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[As you read this story you may believe you know where it’s going. I thought I knew too, when I started writing it. Megan had other ideas. Let me know what you think… after you finish reading. I did some research and discovered there is a considerable disagreement as to what defines incest. Is it incest if a man has sexual contact with his adopted daughter who is an adult? Is it incest if a woman has sexual contact with her step-son who is at the time an adult? In either case the “parent” is not biologically related to the child, now adult. If a man lives his life such that he treats his wife’s child as if the child were biologically his, and she isn’t, is it incest if they share sex when she is twenty-five? They are adults capable of choosing their sexual partners. You may be of the opinion that incest is sexual contact between two people related (however distantly) by marriage or biology. The discussion of incest is a part of this story but is not the theme IMHO. ]

“Daddy?” Her voice sounded strained or in pain over the phone. The caller ID wasn’t her number.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tom hit me.”

“Again. Tom hit you again.” I worked to keep the anger and other emotions out of my voice.

“Worse. I need you to come get me from the hospital. I drove here but they won’t release me unless someone can drive me.”

“Which hospital, Sweetheart?”

“Kaiser West L.A. I’m in the emergency room.”

“I’ll be there in less than an hour.” I hung up. I didn’t need the story over the phone. I’d get and see the story when I got to the hospital. I got dressed, tossed two boxes of books from my truck and headed for Megan.

As I entered the emergency room I looked the crowd over. Fifty people in various stages of distress. I didn’t see Megan so I headed for the reception desk. I told the woman behind the desk I was there to pick up Megan Wallace. She checked and called someone from the back to escort me into the inner sanctum.

I’m glad they did. I would not have recognized my own daughter. She was battered, bruised, swollen and bandaged. She was sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair, crying softly.

“Megan?” She looked up and when she saw me she cried harder, which obviously hurt more. The doctor came over and gave me the scoop.

“She has a broken nose, four broken ribs, plenty of contusions on her torso and face.” He gave me instructions for her care and sent me to the 24 hour pharmacy to get prescriptions. When I got back I had plenty of pain killers. The nurse gave me bandages for her cuts and broken nose and tape for the ribs. It took well over an hour to get out of the hospital, but I got us home before dawn. She didn’t say much, it hurt to talk.

I got her into my guest bedroom that used to be her bedroom and gave her some pain killers. Ten minutes later she was asleep. I covered her and went to my bedroom where I shut of the ringer on the phone. We needed sleep, not interruptions.

Four hours later I heard her call my name. “Daddy!”

I ran to her. The emergency was that she needed the bathroom and couldn’t get up. I all but carried her in and had to help her get her pants down and help her sit. Before I could get out of the room to give her some privacy she released and sighed. I attempted not to laugh but I failed. The sigh did me in.

Megan was embarrassed and looked at the floor. When she was done I helped her back to bed. Rather than put her back in bed dressed, I pulled her pants all the way off and got her in bed in just her shirt and panties. I asked if she needed more pain medicine and she said no.

Two hours later she called for me again. We determined the pain stuff lasted six hours, not six hours and ten minutes. Since I was up I decided to eat. She ate a few saltines and sipped some water. Before long she was asleep again.

At three in the afternoon I turned on my phone. There were four messages. Three from the Culver City Police and one from Tom. His was to ask if I had Megan and to request I tell her he was sorry. I called the detective at the Culver City Police.

“Is Megan Wallace with you?”


“We need to speak with her and get her statement. When will that be possible?”

“She’ll be awake and needing pain meds in three hours. Come just before the pain meds.” I gave them my address. I requested a copy of the police report be provided as soon as they filed it.

A detective and a woman photographer arrived two hours later.. They talked to Megan and when she finished her story the detective and I left the room and the photographer took pictures of Megan’s injuries. By the time they left Megan needed the pain meds. I got her to drink some soup, eat a few more crackers and drink some water with the meds.

After she went back to sleep I let my anger out, quietly. I wanted to leave my house and go find Tom… slowly torture him and watch him die. I also felt bad for him. I knew he loved Megan and had to feel shitty for hurting her. Just not enough.

