One Moment

by Elizabeth Savino

  Over time I tried to talk to Grace about what happened with John. What finally made her decide to leave. I wondered if he called out his own name during sex. “Yeah, that feels good Johnny, just like that Johnny.”

  When I would question what happened, this would make her quiet, sad, so I dropped it and was just grateful that she was finally done with him. Well sort of done with him.

  That didn’t mean that John didn’t come by.

  He did.

  He would come over to talk to Grace. She made it obvious that she wasn’t interested in what he had to offer. But it wasn’t like he was trying to win her back, more like keep her in his sights, if that makes sense.

  He would give her money for Ellie. He would act like a big shot and pull out a roll of bills and throw a few hundred on the table. Like that would carry far in raising, feeding, clothing a growing child. Grace never said anything; she just took what he gave and tried to get rid of him as quick as possible.

  Grace made good money as a bookkeeper and was able to telecommute for her job. She was always around for Ellie and was able to give her everything she needed. Ellie was such an easy child that all she needed was love.

  John was never warm to Ellie. Not mean, not cold, just indifferent. Ellie being a smart, beautiful little girl wasn’t warm to him either.

  That was fine, the love Grace and I gave to Ellie was enough to fill her up to overflowing. Ellie gave it back ten fold. There was so much love flowing from Ellie that she couldn’t contain it. A bright smile, quick to laugh at everything and anything. God I miss them.

  The accident haunts me. I was hurt, concussion, six stitches on my forehead, bruises, cracked rib and some bumps. A miracle I wasn’t killed too I overheard a nurse say. She would think so.

  I don’t.

  I am glad I blacked out. I found out they needed to use the Jaws of Life to get me and my family out of the car. That is not something I would like to remember.

  I am alone now with no family, no one. There are dark moments, many of them, when I wish I was taken too. That way my heart wouldn’t hurt so much for all the people I’ve lost.

  I could barely stand at their funeral, so I leaned most of my body weight on Jenny while staring at their caskets. It was a cool, grey, rainy day. The weather represented how I felt inside. The tears running down my face attested to the breaking of what was left of my heart.

  I couldn’t believe that the two people who were my world, who meant the most to me were lying in these boxes. This is what they amounted to? A pretty box, covered in flowers.

  I made sure Ellie had on her butterfly clips.

  I felt comforting hands on my shoulders, barely heard soft condolences, I was completely encased in a fog.

  If I was asked to remember anything from that day, I wouldn’t be able to. Jenny got me there, she helped me get dressed in the morning. She made sure I got home. I would have starved if Jenny didn’t force me to eat and drink. She helped me through it, she was my lifeline.

  Their funeral was the day after I was released from the hospital. All I could do was stand there, tears running down my face, but feeling absolutely numb as I watched them bury my girls.

  My family.

  My life.

  What has been troubling me since the accident, and I can’t seem to let it go is all the questions the police had about John. Questions I had no answers for. I tried to stay as far as possible from him, like I said, he gave me the creeps.

  They wanted to know the relationship between Grace and John, if they were in contact recently. Did she have anything that belonged to him that could be important? What? This made no sense to me. This could have been because of the splitting headache I had, but still today, I don’t understand why they would question me about John.

  Did they think he had something to do with the accident? This thought has not left my mind.

  I rarely left my sister or niece alone with him when he came to our apartment. I was there, made it known I was there, and I could tell Grace was grateful for that.

  I was always watching him. But for what, I didn’t know. Just a gut feeling. That or I have been watching too many crime dramas on television. He was a creep (which I mentioned) of epic proportions.

  One day when I was arriving home from work early, I saw John leaving our apartment. He looked shocked to see me there. I never saw him look anything but cocky, so it was a new look for him.

  He just quickly left and I went inside to see Grace. Only she wasn’t home. When I asked her about it she said she had no clue what he wanted, and that he didn’t even have a key. But I know I saw him locking our door. I got the locks changed that afternoon.

  John always wore a suit, even on the weekends (not that wearing a suit makes you a creep, but come on its weird!). He was always looking over his shoulder, almost like he was anticipating something happening. John was a big guy. He was probably six feet, and muscled. Half the time he looked like he just walked off the set of “The Sopranos.”

  Finally when my head stopped hurting so much and I could focus, I voiced my question to the police about why they were asking about John. They brushed me off and told me it was part of the “investigation.”

  That was it.

  No further information.

  After the funeral when my head started to clear I began to wonder more about the strange line of questioning. I tried to find out anything I could about the accident. I didn’t get far. This was frustrating, no infuriating.

  This is when I came to my foregone conclusion that I had to get away, go somewhere else. If not I was going to sit around questioning everything, and everyone. And find I would still have no answers. I needed to move.

  Permanently.

  It took a few months for me to heal physically, and organize things so I could leave. So that’s what I did. I stayed with Jenny during this time. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to live in the place that used to be my comfort zone. Now it was anything but.

  When I was ready to leave, I packed up all of my belongings, Ellie’s stuffed rabbit that she loved, some of Gracie’s personal items that I didn’t want to part with. Boxes of their belongings that I just didn’t have the heart to go through yet, and I hit the road.

