Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  The way he stares at me puts me at ease until Charlotte’s evil eyes burn me from over his shoulder, renewing my anger. “I’m not trying to ruin Preston’s future. He deserves only the best.”

  “Yes, he does. Not this. Not you.” Charlotte narrows her eyes. “So, what is it you want? Money? Name value?”

  “Mother…” Preston starts but hushes when I grab his forearm.

  “Stop. I’ve got this.”

  Charlotte snorts and stifles a giggle behind the tips of her fingers. “You’ve got it, all right. Your mama’s crazy? Her meltdowns?” She wobbles her head and blares her eyes as she says it.

  “My mama was ill, but you—you’re just a bitch, and I’m sick of you.” Jackson chuckles and shakes his head, muttering “I’ll be damned” under his breath. Charlotte’s cheeks redden as she darts her eyes between him and Preston. “To answer your question—no. I don’t need your money or your name. Rest assured, I do have this. And just so you know, this baby is not a problem… or a mistake. This baby came from a moment of love, one of the happiest moments of my life.” I take a deep breath and look at Preston, who’s staring aimlessly into the dining room. He knows I’m talking about Gage, and it’s killing him. “I can’t—I won’t— dictate the future for my child’s father, but I do love and respect him. He’ll always have a home with me, but I’ll never be an obligation. If he’s with me, it’s because he chooses to be.”

  Preston steps forward and grabs my hand. “And mother—I choose to be, so get used to it. This is my baby. Love me? Then love it, love Rayne. We’ll let you think it over.” He nods and places his hand on the small of my back, nudging me toward the door.

  Jackson runs out behind us, stopping us short on the porch steps. “Preston?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m proud of you, son. Proud of you for being the man I always wanted to be. Never accept less than your heart’s desire or you’ll live a life of regret.” He looks over his shoulder into the foyer where Charlotte is still standing, head cradled in her hands. “I know I do.”

  Chapter 40

  Gage

  T

  he earthy, musky smells of freshly-trimmed grass on the parade field encircle Charlie Company as we march shoulder to shoulder. Alpha and Bravo are slightly ahead of us, Delta and Echo slightly behind. By the time we all get to the stands on the opposite side of the field, 240 men and women in mass formation, times five separate companies, will equal 1,200 new United States soldiers to greet the people waiting there for us. The people we came from. The people who love us.

  None of the people I knew before the age of 18 will be there. Sometimes it feels as if that part of my life has been erased. Like someone pressed the big delete button in the sky and sucked it all away.

  She keeps it real for me, though.

  In the memories. In the picture I look at just before bed.

  She reminds me.

  The closer we get to the stands, the louder the chatter rises like a cloud above them. So loud it overshadows the cadence. Mothers and fathers wave their arms, trying to get their soldier’s attention. Girlfriends and boyfriends hold up their cell phones, memorializing the moment. Somewhere in that jumble of people, someone’s waiting for me.

  Grandpa and Nana made sure of it.

  We halt and stand at attention. The Battalion Commander takes the podium to make his opening remarks, general bullshit about family day, tomorrow’s graduation, and the training and values instilled by the Army. Having to keep my eyes straight forward through it all makes for a hell of a challenge trying to find anyone in the stands. I rely on my peripheral vision, the images all hazy and indistinct, but I’m fairly positive they’re sitting several rows up on my right.

  When the drill and ceremony portion begins and we’re put “at ease,” I turn my head, craning my neck slightly to see past the tall guy in front of me.

  Yep. Grandpa and Nana are zeroed in on me, smiles as wide as their faces. And beside them, Taryn and Farrah wave. Suddenly, Farrah leans over and taps the shoulder of the girl beside her and points in my direction. I can’t see her face, only the fact that she has curly brown hair.

  Curly brown hair. It’s shorter than I remember, but basically the same.

  Butterflies flap against my chest and for a minute, I imagine myself being one of those soldiers on America’s Funniest Home Videos that passes out and falls down right in the middle of formation. Oh my God. Could that be Rayne? Did Taryn and Farrah use that picture they saw to find her?

