Extraordinary

by Amanda McGee

  I dressed myself in the clothes she had picked out for me. It occurred to me that Kate was treating me like a five-year-old because that was how I was acting.

  My dark denim shorts hung lower than usual. Lucky for me, Kate had chosen an oversized white tank top that would disguise my newly shrunken body, at least enough to avoid a discussion about it.

  “And it’s time to clean this house,” she announced. “You wouldn’t believe how dusty it is.”

  Yes, Mom.

  “You know there’s no food here,” I said.

  The last time I had checked the cabinets all I had found was a can of corn and what appeared to be an old cookie. If I ate anything, I held strict to whatever food I could have delivered, which consisted of two options: pizza and Chinese food. I tried to space out my orders to each restaurant to avoid having the same delivery boys see me open the door looking like a crazy hermit.

  “There’s food now,” Kate said. “I bought groceries. You have a sandwich on the counter.”

  “Did you get coffee?”

  “Duh. If it’ll get you out of this funk you can drink the whole pot for all I care.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  Kate nodded. “What would you do without me?”

  “Oh, Kate, never shy about tooting your own horn.”

  “It’s such a lovely horn, why not toot it?”

  Growing up with no one but my mom and Kate was atypical but longing for a storybook upbringing never occurred to me. Our simple life accommodated my loner tendencies...or perhaps created them.

  Sure, sometimes I imagined what it would have been like to have an actual brother or sister. I wondered what it would be like to have someone to look up to or look after, or to have that unbreakable bond siblings possess. But with Mom and Kate around I never felt slighted.

  Kate scooped up the basket of dirty laundry and I followed her downstairs.

  A hazy sorrow dominated the entire living room and trickled into the kitchen. Maybe it was the grime that had accumulated over the past few months or perhaps it was the emotions I tried to escape, either way the dreariness was palpable.

  But still, looking at the room was like being thirteen again. I could see Mom and me painting the walls. It took us two weeks to decide on a color. We went for a bold rustic shade of red because it was a surprising change from the yellowish hue of our house’s exterior. I laughed as the memory unfolded and I remembered how accomplished we felt after it was done. It took a week to finish and even longer to get the paint out of my hair.

  “She loved this house,” Kate said, recognizing the look of nostalgia on my face.

  “It was the only place she wanted to be.”

  “Yeah, she did not like that hospital!”

  Home was the only option for mom. On that Tuesday afternoon in October when the doctor informed us that she had stopped responding to treatment my mother rose above. With a smile, she asked that I take her home so that she could be in the place she cherished.

  Through the window, the white porch surrounded the pale yellow walls of our home. At one end was the solitary swing where I would sit for many hours. Mom’s favorite rocking chair, where she spent the majority of her time, swayed in the middle.

  It was no different than the one next to it, but to her it was special. She would sit, writing in her journal, and humming the song she would use to lull me to sleep each night as a child.

  Amazing Grace.

  Even in the face of death, she tried to look on the bright side. The least I could do was try to do the same.

  “Where should we start?” I said, devouring Kate’s sandwich.

  “I say we start with the hardest part first. Your mom’s room.”

  I nodded and smiled so Kate wouldn’t worry but I knew it would be crippling. When I reached the top step, I paused for a moment to prepare myself for another emotional memory or two. Kate entered Mom’s room and I followed with as much enthusiasm as having teeth pulled.

  Her bed was made, as it usually was. Her clothes hung in their respective places in the closet. The big straw gardening hat for sunny days like today draped on the bedpost. I poked fun at her each time she wore it. Mom would laugh along with me and never missed an opportunity to sport it. I often wondered if she purposely put it on knowing we would get a good laugh out of it.

  Her much-loved record player idled in the corner and my thoughts went to the last day I remembered hearing her favorite Elvis Presley album blasting through the speakers. On several occasions, I had caught her swaying around the room or singing into a broom handle.

  “Gosh, remember her records?” Kate asked. “I can hear her saying ‘They don’t make music like this anymore.’ We always rolled our eyes. I never got to tell her I agreed with her.”

  “She knew,” I said. “We would dance along with her and we knew all the words.”

  I tested the ancient contraptions functionality and to my surprise it worked. Elvis began to serenade us with words regarding his burning love.

  “Oh, that’s a great song!” Kate yelped.

  The two of us broke into silly dances and Mom’s presence surrounded me.

  Gazing around the room I noticed her journal beside the bed. I had often wondered what she was writing about but was never nosey enough to look. If Mom were here the book would have been in her lap, not on the nightstand.

  The needle slid to the next song—one of The King’s signature ballads. His haunting voice resonated deep within me; he understood. Wiping a layer of dust from the top, I held the journal tight to my chest.

  I’m lonesome every night Mr. Presley. Thanks for asking.

  “Whatcha got there?” Kate said, taking the book from my hands.

  “No, Kate! It’s Mom’s journal.”

  “Relax,” she said. “Don’t freak out. There’s nothing in it anyway.”

