How Jenna Found Out I Loved Her – Part 3

Click here to read part one.

Click here to read part two.

Everything changed the weekend of the hiking trip. The church had organized a team-building outing for the youth group. I wasn’t very athletic and just the thought of hiking made my head ache. I would go because Jenna was going and my mother had insisted that Eloise and I participate in anything church related.

We rode the church bus to the park; Eloise wore frayed shorts from Goodwill and a pair of sneakers that used to be mine. The running sneakers looked new since I’d barely worn them. My father complained that I wasn’t more active. My mother did as well, but for a totally different reason. My father longed to have a child that was good at something, anything. Someone he could brag about to co-workers and root for at sporting events. Eloise was really good at volleyball, but he didn’t notice. My mother complained about idle hands being the devil’s workshop. My hands weren’t idle; they wrote furiously.

Jenna sat in front of us, next to Carrie, and across the aisle from Jacob. The youth leaders, Elizabeth and Brian, a married couple in their twenties, sat at the front of the bus and tried to encourage a sing-along. No one seemed interested. We arrived at the park and were given the agenda for the day; we’d hike the trail and rest for lunch and some activities. Afterwards, we’d hike back to the bus and be home in time for dinner.

We set off, everyone carrying a backpack with water and food. A few people took pictures. I made mental notes for my nightly journal entry. I didn’t bring it with me because I didn’t want to answer questions about it. I’d have to rely on memory to accurately describe the Georgia spring day that felt more like summer or the way Jenna squealed when a bee flew too close to her face.

We’d walked for an hour before coming to the clearing where we’d have lunch. I’d packed food for Eloise and I; peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, grapes, and carrot sticks. Elizabeth handed out bottles of water and we ate in silence before the exercises began. Everyone took turns standing atop a cooler with our backs to the rest of the group. Brian instructed the person on the cooler to fold his arms across his chest and fall backwards. The rest of the group was charged with catching him. I childishly considered not reaching out to catch Jacob when it was his turn, but knew that wouldn’t be very Christian.

When it came time for the dozen or so of us to sit in a circle for a sharing activity, I was surprised when Eloise didn’t sit next to me, but rather directly across the clearing. My surprise turned to pride when I thought that this was the point of the whole trip – to open up, to grow, to trust not just others, but yourself. Eloise couldn’t be by my side every time she went out in public. I’d be graduating next year and she’d have to learn to get along without me. Perhaps she’d realized this before I did.

We did some word association exercises where we had to say the first thing that popped into our head upon hearing words like, “Jesus,” “Faith,” and “Heaven.” We then went around the circle to divulge our greatest fears. When it was my turn I confessed that I worried I would not get into a good college and that I’d have to stay in our small town forever.

“That’s a lie.”

The whole group turned in the direction of the accusation. Eloise sat with her legs crossed and resting in her lap was my red leather notebook. Confusion over how and why she had it caused a delay in my reaction and so she was already opening it and reading, before I found my voice. And even then all I could manage was a weak, “Eloise?”

She read aloud as if I hadn’t spoken. Gone was the low-timbered voice that read from the bible in class, and in its place was a loud, assertive, and animated voice – like she was auditioning for a movie.

“Jenna is the most beautiful girl in school. In town. In the world. She asked me for a ride today after school. She needed to buy balloons for one of Carrie’s stupid parties. I agreed because I got to spend time with her alone. Time with Jenna without Jacob the mouth-breather lurking about, flexing his muscles and time without Carrie around talking about herself. I got to sit alone with her in my car and…”

“Samantha?”

Elizabeth’s voice, using my full name, called somewhere in the distance, but I was still watching Eloise read from my journal. She didn’t look up to see the reaction she was receiving by bearing my secrets and my soul. I was only vaguely aware of Jacob looking first amused and then angry, Carrie’s mixture of repulsion and annoyance and finally Jenna’s embarrassment and shock.

“In a perfect world,” Eloise continued to read, “I could tell Jenna I loved her and she’d love me back. But the world isn’t perfect – at least not our corner of it. In our world, I have to pretend to be something other than what I am. I have to pretend that I don’t want to kiss her every time…”

“Eloise!” I’d finally found my voice. Eloise stopped then, calmly lying my book face down in her lap as if it were hers. As if it had every right to be there and hadn’t been stolen from my room… when? The last time I remembered having it was the night before after dinner. She must have taken it early that morning while I was getting ready for the trip. The how wasn’t important though.

“Why?”

Eloise did not answer. She just looked at me with my father’s eyes before turning to Brian who had started to speak. “Perhaps we’ve had enough for today. Everyone gather your things. We’re heading back.” Eloise stood, walked across the clearing and dropped my notebook into my lap. It had served its purpose.

No one spoke to me or Eloise as we made our way back to the bus. I had a whole hour to figure out what had happened and why, yet I couldn’t come up with an answer that made any sense. Everyone paired up once again when choosing seats on the bus except this time, everyone gave both Eloise and I a wide berth. Rows of seats separated us from everyone else yet I could still hear snippets of hushed conversations.

Lesbian, gross, dyke, gay, and Jenna, did you know?

“Of course I didn’t know!” Jenna had responded with such disgust that my love for her immediately shriveled into a ball of shame that sat in my gut. It would remain there through the remainder of my junior year and grow as I was further shunned my senior year. It would cause fights between my first girlfriend and I my third year of college when I thought I’d finally been free to be myself. It would take many years for that ball to dissolve and allow me to breathe, to accept myself, to be a lesbian.

But that afternoon, on the bus back to town, that ball sat and pressed against my very soul. I wanted to vomit up lunch the way Eloise had spewed my secret.

