The REASON Series - the Complete Collection

by Zoey Derrick

Weekends often found me alone in whatever apartment we were staying in while Mom was off with God only knows who, doing God only knows what. Usually she’d stumble home late Sunday night or sometime during the day on Monday and pass out for a couple of days. Then she’d be right back at it again.

  I learned to steer clear of her when she ran out of money. She had a venomous temper and would storm around the house yelling and throwing things. Sometimes she would hit me just because I asked a question. At the time, I didn’t understand what I’d done to deserve it. I understand better now that she was unable to control her own anger, and her means of coping were always drugs or alcohol.

  On my way home from visiting my mother, I stop at the grocery store again, picking up some repeat things, and some new. I discovered very quickly after cooking up some chicken Saturday night that chicken does not sit well with me — I threw it up — so chicken’s out. I look at the store’s selection of red meat, and my stomach turns. Hm. Evidently all meat is out for now. I’ll talk to Dr. Alston next week about some alternative options.

  For the moment, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and scrambled eggs seem to be my foods of choice, and I'm okay with that.

  Wednesday and Thursday pass quickly without incident; all I do is work, eat and sleep.

  But Friday night at the diner is strange. It’s extremely busy — which is nice because it passes the time quickly — but only a few of our regulars are here. The rest are classier, well-dressed and well-behaved people who look like they’d be more comfortable in a swank hotel bar than in Bertie’s shitty little diner. Laura chalks it up to something happening downtown. It still seems odd to me, but I can’t complain. I leave work at around twelve thirty with over three hundred dollars in tips — something that is completely out of the ordinary. Happy with the fact that I've managed to make more than half of my rent in one night, I head home.

  Once again, Al is behind the wheel. We have our typical conversation and I notice that I don't feel anywhere near as tired as I was just a week ago.

  "You're looking well," Al says when we’re almost to my stop.

  "Um, thanks," I say, confused.

  "No, I mean it. Have you gained some weight?"

  I think back to putting on my uniform before work and realize he must be right. "I'm trying," I say.

  "Keep it up."

  He drops me at my stop and lingers until I round the corner. As soon as the bus moves on, headlights appear behind me, casting my shadow across the pavement and illuminating my path. The vehicle isn't moving. I quicken my pace, my heart pounding.

  I push on the door to my building, and as I slip inside, the car drives by. A black Mercedes.

  Inside my apartment, I drop my mail on the counter, strip off my uniform and head toward the shower. I stop to check myself in the mirror – something I haven't really done since before the trip to the hospital – and I suddenly see what Al was talking about.

  My eyes are a lighter, brighter blue. My cheeks are still a little hollow, but they seem to be filling out a bit. And I don’t look quite so pale. Though my collarbones are still visible beneath my skin, they’re a little less pronounced. The biggest shocker are my breasts, which seem a lot fuller. Not bigger, just fuller. And my nipples are a few shades darker than they used to be.

  I look down my body to the bump between my hips. It too is more rounded and softer looking, though my hipbones are still well defined. I gently caress the bump with one hand as I remove the hair tie from my bun with the other, letting my hair cascade down my back.

  I turn on the shower, all the way to the hottest setting, and pray. It's warmer than usual, so I jump in, but I barely get my hair washed before the water starts to run cold. I move quickly and hop out. For once in my life I'd love to take a shower that is hot and stays hot for as long as I want.

  As I towel off, I notice that I'm moving more gingerly than I used too. I’m a little more cautious in my movements. After I get into my pajamas, I make myself a pb&j with grape jelly and grab the book Dr. Alston gave me. Flipping to the section on week twelve, I start to read by the tiny lamp near my bed.

  While reading, I realize that Dr. Alston seems to be spot-on with her assessment of how far along I am. Over the last couple of days my breasts have switched from being painful to feeling heavy, my tiredness seems to be waning slightly, and I'm beginning to feel my energy level rising. I'm also hardly ever hungry. But then again, these days, if I feel hungry, I eat —something I've never done in my life. I'm beginning to wonder how I survived this long.

