Chapter One
Age 2
“Out! Want out!”
“Shut up you stupid whore! I’ll let you out when you shut up and not a second before! You hear me, brat?”
Alabama Ford Smith only cried harder. She didn’t understand why Mama wouldn’t let her out of the closet. She was hungry and it was dark and scary inside the small room.
“Maaaaamaaaaaa.”
Alabama stopped and listened against the door and couldn’t hear anything. Was Mama still there? Alabama tried to reach the doorknob, but her little, two-year-old fingers couldn’t grasp it. The knob wouldn’t turn anyway; it was locked from the outside.
After an hour of wailing and crying, Alabama laid down on the floor amongst the shoes, boxes, and musty smelling hats and gloves. She sniffed. Mama had been serious. Alabama wasn’t going to get to come out of the little room until she shut up. She didn’t know what a whore was, but it had to be a bad little girl like her. She would try harder to please Mama.
Age 6
“Alabama Ford, how many times do I have to tell you to shut the hell up? Too damn many. If I hear one more word out of you, you’ll be sorry!”
“But Mama…”
“Dammit, I warned you…”
Alabama felt her mama’s hand hit the side of her face right before she went sailing down the three stairs that led from the kitchen into the family room. She watched as Mama came at her with murder in her eyes. She couldn’t quite dodge the foot that was aiming at her head. It glanced off of her and she could see that just made Mama madder. The next hit came from the same foot into her side. Alabama curled into the smallest ball she could and tried to protect her head. She knew she wasn’t the smartest girl, but Alabama figured if she had any chance of being able to walk in the morning, she had to protect her knees as well. Mama loved to kick them and then laugh as she tried to hobble around the house.
“Stupid whore bitch. Why do you have to be so stupid? I said to shut up. I’ll teach you to speak out of turn. Don’t. Ever. Speak. Again. Unless. I. Ask. You. Something.”
Spittle flew from Mama’s mouth as she enunciated and kicked at Alabama with each word spoken. Alabama finally got it. She shut up. Even as a six-year-old, Alabama knew Mama was serious. Mama meant every word that came out of her mouth. That was the year Alabama stopped talking unless she was asked a direct question.
Age 11
“Alabama, do you want to talk to the nice policeman?”
Alabama looked up at the stern looking officer. He was tall and muscular and looked so strong. She sniffed a little and tried to be brave. Mama had walloped her this morning with the skillet she’d been holding. Alabama knew it was her fault. She’d made the mistake of asking Mama when she’d be home later that day. She knew better. How many times had Mama told her never to talk to her? Too many. And Alabama asked anyway. She knew Mama had been aiming at her head, but Alabama turned at the last minute and the skillet collided with her arm instead. Over the course of the day it had turned a nasty shade of purple. Of course a teacher noticed and insisted on taking her to the principal’s office.
The principal was a nice enough lady, but she had no idea what Mama was like. No one did. Alabama was beginning to think Mama was crazy. It wasn’t a nice thing to think about your own mama, but she couldn’t think anything else. After eleven years of living with her, Alabama finally figured out that other little girls didn’t have to worry about their mamas hitting them if they spoke out loud at home. They didn’t have to worry about skillets coming at their heads if they so much as coughed too loud.
Alabama figured this was her chance. Maybe this officer would protect her. Policemen were supposed to protect people. She told him everything. How Mama would lock her in the closet when she went out. How she wasn’t allowed to talk at home. How Mama hit her all the time with whatever was handy. Alabama spilled her guts to the police officer in the hopes he’d take her away and give her to a nice family, one with a nice mama. When he kneeled down in front of her, took her hands, and smiled at her, Alabama knew she could finally relax. This man would help her. He’d protect her.
Age 12
Alabama listened to the mutterings of the people around her. She lay on the bed with her eyes closed. She thought back to the day at school about a year ago. She felt as if she’d aged ten years since that time. Twelve was too young to have to deal with this.
“Did you hear what happened? That her mother did this to her?”
“No way! Holy crap. Do you think she’s done it before?”
“Hell yes. Look at her, Betty. No one does this the first time. I bet she’s been whaling on this child for years. She can’t go back. You know it, I know it. Hell, even her mom knows it. I think that’s why she did it.”
There was silence. Alabama couldn’t fall back to sleep, even though it’s what she wished with all her heart. She wished she wasn’t there anymore. She’d trusted the police officer last year. He said it’d be okay. He said she wouldn’t have to worry about her mama anymore. He lied. Seven days after she told the policeman everything, she was back at home. Mama didn’t like it that she’d told. Apparently she’d gone through interviews with the police and Child Protective Services who were checking to make sure Mama was a good mama. Alabama knew Mama could be nice when she wanted to. Apparently she’d convinced everyone Alabama was a typical almost-teenager who was just rebelling. Mama told everyone she’d hit herself with the skillet in order to get attention. So Alabama was sent back.
Things got worse at home after that. Alabama learned never to say a word. She kept her mouth shut. Mama was scary. Alabama learned she’d have to protect herself. No one else would do it for her.
Mama had finally lost it tonight. Alabama had been in her room with the door shut when she’d gotten home from the bars. Mama had burst into her room and started whaling on her. Mama yelled such horrible things. She’d told Alabama she was a mistake—that Alabama never should’ve been born, that she wasn’t wanted. Mama yelled how she’d even given Alabama the stupidest name she could think of; how Alabama was named after the state Mama had gotten pregnant in and even gave Alabama the middle name of the stupid car she’d been conceived in. Alabama hadn’t even known that Smith wasn’t Mama’s last name. Mama made it up because she didn’t want her baby to have her name.
Alabama remembered Mama leaving the room and coming back a moment later with the dreaded skillet. It wasn’t until Alabama woke up in the ambulance she realized, based on what the EMTs were saying, that Mama had broken her jaw. Okay, Mama had broken most of Alabama’s face too—nose, cheekbone, and even her eye socket had been cracked.
Lying in the hospital bed with her jaw wired shut, Alabama made a vow to her twelve-year-old self. No matter what happened in the future, Alabama would never trust anyone to protect her again. If her mama didn’t want her, if the police couldn’t or wouldn’t protect her…who would? She was nobody. Alabama had a made up last name and a first name based on the state her mom had sex in.
Age 16
Sixteen-year-old Alabama walked down the hall of the high school with her head down, clutching her books. Another birthday had passed with no one knowing. No one said “Happy Birthday,” no one gave Alabama any presents. She was the “weird” kid in school. She never spoke to anyone. She kept her head down and didn’t make trouble. She aced all her tests and loved English, but she refused to answer any questions in class. Alabama never talked to her classmates. She went to school every day, minded her own business, and kept to herself. She didn’t cause any trouble at school or at her foster home.
Alabama’s foster mom tried to engage her, tried to get Alabama to open up, with no luck. Alabama had learned her lesson. She spoke only when spoken to and only when absolutely necessary. She got a job at the local library stocking shelves. Alabama saved her money for the day she’d turn eighteen and would move out on her own. She’d never rely on anyone again. Alabama was on her own.
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