“Why, Eloise? Why would you do this to me?” I whispered my plea to her erect profile. She wouldn’t look at me and I wasn’t sure I’d get an answer. If she’d read the whole journal, or any of the old ones, she had to know that I loved her too. I tried to protect her and I wanted nothing but good things for her. I’d always been on her side.

“I didn’t do it to you. I did it to her.” Eloise answered, but still didn’t look at me.

And it became clear. Eloise didn’t strike out at me or even Jenna. She was striking back against the woman who had forced her to live in a closet and had denied her birthday parties. She was striking back against the woman who’d kept a foot against her back since the day she came to live with us. Eloise had decided that hurting me was a small price to pay to bring public shame and humiliation to the woman who’d treated her like an inconvenient errand for five years.

Eloise had struck back against my mother.

How Jenna Found Out I Loved Her – Part 2

Click here to read part one.

***

My mother and I had only one conversation about my father’s affair.

“Do you think he loved her?”

“Did he love who?”

“Do you think Dad loved Eloise’s mom?”

She stopped ironing the tablecloths for Sunday’s dinner and said simply, “The flesh is weak.”

We never spoke of it again.

***

I thought it would be wonderful having a sister. I’d always wanted a sibling I could play with when I was younger, and confide in when I got older, but having Eloise around was a lot like having a goldfish. It didn’t provide much company and if it wasn’t for the fact that you had to feed it occasionally, you might forget it was even there. She spent most of her time in her tiny room, reading books and listening to music on an old radio our father used to keep in the garage.

Everything Eloise owned was used. Her mother never returned after that night. I had expected her to because all she’d left Eloise with was a garbage bag of clothes. She didn’t have books, games, or jewelry. She didn’t have anything a girl was supposed to have. While I was allowed to purchase inexpensive clothing from the mall or department stores, Eloise’s attire came from Goodwill or church donations. She never complained, but I did.

“Why does she have to have these hand-me-downs?” I asked my mother.

“She should be grateful for the roof we have provided.”

It was rough on Eloise and it seemed I was the only one that noticed. Our father wanted to forget the mistake that was his youngest child, and the best way for him to do that was to pretend she didn’t exist. He only spoke to her when he had to. She called him sir, and my mother was ma’am. They were never father or mother and I don’t think I’d ever heard my father once say her name.

One day, we were in her room removing posters from the wall. I had suggested that Eloise do something to her room so it wouldn’t look so lonely. When my mother saw the pictures of Johnny Depp and Christian Bale she ordered Eloise to take them down immediately.

“The room is small enough. Now it’s downright suffocating!”

I wanted to shout at my mother, “Whose fault is that? Why don’t you let her have the spare bedroom that’s more than twice this size,” but I didn’t. She’d had that tone and it would have been useless to argue. I was sixteen at the time, Eloise fourteen, and I hadn’t yet gotten the nerve to stand up to my mother. I found it easier to defend Eloise against others.

“Your cousin is weird.”

“She’s not really.”

“Why does she dress like that?”

“She doesn’t have to be like everyone else.”

The longer Eloise lived with us, the more interesting I found her. I imagined that I’d grow up and write a book about her; a story both tragic and romantic. I longed to look into the future and see what she would become once she escaped our disinterested father and my unfair mother. Eloise did well in school and always had her nose in a book, so I was sure she’d go on to college. Maybe she’d become a doctor or a lawyer and my parents would feel awful for treating her so poorly.

I would be the disappointment. I was the child they treated better because I wasn’t a product of sin or a constant reminder of betrayal. I was openly praised to others in Eloise’s presence simply to make her feel small. My book would expose all of their secrets and I’d send autographed copies to the whole congregation.

Almost immediately after Eloise came to live with us I’d begun keeping notes in a journal until pretty quickly, I’d filled the whole thing. I bought others and filled them too.

Was it Christian to force one child to eat cold cut sandwiches when the rest of the family had roast chicken and vegetables?

Was it Christian to give one child an allowance and the other nothing?

Was it Christian to not allow Eloise to have a sleepover, or date, or go to the movies?

The thought of telling Eloise’s story, and mine, was the only thing that kept me sane.  The journals became my escape and the only way I could stand up to my mother. I could release all of my anger and resentment on the lined paper and know that one day everyone would see how things really were. They’d see that my mother was not selfless, but petty and that my father was weak and sneaky.

The spring when I was seventeen, around the time that I’d given Jenna a lift to buy balloons for Carrie’s party, I carried a red leather notebook almost everywhere I went.  It contained all of my thoughts, wishes, observations and speculations. I noted every injustice placed upon Eloise and how they burned me up inside. There were many pages filled with my feelings for Jenna; how my stomach knotted when she walked into class and how I thought it was adorable when she’d nervously chew her bottom lip before an exam. Eloise and Jenna took turns being my muse.

***

The day after Carrie’s party, Eloise and I attended bible study after school. It was held in the church basement that always smelled like an old lady’s perfume. I’d given up asking not to go.

“As long as you live under this roof you will go to church and you will go to bible study.”

Eloise never complained, but I can’t imagine she enjoyed it anymore than I did. She’d sit next to me with her hands folded in her lap and only speak when asked a question or to read a passage. When it was the latter, she’d bow her head and her long brown hair would obscure her face as she read. She spoke softly, but confidently. She’d admitted to me once that she’d never even held a bible before coming to live with us. In five years, she’d memorized it chapter and verse. I, on the other hand, had been read psalms like most children were read Goodnight Moon; every night before bed, and I couldn’t tell Job from Moses.

The only thing that made Thursday night bible study tolerable was Jenna. Sometimes she’d sit next to me and forty-five minutes would feel like an eternity; time stood still, my pulse quickened, and I’d nervously run my fingers through my own brown hair.

“Hey, Sam.”

