Next to You (Life)
Page 5
“Lunch before dessert, though.”
We headed to downtown, the girl riding along next to me had a different disposition from the one I picked up earlier in Sudbury. The animated stories about the seven and five year old children she was in charge of over the week kept coming. A boy and a girl, Suzie and Blake. Becca continued her narration after I parked and the entire time we walked to the hole-in-the-wall close to the mall. The parents paid her two hundred dollars a week for taking care of them. A bargain, since she cooked them breakfast and lunch, entertained them without any television and had them ready for their afternoon activities before she left for her other job.
The hostess sat us at a table close to the window. Becca wasn’t fond of confined spaces. I ordered a Reuben sandwich and she asked for the club sandwich with fries and a chocolate shake. Listening to her actual voice, the energy she poured out to describe how she braided Suzie’s hair or patched Blake’s favorite jeans sucked me into her conversation. The nonsense sounded great coming from her, detailed descriptions of how she cooked oatmeal and how much she hated it. I enjoyed every word, every time she asked me something I turned the conversation back at her.
The waitress brought our order. “Can you bring us some ranch dressing and ketchup,” I asked her as she set the plates down and she scrunched her face at my request.
“Thank you,” Becca beamed, knowing I had requested those for her. She loved to dip her fries in that weird concoction. “The salary at the diner isn’t much.” Becca took a bite of her sandwich. “But the tips are the cherry on top.”
“Did you eat breakfast today, Bex?” I asked after she had vacuumed her meal. She shook her head. “I imagined you hadn’t since you finished all your food. Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Lisa.” Of course, the junkie-whore had something, if not everything to do with Becca’s earlier mood. “I would rather not talk about it. Can we walk around the area?”
I asked for the check and when it arrived Becca tried to pay her part.
“Never.” I kept my rage tuned up, remembering the time Ian said…but you pay. Becca had been conditioned to pay for herself from an early age. “When you’re with me I always pay for everything. If not I’ll never invite you again, understand?”
She nodded and smiled.
We headed outside and the girl who apparently didn’t have an off button continued telling me everything about herself. That day I learned how much she liked to see new places, walk around and discover everything. She wanted to visit Maine and see the spooky places Stephen King describes in his books. Three miles after we began, she decided to take her jacket off. Finally, I thought, the eighty five degree weather had her sweating. It was then that I saw an angry purple bruise on her back peeking through her tank top. The flinch earlier today when I hugged her made sense.
“Becca…your back.” She lifted her gaze and went pale. “Did Lisa hit you?”
“Rather not talk about it,” she insisted. I carefully pulled her by the elbow and moved her aside, out of the way of the pedestrians. “It was hours ago, I don’t even remember.”
“Becca.” Automatically my hand went under her chin and I lifted her face. “What happened?”
“Mom.” She shrugged. “Lisa wanted pancakes for breakfast and… well, my mother doesn’t know how to cook. I was selfish, instead of making them breakfast I chose to clean the bathroom so I could leave early. Lisa began to scream, Greg left the house after yelling that he can’t have peace in his own house and Mom… it doesn’t matter. They usually heal in a week.”
Becca bit her cheeks, those brown eyes gleamed with all the moisture gathered inside them, but not one tear came out.
“Cake?” she whispered.
I nodded, the knot inside my throat didn’t allow me to do or say anything. What was I supposed to do? Rescue her from her own mother… I couldn’t. This wasn’t as bad as the system, the fucked up foster program that could land her into a home where she could be at risk of so many things, like an asshole that would sexually assault her or sell her. Not on my clock. Two years, I told myself. In two years she’d be free to go to college and get away from those bitches.
“In those two years,” I tell my counselor, “the things I feared would happen in the system, happened in her own house. I belonged to the system since the age of five and saw things I didn’t wish upon her… reporting her situation might’ve put her in danger… I failed Becca.”