  I found a place online, a cottage that was for rent. On a ranch. With real horses. Not that I have ever been on a horse, but it sounded nice, peaceful. I said my goodbyes to Jenny, and left.

  Chapter Two

  Mini Mart Breakdown

  So here I stand, in a mini mart slash gas station, decompressing in the coolness of the air conditioning. Deep breathing. Trying to keep my memories at bay.

  I figure after I close (and bolt) the door to my new place where I will be laying my head, I don’t know when, or if I will want to see another living soul again. So I start to shop around. Because let’s face it, even if I don’t want to go out again, I need food. And soap and cookies…can’t forget cookies.

  I grab some necessities. Shampoo and soap, bread and peanut butter, crackers, ok, I can do this. My stomach starts to growl, again. I keep loading my basket.

  My basket is full of food and it’s getting heavy. I grasp it in one hand as I am in the milk section about to grab a half gallon. I am contemplating if I should buy the milk now or not. Will it go bad if my new landlord is late? This is what is going through my mind when the unthinkable happens.

  My free hand that is hanging by my side suddenly feels warm.

  Shit.

  I just know I am about to have one of my many panic attacks. I feel a small hand in my own. I know it can’t be, she died. My little niece who was the light of my life is no longer alive, so how can I feel her hand in mine?

  I scrunch my eyes tight, I have had that hand in mine so many times that I know it by memory. The hand holding mine feels about the same size.

  I don’t want to look down as I am afraid she will disappear and I will lose the precious feel of her skin on mine. But I can’t resist because I can really feel her again holding
my hand.

  Unable to ignore it any longer, I open my eyes, look down at the little person holding my hand. My disappointment is palpable. It’s not Ellie.

  I knew it wouldn’t be.

  Couldn’t be.

  That would be impossible.

  But the mind is a funny thing, and mine likes to play tricks on me. I always think I see something out of the corner of my eye, turn and nothing is there. Sometimes this allows me a small amount of comfort, to think that they are somehow still around me.

  Instead it’s a beautiful little boy with the brightest smile I have ever seen looking up at me. He’s smiling so bright that I can actually feel his warmth.

  No.

  I can’t do this. I feel like I just lost her all over again.

  Panic starts to engulf me.

  Anguish.

  Sadness.

  I miss her so damn much. I pull my hand away quickly and gasp out loud dropping my basket with a loud bang while holding my hands to my chest.

  Not Ellie.

  Will never ever be my little Ellie.

  I feel what’s left of my heart crumble.

  I actually thought for a second that maybe everything I have been living has been a nightmare, and she was really there holding onto my hand like she used to. Some nights I fall asleep and when I wake up, for a minute I forget. But then the memories come crashing down on me. And I remember the hell I am living.

  Grace and I used to play the “imagine game.” Imagine you are really in a coma and wake up and your eighty years old. It went a little something like that. So I thought, maybe, just maybe, this has all been a bad dream. And I just need to wake up.

  The little boy’s face still stares at me as I stare back at him in shock. His smile doesn’t falter.

  Not one bit.

  This little boy’s father is now rushing up in measured strides. He’s glaring at me like I’m a zombie getting ready to eat his son’s head straight off his body.

  I have never, not ever, been on the receiving end of a look that scornful.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. The one boyfriend Steve I let into my life gave me some hateful looks. That’s why he was my only boyfriend. Trust me when I say I learned my lesson not to trust the male species from dating him.

  I don’t understand how a woman can have a bad day, be able to bitch to her friends and have a glass of wine to unwind. But some men have to use their hands, their words to bring the one they are supposed to care about down. How one day you can be his whole world, he can make you feel like you can take on the world, and the next day make you feel like absolutely nothing. With the bruises and scars to prove it.

  He was without a doubt a complete fucktard. Unfortunately I stayed with Steve for over a year until I finally realized (with the help of Jenny and Grace) I needed to be better to myself. I was so absorbed in grief when I started dating him soon after my Dad died that I didn’t realize what an unhealthy relationship it was.

  Unhealthy for me.

  Asshole.

  Almost unhealthy for him. The first time my sister saw the first visible bruise on my body, she threatened to kill him. Grace and Jenny, and a few bottles of wine plotted his murder, and it was so good I bet they could have gotten away with it.

  Not that they would, at least I think they were bluffing at the time. But the anger radiating from them, I wouldn’t put it past them. I promised to never have any contact with Steve again, and if I saw him I was to call the police (or either of them) immediately. I diffused the possible impending murder by making that promise and sticking to it.

  Grace was the only blood family I had left; I didn’t want our time together to be through a pane of glass, on a telephone while she was incarcerated for murder. Besides, she hated the color orange. Although, thinking about it, I would have helped them hide the body. That’s what real sisters do. God I miss her.

  My sister used to tell me that not all men were jerks, I just happened to pick a loser in the bunch. Then she seals this comment talking about Mom and Dad. They had a great relationship, high school sweethearts, soul mates.