Jenna and Carrie entered the room that also doubled as the church’s day care center. The chairs were arranged in their usual half circle and Eloise and I were already seated. Jenna smiled at me and I smiled back. This moment of euphoria was short-lived because right behind her was Jacob Hammond. It wasn’t just his obvious attraction to Jenna that made it hard for me to stomach Jacob. Being around him reminded me that he was everything I was not, and Jenna seemed to like that. Tall and athletic, Jacob carried himself with the self confidence of someone ten years his senior and his biceps were the size of Buicks.

“We missed you at the party, Sam.”

“Sorry, Carrie. I had too much homework… and a biology test.”

Eloise, who knew the test was a lie, looked from me to Carrie, but didn’t say anything. Carrie was pretty, but she wasn’t my type. She was self-centered and could be mean if you landed on her bad side.  She nodded as if she’d decided that a biology test was just barely an acceptable excuse for missing one of her parties.  Jenna sat next to me and leaned over to say hello to Eloise. My stomach did flip flops.

That night, I wrote four pages of notes. All were about Jenna.

Stay tuned for the third and final part next week.

How Jenna Found Out I Loved Her – Part 1

I loved the way she said “balloon.” She said it as if she were blowing bubbles. Her lips pursed and I wanted to kiss them.

“Do you think we have enough?”

I looked away from her mouth and glanced at the helium balloons she held. Her nails were painted bright pink to match her lip gloss.

“Um, sure.”

“Good, let’s go pay.”

I followed behind her as she headed for the checkout counter. My book bag was heavy and the strap was cutting into my shoulder. I had a ton of homework that needed to be done that night, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to help Jenna.

“Did you kids find everything alright?” The woman behind the register had a two-pack-a-day voice. Jenna smiled at her and said, “We sure did.” The cashier looked at me for confirmation and I simply nodded. In truth, I didn’t know what was going on. My concentration was still at school where not fifteen minutes ago, Jenna Mintor had asked, “Can you give me a ride? I need to pick up balloons for Carrie’s party.”

Everything that had happened after that; the ride to Walgreen’s, Jenna rifling through my CD collection and crossing her legs in the passenger seat, the way she playfully tugged on my arm when she complained I’d been walking too slowly – they were all kinda hazy, like the remnants of a dream when you first wake up. I watched as Jenna reached into her own back pack and pulled out a small change purse. From it, she pulled two neatly-folded five dollar bills. She handed them to the cashier and then turned to me.

“Thanks again for coming with me. Especially with you not going to the party and all.”

I mumbled something about having a lot of homework to do and studying for a test – a half lie. My mother didn’t allow Eloise and me to go out on school nights, but I was too embarrassed to admit this. I also told her she didn’t have to thank me for the ride. I’d have done anything for Jenna. I did not tell her that last part.

“Can you give me a lift to Carrie’s?”

“What? You think I’m just gonna leave you here at Walgreen’s?”

Jenna laughed and bumped me with her hip as we walked towards the exit. My stomach dropped and my hands got sweaty. She tied the balloon ribbons to her wrist.

“Oh shoot. Hold on.”

Jenna ran back to the register and grabbed a package of gum. She pulled out the change purse once again and counted exact change. She un-wrapped the package as she jogged to where I stood by the exit, the balloons and her blonde ponytail bobbed left and right. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

***

We drove with the windows open, enjoying the spring breeze. At a stop light, Jenna pulled a small bottle of vanilla-scented lotion from her bag and rubbed some on her hands. She offered it to me, but I’d refused. She also offered me a stick of spearmint gum, but I turned that down as well. My mouth was dry and I could have used the gum, but I was too nervous to do much of anything but drive and even that required more concentration than I had available.

She talked about how she really didn’t want to go to Carrie’s party, but she’d promised. That’s the kind of girl Jenna was; considerate, kind, a girl of her word. She asked me about the test I had the next day. I thought quickly and made something up for one of the few classes we didn’t have together; biology.

“Invertebrates.”

“Yuck. You’ll do well though. You’re smart.”

A blush crept over my face; a deep red to rival the balloons blocking my rear view. We pulled up in front of Carrie’s house and I kept the motor running while I helped Jenna wrangle the balloons from the back seat.

“I won’t see you in school tomorrow. I have to go to the dentist, but I’ll be at bible study tomorrow night. You?”

“Yup.” I replied, knowing that I’d only miss bible study over my mother’s dead body.

“OK. See you, Sam.”

“Bye, Jenna.”

I watched until she rang Carrie’s bell, then got in my car and drove away. To stay any longer would have been creepy.  I pointed the car towards home and drove on mental cruise control. The car smelled of vanilla and spearmint and Jenna. I could still feel the heat from her on the passenger seat when I pressed my hand against the fabric.

***

Eloise was my half-sister, but everyone thought she was my cousin.  My father had an affair and she was the result. When Eloise was ten, and I was twelve, her mother arrived at our house late one night. I remember coming to the top of the stairs when I heard the loud voices. If I made my presence known, my mother would have ordered me back to bed, so I stayed quiet. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in our house since Uncle Peyton had too much “special juice” at Christmas Eve dinner and thrown up all over the Christmas tree.

Eloise’s mother had informed my mother, quite loudly, that my father had gotten her pregnant and now it was time for him to take responsibility. She was tired of raising Eloise alone and wanted to move to San Diego to look for “good work.” She’d be leaving Eloise with us or else she’d tell the whole town what my father had done.

“You must be crazy! I…”

“Shut up, James.” My mother cut him off.

I recognized my mother’s tone. It was the tone that said stop arguing, you are going to church. It was the tone that said I don’t want to hear another word because you are not leaving the house in that. It was the tone that said shut up and let me clean up the mess you have made, James.  Just like that, I had a sister.

