Bent: A Love's Complicated Novel Page 2
Most days I’m thankful of my time at the shop or I wouldn’t have any interaction with others besides mom and her doctors. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t seeing a doctor for one of her addictions or afflictions. She may have given birth to me, but she wasn’t a mother who cared for me or showed me affection, though she did demand I call her that. Mother. She was anything but a mother. If I didn’t take care of us, then we would have been more destitute than we already were. And that would’ve made life even more difficult.
Turning my attention to my book, I try to focus on the words on the page, but am still too distracted to read. The noises fill the train car as the train leaves the station. The city passes by in a blur. My heart hurts and my eyes burn at the realization that this could be the last time I may be this close to home. I’ve no clue what the future holds, but I know I’ll have to watch my pennies in order to make this new life count.
Remembering the letter Mrs. Scott gave me, I rummage in my bag for the envelope. I get a whiff of her perfume and recognize her stationery immediately.
My Darling Carrigan -
I’ve written and re-written this letter since the death of your mother. My heart is breaking for you once again, only this time you’re aware of the heartbreak you’re experiencing. As you know, my son Sam died in a car accident twenty-nine years ago. He was a wonderful man and was head-over-heels in love. Her name was Mara and she was your mother. They met in school and were inseparable. Carrigan, your mother wasn’t always the broken woman you know. She was vibrant and beautiful and full of life . . . until the day your father was killed.
The pages of the letter fall from my hands and my heart stops. I can’t believe it. Wait, does this mean Sam was my father? Why am I finding this out now? I wipe the tears from my face that I don’t realize are falling, gather the pages back up, and keep reading.
That was the day her light was snuffed out. I was always hopeful that you would bring that light back to her, but, unfortunately, she couldn’t handle this world without him. She cried and begged me to take care of you so that she didn’t have to be a parent. She even asked me if I’d give you to another family, but I could never do that. My heart would not allow me to give you to an unknown person or be in an unknown place where I couldn’t see you. I’m glad that she decided to keep you—even though your life was hard.
I’ve experienced so much loss in this life. First, my only son, and then Mr. Scott. All I had was the flower shop and you. I couldn’t bear letting you go so I bought the home for your mother so you and your mother would have a place to live and be close to me. I checked on you even when you didn’t know it.
Your mother and I had a deal. If anything happened to her, I’d tell you who your father was and the story of their love. She didn’t want to taint you with her sickness, but after you were born, she knew she couldn’t let you go either.
Salty tears burn my face as they pour from my eyes. There is no use wiping them away because I’m still reading. Still wondering how I will put myself back together. Still trying to decide if I should turn around and go back to Barron Falls.
Sam would have loved you. You’re so much like him and I find myself smiling often thinking about it. You may look like your mother, but your sense of wonder, the way you cross your legs when you sit, and the faces you make when you concentrate are all Sam.
I’m so thankful for having you in my life all these years. You may be sad or even mad at me for not telling you until now, but I was only honoring your mother’s wishes.
John and I planned and saved for Sam to go to college. The money was invested well and it’s still there. It’s ready for you when you need it. Included is a check for five thousand dollars to get you started. If you need more, please don’t hesitate to call me.
You may have never known that I’m your grandmother or that I was telling you about your father when I was telling you the stories of Sam, but I’ve loved you from afar and for always. My heart is with you and I know you’re going to soar on eagle’s wings. You have angels watching your every step and will be cheering you on.
All My Love,
Mrs. Scott
Grandmother – when you’re ready
I can taste the salt on my lips when I lick them. For the first time, my heart is really breaking. The kind that makes my body shake from the inside. I left the one person who loved me. The one person who actually loved me all these years wasn’t some neighbor who showered love on me, but my grandmother.
My shoulders tremble and the hiccups have set in. With my chest tightened, I attempt to take a deep breath and settle myself. I never dreamed that Sam was my father or that Mrs. Scott was my grandmother.
Damn. I’m pissed off that she left me with my mom to take care of her all these years. Yet at the same time, she was honoring her word. Plus, she probably thought I’d have left by now.
But I was loyal to my mother and even though she was addicted to alcohol, she was still my mom. Love isn’t something we walk out on because someone upsets us or hurts us. Love is unconditional. Love is love—even when it isn’t what we think it should look like. And I’ve always strived to show mom the love I wished she would show me even if it never happened.
I decide to send Mrs. Scott a text while I’m feeling brave.
Carrigan: Hi
Carrigan: I’m not sure what to say to you. But thank you for the money. I’ll be in touch later.
Mrs. Scott: I’ll always love you. No matter what.
Carrigan:
Mrs. Scott: Be safe and let me know when you’ve made it to your destination.
2
The letter from Mrs. Scott takes me back to all of the letters I’ve written over the years to my mother. I remember the first time I wrote to her. I was eight years old and she didn’t come home. She always told me not to turn on the stove when she wasn’t home. Even though I did most of the cooking, I followed her rules. It was late and I fell asleep on the couch waiting for her. She usually made it home by ten after her shift at the bar so when she wasn’t home and the clock said twelve-sixteen, I decided to go see if something happened to her.