When he and Megan had married three years bahis firmaları before their futures looked bright. He was already an assistant manager of manufacturing at a large corporation. Megan was an up-and-comer in the HR department of another good sized company. They made good money together and they didn’t blow it. They maxed their 401k’s each year and saved more in investments. They drove nice but not new cars, lived in a modest two bedroom house three miles from the beach and didn’t party too much. Everything appeared to be going their way.

Then in August of 2008 Tom’s company downsized and his entire department was under the axe. He was crushed. They had savings, but suddenly Megan was the breadwinner and Tom’s ego took a major hit. For a month he went out every day pounding the pavement and using every computer and personal contact he had to get a job. He finally got one, but it had two big drawbacks: it was a contract job at less than half of what he had been making and it would end in eight months.

He no longer needed the coat and tie of management. He said he felt naked without them at work. Megan told me about his stress whenever we talked. I had learned that when a woman tells me about stuff she wants me to listen, not fix, not suggest or coach. A few times I think my tongue bled from being bitten hard, but I didn’t butt in. I listened. I believed they would learn valuable lessons from this adversity.

Just before Christmas Megan’s company downsized, too. Her HR department had twenty people in it at Thanksgiving and the day before Christmas there were eight. Fortunately, Megan was one of the eight. Part of the money the company saved by letting people go they paid to those who stayed. They were told that their responsibilities had increased and their pay reflected that. They were right. Megan went from forty hour weeks to sixty hour weeks.

Tom worked hard and kept looking for a better job. When he got his just-before-Christmas paycheck the guys he worked with wanted to go out and celebrate. They got him to go, too. He’d never been to a titty bar and by the time he got home he was down almost four hundred dollars from his paycheck.

He was also drunk and horney. Megan was asleep when he came in. He was loud, stank of booze, perfume, sweat and he wanted sex. Megan said “No.”

He insisted and told her the guys were all going home and having sex and he wanted sex too. She said, “No.”

Her nightgown was torn off and he overpowered her. He had sex. He passed out before he came. She got out from under him, dressed and knocked on my door at four-thirty in the morning.

The next evening he came to my home and apologized, promised it would never happen again and begged her to go home. She went. I bit my tongue. I told myself they were both adults and needed to work things out between themselves.

In February he came home drunk again and said he wanted sex. Megan said no and started to get dressed to leave their house until he sobered up. He said she couldn’t go. She put on another shoe and he slapped her, hard enough to blacken her eye. The remorse was almost instantaneous. He cried and begged her to forgive him. He slept on the couch and she stayed.

For the next two weeks he did everything he could think of to make it up to her. He did the laundry, cleaned the house, cooked dinner three times and was verbally sweet to her. She told me she thought he really got the message about being good to her.

When I listened to Megan talking to the police I wanted to kill him. The other times he was drunk. This time he was just angry. Megan had been promoted. When she came home, excited to share her good news and tell him they would have more money coming in, he exploded. He said she had fucked to get the promotion and only did it to further humiliate him.

She said he was wrong and tried to reason with him. When she got close to him he lashed out with his fists and knocked her to the floor. He kicked her and then picked her up and threw her out the back door into their yard. She lay there bleeding and broken, waiting for and expecting him to kill her when she heard his car start and drive away.

It took her a long time to get her purse and get into her car but she made it and drove herself to the hospital.

That next evening I called a friend, Charlie, and while Megan slept we went and got her car from Kaiser. We went by their house and since Tom wasn’t there we went in and got her things, her clothes, makeup, personal items. We left a lot that I wasn’t sure she wanted or was hers. We parked her car in my garage.

When she woke the next morning I helped her into the bathroom and to the toilet. It felt strange for me. I’d dressed and undressed her often when she was little, but now she was a grown woman and beautiful, even with the bandages and bruises. As she finished going she said, “I need a shower.”

“Ok. I’d worry if you tried to do it without help. Is there a girl-friend we can call?”

“I can call Kathy. Maybe she can come by and help kaçak iddaa me.”

We got her back to bed and she called Kathy. They had been friends since high school. Kathy’s answering machine answered and told us that she was unable to return calls today. Megan then remembered that Kathy was in Atlanta for a training course.

