Prologue
I flip my glove up over my wrist, noting that it is close to quitting time. I strike the electric arc once more and continue welding the joint, watching the tiny droplets of electrode drop off into the weld pool. I cut the arc when I get to the end of my workpiece and flip my heavy welding helmet up, taking a deep breath of cool air. I inspect my work. It looks good.
Tomorrow I will be finished with the repair and then off to another job. I don't take anymore time to think about that. My back aches and I can't wait to go home and take a shower and relax. Scrambling down the metal ladder of the container crane I am happy to be off the structure and on firm ground.
I prop my elbows on the edge of the sill and look out the window of my third story apartment, enjoying the mild mid-summer night. I turned the T.V. off about half an hour ago, my eyes tired. Kids are still playing near the street corner in front of the liquor store across the street and I wonder what kind of parents would let their children out at 9:30 at night.
Parents that obviously don't give a shit, I think to myself. I watch only a bit longer, knowing I've got to be up at 5 a.m. to make it to my new job site on time. I move away from the window and shut it. I walk across my spartan apartment to the mini-fridge in my kitchenette and pour myself a half-glass of milk to finish off my second cupcake I bought for myself for my birthday on the way home from work. I reach across the counter and pick up my one and only birthday card from my brother and his family. I smile at the little cartoon squirrel and make a mental note to give them a call tomorrow. It's been too long.
As I take a healthy swig of milk, my phone rings. No one calls except for telemarketers and I'm wondering who it could be this late. I consider not answering it, but curiosity wins out. "Hello?"
"Sarah?" A man asks on the other end.
"Speaking."
"Sarah, it's your brother, Cole.
I brighten. It has been too long. "Hey, I was just going to call you tomorrow. Thanks for the card."
"Oh, right. Happy birthday, Sarah."
I hear in his tone that he didn't call about my birthday. "What's up?" I ask, sensing something wrong.
"It's a.. Mother... she's dead."
Chapter 1
The train came to a halt with a slight jolt, waking me from a light sleep. I look around, slightly confused until I see the family across from me collecting their things, the parents warily promising the antsy children they'd be off the train in a few minutes.
I begin to collect my book that I'd forgotten when I had dozed off, and my backpack from the thankfully vacant seat next to me. I stand and stretch and reach overhead to get my small garment bag. There isn't any reason to hurry; most of the train is empty. Small towns in the California high desert aren't a big destination place for people.
Yawning unconsciously, I gain an open stare from one of the antsy children. I playfully stick my tongue out at him. He looks up frightfully at his dad who peers at me quizzically and then gives me a polite, albeit fake, smile.
"Come on Jake, let's go see if Grandma's waiting for us." The dad says as he grabs the boy's hand. I watch the family start off the train, hand in hand, blankets dragging the floor and small rolling suitcases clacking rhythmically against the dull metal grooves of the aisle.
I step off of the train and into the searing heat of Barstow in August.
Jesus, why would anyone live here in the summer? I smirked to myself.
You did for seventeen years and didn't mind the heat at all. My t-shirt instantly becomes damp and clingy and sweat forms on the back of my neck. I wish I still had short hair.
I make my way to the station, looking around for no one in particular, because no one in particular is here to meet me. While on the train as it moved through town, I noticed how little has changed in the five years I've been gone. Not that it surprises me. It isn't that time had forgotten the town altogether, it just didn't pay it a visit very often.
I make my way to the car rental counter that consists of a small, old desk with a computer about as old as the woman tapping away at it. "Leeds, Sarah." I dutifully tell her after we exchange pleasant, polite greetings.
"Economy car, 4 days." She says, not looking away from the screen as she grabs the key from a drawer.
I nod needlessly as she hands me the forms to sign, her eyes still glued to the monitor. As I glance through the agreement, I suddenly feel her eyes on me.
"You're Joyce Leeds' daughter, aren't you?" She asks slowly, hesitantly.
"Yes. Yes I am." I reply quietly, wondering, not for the first time, how much of my mother's story this small town knows now. It was never a secret that my mother liked to drink nor was it a secret that she took home company when she did. Seeing the look on the woman's face tells me my mother had not changed much in the years I'd been gone.
I also know how much I look like my mother. This woman, a stranger to me, looks as if she is trying to figure out how far the apple has fallen from the tree. After a brief second more of undergoing her unsettling scrutiny, I ask her which door I should use to retrieve my rental car. She blinks at me and clears her throat.
"Use that one," she indicates to my right. "I'm sorry to hear...hear about your mother." She says in an uncomfortable rush. I just nod politely and make my way back out into the unrelenting high desert heat.
