September Ends

by Jones, Hunter S.

  SEPTEMBER ENDS

  By

  HUNTER S. JONES

  &

  AN ANONYMOUS ENGLISH POET

  SEPTEMBER ENDS

  Copyright 2013 by Ra Jones Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of FICTION. The characters, places, and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors. 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 prison and a fine of $250,000. Disclaimer: all images, unless otherwise noted, were taken from the internet and are assumed to be in the public domain. In the event that there is a problem or error with copyrighted material, the break of the copyright is unintentional and the material will be removed immediately upon presented proof.

  For C.L.C.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part I

  HOT LOVE’S HOT WAYS

  Chapter 1

  Still See Your Face

  DIARY ENTRY

  Liz Snow

  Nashville, Tennessee

  May 1993

  You didn’t know what hit us, did you? You were there. You were gone. I wonder every day how my life would be now if you were still alive, Charles. I can still see your face turning to me. I can hear myself saying, “Keep your eyes on the road!” You and your sunsets! You just had to stop for that sunset. I loved the way you loved nature. A month of rain. And then that double rainbow.

  “One for you, Liz, and one for me.” I can still hear your voice, Charles. “The sun’s come out for us, little sis. The least we can do is stop and admire Tennessee smiling.” Okay, so I just stood there smoking a joint as you communed with nature.

  You were so cool, the way you loved everything about the Sequatchie Valley. We had decided to drive across the state line into Tennessee from the farm in Georgia - following rainbows. We drove the back roads. After the rain, the valley was vibrant lush, so alive. Mimosa trees and magnolias formed a rich canopy throughout the rugged mountain terrain and feathered the mountain’s rugged shoulders. We rolled the windows down. The scent of humidity mingled with the fragrance of the plants. We stopped at one of the overlooks for a while just to drink in the beauty and savagery of the area. The distant warble of the whippoorwills, the background whisper of rushing waterfalls, and the unconditional beauty of the unspoiled scenery created a visual and aural utopia for your union with nature. One I will never forget.

  It was fast. It was slow.

  We decided to head back to Georgia, following the sunset. We drove home to LaFayette through the Chickamauga Battlefield. For a few minutes, we stopped at one of old towers. I lit a joint and remember you saying not only was it against Federal laws to be in the park at night, but the joint wouldn’t help our case much if we were caught. I laughed at you and finished smoking.

  .

  “Let me drive,” you said. You laughed and took the keys from me. You walked to the driver’s side of the car. We had the latest CD from Mr. Crowe’s Garden playing. It was a perfect Friday night. Friends, fun, and a small reunion, since most of us had been at the university all year. Summer in the South. A month of rain. The lushness of the trees and greenery was like a green explosion.

  Slow. That bit was slow. Your voice all thoughtful: “Look at it as if you were a writer or some artist, or maybe just a guy with a guitar. Look at all that life, little sis, the magical allure of the South.” The last words you ever spoke.

  .

  I was stoked. You know how I was. I remember feeling the music pulsing from the speakers. Funny, I can remember the track, but I can’t. Funny that; the way the mind works. Slow. I opened the glove compartment. I stashed the weed. Slow. The red light on Highway 27 turned green and we continued southward toward downtown LaFayette.

  He hit us on your side. I didn’t see him. Nor did you. Just that jolt. That terrible life-changing jolt. Stuff flying. Glass. Metal.

  Slower. He was a middle-aged man. He had a black eye. We were hit by a middle-aged man with a black eye. I mean, why? You were my friend, Charles; my brother and my friend. You knew me better than anyone else on this Earth. You. And I loved you. The way you were, just you. Just some guy with a guitar. Now you’ve left me.

  I’ve not told you this before, but you threw your right arm across my chest, like you were trying to protect me. Next, you placed your left hand to your head. Then, you threw your guts out. I knew you were dead. I can see it now; every detail, every amplified sound.

  I screamed, “NO! NOOOOO! Help us! Someone help us!” I tore the door from my side of the car. “HEEELPPP!” I screamed the agony of my lifetime. You were dead. The motherfucker that hit our car did this. He ran the red light. God alone knows how I crawled over the hood of the car to get to him.

  “You goddamned son of a bitch! I’m gonna kill you!” My wrath was ended by two men picking me up and holding me back. Were they real? I still don’t know who they were or where they came from.

  “Liz, Liz, we’ve called an ambulance. You’re hurt,” one of them said.

  “My brother! That son of a bitch has killed Charles.” Rage and anger. So much fury exploding from me.

  Fast.

  “We’ve called an ambulance. Help is on the way.” It was a girl I had graduated from high school with. I couldn’t recall her name. I reached for her, whispering. “It wasn’t our fault. We only stopped for the sunset.” Lowering my voice further, I said, “There’s a stash of weed in the glove box. Can you hide it for me, please?”

  More people arrived. I heard sirens in the distance. A blanket was placed over my shoulders. The girl returned from the car. “Liz, you’re in shock. There’s nothing in the glove compartment.” She whispered to me, “No stash.”