My mother could not have the news of my father’s indiscretion getting out to the people at church, so Eloise was the daughter of my father’s fictional sister. This also helped to explain the uncanny, and unfortunate, strong resemblance between the two. A spare room, no bigger than a closet, became her bedroom and Eloise was enrolled in my school. The first Sunday Eloise had accompanied us to church my mother was the center of attention.

“You have such a large heart, Helen, giving a home to a child in need.”

“Well, it’s the Christian way, isn’t it? Her mother, poor soul, was really in no position to care of her. Drugs.” She delivered the last word in a stage whisper because, really, she wanted everyone to hear. A drug-addicted family member made my mother’s tale even more dramatic, her sacrifice more grand, and her good deed more Christian.

My father sat in the pews, between Eloise and me, and looked as he always did when we were in church; bored.

***

Stay tuned for part 2, next week.

Amongst the Tulips

I placed the tulips under the pillow, and then I set fire to the house. For as long as I could remember, I hated the house with its creaky wooden floors and faded walls. We moved in when I was ten. I knew then, fifteen years ago, that I’d destroy it, or it would destroy me.

On a fall afternoon, my parents took me to see the house for the first time. They were excited that they could finally afford something larger than the two bedroom apartment we’d lived in since I was born.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” My father rubbed the top of my head and looked at me expectantly, as if my opinion really mattered. I couldn’t tell him my true thoughts. I couldn’t tell him that standing on the faded grass I felt as if I were looking up at two stories of pure evil. He would think my fears were an excuse to stay in our apartment and closer to my friends. Instead, I stared at my shoes.

“Well, wait until you see your new room.” My mother grabbed my hand and gave a gentle tug indicating I should follow her up the brick steps and into the house. The tour lasted fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer. I think a part of me started to die that day. They tried desperately to sell me on a house that was already sold. They’d signed the papers earlier that afternoon while I was in school. My fate, and that of the house, was sealed.

***

We’d been living there for six months when the house struck first; loose carpeting on the steps caused me to fall and break an arm. A year later, the window in my bedroom fell, without provocation, landed on my hand, and broke two bones. Then there was the summer I had to forego camp because the roof needed fixing and my parents couldn’t afford both.

“I’m sorry, honey. We’ll make it up to you next year.” My father’s promise was an empty one. The next summer, the pipes needed to be replaced and the summer after that, electrical problems in the basement caused my father to work two months of overtime. After that, I had no interest in camp.

Its attacks did not go unanswered. With my good hand, I punched holes in my bedroom walls just for the hell of it. I imagined the dry wall flakes to be the house’s guts and I literally danced on them, mashing them into the floor. My parents grounded me for a month.

Over the years, I tried never to be alone in the house. When I was old enough to be without a sitter, I’d ask to stay with a neighbor. When I got too old for even that, I’d sit outside, just beyond the wrought-iron gate until one of my parents came home. When I was thirteen, the doctors diagnosed me with a personality disorder. It was a convenient way to explain the odd, and sometimes violent, behavior.

“Young ladies don’t punch walls for no reason!” My mother shook her head as my father repaired the walls with a tub of spackle.

At night, the house made odd noises like a stomach digesting food. I would beg to sleep between my parents and sometimes they agreed. “The house is settling, is all. Sweetie, go sleep in your own bed like a big girl.” And sometimes they didn’t.

They called it settling, but I knew better. It was plotting, scheming, and hatching plans. It had a way of turning everything in it against me. One summer afternoon I took out a tub of sherbet from the freezer right before I realized that I had to pee. I left it sitting out while I ran to the powder room four feet from the kitchen. I returned not two minutes later to find that the lemon sherbet had melted all over the counter.  I knew then that the house controlled the counters, the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the drapes and the light fixtures. It had many weapons at its disposal and I’d have to be creative to survive.

My survival techniques were entertained by my parents and the blame placed on my “disorder.” Every inch of the bathroom’s floor had to be covered with a towel before I would even think of stepping out of the tub. I would not suffer the indignity of dying naked, on the bathroom floor like some washed up rock star. The house would just love that, I was sure. Flicking light switches was out of the question for fear of electrocution. Using the stove was not an option. Instead, I’d settle for cold sandwiches and cereal when forced to prepare my own meals.

***

When my mother first planted the tulip garden, I was angry. I was certain that the vengeful house would never let such beauty survive. It would find a way to seep its poison through the foundation and into the soil, traveling upwards through the vascular system and into the petals causing them to not just wilt, but disintegrate.

The following spring they bloomed; rows of pink and yellow, tall and rigid like middle fingers flipping off the house. I cheered inside and knew I had allies. My afternoons were spent sitting amongst these floral soldiers doing homework, reading a book, writing in my journal, and sometimes simply imagining a life away. Their very existence was proof that there were some things the God forsaken house could not taint. I protested whenever my mother would cut the flowers to decorate the house for they never lasted long inside those walls. They’d sigh and droop inside their prison-like vases. It reminded me that we were at war, and war suffered casualties.

****

The first opportunity I had to leave the vindictive house, I took it. Though the campus was only a few miles away, I went to live in the dormitory when I went to college. One weekend, when my parents were out of town visiting my mother’s sister in Toronto, I let my friends convince me to have a party at the house.

“It’s so big and awesome! Your house is wicked!” my roommate had gushed.

“You have no idea.” I replied before giving in.

The party was going well until the shelves in the den fell on Levi Stiles. An antique book end split his head and blood splattered on the walls. Felicia Carter fainted and I went outside to lie amongst the tulips until the ambulance arrived. It was the last time I would step foot inside the house until the day mother called to tell me about the cancer.

***

By the time the cancer was found, it had spread to several of her organs. We sat at the kitchen table, my mother, father, and I, holding hands and shedding tears. She promised to fight, but we knew it was useless. It had spread too far, too quickly. As I held my mother’s delicate fingers, my eyes were drawn over her shoulder to the wall behind her.