As I climb into the unremarkable blue two-door sedan, I realize I'm not sure where to go. I take a deep breath and place my hands on the steering wheel. It is hot enough to burn my hands and I recoil. As I sit with my aching hands in my lap, a deep, keening fear grips my heart. As much as this town holds some happy memories for me, it is also the place where my worst nightmares took place. I know that before this trip is done, I will have to relive them in some form or another.
The paradoxical nature in which I view this town has always made me feel like a fraud when I am here, which has only been two times since I left. I have always found it hard to balance the good and the bad that has happened to me here. I know I will be no closer to finding that balance on this visit because two days from now, the very reason I left this town will be buried forever, along with any closure I'd hoped to gain or questions I'd hoped to get answered as to why my mother did what she did all those years ago.
Suddenly, I slump back in my seat and begin to breathe heavily through my nose, letting the anger I've held in check for years have its way with me. I'd like to believe it is a recent, righteous anger of someone grieving for the unjust loss of a loved one, but I know it isn't. A keening sob escapes me and catches me by surprise. It fuels my guilt even more for I know I am not angry that she is dead. I'm angry that she has taken away any hope for the healing that I desperately need. The tears of anger I cry are not for my dead mother, they are for me, and for the lost opportunity to reconcile a past I can't escape and a present I can barely face.
Finally, I get a hold of myself by taking a few deep breaths. The last thing I want is for someone to come out and see me like this. I focus on what I need to do next as I take a tissue out of my backpack and clean myself up. I make the decision to check into my hotel first and then call my brother. Just the thought of talking to Cole heightens my anxiety level. Apart from the occasional call and card and two visits, we haven't really talked to each other in years. Add to it, I have these bad memories that have always plagued me and are now coming back in full force and Cole has no idea about them.
What would he think of mother if he knew the truth? What would he think of me?
It isn't that I don't trust or love my brother, I do. And I know he cares for me. We were just never that close. We were eight years apart, so it wasn't like we would hang out at all. He had his own life with school, his friends and his job, and I was just a little girl. What seventeen-year-old boy would be interested in hanging out or talking to his nine-year-old sister? And later, when things for me at home had turned into a living hell, he was already married with a kid.
Ironically, my most vivid memory of Cole and the event that, in my mind, foretold of the hell I'd later live in were one in the same.
Cole and some of his friends had just returned from Vegas where they'd celebrated Mack's 21st birthday. They'd continued the celebration at the house, drinking and playing cards.
Later that same evening, Mack had decided that I needed to learn first hand what they'd done in Vegas. He cornered me in the kitchen and began filling me in on the details of a lap dance he'd received. I remember squirming as I listened to him vividly describe the dancer's breasts and ass and what he'd love to do with them, given the chance. He said that she'd left him hard and horny all weekend and he'd had little relief.
My discomfort only fueled him on as he attempted to pin me to the counter with his body. He had stopped talking and all I could hear was the raspy breath sounds of his smoke-abused lungs. He planted his hands on either side of me and leaned forward until his forehead was almost touching mine. At that moment I cursed the fact that I was tall for my age as it brought his face that much closer to mine. My surroundings were forcibly narrowed down to his foul beer breath and bulging member brushing against the bottom of my thin cotton blouse.
The stench of him and my own fear worked in tandem and I choked on my held-in breath. My eyes closed slowly as my body gave way to a paralyzing panic. But when I felt his hand close over my newly developed breast and the other hand begin to slide down my pants, my eyes shot open and I heard my own voice shout out, "STOP!" It stunned him a bit and he backed away, allowing me to get a lungful of less pungent air. It was the second I needed to be able to gather my courage and put my hands up to push him away. He chuckled, deep and liquid, but stepped back. "I ain't done with you." He whispered low and slow. He exited the back door lazily, leaving me shaken and nauseous.
My mother was the first on the scene and looked at me accusingly when she saw that Mack wasn't in the kitchen, the screen door flapping. "What did you do?" she'd demanded, drink in hand. She seemed to be oblivious to my tear-filled eyes, disheveled clothing and look of abject terror on my face. I should have realized right then and there that that was not a normal reaction a mother should have to her obviously distraught 14-year-old daughter who'd just yelled "Stop!" while alone with a drunken man.
However, my mother seemed to have come to her senses when my brother reached the kitchen. Hesitantly, I told them both what happened. My brother suggested that we call the cops but my mother seemed hesitant. It was after a few seconds of silence that he said he'd take care of it. He did. He'd tracked him down that very night and beat him within an inch of his life. He'd come home late that night with blood on his shirt and on the backs of his hands. He was obviously surprised to see me sitting on the couch when I should have been in bed. I could see that he didn't want me to see him like that. His eyes remained cold and dark at first but warmed when he knelt in front of me and promised me Mack would never try to hurt me again. It scared me beyond the telling to see my brother like that but still I think back on that night with nothing but fondness for him. I'd never felt more safe or important to anyone before that night or since. Especially since.