She looked at me and said, “I stink. I need to get clean and get new bandages. You’ll see everything when you help with the bandages, so you might as well be the one that helps me in the shower.”

“I’ll wear my bathing suit.”

“I’ve seen you naked Dad. Let’s just get me clean, Ok?”

She leaned on me into the bathroom and I helped her out of the t-shirt and panties. I’d helped her onto the toilet a couple of times but hadn’t noticed the bruises in her crotch. Tom had hit or kicked her pussy as well as her ribs!

She cried when I pulled the bandages and tape off. Then I started the shower and got the temperature good and warm. I undressed down to my boxers and helped her into the shower. I shampooed her hair and washed every inch of her. I was as gentle as I could be, while hurrying and making sure she didn’t fall.

When she was clean and rinsed I got her out and dried her. I helped her to bed and told her I’d get her one of my big t-shirts to use as a nightgown. She suggested I get dry and dressed, then re-bandage her.

When I came back into the room I was struck by how beautiful my daughter was and how much she also looked like one of the bodies we see on a show like CSI. Bruised, battered, discolored and pale. Twenty minutes later she was bandaged and exhausted. She passed on the t-shirt. I pulled the sheet up and she went to sleep.

I figured I’d feed her breakfast when she woke up. I ate. I thought about my feelings at seeing her naked, at having my hands all over her body. I also thought about how much I missed her mother, how much she looked like her mother, and I beat myself up for getting hard while I thought those thoughts.

Megan’s Mom and I had been married thirteen years when she died. Our daughter was twelve and spending a week with my folks. Sara had decided to surprise me with a roady. She made reservations in three hotels and rented a yellow Mustang convertible for us. We drove north from Los Angeles along the coast into Big Sur.

My thoughts brought back visions of her, the ocean, the convertible and the tiny bikini top she wore while we drove. The three days before we left L.A. it had rained in Big Sur. When we got there it was clear, sunny and almost warm. We put the top down and turned the stereo loud. We were singing along with Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Early in the Morning.” Sara was driving. The wind danced in her short, curly strawberry blond hair and every time I looked at her I loved her more.

I remembered reaching over and touching her breast through the teal bikini top. Her nipple was hard and poked into the palm of my hand. I could still recall how it felt. She looked over at me and I saw a moment of panic. My next memory was of being in a hospital. A boulder had come loose from the rain soaked hillside and crashed into us. The Mustang fell a hundred feet or so to the rocks and surf below. I would have died except a couple had seen what happened and they called for help. Sara was never found.

My life became focused on raising Megan. For the first year after Sara died we held onto each other every day. She crawled into bed with me often and I never had the strength or desire to shoo her to her own bed. I worked at home, so I could be there for her. I didn’t date, didn’t think about it. I loved Sara and Megan.

By the time Megan was eighteen she looked so much like Sara that I caught myself about to call her Sara more than once. It was as if I didn’t give her a single gene and Sara gave her everything.

As I finished breakfast I saw Tom’s car parking across the street. I left breakfast and went in to wake Megan. Her eyes opened the instant I touched her unbruised shoulder.

“Do you want to talk to Tom?”

“No! Not now. Not ever.”

“Then call detective Brown.” I gave her his card from the nightstand. “Tell him Tom is here.”

I went to the front door. I didn’t open it. Tom got up on the porch and saw me standing inside the door.

“I need to speak to Megan.”

“No. Megan doesn’t want to listen or speak to you.”

“She’s my wife! I have a right to speak to her!”

“She said, No. Which part of No don’t you understand?”

“I’m sorry! I was angry and frustrated. I need to tell her how sorry I am! I’m supposed to be the man, the breadwinner. She gets promoted and I’m a peon!”

“Is that why you hit her? Kicked her? Broke her ribs and nose?”

“Oh God! I didn’t know I broke her ribs! I’m so sorry.” I could see the anguish on his face. He hadn’t know how badly he hurt her.

I saw a plain police car silently stop at the curb. The detective and a uniformed officer got out and headed for Tom. He didn’t see them.

“Tom, you hit your own wife and you want kaçak bahis her to forgive you?”

“I was frustrated and angry. I lost my head.”

“Did you hit her?”

“I didn’t think I hit her hard enough to break anything!”

