears, and snatched the paper from her laser printer just as it hit the receptacle tray. Wiping her eyes with a Kleenex she retrieved from the holder on her desk, she slid the paper into the top drawer and answered her husband. "You can come in, Malcolm. Since when do you stand outside my office door and shout?" But this time she was glad of the privacy.

Malcolm Langtree poked his blonde head through the door and gave his wife a boyish smile. "Since I wasn't sure whether you were in here or in the library next door and I was too lazy to check both rooms."

She chuckled and watched fondly as her husband trotted into the room, his chipper attitude and the spring in his step running counter to any claim of laziness. It had been less than six months since he'd been discharged from the hospital, and his recovery from a heart attack was all but complete. He was carrying a tennis racquet and wearing a tasteful, pale yellow Polo shirt and crisp white shorts, both of which showed off his tan. She patted his belly, which had yet to take on the softness of middle age that plagued his peers.

He set his racquet on her desk and surprised her by cupping her cheeks and looking her square in the eye, oblivious to the turmoil she'd been in only moments before. "I'm going to win today." He winked. "I just know it."

She laughed and shook her head. "Tucker always beats you, Mal. It's your punishment for spending all that money on those ridiculously expensive lessons."

Malcolm gave her a gentle kiss on the lips before snatching up his racquet and excitedly heading for the door, his tennis shoes sinking into the plush maroon carpet. "It wasn't a waste of money," he protested mildly. "He's on an athletic scholarship, isn't he?"

She nodded, deciding not to point out that their son's tennis scholarship at Webster University would never come close to reimbursing them for the thousands of dollars they'd spent over the years on lessons and camps. Still, the look on Malcolm's face and the pride in his voice when he talked about Tucker was payment enough. And it always would be.

"Did you remember your sunscreen and a towel?" Early September in St. Louis could still be brutally hot and humid.

Malcolm waved a dismissive hand as he stood in her doorway. "We're playing at the club this time." He tried not to look sheepish. "I reserved an indoor court. I'll be home by dinnertime. Now wish me luck at slaughtering our son."

"May you have no mercy," she dutifully replied, already knowing what the outcome of the match would be. Tucker had been beating Malcolm since he was in high school. Nowadays, if the match lasted more than an hour, Tucker was humoring his old man, something Malcolm had yet to catch onto, but was an example of thoughtfulness that, as a proud mother, she cherished.

"Love you," Malcolm called as he trotted down the hall, leaving her office door open, the clean scent of his aftershave going with him.

A few seconds more and she could hear the door to the formal dining room open and close. "Love you… too." The words stuck in her throat, the grief over the email rushing back full force now that Malcolm's reassuring presence was gone. She padded to the door in her stocking feet, her shoes still resting under her desk, and locked it, laying her cheek against the cool cherry-wood surface as she thought about what to do.

The housekeeper wouldn't disturb her for several hours, when the heavy-set black woman would come knocking and inquiring whether Mrs. Langtree wanted a cocktail before dinner. She usually did.

Why?
The familiar question reared its ugly head.
How could this be happening? Things weren't supposed to end up this way.

She retrieved the printed email from the drawer and opened a long heavy-paned window that overlooked the south lawn, an expanse of towering sycamore trees, lush green grass, and manicured flowerbeds. Heedless of the air-conditioning escaping into the hot afternoon, she continued to stare sightlessly.

And as the breeze kissed her cheeks, she sorted through the pages of her memory. It was so easy to dwell on the mistakes and tears, the guilt and regret that haunted her now and had for many years. As with every story, though, there was a beginning. She couldn't help but chuckle when she thought of theirs.

It had been golden.

*  *  *

November 1972
Hazelwood, Missouri

"And the Pilgrims and Indians shared a great feast in honor of the cooperation and friendship they'd shown one another. And it's because of their ability to share and help each other that we have this great nation. And for that and our other blessings, we give thanks."

"Ha!" Jacie snorted, slouching a little in one of the small chairs that filled Mrs. Applebee's third grade classroom. "It was the beginning of the end for the Indians. They were doomed," she said cryptically, stretching out the last word until several other children gasped. "You're not telling everything, Mrs. Applebee."

Most of the children, half of whom were wearing feathers and war paint, the other half were dressed like Pilgrims, with tall hats and bonnets and big construction paper buckles taped to the tops of their shoes, stared at Jacie in utter disbelief. Though a few disobedient snickers could be heard from the corners of the room.

The teacher's eyes narrowed. This was only her second week teaching at Armstrong Elementary and she'd already heard more out of this little girl than she would have liked. She didn't participate much in class discussion, but when she did, whatever she said was bound to be provocative and, thus, disruptive. "I'm teaching you everything you need to know, Jacie Anne Priest. But if you'd rather discuss this with the principal I'm certain that he'd be more than happy to see you. Again."