~~~~
The roadside motel is nondescript, yet clean, built for the basic comfort of lonely travelers who just need a place to rest their head for a night or two. I toss the garment bag onto the double bed and immediately turn on the window a/c unit. It's loud and smells of damp socks, but it is cool. I kick off my shoes and knead my aching lower back muscles for a moment, taking in where the bathroom is. I turn to lock the door and begin stripping off the rest of my clothes to have a shower.
While waiting for the shower to warm a bit, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. At 33, I already begin to see the telltale signs of age. Small crow's feet show along my deep brown eyes. My laugh lines seem to be more pronounced now too, though I'm not sure why. I don't laugh much. My skin has endured years of sun without sunscreen but the freckles that had littered my nose, shoulders, and arms in my youth have diminished somewhat.
My straight, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair has darkened a bit as if to deliberately show off the few that are turning a coarse gray. I'm still in fairly good shape though. Firm where I should be, even a bit on the skinny side. My breasts are too small to start sagging yet... a blessing or a curse, who knows. I place my hand on my taut stomach, noting the fact that I have no stretch marks.
I probably would have.. if... I don't want to think about that now though. My attention travels from my torso out to my tanned forearms and then to my rough, calloused hands.
I see the steam coming from behind the thin shower curtain and step in, deep in thought as I wash away the sweat and grime from my trip.
When I'd left home shortly before I turned 18, I was scared, alone and untrusting of any other human being but myself. I'd sought my way through life in solitary jobs, lacking the need, or want for that matter, to interact with more people than necessary.
I just wanted a job outdoors that would make me an okay living. I also did not have a high school diploma, which really limited what I could do. But, with some luck and determination, I was able to get my GED and an apprenticeship to become a welder. I still can't believe I was able to find someone who would actually train me. I owe Luke a lot.
Even though I've been at it for nearly 10 years, I still get the look of disbelief when I tell people what I do. Luckily, my reputation has become such that I do not need to prove that a woman can do the job when it comes to finding work. My references speak for themselves. And in a city like San Francisco, between the port and industrial buildings going up all the time, I have steady work. I don't make a whole lot, but I make enough. And in four days I'll be back to my little apartment, a job I like, and Barstow will be a distant memory for me once again.
"Hello? Is Cole there?" I ask the woman on the other line. I'm not sure if it is my niece or sister-in-law, so I keep it to the point.
"Yes, just a moment please." There is a muffled sound and a clearing of a throat.
"This is Cole." He says, sounding much older than 41 years old should sound.
"Hey Cole."
"Sarah, that you? You in town?" He asks hopefully. I smile. The awkwardness I was feeling dissipates and despite the circumstances, I look forward to seeing him and his family again.
"I'm in town Cole; I'm staying at the Travelodge off of Eighth. Got in about an hour ago."
I hear a muted, choking cough that tells me he is still a heavy smoker. "You know you could stay here. We have the room."
"No, that's okay. This is easier. Thanks for the offer, though. How are Mary and Elise?" I try for a little small talk, not yet wanting to get into what will transpire the next couple of days. When he'd called me with the news of our mother's death, he gave the impression he'd handle everything. I wasn't exactly sure what was expected of me yet and would rather talk to him face to face.
"They're good. Elise is starting soon over at the junior college. Mary is still working out at T's Diner."
"That's good to hear, Cole." I say after a second of silence. I look at my watch and realize dinner was a couple of hours away yet. I want a bit more time to myself before seeing everyone so I suggest meeting for dinner after I have time to lay down for a bit. He says that would be fine and we agree to meet at the one Sizzler in town.
As I collapse onto the bed in just my towel, feeling my wet hair cool the back of my neck, I go over the questions I figure Cole would expect me to ask. I knew very little detail about my mother's death. All I knew was that she'd chosen to take her own life. I found myself wondering what her last moments on this earth were like. Did she look back on her life, wondering what she should have done differently? Was she overcome with guilt? Did she pray for forgiveness?
It wasn't all that hard to imagine the kind of darkness that could envelope someone's soul so much that it would cause them to give up- to take that handful of pills, pull that trigger, make that jump. I'd been near enough to consider it a couple of times but I just couldn't go through with it. I realized that if I took the easy way out, it meant that I was weak. So I made a promise to myself that I would never let what happened to me send me out of this world by my own hand. I shiver at the now-chilled air and at the sense of pseudo-irony that brings me home again.
