Текст книги "Deliver Her from Evil "
Автор книги: M. L. Steinbrunn
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 14 страниц)
Carly
It has taken a bit of time to prepare for this day. As much as I wanted it all to be untrue, I couldn’t pretend the affair wasn’t happening. Even if I confronted Jack and forgave him, even if he wanted to leave his girlfriend and work on our marriage, I don’t think I could ever forget what he’s done.
We are too damaged, too ruined.
While I may be able to forgive him, no amount of counseling could make me let it go. Every time things felt off, I would be wondering if we were on this same unfaithful road. Every time he was out of town, I would be uneasy and worried there was someone else on the other end of that plane ride.
I just can’t. There’s no way I could live the next fifty years of my life like that.
I deserve better.
I deserve the fairy tale.
At first, I felt overwhelmed at the thought of starting over. Finding a job, somewhere to live, getting a lawyer, they were all such daunting tasks. Divorce feels foreign to me, and it seems like society allows for no growing room. There is no grieving time for the loss of the relationship, no break to pull your head together, piece your life together. It’s like as soon as the ink dries, you should be ready to move on.
It’s been a struggle to keep my plans hidden from Jack. No matter how much I wanted to scream at him, I held it in. I knew I would cave if I let him wiggle back into my splintered heart. I wanted to be able to walk away from him standing on my own two feet, strong, and with the upper hand. So Jack came and went for two weeks, not knowing I knew his secret.
But I’m ready now.
Campbell’s money afforded me a new place to live and the retainer for a good lawyer. However, when I drove to the bank on the day of my meeting with the girls, I drained half of our savings account; well, that money has helped, too. I start my new job at the salon in two days, which will provide the financial independence I’ve been missing for the last few years.
My family has been less than supportive of my decision. While they are upset with Jack, they think I should at least give my marriage a second chance by trying marriage counseling. Thankfully, the girls have been supportive, helping me whenever I needed them. They have never questioned my decision.
When I mentioned I didn’t want Olivia at the house when the movers came for the furniture, Vivian immediately volunteered to watch her. I want this to be as smooth a transition as possible; besides, I wanted a few moments alone in the house before I have to let go of it. I thought my forever would be there. I already had Olivia’s graduation party, Christmases with grandchildren, and every other major occasion planned for that house. So to walk away from my dream house, my dream life, isn’t bittersweet…it’s just bitter.
I walk from room to room, checking to make sure I have packed everything. The pictures on the wall jump out at me, a reminder of the life I thought I had, which turned out to be a lie. They only reaffirm that I have no intentions of ever being in this house again.
“Ma’am, the truck is loaded. Is there anything else you would like us to add before we close it up?” the mover asks as I make my way to the top of the stairs.
I walk down the stairs and take one last look around. “No, that’s everything,” I say. “Thank you for double checking; I’ll meet you at the new residence. I’ll be just a few minutes behind you.”
The middle-aged man smiles a gentle, reassuring smile. He’s not naïve. In his line of work, he probably comes across this often, the soon-to-be ex-wife moving out her belongings from the family home. Nonetheless, I appreciate his professionalism and compassion.
“No problem. Take your time, we’ll just wait for you at the townhouse,” he says before turning and leaving out the front door.
As soon as I hear the locks click shut I let out a long, refreshing exhale. I expect to feel the vibration of my breath, emotion-filled and stammering. But it’s smooth and invigorating. I have no tears left to cry. How can I mourn for a man, a love, I never really had?
Gathering the DVD and documents, I carefully set the scene for Jack’s arrival home. It was the best way I could think of to let Jack in on my revelation…I’m done, too.
The film of him and his girlfriend is paused on the television screen, and I leave a post-it note on the TV instructing him to push play. I almost wish I could see his face when he realizes he’s been caught...almost.
On top of the DVD player, I leave behind an envelope with his name written across the front. I thought for a long time about what I wanted to put in the envelope, the final words I wanted to part ways with. A poem perhaps. Maybe a love letter or a note of what could have, would have, should have been. They all carry a touch of nicety and civility. Instead of the words of what could have been, I leave the only thing he needed to have…divorce papers.
