Katie Beers (30 page)

The windows in Sal’s room were rather large, with sheer curtains hanging up, so John was going to leave the house, and return and sit watch outside of the bedroom window, in the bushes, waiting for Sal to make his move on me.

It didn’t exactly happen that way.

Somehow, Sal caught sight of John outside of his bedroom window before he made me touch him and then proceeded to beat John to a pulp. Bloodied and bruised, John had enough. He ran to the police precinct for help. But before he did, John forewarned Sal he was in big trouble.

“You’re done, you fat slob.”

Sal kept calm but ordered me into his bedroom and growled that I had better tell the cops that John was fighting with his friends, and that’s how he got the bloody nose and swollen eyes, “or else.” He then stormed out of the house, and by the time the squad car cruised by, Sal was driving down the street calmly as if nothing had happened. The cops flagged Sal down and asked him about the incident, but it didn’t do a thing. Sal drove away and the cops came to the door and asked me what had happened to John. Who had beaten him up? I told them that as far as I knew it was his friends. They asked me if Sal had
ever
beaten him up and I said no, that Sal was nice to us all and loved us.

The truth is I was scared to death and didn’t want Sal to hurt anyone in my family any further —I had just witnessed a ruthless beating of my big brother. Later, when Child Protective Services case workers would visit the house, I lied to them too. They would come, with big folders and lots of questions, and would interview me in Sal’s room, in the very place where the abuse repeatedly happened. But Sal threatened that he would kill every last member of my family if I ever said a word, and I knew he
could. There was no one else to tell. I wasn’t in school often enough to trust anyone, and no one spoke of these things back then anyway.

I had learned my lesson. Never tell a soul. It wouldn’t help. Even my brother John, my would-be savior, couldn’t win against the vicious likes of Sal. He was as tortured and trapped as I was. Well, almost. Most of the time, he was living with Marilyn while I was shipped out to Sal and Linda’s. When we were together, we made the best of it. I think that John and I subconsciously knew something was off about the way that we grew up, and we both knew that we had to survive. John, at least, had his father in the picture. I thought that my life was more difficult because I didn’t have Marilyn most of the time nor a father, and John was only
physically
abused by Sal. I was getting it from all sides. I was physically and emotionally abused by Aunt Linda, physically, emotionally and sexually abused by Sal and then neglected by my mother. I’d look at John and think he had it good.

What John couldn’t do for me in the short run, he did in the long run. He left me with the knowledge that not all men are bad nor are they all going to hurt me. And for that, I will always cherish him. He was the most influential person in my life. It makes me sad how it all turned out.

John never got married. He was engaged once, but that ended as quickly as it began. No kids that we know of, no college. He thought of going to culinary school and I believe studied to become a physical trainer, but at the end of the day, he is still working at a convenience store in Philly, last I heard, and in a constant battle to stay sober. I haven’t seen him since 2006. We touch base on holidays, and I wonder, sometimes, if there is anything that I can do to help him, but then, I can’t get sucked into his life. John gave me so much, but like everything else in my past, I had to leave him behind.

My life went down a completely different road. I was immersed in eastern Long Island high school normalcy. I was hungry to make up for lost time and had no problem slamming the door shut on a past that only provided me with nightmares.

At East Hampton High School, I went out for the volleyball team and the cheerleading squad. I quickly realized I was more of a guy’s girl than a girl’s girl. The girls were catty and I had no problem liking boys. In therapy, Mary told me that abused children go in one of two directions:
They are either very promiscuous or very shy. I was neither. I dated several boys in junior high, summer camp and now high school, but I would only go as far as kissing. I was extremely concerned about disappointing my foster parents, to whom I was now firmly devoted. I would lie to them, about stupid things, because I didn’t want them to think I was doing anything with boys. That, I was sure, would make them think I was as dirty as the people who raised me. Actually, I never told my parents about any of my boyfriends and cut the relationships off before they could go any further physically. I wasn’t ready to be sexual with anyone, and I didn’t want to feel like I was being pressured. When I ended one relationship, there was usually another one around the corner. I was never without a boyfriend for too long—and I changed boyfriends almost monthly so as never to have to get in too deep.