“Did you kick her when she went to the floor?”

“Only twice! I was afraid I’d kick her again so I pushed her out in back and then I left.”

Detective Brown slapped the cuffs on him and read him his rights. As they walked away with Tom the detective showed me the pocket tape recorder he had in his pocket.

Megan was on the bed crying.

“You need pain meds?”

“It’s not my ribs,” she whispered, “It’s my heart. How could I have been so wrong about him?”

I sat next to her and held her hand. She fell asleep after a good cry.

Friends from her work came by to see her. They didn’t spend the time bashing men or telling her what she should have done. They were just supportive and told her they wanted her back. Tom’s Mom called twice and came by a week after he had been arrested. Megan met with her. They sat in my living room to talk. The third time she said, “I just can’t believe he would be violent.” Megan pulled her shirt off and showed her the still colorful bruises on her chest. She hadn’t worn a bra since he kicked her and the bruises were fading to a light green color. Her right breast still had a place that was darkly bruised but most of her chest was fading in color.

“Do you think these were self inflicted?” Megan asked. Tom’s mom broke down and cried. When she stopped she told us how afraid she was of Tom going to prison. She asked if there weren’t anything he or she could do to have Megan forgive him.

In as soft a voice as she could manage Megan said, “I do not forgive him. I will not forgive him. I will testify in court and if I have to I’ll show the jury what he did to me. Your son is dangerous. For the safety of other women he needs to be in prison.”

Tom’s Mom cried harder and Megan left the room. I helped the woman to her car. She sat in our driveway crying for half an hour.

Megan went back to work as soon as she felt she could. I drove her to work and I picked her up at the end of the day. I fed her, changed bandages and she went to bed. I was still helping her dress and undress but bathroom duties she could handle on her own. Showers we a joint project, for safety reasons.

I cooked most nights. I’d get her in the house and undressed, change the bandages and get her into bed. When dinner was made I’d ask if she wanted help to the table or to eat there in bed. At first I fed her in bed, then she started coming to the table. She wore panties alone when I fed her in bed and one of my button front shirts when she came to the table.

It was three weeks after when we were sitting on the couch and the phone rang. I answered. A female voice I didn’t recognize asked for Megan. I assumed it was a friend from work. I handed the phone to Megan.

“You don’t know me but I know Tom. If you don’t drop the charges against him I’ll pay you a visit and hurt you worse than he did. If you weren’t such a bitch he wouldn’t have hit you! Drop the charges!” The line went dead. Megan burst into tears and shook in fear and pain. I held her and was quiet.

She told me about the call and who she suspected it was from. She had suspected Tom was fooling around with a woman who worked where he did. She was a few years older than both of them and had been divorced before.

I shut the TV off and helped get her off the couch. She walked pretty well on her own and I expected her to go to her room and go to bed. She turned and stopped.

“Daddy, I don’t want to be alone tonight. Can I sleep with you?”

How could I say no? Maybe someone could have, but it wasn’t me. “Sure. Remember when you were little and you’d sneak into bed with us?”

“Of course. Waking up between you felt so safe and loving.”

In the bedroom she dropped the shirt on a chair and slid into my bed. I usually slept nude but when I undressed that night I left the boxers on. She said, “Daddy, you sleep naked. I’ve seen you naked since I was born. Take off the boxers and come to bed.”

She was right. When I thought about why I had kept them on it was in case someone saw us in bed together. Who? We had the only keys and we were both there in bed.

I shut off the light and settled in. A few minutes later Megan moved and snuggled against me, just the way her mother used to. I had to remind myself that it was Megan and not Sara. She felt just like her mother.

In the morning I awoke surprised. We hadn’t moved during the night. Megan was still pressed against my side, my left arm holding her, her left arm draped over my chest. I needed to go. She was kind enough to keep her eyes closed as I slid out of bed and into the bathroom. My early morning woody stood proud. I sat and let my river flow. It had been unconscious. I used to sit when I peed when Sara was still asleep.

A few days later Megan drove herself to work. I got more work done than I had since the incident. The bruises healed and the doctor pronounced her ribs healed. We established a pattern for our life together and part of the pattern was that we didn’t talk about Tom or the case.

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