~~~~
I walk into the restaurant, noting the time on my watch. I was hoping to be a bit early, but for what reason I wasn't really sure. I look around and confirm that I have arrived before them. The hostess looks at me expectantly. "Seating for four, please." I reply and she nods and motions for me to follow her after deftly pulling out 4 menus.
"Is a booth okay?" she asks, somewhat rhetorically. I nod and slide into the booth with a polite smile. She floats away with a promise to send my party back when they arrive. I wonder for an instant if I should wait at the door but realize it would look silly to give up the booth just to be reseated in the same place a few minutes later.
I remember coming to this restaurant many times. Looking around, I see that very little has changed in the restaurant, just like the town itself. The same dark wood paneling, ugly brown linoleum and orange red curtains make up the mid-70s decor. The only thing that looks somewhat new is the dark brown Naugahyde upholstery and the bright green exit sign above the door. Even the waitresses look the same, albeit older and grayer than what I remember.
My mind drifts to one of the many times I was here. It was Cole's high school graduation. I was about 10 and I remember feeling a specialness to that day. I recall my mother crying and smiling a lot and various uncles and aunts I'd never seen before or since breezing in from nearby towns to witness the event. Cole's father even showed up for the celebration, giving his son a hand carved wooden-handled buck knife. I'd never seen Cole so happy in all his life. It wasn't until I had gotten older that I realized my brother finishing high school was the exception to the rule in my family. I wonder if I would have had far away relatives come to my graduation had I been able to stay and finish school.
Enough thinking about what I could not change now...
Lost in my own thoughts, I almost miss Cole and his family arrive. We are all nervous smiles as we first spot each other. The moment is both surreal and comforting. I realize that 5 years is a long time.
Cole hasn't changed much. He's gained a little weight, his hair a little thinner and grayer than what I remembered. He still has the not quite neatly trimmed beard and mustache, gray in some spots as well. Following closely behind him are Mary and Elise. Mary looks pretty much the same as the last time I saw her. A fairly plain, yet not unattractive woman, she has a slight frame with mousey brown hair and large glasses that are used more to mask her lazy eye than to help it. I momentarily review my memory as to which eye I look at when I speak to her. I catch her gaze and smile.
Oh, right, the left one. She returns the smile in kind.
I grin reflexively at a beaming Elise. She has really grown into a beautiful young woman. Slight like her mom, she has deep-set blue eyes like Cole and light brown straight hair. Her eyes sparkle with good humor and confidence.
I am momentarily overcome with sadness at the thought that she would most likely never leave Barstow. I thought back to a conversation I had with Cole a couple of years ago about Elise and how she and her mom were very close too. Almost immediately I admonished myself, however. Barstow wasn't a terrible place, but it's hard to shake off the notion that the small town sucked futures out of promising young lives. Just by looking at Elise now, she could definitely have had potential outside of this dusty railroad and mining town.
At least she's going to college here, I thought
.
Shrugging off the thought for now, I slide from the booth and stand, hugging each warmly. As we take turns sliding into the booth, exchanging greetings, I realize I really did miss them. I find myself regretting not seeing them more often, if only to have witnessed Elise's growth from child to adult. I left when she was only a toddler and have since seen her only two other times, the most recent being five years ago.
"It's really good to see you." I say warmly, momentarily forgetting the event that brought me here. It really is good to see them and I feel the years melt away a bit.
"Good to see you too, Sarah." Mary spoke up for her family. I smile, turning my attention to Elise who was to my right.
"You are all grown up! What are you 25 now?" I deadpan as I squeeze her shoulder playfully.
"Funny, Aunt Sarah. As your last birthday card correctly indicated, I am now 18." She quips lightly around a mock haughty smirk. I chuckle at her comment, shaking my head at her preternaturally quick wit.
Mary smiles lovingly at her daughter, pride palpable. I have to look away, feeling like I was intruding on something not meant for my eyes. I rearrange my utensils so my hands can have something to do.
Cole, silent during the exchange, clears his throat quietly. "Sarah, I'd like to go over some stuff, some details with you after dinner. Is it okay if you come over to the house?"
The request was made warmly but tentatively. It made me feel like the older of the two.
I wonder if he thought I wouldn't come? The question came suddenly. The thought had only recently occurred to me that he didn't know the whole story on why I left home in the middle of my senior year of high school. He knew the surface reason, but the one that really drove me away he knew nothing about. He never pressed for anything further and I never offered it.
"Sure Cole... of course. I'll follow you home after dinner." I say around a small smile. As silence falls around the table and we begin looking through our menus, I think about perhaps telling him the whole story about why I left. But would he even want to know? Wasn't the half-truth enough? Would it really serve any purpose for him to know what our mother did all those years ago?
I finally make the decision to let the past stay buried.
Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, anyway. Even her, I think to myself. Whatever Cole thought of the woman who raised us, it wasn't going to change on my account. It would only cause anger, disgust and confusion and truth be told, I didn't particularly want to have to explain what happened. It was bad enough having to live through it once. I've never told another soul what happened and I think I want to keep it that way.
As I pull into their driveway I am assaulted with memories of many childhood summers playing on this very block. Memories of drinking tepid metal and rubber-tinged water from the gardening hose and bike races all came tumbling into my mind in a happy medley. Even the heavy-sweet smell of brickellia and impatiens lend themselves to a short trip down memory lane.
I also know that if I step left and walk four houses down I would be at the house I grew up in. The pull was strong. I hadn't been there since I moved out at 17. I know that my mother still lived there, or did when she died. It was highly likely she died in the house itself. The desire to revisit my childhood home quickly morphs into a morbid curiosity. Suddenly, I want to know everything, every detail about my mother's last days. I turn up the walkway to my brother's house, determined to get answers.
"So, she had stopped drinking?" I ask, somewhat disbelieving after listening to Cole recount the last few months of our mother's life. I have very little memory of my mother without some kind of drink in her hand or nearby.
"Yeah. I guess the doctor had warned her for years and then suddenly, about six months ago, she quit cold turkey." Cole says. He shifts in his seat, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him. It seems he has something uncomfortable or awkward to say, but doesn't want to say it. I wait patiently to see if he will continue on. He doesn't. The long silence seems to be the cue for Mary and Elise to leave the room as they both stand up.
"We'll leave you two to talk." Mary says quietly as they depart the room. I smile, nod my thanks, and turn my attention back to Cole. I decide to ask him some more questions, thinking I would hit upon what he was having such a hard time telling me.
Steeling my nerves, I take a breath and ask. "Cole, how did she..?"
"Kill herself?"
I nod.
He swallows hard. "She shot herself. Under the chin." He says slowly. For a moment I think he's going to demonstrate, so I nod my head, indicating I understand how she did it.
Silence rang in my ears for a moment and I hang my head, taking in the information.
What a violent way to die. I look up at Cole, but his eyes are vacant as if replaying a memory. Suddenly, I ask, "Were you the one to find her?"
He nods mutely, but still does not look at me. His head drops down and I hear him sniffle as he brings his hand up and roughly swipes at his eyes.
Jesus.
I go to him and kneel before him, putting my hand on top of his knee in silent sympathy. It is the most intimate touch I've ever given my brother and it seems woefully inadequate. But it's all I can think to do.
He regains himself and lifts his head to look at me. He smiles with sadness and a bit of embarrassment and I give him one last squeeze and sit across from him to give him a bit of space.
"I knew she was down. She never was a particularly happy person, I know, especially after she stopped drinking. But there was something. Something kinda eating away at her these last few months. I just never imagined..." he leaves the sentence unfinished. He then takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns his face towards mine. "She left you a note. A sealed letter. I took it before the police got there. It hasn't been opened."
"Oh." The internal question as to what might have been weighing on her conscience evaporates as my heart begins to pound triple time and triple hard. I am completely surprised. I'd hoped, but the reality of her leaving a note would be slim, I'd thought.
"You know, she said she was going to call you too, because she asked for your number, a few months before she..." Cole says suddenly, obviously just remembering.
"She didn't." I respond evenly. I look at him and he gives me a pained look that I take to convey both sympathy and surrogate regret.
"Would you like it tonight?" He asks, gesturing up to the letter. Am I ready to read things she couldn't say to me when she was alive? Could I really be getting some sort of apology, explanation? Or perhaps a defense of her actions? Hands shaking, I nod.
"Yes. I'll take it tonight, Cole."
He nods earnestly and goes to the fireplace mantle to retrieve it. I almost ask if he'd gotten a letter from her as well, but decide not to. I think I get my answer anyway by the look in his eyes as he hands mine over.
"I'll walk you out." He says, sensing my need to be alone right now. He grabs his pack of cigarettes off the table near the door as I say goodnight to Mary and Elise.
I drive home in a semi-stupor, reflecting on all that has happened tonight. In truth, I had imagined my mother drinking herself to death, adding some pills to speed the process. Hell, even hanging herself would have been easier to imagine. She had to have known it would be Cole to find her.
She couldn't find consideration for others, even in the end. The thought comes unbidden and the bile in my throat burns as I swallow.
As I stand at my motel door, the hope that suddenly blossoms in my chest with the letter is unexpected and I cherish it, holding onto it until I get the door open. For so many years I've tried to forget about the damage this woman has done. Some days I think I've succeeded, but then most days I feel like a complete and utter failure. I still can't trust. My relationships consist of small talk and traded rounds of beer with a few co-workers after work on an occasional Friday. Being intimate with anyone, man or woman, scares me to death. I have nightmares more consistently than I do a good night's sleep. Could this letter be the one thing that really and truly sets me free?
