Tainted by Crazy

by Abby Mccarthy

  “I called the realtor this morning and I had her take it off the market. Nothing has really been selling and I thought that you could stay here. You don't want to live around Merv the Perv anyways, do you?” she asked laughing at me.

  “Grams, you can't take it off the market. You need that money,” I sighed.

  “Oh yes, I can. I already did. Besides, it’s not doing me any favors just sitting here. You can help me get some new paint on these walls and there is enough furniture in there that I imagine you can make it quite nice. Plus, you can pay me a little rent, once you get on your feet. That will be better than what I’m getting for it right now, which is a big fat nothing.”

  I surveyed the house. She was right. It could use a little love and that might be why it wasn’t selling. Maybe I could stay here just until I helped her get it sold?

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as God made those apples on my apple tree. Lord knows those apples are just going to waste, and I could really use a good pie. We’re having a bake sale soon. Please tell me you remember the recipe for my famous apple pie. I seem to keep forgetting some of the ingredients.”

  “Oh, stop it! You are as sharp as a thorn in a pricker bush and I’m not going to let you tell me any different.”

  The house was a large white Victorian home. A white picket fence surrounded it making you really feel like you were in the South. The paint was chipped on the fence and I mentally added that to my brand new to-do list. The flower beds were empty, but I could tell she had someone weed it.

  I exited the car and walked up the stairs, skipping the second step since it always was a bit loose. I was filled with a flood of emotions. I felt a longing and a pull to step inside. I was nostalgic from all of our happy memories and at the same time, I felt sad that I’d stayed away from this for so long.

  Grams paused outside of the door, and took a key off of her key ring and handed it to me. “Here. I think this is yours,” she said winking at me.

  I unlocked the door and walked in, inhaling the musty smell. Underneath the years of abandonment, I could smell something different, something familiar, something vaguely reminding me, I was home.

  Large painters’ drop cloths covered the furniture in the living room and her dining room table. My chest tightened thinking of this place being sold to someone else. I would hate to see another family here.

  I continued looking around the room. My mental checklist of everything I wanted to do to the place added up exponentially with cleaning being at the top.

  “Why don’t you go get your luggage, and I’ll open up some windows to air the place out?” Grams suggested.

  I gave her a nod and headed outside to her car, noting the squeak in the fence as I passed through. I grabbed my luggage and headed back up the walk to find Grams was already back outside on the large, oversized porch.

  “Well, I must be off. I have a standing Gin game at six on Saturdays, and I need to eat before that. You should come by and play with us sometime.”

  “That’s it? You’re not going to come in and chat for a while?” I asked completely surprised that she would leave already.

  “You’ve had a long trip, and I can tell you have a lot on your mind. I left a fifty on the mantel. Go get yourself some food. Take a hot bath. Rest that back of yours. You need to take care of yourself.”

  I tilted my head to the side wanting to argue with her, because I’d missed her terribly. On the other hand, perhaps she was right. Before I could protest, she started down the stairs and looked back to give me a wave and a flash of her beautiful smile. Her laugh lines illuminated her old skin, telling a tale of a woman who has loved and laughed. When Grams smiled, you could see that she has lived, not just that she’d been alive, but truly taken her life and lived it to its’ fullest. What kind of injustice had I been doing to myself by living the life I’ve led? I gave a wave back and walked through the screen door. I pulled the white drop cloth from the sofa and watched as dust particles flew through the air catching in the late afternoon sun reminding me of the first time I stepped through these doors.

  “Now remember what I told you, right? You be a good girl and behave for Grandma. I’ll be back soon, I just need some time to get my head on straight.” The tiny dust particles filtering in through the afternoon sun surrounded Momma.

  “Momma, I don't want you to go,” I cried.

  “You’ll be fine. Grandma loves you.”

  “If she loves me, how come I’ve never even met her?”

  “That’s because we haven't lived close by Maple. We’ve been over this,” she said with an annoyed look on her face as the car horn from outside blared. “I have to go. Johnny’s waiting.”