  She flashed the blank pages to prove her point then tossed the book back to me. Kate shimmied across the room to dust the dresser. I was stationary beside the bed and curious as to why there were no words in the journal since I had personally watched my mother write in it daily. I opened it again, puzzled.

  The blank sheets of paper began to fill with her handwriting. Page after page, Mom’s words appeared from nowhere. A shudder vibrated down my spine. A gasp erupted from deep within me, catching me off guard. I slammed the journal shut.

  Kate turned in my direction with a confused expression. It was too late. She was on to me.

  Is this what a psychotic break looks like?

  My hands shook and my heart rate increased to a subtle rumbling. I tossed the book onto the bed, grabbed the vacuum, and pretended I wasn’t insane.

  ****

  Chapter Two

  Nothing bad ever happened here. Our crime rate was practically zero. No one even got speeding tickets. Knox was pure, untainted by the world’s frenzied pace and negativity. Somehow we remained a well-kept secret even considering how beautiful and idyllic it was.

  One drive through town and you’d see why.

  One minute you would find yourself parallel to the ocean, the next you were surrounded by breathtaking southern Georgia countryside. It was the best of both worlds if you asked me.

  My house was isolated, as most homes on the outskirts were. My closest neighbor was a half-mile away, separated by lush woods. My mother once found comfort in this place. My home used to be my safe haven.

  So how, in the middle of that splendor, did I find myself mentally unstable?

  Words didn’t just appear out of thin air.

  I had never heard of anyone going crazy here, it was too beautiful and peaceful. Knox was the kind of place that could cure what ailed you, not cause it. Yet, as I jogged through the woods on the trail I’d travelled hundreds of times before, I wondered where I went wrong.

  I was hallucinating and no amount of exercise would cure that. Though, I wasn’t sure if I was running from the journal or running because I had downed an entire pot of coffee before lunch.

/>   I weighed the pros and cons of telling Kate and found that no side faired better.

  Kate was the girl who was rarely fazed by anything and had an explanation for everything. Sure, she could have explained what I saw, but I was not convinced she wouldn’t think I was insane.

  I entered the house, continuing to jog until I was locked in my bathroom.

  I knew I had to tell her but there was no sense in rushing it or not being clean when I did it. I had carried the weight for over twelve hours, what was one more?

  My caffeine riddled body jittered as my shaky hands poured body wash onto the sponge. The rich coconut scent reminded me of the ocean, palm trees, sand between my toes—warm weather activities I should have been partaking in instead of losing my mind. After the longest shower I had ever taken, I made my way downstairs to share my secret.

  Kate was waiting for me in the living room with two extra large pizzas on the table in front of her. I watched the steam rise off the melted cheese and evaporate into nothingness. My heart banged in my chest and my mouth went dry.

  “Hurry while it’s hot!” Kate exclaimed, lounging on the floor. “The guy just delivered them.”

  I tried to recall the last time the two of us spent a day together under normal circumstances. Her last visit three months ago consisted of my mom’s funeral. I just wanted to enjoy the company of my best friend when we weren’t emotional wrecks. Unlucky for me, “normal” flew right out the window the second I opened that blasted journal.

  Maybe I imagined the whole thing.

  I needed one more peek to be sure. The diary, which I now held squeezed between my hands, had remained on my mother’s bed since yesterday afternoon. I trusted that Kate wouldn’t disturb it, her curiosity had been squashed the second she thought it was blank.

  I peeled back the top corner just enough to see a sliver of the pages, thinking it would somehow lessen the shock. Just as before, the words appeared.

  “Crap!” I blurted.

  “What? What is wrong with you? Are you having an emotional relapse?”

  I leaned over the back of the couch, positioning the journal close enough for Kate to see. Displaying the opened book, I waited for her reaction. The words revealed themselves and Kate’s expression remained blank. She finally blinked and her eyes shifted to me.

  “What the hell?” Kate yelled. “How did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”

  For once, we both fell speechless. Kate had never been quiet a day in her life but that shut her up for several minutes.

  “At this point I’m just thrilled to know I’m not nuts,” I said, ending the silence.

  “I figured you were off your rocker again.”

  “You realize we just saw words appear from nowhere? We both may be off our rockers.”

  “Well now we have to read it!”

  “Really? That’s what your first thought is?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m more curious than ever! Don’t you want to know what it’s all about?”

  Kate was right, again. My curiosity was piqued. I was no longer hallucinating; I was perfectly lucid, just caught in the middle of a strange event. Throughout our thirteen-year friendship Kate had pushed me to do things I would have otherwise put off until later or never done at all, why should this be any different?

  I sat on the floor in front of the couch with Kate squirming next to me, no longer concerned with the pizza. With trembling fingers and a half-open mind, I turned back the leather cover and readied myself for the madness.

  “Forgive me Mom,” I whispered.

  The first entry was dated October 13, 1996. I was two years old at the time.

  Dear Alex:

  Sometimes life is complicated and lonely but I am starting this journal so you will know how special my life is because of you.

  You are so young but already you have brought such warmth and joy to each day.

  The road ahead may be unknown but we will face it together and that brings me more comfort than you’ll ever know.

