Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1)

by Lowe, T. I.

  I suppose you want to know a bit more about her. I guess you deserve that, but please don’t expect too much. Most of what I know about my mother is hearsay. And I’m only going to tell it once, so take note.

  The sneer she always had, special just for me, flickers through my mind and I cannot control the grimace that creeps over my face. My mother is an absolute knockout with silky blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but those exquisite eyes never held an ounce of kindness for me. The aging hands of time seem to have no effect on her, no matter that too many cocktails and cigarettes have been her main diet staples. I’ve not laid eyes on her in quite some time, but I guarantee she still looks the same. We shall see shortly. Ugh. Thinking about seeing that woman again sends pure dread to the pit of my stomach. My left hand releases the steering wheel and clutches my stomach as I hope to push the pangs of uneasiness away. Hold it together, Savannah.

  My mother was sixteen years old the first time my father laid eyes on her, and he has never seen anything else out of those eyes since. John Paul Thorton II was smitten immediately that summer when a young Jean entered his family-owned restaurant, The Thorton Seafood House. He was busing tables and nearly dropped the dish bin as he spotted her—his words, not mine.

  He used to proudly recount how he had walked up to her table, where she was dining on fresh broiled shrimp with her parents, and welcomed them to Bay Creek. He would often tease my mother on how she wouldn’t even acknowledge the charming busboy. That didn’t deter him. No. He was adamant about meeting the most beautiful woman to ever step foot in Bay Creek. I’ve seen plenty of photos of Jean to know he wasn’t exaggerating. My mother’s beauty is the type to spawn jealousy in the most self-secure of females. It’s really not fair.

  It only took Jean until the next day to find out the goods on John. While sunbathing on the beach, a group of teenage girls filled her in on the fact that John was an only child and his parents not only owned The Thorton Seafood House, but also owned The Thorton Seafood Market next door to it.

  Thus, the epic love story of my parents began. Jean agreed to marry my father right after she graduated high school, thinking life with a successful businessman would be a piece of cake.

  Married life was nothing like Jean expected, and she had no qualms on sharing her disappointment over the years. She never could figure out exactly what she needed to make herself happy and always looked to her husband to figure it out for her. Of course, he failed miserably.

  My father simply wanted them to be a team, with Jean working alongside him in the family-owned businesses. She had other plans, and he gladly let her do as she pleased. He only wanted her happy, no matter what it took.

  My mother’s only redeeming quality is she is an absolute culinary genius. Give her a few ingredients and she can produce a masterpiece. Her creations dominate the menu at the restaurant. Her famous spicy shrimp and grits dish is the bestseller to this day. I’m rolling my eyes because, honestly, complimenting my mother leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It’s something I don’t take too kindly to doing.

  Jean eventually decided that maybe a baby would make her happy. This delighted my father to no end. He had tried to talk her into it from the start of their marriage, but she had her reservations.

  Almost nine months after her decision, a beautiful baby girl named Julia Rose Thorton was born. She looked just like Jean, with bright blue eyes and curly blonde hair.

  The fairytale of motherhood ended as soon as the first not-so-beautiful diaper occurred. This had my father scurrying to find a nanny.

  A year after Julia’s birth, Jean became pregnant again. She had promised my father a son, and she wanted the whole “growing a family” business behind her as soon as possible.

  John Paul Thorton III was born with the exact blue eyes and nearly white-blond hair as my mother and sister. My parents had the perfect family. With a nanny by her side, Jean spent most of the family’s time between the beach and the family businesses. Life was good for them for nearly three solid years until the unfortunate mistake happened.

  Jean was absolutely devastated when she discovered she was pregnant for the third time. My parents were content with two children and had decided that was enough. I’m smart enough to know what it takes to prevent more children. I guess they were a bit naïve. That’s what they get, if you ask me.

