by Beth Michele
LIFE IN REVERSE
Copyright @ 2016 by Beth Michele
Cover Design by Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative
Editing by Lea Burn & Dawn McIntyre
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
ISBN: 978-0-692-67278-5
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by Beth Michele. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Part Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue ~ Vance
Epilogue ~ Ember
For the Love of Raindrops
Also by Beth Michele
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For Sherri, Mona, Philly, & Leigh
For summers that are so much a part of who I am
And for both Lenny’s
The one I knew well, and the one I never got a chance to know.
And for Erika G.
Happy Birthday.
“She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”
J.D. Salinger
TO ANYONE ELSE, this day would have looked like absolute perfection. The sun poured down from a sky that was so blue it could have been packaged by freaking Crayola. Tips of lush green trees glistened gold in the light as if they had been touched by the heavens. No denying it made for a pretty picture.
Too bad it was a fucking illusion.
All around me people were smiling, practically skipping into that place like they couldn’t wait to get inside. Like there was something wonderful waiting for them beyond that door.
What a joke.
Me, I hated coming here—but I wouldn’t stop. Yet in that moment, I wished for something—anything that could numb the nagging anxiety that crept into my vital organs. The kind that made my feet stall inches from the door. The desire to flee that… that place was overwhelming. I wouldn’t though. Not as long as she was there.
I steeled myself with a big breath that felt stale rising up my throat. My hands were clammy and I shook them out before my fingers curled around the door handle. But then I hesitated—again—like I always did. Another lungful of fresh air, and still it did nothing to push down the knot twisting like a fucking knife in my stomach.
Reaching into my pocket with desperation, my thumb found the smooth surface of the stone. Somehow when it touched my skin, a calm entered my veins. It gave me the courage to swallow down that grating of raw emotion and push open the door. Immediately, I was suffocated by the stiff scent with a vengeance.
I’d never been able to describe it accurately. It smelled like my grandmother’s house used to at our Sunday dinners. The scent of mothballs, bacteria particles and old blankets invaded the air and I winced, quickly clearing it before someone caught my expression. After all, this was their home. For some of these people, this was the last place they would see before they were buried six feet in the ground. The thought instantly made me sick to my stomach and I grabbed onto the corner of a weathered blue and white plaid sofa to steady myself.
“Hello there, Vance,” Mr. Hinkle called out, lowering his newspaper and giving me a flash of salt ‘n’ pepper hair and a grin. I wondered to myself how he could be so happy—here. I didn’t think I could do it. No. I knew for sure I couldn’t fucking do it. I’d rather have someone put a bullet to my head than be in a place like this.
I forced a smile so fake it actually hurt. “Hey, Mr. Hinkle, how’s it hanging?”
He made a rough sound in his throat. “I’m afraid, son, it’s hanging a little lower than I’d like.” A chuckle escaped his wrinkled lips and I laughed. As shitty as this place was, he was always in a good mood when I visited and it eased the dull ache in my chest. “One of the nurses just brought your mom back in from physical therapy.”
“Thanks Mr. Hinkle.”
“Anytime, son. Enjoy your visit,” he told me. Again, with that same happiness I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. It made me wonder what his drug of choice was. There had to be something. Otherwise how could he stand it?
My shoes walked the walk, heading down the hall and to my left. A path I was so familiar with I could find my way blindfolded. The entire sprint only took a minute but my feet were sluggish in their efforts and it seemed to drag on.
Before I entered Mom’s room, I felt around in my pocket for the smooth stone again, clasping it as if it were a lifeline. Prior to her illness, she used to take me to the river frequently and we’d skip stones. It was one of my favorite memories and I would hold onto it as long as I could.
With a shaky breath, I turned the handle and stepped inside, only to be blasted by bright rays of sunshine exploding into the room. The curtains were drawn and she was sitting by the window. Glare from the sunlight casted a warm glow on her wavy brown hair.
“Hey Mom,” I greeted. Her head swiveled, the lack of recognition in her gaze coupled with her stoic expression made my heart wither.
“Charles? Is that you?” The corners of her eyes crinkled as she squinted, but then a smile overtook her features. “Charles, where on earth have you been?”
Sadness exited my chest on a ragged exhale. I gave her a kiss on the cheek then pulled up a chair beside her. “No, Mom. It’s Vance.”