  FIFTEEN

  I'm running through our apartment. He's right on my heel, chasing me.

  "Abigail, get her!" he says.

  "You want her, you get her," my mother shouts from another room.

  Suddenly I'm flying backwards. The pain in my scalp surges through my body and I go limp. I’m being dragged backwards by my hair into a room along the hallway. Only it's not a room, it’s a closet. He pulls my hair harder and suddenly I'm spinning around. A hard, heavy hand comes across my face.

  My head snaps back, knocking into the jamb of the closet door. I see stars. He grips my arm so hard it burns. I start to cry. He grabs my other arm just as hard. I can feel the veins popping and burning.

  "Get your sorry ass in that closet and stay there."

  I can’t move because of the grip he has on my arms. Suddenly one of the hands is gone and I can feel him shift his weight. I try to flinch away but his grip tightens further as his hand comes down hard across the same cheek, snapping my head back into the jamb again.

  He shoves me roughly into the closet and I stumble, falling to the floor. The door slams shut. Something heavy scrapes along the wall and bumps to rest against the door.

  "Now you can't get out."

  Panic sets in. I try in vain to open the door. My arms are weak, throbbing from his grip, useless.

  "Alright, bitch, you have work to do." His voice comes from down the hall. Then I hear the smack. "Damn it, bitch, get to work."

  I start beating on the door, panicked in the dark. I’m hot, I’m alone, and I’m hurt...

  My eyes fly open. My heart races, my breathing coming fast and hard. I try to shake the memory, but the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins. It hadn’t been the first time I’d been locked in the closet by one of my mother’s drug dealers or pimps while they beat and fucked her, but on that occasion I’d spent at least three days in that closet before the paramedics finally showed up.

  It never made sense to me that she kept going back to those types of men. Did she enjoy the beatings? Get off on them? The thought makes me queasy. Maybe she just didn’t know how to do things any different. Maybe she didn’t know they could be different.

  Thank goodness I got away from Riley. Even if I was a little late in realizing the importance of pulling away, I did it. Despite the consequences.

  Still trembling, I climb out of bed and head into the bathroom.

  When I come out I feel calmer. The clock next to my bed reads nearly eleven in the morning. I yawn and stretch, ignoring the little flutter of panic at exposing my belly, and try to decide what to do first.

  It's Saturday, laundry day. I consider skipping it — I still feel unsafe after that dream and laundry means going out in public — but one look around my apartment at the dirty clothes strewn about tells me I don't have much of a choice. I bend down and start stuffing clothes into my laundry bag.

  The intercom buzzes. My heart jolts. "Who on earth?"

  I push the intercom button. "Who is it?" My voice comes out a little harsher than I intend. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while a male voice crackles through the intercom.

  "My name is Alex. I have a delivery for Vivienne?"

  "What is it you're delivering?"

  "Groceries," he says back.

  What the hell? Do I go downstairs and meet him or stay here and let him up? Not wanting him near my apartment, I tell him, "I'll be right down."

&nbs
p; "I was told to bring them up to apartment nine."

  Damn it.

  Okay, I can let him up and stay behind the door and the chain. It’s not much, but at least if he tries to break down my door, other people might hear.

  I buzz him into the building.

  After a moment, I can hear someone climbing the stairs. He sounds heavy. My heart starts pounding. He gets closer. Then I hear him take the two steps across the landing to my door.

  Knock, knock. "Vivienne, it's Alex."

  About now I really wish I had a peephole. I unlock the deadbolts and the knob but leave the chain. I open the door a crack. On the other side is a boy, really, not much taller or bigger than I am, wearing a Cub Foods shirt and carrying a paper bag with the Cub logo on it.

  The panic settles a little, but I’m still cautious. "Who sent the groceries?" I ask him.

  "A gentleman by the name of Mikah Blake."