Campbell
The stress of Carly’s divorce, the band preparing for tour, Jen’s wedding, and my feelings for Lakin, have all been wearing on me. I’ve been in need of a distraction from everything, so when Vivian asked if I wanted to help out in the afternoons at the foundation, I jumped at the chance. It would be a great way to momentarily escape my current reality. Spending time with the kids at the foundation, some of whom are living in a situation that I’m all too familiar with, is cathartic.
It also puts things into focus for me. The last thing I should be doing is bitching about my life, when these teenagers are fighting just to stay afloat of their sometimes out of control lives. Right now, it’s exactly what I need.
“Hey, Viv,” I say as I walk through her colorful office, which is filled with family pictures and drawings from her kids. Vivian is such a warm person; love and charisma ooze from her pores and draws people to her. She is a magnetic force, a gravity unto herself that surrounds you and forces a smile to your face. She is the sister, mother, friend everyone wishes they could have. She is our little circle’s glue that holds us together, although she would never claim that. She takes care of us all in the same way a mother would, and we are all better women because of her.
Joslyn is wiggling in her bouncy seat, so I reach down and scoop her out. She immediately goes for my hair and begins pulling it. I should know better by now to have it put up when I’m around her; she is in her glasses and hair phase, in which both are too tempting not to pull or destroy. I lightly peel my strands from her tiny fingers and twist my hair out of her reach.
“Sorry,” Vivian offers as she hands me a ponytail holder from her desk. “I keep plenty of these around for that exact reason. I don’t know why I even bother curling my hair in the morning. It’s up before noon anyways with that hair wrangler around.”
She takes Joslyn out of my arms and rests her securely on her hip while I throw my hair into a messy bun. “So what’s the plan for today?” I ask, tucking the loose strands into the fold of the bun. “Do we have a lot of kids signed in?”
Joslyn wiggles and kicks her chubby little legs, and Vivian switches her to the opposite hip. She tickles her thighs and then blows a raspberry into her neck causing her to giggle and squeal. Vivian wrestles to keep her in her arms and I laugh at the playfulness of the situation.
For an instant, I imagine my own mother would have done something similar when I was a child. I don’t know much about her, nor do I have many memories of her, but it seems like a common thing mothers do.
Me, I have never pictured myself as a mom. It’s not that I don’t think I could love a child, or even do a decent job; it’s the overwhelming responsibility of it that has me skittish. I can’t grasp the idea of losing a child the way I lost my parents. I know I shouldn’t think of those worst-case scenarios¸ the icky dark things that no one wants to think or speak about, but I can’t help but let those thoughts settle in the back of my mind. The thought of experiencing loss and the fear I have that your love for something which consumes you so entirely could be ripped away, scares the absolute shit out of me. I would rather have nothing than lose everything.
“There are some kids in the main hall playing games and my little ones are doing crafts,” Vivian says, twisting Joslyn around to face me. She steps into the hallway toward the main areas of the foundation, away from the offices. I throw my backpack on my shoulder and follow behind them. “Some of the older kids are in group counseling sessions,” she adds, pointing to rooms as we pass by.
I can’t help but momentarily peek in, but I don’t dare stop to listen or infringe on those safe spaces. I know the importance of sharing their stories, their highs and lows, and knowing that someone not only is willing to listen but cares. When I come here, I know it will be a struggle. It’s a reminder of a past I have no intention of reliving. That life has been buried. However, that reminder keeps pushing me forward.
We make our way to the main room and the noise of laughter immediately confronts me. Ping-pong balls clicking across tables, board games, kids on couches reading or doing homework together; it’s a portrait of organized chaos that would bring a smile to your face if you were unaware of what lay beyond the doors for these kids. There are a wide range of backgrounds represented here: Some are in the system, some are homeless or at-risk teens, and some of these kids are just making it day to day and should be pulled into the system’s web.
This place gives them all somewhere to go. A support system and structure to help them face a world that drags them along or possibly even leaves them behind.
My eyes gaze across the room, as I try to assess what group of kids I should join, or if any need help with their homework.
A loud juicy noise from Joslyn’s diaper interrupts my perusal and I can’t help but scrunch my nose at the attack on my senses. “Oh my, that sounded and smells ripe,” I tell Vivian.