Slowly, I move about the room, turning on lights. I then sit softly on the edge of the bed and with shaking hands, slip my finger through the long dried adhesive, careful not to tear the envelope too badly. I take a deep breath and begin to read. Upon reading the first few words, I feel the angry tears well up in my eyes.
Foolishly, I thought she might have tried to heal me with this letter. At the very least, alleviate some of the shame and agony I have carried with me for the last 16 years. The realization of that tears at my soul. Instead, she leaves me a hand-written, impersonal will about how she has left me half of the house along with Cole upon completion of its sale. I flip it over, looking intently for something else, anything. I pick up the envelope and look in it again- nothing.
Why had I expected anything more from her? And why not address it to Cole? How could a mother be so cruel? She had to know I would be looking for some sort of explanation as to her actions that ultimately caused me to leave. Even after her death, she made sure I'd have no peace.
I explode into action, ripping the letter to pieces, tearing off the motel bed bedding as I release a torrent of tears and epithets. As quick as it starts, though, it is over. I am left breathless, chest heaving as I sink to my knees on the thin, dark carpeting. I run my sleeve over my face angrily, wiping tears, sweat and snot.
She just couldn't let me off the hook. Couldn't absolve me of the shame. No explanations, no peace. What she did will always haunt me. Forever.
I lay motionless, unthinking and unfeeling on the half-made motel bed. I have no idea how much time has passed since my tantrum. Finally, I cannot keep my eyes open any longer and I reach down, pulling the ugly comforter from the ground and curling up in it, oblivious to the fact that I am still fully dressed, shoes and all.
Chapter 2
I put off meeting with my brother as long as I can. I don't want him to see me like this. I know he'll want to know what was in the letter and why I no longer have it once I tell him what it contained. No matter, it's not like I'm not going to tell him what it contained. The hard part will be telling him why I tore it to shreds.
I know I don't look my best, but I imagine they'll just take in my appearance as that of a grieving daughter. They don't have to know that it is something else I'm grieving for.
"Hey Aunt Sarah." Elise greets carefully. She can tell my demeanor has changed a lot since last night. "I'll go get Dad."
"Thanks." I say warmly. She gestures to the couch and I sit, waiting quietly, working out in my head exactly what I'll tell my brother. I hear him come down the stairs and then he is sitting in the chair opposite me, looking at me carefully.
"You okay, Sarah?" He asks, sounding exactly like his daughter did a few minutes earlier.
"Yeah," is all I can muster before diving right in. "The letter. It basically said that the house is paid off and that we should sell it and split the proceeds." He looks at me quizzically.
"Can I see the letter?" He asks slowly.
I look at him evenly. "I tore it up." His facial expression barely changes. He says nothing, waiting for me to explain. Of course I'd have an explanation for my actions. "You know when I left, I wasn't on good terms with her. We had an... argument." I say, for lack of another word at this time. He nods. "I was looking for an explanation of some sort, I suppose." I take a breath and it comes out as a tired sigh. "I didn't get it and I got a little angry."
Try despondent, I add to myself silently.
"Oh." He says. I can tell he doesn't get it entirely. I don't think he really wants to. We sit in silence for a few more seconds. It is obvious that the ball is back in my court.
"So, what's next?" I ask. I hate myself for even thinking about taking a part of any of that house, but the money would come in handy.
"Well, I don't think she left an actual will. I suppose we can do with the property what we want. I know the house is paid off." Cole replies.
"Look, you are the one who has stayed. I'm sure you were a big part of that house being paid off too." He didn't disagree, so I continued. "I'll do whatever you want." In reality, I'm shocked my mother gave me this much consideration.
"If she wanted us to sell it and split it, that's what we'll do." Cole says decisively. "Even without that letter, I would have suggested it," he adds and I hear the echo of that same placating, yet earnest tone he used yesterday. I nod and smile at him, hopefully conveying to him that I'm taking his last statement as he intends it. Who am I to argue anyway? Perhaps I can spend some of the money on therapy. I barely suppress a humorless chuckle.
"Listen, we were going to go over there and, uh, begin cleaning up. I think the stuff from your room is still in boxes there." Cole brings up. I'm actually surprised by that. I figured she would have gotten rid of everything that I didn't take with me. I was a bit curious now as to what items from my life there made it in boxes.
"Yeah, I'll join you." With that, we stand up and Cole goes to get his wife and daughter as I mentally prepare to enter the house I haven't stepped foot in for 16 years.
