Excerpt Sing Her Home

 

Prologue: Abby

 

“When I kiss the wind, I’ll know that you’ve gone. Please don’t ever go because I’d rather kiss your lips.” Folding the letter, I put it back in my pocket. He’s so romantic and I know I love him.

That’s what makes it hard; he wants me to choose between him and my mother. It’s a hard choice that’s getting easier. Mother and me seem to fight a lot more now that my father is gone. It never used to be that way, but since me and Bobby Joe are going steady, Mother treats me different. I think it’s because Bobby Joe is three years older than me, and she doesn’t trust him.

She doesn’t know how good he is to me. She thinks that I am too young to understand what love is. But I think thirteen is plenty old enough to know.

I scuff my pink sneakers into the dirt, feeling awfully close to deciding. I am here, at me and Bobby Joe’s special place to think. It’s just off a path and into the woods far enough back that no one can see us. There’s a big rock that’s sort of shaped like a house and it marks our spot. It’s mossy and dirty and perfect.

***

The rock was where we first kissed. I was leaning into it, with my palms held against the rock for support. The sun shone on us and I closed my eyes. I pictured his face in my mind when he kissed me, and I pressed my palms into the rock real tight. I felt the moss under my hands; it was cool, damp, and prickly. I liked to feel things, and I guess that was my thing.

As he kissed me, I squished the moss between my fingers. It was a light, quick kiss and it was over fast. I wondered if it even happened. He grabbed one of my hands in his and took off running into the woods, pulling me along with him.

We ran across the damp ground that was just beginning to come alive after what seemed like a long, cold winter without Father. I sort of felt like the woods after a long and harsh winter; I was just waking up and coming alive. The woods smelled really bad, and I thought it was because of all the new growth. But I ignored it, I didn’t care.

My heart raced. I was trying to hide how nervous I was. We hid ourselves from everything then to be together. We heard others as they passed us by, but we knew if we were quiet, they would never know we were there.

Like he read my mind, Bobby Joe reached out to me, lifted my chin up, kissed me softly, and said, “Don’t be scared, it’s me.” Then he smiled. His smile always had a way of saying so many things all at once: that I was beautiful, that I was his world, and that his love for me was all that mattered. It said forget about everything else, reassuring me that he would protect me and that nothing would come between us. I felt safe with Bobby Joe and nothing else mattered. I felt him; everywhere I went he was with me.

Father’s death had been unexpected and I blamed Mother. The night he died, they’d fought, arguing over Mother’s new friend, Gary. I didn’t really understand why my father had tried to make my mother promise that she wouldn’t see Gary again, but he did. She told him she wasn’t going to give him up.

Father slammed the door when he left. He had been gone for hours, taking us well into the night, so I didn’t wait up. The next morning I woke to Mother’s pathetic cries, which made me angry because I blamed her for Father leaving.

When she told me he had gone to a bar, had several drinks, and drove his pick-up into a tree going seventy kilometres an hour, I didn’t know right off how hurt he was. I was naïve and I guess I thought he’d be all right, thinking maybe he was bruised and sore but that he was going to be just fine.

Mother had grabbed her keys and told me to get dressed, that we were going to the hospital. I was still mad with her and told her to just go without me, that I’d see him when he got home.

She told me she didn’t know the full extent of his injuries, which I took to mean that she didn’t know what was wrong. She practically begged me to go with her. To shut her up, I got dressed and we made our way to the hospital. Neither of us spoke a word along the way.

I found that my anger at my mother only grew, and I tapped the dashboard impatiently as we neared the hospital. I readily blamed her for all of this.

“Who’s Gary?” I blurted out as we parked the car and I reached for the door handle.

“Not now,” Mother snapped.

“Just tell me!”

As she walked past me, Mother glared and said, “This is between your father and me.” We walked through the emergency doors, which announced our arrival with an annoying sound.

Bleep.