  Now Grace is no longer alive and deep down I believe it may have something to do with the creep she had a baby with. Not that I can prove it, yet.

  I am immediately taken from my thoughts with the gruff words from Cowboy Dad, “Cody, you can’t just go grab onto a strangers hand.” The Dad says with a scowl in my direction as he holds his sons hand protectively.

  Even though his words were gruff, they weren’t meant to be unkind to his son; I could tell the anger was meant for me.

  I look away quickly before he can read the sorrow that must be flowing from my soul. The Dad pulls his son protectively away from me. Before either of us can say anything.

  Me to apologize.

  Him to probably ask me if I was crazy, or to tell me to stay away from his son.

  I run.

  It’s too much to bear. I pick up my basket, grab tight to the handle and run for the check out. I hope I’m able to pay for everything before I break down. I know its coming; I can feel it bubbling to the surface.

  What a great first impression to make in the new town I’ll be living in.

  I can read the papers now. “A crying nutcase whose name we uncovered is Laura Gennings has moved into town, she is scared of young children and was seen crying in the mini mart……beware, approach with extreme caution.”

  New start, new start, I keep repeating this in my head until I finish paying. I don’t even remember what the checkout clerk was saying, I think I answered a few questions, my answers probably secured my wack-job status.

  Outside I am just able to make it to my truck before the tears start. I had a good run. I haven’t cried in three days. (Let’s call Guinness World Records, Laura made it seventy two hours tear free, only to embarrass herself in front of a little boy, and probably the whole mini mart!)

  I think back. Just the feeling of that precious hand in mine was my undoing. After I throw my bags into the front passenger seat, I close the door and go to rest my head against my truck.

  Of course when I go to “rest” my head on the truck I do it too abruptly and bang it. Great, so I will have a bruise on my head. It won’t be the first. At least this one was from my own doing. Subconsciously I rub the scar on the side of my forehead.

  It’s then that I notice that Mr. Cowboy and his adorable son are parked a few cars away from me. I discreetly glance at them.

  Mr. Too Hot for His Own Good Cowboy is a big guy, and I mean big. At least six feet three inches, and maybe then some. I dubbed him Mr. Cowboy because he’s wearing a brown cowboy hat, faded jeans that look like they were made for him. Molded perfectly to his body. He has on brown cowboy boots a faded brown tee. A fabulous cowboy belt with an awesome silver nickel buckle. As he walks holding his son’s hand you can see the muscles bulging, stretching the sleeves and back of his shirt. In a good way, not in an I work out too much in the gym sort of way. Probably gets that body from physical labor. Lassoing horses, rescuing children from buildings, digging wells for thirsty communities.

  He looks like he just walked out of an ad for “Hottest Cowboy of the Century.”

  It was obviously not an outfit for show, he owned it. It was all him. Not like some guys who try to “dress the part”, and are just doing that, dressing the part. Mr. Cowboy was the part. As a matter of fact, he would be the leading role.

  If he threw himself on top of a horse he would be breathtaking as a cowboy. If he threw his leg over a Harley, he would be a hot biker. His hair is very obviously a few weeks shy of getting cut, but totally and absolutely works on him. If I am honest with myself, the only thing I want between his legs is me. And where is that thought coming from?

  Not that I was noticing every little detail. Oh, wait, obviously I am.

  And why am I staring at him like some crazy stalker? I wipe my lips.

  Am I drooling?

  There is no denying that he is drool worthy.

  I
feel a little tingle in my nether regions. This is odd considering the fact that my vagina and I have a pact. And that pact is, never get involved with a man again, that she was perfectly happy living between my legs depending on pleasure with only my battery operated toy. But obviously we are in a disagreement at the moment.

  Not that I can blame her.

  I conclude that at least the thoughts of him have distracted me from my pounding head (from hitting it on the door frame) and my broken heart. Plus, my panic attack seems to have subsided.

  He is holding onto his son’s hand. I know it’s his son because he is like, mini hot cowboy. They look exactly alike. From the black hair that’s a few weeks late getting cut, but totally works on both of them. To the piercing blue eyes that are framed with coal black eyelashes. The only difference is, his son is still all smiles and dad is still looking like someone ran over his dog, with his favorite truck and then crashed it into a tree.

  I notice for the first time that the little boy Mr. Cowboy called Cody has Down syndrome. As they walk closer I can see that (Dad) is still scowling at me, the anger radiating from his eyes makes me wish a hole would open under my feet and the earth would absorb me. I just look down, and continue to rub at my forehead.

  What did I do?

  I wonder if I scared his son. The tears that stopped during my perusal of Mr. Cowboy are now flowing again. I can do nothing to stop them now.

  ********

  Logan

  Why would she be so upset about my son holding onto her hand? She’s crying. Part of me wants to go see if she’s all right. The other part thinks “What the fuck?”

  It’s not the first time Cody has done that. But nobody has ever had that reaction before. Yeah, she’s a stranger, and in the past it has been someone we have known from town that Cody has grasped onto.

  Being a detective for so many years has not stopped me from realizing that it’s always women that Cody goes up to.