The wall that held up the baker’s rack, white garbage can, and sign that read, “God Bless This Kitchen,” had begun to glow. It was no longer the same pale yellow color of its three counterparts, but instead held the pulsating orange glow of a branding iron. I let go of my mother’s hand and walked over to the wall. I raised a tentative hand, expecting to feel heat, but there was nothing. It felt like a normal wall, yet there was the glow.

“What’s wrong?” My father turned to get a better look.

“Nothing, Daddy. Nothing.”

It wasn’t long before I realized the glow only occurred in the rooms my mother was in at the time. No one else could see it because that’s how the house operated. As the cancer grew, the glow spread to two walls and then three until finally, sitting in a room with my mother became unbearable as all four walls were ablaze.

I’d accompany my mother to chemo treatments and the walls of the hospital were fine. The house was causing the cancer. I was sure of it. When we were close to the end, and all that could be done was to try and manage the pain, I asked my mother if she wouldn’t be more comfortable in a hospice. I was convinced that if she spent time away from the house and its poisonous walls, she would get better. I didn’t want her to go to the hospice to die, but to live. She refused. She loved the house for she didn’t know it the way I did. She wanted to die at home, in her own bed.

He didn’t want to, but my father continued to work in order to pay for my mother’s treatment. The lion’s share of the care  fell on me. I didn’t mind despite the fact that this meant spending days and nights in the house. I slept in bed with my mother when my father was out, and stayed in my long since converted bedroom when he wasn’t.

It was a spring afternoon when the house finally decided to take my mother. She was lying in bed, her once blonde hair was faded like hay in the sun too long and it rested against her pillow, spread out like wings. I sat by the bedside watching the walls throb and glow brighter than they ever had. I was afraid, but I would not allow the house to take her.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes, mother?”

“Bring me some tulips. I want to see my flowers.”

I didn’t want to leave her alone, but I did. And felt uncontrollable relief once I left the room and escaped the pounding and the glowing. I cut four tulips the way she’d shown me years ago; two yellow, one white, and one pink. Before returning to her room, I stopped in the kitchen and retrieved a vase from the cabinet. I placed the flowers in water and watched as they sighed.

We sat that way for hours; my mother drifting in and out of sleep, but always smiling when she awoke and gazed upon the tulips, and me watching her as the walls continued to vibrate around us. Anger consumed me and pushed away the sadness. I felt guilty. I should have warned them about the house and what it was capable of. But they wouldn’t have believed me. They would have accused me of going off my meds again. It wasn’t too late to fix things. The house didn’t have to win.

“Mother. It’s time for your medicine.”

I gave her much more than was recommended and she fell asleep quickly. She wouldn’t be waking up either. I removed the tulips from the vase and placed them under her pillow – the better to provide her sweet dreams as she drifted away. A few drops of water had landed on her forehead and I wiped them away with a kiss.
“Goodbye, mother.”

In the garage, I found the cans of gasoline my father kept for the lawn mower. I thought of him then and wondered if he’d forgive me. I poured gasoline in every room, especially my own, and over all the furniture then retrieved the wooden matches from the fireplace mantle. I stood in the foyer, lit a match, tossed it on the braided rug, and then went outside to lie amongst the tulips until the fire trucks arrived.

Plan B – Part Three

Read part one of Plan B here.

Read part two of Plan B here.

And now, the finale:

Jenny had no way of contacting this person to let them know that she’d taken back control. She had a restraining order and the next day she would deposit the money back into the bank and get on with her life. The locks were changed and so was her mind. She would not run. She would not hide.

Well, that was four hours ago. Now, with Charlie banging on the door and not a single neighbor for miles, Jenny was scared. Charlie had obviously come home and gotten word of the order. Charlie obviously didn’t give two squirts about it. Charlie would not stop. Charlie would kill her.

Her friend was right. She had to run. And it had to be soon.

“Fine, Jenny. Fine. I’ll just sit right here. You gotta come out some time.”

Charlie’s words were becoming more slurred. Jenny knew he didn’t have much fight left in him. If past is prologue, he’d be passed out within the hour.

It didn’t take that long. Forty-five minutes later, Jenny peeked through the side light and saw Charlie lying flat on his back on the porch. She saw her chance. Jenny made her way to the cellar and pulled the suitcase from its hiding place. She couldn’t risk leaving through the front door and waking Charlie so she’d have to exit through the back door. Charlie’s car was blocking hers in the driveway, so that was out as well.

She’d walk the five miles to the main road and check her cell reception along the way. Jenny quietly locked the back door behind her and walked slowly, deliberately, to the road. She only glanced back once to confirm that Charlie was still prone on the porch – he was. Jenny briefly considered checking to see if he’d left the keys in his car, but she didn’t want to take the chance he’d awaken. She knew he carried two guns and didn’t trust that she could get away before he shot out the tires, or worse, her. Besides, she thought, there’s no guarantee the keys are even in there. No, she’d walk.

Though it was well after midnight, the temperature was high. Jenny had walked less than a mile and her clothes were stuck to her skin. The suitcase was large and awkward to carry. She’d stop only briefly to catch her breath and made sure to walk a ways off the road in case Charlie woke up, figured she wasn’t in the house, and came looking for her.

Her arms and legs were burned from the effort, but she pushed on. She listened to the crickets’ song to keep her mind off how much further she had to walk. She was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any cell phone service until she hit the main road, but she still checked every so often.

She allowed thoughts of her new life to give her fuel. Once she reached the main road, she’d call a cab and direct it to the bus station. There, she’d purchase a ticket on the next thing smoking heading south. She’d continue in that direction until she reached the ocean. She always wanted to live by the water.