Jacie sank a little lower in her seat, the prospect of the principal calling her mother making her cringe. "No, ma'am," she mumbled, not making eye contact. Mrs. Applebee gave her a satisfied nod and went to her desk to pick up a stack of handouts that included a Thanksgiving word search, tidbits of information on the Pilgrims, and a recipe for pumpkin pie that the children could make with their mothers.

When the teacher's back was turned, a freckled girl with wavy sand-colored hair covertly reached across her desk and slid a tiny, many times folded piece of paper under Jacie's David Cassidy three-ring notebook. Jacie cracked the note open with the same caution she would have applied to handling a stink bomb. For all she knew it could
be
a stink bomb. Instead, it was just an ordinary note with uneven letters that read: "Wow!" Next to the words was a carefully drawn smiley face complete with ears and hair and the name "Nina."

Jacie flashed the normally shy girl a triumphant smile, quickly shoving the note into the small pocket at the top of her brown polyester skirt and doing her best to look completely innocent when Mrs. Applebee walked by her with a raised eyebrow. Nina had been in a different second grade class last year, and so even though she lived just down the street from Jacie, somehow they'd never really gotten to know one another.

With a tiny, embarrassed smile, Nina glanced away and started fidgeting with a thick pencil.

Jacie absently lifted the lid of her desk and shoved the packet the teacher had given her inside without looking. It took several seconds for her to push aside the many other crumpled papers before the desk would close properly again.

Mrs. Applebee returned to her normal place in front of the blackboard. "Class, I want you to–" The afternoon recess bell drowned out the rest of the sentence and the children eagerly sprang to their feet, their little bodies all leaning towards the door, posed to bolt on her command. The teacher smiled. Hazelwood, Missouri, was in the throes of a deliciously late and long Indian summer. She couldn't blame the children for wanting to soak up every moment of it. Knowing that no one would be listening now anyway, she indulgently gestured toward the door. "Enjoy recess."

"Yes!" was the collective shout, and within a matter of seconds the children had cleared the classroom and coatroom and were on the playground laughing and chasing each other in circles. A group of boys dressed like Pilgrims lined up against a group of boys dressed like Indians, ready for a rousing game of Red Rover, various revolting epithets being exchanged as they chose spots and linked arms.

As always, Jacie headed straight for the swing set. This was going to be the year that she swung clear over the top and down the other side in an enormous circle, so long as her nerve and the rusty chain didn't fail her.

"Hey, Jacie, c'mere! Please!"

Jacie reluctantly ground to a halt, grumbling under her breath when a skinny boy who had wet his pants the first day of kindergarten and was forever labeled "Stinky" cut in front of her and stole the last open swing. She turned and pinned Gwen Hopkins with an evil glare. "What?" she demanded, her hands moving to straight hips in a move that she'd seen her mother execute a million times.

Gwen was at least two inches taller than Jacie, and she straightened to her full height, doing her best not to be intimated by Jacie's narrowed, dark gaze. "I wanna show you something."

Jacie rolled her eyes and walked over to Gwen, who was standing alone and leaning against a cement tunnel. "This had better be good, Gwen. I'm going for the world's record highest swing ever this winter. I need to practice."

"You said that last year."

Jacie looked dismayed. "Breaking my arm took months off my training."

Not the least bit interested in Jacie's attempt at everlasting fame, Gwen shoved a piece of paper in front of her face, causing Jacie's eyes to cross when she tried to read it. The paper was a dull pink and was one of the sheets that Mrs. Applebee had passed out to the class just before recess.

Jacie glanced at it briefly, wondering why Gwen was talking to her at all and not busy skipping rope with her best friend, Amy. "So? It's a bunch a names or something from the…" she paused to sound out the word "Mayflower."

"That's right," Gwen gushed. "That was the name of the boat the Pilgrims came over on."

An indignant expression overtook Jacie's square-shaped face. "But the Pilgrims–"

Gwen held up an imperious hand. "You shouldn't talk about our founding fathers that way, Jacie." "My neighbor's son told me all about Thanksgiving. His name is Andy and he's home from college in California and he says–"

"My mom says you can't trust people from California. That they're all fruits and nuts."

Jacie blinked. "Huh? What does that mean?"

Gwen shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. Anyway, the Pilgrims were heroes, Jacie. There is an entire holiday just because of them. And we get two whole days off of school. So they couldn't be bad, could they be?"

Jacie chewed her lip. Gwen did have a point. "But Mr. Parker's son said they were the beginning of the end of the Indians," she tried again, giving her argument one last try.

"Maybe," Gwen allowed. Jacie was one of the smartest girls in the class. "But we still get two days vacation," she repeated, as though that said it all.