All my heart,
Momma
PS: The last time I heard, Arthur Peterson was back in Memphis and had taken over the family farming business. I hope Mr. Carr can help you more.
Damn those Little Debbies and Virginia Slims.
Oh, Momma. On one hand, I am livid that she knew all along about where my father could be and wouldn't even share his name with me. On the other hand, my heart breaks for the young, lost, and heartbroken girl my momma was. The one thing I can't stop thinking about is, what if she hadn't had an accident and had gone on to live a long life? Would she have kept this from me until then? I hope this was a backup plan and eventually Momma would have shared this information with me. She may have hated Arthur Peterson, but she loved me. It doesn't matter now. I know who he is and possibly where he is.
Okay, Memphis, what to do now? It's only the first of July, so I have another month before I have to be back at school to get my room ready for the next herd of kids to grace my doors. There isn't anything keeping me here for the month. I can pay all the bills online, I don't have any pets, and other than a few teacher friends, no one here would miss me. Feeling confident about my decision, I grab my laptop and start searching for my long-lost father.
It's really creepy what one can find out on Google. In the matter of an hour, I know the name of his business: Peterson, Inc., and the address in Memphis, Tennessee. I know he is married to Rachel (Long) Peterson and they have three daughters: Gretchen, Priscilla, and Piper, ages twenty-three, twenty-one, and nineteen, respectively. That last bit hurt the most. His oldest daughter is only a year younger than me. From their social media accounts, it looks like all three of his daughters and his wife are tall, slim, brunettes with big brown eyes. I've seen pictures of graduations, birthday parties, family vacations to Disney, beaches, and even Australia. Momma and I never did take any vacations. There was never enough money for anything fancy. The year I graduated high school we spent the weekend in Chicago and ate at a fancy Italian restaurant on Michigan Avenue. If we wanted a vacation, we would pack up our tent and camp out at one of the several lakes surrounding us. We may not have had much, but we never went without. Some of my favorite memories are of me and Momma sitting around a campfire making s'mores and telling horrible ghost stories that neither of us could ever finish because we were laughing so hard. The Petersons can keep Australia. I've seen videos of their bugs and they creep me out anyway. Plus, I hear kangaroos are real assholes.
I write down all the pertinent information I need in my trusty journal and decide to wait until morning to attempt packing. I'm too emotional right now. I may end up packing my parka instead of shorts at this point. I turn off everything and head to the bathroom for my nightly ritual. With my hair pulled back into a messy bun, I quickly brush my teeth, wash my face, then apply my anti-aging cream. What? I may only be twenty-four but wrinkles are a struggle that I don't have the patience to deal with. Once I'm clean and my face is nice and shiny, I head to my small bedroom to change into my favorite Tinker Bell boxers and t-shirt. I curl under the white down comforter on my full sized bed and roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling and begin to wonder.
What will Arthur Peterson think when he sees me? Will he see Momma? Will he see any of himself in me? I look nothing like his perfect wife and daughters. My own brunette hair has been colored a deep pink with lighter shades of pink highlighted into it. My blue eyes and short height are both from my momma. I snort to myself when I try to guess what will go through his mind when a pink haired woman with a nose ring shows up at his house proclaiming to be his long lost daughter.
I can't make my mind stop so I decide music is in order. It always has a way of settling me. I pick my phone up from the nightstand and pull up my music app, clicking on my favorite band, Shinedown. If anyone can calm me down by singing, it's Brent Smith. I have to force myself to stop thinking about the tattooed, hunky singer and pay attention to the words he's singing. I scroll until I find my current favorite song of theirs and hit play. I finally fall asleep to Brent telling me to stop selling myself short and to get up and get a move on.