She’d pay cash for a small house as close to the water without actually being in it. One phone call to her boss, and the farmhouse would be put on the market. Jenny would authorize an estate sale – she’d already taken any items of value. Her boss could wire her the money from the sale. She’d change her name, go to school, and travel when she pleased. She’d forget all about this small town and the big asshole sleeping one off on her front porch.

Her fantasies made the last few miles fly and before she knew it, she was less than a mile from the main road. She checked her cell again, but still didn’t receive a signal. As put the cell phone back in her pocket, she was bathed in bright, white, headlights. A car was heading in the opposite direction, back towards her home.

Crap! Had he awakened? Called someone? Confusion froze her to the spot and by the time she thought to run and hide deeper into the woods, the car was coming to a stop next to her. She lowered her head to peer inside the sedan and realized the driver was a middle-aged man she didn’t recognize. Definitely not one of Charlie’s friends.

“Are you okay?”

Jenny’s hands instinctively went the bruises on her neck before she answered.

“My car broke down a few miles back and I’m not getting a cell signal.” She surprised herself with how fast and easy the lie came.

“You want a ride to McKinnon Road? There’s a service station that’s still open.”

Jenny hesitated. The man had kind eyes, but so did Charlie. Her arms and legs were killing her and her feet were staging a resistance. She wasn’t sure she could take another step. And even when she made it to the road, she’d still have to call a cab. Jenny glanced in the back seat and noticed children’s toys. She made up her mind.

“If you don’t mind…”

“It’s no trouble. Hop in.”

Jenny opened the back door first and tossed her suitcase in the back seat then she climbed in the front passenger seat.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it. It wouldn’t be right to leave you out here all alone.”

He made a U-Turn in the road and reached over to turn up the AC. Jenny snapped her seatbelt into place and put her hands up to the vent. The cool air was heavenly. She’d make sure her new beach house had central air.

“So what do you think happened to your car?”

“Oh, um. I don’t know. Not much good with cars.”

“Mmmm.”

The car had a familiar odor. Very faint. It reminded her of Saturday mornings as a girl, in the kitchen, with her mother. What was that, she wondered.

“You live out here?”

“I used to.”

That was true enough.

“You?”

“No. I’m on my way to visit a friend.”

Jenny knew that there weren’t many residences off the back road. There was her farm and three others. One was owned by Mr. Clurry and he was an old bastard with no friends to speak of.

“Which farm?”

The man behind the wheel seemed to be searching for words. He glanced at Jenny and said, “The first one. Big white house, black shutters, wrap-a-round porch. My friends Susan and Mike own it.”

He had just described her house. Jenny was trying to come up with one good reason for why he’d lie when she suddenly placed the aroma swimming in the car. It reminded her of Saturday mornings with her mother, baking in the kitchen, after she’d just scrubbed it clean.

The car smelled like lemons.

***

Alyson hated her co-workers. They were a bunch of egotistical blowhards and the ones that weren’t, were too afraid to stand up for themselves. She kept her head low and did her damn job. She loved her job.

She climbed out of her car and made her way down the embankment. At the bottom was the body of Jenny Sinclair. She was naked and had been stabbed multiple times. There were fresh bruises, but many were old. Next to the body was an open suitcase with clothes, papers, and photos spilling out. Alyson noticed a familiar piece of paper, but with one difference. Before death, it seemed that Jenny was able to leave a message.

In typed bold font was one word.

RUN!

Below that, in a lipstick death scrawl, was another.

Charlie.

“Officer Friend, we need you over here.”

Jenny had just made her job easier – Alyson turned and walked up the hill.

Plan B – Part Two

You can read part one of Plan B here.

Jenny scanned the dirt road that led to the farmhouse and didn’t see any cars. She’d brought the note inside and read it six times. He will kill you. Plan B. Hell, Jenny knew she didn’t even have a plan A. She hid the note inside Aunt Shea’s sewing kit which she kept in the cellar.

Three days later, there was another note.

You need to get as much cash as you can and hide it in the house. When you leave, you need to be able to grab it quickly. There may not be any time to get to a bank. Get one suitcase and pack it with just a few essentials and anything you don’t want to leave behind. Keep it light! You need to hide this suitcase where he won’t find it. When it’s time to run you need only the clothes on your back and the suitcase.

It was also signed, A Friend.

The next day, on her lunch break, Jenny drove to a department store and purchased a suitcase. She went to the bank and withdrew all the money she had. The bank manager had asked her four times if she was sure.

She wasn’t sure. She had no idea where she’d go or what she was doing, but she was sure about one thing – Charlie would kill her one day. He wouldn’t get away with it. This she knew too. People in town could pretend to be blind, but they weren’t stupid. Contrary to what Charlie thought, he wasn’t above the law, but that wouldn’t stop him from killing her. Charlie in jail gave her little consolation because she’d still be just as dead.

Jenny filled the suitcase with the money, some clothes, her birth certificate and social security card, and a few family photos. She hid it behind boxes in the cellar. Charlie never went in the cellar. It was filled with her Aunt’s things – things he’s tried to get her to sell too.

Five days ago, she was supposed to stop at the bait and tackle shop to pick up supplies for Charlie’s fishing trip the next day. Her boss asked her to stay late and help with paperwork on a house they’d sold earlier that morning. She’d completely forgotten about Charlie’s trip and the shop had closed before she got there. Charlie was furious.

Her stupidity, he said, meant he’d have to leave later than planned for his week-long fishing trip up north. He’d have to wait till the shop opened in the morning all because she was, he said, a stupid, inconsiderate, bitch. Then he choked her until she blacked out.

When Jenny had awakened the rawness between her legs meant he’d had his way with her again. He’d slept in her bed as she laid on the floor, and that’s when Jenny got angry. Why should she run? Why did she have to uproot her whole life, as simple as it was, because of this maniac? This abuser. This rapist.