“How old were you?” He taps the stylus in his hand on to the arm of the chair. “You took charge of another boy a year younger than you at the age of six, is that correct?” I shrug and don’t correct him. Buddy is two years younger and I was almost seven. “Take yourself to the time when you realized this girl was in trouble and what a person that age should be doing.”
“Twenty one,” I reply as the answers stumble one upon the other. “I was making sure I covered all my basis, so I would meet my goals. Partying… studying… the last thing I wanted was to take complete responsibility of her.
“Becca and I talked often enough, missing a day or two each week,” I continue reminiscing the beginning of our lives. “I tried to visit her at least once a month… or twice if I had time. It was as if I lived two different lives, one where only Becca and I existed and then my everyday life. It wasn’t until Brazil that both collided and shook my entire world. Panic, pushed the one eighty change in our relationship. I felt the fear of losing her because I loved her. For months the battle between my freedom and the need to pursue a solid forever relationship with her wore me out.”
“Does this mean you regret everything?” he asks, and I wonder if that question comes because what I’m saying comes out with a harsh tone. He says nothing further other than see you next week, the timer usually stops when I’m about to lose my shit.
Everything became simple after I fixed up my shit. My world revolved around her. There was a meticulous—fool proof—plan. It went from point A to Z, where in the end we married. But then, something happened, one fucking thing triggered her memory and our future disappeared like clouds hit by the North winds sending us in separate directions. Each time something happened I reacted and hurt her more. Like caging her after she broke her leg so nothing would touch her, isolating her from her friends, and abandoning Becca when she needed me the most because I feared she would bolt. Better me than her, plus, I couldn’t stop touching her anymore. My body began to crave more of her… hiding everything came back to bite my ass and now, she fought her demons alone. All while I treated her like shit with my nasty notes, damn it. I’m a grade A asshole.
Becca:
Happy Birthday. Enjoy the chocolates, artesian, handmade especially for you. Glad you’re getting to know yourself.
D
P.S. You safe? Safe would’ve been a gold-digger who’d sign a pre-nup and wouldn’t ask for my love. You’re radioactive material, Princess, lethal and unstable. A fact I knew the moment I fell in love with you, but couldn’t stop it from happening.
Chapter 8
As I cut the engine of my motorcycle, I receive the delivery confirmation email from the shipping company. The package with truffles and the birthday note made its way to Becca. I look at my surroundings. Randy gave me this address as the place where Elijah Brightmore lived twenty five years ago. I don’t know what made me ask for more information about my past. My relationship with that man lasted all of a half hour when I visited him and his family a few years back. It wasn’t a social encounter, or a let’s bond and make up for old times. We simply exchanged pleasantries so he’d sign the NDA about his relationship with me. His only concern about the money I offered had been that it would be going toward the education of his sons, Dylan and Dexter and not him. He made a mistake, having me, and he couldn’t keep up with me. There was no other explanation, the man didn’t give a fuck about what he had done.
Damn, confronting the past again is stupid. I tell myself as I take off my helmet. It’s a nice day to ride my bike, tho
ugh it feels strange and lonely to drive without Becca perched on my back. Something I notice now, that I’m sober. How I miss her legs and arms hugging me tightly while we traveled along the highways of the East Coast. The engine throbbed and hummed, smoothly driving to where I directed it, while my girl enjoyed it. Not that it matters, daily I purge the memories of her out of my mind. At this pace, I’ll be done before I die of old age, if I’m lucky.
As I take a second glance around, the almost two hundred thousand dollar motorcycle looks out of place compared to the sign of Heritage Gardens. The gold paint from the letters is peeling off each one of them. The trailers need restoration, but nothing from them remind me of my childhood. Though, the image of a narrow hallway with a light wood table, wrappings, trash in general, a stove; a bedroom at the end with a bathroom on the side that I sometimes remember, now make sense.
Elijah’s words came to mind, sharp and clear. “You need to stay here, if I get enough money, I’ll be back.” If… there was never a guarantee that he would make it back, or a real promise behind those worthless words.
