ONE OF THE earliest memories Lindsey Clayton had of her childhood was the feeling of rejection. And even worse, it had come from the mouth of a person whom she was supposed to be able to trust at such a tender age in her life— her own father.
That early memory held not a hint of haze to it, and Lindsey remembered it quite clearly when she regretfully looked back on it. She had been four years old and carrying a slight speech impediment that had made certain words difficult for her to say. It was a subject that was broached quite often in her house, not by her tender, loving mother, but by her father.
Lindsey's mother Hannah had been crouched in front of her daughter, her jet black hair a veil around her pretty face as she smiled patiently at her little girl. Both of her long-fingered hands had been wrapped gently around the girl's shoulders encouragingly.
"LindSEY," she had said slowly, drawing the last syllable of her daughter's name out nice and long. Lindsey swallowed nervously. Out of all the trouble she had with words, of course her own name would have been the one that seemed to trip her up the most.
"Lin . . . Lin . . . Lindy," she had repeated back, stammering nervously over the 'L.'
"God damn," her father Lee had huffed from the corner of the living room. He'd been standing there, arms folded tightly over his chest with that ever-persistent crease between his furrowed eyebrows. "What kid can't even say their own damn name?"
Hannah had rolled her dark almond eyes, glancing over her shoulder at her nagging husband. "Give her a break, Lee. She's only four."
"Exactly. Four year olds are supposed to know their damn names. Don't even deny it, Hannah. Trae could say his name by age two."
Trae, Lindsey's brother, was two years older than her and mostly involved in his own little world, not concerned with the sports his testosterone-charged father had tried to enroll him in, or the action figures he had casted aside beneath this bed. He was more interested in the child size drum kit his mother had gifted him for Christmas one year. But that didn't matter. According to Lee, he could at least say his name, which had automatically shot him up a few notches above Lindsey in the ranking of "favorite child."
"Try again, honey," Hannah encouraged gently. "LindSEEEEEY."
"Lin . . . Lindy," Lindsey attempted, faltering when she came to terms with the fact that her tricky tongue would not allow her to get this one right.
"For the LOVE OF GOD," Lee had exploded, stomping towards Lindsey with fury. Hannah shielded her, scowling.
"Stop that! It's not her fault Lee!"
Hannah crouched back down, cupping her daughter's face with those soft hands. Motherly hands. "If you want to be Lindy, then you are Lindy," she had whispered fiercely.
There had been no doubt that Hannah Clayton was a kind soul. At seventeen, her parents had moved her to Aberdeen, Washington, where she'd instantly been labeled as an outcast and been subject to harassment for her Mexican heritage, so clearly stated in her lovely features. Living in a predominantly white town had not discouraged Hannah though, and eventually she had found solace in Lee Clayton, a young man working in Aberdeen's timber industry who was unable to resist her charm and shy smile. Lee had been warm then, his heart whole and loving and undamaged by the passage of time. Having kids had seemingly changed that.
"Why are you encouraging her, Hannah? Get her to say it right, damn it!" Lee growled.
Lindsey (or Lindy, as she had been newly christened and would forever remain) stood stock still with hot tears pricking her eyes. Her father, so large and towering, had been her hero. But yet in that moment, the scene shifted, and he had suddenly and all at once become a villainous figure who spat venomous words of hate. And worst of all, it was all directed at her.
"It's okay baby. Don't listen to him," Hannah murmured, tucking back the strands of Lindy's dark brown hair behind her ear.
Lindy had locked eyes with her father and never would she forget the simmering hatred that seemed to bore straight out of them. She flinched, learning very quickly that Lee Clayton may have been her father, but he would never be her friend in life.
Three years later, the accident occurred.
Lindy and Trae had been at the neighbor's house, being babysat while Hannah and Lee had gone out for a Friday evening dinner date. Those dinner dates had become increasingly rare in those days, mostly due to Lindy and Trae's existence, so no tears had been shed from the children as Lee and Hannah had left that night, Hannah winking over her shoulder as she disappeared into the night. Lindy had no relatives in Aberdeen (Lee's family hailed from Illinois, and Hannah's parents had passed away when she was nineteen) so that had ultimately meant being left with at Ms. Bailey's, two houses down from theirs.
The news came in the form of a troop of police officers and one social worker, who all informed Ms. Bailey at the door in hushed, feverish whispers of the difficult truth they had come to bare.
Hannah and Lee had been in a car accident.
Lee had been virtually unscathed in the driver's seat, coming out with only a few broken ribs and a gash on his temple that would eventually heal over into a faded white scar. Hannah, on the other hand, had been thrown from the vehicle despite wearing a seatbelt. She had died en route to Grays Harbor Community Hospital.
So that had been that. Hannah, Lindy's sweet, understanding, genuine mother had gone and left her with the man she had come to hate most in the world. No investigation had been led to test Lee's sobriety on that fatal night. The fact that he had a few close buddies in the police department did not help the situation. To the present day, Lindy was still convinced her stupid father had drunkenly led her mother to her death.
Lee had of course obtained full custody of his children, rearing them in the type of household he had always wanted to lead. Hannah had been too soft on them, he'd thought. After her death, he began his tyrannical rule as dictator of the house. Musical instruments were virtually banned. Television time was cut short. Options for sugary or fried foods became limited. And Lindy had to take up her alter ego as Lindsey, the girl she would never be despite all of her father's wishes.
A few years after the accident, when Lindy was eleven years old and at complete odds with Lee, she had marched into her brother's room, infuriated over her father's cold and harsh grip on her.
"What's his problem, Trae? He hates me. I just know he does. The way he looks at me . . . it's like he never wanted me to have been born," Lindy had cried angrily, although her exclamations were made at a strangled whisper due to Lee's presence downstairs.
Trae had sat on his bed, quietly strumming the acoustic guitar he had pawned off the older brother of one of his friends. Even though Lee wanted his son to be the football star he never was, Trae was set on learning to master music and there was no changing that. He had plenty of secret hiding spots for the instruments Lee had threatened to throw out of their second story window.
"It's not that he hates you," Trae had explained calmly. "He loves you, but he doesn't like you."
That was the thing about Trae. He adored his little sister, but he would never lie to her. He was brutally honest with her, even when he knew it would hurt her feelings. And the subject of their father was something he knew had to be brutally honest about, especially when they had years to go of enduring him.
"How can he not like me?" Lindy had demanded, a rush of shock overtaking her. "I'm his kid! He has to like me!"
"Well, sure, all parents should like their kids," Trae had gone on slowly, sounding quite older than he was. "But the key word is should. They don't have to."
"But why?" Lindy had whispered, her voice then wobbling.
"Simple," Trae said, his eyes looking so clear and certain. "You were supposed to be a boy."