  The ceremony creeps by, and I still can’t see her face. Damn that dude in the baseball hat blocking my view. Move!

  When the last drill and ceremony presentations are finished and the BC issues his closing remarks, the Company Commander steps in front of our group with the usual safety protocol and instructions to be back by 2100 hours. As soon as he dismisses us, the crowd pours down onto the field in a free-for-all. I barely take two steps before Nana’s in front of me, throwing her arms around my neck. Grandpa’s behind her, patting my shoulder, and Taryn and Farrah stand to the side, waiting their turn.

  There’s no one else.

  Where’d she go?

  “Gage! We’re so proud of you. We’ve missed you so much!” Nana chirps in my ear. I squeeze her tight while eyeing Farrah over her shoulder.

  When she releases her grip, I walk over to the girls. “Wasn’t there someone else in the stands with y’all?”

  “No,” Taryn says, eyes narrowed with a laugh. “Are we not enough?”

  “Of course. I just… I could’ve sworn I saw Farrah talking to someone. With curly brown hair?”

  “Oh,” Farrah says, the recognition filtering into her voice as she nudges my arm. “I can’t remember her name. Sarah or Sally or something like that. Her boyfriend is in that group.” She points toward Bravo Company. My eyes follow her finger to the midst of a large group where a soldier, just about my age, is picking up his girlfriend, a short girl with curly brown hair, and planting a big one right on her lips.

  My stomach drops, and I feel like I might spew everything I’ve eaten today, as morning chow begs to make an appearance on the field. I swallow it back and slap a fake smile on my face. No sense ruining this moment for everyone else.

  After dinner, Nana and the girls head to the Post Exchange for tax-free shopping while Grandpa buys us both a coffee. We sit together in one of the molded plastic benches in the food court, silent at first, me staring at the curlicues of steam rising from my cup and him fidgeting, licking his lips constantly. In the little time I’ve known him, one thing I’ve learned is Grandpa only hem-haws when he has something important to say.

  “Gage…” He pauses then coughs, one of those low-in-the-throat attention-getters, and reaches his hand into the front inside pocket of his blazer, pulling out a long white envelope. “Your Nana and I would like you to have this.”

  I take it from his hand and flip it over, loosening the seal. It’s thick and heavy. Important. A single folded paper with lots of numbers and a separate packet of papers, stapled in the top left corner, are inside. Something very legal and over my head. I glance up to Grandpa’s eyes locked on mine.

  “Am I supposed to know what this is?”

  “This,” he says, plucking the single paper from my fingers, “details your mother’s trust fund. I set it up when she was quite small. A few CDs, a few investments. We wanted her to be financially comfortable to follow her dreams.” He snorts and looks down at the table. “We now know that’ll never happen, but… it can happen for you.”

  “I don’t… you mean… what?” I stammer.

  “That other jumble of papers over there is some legal mumbo-jumbo—signatures and initials and such—the lawyer needs to transfer this,” he says, pointing to the bottom-line figure on the single sheet, “to you.”

  I stare at the figure, counting and recounting the number of digits I’m actually seeing. Surely, there’s a misplaced decimal point somewhere.
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  “Grandpa, it’s too much. I can’t accept—”

  “Yes, you can, and you will. Your mother would’ve wanted you to have it. Nana and I want you to have it. You’ve brought so much back to us, this is the least we can do to honor your mother’s memory and tell you how proud we are of the man you’ve become. How happy I am to see you wear that camouflage.”

  Tears begin to form, but I quickly blink them away. No soldier wants to be seen crying in uniform. Especially not some wet-behind-the-ears Private. I swallow back the lump in my throat, reaching out to shake his hand.

  “It’s an honor to follow in your footsteps, sir.”