Unlike the other children, I got a long hug and a pat on the back, without a lunchbox, only some papers my father handed me before leaving. I walked like a headless chicken. Tall ceilings, brick walls with colorful murals in places made me wondered why he had left me there. A woman stopped me.
“Are you lost?” I nodded. Dad didn’t specify where to go, only that it was time for me to go to school and learn more. “What’s your name?”
“Daniel, Daniel Brightmore.” I knew my name and letters, back then I already knew how to read. Though to this day there’s no recollection of who taught me. My dad, his family… it will remain a mystery.
“Well Daniel let’s find your place.” The woman who rescued me from the bright hallways of the school grabbed my hand and directed me to a classroom. “Miss Jensen.” She knocked on the door as all the other children began to sit in a circle. “Do you have Daniel on your list?” The blond woman with a denim dress nodded and extended her hand. Even back then I didn’t trust strangers, so I jolted. It had been enough to allow the other woman with black hair to hold my hand. Miss Jensen didn’t say anything and took a step toward me. She squatted and looked me in the eyes.
“You have beautiful eyes, a different color.” I share the blue-gray eye color with Elijah Brightmore, as well as his brown hair. My height comes from my mother’s side, her father and brothers are tall. Average height in the family is six foot four. Another fact Randy found out for me. “We’ll get to know each other and trust each other as time goes, Danny.”
“Daniel,” I corrected her and she nodded.
All those children didn’t know how to count, read or recognize all their letters; but they knew all their rhyming songs. I knew none of those. That made me feel foolish, the pit of my stomach filled with cramps and didn’t let me concentrate well. Getting out of there became my only goal. Some excruciating hours later the time to head home arrived. Every parent stood alert to see their child come out of the steel door, every parent except mine. I sat on the floor and leaned on the wall waiting for him. Hoping he had enough money to pick me up as he said before he dropped me off. Miss Jensen adjusted her hair several times, checked her watch and waited a few steps from where I sat. A bell rang, noise coming from inside the building went on for a long time, and then it all went silent. Another group of children with parents began to arrive, Miss Jensen continued checking her watch.
“We need to go inside, Daniel,” she said taking a couple of steps forward. “I will have you call your parents and check on what’s holding them up. Perhaps your Mom forgot.”
“I don’t have one.” She frowned, so I clarified, “A mom.” She tilted her head to the side and bobbed a few times, like other women had done in the past.
“The Principal will figure out what to do, honey.”
The Principal’s secretary asked me to sit on the chair in front of her desk and sent Miss Jensen back to her classroom. I didn’t pay attention to the adults, since they handed me something called a sandwich. Those became my favorite things and soon I learned they were easy to prepare and would fill one’s hunger. Fascinated by the two pieces of bread with meat inside, nothing affected me. As of today I have no recollection of what I ate before, who fed me or… everything is blank.
It was four when they made the call, the secretary pointed out the time to the Principal. The police and other grownups began to arrive asking me several questions I couldn’t answer. Then they escorted me into a white car. Elijah Brightmore meant, ‘I’ll come back when I get a job and can support you’. Not… I don’t remember what that five year old thought, only the fear he felt because something was terribly wrong. It seemed as if my life had started that day, when the social worker found my birth certificate and deduced that my parents had deserted me. Though, in case Dad had an accident, or they could find a family member who’d take me; they sent me to a temporary foster home.
It was a couple who treated me like their child—for an entire month according to the file Randy prepared. Tracy and Lloyd James. There are a few memories of waking up to a stack of pancakes or waffles, eggs or bacon, orange juice, fruit and a wide smile from Tracy Lloyd. James Lloyd read the paper and sipped a cup of coffee while listening to his wife rant about what the day would bring. That had been the picture of a family, two weeks of goodnight stories, games when I arrived home from school—a different school from the one Elijah had dropped me at.