The owner of Bob’s Tavern spots me as I walk in the door and asks me why I am out so late. “Mom didn’t come home, Mr. Bob, and I’m scared.” Bob is an enormous man who wears open flannel shirts over white t-shirts, dirty jeans and boots. His beard is long and dark with streaks of gray. I always found it funny that he had no hair on the top of his head but a huge beard.
He reaches for my hand and helps me in the booth in the back corner so he can keep an eye on me from behind the bar. “Would you like a soda while I see if I can find your mom?” With not many people left since it is almost closing time on a Tuesday, I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. “Just water please,” I say, my voice quivering.
“It’s going to be okay, darlin.’ We’ll find your mom.” Mr. Bob puts a big glass of water in front of me along with a piece of paper and a pencil.
“Here. You can draw a picture while you wait. I’ll put it on the wall of honor, up there,” he says as he points to a wall with lots of pictures behind all the sparkling glass bottles. Time slips away as I start drawing on the pages in front of me.
A house with shutters, a tree with a swing and flowers take shape on the page. It is always the same thing. I draw what I think a home looks like. What I want, more like Mrs. Scott’s house than where mom and I live. Then I draw a family. And flowers. And the trees and rainbows. Drawing is fun.
Sometime later, mom comes stumbling out of the back room with her clothes dirty and torn and her pony tail drooping. Mr. Bob is holding her up and whispering loudly to her. “Mara, you need to cut this shit out. Carrigan is a child. She needs someone to take care of her. If you don’t start being a mother, I’ll have to call the state.”
It was the first time anyone other than Mrs. Scott has ever stood up for me and yet I am scared of being without my mom. I jump off the stool and run to Mom. “It’s okay, Mr. Bob. I can take her h
ome. It’s only down the street.”
He looks at both of us with a quizzical eye. “Mara, can you get yourself and Carrigan home?”
“Of course I can, Boooob,” she slurs. “I’m her mom, not you. We will be just fine.”
The normally five-minute walk down the street seems to drag on and on. Mom keeps falling down and crying on the sidewalk. Every time I try to help her back up, she starts wailing about how “he left me.” I never understand what she means, but I am sad for her. And mad. Mad because I am still hungry and I need to go to school soon. I like school. School is warm and dry and they give us lunch. It is nice to eat something without having to cooking it.
When we get home, she stumbles to the couch and yells for me to go to bed. I take a bath—since I am dirty from picking her up so many times and I don’t want to smell at school tomorrow—and put on my pajamas.
The next day I write her a letter in my pink notebook and put it in my closet. My handwriting is bad and it takes me three pieces of paper to tell her how angry I am with her that I had to go hungry. I also tell her how she smells like fruit that is bad and that smell makes my tummy hurt. Before I end the letter, I tell her that I’m sad too.
The memories assault me and my stomach clenches in pain. That night was when things really started going downhill. Mom stayed drunk from then on out and I learned to take care of us.
When I walked by the flower shop on my way to school each morning, Mrs. Scott would stand outside and give me a hug and some type of sweet treat. Either a cinnamon bun or an orange roll with a juice box. Those were my favorites. After that, I never went to school hungry.
Now, I understand why she did it—why she was trying to take care of me without honing in on my mother’s territory. She never wanted me to suffer more than I had to at the hands of my mother. They had an agreement. Even though it was hard for her to stand by to watch everything that was going on, she still made an effort to take care of me from afar.
Why did she promise my mother that she wouldn’t but into our lives? What secret was she keeping?
So many different emotions run through my body. My heart aches, and I mourn the deaths of both my mother and the relationship I wanted to have with her. Yet, I try to remind myself how lucky I was, and still am, to have Mrs. Scott in my life.
I practice breathing in and out while I count to ten each time. I read online that this helps people with anxiety. I’ve never been diagnosed since I didn’t go to the doctor often for myself, but I do know that this breathing exercise helps me when the memories take over.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six . . . With my eyes closed and my concentration on breathing, I feel the stress start to leave my body.
Normally I’d go for a run while doing my breathing and counting, but the train ride limits my movements. When I open my eyes, the landscape has changed from the city to more of a rural area. I watch as the sun moves lower in the sky. Colors soon cover the horizon, and I intently watch the stunning sunset, trees and fields that become more plentiful. I’m so in awe of nature’s beauty.
The colors are vibrant and can’t be captured with a camera even with all the filters turned on. Oranges and pinks are painted across the sky, making this sunset one that I’ll never forget. I count my breaths in and out while I rest my head on the window as I watch the sky turn colors as night appears. It may be my first sunset away from Barron Falls but it’s one full of hope.
I’ve watched enough television and movies, and read enough books to know that life can easily change. Yes, I’m a dreamer, but without dreams, how can you see and pursue a better future? I’m not sure if it’s foolish to believe in fiction, but I think there is always truth among the lines of my favorite stories, hope that life can get better. Heroines get their happily ever afters. Maybe, just maybe, I can be the heroine in my own story. I’ll pursue my happiness too.