Dang it, Memphis. You are better than this. You're going to be gone two weeks tops; you can do this. I chant this to myself over and over as I'm packing. I didn't set my alarm last night and I guess I was more worn out than I thought because I slept until ten this morning. Now I'm rushing to grab what I need to make it the next few weeks. I decided not to try and book a hotel room until I get to Memphis. I have no idea where the nearest hotel is to Arthur and honestly, I'm not sure yet if I even want to stay close to him. I may meet him and decide to jump back in my car and drive straight for Florida. After I finally have everything packed, including my toothbrush that I forgot, I load up my two suitcases and messenger bag with my laptop in it. The house is locked up, my neighbor Mrs. Jansen is going to pick up the paper and mail, my car has almost a full tank of gas from when I filled up the other day. The only thing I need to do now is put the key into the ignition and start the car.
Put the key in, Memphis.
You can do this.
I can't do this.
I jump back out of the car and head back to the front door. My hand trembles as I lift the house key to the lock. Dang it, Memphis! Don't do this. What happened to the adventurous woman last night that had everything mapped out and was so amped to go she had to be sung to sleep? Don't be a weenie. Get back in that car, turn it on, and start driving.
Taking a deep breath, I turn and face my car once again. My steps are slow as I head toward my Bug. Once I reach my car, I sit down, close the door, and bang my head on the steering wheel. Once, twice, three times is all it takes before my head starts to hurt and I finally bang some sense into myself. I grip the key and insert it into the ignition. The sound of the motor starting makes me jump like I wasn't expecting that to happen. I give myself a mental face slap and put the car into gear, backing out of the driveway, and pointing her south toward Memphis. Toward my father. Toward an unknown.
It's now or never. My momma didn't raise me to be meek or a quitter. It's with that reminder that I punch the gas and begin my long journey. Come hell or high water, tomorrow I'll be in the same city as Arthur Peterson. My father. The man who broke my momma’s heart. The man who I have spent my entire life wondering about.
I hope he’s ready.
Bless his heart.
I finally make it across the Memphis city limits. My eyes are swollen from lack of sleep, my hair is a greasy pink mess, and my skin is so dry I think if I moved too fast it would crack open. I need food, a shower, and a bed, in that order. The hotel I’ve chosen is close to downtown and the reviews said the restaurant inside was good, that was all I needed to hear. Clean sheets and room service is the only thing I can think about at this particular moment. I already booked and paid for three nights online, so check in only takes me a few moments. Thankfully I had a baseball cap in my backseat that helped hide my hair and the front desk attendant didn't pay too close attention to me. I'm pretty sure there's a stain running down my shirt from a cup of coffee I spilled on myself somewhere in Illinois, not to mention the mustard from the hamburger I shoved down my throat in Kentucky.
As soon as I enter the spacious and clean room, I strip and head straight for the shower. Glorious hot water streams down my body and I use the small shampoo left by housekeeping and wash my hair three times before adding some of the matching conditioner. Once I finally feel like a normal person again, I turn off the shower and dry myself. I walk back into the room and grab my bag, pulling out my lotion and moisturizers. I have always been pale and my skin slightly dry. I blame it on the cold Wisconsin weather. Negative temperatures are no joke. I slather myself from head to toe before slipping on a clean pair of grey yoga pants and a faded blue t-shirt with the logo of the school I teach at. Reaching for the menu, I plop down in the small loveseat and begin to look through the choices.
Steak? Nah, too much. Hamburger? No thanks. I had enough drive-thru burgers o
n this trip to last me a lifetime. Aha! Chicken tenders and french fries. Perfect. I pick up the rooms phone and place my order, adding a piece of cheesecake and a latte from the restaurant. While I'm waiting for dinner, I decided to try and catch some of the local news. I didn't even think to check the weather before I came and I wasn't outside long enough to get a feel for the temperature. Just my luck that the weatherman comes on within seconds of me turning on the TV.
"This week is going to be a scorcher. I'm expecting us to break a few of the old heat index records. The last one was set back in 1923, with the index getting up to 114 degrees." The nice looking weatherman is Satan and I have landed in hell. Do people actually go out in this heat? I remember one year we hit 98 in the summer, for one day, and three people died of a heat stroke. Maybe I should have waited until December to attempt to find Arthur. Heck, it probably only drops to the 70's here in the dead of winter. Before I can start packing my bag and getting the heck out of this inferno, there's a knock on my door. I peek through the small hole in the door and see a younger man dressed in the same hotel's attire as the girl at the front desk.