Mother was a nurse at the hospital, and because she was, she was approached straight off and taken away from me. I was made to sit by myself for a few minutes, which really felt like a few hours. The longer they were gone, the more I knew it was bad, really bad.

I couldn’t take the quiet anymore so I stood up. I went to the person behind the counter and I practically demanded to see my father.

From behind me, I heard Mother tell me to calm down. I swear if she doesn’t stop talking to me like that … I thought with my fists clenched tight. I turned around to look at her.

She appeared hurt from the anger I showed her, or so I thought. The look on her face was horrible and it made me quit what I was thinking and my anger quickly faded away. As she shook her head, tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t speak.

“No … no … no,” I screamed, running past her and into the room she just came from.

I’d never seen a body before, not a dead one anyway. I was scared to get too close, but I got closer because the person who laid there, the man who wasn’t moving, just couldn’t have been my father.

He didn’t look anything like him. His face had a hundred bruises, all of different shades of blue and purple, and they all came together so that it was impossible to say where one bruise started and another one stopped. His face was so swollen on one side that his lip had curved, sticking out and up. His cheekbone on that side had caved in. Both eyes were swollen shut.

I thought I had heard a grunt and that his fingers had moved, so I got closer. I guessed the man who laid there looked like my father a bit.

I reached out and touched his face; it was cool and damp. I traced his swollen lip and backed away. He was, as he looked, dead. That was all.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mother murmured from behind, and I felt her arms around me.

“Don’t touch me,” I yelled, shrugging out of her hold. “This is all your fault. Father’s dead because of you!” Bursting into tears, I ran out of the room.

It should have been a good-bye to father. I should have said those words, should have tried harder to make it about him. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so badly.

Too bad I was just growing into my own skin, just finding my way and getting to know who I really was. I didn’t know how to move past what I was feeling. I blamed Mother for it all, and my resentment was all I had, and it got bigger all the time. For weeks I held on to my madness, and Mother and me nearly became strangers.

So when I met Bobby Joe, I was in need of someone who wasn’t my mother, someone who would listen to me, talk to me, and hold me when I needed it.

Mostly I told him how I blamed Mother, and how since Father’s death, Gary came around more. I gave Bobby Joe details of my life that most people would listen to and run away from. Luckily he stayed and got to know me in a way I thought no other boy would.

He became a distraction for me; a reason to stop hating my mother and to start loving him. He never pushed me to talk about Father and he never told me I had to let go. He was exactly what I needed.

Because of him, I hated Mother less and less. We almost got back to how we used to be. Mother didn’t understand that because of Bobby Joe, we were getting along better. I was almost ready to forgive her for pushing Father away that night, for not giving him what he wanted, and for letting him get in his truck and drive away.

The problem was that I never did forgive her. And so when she started telling me that I was too hot and heavy with Bobby Joe, it irritated me. When she told me not to see him anymore because she thought we were too serious, she made me mad all over again. It wasn’t long before all my old feelings came back and I was angrier than ever.

Damn her for trying to control me.

 

***

We come here to make out mostly, but we also talk about our parents, our lives, and our future. We want so many things: good jobs, a nice house, lots of kids, and pets, too. It’s nice to want things. It excites me to make plans. I think about how much life has changed for me. At this time last year, my father was still with me. For the longest time after he died, I didn’t get excited, I didn’t want things.

I think about the fight my mother and me just had, about how I must make a choice about my life and my future. My heart feels sick for the decision I have to make because the two people who matter the most to me can’t see how much the other means, and how much I care about them both.

Mother can’t see how much I care for Bobby Joe, she can’t understand that he’s the reason I’m still here. He saved me once and he means to do it again.

Bobby Joe doesn’t see that even though I’m furious with Mother, and some days I hate her, I still love her. He can’t see that I need her.

Neither of them could possibly understand how I feel because, if they did, they wouldn’t ask me to make such a sacrifice for them. I stand here now, angry and sick for the choice I am about to make, and sad that I have to disappoint someone by saying good-bye.