“James, we should try,” Tracy said while hugging me and crying. “He’s perfect.”
“Tracy, babe, we have a deal.” She nodded. “Your health can deteriorate at any time and I can’t assume the responsibility of a child.”
“Danny, I love you sweetie,” she said, cleaning the tears from her eyes. “Never forget it. I wish things had been different for us. You’ll find happiness, I promise.”
Multiple sclerosis, read Randy’s file. She died ten years after giving me up to the social worker. Ten years I could have been in a happy safe place. She had been the first woman who I let in, who called me Danny and at the end she wished things had been different. They loved me, only, not enough.
The memories, not from the place but the past, help me discover that Becca’s departure left me wondering about my own sanity. Her breakdown shook that closure I achieved years ago. I had let go of whatever happened to that poor boy. Perhaps not sharing with her what I didn’t like about me made her feel that I didn’t trust her. Our perception about so many subjects differed. We are so different. Without a second thought I decide to head back… the hotel will have to do again. I’m in no mood to deal with the only past I haven’t let go—Becca.
Chapter 9
Dan,
Best chocolates ever, one might think you like me. We both know I’m not your favorite person at the moment. But one thing my heart knows is that you still love me—and I do you, baby. You’re right, it’s hard to know what tomorrow will bring. Then again, I wish it will bring you—no red bow necessary.
No long letters today, only a thank you note for remembering my birthday.
Kisses and love,
Becca
P.S.1 Thank you for the stationary and the colored pens.
P.S.2 I miss you, hope you do too.
P.S.3 Waiting to hear about your past life.
Becca,
Thank you for the break. Those are longer letters than the ones you used to write to Lisa. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you’re making me your new ‘move on project’. You puzzle me, do I miss you… some days more than others. You’ve been my constant for the past several years. That person that had a warm greeting for me at any time—smiles and love included. Now I’m going back to the person I used to be before you; the one that couldn’t count on or trust anyone.
My life is exactly that, mine, Becca. Not a thing to share with strangers—or former friends.
Hope you heal,
Daniel
P. S
.1 Glad you liked your presents, thank you for the paper swan and the drawing?
P. S.2 Why are you sending them? You’re getting weirder, baby.
Danny:
I made the choice for me, for you, for us. Believe me when I say that I was beyond repair. Not even a miracle could’ve saved me from what was going through my mind. Drew mentioned it once, you don’t have superpowers and you aren’t God. Though you are my personal savior and pulled me one too many times from the edge of the cliff, this time not even you could’ve saved me. There’re still things I can’t get past. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the loud pleas for him to stop hurt my throat. Or other times when I implore Mom not to punish me, or for her to feed me, or to love me, wake me in a cold sweat.
They think my time to leave is coming soon, yet I want to ask for my money back or a lifetime membership into this place. The wounds feel like they keep tearing themselves apart, opening wider by the day, nothing looks ready to be stitched and patched. Raw open skin and gushing blood comes out along with the gawky infection created by not caring for it right when it happened.
Please don’t hate me; that makes me sad. Sadness, pain… Someday I will be back into the real world, where world hunger exists, parents don’t always love their children and some people get their happiness by seeing others in pain.
Pain, the one thing these professionals promise would soften with time, memories that would fade. But you know what they said? That none of them will leave, they’re a part of my making and because of it they will remain right next to me as badges, medals or scars of one that survived a war and barely came out alive. It is up to me, to make the rest of my life and the next memories bold and brighter, happier and worth every minute and every breath.
This sounds like a combination of a tell all and one of my famous pity parties, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s because its night and I just woke up from a nightmare. Those dreams, my mind telling me it’s ready to remember, are now telling me that I’m ready to take on the battle of a life time—according to the doctors. If only they could understand they need to change the game plan, Rebecca Trent isn’t a fighter. I should stop myself right there and highlight that there are people who believe in me, I’m worthy of love and worth loving.