I open the door and he begins to push a cart loaded down with plates sitting under silver domes. I smell the french vanilla latte I ordered first. It may be hot as heck outside, but it's never too hot for a good hot coffee or latte. I tip Greg, he informed me of his name after asking if I needed him to show me around town. After I finished rolling my eyes, I politely declined and shove him out of my room. I roll the cart over to the sliding glass doors that lead out to a small balcony. It's almost seven at night and yes, it's warm, but there's also a slight breeze to cool you down just enough to make it feel pleasant. I leave the door open and bring out the cart and begin to pull off the silver domes. The first one I uncover is the cheesecake. Eh, it is what it is I guess. I grab the fork and take a giant bite and try to hold in the moan of pleasure from my tastebuds. I love cheesecake, heck, I love almost any kind of cake other than carrot, but this has to be the best one I have ever eaten. It's rich, creamy, and the crust is graham cracker perfection. There are swirls spread over the top of the cake made of caramel and it's all topped with dark chocolate ribbons. Can you marry a cheesecake because I'm pretty sure I just met my soulmate.
After I devour the cheesecake and lick the plate clean, I open the next dome to see three large, crispy chicken tenders and a small silver bowl with honey mustard in it. I grab the plate and before I realize what has happened, I've eaten them all. I check the ground around me just to make sure I didn't drop any because there is no way I ate those that fast. I know I haven't eaten anything in twelve hours, but really, Memphis. Get a grip on yourself. The last dome is hiding a plate full of beautiful seasoned steak fries and another silver bowl, this one filled with ketchup. I force myself to eat these slowly. Halfway through the plate I give up, sit back in the small patio chair and inhale the fries that were left. There's no shame in my game today. Exhaustion is kicking in and I'm afraid if I don't inhale my dinner I'll fall over asleep in it.
Now that the sun has set, I debate leaving the doors open for the night, I am on the fifth floor after all, but quickly decide against doing so when the first bite happens. I can't decide what it is at first, then it happens again, and again. I finally see what's causing the stinging burns and see them. Mosquitos. From. Hell. What in the everloving heck are these mutant creatures? I thought mosquitoes were small and black. This one is not. It's the size of a roach (I kid you not) and has white stripes on its body and wings. I attempt to use my hand to smack it but it's too smart and fast for that. Next thing I know, there is a stinging on my cheek and I catch the flying demon out of the corner of my eye flying off of my face. I jump up, knocking the patio chair over and run back into the room, slamming the doors closed behind me. I gulp down a few breaths then head to the mirror in the bathroom to see what damage has been inflicted.
There it is. A big pink circle is slowly forming on my left cheek, just below my eye. How did he land on me without my feeling it? Demons I tell you, demons. I pull out some of my emergency medicated cream and run it gently onto my stinging cheek. I hope that goes away before tomorrow. I'd hate to meet my father with a giant pink bump on me. Throwin’ my hands up in the air, I give up and head to bed. The down pillows and comforter are soft and I find myself asleep before I can roll over and turn out the bedside lamp.
It takes me a moment after I wake up to remember where I am. Memphis, Tennessee. Memphis is in Memphis. I giggle at myself over that one. My kindergarten students would get a kick out of this. I need to remember to grab some Memphis postcards to hang in my classroom. I roll over to look at my phone and let out a squeal when I see what time it is. I slept until noon? How did that happen?