The next day, when she was sure he’d been on the road for a few hours, Jenny marched into the police station where Charlie worked and asked to file a restraining order. The officer who took her complaint spent twenty minutes trying to talk her out of it. Jenny looked around the small station house and saw pity and contempt on a few of the faces. The department’s sole female officer gave her a look Jenny couldn’t quite place. She probably pities me too, Jenny thought, but I don’t care. She called out of work for the remainder of the week. The weather was too warm and there wasn’t a plausible fashion accessory that could cover the bruises on her neck.

The day Charlie was due back from his trip Jenny checked her mail and found another note from her friend. It contained one typed word.

RUN!

Plan B – Part One

“Open this door, you stupid bitch!”

Jenny would not open the door. If she opened the door, Charlie would kill her. If he didn’t kill her, he’d beat her so badly she’d pray for death as she had many times before.

She stood in the foyer of the farmhouse she’d inherited from her Aunt. Jenny knew squat about farming so she’d sold the livestock and deposited the money with the rest of her inheritance. Charlie had no idea there was anything besides the land and the house. They’d only been dating a few weeks when Aunt Shae died, but a part of her already knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell Charlie about the money. He’d tried like hell to get her to sell the whole farm, but Jenny had resisted.

It needed work, but it was paid for. It added an extra twenty minutes to her commute to the real estate office where she answered phones, but it was more spacious than her studio in town. It was the first thing she’d ever owned and she didn’t want to part with it so quickly. She didn’t have a plan, and it seemed foolish to sell the farm without one. No, it was best to just stay there for awhile, Jenny decided. Aunt Shae was a wise woman who ran that farm like a machine after Uncle Bart’s death. She did it for many years and she did it alone. Maybe some of her wisdom would seep from the walls and guide Jenny.

“Yeah. Right.” Jenny snorted.

“What’s so funny, bitch?!”

Jenny had almost forgotten that her abusive, psychotic, and most likely drunk boyfriend was pounding on her front door.

“Nothing, Charlie. Go home.”

“Not until we talk, bitch.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Charlie. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Charlie laughed. After a year together, Jenny knew his laughs. Just like she’d known her mother’s when she was a little girl. There was the high-pitched nervous laugh when she was caught in a lie, and the deep belly laugh when she chatted on the phone with her friends. Jenny’s favorite was the velvet laugh that caressed her like a blanket when she’d beg for just one more bedtime tale.

If she had to take a guess, what she’d just heard was Charlie’s whiskey laugh. She’d have preferred his “whatever you have on tap” laugh because then he’d be more interested in passing out on the couch than kicking her ass. The whiskey laugh was mean. The whiskey laugh had landed her in the emergency room. Twice.

“How dare you?!” Charlie banged his fist against the front door.

Jenny jumped. She bit her bottom lip and eyed the door. It was old, but the locks were new. She’d had them changed while Charlie was gone. That wasn’t all she’d done.

“A restraining order? Seriously? You know who I am, dontcha bitch?”

Oh yes, Jenny knew. He was tall and solid. He was blond and handsome. He was a drunk and an abuser. He was the man that had been so charming when they first met, but became controlling and paranoid within weeks. He was also The Law – a deputy sheriff in their small city with their, until recently, small crimes. Charlie loved to refer to himself as The Law.

The first time he’d hit her, Jenny called the cops out of equal parts fear, anger, and reflex. When the officers arrived they chatted with Charlie on the front porch of her farmhouse like three friends discussing last night’s football game.

After they’d gone, he’d sauntered into the kitchen where she leaned against the counter holding an ice-filled ziploc bag to her lip.

“You know what just happened, dontcha? You fought The Law… and The Law won.”

Then he fixed himself a sandwich.

Charlie took pride in being a cop and never wasted an opportunity to exaggerate any arrest he made or call he was sent out on. Jenny thought he was downright giddy when, three weeks ago, a local waitress was found raped and murdered near the old paper mill. A week after that, the body of a school teacher was found the same way.

Charlie damn near skipped into the house that night. Over dinner he’d supplied all the gory details.

“And what I’m ’bout to tell you, you can’t repeat to a soul. You hear me?”

“Who would I tell, Charlie?”

She had no more friends. Charlie had seen to that.

“Well, I’m just sayin’. I’ll break your face.” He licked ketchup from his fingers before continuing. “We got ourselves a pattern killer. Know what that means?”

“The murders are connected?”

“Damn right. The coroner scraped lemon rinds from under each of the victims’ nails.”

“Lemon rinds? What does that mean?”

“Who the fuck knows? Doesn’t mean anything probably. He’s a crazy killer. It don’t gotta make sense. We’re withholding that information from the press though. In case of copycats, you see.”

Jenny thought Charlie watched too many movies.

“I’m gonna call the police.”

“No. Actually, you’re not. I cut the phone lines, bitch.”

And he knew she didn’t get cell reception on the farm.

“You think you can stay in there forever? Is that the plan?”

No, that wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t even close to the plan. A few weeks ago, they’d gone to a BBQ hosted by one of Charlie’s fellow cops. At that the end of the night he’d pushed Jenny into a table because she’d offered to drive them home.

“I’m not drunk, dumbass!”

It was humiliating and no one said anything. The next day she checked the mail to find a typed note in a plain envelope with no postage.

One day, he will kill you. You need a plan B. You need to leave. I can help you.

It was signed, A Friend.

At Last

He sat at his usual table – second row, far left. It afforded him a clear view of the stage. It was Thursday night, and he arrived at 7:30 sharp as he had every Thursday night for the past three months. She didn’t go on until 8:30, but he liked to get his table and order two drinks before she did. He would have another two while she sang, but never more than that.