  One of the men holding me said, “Don’t move. You’re hurt bad. The ambulance will be here in a minute. They’ll take care of you.”

  “My brother! Help my brother.”

  The guy’s eyes slithered away. “Ssshhh, Liz. You’re gonna be okay. They are here for you now. Where are your momma and daddy tonight?”

  “Playing cards at Neal and Anna’s.” As I said this, the paramedics swooped around me like medical angels. “Please get Charles.” I was blacking out. Except I wasn’t. I saw a Cherokee warrior holding your hand. The Cherokee beckoned you to follow him. You looked back and smiled. I blacked out. Except I didn’t.

  “Liz, you’re gonna be okay. We’ll have you to Oglethorpe Hospital in a few minutes. The doctors are already there, waiting for you.” I was in the ambulance. One of the girls on the medical team was sticking things into me.

  “Charles is dead, isn’t he?” No one answered me as the sirens wailed and my journey to the hospital began.

  So this is what it’s like. You see it on TV, the doctors waiting at t
he doors of the emergency room. A breathing mask going over my face. “Liz, you’re going to sleep for a while,” Dr. Crandon said. “I’ll be here for you when you awaken. You’re going to be okay.” And your face turning and smiling at me like the whole of my life was going to be all right, like you were looking out for me even as you left me.

  That was when I heard a howl of grief from Mom in a distant, unknown waiting room.

  Then you are there with me. I can see you. I want to follow you, go with you, but you wave me back. You won’t let me follow. You insist. The look on your face. The Cherokee warrior, or is that our grandfather? Crossing a log bridge over a ravine and you follow. I want to follow too, but you lift the log up and tip it into the abyss. You look at me. Our eyes meet. You wave to me. I’m weeping for you, Charles. And then you’re gone from me forever. I breathe in the inviting darkness surrounding me. It welcomes me with its soft caress.

  Coming to, I’m waking up and it’s as if I surface to the top of a pond, only the pond is filled with clouds. Dreamy. Ethereal.

  Dr. Crandon was there, just as he had promised. Remembering things said that I can’t recall. “Liz, Liz, you can wake up now. You’re a lucky girl. Your mom and dad, and half of the town are outside waiting for you to wake up. I’ll let them know.”

  “What about Charles?” I whisper. Invisible shutters cover his eyes.

  “Let me send your dad back to see you, Liz. Only one person at a time is allowed in ICU.” With that, Dr. C squeezes my hand and steps away. The sleepy dreamtime peace creeps over me.

  One of the nurses shakes me gently, reviving me. “Liz, honey, you’ve had a concussion. I can’t let you go to sleep yet.”

  Dad walks in. His lanky frame darkens the doorway. He pauses, just a hesitation, a moment. Then, he’s at my bedside, taking my hand.

  “You’ve always been a survivor, my little girl. I saw it in you when you were born. You were born fighting, Liz. You’re my survivor.”

  I plead with his eyes. “Daddy, why won’t anyone tell me about Charles? I know he’s dead. When will someone tell me?”

  Dad sits on the hospital bed, cups my hand in both of his. “Yes, baby, he’s gone.” I saw your death in Dad’s face as he admitted he’d lost you, his only son.

  Then it’s about me. “You’re in rough shape, sister. Every rib around your heart is cracked. You have a concussion and you dislocated your shoulder. But, you are going to be all right. You are going to be all right. You’ll have to get well so you can help me handle your mother.”

  And that’s how it’s been, Charles.

  The same old story. Dad and Mom, me in the middle, getting lost, in the way, getting it wrong, cracking up, too much of everything, but never enough. Mom going on and on. Why did you stop just there? Why was he driving? Why? Why? Why?

  And then it started. One shrink after another. Like I wasn’t grieving properly, or something. Like I had some new and nasty problem that needed to be fixed. God, I needed you there. You were the only one who could have helped me and you were gone.

  All the docs wanted was the money. Write a script. Give another pill, same old story. Just another messed up kid. Not a one of them gave a damn about the pain and my loss and sense of always being abandoned.

  You were my best friend, Charles, my only brother. Eleven months apart in age. More like twins. Same nose, same blue eyes, same blond, wavy hair. You the natural athlete. Me, your equal. Remember when I beat you at running? At everything, almost. I always have been one competitive girl.

  I still can’t believe you’re gone, Charles. I never will.

  You were my confidante, my buddy. You were the one who always made everything right for me. You were the fun one, the good-looking guy with the great sense of humor. I was always a little bit off the mark, more of a loner. Always surrounded by people, always alone, since I was a kid. That sense of aloneness and I are the best of friends. You know how hurt I was when Grandfather died when I was 13? He was the only one who ever told me I was pretty. You did sometimes, kinda. Almost. In a joking way. You two were the only ones who made me feel as if I was part of something and you are both gone. Forever.

  How many times am I going to tell this story? The doctor looks up from his note taking.

  I have to ask. “Am I crazy?”

