Fire Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 2)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  The pin she gave me was one of three gifts I received from her.

  The second was a silver cross that I hung above my door.

  The third? It was intangible and priceless—time with her.

  * * * * *

  A big house stood on Dolores Street in San Francisco. It was a spooky old place with plenty of dark corners, creaks that traveled down the dimly lit halls, and moans behind its walls and under its wooden floors. It belonged to my great aunt, Ruthanne Dunne.

  Jenise and I were two little girls filled with mischief and as our parents discussed adult matters upstairs, we snooped into the dark, moldy basement. There were dozens of shelves lined with old dusty books and bibles.

  We opened her beautiful old books and ran our fingers over the musty pages. Even as we read through the pages about murder and mystery, history and fiction, I wondered if many were first editions. She had old bibles edged with gold, written in the ancient language of thee, thy and thou.

  After reading an especially delicious tale of intrigue, we pretended a killer lived in the cellar's shadows, carefully picking the right time to take his next victim into the darkness.

  One day, we found a small statue of Mother Mary with her head severed and another of Jesus was tipped over and had been broken in half. In our mind, that moment confirmed we were in the devil’s lair. Running into her large garden, filled with rhododendrons and roses, we screamed and then laughed in the relief of making it out of there alive.

  The first time I remembered my great aunt speak with my parents about the "burden" my grandmother had become to her, she mentioned how she'd already been charged with the care of another sister named Ethel. That sister was kept—no, more like "stowed away"—in the parlor room, a room built to receive guests in older homes. Although physically in her sixties, Ethel’s mind hadn’t progressed beyond the age of six—at least that's what I was told.

  Jenise and I were warned not to go in the parlor. My sister even told me some crazy story she'd heard about a stabbing that involved Ethel and a pair of scissors. Of course, that danger made her all the more intriguing.

  Never one to heed my parents' warning, and another way to rebel silently, I dared myself to venture forth on a day Jenise hadn't come with us.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door to meet Ethel.

  The furniture looked turn of the century and the sofa and chairs had carved wooden backs. A round table with claw feet provided a resting place for a beautiful antique lamp, and the carpet was a pale green with a rose pattern.

  Ethel sat on the floor playing with paper dolls.

  Her legs were tucked under her.

  "Hello!" she said sweetly. "Play!"

  I knelt beside her.

  "What's your name?" I threw a small test her way—at least in my mind.

  "Ethel."

  "Mine's Nicky."

  "Before."

  "What?"

  "I saw you before," she revealed. "I want to play. Hoped you would peek in." She responded like a child. Her body was that of an older woman but her eyes were still innocent. It was as if I could see joy behind them.

  "Where did you get these nice clothes for your paper dolls, Ethel?" The details were brilliant, all cut from construction paper, the tabs that fastened to the dolls so precise, the design crafted by hand, imaginative.

  "I make!" Pure joy shone on her face.

  With that visit, I understood creativity had no age or mental limitation. With the right encouragement, things might have been different for her. Instead, her family gave up and tucked away the beautiful and talented silver-haired lady.

  Each time we visited, I carefully opened the parlor door, hoping she would be there with her dolls. I no longer cared if Jenise came with us when we visited Grandma Maureen because I couldn't play with my new friend. I didn't trust that she wouldn't tell our parents and we'd be made to stay with them during the visit.

  Ethel loved showing me the new outfits she created from paper: jackets, shoes, purses, and dresses. She even made a second set for a doll she'd made for me. Her cardboard, crayons and pencils around her, she was ready to make or change an outfit at any time.

  We walked them under the sofa and chairs, making little rooms and houses for them, took them shopping to pretend stores, and even made them fly through the air. The imaginary adventures we dreamed up were like little fairy tales.

  I wished I would have kept a journal back then so I could remember more of them.

  Time with her was like nothing I'd ever again experience.

  The day inevitably came when I slid open the parlor door and Ethel was gone. No longer were her boxes of colored papers and markers strewn about the room, ready for playtime.

  I knew I'd never see her again.

  I knelt in prayer, asking that she hadn't been abandoned.

  I never asked where she'd gone.

  I was afraid I'd hear, "She's on the fifth floor at St. Agnes."

  Children know intuitively—before they grow older and become jaded—when they find sweetness and honesty. I knew it was inside my great aunt Ethel.

  Not too long after Ethel left, Ruth admitted to my father that she could no longer care for her other sister, his mother, Maureen Young. If Dad didn’t take her, St. Agnes would once again claim her. As much as he’d numbed himself, even he realized that readmitting her to that hellish place wouldn't be right.

  When Grandma came to stay with us, Jenise was fourteen and I was eleven. It wasn’t too many months earlier my sister had been raped, which apparently made her room off limits to me. It was as if my parents thought I might catch her “disease” if I got too close.

  I had a choice between sleeping downstairs by myself, or in my parents' room. I chose my parents' room. I was afraid to be by myself, not because of ghosts or the skeletons of St. Agnes. It was the haunting from my father and his drunken talks at my bedside, which might last all night if there was no one around. I had to deal with enough of those living nightmares and I didn't need to be surrounded with more as I tried to fall asleep.