He wasn’t the only regular there.

Two tables to his right was Kris Kringle. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Just a nickname given because of his perpetually rosy cheeks and wet eyes as if he had just entered from the cold. It was 7:45 and Kris had been there at least an hour. He would look like that way the whole night – red-faced, and watering eyes, shaky hands tossing back drink after drink. He remained sober through perhaps half of the set and sat through the rest in a whiskey-induced fog. Shortly before closing, Silus the bartender would close out his check and put Kris Kringle in a cab.

He found this most undignified.

At 8:15 he felt her before he saw her. Her presence was as palpable as a heartbeat. She entered the room from the blue door behind him marked, “Employees Only.”

He heard her before he saw her. She was greeted by Rachel, the waitress with the buck teeth and crooked nose. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and then she laughed at something Rachel said. It was a laugh that washed over his arms and caused heat to rise up his neck. He tightened his grip on his cocktail class, hoping the ice cubes would reverse the effect up his arm, across his shoulder, through his neck, and over his face which was as red as Kris Kringle’s.

The owner, a short repulsive man built like a fire hydrant, slid from his bar stool and put an arm around her waist. He could see this from the corner of his eye and it caused him to grip the glass tighter.

“Are you ready, doll?”

Doll. What an insult. She was an angel. She was perfection. She was too good for this place with its chipped tables, smoky interior, and menu that consisted of buffalo wings, potato skins, and a curious dish called an Onion Bloom.

She walked by him in a wave of lilac. He inhaled deeply hoping the scent would last until she passed again. Some nights she’d walk the tables as she sang, occasionally pausing to pay special attention to a fortunate male patron. In three months, she had never stopped at his table. He did not mind. Unlike the others, who fawned over her with unabashed adoration, he did not need special attention. In fact, he preferred it this way. Anonymous. Special in its own way.

She began to sing promptly at 8:30. She sang the blues with the experience of someone twenty years her senior. She sang the blues as if her heart had been broken a thousand times. He wanted to protect her. Mend her heart. Right the wrongs. From the look on the faces of the other men in attendance he was not the only one. She cast her spell with each note. A spell that lasted long after the final song.

Tonight she was covered in a sea of jade that complemented the red flames that cradled her face and fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curls. She was curvaceous and full as a woman should be. Soft and vulnerable; yet, filled with passion and fire. With the lights dimmed low, and a soft light behind her, her silhouette was outlined in a halo. She was indeed an angel.

He signaled for Rachel to bring another drink. Though he wanted one more after, this would be the last. Routine and order were important. It made life predictable, and he liked that. Morgan’s on Thursdays to hear her sing. Fridays he visited mother at the home. On Tuesdays he ate pork chops. And should he ever sway from this order, and try something new, he corrected himself by making it a part of his routine. Like the first night he had followed her home. It was so unlike him. So spontaneous, yet she had asked him to. Not directly, but the night she changed her final song to “At Last,” by Etta James he knew.

“At last, my love will come along…,” she sang, and he knew.

She may have piercing green eyes, and a confident demeanor, but he knew underneath she was like him. Shy and polite. She would never be so undignified as to ask him to her home. Instead, she sang to him in code. She sang to him in secret. And though to the others it may seem as if she were singing to them, he knew otherwise.

“My lonely days are over and life is like a song….”

The first time he followed her he watched the windows of the first floor garden apartment from his car. He watched until the last light went out. The next time, he stayed a little longer, and the time after that a little longer still. Before long, he was watching till the sun rose and she left to run her errands. He would visit mother soon after with eyes red from lack of sleep and smelling of cigarette smoke and regret.

This night, as her set came to a close, and Kris Kringle clapped loudly before stumbling to the bar, he decided that tonight he would approach her window. Just to get a better look. He would not intrude. He would not be so undignified. Not this night. Tonight he would silently watch, and next Thursday, well maybe next Thursday he’d enter.

Sharing Space: The End?

Hello loyal readers,

I’ve decided to no longer post chapters of Sharing Space online. As I prepare to send off the manuscript to a few literary agents, and pitch it at the writers conference in May, it seems it’s in my best interest not to give away the whole cow for free.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the time you’ve spent with the cow thus far. Should someone decide to distribute the cow’s milk for a small fee, I hope you’d be so inclined to pay for a cup. Ok, I gotta stop the cow metaphor. Or is it an analogy? And I call myself a writer.

For those of you that enjoy my fiction, I have stuff that is solely for the internet and that will be posted on various Saturdays. As for Wednesdays, another day that was previously dedicated to Sharing Space chapters, beginning next week I’ll be posting a new feature, “Nina’s Top Ten.” I think you’ll like it.

Don’t worry. This is not the end of Patrick and Chloe. God willing, it’s just the end of Patrick and Chloe for free. Hopefully, one day in the near future, you’ll have your very own copy on your bookshelf. And I’ll sign it. And you can say, “I knew her when… her shit was free.”

Love,

n.

Sharing Space: Q & A

Hello, loyal readers,

I am preparing a query, synopsis, and pitch for Sharing Space. My plan is to submit it for publishing consideration over the next two months. I’m also attending a writing conference where I’ll be pitching it to several literary agents. Eek!

For those of you who have been reading, and enjoying, I need your help.

1. Please post below any questions you have about the story. Want to know if a character was inspired by anyone in real life? Ask. If you have questions about the direction of the story, feel free to ask that as well.

2. What are you favorite chapters/scenes? Why? What didn’t you like? No bullshit. Just be honest.

3. If you’ve enjoyed the story, a quick blurb as to what you like in particular and why, would be appreciated. It doesn’t have to be terribly long. Just a few lines.

If you’ve been reading and not commenting, now is the perfect time to start. I could use all the feedback.

More news later.

Thanks,

n.

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