She flips her over and smells the child’s pants. “Yup, she’s definitely a muddy little thing. I’m going to go change her and put her down for a nap.” She notices my slight apprehension and rests her hand on my shoulder. “Just mosey around, join a game. Just being here helps, Cam; don’t feel like you have to do anything specific,” she explains before leaving me alone in the middle of the commotion.
I nod and take a deep breath before beginning my float around the room. I’ve been here a few times, but it still doesn’t get easier. Just because I need this interaction, doesn’t mean it’s easy. I wave to the few kids who I recognize from my previous visits, some even invite me to join in with whatever they are working on or playing. I smile but decline, telling them I’ll be back around. I want to first check to see if anyone needs any help with homework.
Snaking my way through the masses of young teens, I find myself in the area of cozy couches and bean bag chairs. Vivian has decorated the area with fresh, energetic colors, soft fabrics, and comfortable furniture; it is alluring. It is the kind of zone that demands a good book and maybe a snuggly blanket. A person could spend hours here, relaxing with a friend or a story, and many do.
There is only one person in the area today, but I’m drawn to the area despite the numbers. She has long blonde hair, which is piled high on her head; it’s the usual hairstyle in the Colorado heat. While her jean shorts and tank top appear clean, they don’t exactly fit well. Her book of poetry is turned over on the arm of the couch she’s lounging on, and she is mindlessly doodling on the inside of her arm.
I watch as she allows the ink to swirl around the blue veins in her arms, connecting freckles as she moves the pen. Her head is down, intently focusing on her artistic pattern when suddenly the pen halts and she looks up at me without moving her head.
“Am I in trouble or something?” she asks. “No one was over here, so I thought it would be okay to read.”
I walk around the couch and her eyes slowly follow my movement. She’s sizing me up…friend or foe. I don’t want to put her on edge, but I obviously have. I remember the feeling. No one could be trusted until they proved otherwise, and even then, it was difficult.
I stay standing in front of her, careful not to encroach on her personal space. “No, you’re fine here. I’m just walking around checking on everyone. I noticed your book of poetry, so I thought I would stop. I guess you could say I’m a fan.”
She narrows her crystal blue eyes at me. “Really? Who’s your favorite?”
Another test.
She’s expecting me to say something obvious like Robert Frost or Henry David Thoreau because, those are easy answers, and who hasn’t heard of them. No, my favorite will more than likely surprise her and may even strike a chord.
“Poe,” I tell her in a slightly challenging demeanor.
She picks her book back up and doesn’t even bother looking at me when she addresses me. “Poe wrote stories, not poetry. I’m only in junior high and I’ve even read ‘Tell Tale Heart’,” she says dismissively.
I pause for a second, examining her reaction to my choice, and then I laugh…loudly. The sound grabs her attention and she looks back up at me with confusion plaguing her expression. “What?” Her confidence wanes and I see the fractures in her tough exterior, her insecurities pouring out.
I sit down on the other side of the couch and fling my ankle across my knee to get comfortable. “Sorry. Edgar Allen Poe did a lot more than just dark stories that you read in middle school. Some of my favorite writing from him are his poems, many of which are a lot lighter. Loss and dark wrapped around the light of love.”
The girl puts her book down once more and gives me her full attention. I notice the scribblings on her arm again but she crosses them, hiding the markings, though not in a suspicious way.
“They are just drawings. I do it when I’m bored. It’s not what you’re thinking,” she defends when she notices me looking at her arms.
“I didn’t ask and I wasn’t going to pry,” I tell her. “If you need to tell me anything, I figure you’ll tell me.”
I’m sure she gets asked the question often. I knew a girl in the group home I lived in who was a cutter. She would hide the crimson lines along her inner thighs and arms with pants and long sleeves, but living in a group situation, it was hard to hide. Finally, a therapist joined the staff who suggested she draw patterns on her skin–turn the hurt into a different kind of beautiful. If she felt the need to cut, she was supposed to draw. I never saw how it would help, the pain was the release after all, but somehow she was able to battle the urge.
