by Taylor Hyer
My life story of trauma and tragedy didn’t just start with my mom’s murder. It stemmed from moving around so often and never having a constant place in life. It stemmed from my constant need of popularity, ultimately resulting in an incident of sexual assault that left me afraid of men until I felt safe with RJ. In all honesty, I could write an entire novel about my own life; but none of it was about me. It was about sharing a multitude of stories that could truly inspire others.
“You’re right,” I said. “So are you going to tell me who I can ask?”
“Well, you can start with me,” Mr. Lincoln surprised me with this comment.
“What?” I asked him to repeat himself. I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly. “You?”
“My dear,” Mr. Lincoln started, “you cannot see the past trauma written on someone’s face.”
“So you’ll let me interview you then?” I asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Lincoln smiled. “What about after I close up today? We can have some coffee and discuss our painful pasts.”
I agreed, and a few hours later met him at a table by the window. Mr. Lincoln brought two caramel macchiatos in large blue and yellow mugs, and set them on the table in front of me. He slowly sat down, and smiled at me as he got comfortable.
Mr. Lincoln was an older man; maybe in his seventies. He was a short man, barely standing taller than me. The light above our table reflected perfectly off of his bald head as he spoke. Mr. Lincoln had a deep southern accent, and certain words were more challenging for me to understand at times. He was a funny man, and his laugh was infectious. He occasionally told me a joke, and the laugh made it twice as humorous. Mr. Lincoln reminded me of my grandfather. He was always trying to get other people to smile.
“So,” Mr. Lincoln said, “ask your questions.”
“Mr. Lincoln--” I started.
“Please, call me Marvin,” he interrupted.
I smiled and continued, “Tell me about where you grew up.”
“I grew up right here,” he said. “My parents owned this coffee shop before I did. I used to sit in the corner back there and work on my homework after school. I learned how to make my very first cup of coffee at just eight years old. My skills developed over the years, and when I officially started working here, most customers requested that I make their lattes.”
“May I ask about your tragedy?” I hesitated.
“No need to hesitate,” Marvin sensed it. “I have accepted what happened to me, and I have moved forward. It is not something I will ever forget, but I will be happy to share the story with you. Others have learned a lot from it.”
“I’m all ears,” I replied.
“My story shares some similarities with yours,” Marvin began. “I too lost my mother at a very vital time in my life. I was eighteen, a senior in high school. My mom always had big dreams for me. She wanted me to move to New York City, but there was no way this ol’ country boy could ever do that. They have accents, but mine would be picked apart.”
We both laughed at this, sipping our coffees. Marvin continued, “One day during the last few months of my senior year, I was working extra here in the cafe. My father was away visiting his mother, and my own mother couldn’t handle the shop all by herself. We made a good team, though, and I was happy to help. I was basically finished with school, just waiting on finals; so I didn’t mind skipping out some days to keep my mother sane.
“It was one of the most memorable and tragic days of my life. April 14, 1970. I remember I was laughing with one of the customers; his name was Albert. He came in every Tuesday morning to get his caffeine fix from our shop. My mother had left the shop thirty minutes earlier to run a few errands. She at least wanted me to go to school for half of the day, so she got her work done in the morning so she could tend to the shop in the afternoon.
“This shop is on a pretty busy street, as you are aware. It was busy back then, too. My mother was always careful when she was crossing the street. She waited for the signal to go, and she constantly looked both ways. For some reason, she didn’t see the little blue Porsche speeding toward her. The man driving the car didn’t see her either. I watched as my mother’s body was flung into the air, and came down almost lifeless.
“I ran out of the shop so quickly toward my mother. Blood was everywhere, and her body was severely cut and bruised. She was barely breathing and I held her in my arms, screaming for help. The man in the Porsche didn’t even stop. He waited until my mother hit the ground, put his car in reverse, and sped off in the other direction.
“I kept telling my mother she would be okay, but she died three minutes later. She was still in my arms. The ambulance didn’t even make it to her in time. I had to call my dad and recount the entire morning; something I never thought I could do again. We mourned my mother for a very long time; probably longer than what would be considered healthy.”
Marvin took a deep breath, allowing me to soak up all the information. I didn’t know what to say. I was in shock. He watched his mother die. He held her in his arms as she took her last breath. Someone took Marvin’s mother from him, and he watched.
“Marvin,” I said softly. “Marvin, I don’t know what to say.”
“Haven’t you been hearing stories of tragedy and loss all week?” Marvin laughed. How could he laugh after he just shared such a horrendous story?
“I didn’t know them as well as I know you,” I felt my eyes filling with tears.
“Does that make their stories any less tragic?”
The question struck me. “I guess not.”
“Loss for one person can be completely different for someone else. We all experience different types of pain, and different ways to cope,” Marvin said. “That is my lesson for your novel. Here is why.”
Marvin went on to tell me that when he went back to school after his mother’s death, people bullied him. He dressed poorly, barely ate, and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “I aged at least ten years in just a couple of weeks,” he said.
