Baby Help Read online

  BABY HELP

  By Marilyn Reynolds

  Also by Marilyn Reynolds

  True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High

  Telling

  Detour For Emmy

  Too Soon for Jeff

  Beyond Dreams

  But What About Me?

  Baby Help

  If You Loved Me

  Love Rules

  No More Sad Goodbyes

  Shut Up

  Eddie's Choice

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Baby Help (True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High, #6)

  CHAPTER | 1

  CHAPTER | 2

  CHAPTER | 3

  CHAPTER | 4

  CHAPTER | 5

  CHAPTER | 6

  CHAPTER | 7

  CHAPTER | 8

  CHAPTER | 9

  CHAPTER | 10

  CHAPTER | 11

  CHAPTER | 12

  CHAPTER | 13

  CHAPTER | 14

  CHAPTER | 15

  CHAPTER | 16

  CHAPTER | 17

  CHAPTER | 18

  CHAPTER | 19

  CHAPTER | 20

  The Complete True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High

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  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  New Wind Publishing

  Copyright 1994, 2008, 2014 © Marilyn Reynolds

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be adapted, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without permission from the publisher. Like Marilyn Reynolds’ other novels, Baby Help is part of the True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High, a fictional, urban, ethnically mixed high school somewhere in Southern California. Characters in the stories are imaginary and do not represent actual people or places.

  Originally published by Morning Glory Press, 1994.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Reynolds, Marilyn, 1935-

  Baby help / by Marilyn Reynolds

  Summary: Because her partner continues to abuse her, seventeen-year-old Melissa takes their young child and goes to a shelter for battered women where she begins the healing process.

  ISBN 978-1-929777-04-4

  1. Abused women—Fiction. 2. Family violence—Fiction. 3. Women’s shelters—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Reynolds, Marilyn. 1935- True-to-life series from Hamilton High.

  PZ7. R3373Bab

  [Fic]—dc21

  New Wind Publishing

  Sacramento, California, 95819

  www.newwindpublishing.com

  To Subei Reynolds Kyle

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank:

  Barry Barmore, Karen Kasaba, Michael Reynolds and Anne Scott, for offering critical insights and general encouragement.

  Donna Marie, of the YWCA-WINGS program, for her expert advice and generosity of spirit.

  The Farris family, for providing a quiet writing retreat when it was most needed.

  Dianna Perez and Jennifer Avila, Century High School read­ers who offered helpful comments along the way.

  Students at Reid High School in Long Beach, and in the Fullerton Joint Union High School District, who expressed interest in a continuation of the original “Baby Help” story.

  Ashley Nicole DiFalco Foncannon, for providing the original model “baby helper.”

  Subei Reynolds Kyle for providing the quintessential two-year-old model at just the right time.

  Marilyn Reynolds

  CHAPTER

  1

  In my Peer Counseling class today we have a guest speaker from the Hamilton Heights Rape Hotline. I’m sitting in the back of the room, pretending to take notes, but really I’m writing my name over and over again, as it is, and as it will be. Melissa Anne Fisher, Melissa Anne Whitman, Mrs. Rudy Whitman.

  Melissa Fisher has thirteen letters in it. I think I’ve had a bad luck name. If my name changes to Melissa Whitman, with four­teen letters, maybe my luck will change. I think it will. I touch the bruise on my upper arm, lightly, through the sleeve of my long-sleeved blouse. Things will be different when my name changes.

  Rudy and I have been together for three years now and next to our baby, Cheyenne, he’s the most important person in my whole life. And I’m important to him, too. Before Rudy and Cheyenne, I wasn’t important to anyone but me, and that wasn’t enough. Rudy has his faults. I’m not saying he’s perfect. But nobody’s perfect. Right?

  At the front of the classroom the guest speaker is writing her name on the chalkboard. Paula Johnson. She says to call her Paula. She looks young enough to be a student here at Hamilton High School, but Ms. Woods introduced her as a college gradu­ate with a degree in social work.

  “Let’s define rape,” Paula says, turning to face the class.

  “Being forced to have sex when you don’t want it,” Leticia says.

  “Right,” Paula says. “How can someone force a person to have sex with them?”

  “By overpowering them,” Christy says.

  “With a gun or a knife,” Josh says.

  Paula writes responses on the board, under types of force.

  I write Cheyenne Maria Fisher, Cheyenne Maria Whitman, next to my own names, half listening to the talk about rape, half concentrating on the names in front of me. Cheyenne is two now. I love her most of all. Even more than Rudy. Even more than myself.

  Last summer when we were practically dying of the heat, we went to Rudy’s aunt’s house, to use her pool. I asked Rudy to watch Cheyenne while I went in to the bathroom. I came back out just in time to see my baby fall into the deep end of the pool. I ran to that end, jumped in, grabbed her and held her over my head.

  I can’t swim, but I didn’t even think about that. I just knew I had to get her out. I was swallowing water, holding her up, when I felt her lifted from my hands. I sank down, my lungs burning for air. Rudy jumped in and dragged me to the side and his uncle pulled me out. I lay there coughing and gasping for air, sick with all the water I’d taken in.