  After grandma moved in, I was given new household chores. I resigned myself to them, although I didn't understand why I had to shoulder any of the responsibility. Why weren't those given to my sister, or for that matter, why not my parents?

  I made her breakfast: a simple bowl of cereal—usually cornflakes—or toast, a cup of juice, and coffee. When I got home from school I checked on her and took her lunch dishes away. I brought her dinner and also cleared those plates later on.

  One night as I set her tray down, she seemed more pensive than usual. Dad had stumbled down the hall and into his room. On the way, he'd unintentionally knocked her door open.

  “Is your dad polluted?” she looked at me bashfully, folding her book closed, placing it on her lap. I realized from her question, she hadn’t known how deeply her son had sunk into his addiction.

  "Yes, Grandma." I held her tray. "He's been drinking."

  She lowered her head and sighed. Her hair was gray, short, thin, and curly. In many spots, the pink of her scalp was exposed. She couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds.

  “Can you get me that book on the dresser?” She pointed with a shaky finger to a thick book. I put the tray down and got it for her. Still resentful of her being in my room and sleeping in my bed, a fresh dusting of anger settled on me.

  Now, in addition to these extra duties that cut into my time, I have to listen to her stories.

  I wanted her gone.

  I desperately needed out of my parents’ room and back into my comfort zone. I hated the stale stink of my father's breath, saturated from alcohol, and the drunken snore that rattled from his throat.

  My fear of being tender with anyone kept me from embracing my grandmother. I was especially frightened to get close with someone her age. I knew it was only a matter of time that she'd leave me—she was one of the gray people.

  “What’s in the book, Grandma?” I might as well take an interest. She doesn't
seem to be going anywhere soon and no one else talks with her.

  “I want to read you something in the pages of our family bible.” She began reading her family’s history, going all the way back to Ireland. “Your dad wanted to name you after me.”

  “Maureen Young.” I said out loud. “That would have been nice. I wonder what my middle name would have been? Maureen Marie is kinda weird.”

  She smiled and then told me about her own parents and grandparents. I found out my father was no angel when a boy. He was expelled from high school for defying authority, and went to work at a local market instead of going back to school. I listened, finally beginning to appreciate the opportunity in front of me.

  Why had it taken me so long to accept her?

  Because of the things I saw every day.

  In our house, family wasn't cherished or held. None of us were touted as special. It was up to us to create love for ourselves.

  That day, my grandmother became interesting.

  That day, I shared my first cup of coffee with her and loved it.

  That day became a tradition, a memory of talking with Grandma over breakfast and savoring a cup of coffee together.

  That day, one link in the chain that bound our addicted generations together, weakened just a little and was replaced with a golden thread.

  I listened to a different story every night and looked forward to bringing dinner to her and sitting by her side while she ate.

  Patience and understanding were introducing themselves to me.

  Although she'd given me her amethyst pin and silver cross, my grandma's real gifts taught me to appreciate my family's history and how loving each other shouldn't be a sacrifice.

  It was what family did.

  The difference I felt in her being at our house, in my room, getting to know her, even at eleven-years-old, was life changing.

  Instead of resenting her, I helped Grandma on her portable potty.

  Instead of rushing out of the room after I brought her breakfast, I got up a little earlier to make sure we had our coffee together and had a chance to chat.

  I made sure she had her doctor-approved treats when I went grocery shopping with Mom—especially the butter mints she loved, putting them in the cart along with my bags of cookies.

  I brought her extra napkins and a box of tissue so she didn't have to keep used paper towels on her nightstand. While she was on her potty I stripped her bed and changed her sheets, taking the duty away from my mother.

  A privilege—that's what I understood it was to be with her. Some days, I skipped playing with my friends and instead listened to her stories.

  She began leaving a dollar for me underneath her empty plate in the evening. When I told her it wasn't necessary she put her finger to her lips. I never said anything about it to anyone. Sometimes I used the money to go on bike rides with Jerry and get away, stopping at the corner store first to get our candy.

  They abandoned and brought her to live here and yet did as little as possible, leaving her in bed night after night instead of bringing dinner to her. They could have set up the family room near the kitchen for her, so she'd be able to sit in her wheel chair with us, but they really didn't want her close.

  After all, getting too close was our fear.

  Dad brought her home so she wouldn't stay at St. Agnes, but left the rest of her care to his wife and daughters.

  In the end, because of Grandma Maureen, I was able to form bonds that were quite different than those I had made so far.

  Because we visited her sister, Ruthanne, I met Ethel.

  Because Ruthanne didn't want her sister, I came to love my Grandma Maureen.

  I came to associate the smell of powder and butter mints with love—she kept them both on her nightstand. Sometimes, I'd sit with her and we'd eat all of the mints.

  The day she gave me the amethyst pin, she said it was because I gave up my room for her and I was brave for doing it.

  “It’s so pretty!” I rubbed it between my fingers. “What is it?”