One student in particular made his life more challenging. “Her name was Alisha. She was this beautiful girl in my History class. Alisha’s eyes sparkled every time a light touched them, and her hair just naturally flowed behind her as if a fan was constantly there. But Alisha was a bitch,” Marvin said bluntly. I spit out the coffee that I had just taken a sip of. “Excuse my language, but it’s true. She was such a tormenter. Every morning that I arrived at school, she was waiting outside on the front steps. She watched me walk up those steps every day, and every time she said, ‘ah, the homeless kid found his way back.’”
“That’s terrible!” I interrupted. “Why would she be so cruel? Didn’t she know what you were going through?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did,” Marvin replied. “Everyone did, but it didn’t seem to matter. At least, that’s what I thought.”
I furrowed my eyebrows, unsure of what Marvin was talking about. He continued, “I didn’t know much about Alisha. She had just arrived at our school a week before my mother’s death, and History was the only class we had together. For the most part, she was quiet in class. The only time I really heard from her was when roll was being called. Then, I kept hearing from her after my mother’s death.
“It didn’t make sense to me either,” Marvin was reading my mind, “but something sparked her to be so hasty toward me. After a couple of weeks, I couldn’t take it anymore. Instead of walking right by her as she made the comments about me being homeless, I stood right in front of her on those steps. I demanded to know why she was picking on me, even though she knew nothing about me.”
“What did she say?” I asked, sitting at the edge of my seat.
“Alisha asked me if I knew why she moved so close to the end of the school year,” Marvin began. “I had no idea; no one did. She was such a mystery to everyone. Then, everything started to make more sense. She told me her story of tragedy and loss. She lost so much, and hearing about my mother brought up terrible me
mories for her. Once she moved, Alisha thought she could escape the idea of what she had gone through, but then when she heard about my mother, it all flooded back inside of her.”
“Why is that an excuse to bully someone?” I asked. “You both lost someone.”
“Even I’ll admit,” Marvin said, “her loss was much more tragic.”
“More tragic than watching your mother get hit by a car?” I asked, my mind scrambling to make sense of the conversation.
“Alisha was out for a walk with her entire family one Friday evening. They had just watched a film at the local cinema. She was with both of her parents, her fourteen year old sister, and her eight and four year old brothers. They were taking their usual shortcut home, when two large men ran up to them, demanding money and expensive items that they had in their possession. Alisha’s father tried to stay tough, but the men shot him right in front of the entire family. Then, the men just fired off their guns at everyone. Alisha was hit in the stomach, but she was the only one to survive.
“She watched as her entire family was ripped from her. She felt the pain they endured, yet she lived. Alisha had to live with all of that pain for so long, and when she tried to bury it, my mother’s death just made it resurface. After we had that conversation, I realized that my loss wasn’t the only one in the world. I didn’t need to keep losing sleep and dressing as if I were at a constant funeral in my mind. Of course, the loss of my mother was tragic, but there were other people suffering too. Who was I to wear my pain all over and ignore the fact that others may be hurting as well?”
“So what happened to Alisha?” I asked.
“We both joined a group counseling session that specialized in loss of parents or close family members,” Marvin replied.
“Do you still keep in touch with her?” I asked, hoping the answer would be yes, of course.
“Follow me,” Marvin smiled, standing up from his seat.
I was waiting for an answer to my question, but I followed him anyway. We walked toward Marvin’s tiny office in the back room of the shop. It was a small room with only a desk and chair in it. The walls were covered in pictures of Marvin with different customers throughout the years. To the right of his desk, there were a few pictures of him with the same woman and kids.
“You have kids?” I asked, realizing I really didn’t know that much about Marvin.
“I do,” Marvin smiled. “I have a gorgeous wife, four beautiful children, and ten wonderful grandchildren.”
I looked closely at the pictures of his family. His wife was only a little shorter than him, and she looked to have thick black hair. Her smile radiated in each picture, and it seemed that everyone was happier for it. Marvin looked like the happiest man alive in each photo.”
“That’s Alisha,” Marvin said, pointing to the woman in the pictures.
“Alisha?” I asked, putting the pieces together in my mind.
“Yup,” Marvin laughed. “My tormenter became the love of my life. How cliche of me, huh?”
“You have lived a fairytale life!” I exclaimed. “Can I just write a book about you instead?”
We laughed, and Marvin told me stories about the moments him and Alisha spent together. They slowly began to fall in love, and they healed together. “Having someone in your corner helps,” he said. “You can’t expect them to put the pieces back together for you, but they may provide the glue.”
I smiled at this statement as I thought about RJ. “I may have found my glue, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Please, call me Marvin.”
May
RJ
School was wrapping up for the year, and I had a packed summer ahead of me. My dad signed me up for every football camp imaginable, and during my off weeks, I made plans with Parker.
Her novel was coming along nicely. She had interviewed over twenty people in just one short month, which kept her very busy. She was constantly at Marvin’s coffee shop meeting new people and learning about their stories.
