When it came to Ava and Sharon, I classified them as family. Well, they were the closest thing I had to one. There was just something about them that truly felt homey. When I dreamed of having a real place to put down some roots, a roof to lay my head under or a bed to fall softly to sleep in at night, the two sisters always popped into my mind. I missed them just as much, if not a little more, than I did the twins when I was on the road. I would never tell Meg that though; the truth would break her heart.
As a group, we entered The Sleep Inn, which always smelled of pancakes as you crossed the threshold. The waft of breakfast food hit my nose and my stomach screamed out in pain. Several regulars were in the restaurant part of the establishment, as well as a few families of tourists. Right away I spotted Sharon sitting in a corner lightly brushing away at her ragdoll's hair. Sharon, like Ava, had beautiful thick hair and big doe-like blue eyes, but that's where the similarities ended. Sharon was humming quietly to herself, in her own little world. When she saw the twins, she stopped what she was doing and waved with joy.
"Hi Aiden, hi Meg!" she called out.
"Hey, Sharon," the twins replied in unison.
I turned my attention away from Sharon as I watched Ava come bustling out of the kitchen swing door, sweat beading on her forehead and a strand of hair sticking to her cheek. "Hey guys!" she said, her hands loaded with plates. She paused just for a second before the biggest grin graced her face. She walked the few steps and placed the dishes down at their designated table and then within seconds, she had turned rushing towards me.
"Ashley, sweetie! Oh my God! You're back!" She opened her arms and I raced into them. She hugged me hard and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. "I have missed your beautiful face, sweet girl. Goodness, I hate that you're away from Sharon and me for so long," she spoke aloud before whispering in my ear just for me to hear. "I have also been stockpiling some food and other necessities for you."
I pulled back and nodded, smiling at her gratefully. She really was a God send. She had been giving me food for years, and sometimes money to replace what my father spent on alcohol. From as far back as I could remember, Ava had always been there for me. And at the end of every summer when my father and I were getting ready to leave again, it was Ava who made sure I had new clothes and undergarments that would get me through for another year. I remembered some years back when she had begged my father to give her an address so she could send more parcels of necessities for me. That argument ended with my father screaming in her face and refusing to take “pathetic handouts.” We left three days ahead of schedule that year.
"Sharon, look who's back," Ava said and turned me around to look at her sister.
Sharon looked up from what she was doing, squinting. Once it finally clicked who I was, her face broke out into a wide smile. Then she shouted, "Ashley!" She got up, cheering like a small child, and I walked over to give her a quick hug. I adored her just as if she was my own sister.
"You my girl, Ashley, did you miss me?"
"You know I did!" I gave her another quick hug.
When Sharon got her hands on me it meant playtime. At least once a week while I was in town, I allowed her to braid my hair, paint my nails, and play dress-up. It made her happy and besides, I loved it too. There was nothing like pretending to be a real life doll.
I was so ecstatic to just be in their presence, I completely forgot I had company with me. I walked back over to my friends and reached for Eric's upper arm, pulling him forward.
"This here is Eric," I said to Ava and Sharon.
"Oh, we know all about this handsome fellow," Ava stated, giving him a wink. "He is quite the artist, or so I've heard. I might have to commission a sculpture before they ship you back to Memphis."
Eric smiled sheepishly. "It's nice to meet you both." He tipped his head in greeting.
"Do you kids want some food?" Ava clapped, rubbing her hands together.
"Pancakes!" the twins yelled.
"I could definitely go for some flapjacks," Eric stated, rubbing his stomach.
I nodded towards her, letting her know I too would love something to eat. I didn't have any money and Ava knew that. She clapped once more and turned. "You got it, take a seat and I'll be back in a few minutes," Ava replied, sashaying back into the kitchen.
We all took a seat around a table by the window and began making plans for the summer. "Would ya looka that!" Aiden yelled loud enough for the entire room to hear, raising his eyebrows at a girl walking by. She was about our age–maybe a little older–dressed in hot pink shorts and a halter-top with perfectly applied cat-eye liner and her platinum blonde ponytail swinging side to side as she and walked a tiny, fluffy white dog. She was beautiful.
"Uh, really, Aide?" Meg wrinkled her nose. "Monica Dwyer?"
"Since I ain't blind, I'm lookin'," Aiden retorted. "And she is fine."
Meg rolled her eyes. "He's been ogling Monica Dwyer since she finally got boobs this past year," Meg tried to whisper, but it was loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, just like her brother. "So where did you end up this year?" Meg changed the subject in two seconds flat. She did that a lot; it was like whiplash to my mind and I guessed she really didn't want to talk about her brother's crush.
"We spent some time in California and then Nevada before spending the spring in Virginia."
"You move around that much?" Eric asked, shocked.
I flushed bright red and shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah," I drawled. "We go where the picking jobs are."
"A modern nomad," he remarked.
I was surprised at how impressed he was by my lifestyle. Given the choice, I would have loved to put down roots somewhere–anywhere–and just live in a house and go to school. He had no idea what a truly lonely existence I lived.
