by Jessica Park
I’m dizzy, so I hold on to the handrail and shut my eyes as I concentrate on breathing and grounding myself. This is not easy, considering that my blood sugar is probably low because I haven’t eaten today.
Because my pathological mother stole my éclairs and told me that I ate them.
And I believed her.
As I extrapolate from there, images flash through my head—my empty shampoo, the shirt she told me was purple but was really green, objects in my room that moved around ever so slightly.
I open my eyes, and for a second, I see blood pouring from my ankles, so I blink until the vision that belongs to the last time I was in this stairwell disappears. Now, I’m just looking at my feet in heels.
My mother has so thoroughly warped my sense of reality—retelling facts and stories, insisting on my stupidity and forgetfulness—that I have now become someone who is trapped, dysfunctionally dependent on a shell of a family. I cannot continue like this, or I’m going to finally break until what’s left of my psyche shatters into smithereens. I don’t want that to happen. I want to thrive.
I walk slowly down the stairs and back to Amy’s room. I peek inside to make sure that our mother is not there before going to my sister. Her fragility frightens me to the core. I don’t stop myself from crawling into the bed and lying down with my body against hers and my head on her shoulder. I tug at her arm and pull it around me, so she’s holding me like we did when we were little.
“I love you so mush,” I say. “I love you so mush.”
The room is quiet, dark, except for the lights from the surrounding monitors. I squeeze my sister.
A few minutes later, Amy squeezes back.
“I love you so mush, too.” Her voice is tiny and hoarse.
I lift up to look at her through the murky darkness, and I can make out her eyes opening slowly.
“Where’s our mother?”
“I don’t know. I can go find her if you want.”
“No, no.” She holds on to me more tightly. “God, no.” She takes a deep breath and coughs.
“Are you okay? Do you want some water?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Stella, listen to me.” She’s breathing harder now. “You have to get out of here, okay?”
I wipe my cheek. “What?”
“Out of Chicago. Leave, and don’t come back. Mom and I…” Her chest rises and falls quickly. “We’re fucking toxic. You have to get away from us.”
“No,” I immediately say. “I’m not leaving you with her.”
She laughs. It takes forever for her to get out the words, “I’m too far gone. I can’t leave. I have to stay. He needs me. So, you do me a favor, and you run for the both of us.”
“Who needs you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just go.”
I bury my head into her. “Let’s go together.”
“I want you to get the hell out of here.”
“No,” I protest. “No, I’m not doing anything—”
Suddenly, her strength is back, and she lifts my torso with her hands. Her voice is loud now, forceful and angry, as she says, “Oh my God, Stella! Get the fuck away from me. Do you understand? You get away. You get away—”
“She’ll find me.”
“No,” Amy says decisively. “She won’t look.”
She’s right, I realize. My mother wouldn’t look for me.
Amy locks her stare on me. “I’ll make sure.”
For the first time in five years, my sister is showing me that she loves me.
“Go find your good, Stella.”
I freeze and look into her eyes, now glowing in the moonlight streaming in through the window. Her words are Sam Bishop’s words, and I can hardly breathe.
“What did you say?”
She abruptly turns from me and throws her arm over her face. “You and I are done. Break free from us. This family is cursed.” In a minute, the sound of her sleep fills the room.
I back away from the bed and tiptoe toward the door, just an inch at a time at first. Then, the thought that my mother might show up throws me into action. I don’t want to see her ever again.
I turn, and I run.
I am going to save myself.
EVEN THOUGH THE RECEPTION IN MY ANCIENT CAR is not very good, I crank up the fuzzy station and increase my speed. I can’t remember the last time when I listened to music, and I’ve spent the past eight hours exploring everything from country to Motown to classic rock and newer pop. It turns out that I don’t care much for jazz or classical. But the fun thing is that I get to choose what I listen to. That understanding is so stupidly simple yet so complex.
The roads are empty, the rest stops are quiet, and the highways belong to truckers and me. I like it.
The three caffeine-laden sodas that I’ve had are wearing off, and I’m exhausted. I tap my hands on the steering wheel and belt out a song that I’ve heard about seventy times since I threw some shit into my car and drove out of Chicago. My voice is hoarse and horrendously off-key, but I don’t care because I am happy. I’m terrified and sick to my stomach but happy, and that’s what’s important. Also important is locating a place to sleep because I am wiped out.
Somewhere outside of Buffalo, New York, I pull into a cheap motel. The room smells like moldy cheese and body odor, but that doesn’t matter. I lock the door and immediately take a step onto the bed where I jump up and down until I am giggling uncontrollably. I jump so hard that I actually crack my head on the popcorn ceiling and cause it to snow plaster all over the worn paisley quilt. When I drop down onto the mattress, I am out of breath but so full of exuberance that I manically roll back and forth on the now-plastered cover before grabbing fistfuls of blanket and wrapping myself up into a cocoon. In the darkness, I wait for my breathing to settle, for my heart to stop pounding.
“I ran away from home!” I scream into the blanket. “I ran away from home!”
