Redemption by Stacey Lannert Page A

include any of us—me, Christy, or Daddy. She was in her early thirties, and she acted like everyone else could just be damned. The change showed in the way she started speaking to Dad, and in the way she spoke a lot less to all of us. Her daughters came second to her own freedom. I could tell by the quick dinners and leaner lunches. I could tell by how much she was gone from the house. She had realized there was a way out of her unhappiness. School and education were her exit signs.
    Meanwhile, my best friend Prince was misbehaving. He was an outdoor dog, and I never got to bring him inside. If I could’ve convinced my parents to let him be an indoor dog, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But they wouldn’t have him shedding and getting into dog mischief in the house. Regardless, I needed Prince as badly as I needed air. Unfortunately, Prince had an addiction to chickens. He raided the neighbor’s coop and killed some birds. The owner was upset and said my parents needed to keep Prince off his property.
    So we bought a heavy chain for Prince, but that determined little dog broke through it. When we locked Prince up in the shed, he dug or scratched his way out. Then Dad would be mad because Prince messed up the shed.
    He was such a strong little dog. He could carry the weight of my problems, but he wouldn’t listen when I told him to stay out of the chicken coop. I begged my dog to leave those dumb birds alone.
    Mom told me if he killed one more chicken, we’d have to get rid of him. I was terrified. The only time I felt protected and safe was when I was with that dog. I had another stern conversation with Prince that night. He couldn’t do this to me; he had to stay with me. He had to stop with the chickens.
    I whined about the situation to Daddy, too. He said I had to talk to my mom about it. So I bugged her again, and she told me we didn’t have any other choice. She asked her parents for advice about Prince. They were the kind of country folks who knew how to hunt and skin their own food. So to them, an animal was just an animal—totally disposable. They told my mom to shoot Prince; that would be the end of it.
    The next day, Prince had gnawed his way out of his doghouse again. More chickens were dead. When I got home from school, Prince wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for him. My heart raced until Mom got home.
    “Where is he?” I screamed and cried in the kitchen. I shook all over.
    Mom said, “I’m sorry, honey, we had to get rid of him.” I don’t know which was worse—my inconsolable crying, or the rage I had toward her. She had taken him away from me. From then on I believed she was heartless. That was the end of our relationship as far as I was concerned. I had nothing left but Daddy—Daddy in his good mood. He was all I had to cling to in Alhambra.
    I slept with Prince’s collar. After the rapes that went on and on, I would hide outside and pretend to talk to my dog. Every time I missed Prince, I blamed my mother. I missed him all the time.
    Not even a year later, Aunt Deanna babysat us, and I was still dragging his collar around.
    “What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing that?” she asked me, popping her gum. “Why are you talking to a stupid dog collar?”
    “Maybe Prince will come back one day.” I held myself together—crying would give Deanna way too much ammunition.
    “Oh, he’s not coming back.” She was matter-of-fact. Christy was there, too, and she listened intently.
    “You don’t know anything,” I said as I stared at the worn leather collar that still smelled of dog food and fur.
    “I know they got rid of him, all right.” As Deanna spoke, my stomach made its way to my barf reflex. She was almost laughing at me at this point. “Uncle Derek came and shot him a while back. He’s buried in your backyard.” Uncle Derek was Mom and Deanna’s quiet, smart brother. I hated him with all my might.
    Christy ran off, and I sat there with my head down.
    “Wake up,”