  This is surreal. Tomorrow I graduate Basic Training then my grandparents and cousins will take me to the airport and put me on a plane to Fort Eustis, Virginia, where I’ll spend 15 weeks in Advanced Individual Training. Nine weeks ago—the first time Drill Sergeant met me on the steps of the bus screaming a line of expletives in my face—this day seemed an impossible destination. But now it’s here.

  Life moves on.

  But tonight, I clean. We all clean, to be more accurate. Wall lockers have to be emptied, barracks sanitized, and floors waxed for the nine millionth time this cycle.

  One last all-nighter to end this with a bang.

  I roll the last of my personal items and stuff them in my duffel. The only thing left in my locker now is the Bible I brought here. I reach into the pocket of my uniform and pull out the white envelope Grandpa gave me then flip open the Bible’s front cover.

  My breath catches. I look at this picture every night, but the reaction never changes. She takes my breath away every time. Our smiles, big and nervous, barely conceal what both of us were trying to hide.

  We were in love.

  God knows the time and distance hasn’t diminished that one bit for me.

  I still love her.

  My lungs constrict in my chest, causing me to fight for a deep breath. Something to ease the pain. It doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.

  I slide the envelope behind our picture.

  My life is falling into place. Things are moving forward, working out like I never expected. But one question lingers, in the quiet moments before sleep, when everything’s dark and lonely. When everything’s said and done, will she still love me?

  Chapter 41

  Rayne

  T

  he parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly looks a little like molten lava, oozy black with watery ripples quivering up from the surface. The morning show newscasters reported earlier that by midday, it’d be hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk. They make the same stupid comment every year about this time like it’s some newsworthy event that it’s going to be hell-hot in the Deep South in late July. Shocker.

  I pull into the space in front of the buggy rack and just as I’m shutting off the engine, the baby kicks. It’s been happening for a couple weeks now, but it’s still surreal. I’m no longer walking through this alone, and I can’t help wondering if the baby’s just rolling around happy in there, or if somewhere down deep he or she inherently senses the emotions running through my body.

  In a few short weeks, it’ll be a year. A year ago, in this very parking lot where this whole screwed up saga started. A year ago, when my Mama was having her crazy spell in aisle three. God, how I miss that woman.

  A year ago, Preston first admitted he liked me. Now he hangs in with me through all the hormonal roller-coaster rides and makes late-night Waffle House runs for hash browns, scattered, covered, and smothered. He doesn’t realize he’s my rock.

  A year ago, when I first talked to Gage and my life forever changed. The alert on my cell phone calendar makes me want to throw the phone down and run it over, crushing it into the asphalt.

  Reminder: July 26. Gage’s Birthday.

  I don’t know where he is, if he’s celebrating or who he’s celebrating with. He’s completely cut me off. The baby kicks again as if reassuring me. I’m here, Mama. My own little piece of Gage no one can take away.

  What a different world I live in now; it’s sometimes hard to recognize. Daddy’s shock about the pregnancy has waned, partly because he believes the new life will be good for our family but also because I’m pretty sure he has a secret affinity for becoming a grandpa. Every business trip over the last month has netted this baby at least two or three souvenir outfits and toys. His support has been awesome, much better than the Howards, who, for all intents and purposes, keep their distance. Charlotte has agreed to accept our relationship for Preston’s sake, which means little more than her relegating me to a brief mention in her conversations with Preston and otherwise forgetting me completely.

  Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. I jump in my seat and drop my keys to the floorboard, and as I bend to pick them up, Mrs. McAlister smooshes her face against the window.

  “Rayne? Are you okay, dear?”

  I motion for her to move back so I can get out of the car. She does so and clutches her blue pleather handbag and plastic coupon caddy tight to her chest, eyes wide as they rove over me. “You were just sitting so I…”

  “Just going over what I needed in my head.” I tap my finger against my temple.

  “Anything particular? I might have a coupon…” she says, following beside me into the store while rifling through her stash.

  “Thanks, but it’s only a short list. Milk, bread, bananas, and mayonnaise.”