  “Momma, he’s going to be like the rest of them. Just stay with me. Please don't leave,” I begged, my eight-year-old heart breaking; again.

  Momma stood and squared her shoulders, “Grandma will take good care of you, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I made one last ditch effort to get her to stay, desperate for her not to leave. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be so quiet, Johnny won’t even know I’m there.”

  She backed away from me. Her face was hardened. I could tell she had closed herself off from this. I tried to go after her, but Grams pulled me close. “Please don't go, Mommy! Please!” I sobbed while my world splintered around me. “I’ll be good. I’ll do anything, just don’t leave me,” I called after her for minutes after she left.

  “Honey, I know it’s hard. And you can be as sad as you want to be, but why don't you come in the kitchen with me. I have the perfect thing for sad hearts.”

  “Nothing can fix this. She always ruins us,” I sniffled watching my Momma pull away in Johnny’s beat up car.

  “Well, then you haven't tried my apple pie,” she said hugging me close.

  I shook off the memory of the first time Momma left me. It was the first time, but certainly not the last. I took a deep breath, inhaling the memories, and then exhaled letting them go. I won't let her tarnish this home for me.

  I leaned my suitcase against the teal couch and took a seat. The back pillows were worn, but overall, it was in good condition. I noticed she still had the antique sewing machine against the wall and decided that once I was working, I’d buy some decent material and make new pillows.

  I looked around the room. It was the same, but different. Isn't it something how that holds true? Time can do funny things, but it’s your perception that really changes. I noticed that on the mantel in front of the gold leaf framed mirror was a white folded note with my name scrawled across the front. I wanted to say I was shocked, but this was such a Grams move, I should’ve seen it coming.

  I grabbed the note from the mantle and watched as the dust swept into the sunlight when I moved it. As I slid it off, shiny metal keys, half hidden behind a small glass cat, caught my eye. I lifted the keys and under that sat a fifty dollar bill.

  Maple,

  So, I didn't actually sell Bertha. Bob’s nephew gave her a tune-up and cleaned her up a bit. She’s in the garage. Drive her. Love her. I want you to have her. Enjoy her. Don't argue with me. I’m too old to deal with it. I love you, Grams

  I was stunned. She was giving me Bertha. Bertha was a 1951 canary yellow Studebaker Convertible. She was all woman. Bertha rocked! Grams dated James McGuire (yes the actor) who generously gave her the car as a birthday present. She told me she had sold the car. I had no idea why she would have lied to me, but I’d learned not to question Grams when she did things like this.

  Grams loved that car almost as much as she loved her BMW convertible that her third husband, Marco, left her. I didn't want to accept it, but if I was going to get back on my feet and find a new job, I would need to get around; which reminded me of another thing I needed to add to my to-do list, quit my current job.

  I knew Grams, and once she made up her mind on something there was no changing it, so although I didn't feel comfortable driving her car, I also knew that I couldn’t a
rgue with her about it.

  I sighed, grabbed my luggage and headed up the stairs. As I walked past my old room, I glanced inside. Gone were the boy band pictures that used to coat every inch of the walls. Now, there was only a dresser and a wooden bed frame pushed against the furthest wall. There was no sign that my happiest years were spent right here.

  I continued down the hall and noticed Grams bedroom door was open and that the furniture in this room was mostly still there. In the center of the room was a massive wooden bed with large mahogany posts. Folded on a corner of the bed were fresh linens. The dresser was across from the bed, it too was a rich mahogany. A large mirror with intricately carved roses hung on the wall over it. A cream color chaise lounge was against the large floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the backyard. I loved this room, as in loved. I couldn't have picked a better room for myself. Through teenage eyes, I loved it, but thinking of it as mine, as an adult, even if it was only temporary, simply stunning.

  I set my suitcase down and walked through the room and into the master bath. Grams had set fresh towels out for me, along with my favorite shampoo that had the sweetest peach scent ever bottled, and a white bag with the gold label Emma’s Famous Bath Salt. Emma’s bath salt was the best bath salt in the world. Maybe not really, but if it wasn't quite that famous, it should be. Your skin felt like silk after a soak with her salt.