  Love,

  Mom

  There was nothing too compelling in the passage but I discerned a tone of unhappiness hidden between each line. I fought back the tears, not willing to break just yet. Kate placed a hand on my shoulder giving me the boost I needed to continue.

  I found myself lost in the words while Kate listened as I read aloud. Mom told stories of my childhood, most of which I was too young to remember. Every humorous anecdote my young brain formed, every temper tantrum, and every new discovery was accounted for.

  The story of my inquiry into the ever famous ‘Where do babies come from?’ was proceeded by an embarrassed laugh. Apparently, I saw a particularly interesting movie scene that led to endless questioning. Mom took pride possessing the tools to quell my need for answers without scarring my young soul.

  The entries, though not always extensive or exciting, were heartfelt.

  November 27, 2000

  Alex,

  You came home from school today upset because you watched Bambi in class and were mortified that you cried. But then Kate came by and told you that she cried when Bambi’s mother died too and you forgot all about your embarrassment.

  Your heart is so big, Alex. It always has been. I wish you’d stop trying to hide it.

  Mom

  “I second that!” Kate said.

  I ignored my mother’s plea and Kate’s concurrence; this task was difficult enough without stopping to analyze my flaws. Skimming further into the journal, one entry, in particular, caught my attention.

  March 12, 2006

  Alex,

  One day I predict you will read this journal, probably through Kate’s influence.

  You are on one of your walks. It’s another beautiful day and I’m so grateful for moments like this.

  There is so much I want to tell you but you are so young I fear you may not understand…or maybe I’m afraid that you will.

  I hope one day you know the love a mother has for her children. That love is so strong you are willing to do whatever needs to be done to protect them.

  I see you walking back now. You have flowers in your hand. You look so happy.

  I love you,

  Mom

  “Well she has you pegged,” I said, and then noticed that Kate had fallen asleep.

  I continued reading in hopes of learning the secrets I sensed lurking beneath all of the motherly insights. The entries depicted holidays, birthdays, and even Kate, but mostly she described me.

  I never knew myself through her eyes. She painted me in a way that I could not recognize. Were it not my mother’s journal, I might have believed the words were about someone else, someone more fascinating and appealing.

  Scanning through arbitrary events that only a mother could perceive as noteworthy such as my first school dance and even my first cavity, I questioned the authenticity of her ever-present smile. My mother never missed a school play or parent-teacher conference, there was a home cooked meal on the table each night, and birthdays were always a big deal. There was always a grin on her face and a hug ready at just the right moment. But was it possible to be content with a life void of relationships, other than one with your daughter? Was she truly satisfied being alone, and, if not, why did she never seek an escape from her loneliness?

  Nothing in her words expressed regret or remorse for the path she chose but the periodic tones of melancholy lead me to believe otherwise.

  July 18, 2010

  Alex,

  Today is just another quiet Sunday.

  You girls are out test-driving Kate’s new Mercedes, which, by the way, I think is an absurd birthday gift for a sixteen-year-old.

  I don’t have much to say today. So I’ll just say I love you.

  Mom

  The chainsaw-like hum of Kate’s snoring echoed throughout the living room. With her head tilted back on the couch cushion, Kate slept in peace, blissfully unaware of the anxiety brewing within me. I craved mor
e. I needed more. Even if every entry left me sad and empty.

  I remembered her writing the entry dated January 31, 2013 because it was from a hospital bed. It turned out to be the last time Mom ever wrote in this journal.

  Dear Alex,

  I am weaker and I know our days are limited so I must prepare you for what is ahead. But I fear what I have to tell you may not make it easier.

  You may feel I am taking the easy way out by writing all this instead of telling you in person. The truth is you’re right. I can’t bear to see the look on your face or dig up all the emotions I have kept buried all this time.

  This information will be complicated and what could potentially follow is risky.

  You tried so hard to hide your pain and questions but sometimes with just one look I could see that they were there. Despite your efforts to understand and hide the hole caused by your father, I could see it vividly. The pain of knowing how to erase this incompleteness nearly crippled me but please understand why I hid it.

  You are a wonder to me, Alex. You knew on some level that your life was not as fulfilled as it should be and yet you never questioned it, at least not to me. You are the best kind of daughter and you will never know the depth of my love and appreciation.

  My decision was a difficult one but it was necessary in order to protect you. Though keeping you from a life with your family—with our family—breaks my heart, if I had my way you'd never know. You can't imagine the grief and risk that comes with knowing and living the life I was born into.

  On November 27, 1992, your Dad and I had a son, Jackson. Your father decided to call him by his middle name, Blaze, after your late-grandfather, Blaise. He was such a shining light in our lives and we knew from an early age of his intense personality and strength. Our lives were difficult before him and he came in, ironically, like a ball of fire erasing any pain.

  I loved your father but we came from different worlds. Literally. When I gave up my world, I found him and became a part of his and we started a family.

  When I found out I was pregnant with you I was ecstatic but my heart also broke because I knew what I must do. I had to tell your father about my past. And now I must tell you.