In tenth grade, I joined the tech crew, building sets for the high school plays. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the friend who got me involved in the tech crew actually had a crush on me. I had no romantic interest in him. But it was there, in tech crew, that I met my first love.

Tech crew became my family: Sid, Raj, Justin, and Scott. Then there was me —the only female on the crew. They were my best friends, and this is where I was most comfortable, around boys. I confided everything in Raj. He knew how to make me smile when I was miserable over a bad day, or over a break-up, and then, he was there for me when I started to fall for Scott.

I don’t know exactly when I started to develop feelings for Scott, but I had them for a while before I confided in anyone. Scott was exactly a foot taller than me, six foot four! He had dirty blond hair and the most amazing blue eyes. Looking back, I should have realized he felt the same way about me. He never missed a football game when I was cheerleading. He hated football but still travelled to every game. And he never missed a volleyball game I was playing in. Scott was friends with other girls on the squad and on my volleyball team—so, to me, it never added up.

Raj and I were waiting in town one day for Scott to get off of work at an upholstery shop where he was considered to be a “jack of all trades.” Raj could tell I was upset. I finally confessed to him that I was hurt that Scott never seemed to notice me. Raj’s response upset me even
more. He told me that Scott had noticed me and talked about me, but never mentioned whether or not he liked me. I burst into tears, crying, sending black mascara-streaked tears running down my cheeks. When I took out my makeup bag and mirror to wipe away the streaks, Raj grabbed my foundation and put it on his face like war paint stripes. He didn’t realize that it wouldn’t rub off. I was laughing hysterically. Raj could always crack me up that way.

A week later, I could no longer hold back my feelings. Scott and I were at a rehearsal. It was February 24—I remember the date. Scott could tell that something was bothering me. He kept asking me what was wrong and I told him I would let him know later. Scott was relentless, asking me over and over what was wrong. Maybe he just wanted me to make the first move. So I did. I told Scott what I had been dying to say for months, a simple, “I like you.” After blurting out the words, I turned my back quickly and walked away, too embarrassed to look at him and face rejection. A few seconds later, Scott grabbed my arm, turned me around and pressed his mouth against mine. After he kissed me, he said “Mmm, watermelon.” I was wearing watermelon Chapstick. I laughed. From that day on, we were inseparable.

He was unlike any boy I had ever known. He could always make me laugh. I tried to only surround myself with positive people and Scott was very positive —always looking on the bright side of things. My relationship with Scott was built on a friendship rather than attraction—I was actually attracted to Scott’s personality. Aside from his ever-present flannel shirts, which he ditched at my request, there was nothing about Scott that I would have changed. I was so lucky to have had him in my life. He was my best friend, and my soul mate—or so I thought.

I was sixteen years old and pretty sure this might be love, but I didn’t tell my foster parents. And they didn’t ask. They let me go to the movies with Scott and Raj and hang out with them because we had all been friends for a long time—the three of us always together. Scott and Raj were best friends, then I came along and we were three, but I knew now things were going to be different.

We were between dress rehearsals for a play and had to take a drive because Scott was watching over a house for a family that was out of town. Scott and I walked around the property to make sure that everything was okay. There was a pool house, so we went inside to check it out deciding
to stay a while before going back to the school. We were alone and in love. It was the first time I was ever physical with anyone by choice. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but for me, it was intensely emotional. To be able to trust and love a man. It was a risk to take and a relief to discover I was capable of both. I had never before felt that close to anyone.

I later learned not to consider the rapes the loss of my virginity because it was something that I was forced to surrender rather than something in which I willingly participated. Now it could be a choice, as an expression of love. I knew early on in our relationship that I loved Scott. He was easy to love.