She glared at me with deep blue eyes that resembled mine. “Charles, stop trying to play tricks on me. I’m already mad enoug
h that you didn’t come by last night to pick me up for the movie. I got all dressed up and waited by the door.” My heart sunk in my chest. Charles is my father but I have no idea what she was referring to—and if this was a real memory or not. “Charles, I’m talking to you. Did you hear me?” She scooped her dark hair over her shoulder and waved a trembling hand, fanning it in front of her face. “Boy, it’s awfully warm in here. Would you mind letting some air in, honey?”
“Sure.” I leaned forward and cranked the window open. The slight breeze wafted in, carrying with it the smell of freshly cut grass and flowers in bloom. Sitting back down, I fiddled with the rock in my jacket as my teeth gripped my lip repeatedly. “Mom,” I said again. My voice cracked as I took her hand in mine. “It’s Vance, your son.”
“Vance,” she whispered as I searched for a flicker of clarity in her eyes. The same one I prayed for every time I came here. The force of my stare willed her to remember the countless times I asked her to read Where the Wild Things Are. The secret Saturday trips to get ice cream for breakfast. Sunday morning cinnamon rolls. But all that was gone. When I glanced at her now, there was an emptiness that made my heart crack open. It made me want to crawl onto her lap and shake her until all the memories came spilling out. But then she shook her head as she spoke and all the hope melted in my chest. “Charles. You know we don’t have children.”
I painted on a smile and took her hand. “Would you like me to read you some poetry?”
“Yes,” she replied, her eyes glittering.
I stood up to retrieve a book from the overstuffed shelf next to the small television. My gaze wandered to the various paintings on the walls. Paintings she put her entire soul into, but now had no recollection she was the genius who created them.
Something inside me that was already broken managed to shatter even more. I wondered how God could be so fucking cruel—giving us beautiful memories only to take them away. After all, what are we without them?
Then I glanced up at the ceiling, praying to that same God I cursed that I never had to find out.
THE CURRENT IS rough, splashing over the side of the raft. The sheer force of it makes my heart pound as I watch from the edge of the river. It looks like it could toss bodies around as if stirring a soup. Zack is smiling, though. He loves the danger, always has. I glance over at him from a distance. He flashes me one of his goofy grins, sticking his tongue out as if we’re twelve years old again. I reach out my hand to him. Though he’s too far away, he does the same. We’re not touching, but I can somehow feel the small callous on the base of his thumb, the jagged scar along his knuckle from an old scissor cut.
The sound of rustling in the tall trees nearby pulls my gaze away. I blink a few times then return my focus to the river—only to find that the raft is overturned. My eyes frantically scan the water, but there is no sign of Zack and his friends.
And then I scream.
Skin slick with sweat and heart hammering, I bolt up, thrashing around the room as I desperately search for him. When I’m greeted with nothing but the sound of my own heavy breaths, my eyelids flutter open and I become aware that it was a nightmare.
I try to calm my breathing as I sink my head down into the pillow. Maybe it can swallow me up so I can forget. It’s been two years and I’m doing better—most of the time. But every now and then it returns when the darkness settles in, bringing that feeling of sheer helplessness right along with it.
One glance at the time tells me I forgot to set my alarm. It’s already after nine. Part of me wants to pretend I have a sore throat or a stomach ache to avoid class. But that’s not me. That’s something Avery would do.
A tap on the shoulder startles me and I nearly jump out of my skin. My mother looks equally startled when I spring up to a sitting position. “Sweetie, I thought I’d better wake you. It’s nine fifteen.” Her brows pull forward, deep set green eyes holding concern. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”
I make a lame attempt at a smile. “I’m fine, Mom. Just nervous about my presentation this week.” I don’t want to tell her about my nightmare because she’ll start to worry again. She’s doing pretty well and thinks that I’ve recovered. And I have… I’m pretty sure I have. It’s just that every now and then I wake up in a cold sweat, the smell of the river and pine trees sticking to my skin and I can’t seem to shake it. But I refuse to burden her with this. I don’t want to make her heart any heavier.
She tilts her head and surveys me, pressing her hand to my forehead. “Well, you don’t feel as though you have a fever. But maybe you should stay home and rest.” Her stare goes to the window for a moment before returning to me. “You haven’t been yourself for the last few days. Are you sure everything is okay?”
“I’m good, Mom. Really.” Another lie. Another fake smile. “I’ll take a quick shower then come down for breakfast.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Her tone indicates she doesn’t necessarily believe me, but she doesn’t push the issue as she backs toward the door. “See you downstairs.”