I scramble out of the bed and rush to the bathroom, take a quick shower then brush my teeth twice. I quickly dry my hair and put on a little makeup while waiting for my hairwand to heat up. I imagine the heat and humidity outside will frizz my hair, but I'm going to at least attempt to be decent when I track down my father for the first time. After I finish curling my hair, I grab one of the maxi dresses I brought from my suitcase and slip it on. The soft, yellow material hugs my chest and flairs out from my waist. Because I'm short, the end of the dress almost hits the floor. Reaching for my favorite pair of brown sandals, I buckle them on, then stand in front of the long mirror attached to the outside of the bathroom door and give myself a good looking at. I'm clean, hair is decent, and the dress isn't too wrinkled. Swiping on some pink lip gloss I consider myself presentable and grab my purse on the way out the door. Instead of taking the elevator, I decided to walk down the five flights of stairs to help relieve the build up of tension. By the third flight, I decide that I'm an idiot and ride the rest of the way in the elevator. Relieving tension is highly overrated. I thankfully remember where I parked my car yesterday and turn on the GPS on my phone as soon as the car is started. I knew the hotel I chose wasn't near Arthur's business but I didn't realize it was so far. When the address said Memphis, I assumed it was actually in the city, this is telling me it's on the outskirts almost an hour away. Groaning to myself, because it's going to be even later when I get there than I had planned, I buckle up and hit the road.
Okay, let me just say this, Memphis drivers are crazy. Crazy with a capital C. I was almost run off the road four times, had several people honking at me, and I'm pretty sure a priest, if the black outfit with the white clerical collar wrapped around his neck was any indication, gave me the finger. By the time I'm finally able to take the exit and get off of the interstate, my knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard and my breath is coming out in pants. Despite my air conditioner blowing at full capacity, I can feel a sheen of sweat across my brow from concentrating so hard on not getting hit. I need to find a different route back to the hotel, one that doesn't include me getting back on the highway to hell.
Goodness, gracious.
I can do this.
Probably.
Maybe.
Nope.
I change my mind, turn around, and head back towards my beloved Bug when a voice stops me in my tracks.
“Miss? Excuse me, ma’am? Can I help you find something?”
I drop my chin and curse myself under my breath for being so stupid to even get out of the car. I don’t want to be rude, so I turn around to tell the man that no, I don’t need any help. The words die on my tongue because in front of me is none other than Arthur Peterson. My father. Of course, it would be him. I swallow once then clear my throat so I can respond to him. “Thank you, but I was just leaving.”
“Do I know you? You look familiar, or like someone, I do know.”
Come on, Memphis. You drove over ten hours to get here just to meet the man. Buck up and introduce yourself. I say a quick prayer for strength and walk closer to Arthur. Holding out my hand I tell him exactly who I am. “My name is Memphis Reynolds. My momma was Launa Reynolds.”
I watch as the color leaves Arthur’s face. I s
eriously thought there for a minute the man was going to faint. “Did you say Launa Reynolds?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
Arthur walks a few steps away from me to the steps leading up to his office. Well, I assume it is his office. It’s a one-story, white stone building that stands in front of three silos. There are several dusty work trucks in front of the building and one lone car, a white Cadillac Seville and it was as clean as if it just came off the car lot. It looks extremely out of place and I am curious to who it belongs to. Once he sits on the steps, he runs his hand over the top of his hair. “Launa Reynolds. Jesus, I haven’t heard her name in, I don’t know how many years.”
“I imagine it’s been about twenty-five years,” I respond to him.
“And you say your name is Memphis? Did Launa name you after the city? Is she still living here?”
I clear my throat again, must be all the dust out here, and answer Arthur’s questions. “Yes, my name is Memphis, she always told me she named me after the city she loved, but I recently found out she named me this after the city I was conceived in. Momma passed away a couple of weeks ago actually.”
Arthur finally looks up at me and I can see the wheels starting to spin. He can’t tell if we have the same shade of brown hair since mine is currently pink, but he most definitely can see himself in my eyes. I always thought I got my blue eyes from my momma, but looking into his, I was so wrong. Her shade was a little brighter, her eyes a little more round. Mine and Arthur's are more a deep blue hue and have a slight almond shape to them. My top pouty lip and thinner bottom one are more traits I received from him. I watch him closely to see if he puts everything together because standing here now, I don’t know if I have the guts to say it out loud.
As soon as his eyes widen in recognition he lets out a long sigh. “What do you want from me? How much are you looking for?”
Memphis Page 2