This is, of course, a rather idiotic thing to say. I’m twenty-one years old, not twelve. I haven’t done anything illegal or really all that interesting. One really can’t run away at my age. It’s pretty normal to move out of your parents’ house, so this is not a monumental feat.
Yet it is.
When I left the hospital, I went home, raided the bathroom for my cosmetics and such, and tossed piles of clothes into two large duffel bags. My laptop and a few other items fit into a tote. I was almost out the door when it occurred to me that I might not want to take on a long drive in my ridiculous dress and heels. That piece-of-shit dress deserved to be burned, but instead, I wasted twenty minutes of good driving time to cut it into shreds and sprinkle those shreds all over my mother’s room. I also stuck the godforsaken heels in the fridge, next to a glass jar of caviar labeled Lucinda’s.
That was how I said good-bye. It seemed fitting.
I’m unclear whether it’s the motel blankets or me that stink, but a shower is in order, so I steam myself and use the no-name shampoo and soap provided for me. My mother would be appalled with the lack of a high-end brand, so I wash my hair with the crummy shampoo a total of four times. I consider it a rather thrilling act of retaliation.
At six thirty in the morning, I finally fall asleep.
Although I wake up a few times, it is not until four the next morning when I start to fully come back to life. Well, shit. That was pushing twenty-four hours of sleep. I guess I was tired. For a moment, I wonder if I was actually asleep or if I blacked out.
After another shower, I unload my makeup and hairstyling items onto the counter and begin the process of putting myself together. I’ve had the same routine for years now, and I’ve never enjoyed spending time drying my hair in big rollers, applying makeup, and worrying about the position of each fucking eyelash. But I go through the motions because this is what I have always done. After I put on the cuff bracelet from my father and a selection of other jewelry, I dress in a navy silk button-down and tan dress pants, and I opt for slip-on shoes for driving.
I have a
t least ten hours of highway to cover today and no one to share stretches with, but that’s okay. I can go this alone. While I drive, I’ll make some calls and withdraw from school. I also need to change my cell number. I have a ton of missed calls. I haven’t bothered to listen to the messages, so my voice mail is clogged.
I’ll do whatever I have to do in order to disappear and start over.
I’m going to find Sam Bishop.
His parents’ inn, The Coastal, is located in Watermark, Maine, and according to the Internet, they still own it, so that’s a good place to start. For all I know, Sam is away at college in some other faraway state. However, I’ve never seen the ocean, so I might as well head to The Coastal Inn. Maybe that’s not a reason to drive so crazily far, but I want to. For the first time, I’m going after what I want.
And what I want is Sam.
That one day I had with him was…well, I don’t know what it was precisely. I just know that it was the last time I felt close to anyone.
It’s almost as though I have no choice in the matter. Driving to Maine is a compulsion that I cannot ignore.
Music and daydreams propel me toward my future, whatever that might be.
One thing is for sure. I will eat a lobster.
THE MAINE COASTLINE is dauntingly beautiful with rocky shores, jagged cliffs, seaweed-covered sand, and a deep navy ocean. The water is so dark, and white foam collects in spots as waves form and crash. From my seat on the restaurant deck at The Coastal Inn, I am essentially hanging over the water, and I cannot get enough of the cove.
It’s chillier than I would have thought for the last week in April, but I should have known there’d be a cold ocean breeze. I pull my cardigan around me and cross my arms. No one else is on the deck with me, and I’m sure the server thought I was insane for wanting to sit out here, but I couldn’t resist watching the sunset.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
I look to my left and smile at the woman standing next to me. “It’s remarkable.” It might be the two glasses of wine that I’ve had, but I am nearly delirious with joy right now. I’m a million miles from Chicago, but I’ve never felt more at home, at peace. I finish off my glass.
Her spiral curls bounce as she turns to take in the view herself. “It never gets old, even after all this time.” She sighs with contentment and unties the apron from around her waist. “How was your food?”
“Perfect. I’ve never had clam chowder before, and I could have eaten another five bowls.” This is true. It tasted like heaven.
“Really? You haven’t? Well, come back anytime. We’ll make more. Can I get you another glass of wine?”
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “Another glass would be great.” I see no reason not to get shit-faced. “You’ve worked here for a while?”
“Not only do I work here, but I actually own The Coastal. My husband, Micah, and I have for years. We live here in the building, too.” She puts out a hand. “I’m Felicia.”
My heart stops. This is Sam’s mother. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, trying to sound normal and not all weird and shaky. “I’m Stella Ford.”
“Lovely to meet you, too. Let me get you that glass of wine.” She stops at the French doors to the main dining room. “I might grab a glass for myself, if you don’t mind some company? Dinner service is about wrapped up, and the staff has everything under control. I’m calling it quits for the night.”
“I’d love some company.”
She returns with wine for the two of us and seats herself at the table, scooting back the chair and resting her feet on the railing. “So, what brings you to Watermark this time of year? A vacation or just passing through?”
I’m not exactly sure how to answer this. I take a big sip and set my glass back down on the table. The sound of the waves is soothing, and the salt air is fresh and smells of life. “I…well…apparently, I dropped out of college and drove across the country. Rather spontaneously.”