  The bathroom, like the bedroom, was tidied up and I knew Grams had come by and paid special attention to this part of the house. When she found the time to do this, I wasn’t quite sure, as it was late in the evening when I called her from a motel and told her what happened.

  I started the water in the claw foot tub and watched as steam started to fill the room. I unwrapped the bath salt, tossed it in the tub and then as I undressed, I stared at myself in the long mirror attached to the back of the door. I looked different, curvier than I would’ve liked, but the extra ten pounds around my midsection was not really what caught my eye. What caught my eye was the scar running down my thigh reminding me of the accident that was the final straw for me leaving here.

  The heat from the water gave a slight sting to my skin as I stepped into the tub and lowered myself. It was a soothing sting, so I welcomed it. Lord knows, after hurting my back at work, getting all Babe Ruth on Bradley, and a two and a half hour flight; I could use the soak.

  The warm sun beat down on me through the large windows. I squinted my eyes adjusting to the light but not wanting to really get up. After my soak last night, the events from the day prior wore me down. I liked Bradley, and I mean really liked him. So, why didn't I cry? Was I just too ticked? If anything, I was mad at myself that I had gotten into this situation again. I ended up laying down last night with a racing mind until sleep finally took me.

  I got out of bed, wishing for coffee, but quickly realized I didn’t have any. I brushed my teeth, then dug through my suitcase and threw on a pair of denim capris and a light blue T-shirt. I tipped my head upside down twisting my long dark unruly mess into a tight knot on the top of my head, threw on a pair of sneakers, then grabbed the keys to Bertha, not caring one iota what I looked like.

  The garage was not a normal garage. No, it was almost like a barn with two large doors that had to be manually opened. The gate at the picket fence also needed to be secured wide open so that I could get Bertha onto the road.

  After securing the gate, I moved to open the garage; the gravel driveway crunched as the doors were propped open. There she was. She was recently washed, and again I wondered how Grams was able to pull this off so quickly. Bertha started right up as I put her into reverse and backed her out of the garage. I parked her, got out and manually put her convertible top down, then headed the few blocks over to O’Malley's Coffeehouse.

  Bertha drove smoothly, better than I remembered. I remembered on more than one occasion cruising through town with Grams on a Sunday. She would drive this car slowly through the quaint downtown area just to show her off. I lucked out and pulled into a space right out front of the coffeehouse. Not much had changed around here. The bookstore, a few shops down, had new blue trim around the door and windows, but other than that, this place looked exactly the same.

  O’Malley’s had a red and white awning that matched the awnings over the hardware store, the bookstore, the flower shop and the small antique store. Inside, it was a bustle of people. The line was long and I waited behind a mother with two small children, one on a hip and the other tugging at her pant leg. A machine was grinding coffee, while another was making a loud noise, no doubt to froth the cappuccino. It was just after nine and there was a rush of people ordering Sunday morning pastries. O’Malley’s had amazing pastries. Some were bite-sized and others were a week's worth of working out, but the yummy flakey goodness was worth it--so very worth it. I decided I was going with that, besides a seven-hundred calorie pastry was the perfect break-up food.

  It was finally my turn as the mom moved away, attempting to balance her Styrofoam cup, white bag, and children. She gave me a smile of recognition as she walked past me. There was no judgment in her eyes, just the slight parting of her lips and a slight nod of her head. I was trying to recall her name, when the barista called me

  “Miss, whatcha having today?” a young, slightly attractive, slightly pimple-faced, teenaged boy asked me.

  “I’ll have a Vanilla Latte with an extra shot of espresso, and a Sunday Special.”

  The boy’s eyes gleamed at me, only people who have been around a long time knew to ask for a Sunday Special. It was in Darlene’s reserve for her extreme regulars, and I reserved the right to eat seven-hundred calories of cheesy, raspberry, blueberry, flakey goodness, for breakfast.

  The boy began making my coffee and then headed over to a glass case to retrieve my breakfast. I watched him poke his head into the office; no doubt letting someone know that a Special was being sold.