It's like stepping back into my nightmares in broad daylight at first. The circumstances behind my leaving come back with a full, unrelenting force and I struggle to maintain my thinly held together composure. I am grateful that Cole and his family have entered first and have already headed towards the back of the house. I think they sensed that I would need a few minutes to myself at first.
With effort, I push those memories down and attempt a modicum of emotional distance. I concentrate on trying to remember some of the things I left behind that I might want now. I can't think of anything off-hand, so I make my way down the hall to ask Cole where the boxes holding my stuff might be.
All of the sudden I hear sobbing. I can't make out if it is Mary or Elise and I am frozen to the spot. I imagine they are in the room where my mother was found. I suddenly become nauseous and barely make it out of the house before vomiting all over the rose bushes next to the porch.
By the time Cole comes out to find me, I've got the hose out, rinsing down the patio and bushes. He looks at me, confused. "Guess I wasn't quite as prepared as I thought." I tell him as I take a gulp from the hose and spit it out, away from the front steps. This last action causes him to catch on to what just happened.
"Geez, Sarah." He breathes and puts a hand on my shoulder. I take a deep breath, smile my gratitude and slip out from under his hand to go turn the hose off. When I return my brother speaks. "I'll, uh, bring the boxes with your stuff over to my house. You can sort through them there."
I look up to him, grateful for the reprieve. I feel a bit ashamed at not being able to handle this. It was my brother that found her after all. But I see nothing but compassion in his eyes and I voice my thanks.
"Why don't you head back to the house, we'll be there shortly."
"Thank you, Cole." I say and with one last look through the open door, I turn, walk across the tall grass and back to Cole's.
They return about an hour later and I am sitting on the couch, looking through yesterday's newspaper. Their faces are somber and their movements a bit slow and deliberate. "I borrowed a hand-truck from down the street to bring in your boxes." Cole says as he gestures out the door. "You want me to bring them in, or..?"
"No, I think I'll just load them in my rental and take them to the motel and sort through them." I suddenly realize that they may take that as a sign that I'm not comfortable here. "I think I just need a little time, you know, to myself." I add, hoping they'll understand.
It is Mary who speaks up. "We'll help load them in your car." She pauses as if trying to gather her courage and then says. "Please don't think you are alone in this. I know you didn't have much of a relationship with her and I know you had your reasons, but she was still your mother. I know you must be hurting."
I look at Mary in a new light with that statement. Granted, I don't know her well at all, but from what I've seen from her the past two days, I know my brother could not have done better. He's a lucky guy.
"Thanks, Mary. I'll keep that in mind. I'll call you guys later, okay?" I say, hoping that they don't think I'm pushing them away. I just need some time alone.
I make my way to the door, giving both Mary and Elise a hug before I follow my brother out to help load my car. There are more boxes than I expected. I thank him again and it is he who initiates a hug before I get into my little rental and drive back to the motel.
I'm grateful that my room is on the bottom floor. I know it isn't the safest place for a single woman, but I really didn't pay attention to where the clerk had put me. Lugging the boxes up the steps would have been a real bitch though.
I get the last box in and sit on the corner of the bed, pondering which one to open first. There are three, the size you'd put a collection of vinyl albums in. They all have my name on the top, printed in my mother's flowing cursive. I'm not sure where to put the fact that my mother actually took the time and effort to not only pack up, but keep the contents of my room. Well, three boxes worth, anyway.
I pull the closest one next to me and begin taking out the contents. I smile as I recognize some of my old stuffed animals. I pull from the small pile my favorite, a stuffed Snoopy that I could dress up in different costumes. He is currently in his firefighter outfit, but I can find no other costumes. He was a birthday gift from my father on one of the years he was actually around to celebrate it with me. I think I was eight or nine. I run my finger along the brittle yellow plastic coat remembering how I used to take the toy with me everywhere. I marvel at the fact that it is still in pretty good condition. I dig further into the box and find some old faded ribbons and flip them over, barely able to make out the handwriting on the back, two blue ribbons for a track meet, a red one for a spelling bee. I vaguely recall the track meets but cannot remember the spelling bee.
I move on to the second box, this one weighing considerably more than the other two. I find that they are my yearbooks from high school. I flip open the one from my junior year and find myself. "Wow, I was scrawny," I say out loud to no one. I page through until I come upon the color pictures reserved for the senior class. My eyes rest momentarily on a face and I jerk back, recognition instant. I slam the book closed and shut my eyes tightly, warring with my consciousness not to go back to that horrible day. I've spent years avoiding the details of that event, but I feel I'm forever trapped in its aftermath.
With effort I push down the nausea that threatens to overtake me.