“Aha.” Felicia brushes what looks like flour off her billowy top and smiles. Crow’s feet show as her eyes twinkle. “You’re on some kind of adventure.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you running from something or toward something?”
Another big sip. “I don’t know that either. Both maybe.”
“Fair enough. That’s an exciting place to be.”
“It is exciting, isn’t it?” I smile.
Felicia has the sort of relaxed, eco-friendly look that my mother would despise. I like this woman more and more every second.
“You’ve owned the inn for a long time?”
I sink into my chair and listen while she tells me how she and her husband gave up on a chaotic life in New York City years before and moved here.
“One Sunday morning, we read a piece in the paper about the owners were selling this place. It was falling apart really, but it’d become a landmark of sorts despite the conditions. We just…well, we’d both had it with city life, so we cashed out and threw everything we had into this place. I have no idea how we survived, but we built a family and a life here. Even bought a vacation house north of Watermark. So, maybe I understand what you’re doing a bit.”
The wine is making me tired, and I let the sound of her voice lull me into further relaxation. We talk for the next hour, and I enjoy hearing about all the work that went into renovating the huge old inn, including how they decorated each room individually. They built up the restaurant’s menu, and eventually, they created a solid reputation.
“Our son works for us, too. He’s basically the building manager.”
I’m decidedly drunk right now, and I cannot lie to her. “Sam, right?” I say with a slur. “I know your son.”
Her surprise is obvious. “You do?”
“I mean, sort of.” I can’t help from laughing. This is incredibly stupid and strange to be sitting here, talking to Sam Bishop’s mother. “I don’t really know him, know him. I met him once in Chicago, years ago. He was there for a class trip of some kind.”
She lights up, presumably relieved that I’m not a full-blown stalker. “Yes, that’s right. He was.”
“Sam…helped me on a very bad day. I’ve always remembered how nice he was. So, Maine seemed like a destination.” I rest my head on the back of the chair and look up at the dark sky. “Not that many people are nice, you know? I just kind of hate people a lot of the time, which sucks. I don’t want to be like that anymore. All miserable and crazy and…and…hating myself. Sam,” I say pointedly, “is a good, good person. You must be a happy mother. Proud.”
She studies me with curiosity, but it’s not in a bad way. “Did you come here, looking for Sam?”
“Shh.” I hold a finger to my lips and suppress a giggle. “Don’t say that. It makes me sound creepy.”
Felicia laughs. “I won’t say anything.”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m just trying to save myself.”
She gives me a thoughtful look. “This is a good place to do that. You’re going to stay in town for a while?”
“My plans didn’t really include a lot of actual planning. I just…got in my car, and here I am.” I look at her now. “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m a little drunk, and I think I should go to bed somewhere.” Then, for some reason, in a horrible British accent, I ask too loudly, “Have you got room at the inn?”
Felicia laughs again. “For you? Absolutely.”
She pulls me to a stand, and the world spins.
“I have a lovely room upstairs with a king-sized bed, a rose-colored comforter, and more pillows than you’ll know what to do with. There’s a beautiful view off the balcony. You won’t want to leave.”
“I already don’t.”
I scuffle next to her, and her arm slips around my waist to steady me.
“You’re a much better mother than mine is. Was. Whatever.”
Felicia makes me give her my car keys, and she asks someone at the front desk to retrieve my bags
from the car. She helps me up a winding broad staircase that leads to the second floor and into the most beautiful cozy room. She pulls a bottle of water from a mini fridge and directs me to drink up. While she goes downstairs to help the person with my bags, I go to the bathroom and drunkenly decide that this is an opportune moment to check my voice mail messages. I hold the phone in the crook of my neck while I fumble for the guest-provided toothbrush and turn on the water.
“Stella! Where are you? How can you disappear on me now of all times?” My mother’s voice bellows through the phone, and I roll my eyes. “I’m starving, so I need you to get me dinner.”
Next message. “What the hell have you done? How could you do this to me? They’re keeping Amy in the psych unit and putting her on suicide watch because you fabricated some story about pills and guns. Damn you, Stella. I will never forgive you.”
Then, “Oh, sweetheart! I need you!” Lucinda is sobbing. “I am all alone, and I cannot get through this without you. What am I going to tell everyone? How humiliating.”
I spit into the sink and keep listening.
“How dare you.” Her voice is full of rage and disgust. “After everything I’ve done for you. And you leave me? Amy told me you’re gone. You’re just like your father—a coward, a child. A bitch. Well, you know what? Fine. That’s just fine. Don’t ever ask me for anything else. You’re dead to me.”
After this last message and after spending an evening talking to Felicia, I see so clearly that my relationship with my mother is not normal, not close to healthy. Lucinda has been emotionally abusing me for years. I suppose I’ve allowed it. Maybe I should have been stronger and seen that years ago. I could have fought for myself, escaped earlier, but she’d broken me too much. I hate her for that, for everything.
There are more messages, but I delete them, except for the one from Amy.
“You did it. Good. I won’t call you again, and don’t call me. I’m going to be fine. I’m not going to die or hurt anyone. I promise. Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back on us.”