“No really,” she insists, holding out her arms in front of me. “I don’t always have paper, and I don’t want to draw on the books from the library, so I use my skin. It helps me keep my mind off of things I’d rather not think about.”
I nod in acceptance of her answer. Even if she did self-harm, that wasn’t something she was going to share with a complete stranger. I look at her arms one more time and see no previous scars nor any fresh markings. There is no need to push this girl to possibly confess something.
“So tell me about Poe,” she asks after a long pause that has her squirming in her seat.
I turn to better face her and relax into the cushioning of the couch. “There really isn’t anything to share. His work can mean a lot of things to a reader. For me, I like how even when it feels like the darkness may swallow you whole, there is always a light, a memory of how your world may not be what it seems.”
She smiles and nods slowly. “I can understand that. For a long time, I refused to give up on my mom. I really believed she would eventually get her life together because she loved me enough to do it. Then when it didn’t happen, I thought, maybe I would find a family to adopt me. But now that I’m at the facility and my world is what it is, I try to find the light to make it to the other side. I figure I have to love myself enough to not be a statistic.”
I offer a tight smile as an image of my younger self is reflected back at me. I feel a pull to this girl that I don’t even have a name for. Fifteen years ago, this would have been me sitting on this couch with my book of poetry and funky clothing. A simple girl who had just wanted a family but gave up on that dream, in hopes of just making it. My heart aches for the girl I was and the one before me.
“If I learned anything from my time in the system, it’s that you have to maintain focus on the end of the tunnel. It’s when you lose sight of what you want that you get lost. Sometimes there is no one but yourself to pull you back on course.”
She looks gravely down at her lap and briskly nods as though I’ve confirmed her worst fear. It feels like I’ve upset her. The kids come here to escape their lives, get a break, and here I’ve made this poor kid feel like shit with my philosophy 101.
“Check him out though, I think you’ll like his poetry,” I say, standing and moving away from the couch, ready to give her some space, now that I’ve shit all over her day.
Her head snaps up and moves closer to the edge of her couch cushion. “You don’t have to go,” she says.
“I better make my way around to the others. You know, see if I can make an attempt at sentence diagraming or maybe lose a game at ping pong. I’ll be around though.”
“Okay,” she says with a nod. “I’ll be sure to grab Poe next time I’m at the library.”
“You should. It was nice to meet you. I’ll see you around again some time.” I turn and take a few steps before she shouts back at me, prompting me to turn around.
“My name is Leah by the way,” she hollers, her eyes scan the room, looking to see if anyone noticed her outburst. “I don’t think I told you,” she adds in more of a hushed tone.
I smile at her attempt at manners. “I’m Campbell. I hope to see you again, Leah.”
Her eyes light up, a spark of hope, a flickering of light at the end of the tunnel shining back at me. Her soul is begging to be held onto, pleading for something she’s lost, the same something I once lost, too.
Someone to care.
Someone to love.
Someone who won’t let go.
Instead of wandering the room, I travel back down the office hallway from which I came and burst into Vivian’s office. She’s rocking Joslyn and before she can hush me, I ask her for something I don’t think she can give me.
“I want all of the information you have on that girl, Leah, who is out in the commons area. I want case files, phone numbers to caseworkers, everything you have access to, and want it before that girl leaves here.”
Her eyes widen at my abrupt demands. I don’t normally demand anything of anyone, but this overwhelming feeling to help this girl, strikes a chord. Maybe somehow by helping her find a permanent home, the lost girl I once was, who still exists in my heart and in the dark recesses of my mind, will finally be laid to rest.
I don’t know how, but somehow I will make things right.
Campbell
I should know by now that things don’t go as planned in my world. Life has been a constant teeter-totter, so I just grip onto the handle and hope to stay on.
Vivian had nothing in her records at the foundation about Leah, only a first and last name she used to sign in at the front desk. I called around to the different social service departments and, of course, I was given no information. I should have known better. Lakin stepped in and offered to use his investigator to find out, at least, a backstory. We were supposed to be meeting to go through everything he discovered when life stepped in and put everything on hold.
My phone rang, and on the line was someone who would be calling for only one reason.