  Rudy said I was stupid, that he saw her too and could have rescued her faster. But I didn’t care—all I saw was that she needed help. Anytime my baby needs help, I’ll be there, even if it means risking my own life. That’s how I know I love her more than myself.

  “What if the girl asks for it?” Tony says.

  “What do you mean?” Paula asks.

  “You know—like if a girl is a big tease and she gets the guy all horny and then she yells rape when he does what she’s been asking for all along.”

  “So let’s get this straight. The girl comes on to him, maybe she’s wearing clothing that shows a lot of her body, and then he forces himself on her?”

  “Well, yeah. But she asked for it.”

  “If any of you think that’s okay, you’ve got a good chance of ending up in jail. Never is it okay, never is it legal, to force sex with anyone, young or old, male or female, friend or stranger. Never. She can take off all her clothes and strut her stuff right in front of you, but if she says no to sex, and you force yourself on her, you’re committing rape.”

  Questions are flying around the room now. What if she says yes and you’re already, like almost there, and then she says no? Can a girl ever rape a guy? What about if you’ve got these plans, like say after the prom is going to be the big night, and the guy rents a limo and takes her to a hotel and he’s got condoms and everything because that’s what they’ve planned, and then she changes her mind? What about if you’re married?

  Paula writes the questions on the board as fast as she can. I write Rudy Charles Whitman on my p
aper. I write our names in a forward slant and a backward slant, dotting the i’s with little hearts, getting my Flair pen out of my backpack and going over the ball-point writing to darken it. I like how the names look, and how Whitman looks after Cheyenne Marie, and after Me­lissa Anne. I like the feel of the W under my pen. It is a prettier capital letter than the capital F of the name I’ve always had. I practice capital W’s while the buzz of discussion goes on around me.

  “Anytime anyone touches you in a way that you don’t like, that’s abuse. It may be sexual abuse, or it may be physical abuse, but if you don’t like it, and if you’ve made that known, and it continues, that’s abuse.”

  “Are abuse and rape the same thing?” someone asks.

  “Not necessarily, except in a general sense. They both bring great pain and suffering to another human being, the suffering continues long after the actual experience, and they are punish­able under the law.”

  I hear the anger in Paula’s voice and stop my writing to look up at her. I wonder if she has been raped or abused. I touch the sore spot on my cheek, fingering it gently so as not to rub off any of the cover-up make-up.

  About five minutes before the bell is to ring, Ms. Woods gives us our assignment.

  “Copy three of these questions from the board and write a paragraph about each of them. Don’t worry about right or wrong answers. Write your opinions, and the reasons you think the way you do. Paula will be back tomorrow and we’ll continue this discussion.”

  I turn to a fresh sheet of paper and write:

  Is rape a sexual act, or an act of violence?

  Is rape more likely to occur with a stranger or with some­one the victim knows?

  Is there such a thing as rape in marriage?

  I walk to my next class alone. Even though I’m a senior, I’m pretty new to Hamilton High. I’ve moved around a lot. My mom works for the racetracks, not with the horses or anything like that, but selling tickets to bettors and cashing tickets for the winners. She sells a lot more than she cashes in. A few years ago she had a chance to stay in one place, at Santa Anita, and not be moving around all the time. It made me really mad that she didn’t even consider me when she made her decision.

  “I hate moving all the time,” I told her.

  She just shrugged. “I like to keep on the move,” she said. Then she told me she’d see me later, she was going out with “the girls.”

  Anyway, most of my life I’ve not been in any one school for over three months. It’s hard to keep friends that way, so I’m kind of a loner. Mostly, I guess, my friends have been books. Like that book Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. I learned a lot from that book. And Of Mice and Men. I don’t know why I like that book so much. It always makes me cry, the ending is so sad. But it seems like an old friend to me, too.

  My best real-person friend since third grade was a guy, Sean Ybarra. His mom works for the tracks, too, so we always ended up at the same schools. He was a really good friend—someone I could talk to about anything. But Rudy freaks out if I even glance at another guy, much less talk to them. So I’ve kind of lost touch with Sean. The last time I talked to my mom, about ten months ago, she said Sean was signed up to join the Conser­vation Corps. I’ll probably never see him again.

  Hamilton Heights is the longest I’ve lived in any one place. After Cheyenne was born, Rudy’s mom said the baby and I could move in with them. My mom thought it would be a good idea, so Cheyenne would know her father and all, and besides, she told me, it was hard enough for her to support herself and me, much less adding a baby to all of her financial responsibilities. She wasn’t mean or anything, but I sort of got the idea she didn’t want me and Cheyenne tagging along with her if there was some­place else we could go.

  So, I’ve been living with Rudy and his mom, Irma, since Cheyenne was four months old. I don’t think Irma was dying to have us move in with her, either. Rudy wanted us though, and with Irma it’s pretty much what Rudy wants, Rudy gets. He’s her youngest son. The two older boys live in Texas now, so Rudy’s it. But Irma’s okay. She’s crazy about Cheyenne, so that’s something.

  Anyway, I’ve been at Hamilton High long enough to have friends. It’s just that I’m so used to being a loner I don’t know how to be anything else.