  I curse under my breath. "Send them back. I don't need them."

  "He said you'd say that."

  "Well, take them back, then tell him if he insists on my having them, he can deliver them himself."

  He chuckles. "He said you'd say something like that too, so he told me to give you this." He slips me a piece of folded paper.

  I take it from him, keeping my leg pressed against the door, and open it up. Sure enough, it's Mikah’s handwriting.

  Dearest Vivienne,

  If you're reading this I know you're protesting my groceries. I send them with Alex here because I am trying hard to not force myself on you. But I want you to have some of these goodies that I know you won't buy yourself. Please accept this gift as an apology for the way things happened at the hospital.

  I hope you're well.

  -M

  The bottom of the letter has his phone number on it, the same one that's on the back of his card.

  "Alright, Alex, you can put the bag down."

  "I'm supposed to bring it in and put it away."

  "Nope. I'll spare you your job by accepting the bag. You can do me the favor of putting it on the floor and going down to the landing."

  He nods skeptically and places the bag on the floor. He slowly backs away to the stairs. When he's on the landing, I close the door and unlatch the chain. Then I open it again just wide enough to drag the bag inside. Alex is watching me from the landing.

  "Thank you, Alex."

  "You're welcome."

  I watch for a moment as he heads down the stairs, then I shut my door and look into the bag.

  On top is a bag of goldfish crackers. I shakily remove the crackers and my heart flutters a bit. Below them, a bag of Oreo cookies. My tummy rumbles. Moving the cookies aside reveals a square package, wrapped in silver paper, and the top of what looks like a champagne bottle. As I pull out the bottle, I see it is actually sparkling cider. My heart warms to Mikah just a little more. Then I grab the package. I look in the bag to make sure there is nothing else in it, but there is: a container of beautiful, bright red strawberries. As I lift the container, something on the bottom of the bag catches my eye.

  It’s a card in a light blue envelope. It says, Open Me 2nd.

  "Huh?" I huff.

  I look back at the package and decide to save it and the card for later, after laundry, when I'm ready to...

  I look at the package again. What on earth did he do? My curiosity gets the better of me.

  I pick up the package and shake it, hoping that its rattle will tell me what it is. Silence.

  I turn it over and slide my finger underneath the seam. Rip off the paper. I'm looking at a plain black box. I raise an eyebrow at it, like it's going to tell me its secrets if I look at it in just the right way. It just sits there.

  Well, only one way to find out, I guess.

  SIXTEEN

  Underneath the lid is purple tissue paper, and underneath the paper is a silver frame holding a picture. My picture. The missing ultrasound picture. The one where the baby looks like it's waving at me.

  Tears fill my eyes, making it hard to read the inscription.

  Baby Callahan's First Picture

  Friday, October 12, 2012

  I raise the picture from its resting place in the box. Beneath the frame is another note.

  I'm sorry I took this image from you. I know it was your favorite. I wanted to give you something special.

  -M

  My heart clenches as I realize that Mikah is quickly becoming more than I realized. Although I'm a little upset that he took the picture without asking, I'm also flattered.

  "You're forgiven," I say aloud, and I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I grab the card and rip it open.

  On the cover is a single yellow rose on a white background. Next to the rose in an elegant font it says, Thinking of you.

  "Why, Mikah? Why me?"

  The inside of the card contains a longish note in Mikah's penmanship.

  Vivienne,

  For reasons I can't explain, I need to be close to you. At least to know you're okay.

  I saw something in you that first night that made me think of happier times, times that have long been forgotten.

  Seeing your beautiful baby last week made me think about all the things that truly matter in life, and for that I'm grateful.

  You give me reason, you give me hope and you give me life. No amount of time will allow me to repay that debt to you, but I'd like the chance to try.

  -M

  P.S. I know it's not champagne, but I hope you enjoy your cider and strawberries.

  P.P.S. Thank you for accepting my gift and for reading my card.