I loved Scott with all of my being—every second that we could be together, we were. When we weren’t together, Scott would always call me at eight at night. It became a running joke in the family that no one could be on the phone at that time because Katie had that time reserved for Scott. When the phone rang, no one else bothered to pick it up. It was always for me.

When it was time for me to think about going to college, I wanted to stay close to home because I didn’t want to be far from Scott. He had become my world. My parents, though, had other priorities. When my mother recited the criteria she deemed important in choosing the right college for me, her list was simple: small, secluded, religious. The search resulted in the discovery of a tiny liberal arts college in central Pennsylvania. I didn’t want to go to school this far from home, but when she and I visited the campus, I thought it was perfect. The town was small; the campus was beautiful—this is where I belonged. I believe that everything happens for a reason. My college choice determined the course of my life.

With my college plans firmed up, Scott then informed me that he was also going to move to Pennsylvania to work with his brother as a roofer with the Amish in Lancaster. I was thrilled, but when we announced the plans to my parents, they did not share our enthusiasm. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Scott. He had never given them reason to dislike him. They just didn’t want me to go off to college with my high school boyfriend following me and tying me down. So instead, we then told them that he was moving to Virginia.

Scott and I then felt horrible that we had lied to my parents, so at some point during my first semester in college, Scott was home visiting

his family and went to my house
to admit that he had lied, confessing that he had actually moved to Lancaster for a good job opportunity. My parents were not at all pleased but respected Scott for coming forward and finally being honest.

With Scott nearby, the transition to college life was painless. I arrived thinking that I was going to be a child advocate one day, majoring in psychology, but I quickly changed my major to business management and accounting. I knew that I would need to earn a living both during and after college and needed something practical. My therapy was paid for by the New York State Victims’ Compensation Fund and Social Services, because I was still officially a foster child, but college was paid for by my parents. They had put their monthly foster care stipend toward my college education and paid the rest out of pocket. I wanted to be able to pay them back. A lawsuit against John Esposito’s homeowners insurance for millions was lost. Uncle Tedd was livid. He knew that if I had been called to testify, I stood to collect a large sum that could have helped me in life because I remembered, by this point, that the bunker had been built in plain sight. But the county attorney never called me to testify. He later admitted to Tedd that was a mistake. It was one of the few times I ever saw Tedd get really angry. He felt the county botched the lawsuit and then, to make matters worse, wanted to deduct lawyers’ fees which would have left me with little more than ten thousand dollars. He threatened to go public, and the county agreed to waive the fees. The settlement check was for thirty-five thousand dollars, but it was enough for me to buy a car. There were also a few thousand dollars in John’s inmate fund, so I used what was left to pay for the remainder of my college tuition, and I hoped to use the rest one day for a wedding.

I hunkered down with school work, happy that no one seemed to recognize my name, and I tried to see Scott regularly. He would come to my dorm after work to pick me up, and we would spend weekends together in Lancaster. When I needed him, he dropped everything.

During my sophomore year in college, my father’s father, PopPop, passed away. He was a special person. Growing up, I loved time with him doing arts and crafts, making bracelets, necklaces or cross hook rugs, anything creative. Pop-Pop used to make blankets with yarn. He planned on teaching me to make them, but he passed away before he could. Scott
held my hand through the services and viewings. He was my rock.

During Thanksgiving break in my junior year of college, I worked at the Coach store on Main Street in East Hampton. I was upstairs helping a customer choose a purse when Wesley, my co-worker, snuck up behind me, put his arms around me and gave me a squeeze. I was a little annoyed with him because I thought it was unprofessional to hug me while I was trying to make a sale. But when he turned me around, Scott was standing there, all dressed up. He was supposed to be helping one of our friends put a roof on their house, so I knew that something was very odd about his formal attire. Scott took a little box out of his pocket, got down on one knee, and before he even said anything, I began crying. He looked in my eyes, and declared, “Katie Beers, I love you, will you marry me?” I immediately started sobbing and exclaimed, “Yes!” When I composed myself, I realized that all of my co-workers were upstairs watching with wide smiles; Scott had told all of them that he was going to propose.