  My mother has told this story more than once over the years. Cue the violins. She stayed utterly miserable for the entire sentence of the pregnancy. I weighed in at birth over a pound more than my siblings and have never lived that one down either. She says I caused her hideous stretch marks that ruined her perfect abdomen. Well, let me just say for the record, I have seen that abdomen in a bikini over the years, and it looks flawless to me.

  “You were already giving me a hard time before you were even born.” She would complain on and on about this in her whiny drawl. Scarlett O’Hara has nothing on my mother. “I stayed sick the entire time. On top of that, you decided to be a week late. No surprise with your procrastinating self.”

  I was born a procrastinator and really haven’t ever been motivated to get over it. So I like to take my time. What’s the big deal? I’ve been witness to poor choices being made in haste over the years and really want no part in that.

  Jean never really shared much with me about her life, but she had no trouble articulating her disappointment in me. Never letting me forget. Never forgiving me.

  To emphasize the mistake point, I also look nothing like my perfect family. I take after my father’s side, with grey eyes and dark brown hair. I have the height and dark complexion, but that is where the similarities end. I guess that deemed me unfit for a “J” name, so I have an “S” name. Who knows what the symbolism of that is? I could guess a few reasons, but what’s the point? I really don’t care enough to figure that one out.

  Brushing my rebellious hair behind my ear, I scan the congested interstate. Summer is not the time to have to head down south on the fly. It’s full-blown vacation season… Ugh… Another memory reaches over and pokes me harshly in the side, feeling like a thorn pricking me. I actually jolt with the pain of it.

  I took too much out of my mother with my unwelcomed presence. Before I turned nine months old, she took her first of many extended vacations. She was gone nearly a month before my father tracked her down in Virginia. He had to plead with her to come home, promising to hire a housekeeper as well. She hesitantly agreed to come back. This is when a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes were what it took to get Jean through the day. I’ve had a few heart-to-heart conversations with some of the staff at my dad’s two businesses. They seem to find some satisfaction in sharing unpleasant things about Jean. I’m not the only one she rubs wrong.

  I’ve not needed anyone to fill me in on some things, though. I have known from the get-go that I was a mistake. Maybe God had an off day or something. All I know is He made a mistake. Sadly, I wasn’t the only one.

  Only a few years into my mistake of a life, another tragedy hit our family. Jean’s cousin, Rena died of a drug overdose. Rena was the black sheep of my mother’s family, so her son had to wear the scarlet letter as well. Sadly, a five-year-old Bradley was found lying next to his dead mother. People say he sat beside her lifeless body for two days before a neighbor found them. My heart squeezes too tight at this thought, and I have to rub my chest to loosen the pain’s grip.

  Bradley was only a few months older than my brother John Paul, so family members encouraged my parents to take the poor boy in. They all thought he would adjust better with us. Reluctantly, my parents agreed. My dad was quick to get the adoption complete, even though Jean bickered about the senselessness of it. My dad took pride in making Bradley a Thorton.

  Bradley and I had a few things in common. We seemed to both be unwanted guests in Jean Thorton’s household. He didn’t too much fit in either, with his unruly red hair and green eyes. His fair skin took a beating with our many beach excursions. Jean always had a hard time remembering su
nscreen. Her excuse was that it was all she could do to keep herself straight with having to raise four rowdy children. Whatever. Eyes are rolling, because I remember the presence of maids and babysitters much more than I remember Jean’s presence. The word babysitter inflicts its own unique pain, and I recoil away from it before it can leave another mark.

  In the years that followed Bradley joining our family, our house was filled with too much noise, too little love, and too many vacations for Jean.

  Enough with the thorny Thorton family tree. I’m sick of the dang thing poking me. It’s on the verge of drawing blood. I don’t want to think about that anymore, and I’m sure you’ve heard enough. I need to focus on the demons dancing and try to figure out a way to get them to stop once and for all.