My dad had finally let up on his punishments, and Parker was welcome at our house again. After her interviews, Parker would usually stop at my house to tell me about them. “I don’t know whether to be happy or sad,” she would say. “These people have endured a lot, yet they shed such a positive light. I think I’m going to choose to be happy about it.”
“Everyone seems so willing to share their story with you,” I said. “I’m proud of you.”
“They’ve all been so nice to me,” Parker said. “Most of them had heard about my mom, and some even knew others that passed in the shooting. They are happy that I am using my mother’s memory to do something good. It isn’t some exposee on their lives; it’s about moving on day by day when you originally thought you never would.”
“They sound so inspiring,” I replied. “You could have a book read event at Marvin’s shop once you have completed the first draft of your manuscript. Everyone in the story could be there. It’d almost be like a therapy session for all of you, but in a more comfortable environment.”
“That is such a good idea!” Parker exclaimed, wrapping me up in a hug and kissing my cheek.
“How is Rosie’s artwork coming along?” I asked.
“She has created five different drawings for the book so far,” Parker answered. “We figured that each new story would have a different drawing attached to it at the beginning. It will show the beauty of the story before it even begins.”
Every time she spoke, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to wrap Parker up into my arms and show her a passion she had never experienced before. Her smile warmed my entire body; a sensation I never wanted to end.
“Can I interview you now?” Parker asked. “You have been avoiding me the entire time.”
“No, I have been busy with football and grounded by my dad, remember?”
Parker rolled her eyes and smiled. “Likely story,” she said. “You aren’t grounded now. Let’s begin.”
Parker reached into her bag and pulled out her cellphone. She opened it and turned it to a recording app.
“What, you won’t remember everything your boyfriend says?” I laughed.
“I’m interviewing a lot of people, Mr. Davis,” she said. Her tone was all business, and I wished she were dressed in a tight white blouse with a loose tie.
Parker waved her hand in front of me, pulling me away from my business-woman fantasy. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Let’s begin.”
“As you know, my novel isn’t just going to be about losing a loved one,” I said. “The book will include stories of overcoming adversity, and finding yourself through the daily struggles of life.”
I nodded my head, unsure that my story would even resonate with others. Parker was passionate about it, though, and I would do anything to help her.
“So what do I say?” I asked.
“I’ll ask you a couple questions to help get you thinking, and then you can just share any information you want to,” Parker replied.
She grabbed my hand and smiled. “Do you grab all of your interviewee’s hands?”
“Only the cute ones,” Parker winked.
I squeezed her hand, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she smiled. “Now, let’s really begin. Tell me about the time you first knew your dad was going to be a hardass when it came to sports.”
I laughed, “The womb. In a way, I always knew he was going to be. I look back at old pictures, and I was only dressed in clothes with footballs on them. Every Halloween, I was a different football player. The one year I wanted to be a ninja, my dad had my mom make me a ninja football costume. It made no sense, but it was football related, so my dad was happy.
“My room was decorated as if it were a man cave. I was a baby in this decked out crib and room with all of these fancy football toys I couldn’t even play with yet. I learned how to walk at nine months old because my dad basically forced me to. In every picture of me, I’m holding a football.
“When the doctor predicted how tall I would be, m
y dad taught me different routes for wide receivers, and he taught me how to catch a football in different ways. Of course, I learned the two-handed catch first. I had to understand the concept of having my hands in the right position, and keeping the ball tight to me when it was in my possession. Then, I learned to catch when the ball was too high to reach. I had to build muscle in my legs to be able to jump high above any defender to catch a ball. Then, I had to learn how to reach and catch, then one-handed catch. Basically any catch a wide receiver needs to make, I had to learn until I wouldn’t drop a ball. We did drills that required me to make 100 catches in a row. If I dropped one pass, we started all over again. My one-handed drill lasted five hours.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Parker said. “Why did you agree to do it? You couldn’t just tell him no?”
I laughed out loud, then I realized Parker didn’t quite understand. “It isn’t easy to tell my dad no. He’s a hardass, but we love him. We don’t want to ever disappoint him. His dreams of us being in the NFL quickly became our dreams too. We loved watching football with him on Sundays. We loved hearing stories about when he played. He would even show us game films from when he was in college. Our dad was our hero; we wanted to please him at all times. He can be overly involved sometimes, but he means well. He only wants the best for us, and the NFL is the best.”
“What about school?” Parker asked. “Was he as involved with your schooling?”
“No, that was my mom’s job,” I replied. “My mom made sure we were smart enough to pass school, and my dad made sure we were athletic enough to get us into any school we wanted. It’s a ridiculous world we live in, when someone like me could make it into Harvard simply because I know how to catch a football. My 2.9 GPA wouldn’t ever get me into an Ivy League school, but those scouts sure would make sure they figured out a way to get me enrolled if I was an asset to their team.”
“Yet my 4.0 probably wouldn’t get me into Harvard because I have no extracurriculars,” Parker said softly.