“Get here as quickly as you can. There isn’t much time left,” is all he said. Evan didn’t need to say anything else. My focus changed instantly. Leah would have to wait; my past was calling.
I didn’t tell Lakin where I was going; I just grabbed the file and left.
It took almost an hour to reach Sharon’s house. I drove as quickly as I could, hoping I would make it in time.
But now, I’m sitting outside her house, the same house I left so many years ago, and I’m finding it difficult to leave my car and go in. When I got the news that her cancer was back and had metastasized, I knew this battle wouldn’t go our way this time. I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to face it.
I barely remember my own mother, but Sharon has been the closest thing to a mother for most of my adult life. She helped me with the paperwork to get into college, she would be in the front row of anything I asked her to go to, and she was my biggest, and sometimes only, cheerleader. For many years, she was the only thing that resembled home for me.
Her son, Evan, peeks through the curtains, and within seconds, he’s standing on the porch waiting for me to get out of my car. I swallow down my grief and exit the vehicle. As I approach, he offers a tight-lipped smile and a head bob as a greeting. He’s trying to mask his pain, but his red swollen eyes and disheveled hair tell a different story.
“Thanks for coming, Cam,” he chokes out when I step up onto the porch. I don’t say anything; I just wrap my arms around him and squeeze all the love I have for this family into him. In the comfort of my embrace, he breaks down, sobbing into my shoulder. I can feel his hands gripping and twisting my shirt. I stand motionless, letting him grieve for his dying mother.
After his parent’s divorce, he became her primary caregiver. All of the emotion that a son losing his mother feels, he had to push away in order to take care of her. He has had to be so strong through everything; I feel like I need to offer some semblance of solace to him.
He takes some staggering breaths to regain control and nods in my neck when he’s ready to break contact.
“She’s been asking for you,” he stammers, wiping the tears from his eyes.
I cradle his cheek in my palm and nod. He closes his eyes and leans in briefly, looking for additional comfort. When I move my hand away and take a step toward the door, he reaches for my elbow to pull me back. “I think she’s been waiting for you…to say goodbye.”
His words incite a wave of emotion that leaves a knot in my throat, threatening to combust. Unable to release the tears, I continue on through the door and down the hall to Sharon’s bedroom.
Whenever I visited this house, it always smelled like cookies or pies or whatever Sharon had baking in the oven. The smell alone was so welcoming; it made everyone, including myself, feel at home. Now the smell is gone and has been replaced with a cold, sterile feeling that makes your skin crawl.
The door is slightly ajar, and I find myself standing in the opening just watching her sleep. She’s propped up against a mountain of pillows, in what looks like peaceful slumber, but I know better. This woman, who I found so much strength, in has been reduced to a version of herself that no one should have to face.
So she sleeps. Frail, tried, battered, and defeated, she sleeps.
As quietly as possible, I enter the room and slide into the chair, which sits next to the bed. I would guess it has been Evan’s resting spot for these last few weeks, unable to leave his mother’s side. Tentatively, I reach for her bony hand and lightly lay my head on her legs. I close my eyes and let our silence engulf me, enjoying the few peaceful moments we may never have together again.
“I am so glad you’re here, Cam,” she rasps, her free hand landing in my hair and stroking the tendrils. The sensation prompts me to quickly open my eyes and sit up straight.
“There isn’t anywhere I would rather be, Shar,” I say with a smile.
Sharon begins to adjust her blankets and the pillows surrounding her and I jump up to help her, but she holds a hand up to stop me. “I’m okay, please sit. I want to enjoy this time with you. What little time I have left, I want to feel like a mother again, instead of being mothered.”
I slowly sit back down, watching her closely in case she struggles. “I need you to give me a job, Sharon. Tell me what I can do. I can’t just sit here and do nothing for you,” I tell her, feeling helpless to ease her pain.
Since the day I left her house, I have done nothing but try to help others the way she showed me I could through her example. My friends, who are like my family, look to me to smooth out rough situations, to help. That makes me feel worthy of their love. Being unable to do anything for Sharon, only makes that self-doubt intensify. I need my deeds to reflect my appreciation for her.
“Oh, sweetheart, you being here is what I needed,” she whispers.