I let out a relieved breath then kick off my Mickey Mouse blanket. My gaze flickers around the room to dove grey walls that hold my childhood secrets, not to mention memories and art. The first sculpture I ever attempted, a distorted blue jay, makes me grin. I’ve come a long way since then. Hanging beneath that is a poster of the Foo Fighters beside a framed picture of Zack and me, and I couldn’t possibly be smiling any bigger. Sighing, I look up at the puffy white clouds painted on my faded blue ceiling. For the briefest moment, I feel like I’m floating. My eyes travel back down, falling to my favorite red velvet chair stained with marker. All pointing to my failed childhood attempts at drawing the tree outside my window.
When I was little, I’d come up here and pretend I was going to some far-off land—like in Peter Pan. I’d disappear for hours at a time with my Play-Doh, making imaginary characters in every color of the rainbow. My dad always said I had a brilliant imagination. That he could tell I was going to ‘create’ when I was older. I remember asking him what I would create and he’d say ‘anything you want.’ Funny how in vagueness there can be so much certainty. My dad is like that a lot.
“You haven’t even taken a shower yet!” Avery’s voice bursts through my thoughts. “I’m setting the timer! Hurry the hell up. I need you to drop me off at work.”
“I heard that,” my mother calls up the stairs. “Avery. Mouth.”
I smirk and she sticks her tongue out at me. Yup. That’s my twin sister, Avery. Twenty-two going on twelve. The only similarity is our green eyes. But that’s as far as it goes.
“Be careful, sis, or Mom’s going to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Better than winning the goody-goody award,” she counters, but her smile is warm. She loves me to pieces, even though she’s cornered the market in the obnoxious department. “I’ll save you a seat at the table.” She winks, then flicks her long blonde hair and saunters off.
I hop off the bed and cross the room to gather up a towel. My mind tries to erase any earlier thoughts and replace them with my upcoming presentation for sculpture class. Being a summer course, I’m not worried about the grade. It’s the standing up in front of the class that makes my hands clammy and my pulse race erratically. It’s just not my thing and never has been. I’d much rather sit in the back and quietly go unnoticed.
My feet drag as I head down the hall, simply wanting to make it to the bathroom. It doesn’t seem like a lot to ask, but inside, it’s too much. I pause outside of Zack’s room and tell myself I’ll go in for a minute—just enough time for me to feel like I can breathe again. I need this today. I need to be close to him.
I suck in a lungful of air and twist the knob, stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind me. Once I know I’m alone, I let my head loll back against it and release the breath stuck in my chest.
When my nerves calm, I allow my head to drop and my gaze to move around the room. As strange as it sounds, I can still feel him here. I can still see h
im sitting in the middle of the bed with his eyes closed, earbuds in, listening to Kings of Leon. The way he would pat the spot next to him, then put one of the earbuds in my ears so we could listen together. My eyes land on the worn Portland Trail Blazers hat hanging off a silver hook above his bed. His hair always poked out from the side of that darn cap, and he was forever tugging at it.
Scrawled pencil marks etched into the wall from his growth chart sit untouched beside the closet. The amusement in his expression every time he reached a new height clear in my mind. His laugh settles around me and I close my eyes, wanting to remember all the tiny details. Like how we would hide from Mom in that closet when she was calling us to do chores. All we wanted was to steal a few more minutes. God, what I’d give to have those minutes back.
His room is still filled with life—a life way too short. His adventures line the walls and I shake my head. He may have been tall and skinny, but he was a force to be reckoned with. And he was crazy—in all the best ways. I miss that crazy.
I miss my brother.
Death confuses me. I don’t understand why it comes too soon sometimes—why some people live to be ninety while others don’t live past twenty. It doesn’t seem fair. A tear tumbles down my cheek, but I’m safe here to let it out where no one can know how much it still hurts. I wonder when that hurt will go away—if it will ever go away.
The last photograph ever taken of us still sits on Zack’s bedside table. I dragged him to one of those make your own pottery places. He told me he didn’t want to go in his dramatic fashion, but in the end, had a great time. I lift the picture, my finger tracing the freckles on his face, the smile curving his mouth. Mom’s voice calling me breaks into my memory and I set the photo down and hurry out of the room. I don’t want her to know I’m in here, to worry about me. Because I’m fine.
“I’ll be down in a sec,” I yell out, speeding to the bathroom in hopes of washing everything away. I need a do-over this morning.