  “Well, I’ll be. Green as the grass after a fresh cut, I didn't think today could get more beautiful. Carl,” she paused to see if he heard her, then quickly yelled, “Carl, you come out here.”

  Darlene was staring at me with a huge smile while she waited for her husband Carl to come out of the kitchen to see what the fuss was about.

  “What is it?” he grumbled, then stopped short when he saw me. “Maple,” he said all soft. I noticed that it had quieted around me. Curious coffee drinkers paused to see what was going on. He walked my way when Darlene started again, “Ordering a Sunday Special and not asking for me and Carl? Well, that’s just not right.”

  “Hush, woman. Maple’s here.” Carl lifted the wooden part of the counter and stepped in front of me, eyed me up and down as if he wanted to make sure I was in one piece, then picked me up in a large hug. It felt good. A tinge of unexpected pain hit the back of my throat. I didn’t know how much I missed Carl and Darlene. Having them fret over me made it apparent. Carl had been the closest thing I’d ever had to a dad. I could see that my distance had affected him, as well.

  Darlene smiled at us and set my plate down on the counter next to my coffee that the kid had placed there moments ago, “On the house, darling. Why don't you two catch up?”

  “Oh, Maple, I‘d love to catch up with you, but I have croissants that have to come out,” he stared down at his large gold wrist watch, “in about 2 minutes. We’d love to have you over for dinner this week. When are you free?”

  “Well, considering I only got here yesterday, and I still needed to find a job, I’d say I’m pretty free.”

  “A job? You mean you’re staying?” Darlene asked over the noise that resumed in the coffeehouse after Carl’s welcoming hug.

  “It looks that way,” I shrugged. “I’m staying at the house. Grams pulled it off the market.”

  I was met with a curious look from Carl at the last comment, “Well, we’re sure glad you’re home. Tomorrow night, dinner. Six?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Anything I can bring?”

  “Oh sugar, you just bring yourself, and al
l will be right again,” Darlene said.

  Carl gave me a final squeeze and returned to the kitchen. I told Darlene I’d see her tomorrow, and found the only open table in the back of the room. I wasn’t expecting to get that kind of welcome from Darlene and Carl and I certainly wasn’t expecting my throat to get all tight. Besides Grams, I didn't expect many folks around here to care that I left. Maybe a good riddance.

  I finished eating the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire life, gave a final wave to Darlene, and took Bertha for a much deserved Sunday drive.

  The sun beat down on my skin as the wind knocked a few strands of hair loose that twisted in the wind. I drove Bertha slowly through the streets, taking it all in, just like Grams used to. I made several turns and headed towards the old lake. Dust flew around me as the tires spun over a dirt road. My hair completely fell loose from my ponytail holder.

  I turned up Carrie Underwood’s Blown Away on the radio and I felt it. I felt her anger. Forget Bradley freaking Barnes. Forget Alex Cavanaugh, Dave, John, and the endless list of bad mistakes. Forget them all. It’s been an infinite splay of bad decisions; one after the next, and Bradley Barnes was just the last.

  The song ended just as Bertha began sputtering. The radio clicked off, and a moment later, the entire car. Crap.

  She said it was serviced, not that it had a full tank. Drats! I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. What was I doing getting lost in a song, aimlessly driving on an empty tank of gas? I got out of the car, looked around and didn't see much. I tried my cell, but had no service. I knew the lake was only about a mile or so from here. Forget my stupidity on driving an empty Bertha. I was going to walk to the lake. I knew on the other side of it was old Ernie’s property and he was sure to have a gas can or two hanging around.

  When I had the lake in sight, I could tell the previous years drought must have significantly lowered the water level. Roots were unearthed that used to hide beneath the surface. The ladder on the long-forgotten floating dock was more exposed than ever and the beach was sandy and then mossy where the water once sat. Everything was overgrown. Time didn't stand still here. It aged. The place felt forgotten, and something about that comforted me, like perhaps me being here meant all of my transgressions would be forgotten too.