  “An amethyst. Your grandfather gave this to me as an anniversary gift. I want you to have it. It's the only thing I have left to remind me of him.”

  A few weeks later, my parents took her to the hospital. I didn’t know she was in her final days of life.

  I wasn't told they were taking her there.

  I wasn't told I could have my room back.

  During the week she stayed in the hospital, she broke her hip.

  She died a week later.

  I never got to say goodbye.

  I was always afraid of good things ending.

  I was afraid of people leaving, that I might not see them again.

  Is it any wonder why?

  * * * * *

  Tucking my journal safely in my backpack, I checked my wallet to make sure I had my ID handy for security and picked a butter mint from the small package I kept on me.

  “Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa.” I patted the pin. “Thank you for your gift of compassion.”

  Just as I was about to leave, I got a text from Ryan: Thinking of you and your deliciousness. I am being a Boy Scout.

  I texted him: Through with SF State and Municipality, glad you are Boy Scout. Love you for my dad.

  He returned: Love you.

  I sent: Remind me to tell you about my amethyst pin.

  He replied: Call you later.

  Chapter 4

  A Future for Jenise

  City Architecture was located in one of the tallest buildings on Stockton Street. I stood in front of it and looking up to the rooftop, considering what it would mean to work at such a company. A few seconds later, I walked through the revolving glass doors.

  The large lobby had marble floors that echoed with the hard footsteps of men and the high heels of women’s shoes. Two men sat behind a large security desk. I thought the atmosphere was seductive and easily imagined myself in that kind of world.

  One of the guards took my name, checked it off the “approved” list, and directed me to the top floor where the company president, Mr. Blockley, was located.

  I took the long ride to the top, finally stepping off the elevator into the beautiful reception area. Photos of their many projects hung on the walls. A definite modern design echoed throughout, with chrome, glass, shining blacks, pale grays and swishes of red, boldly proclaiming the themes of the company.

  A striking man and woman, each in their mid-twenties and dressed as if they were models, sat at the large, black, marble-topped desk. I introduced myself and the man called back to someone to announce my arrival.

  I hadn't been sitting for more than a few minutes when a pretty young assistant with long blonde hair wearing a black sheath dress and a Tahitian pearl necklace came through a second set of glass doors. She asked me to follow her.

  Like Municipality, we walked down a long hallway. This one was modern and sleek. At the very end, a third set of glass doors guarded its occupant. The glass was opaque with chrome handles and the company's logo—a silver cloud with a red lightning bolt—was on each door. The young woman rounded her desk, which was in a large alcove, carved out of the ornate hallway. It was obvious her purpose was to take direction from Mr. Blockley and streamline the needs of he and his clients.

  "Mr. Blockley, Ms. Young is here. Would you like me to let her in or will you . . . Yes, right away." She hung up the phone and looked up. "Please go right in. May I get you a beverage?"

  "No, thank you. I'm too nervous to drink."

  She smiled and watched as I opened one of the two heavy glass doors. My hand made prints on the freshly polished chrome handle.

  His office had a sweeping view of the bay and it gave me a clear vision of how my office might look someday. I could see myself sitting behind a big glass desk in a big chair. Perhaps I'd reupholster it in white leather and throw some pink, lacy pillows around the room for accents.

  The man taking long strides toward me was tall, athletic looking, had dark brown hair, wore a
three-piece suit, and was young. I guessed he was somewhere in his late twenties. His eyes were dark and focused. I imagined anyone who was caught in them knew they were in for quite a reward—or a lot of trouble.

  Whoa!

  "Ms. Young. Caden Blockley." He extended his hand and we shook. "You're a friend of Ryan's."

  "Yes. How do you know him?"

  "I met Ryan at a charity ball a few years back and was quite taken with the woman he escorted. In trying to determine if they were together, I admit our mutual friend put me in a trance of sorts." He chuckled wickedly. "After that we ran into each other quite often. These society events . . . part of developing contacts, you know. I must say the woman he was with couldn't hold a candle to you, Ms. Young."

  Oh, you're smooth. I guess that kind of comment generally gets you what you want.

  "I don't take compliments well, but thank you."

  "How long have you known him?" He circled the room as if analyzing me.

  "A little over a year."

  "Did my assistant offer you a beverage?"

  "Yes. I passed, but thank you for checking. This is a beautiful view, Mr. Blockley. I'm studying business marketing at Stanford next year and plan to have an office just like it.” My eyes swept his office from left to right.

  “Thank you, Nicky. May I call you Nicky? I'd hate to continue being so formal. If you're Ryan's girlfriend, I'm certain we'll run into each other at some gathering or another in the near future."

  "Yes, Nicky's fine," I agreed.

  "Good. And call me Caden. The view is spectacular, isn't it? I've worked hard to get this view." The smile on his face was a sensual smirk and full of mischief. "You don't like to talk about Ryan?"

  "I like to talk about him fine, but I'm trying to keep this to business. If I'm being honest, Caden, he overwhelms me. I don't mind telling you I know him, though. I think he's brilliant."