The Strange Story of...

The Strange Story of Rose and Stevie

           "I really think you'll like it here, sweetie. Your new room has a large window looking over the backyard, and plenty of room for your toys. Doesn't that sound good?" 

           Rose said nothing, as usual. She hadn't said a word since she was six years old, when her mother, Margaret Lowery, remarried and became Margaret Peters. The family pediatrician said there was nothing wrong with her, she just chose not to talk. Her mother had more or less excepted it, but tried to encourage words out of her daughter's mouth. 

          She silently scanned the room with her eyes, then smiled and nodded. Despite what some people thought because of her silence, she was very smart for her age. According to a test she'd taken when she was seven, she was smart enough to be in the fifth grade two years ahead of schedule. She most likely would have been, if not for her strange tendencies. 

       Along with never talking, she constantly carried around a plush stingray, which she had received as a fifth birthday present from her biological father. She had named it Stevie, and, since the accident, had carried the toy with her everywhere; to the playground, to bed, to the store, to school, literally everywhere. The strange obsession with the stingray was deciphered by the teachers as her needing a security object in the absence of her father, and didn't do anything to discourage her.  To say the least, everyone who knew her did their best to be supportive. 

       Joe Peters, on the other hand, barely knew the meaning of the word supportive. He was an ex-cab driver whose license had been taken away after he caused a four car pile up on an interstate with a BAC of exactly 0.1%. He had charmed his way into marrying Margaret Lowery with an impressive bass voice, which he used at a dinner theater every weekend, and by conveniently forgetting to mention his alcoholism. In his defense, he fell in love with her hard-working attitude. Or, rather, the amount of money that that attitude acquired. 

       After two years of marriage, Joe talked his new wife into buying a new home in Puget Sound. It was a large house, and beautiful, with a good school district within walking distance. Joe had insisted they move at once; he had forgotten to tell his wife that he had just gotten his driver's license permanently revoked in their home state.

     The second they were moved in, he spent every single moment of every single day drinking beer, watching the Seattle Sea Hawks, and wondering when his unemployment checks would show up. He thought he was set for life, except for one thing he wished wasn't around: his stepdaughter. 

     Whenever he went to a bar, which was often, people asked Joe about Rose, and why she refused to speak. Most of them meant well, or didn't know what they were saying as a result of too many drinks, but Joe always reacted violently and left. While he tried and failed to hide it, Joe was a very narcissistic man. Hearing people talk about anyone in his family and not mention him made him very upset. Which, one night in September, became a very bad thing for Rose. 

      "I'll be home in about three hours." Margaret, having found a new job as a manager for a highly respected bank, worked diligently for most of the day, but usually spent her evenings at home. That night, however, a work dinner had been organized, and her attendance was mandatory. So Joe would be watching Rose. 

     "Don't you worry about a thing, honey." He gave her a big toothy smile, and gave her a kiss as she left. Then he cracked open a can of Budweiser and turned on the Sea Hawks. Two bottles and a game later, he looked at his watch. The screen was blurry, but he could see that it was nine. The brat would still be awake. 

      "Kid!" He called upstairs. She didn't answer. He called louder. He heard little footsteps coming down the stairs, but called one last time. He turned and saw her right behind him, hugging her stingray to her chest and looking as terrified as possible. 

     He looked at her arm. The scar was still on her arm, as jagged and obvious as ever. He wasn't a smart man, but he had no doubt that she remembered that night two years ago. She had spilled a glass of milk on the carpet, and he had gotten mad and slammed his beer bottle on the table. He'd only been gesturing with the bottle; how was he supposed to know it would cut her? Or that she would need stitches? Or that she would be so terrified she'd stop speaking altogether and start carrying around that darn stingray? At least, he thought, no one had ever suspected him. 

   "Get me another beer." Rose simply stood there, holding the stingray. She took a step back. In one motion, Joe grabbed her toy and dangled it by the tail over her head. She made a tiny noise in her throat and started jumping for it, with tears rolling down her face. 

   "Get me my beer," Joe growled, "or this goes in the trash." Rose, still crying, ran to the kitchen. Joe smiled in the way only a terrible person can, and collapsed on the couch. He was already very drunk, as he always spiked his own drinks with vodka, leaving him heavily intoxicated after only one or two cans. He was just drifting to sleep when he felt something on his chest. 

    He pried his eyes open as far as they would go, and saw the stingray sitting on his chest. Thinking the girl had put it there, he picked it up by the tail again, only to feel a huge bolt of pain slice  through his arm. He cried out and dropped it, where the toy's tail landed right on his bare foot. Fire shot from his toe to his thigh, and he yelled again. 

    He was angry, scared and had no idea why, but he reached down to pick up the stingray, intending to destroy it, whatever the heck the kid did. But then, before his bloodshot eyes, the toy moved by itself. It turned to him, jumped through the air, and landed tail first on his chest. 

       The feeling of pain that he'd experienced in his arm and leg now entered his chest, and seemed to reverberate throughout his body. He screamed in pain; his heart itself felt like it was on fire, and he knew that he was having, or was about to have, a heart attack. He watched as the stingray left his chest and made its way back over to Rose. 

      That's when Joe realized. She had known that the stingray was somehow alive, and that it could do this. She'd known probably ever since her real dad gave it to her. He remembered how, the night he cut her, after he'd called an ambulance, he'd come back to see her arm somewhat cleaned up, and how he'd found all of the beer missing the next day. He used his last breath to scream out in defeat and agony. 

     Margaret had cried when she'd first learned what happened to her second husband. But, after being taken aside by an officer, she learned that, over the past two years, her husband had been involved in shady dealings involving alcohol, doctored legal papers, had had his driver's license revoked multiple times, and was suspected of child abuse. After that, Margaret paid for her ex husband's quick, private burial, failed to attend it, then never spoke of it again. 

    Rose, however, remembered the incident. It had affected her, but not in any expected way. She confirmed that her stepfather had physically abused her by cutting her with a broken bottle, and did so with her first spoken words in years. She began speaking more often, and she was moved to the fifth grade, where she prospered. But she never stopped carrying around Stevie the stingray, which, only she knew, came alive whenever she needed help. Because, written on a tag inside the toy, her late father had written a single note:

                                I will be there when you need me most. 

                                             Love, Dad