  Chapter Three

  After several hours driving down this unwelcoming paved path, I am completely over the idea of going back home. It’s late in the afternoon, and I’m sick of being trapped in the confines of this blame car. I start scanning the green signs for an appealing exit, and it only takes another half hour to find one. It’s a beach exit, and I can hardly wait to bury my feet in the warm sand. I ease my car into a public beach access lot, and my lungs are already craving the savory Atlantic air. After killing the engine, I slip off my shoes, grab my phone, and take off towards the beckoning waves that call me in whooshes and muted rumbles. As my feet find the sizzling beach surface, I shoot Julia a text. Where r u? R u on ur way? I wait a few moments for a reply. As always, it goes unanswered. I send Lucas one next, letting him know I am okay and taking a rest stop.

  I walk down the coast for a good stretch, trying to work out the kinks in my back and legs from traveling in the cramped car. I take several deep breaths of the warm, salty air as I check out the beach scene. It’s pretty packed with vacationers. Virginia has gorgeous beaches, and this one is lined with a welcoming boardwalk, unlike the beach back home in South Carolina. My home beach is lined with beach houses and condos. The breeze is quite warm and whips my long hair in my face. I shuck off the lightweight hoodie I had to put on before leaving Rhode Island and twist my hair into a knot. Relief is instant with alleviating the stifling hair off my neck. The breeze scoots back by and tickles the newly exposed skin, allowing me a contented sigh.

  My body is overheating almost immediately. I have an overwhelming desire to shuck my clothes and dive in, but restrain from doing so. Instead, I yank up my sleeves and roll my pants legs up before strolling over to the shore to test the temperature of the ocean. It’s heavenly and refreshing on my scorched feet. I love the texture of the squishy wet sand as the tide washes it between my toes. I stand here until I’ve sunk enough that my feet are now hidden and probably intruding on some hermit crab’s home.

  If I ever felt like I belonged anywhere, it has to be on a sandy beach or in the saltwater. I’m an average surfer. Or I was the last time I rode a wave, and that was well over five years ago—closer to six, I think. Maybe I’m considered an ex-surfer now, but I still feel the want running through my veins though. I was never as good as my brother or Bradley, but I could hold my own. In my defense, they had a better teacher than I did. I was self-taught. The brief thought of their teacher stings and sends an ache through my stomach.

  Weakness subdues me all of a sudden. I push my way out of the water and plop down in a dry vacant spot on the sand to stare at the ocean. Looking out over the crashing waves, I notice the ocean seems right agitated today. It keeps growling at me, and after a while, I growl back. The foul mood is in the air, I do believe. I stand my ground and glare back at the moody tempest of the Atlantic Ocean. Farther out, the sky is bruised with deep purples and black. Although that storm is far away, I can see its effect on the sunny beach. People around me are taking notice and seem to be hesitant on their next move. Stay or go? Be cautious or pay no mind to it?

  I’m wrestling with my own storm. Stay? Or go? Be cautious? Or pay no mind to it? Memories tap me on the shoulder and whisper in the breeze. Remember me? I’ve not gone anywhere. Remember?

  A car crash or a fatal heart attack is an instant mind-numbing catastrophe. Immediate and sharp is the pain, and your mind refuses any comprehension of it. Sometimes a tragedy slips in unnoticed for an unmeasured period. By the time you give notice to this devious disaster, it has already done its irreversible damage. Like a disease, it’s relentless and selfish as it snakes its poison in hidden crevices until everything is infected.

  Evan Grey was an invisible tragedy. He brought so much light into our dysfunctional family, and everyone was consumed by that light. So fascinated by the wonder of it that the darkness seeped right in without detection.

  It’s easy to be so starved for attention to the point of becoming addicted to it, if ever given the opportunity. Dad had no attention to spare between Jean and the businesses. And Jean used all of her attention on herself. Her family would describe her as spoiled. I would just say she’s rotten.

  Evan walked into our family one afternoon with an abundant supply of attention and gave to each one of us children generously. He spent hours upon hours showing the boys how to throw a curveball, bait a fishing hook, and how to ride the perfect wave. To us girls, he gave us a listening ear and unwavering affection.

  How did this young man enter our lives? I blame it all on Jean, of course.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Children! Come meet our new friend,” Jean shouted from downstairs.