  “Sounds like you’re making banana sandwiches. Is that what you’re making?” Just so happens banana sandwiches are my craving du jour, not that it’s any of her business. “I tell you, add some peanut butter to that sandwich and it’ll be fine as frog’s hair. You know they say Elvis loved peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and if it’s good enough for him, then it’s good enough… hey! I found a coupon for Duke’s Mayonnaise. Here, go on, take it,” she says shoving the clipping into my hand. “That’s the good stuff. Not that ol’ store brand junk. I never will forget the day your Mama wasn’t feeling well and grabbed the wrong kind.” She pauses and shakes her head. I’m almost irritated from her speech, but more impressed at how she crammed all those words into one breath. She rubs my back in circles. “Your poor Mama. God rest her soul.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I force a smile, grab a basket from the rack by the sliding door and dart in toward produce and away from her. “Thanks again for the coupon.”

  Before I can get to the crate of bananas, Mrs. McAlister has already linked up with Mrs. Sanders, a white-haired old lady from the church group whose thinning hair looks more like stretched cotton balls glued to her scalp. They are quickly engrossed in conversation, pausing every so often to gaze over in my direction. Wonder who they’re talking about?

  I grab the milk and bread from the outer perimeter then head to aisle three for the mayonnaise. Dukes of course. After reading the fine print, I lean forward to grab the 30 fl. oz. yellow-lidded jar. No condemnation in that. Dukes Mayonnaise in my basket and coupon directions followed to a T. As I turn to leave, Mrs. McAlister and Mrs. Sanders are standing behind me.

  “Rayne, dear, we were wondering—how far along are you now?” Mrs. Sanders leans forward and pats my stomach, a move I loathe. How would she feel if I walked up and stroked her turkey waddle and asked how old she was?

  “Seventeen weeks.” I head toward the end of the aisle, but Mrs. McAlister holds out her arm to stop me.

  “What’s the sex?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had an ultrasound.”

  “Are you going to find out? Decorating the nursery and buying clothes is so much easier if you know the sex.”

  “I don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, what about Preston?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he want to know? The sex, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”

  “Well, honey, y’all need to discuss these things.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Are y’
all getting married before or after the baby comes? I mean, I assume you are getting married, right? It’s only proper if the mother and father…”

  As they go back and forth, lecturing me about what is and isn’t proper and grilling me over my non-existent wedding plans, their voices blur into background noise, replaced by a weird, high-pitched hum. I can’t breathe or swallow and the shelves creep closer, squishing me in between. The urge to run sends kinetic impulses through my limbs but I’m afraid to move, seeing as how the room’s now spinning. My knees buckle beneath me, and just as quickly the ladies are crouched down, waving their circulars in my face.

  “I suwanee child. I bet you ain’t eating like you should, skinny as you are in your second trimester.”

  “She ain’t got no Mama to cook for her no more, and her Daddy’s always gone off on business now. You’d think them Howards would be taking better care of her, but…”

  They look at each other with arched eyebrows and knowing looks. What they know, or think they have figured out, I have no idea. All I know is I need to get out of this store and fast.

  “I… I need fresh air.” I scramble to my feet and sprint toward the doors, leaving my basket on the floor in the middle of the aisle. When I get to the bench under the “I’m Big on the Pig” sign, an employee on a smoke-break quickly squashes the butt and heads back inside. I don’t even want to think about how terrible I look right now.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket and I slide it out. Preston’s name is on the screen. “Where are you?” My abrupt answer must scare him.

  Panic laces his voice. “I’m heading into town. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m at the Pig. Can you stop by?”

  “Be there in a couple.”

  I lay the phone on the bench beside me. So this is how anxiety feels? Oh, the irony. I just had a panic attack in aisle three while buying mayonnaise. I could cry except I don’t. I laugh. I’m more like Mama than I realized—and that’s a good thing. If Mama lived with this every day and still managed to keep our home running, then she was the strongest woman I ever knew and probably will know. I always called her weak. I was wrong. That woman was strong, and she did it all for me.