"You should see if your dad will leave you with us for the year," Meg suggested. "You could share my room and we could be like sisters," she squealed, as if there really was a possibility of that happening.
"I doubt he would agree to that," I lamented, leaving out the fact that my father needed me around so he could have my portion of the picking money to drink more and gamble the remaining few cents away. Even after all these years, nobody around here knew how cruel my father really was. I supposed I hid it well, I had to.
I daydreamed a lot about Meg's room while traveling. With its deep, plush carpet, her white, real goose-down comforter, the shelves of books, and the lovely mint green walls, I sighed with envy almost daily. What I would give to have had a room like that growing up.
Our conversation died the moment I spotted Ava walk back into the dining room. She was carrying a wooden tray with four plates stacked high with pancakes. As she placed each plate in front of us, we all applauded and she bowed graciously. I was so extremely excited as I picked up my fork, ready to dig in; my stomach cried out for what would be the first taste of real food in almost three days.
Chapter Seven
Ashley
I eventually returned to the clearing later that night with a bag of groceries, courtesy of Ava. My father was there waiting for me. He looked grim as I saw him sitting by the fire, staring blankly at its burning logs. Even in the dark of night, I could make out his reddened, bloodshot eyes and the defeat in his posture as he sat in an old camp chair watching the flickering of the flames. He had already started drinking a few hours back, no doubt, and was in no rush to end his stupor, as he picked up the bottle of gin beside him, a cigarette burning down to the end in his other hand.
"Where've you been?" he slurred not even bothering to look up at me.
"Hanging out with the twins," I reported, trying to sound casual as I strode towards him. "Ava gave me some food since we weren't able to go grocery shopping." I threw the comment out there, hoping he'd let it go and just accept the offering, but I was wrong. That statement got his attention and he finally glared up at me.
My father cleared his throat and pointed a thick, beefy finger, with the cigarette butt jutting out, at me.
Liam was one scary daddy; not tall by any means, but large with thick arms, a barrel chest, his once midnight black hair peppered gray and limply hanging over his weather-worn face covered with a full beard making him look older than his forty years.
"You are NOT to accept handouts!" he snarled. "We ain't that poor."
"Then where is our money?" I hammered back, my heart fluttering in my chest because I didn't know why I just said that. I knew better than to talk back—all it brought me was trouble. I regretted opening my mouth immediately.
"What did you say to me?" his gravelly voice was laced with a warning.
"I said... I said, if we ain’t poor, then where is our money?" I dared to whisper, knowing the damage was already done. I knew the moment I asked the question a beating was only a matter of seconds away. My father burst to his feet, knocking the bottle of gin over and cursing as he charged over to me.
He grabbed the front of my dress and dropped his face down towards mine, close enough for me to smell the stale cigarettes and stench of gin on his breath. "You would be nothing without me," he spat in my face. "You would be living in the garbage."
"I would be with my mother," I mumbled. Sometimes I didn't know when to shut my mouth. I should have known better, after living with his temper my entire life. My body began to shake knowing what was about to happen.
"That woman got exactly what was coming to her," he growled, pulling me closer. "And you better watch..." he stopped what he was saying as anger flooded his body.
His free bear-like fist slammed into my stomach as his other gripped me painfully by the shoulder. It was hard, but as I well knew, done so precisely to not leave a trace.
I cried out and clutched at my mid-section in pain as tears shot into my eyes, my lungs gasping for air. Letting me go with a shove to the ground, I hit the dirt hard, letting out an almost silent squeal. He walked around to stand behind me and, on instinct, I tried to relax my muscles, knowing what was coming next. Then I felt it–his boot connecting with my lower back. I stifled the scream as best as I could, knowing if I didn't he would just keep going until I either shut up or passed out.
After a few seconds, Liam paid no mind to my pain, as I bit on my lip, trying my hardest to stay quiet, curled up in a ball on the ground. His focus shifted and became more concerned with inspecting the overturned gin bottle he had momentarily forgot about. I would rather his attention be on that than on me a second longer.
"Look at what you made me do!" he growled. "Come here," he motioned to a stump near the camp chair he sank back into. Grabbing a few more sticks, he stoked up the fire. With a long swig from the bottle, trying to suck every last drop he could get out of it before it returned to its empty state on the ground, he set a log on top of the growing flame.
I slowly pulled myself up off the ground and limped over, taking a seat on the stump next to my father, not wanting to anger him anymore.
He gestured toward the bag I had brought back to the campsite. "What did Ava send?"
"Hot dogs," my monotone voice choked out. To speak with alacrity would make him happy; to speak with anger would bring the rage back.
"Take them out. I have some sticks here," he commanded. "Good ol' Ava."
The problem with angry people was once the anger was gone, they just wanted to believe they were forgiven. In order to survive, I was forced to go along with it, afraid of what he would do if I didn't. I understood why my mother had left. Living with this violence was one of the hardest things I would ever have to do. I just didn't understand why she didn't take me with her. After what my father had just said, I wondered if my mother was still around anymore. What was it my father believed my mother deserved?