  I grab the picture and curl up on my bed, hugging it and sobbing. The picture in the frame is larger than the original. Which makes me wonder where the original is.

  As much as I want to accept Mikah into my life, I can't seem to allow it to happen and I don't understand why. I had a panic attack after I kicked him out of my hospital room for crying out loud, but I'm scared.

  Despite the fact that he keeps pushing me to accept his help, I'm extremely comfortable around Mikah. Up until now, I’ve only known Riley and the men my mother kept around, so my instinct is to be afraid. But Mikah brings me such comfort. It’s the oddest thing. Somewhere deep down I’m starting to think that not all men can be lumped into the Riley category. Riley stole my innocence and tore up my heart. But Mikah - Mikah seems bound and determined to repair the damage Riley did.

  When I smacked him across the cheek, he did nothing more than embrace me, comfort me. He knew instantly what he had done to scare me, and he apologized. Apologized! When I'm the one that hit him!

  And in that hospital room, he was nothing but kind and generous. He supported me like no man ever has. He stayed with me and comforted me. He was awed by my baby. And I threw him out. God, I'm such an idiot.

  I'm drawn to him, but I can't seem to let myself get close to him. I'm terrified because he gives me so much hope, and I know that if I let my feet float off the ground, I will come crashing back down so hard that I won't recover this time. I'm damaged, I'm broken, and I have permanent scars that not even someone like Mikah can erase.

  Maybe Mikah is pure-hearted and has fabulous intentions. He's just picked the one girl on the planet that can't be saved.

  SEVENTEEN

  On Tuesday I go spend some time with my mom. She’s a little more animated, and it’s kind of nice to see. On my way out I ask the nurse if she’s usually like that - animated.

  “No, she pretty much just sits quiet and doesn't say much.”

  It makes me feel a little bit better knowing that her level of sedation or animation has nothing to do with me.

  I've often wondered if she holds me responsible for how her life turned out. I know that it's stupid to think that way, but sometimes, remembering how she let her men treat me, I wonder if she resented me.

  On Wednesday I get to work with about twenty-five minutes to spare. When I step off of the bus, I do a double take, my heart seizing in panic. Across the street, mov
ing away from me, is a skinny man with dirty blond hair who looks a hell of a lot like Riley. I know he’s in jail so it’s stupid to think it could be him, but I scurry quickly into the diner anyway.

  Once inside, I see Bartie sitting near the register, his usual spot.

  "Hi, Bart," I say. He gets really annoyed if you call him Bartie to his face. He’s about five feet eleven inches and two hundred fifty to three hundred pounds. Garrison's Diner has been owned by his family since the early 1900s and is practically a historic landmark in Minneapolis. It's unfortunate that the neighborhood around the diner has gone to pits, but he still stays in business.

  I haven't seen Bartie since before the hospital visit, so I'm a bit disappointed that he's here tonight. It also makes me anxious. He's not normally here when I come in, so I instantly start to think he's going to fire me.

  "Vivienne?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "How are you feeling?"

  I suppress the shock I feel at his question. “Great, thanks. How are you?" I begin walking toward him, but stop about five feet away. Though he’s never really done anything to make me mistrust him, there’s this invisible danger zone around him that sets off my warning bells. Maybe it’s my inexplicable desire to please him. Or maybe it’s the fact that he's quite the grease monkey when it comes to his clothes and hygiene.

  "I'm good. You're looking well. You've gained some weight?"

  "I think so. I don't own a scale, so I can't say for sure."

  He laughs his awful, too-many-cigarettes laugh. "Well, I can see it. Can you come here, please?"

  I'm momentarily dumbstruck, and then I manage to make myself move another couple feet toward him.

  "What's up, Bart?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

  He lowers his voice. "I just wanted to let you know that Laura and I talked yesterday. You know, about last week." Oh no. "I just wanted you to know that you've done a great job working here. As long as you don't make a habit out of it and we can cover your shift, I will never fire you because of being sick."