  After school I get in the yellow Teen Moms van and ride to the Infant Care Center with Christy and Janine. I guess they are the closest to being my friends of anyone at school. We always talk about our babies. Janine’s baby, Brittany, is two months older than Cheyenne, so I usually know what’s coming next. Brittany started walking, and then two months later, Cheyenne started walking. Brittany started saying “no” to everything, and about two months later, Cheyenne started saying “no” to every­thing. They seem to be following a pattern. Except Cheyenne already says more words. Secretly, I think she’s smarter than Brittany, but Janine thinks Brittany’s some kind of genius. I guess that’s how moms are. Some moms anyway. Maybe not my mom.

  We get out of the van at the center and walk inside. This is my favorite time of the day, when I watch Cheyenne, her blond curly hair falling over her face, playing on the floor, or sitting at the table with juice and graham crackers. She’s got hair like mine, only mine’s darker now than it was at her age. And she has blue eyes, the same as me. But she’s built like Rudy, short and stocky.

  I watch, loving her, and then the moment comes when she first sees me and her face brightens with her biggest smile. She runs to meet me and I kneel down so she can reach her arms around my neck.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” she says, and I hug her and twirl her around. Brittany and Ethan come running to their moms, too.

  “Cheyenne’s had a runny nose today,” Bergie (Ms. Bergstrom) says. “Be sure to check her temperature before you bring her out tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Brittany, too,” Bergie says, turning to Janine.

  I give Bergie my homework packet. A requirement for hav­ing Cheyenne in the Infant Care Center while I go to school is that I have to be involved in a parenting class. The unit I’m working on now is discipline for toddlers. It helps me under­stand things better. Like how even little kids need to have some say over their own lives. I wish Rudy were taking the parenting class with me, because we disagree a lot. He thinks I spoil Chey­enne, and I think he says no just to be saying no. He plays with her though, and makes her laugh. I think my mom was right about Cheyenne needing to be around her dad, even if Mom was mainly saying that to get rid of us.

  Cheyenne gets her backpack, with diapers, a change of clothes and empty bottles, and walks with me to the van. The other two moms carry their kids’ backpacks, but Cheyenne always wants to carry her own. At the van, Cheyenne clutches her backpack with one hand and tries to get a grip on the first step with the other hand.

  “Can I help you?” I say, reaching down to lift her into the van.

  “No! Baby help!” she says, frowning at me. She manages to get one knee onto the lower step, reach the railing with her free hand and pull herself up to the next step, still juggling the back­pack. She walks determinedly down the aisle and climbs into her favorite seat, the next one up from the back.

  “Baby help” was one of the first things Cheyenne learned to say. One day when she was only about a year old, I started to help her into her car seat. She started crying in frustration, say­ing, “Baby help, baby help.” At first I didn’t understand what was wrong, or what she meant. Finally, I got it. I lifted her out of her seat, stood her on the driveway beside the car, and let her climb back in on her own. It’s been “Baby help, baby help,” ever since.

  “I believe that is the most determined child I’ve ever seen,” Bergie says with a smile. I know that’s saying a lot, because Bergie’s been in charge of the Infant Center for a long time, and she’s known hundreds and hundreds of kids.

  “I’m proud of her,” I say. “You should see her fixing her cereal in the morning if you think getting in the van is deter­mined.”

  �
�Well, good for her,” Bergie says. “We all need to be deter­mined in this world or we’re lost.”

  I walk down the aisle and take my place beside Cheyenne. She already has her safety belt buckled.

  “Mommy. Buckle,” she says.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, kissing her on top of her head.

  “Buckle!”

  I buckle my belt, wondering at how insistent she is that I buckle-up. I don’t think either Ethan or Brittany notice any of that stuff.

  Once out on the road, Cheyenne starts sucking her wrist, a sign that she’s sleepy. Riding in a car always makes her sleepy. I get my folder out of my backpack and check tonight’s assign­ments. Suddenly there is the blast of an air horn and blinking lights behind us. Cheyenne jumps wide awake, startled. The van driver pulls over to the side of the road and a huge fire truck goes whizzing by.

  “WOW!” Cheyenne says, watching with bright eyes.

  “WOW!” Ethan and Brittany say.

  We all laugh. Now I understand what Bergie means when she says these are the “wow” kids.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Rudy’s car isn’t in the driveway when Cheyenne and I get out of the van. I’m glad. Maybe his boss finally gave him more hours. Rudy gets frustrated because we never have enough money. Like right now he wants new speakers for his car stereo but he can’t afford the kind he wants. I get a welfare check once a month but, except for a few dollars for clothes for the baby, that all goes to Irma to help with food and household expenses.

  There’s a note on the refrigerator from Irma, telling me to do the dishes from last night and to put away the clothes in the dryer—her dishes and her clothes. She works part-time at Kinko’s and she’s always too tired to do anything else. I do all the housework and laundry. I don’t care, but it seems like she could at least say please or thank you now and then. On the other hand, I guess it was nice of her just to take us in. I know she feels crowded sometimes. We all do. The house is two bed­rooms, one bath, a tiny kitchen and a small living room. The four of us, and our stuff, definitely fill up every inch of space.