  Julia and I were sorting our cassette tapes, arguing over who was the true pop queen. I believed it to be none other than Cyndi Lauper, and Julia insisted that Madonna should hold the title. I could hear the boys down the hall, sounding like they were about to come through the wall. Sounds reminiscent of a demolition site came from their direction, which was nothing unusual.

  We convened in the hallway and headed downstairs to meet whomever our mother had dragged home this time. Standing at the foot of the stairs was none other than Adonis in the flesh. This god of beauty and desire had golden-brown hair and ice blue eyes that seemed almost clear. His skin seemed to glow with a bronzed tone.

  Jean waved her perfectly manicured hand in his direction. “This is Evan. He will be keeping an eye on you every now and then, so I can run errands,” she said with her southern drawl a bit thicker, as usual, when in the company of a man. Errands to Jean meant beauty appointments and lunch dates with her girlfriends. She didn’t have any of us fooled.

  “Momma, I think we can keep an eye on ourselves.” John Paul bucked up, trying to sound grown-up in front of our new guest. Bradley stood a bit taller, mimicking our brother.

  “I agree. Talking your father into that is another story,” Jean said. For some reason, our father was always adamant on not letting us stay home unattended. He said too many mindless accidents happened when children were left alone. He had no idea.

  Evan didn’t seem bothered by our disappointment. He simply smiled as he gave the boys a manly handshake and slap on the back, using what reminded me of a coach-like gesture with his players. The boys told him their names and then shot back upstairs to continue to do who knows what in their room. I stood listening to the banging and hoped I could also escape soon.

  Evan approached us girls next while our mother introduced us. The gentle hug he gave Julia caused a girly giggle to slip from her prissy lips. “It’s nice to meet you ladies.”

  Evan then turned towards me, but I dodged the hug with a quick side step out of his reach. Physical contact was not something I had much experience with and had no desire to receive it from a stranger. Even before the disease of things to come began festering, I was already adverse to people intruding in my personal space. Sure, Dad would give us the one-armed side hug every now and then, but that was very rare. When Jean was around, she required and obtained all of his attention.

  “Now Miss Savannah, that was terribly rude,” Jean snapped. She turned her attention to Evan. “She’s my youngest and a bit feistier than the others.”

  She cut her eyes towards me
to make sure I was listening.

  “She is what you would call an unplanned surprise.”

  She said this like the words tasted sour on her tongue. My mother always felt the need to share that tidbit with every new person that came along. It was like she always wanted everyone to know the burden I was on her. I guess she didn’t want me to forget it either. Trust me. I never have.

  I rolled my eyes in my older sister’s direction, and she returned the gesture to me. She was on my side back then. My throat thickens as I wish that were still true.

  “Oh, I enjoy feisty.” Evan laughed. “That will keep me on my toes.”

  He winked in my direction, making my face flash heatedly in a blush. Yep. He was definitely Adonis.

  Evan had recently moved to Bay Creek to attend his senior year of college and to be close to the beach. He was an avid surfer and would have been on the west coast but his grades weren’t up to par and, as punishment, his dad would not send him. Bay Creek was their compromise. When asked what his major was, he would reply with a smirk that Fun was his major. He didn’t take school seriously, hence the poor grades. He came from old money that came cushioned with a trust fund, so he had no worries in the financial department.

  Evan would normally hang out with us once or twice a week after Jean dragged him in our lives that naïve day. The boys took up most of his time in the beginning. Most days, they would disappear to the beach, the batting cages, or to the pier. I enjoyed all those activities, but Julia and I were always stuck at home doing an endless list of chores.

  He would abandon the boys every now and then to help us out. It was great. He would let us watch all of the MTV we wanted, and we would spend afternoons dancing around the living room to the latest jams.

  Things were great in the beginning, as most things are. It only took a few months for the darkness to become evident. The disease would be irreparable, leaving lifelong side effects that would be debilitating at times or a nagging, festering sore so easily aggravated at other times.