Fuck this. I grab my keys and wallet and head out the door, mentally calculating where the nearest bar is. The third box is left, forgotten.
I'm not really one to drown my sorrows, but I knew that if I didn't get to a place where there was something, anything to distract me, I was not going to come out of that room anytime soon. The last thing I needed was a litany of horrible memories crashing down on me. Those would have to wait until after I saw my mother being put into the ground.
I pull into the parking lot of the first bar I see. I groan at the irony as I read the name of the small pub. My mother used to come here a lot. At least I think she did judging from the amount of matchbooks I used to find lying around the house. I think about pulling out and finding another place, but this one is close enough that I can get away with driving home if I'd had one too many. All I really plan to do anyway is have a few whiskey sours and play a game of pool or two if they have a table.
I walk in, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. As expected during the middle of a weekday, there are only a handful of people planted at the bar. I pay them little mind and find a stool furthest from anyone and patiently wait for the bartender to take my order. He does and I send him off to make me a whiskey sour. I look around at the décor and note that they do have one pool table, unoccupied and in fairly good shape. The bartender sets my drink down along with a napkin and I ask for the racking triangle I see hanging up behind him. He hands it to me and I grab my drink and napkin, leaving my money on the bar.
I don't know how long I've played, my mind wrapped up in angles and watching my stick velocity. It must have been a couple of hours though because as I hear the front door of the bar open and look up to see a woman enter, I don't see the blinding sunlight streaming in behind her, only muted darkness.
I decide to have one more drink, play one more game and call it a night. I haven't had a lot to drink, but I do have somewhat of a mellow buzz going. I'm counting on it being enough to allow me to just go back to my room and sleep.
I make my way over to the bar and wait patiently, watching the bartender talk to the woman who had come into the bar just a moment ago.
"Thanks for calling me, Joe." I hear the woman say, her voice sounding very tired, resigned. She follows the bartender's pointing finger as do I and I see a man hunched over on a table, seemingly passed out. I continue to watch as the woman goes over to the man, squats next to his chair and strokes his arm until he lifts his head. He seems to recognize her instantly and gives her a sloppy half-grin. "Let's go, Dad." I hear her say softly as she goes to help him up. I watch as the man tries to stand, but stumbles and collapses, missing the chair and barely finding purchase on the heavy table before he hits the floor. I am on the other side of the man before I even know I've moved, helping him up from his half sitting position. We manage to get the man on his feet before the woman's eyes meet mine. I see embarrassment at first and then gratitude. She gives me a small smile and then we both make our way to the door, one on either side of him. He's not a big man by any means, but his drunken coordination makes it a bit hard to maneuver him.
Joe slides quickly out from behind the bar to hold the door open for us. "Need help getting him into the car?" Joe asks the woman and she looks at me plaintively. I ask her where her car is and she jerks her head towards the right of the parking lot. The bartender nods, acknowledging that we've got it covered. "Good luck with him, Kate." He calls out as he lets the door close behind us.
We wrestle the cooperative but near comatose man into the front seat of the woman's small sedan and then I step back, watching her carefully buckle him in. She rises up and faces me and I am surprised to see that she is perhaps an inch or less shorter than me. At 5' 10", I don't know many women close to my height. I don't know many women. The lone floodlight that acts as the parking lot lighting bathes her face in a pale orangish hue, but I can tell she is quite pretty. Despite the poor lighting, I can also see a kindness and warmth in her eyes that makes my lonely heart clench.
"Thank you..." She says quietly, offering her hand to me after a brief pause.
"No problem. My name's Sarah, by the way." I say as I take her hand. She has a nice firm grip and for a second I'm self-conscious of the calluses on my hand.
"My name's Kate and this guy here," she releases my hand to gesture towards the man snoring away in her car, " is my not-so-functioning alcoholic father, Roger." She looks at him for a moment and takes a deep breath, which is released through a long sigh.
Her attention turns back to me. "Well, I certainly appreciate you helping me. I thought I'd have to drag him out by myself, literally. He can usually at least stand when I have to haul him out of here on occasion." She says with a weary, half-hearted chuckle.
I'm not sure what to say to that, so I just give an understanding smile. After another second or two of silence, I ask, "You okay to get him home and everything?" more for just something to say than real concern. It sounds like she's quite used to doing this.
"Oh, yeah, I am. Thanks for asking though." She says. I smile again and begin to back away. I sense she wants to say something else, but I've already begun voicing my goodbyes. I briefly think about pausing and asking what was it she wanted to say or even ask her if she'd like to go for coffee or something while I'm in town, but the moment passes and she is now waving goodbye as she shuts the passenger door.
As I turn and head towards my car, I wonder if I'll ever feel worthy of someone's interest, let alone friendship.
Continued...