I wish it could be different, that I could hold off for a while, but I know the time has come. I hope that when I decide, I make the right choice. I am afraid I will look back on my life after today and know that I made the wrong one.

I make my choice to leave my mother because it’s the easy thing to do. She already hates me, she already judges me. I don’t believe that if I choose her over Bobby Joe, I will be able to hold my head up high, because I don’t think she’ll ever know what a sacrifice I made. I don’t think she’ll ever be proud of me. She tells me all the time that I make bad choices and that I disappoint her.

Now that I have decided, I feel my anger getting strong again. I let it come because it’s easier to say good-bye to Mother if I’m mad with her. I get mad at myself for taking the easy way out, for being a coward, and I blame Mother again.

I let myself get upset so that saying good-bye will be the easiest thing for me now. I take off running out of the woods and through the paths. I am going to pack my things and leave straight away.

I make it home fast and I’m really glad her car is not there. This will be easier than I thought. Rushing upstairs, I grab my book bag and fill it with clothes. I mean to call Bobby Joe as soon as I am ready to go.

I go through all my stuff and only take what I really can’t do without, packing all my clothes and my make-up. I also take a few things Father has given me: a stuffed white bunny with pink eyes and a silver bracelet that is sort of too big, but I know will fit me when I’m done growing.

I turn to leave, but run back to grab a picture of me and Mother. In the picture she’s standing behind me and she’s got her arms around me. Because I’m short, she’s bending forward. We are both smiling and I think this picture was taken on her birthday, the last one she had before my father died.

I sigh and think how quickly life changes. Staring at the frame, I remember the day Mother and me went to the beach to find seashells to glue on it. We both love the beach, that’s one thing we have in common.

I place the photo in my book bag carefully. I try hard to zip my bag, but can’t because it’s too full. Leaving it open, I throw it over my shoulder.

Next I call Bobby Joe. While the phone rings, I impatiently play with the cord, waiting for him to answer. It rings three times. Come on, Bobby Joe, pick up, I think and I wonder what I’ll do if he doesn’t.

On the fifth ring, I hear, “Hello.” It’s Bobby Joe and he sounds like he’s just waking up.

“ I choose you,” I say and my voice cracks.

“You mean—”

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” I say, cutting him off.

“When? I mean when do you want to go? When will you be ready?” he asks. I think from the sound of his voice he wasn’t expecting me to pick him.

“I’m ready now.” I hear his breath blow into the phone.

“Right now? Do you want me to come get you?” he asks.

“Yes, now,” I say and laugh.

“I’m on my way,” he says. Then he adds, “I love you.” He hangs up before I can say it back, so I say it to the dial tone.

“Abby, what’s going on?” Mother asks from the doorway.

“How much did you hear?” I ask, turning to look at her.

“Everything.”

I stare into her eyes and try to read her thoughts. I can’t. I don’t know if she knows I am leaving for good.

She crosses her arms on her chest and waits for me to say something. I feel sad, so I turn away from her and start to cry. I didn’t know I would feel like this, but I can’t let her know, so I try to work myself back up to angry again. It’s no use. Holding my bag tight, I tell myself this is it. It’s time to get good-bye over with.

“I’m leaving and I’m not coming back,” I say. I want her to beg me to stay, to tell me she loves me and she screws it up. That’s nothing new, she screws up everything lately. I am furious again.

Walking by her, I head for the stairs. Bobby Joe will be here any minute and he knows better than to come to the door.

She grabs my arm and I figure she’s about to tell me the things I want to hear. I think this will make leaving impossible, but my mind is made up. So I don’t give her the chance to say anything.

“I’m leaving and I’m not coming back so don’t try to stop me. There’s nothing you can say to make me stay,” I lie. Then, to make my choice clear, I throw in, “It’s all your fault anyway. You drove Father away, you’re the reason he left, and now you’re driving me away. You made me leave, remember that. You’ll never see me again, so don’t even bother trying to find me.”