I smile, knowing Sharon isn’t going to let me push the issue. “Thank you, Sharon.”
She tilts her head in confusion. “I can fluff my own pillow, hun,” she attempts to jest, but begins to cough, causing her to struggle for air. I grab the cup of water on her nightstand and bring the straw to her lips, encouraging her to drink.
I can see her relief as the cool liquid eases her dry throat. When she’s finished, I place the cup back on the nightstand next to her beloved collection of poetry. The green cover is faded and worn from years of love; the pages earmarked with her selected favorites.
“I see this hasn’t gone far,” I say, laying my hand on the cover and running my fingers along the spine. “I always liked when you read these poems to me.”
“I want you to take that with you today. I know you’ll love those words inside just as much as I have,” she says.
I shake my head adamantly, “No, I can’t do that. These mean so much to you.”
“That’s how I know they will be taken care of; you know the value of those words,” she adds with a faint smile. She hesitates for a second before continuing. “I need to tell you something, Cam.”
My eyebrows furrow.
Tears begin to build in her eyes. “I need to apologize to you,” she finally stammers.
“Apologize to me?” I question. “You have done nothing but be supportive of me, all these years, when you had no reason to be.”
“That’s just it, Campbell. I consider you my daughter. I have been proud of you, sad and happy for you, encouraged you, but I know I failed you.”
I begin to argue, but she cuts me off. “Let me finish,” she demands, her raspy voice barely able to choke out the words. “I had several years and several chances to adopt you and make bringing you into our family legal, but I never did. I was scared of that permanent commitment. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do a good job being a foster parent if I took that on; I wanted to be able to help as many kids as possible. But looking back at everything, I didn’t take the right path, and I’m sorry for that. I should have been your mother.”
Emotion builds behind my eyes and I struggle to breathe past the constriction in my throat. “You didn’t have to make it legal for me to know you care about me. I knew I belonged here,” I tell her.
“Whatever the paperwork said, you belonged here,” she whispers through tears as she places my hand on her heart. “You are loved, Campbell. I’m so thankful you came into my life.”
I nod, unable to speak from the pain that is tearing apart my insides. I squeeze her hands, hoping she feels every ounce of admiration and gratefulness I have for her.
A weight has noticeably been lifted from her. For several minutes, we let the silence hang in the air, both of us settling into the peace of the moment. I slowly flip through the pages of her poetry book, taking note of the highlighted passages, notes in the margins, and a few of her favorites that she insisted I read at different times over the last decade and a half.
“Will you read your poem for me?” she finally asks.
I look up at her, almost surprised at her request. “Just that one? I would be happy to read some of your favorites.”
“I’m getting tired, Campbell. I would like to hear it one more time. I want you to say the words one last time,” she murmurs.
I turn the pages until I reach the poem she has requested and take a deep breath, staring at the words on the page. She made me read this William Wordsworth poem so many times over the years; there really is no need to actually read it. The words are burned into my memory, but I need to keep my eyes and mind distracted. As soon as the first words leave my lips, her eyes close and she relaxes into the rhythm of the poem. My voice trembles through the first few lines until I can find comfort in the words.
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS
BESIDE THE SPRINGS OF DOVE,
A MAID WHOM THERE WERE NONE TO PRAISE,
AND VERY FEW TO LOVE.
A VIOLET BY A MOSSY STONE
HALF-HIDDEN FROM THE EYE!
FAIR AS A STAR, WHEN ONLY ONE
IS SHINING IN THE SKY.
SHE LIVED UNKNOWN, AND FEW COULD KNOW
WHEN LUCY CEASED TO BE;
BUT SHE IS IN HER GRAVE, AND OH,
THE DIFFERENCE TO ME!
I recite the final stanza and slowly close the book. My gaze finally rises to see Sharon, peaceful in her bed, no longer struggling to breathe….gone.
For the second time in my life, I’ve lost my mother. I’m just thankful that this time, I had the chance to say goodbye. A sob breaks free and I unleash the tears I have been straining to contain. Barely able to catch my breath, I grip onto the book, rest my head on her legs once again, and let my blended heart spill out.