  “No, you are not crazy, Liz. You have survived a terrible accident. You have had a series of disappointments and losses beyond anything a typical nineteen-year-old has to contend with.”

  “I once had a patient who constantly saw a Christmas tree. All the ornaments on the tree were the faces of the women he had slept with in the past. He saw the tree sitting in the room, no matter where he was. From the corner of his eye, he would see this Christmas tree when he was awake. And, when he was asleep, the ornaments would fly off the tree with each of the women screaming at him.

  “That’s crazy, Liz. You’re not crazy. You have a touch of melancholia, that’s all.”

  Melancholia, he says. What the hell? Isn’t that what the romantic poets had? Better than being plain depressed, I suppose.

  He tells me I’m sad, numb. I remember everything about the crash. He asks me to place the memory in a box for now. I am to imagine all that pain and place it all in an imaginary box. I am to lock the box with an imaginary key. I am to keep the key. I can unlock the box as I can handle the feelings and I can unlock it when I want to open it. When I am ready. I am in control. Meanwhile, I am to take some nice little pills in a nice little pillbox.

  He asks me why I’m majoring in English Lit. Did I find reading all that Keats and Shelley saddening? Did I empathize with the sad things they wrote about? We discuss words. It’s like I’m some human crossword puzzle he’s trying to solve.

  I tell him I see through words. He doesn’t get it. I run that line from Antony and Cleopatra his way, you know the one, my fav from the Bard: “With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life at once untie.” He doesn’t get it. I spell it out. Life is intrinsically intricate. Shakespeare nailed it. I tell the doc I don’t need the medication. He tells me I have no choice.

  He gives me one of those I’ve-had-enough-of-you looks, tells me there’s nothing really wrong with me. I am to study hard. Vanderbilt is an excellent school. It’s HIS alma mater! I am to get on the school paper. Writing will be a good outlet for me. I am to keep a journal, too. A girlie diary. Doing articles will help me focus on others and a diary will help me understand my own feelings better.

  It is one of the few sensible things he says and one piece of advice I actually follow, dear Diary.

  It gets better. I am to play tennis, run, play volleyball. Exercise the blues away - every day. Get those endorphins pumpin'.

  Meanwhile, keep taking the numb pills “a while longer.”

  “What is ‘a while longer’?” I ask. “Six more years?” I tell him just what I think about the meds.

  No, no more Dr. Nice.

  I am underage until I am 21. My parents want the meds continued until I am out of school and turn 21. I have a history of suicide attempts. Lies!

  He knows I WILL recover.

  “What, from the medication?” I ask him.

  My parents are “concerned.” And then he hits me with, “You are not helping yourself by continuing to drink. That works against the medication.” Doesn’t he know all students drink? Doesn’t he know I just want to be like everyone else? He waves my grades in front of me. I can’t believe it. He actually has a copy of my grades.

  So, I’m not like everyone else. So I’m above average in this, outstanding in that. So what? He wants to make me believe in myself. And then he tells me. I don’t need him. The answers are all within me. I need direction, that’s all. Why don’t I come back in three months instead of three weeks?

  Like, YES! So the deal is I take the pills and skip the torture.

  He was right about the writing, though. It works.

  I write a blog for the school. I PROMISE TO LEAVE MY BRAIN TO SCIENCE - THE ANATOMY OF NUMBN
ESS. I can write, it seems.

  The next time I see Dr. Nice, I take him a blog on MELANCHOLIA AND THE MODERN AMERICAN DISILLUSIONED ROMANTIC TEEN. I follow this up with THE GIRL CHATTERTON.

  He knows I am toying with him. Is he hitting on me? I do believe he is. Or maybe he just wants me to think he is. He’s 32 and married with a young son called Daniel. In the end, it is he who rejects me, refuses further appointments. Says I no longer need him.

  Even my shrink.

  So, dear Diary, will you reject me, too? Will you? Should we stop this now before someone gets abandoned again? Do I stop you right here?

  I think so. (I believe this is the end.)

  -------------------------------------------

  ENTER LOVE, STAGE LEFT

  Liz Snow

  Atlanta, Georgia

  September 2003

  Hello, Diary. I am now twenty-nine, a dangerous age, everyone says. Looking back, it’s hard to believe that I wrote those things ten years ago.

  Now here I am. Older. Still attempting to make sense of the shattered pieces of my life. Much like the shards of a broken mirror, my life reflects in front of my own eyes and reveals a kaleidoscope, yet I still can’t see - me. I can’t seem to understand myself.

  Item: a death - my grandfather.

  Item: a death - my brother.

  Item: a misguided marriage.

  Item: a devastating miscarriage.

  Item: an acrimonious divorce.

  Liz Snow, THIS! Is your life.

  At least my career is soaring.

  Let there be a line drawn here. Let everything beyond this line be a new me for Peter William Hendrix III. Be there, beyond the line. My savior, my love. I believe I am going to marry you. You haven’t asked me yet, but you will.

  Okay, Diary, are you ready for a happy ending? You’d better be, because that is what you & I are going to get. I swear it.