My life is changing whether I want it to or not. It doesn’t always give us choices. Sometimes it makes the decisions for us that we can’t make or are afraid too. That’s the point where we have to decide whether we’re going to sink or swim. Since drowning is what my nightmares are made of, I’ve decided to swim—no matter what it takes.
I believe that Chicago holds the keys to Carrigan Part II. The one where I find myself and move on from my past, no longer letting it control me or hold me hostage. I’ll no longer be scared of everything in life because allowing fear to control me is one of the things that has set me on the path I’m on today. Only time will tell what the future holds. I have to believe that there are good things ahead.
3
The man that I noticed earlier is pacing the aisle now with his phone in his hand and headphones in his ears. His hair is mussed, as if he can’t stop running his fingers through it, and his clothes are slightly wrinkled. Every once in a while, I hear a grunt or an acknowledgement from him. I get the feeling that he’s not happy with the person on the other end of the phone and is slowly losing his cool, but trying not to scream on a train filled with people.
He jerks his headphones out of his ears and blows out a long breath. “Son of a bitch. Why can’t he listen to me?” he mumbles while settling down in his seat. He is seated on the left side of the train and one seat behind me, providing the perfect view of his strong forearms. Turning to the side, I lean against the window and peer between the seats to get a better view. I can’t help it—he’s gorgeous and has my full attention.
Bending at the waist and leaning toward the aisle, I whisper shout, “I hope everything is okay.”
He looks up, and when we make eye contact, I can see the dark shadows. With a husky voice, he curtly replies, “Thanks. Just business.”
I smile in victory as I lean back toward the window. I’m not sure what possessed me to even speak to him, as I’m usually not that forward, but I like the feeling of acknowledgement from someone new and as good looking as he is.
I doze off for what seems like only a few minutes and then startle awake as I find myself falling out of my seat. I’ve never been a good sleeper because I was always worried about my mother. Living a life in fear your mother would kill herself with booze or pills is not a life any child should have to experience. The memories come flooding back like they were yesterday instead of almost twenty years ago.
I collect all the money that I can find in the drawer in the kitchen. I’m not sure why Mom
puts her money here and not in her wallet, but I’m glad there is enough for me to use at the store. I’m hungry and we are out of everything. There isn’t even any peanut butter in the house.
The trip to the store is a short ten-minute walk. I’ve learned that I have to do it right after school or it gets dark and I am scared of the dark. I shouldn’t be scared of the dark but considering all of mom’s issues happen at night when it’s dark, I don’t like it. I prefer sunshine and playing in the river during the summer or making snow balls in the winter.
I have sixteen dollars this time. Maybe I can get some apples if they are on sale. The store isn’t too busy and Shell waves at me as I walk in. I’m glad that she’s here today. She is kind to me and usually gives me a banana for the walk home. I push my cart through the store gathering my standard items—peanut butter, tuna and a loaf of bread. They have elbow macaroni and pasta sauce on sale for one dollar each. That means I can get two of each and two apples and I should have enough. Grapes are a treat because they are expensive for me at almost a dollar for each bag.
Shell helps me check out and I have one dollar left. I will hide it for next week and maybe another apple will be part of my shopping trip. She helps me pack everything but the bread in my backpack and gives me a banana to take for my walk home.
“Enjoy your banana, Carrigan, and be safe on your way home.” I wave at Shell and head home before the snow starts.
I stand up looking around me and see that the restroom in the back of the train car is free. Raising my hands toward the sky, I stretch to loosen my body. Sitting in one place for so lo
ng makes my body stiffen, and I feel a bit restless.
As the train rolls on, I use the restroom and wash my hands the best I can with the water splashing all over the sink. I slide the door open and walk back toward my seat, taking in the people in my car. An elderly couple near the front are sitting quietly in their seat and I can’t tell if they are sleeping or just not talking. There is a woman traveling alone, wearing headphones, with her seat full of books. She seems to be so engrossed in her books that she doesn’t even notice me walk by.
My stomach is growling now and when I get to my seat, I lean over and grab a granola bar and a bottle of from my bag. I learned early on to eat when I could. So now I always keep snacks with me because being hungry is one of the worst feelings I’ve ever experienced. It ranks right up there with wondering if anyone could ever love me.
I continue to stand in the aisle and alternately eat the bar and drink the water. I may have only been on the train less than five hours, but it is starting to feel like forever. However, the best things in life are worth the wait, right?
4
The man sitting across the aisle from me startles me when he speaks to me. He’s turned his upper body toward the aisle and is watching me pace when I turn and look at him. “Why do you look so sad?”
Apparently, I seem pathetic if someone I don’t even know is asking me why I look sad. I may not be dressed to the nines or ready for a party, but my clothes are fairly stylish. My solid black maxi dress is tied at the side so that I don’t trip when walking. My sandals are simple yet fun with the bit of metal on the front straps. I decided to thrown on my hot pink long cardigan over the dress in case I got a bit chilly. Despite my nerves, I took the time to wear makeup today. That makeup may make me look like a panda from the crying with streaks of black that lead straight to my broken heart.