I see the look on her face; I think she’s about to cry so I quickly turn away. I can’t stop my tears now, but I keep them quiet, real quiet. I don’t want Mother to know that it hurts me to go.

When I hear Bobby Joe honk his horn outside, I reach for the doorknob.

“Wait,” my mother says.

“Leave me alone!” I know she can hear my tears. Damn, I think, this isn’t the way it was supposed to go.

Opening the door, I walk out. I know there’s no going back and that my decision is final. I know I will spend most of my life wondering if I made the right choice. As I walk out the door, I wonder if Bobby Joe and I will be okay, if we’ll have enough to make it.

We don’t really have a plan. I guess at our age it doesn’t matter. It’s not that I believe we won’t make it, I just don’t know. Bobby Joe kisses me on the cheek and I take one last look at my house as we pull away in his truck. I say good-bye to it all: my house, my mother, and my memories. Only I don’t, not really.

 

Seven years passes. What a hell of a seven years it’s been. I grew up pretty fast. I got a job at a local chicken burger joint called the Lucky Clucky. Bobby Joe and I live just two towns over from Cold Harbour in a place called Hunts Point.

We live pay cheque to pay cheque. I spend most of my day getting orders wrong, using ketchup instead of mayo, not holding the lettuce when I should have, serving diet cola instead of regular, and giving out the wrong change. I pretty much suck at my job.

I do all this because I don’t pay attention. I don’t pay attention because I constantly wonder if I made the right decision, running off with Bobby Joe. I wonder what life would have been like if I had stayed. I think about going back all the time.

My boss threatens to fire me a lot. I don’t know why he doesn’t. I sometimes wish he would.

As I sit in the waiting area of my doctor’s office, I go over everything in my mind. I rock back and forth, close my eyes, and hope for the best.

I take birth control pills so I don’t get pregnant. Bobby Joe thinks we’ve been trying for almost a year. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want a baby either. I’m not ready and neither is he.

He drinks a lot, which bugs me, and we fight all the time because of it. He says he works hard, too damn hard for me to tell him how to spend his money. When he drinks he reminds me of my father and I think he’s going to do something stupid, like drive drunk and get in an accident. And I think he might get himself killed.

Too bad I don’t have control over him, not one bit. I think about the choice he made me make; I think about it every day now and I get mad. I have started to resent him. The more I do, the more I think about going home. But I can’t. I just can’t, not after the way I left.

I play over and over in my head what I said to Mother, and each time I do, I think about how mean I was. I remember the look on her face and know I went too far and said too much. No, she won’t want me back, not after what I’ve done, not after the way I said good-bye.

So I tell myself a lot that I’m no good, that I don’t deserve a mother, and that she doesn’t want me back. I tell myself that I’m where I belong. Perhaps I got it too good for being such a bad girl.

I live my life like this, and the more time that passes, the more I convince myself it’s all true. So by the time me and Bobby Joe start to have real problems and fight all the time, I convince myself it’s all that I deserve, that I had it coming all this time. I think that’s why I stayed away from Mother for so long.

I go through the motions every day, but I’m miserable. I tell myself that happiness is meant for some, but not for me.

Finally, after a really long wait, I am called into doctor Tay’s office. She’s been my doctor since I moved from Cold Harbour. After all this time, I’m still not at ease with her. It’s because she knows my history. She knows I left home at thirteen and that I dropped out of school to pursue my chicken burger passion. I think she looks at me with her educated eyes, and judges me with her educated brain, and does not approve one bit. Who is she to judge anyway? She doesn’t know the whole of it. I try to make myself not care what she thinks as much as I can.

Sitting down across from her, I rub my hands into each other, waiting for her to do the talking. She pushes her black rimmed glasses higher on her nose and runs a hand through her pin-straight, black shoulder-length hair. She clears her throat.

I look at her and I really make eye contact, which I think is a show of my courage. I want her to think I am not afraid. Her blue eyes are the strangest colour of grey today.