I had been in this place before–questioning my mother's absence. On occasion, I pushed through the fear and the lump in my throat to ask my father why my mother had left. But with Liam, it was always the same old answer: "She didn't love us anymore." Occasionally, he would be more vexing by lashing out with, "Because she couldn't stand the sight of you," which hurt me the most.
A part of me refused to believe it though. What mother could possibly hate her child enough to leave? If it was anything, it was most likely my father's drinking or his temper for sure. I wasn't stupid. I knew beating on your child wasn't okay. But I also knew no one else would want me. He was all I knew and all I had, even if he was a terrible father. I couldn't even remember one time he had ever given me a compliment or said something even remotely kind to me. If it hadn't been for my friends in Ligonier or the people I had met on the road or while picking who taught me what manners and civility looked like, I would have thought my father's behavior was commonplace.
I set my thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand. Pushing the hotdogs onto the sticks, I held them over the fire to roast.
My stomach was in so much pain, I felt like I was going to be sick and my back, well, it didn't matter since I still had to get up for work tomorrow regardless of how I felt. My day-to-day life was based upon survival. I struggled to plan a future, as it took all I had just to think of what tomorrow would bring. I was scared if things didn't change for the better real soon, my life would be over–either by his hands or my own.
The concept scared me more than his beatings. I was certain if this lifestyle didn't stop soon, my mind, my will to fight in order to survive, would just be too much for me to handle; I was alive, but I wasn't living. Every day was a battle to remain strong. I refused to let my father bring me down to nothing. I worked hard to remain strong and not the frightened girl he wanted me to be.
After the hotdogs were ready, I offered the sticks to my father who scoffed them down in just four bites. Then, without so much as a goodnight, he rose to his feet and retired to the tent.
I sat by the fire for what felt like hours, silent tears trickling from my eyes and cascading down my cheeks. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that one day I would be free of my father.
The moment I turned eighteen, I would leave. I would never ever have to see him again. It was time Liam looked after himself, once and for all.
Six and a half months to go–that was it. It would be the longest of my life, that was for sure. I could almost taste the freedom. So then why was I feeling so scared?
Chapter Eight
Ashley - July 2010
I sat on the fence just beyond Pastor Graham's house, watching the Holsteins. They were silently joyful, content to merely munch on the grass, swishing the flies away with their tails. If only life were that simple, I thought, daydreaming of the life I could one day have. I could be free to make my own decisions, to have my own place to call home, and to ensure there was no Liam Nash in sight. What would that feel like?
I started seeing Eric as often as I could around my grueling work schedule. The mere weeks since being back in Ligonier had been the best of my life, more than I could have ever hoped for. Eric showed me things I had only ever dreamed of–trips to the old train station, watching the people go to and fro, and walking down by the river where he would make me miniature sculptures out of mud, all so beautiful I wished I could keep every one of them. We also made many trips to the waterpark with Meg and Aiden, spending our days swimming and laughing.
Most times, Eric and I just strolled around town, through fields, paddocks, and amongst the trees, where he would play his guitar, as I shut my eyes and let the melody take me to another place in my mind. A place of peace. Sometimes we talked about absolutely anything that came to mind, other times we said nothing at all, as if words weren't needed, just being together was enough. He was so sweet and attentive, but by no means innocent. He often had to catch himself as swear words slipped from his lips like an eel through the hands. The stories about his life were, at times, a lot to take in as he had witnessed and done some pretty risky things in his short life.
It was cute watching him attempt to be a gentleman to the best of his ability. Yet, I didn't care about crass words or his past mistakes as his gentle heart towards me
drew me to want to be closer to him. There was something so genuine about him, though it was tucked behind his rough edges. Moreover, the passion in his voice as he spoke of sculpting, of creating whatever screamed to be soldered inside his mind, was captivating. I was falling hard and fast, and I wasn't sure I was ready for the dive.
Seeing him always made my heart race. As he stepped out onto the front porch of his grandfather's house waving and grinning at me, I froze for a mere second trying to catch my breath because he stole it every time. Never, in my seventeen and a half years of life, had I ever felt such a physical pull to someone like the way I had been lately. All those books I had read over the years describing butterflies in the stomach, shortness of breath, a fog clouding the mind–all were spot-on. The moment my eyes opened in the morning until they once again closed in the evening, it was Eric I thought about. He took up every available brain cell, rendering me useless for anything remotely important. I had it bad and I both loved and loathed the feeling. My heart longed for something more with the young man who had captured me entirely, yet my head warned me to steer clear of attachments. The last thing I needed was a broken heart when it came time to leave again.
I pushed off the fence and began jogging across the field. Eric held his arms open as I picked up speed. The moment he was mere feet away, I jumped and he caught me in his arms, swinging me around in circles. It wasn't the first time and I was hoping it wouldn't be the last time I made such a bold move. I spread my arms wide, loving the feel of the wind rushing past my body. My total trust was in the one person whose arms kept me steady and allowed, for even just a moment, the feeling of freedom, of soaring through the air, leaving my troubles behind and floating away with the breeze.
Where She Was Loved Page 4