Abby: Alone
By Peter Martuneac
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Peter W. Martuneac. All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One: Bus Driver
Of all the people in this world, your mother is the one person that you should feel close to. I mean, she’s the very first person you ever know, right? Before you’re even born, you know your mom’s voice. You feel her heart beating just a few inches away. Every second of every day until you’re born, you could practically reach right out and touch her heart. There really isn’t any relationship that can get closer than that.
I wish I still had that with my mom. Oh, I should probably say that she isn’t some kind of deadbeat or anything. No, if there’s a deadbeat in my story it’s my dad. He disappeared the moment my mom knew she was pregnant with me. I’ve never even seen a picture of him, and mom never talks about him. As far as I’m concerned, I spontaneously appeared in my mother’s womb almost thirteen years ago. Well, that long ago plus nine months. I’ll be thirteen in September, right after school starts up. But it’s barely July, so why am I even talking about school?!
Oh yeah, my mom. Like I was saying, she’s not a bad mom. Far from it. She works her butt off to provide for me. And that’s great, because I have everything I need. Maybe I don’t have the coolest outfits, the prettiest shoes, or any make-up, but things could always be way worse. I really am thankful for everything mom gives me. I just wish I saw her more often. Honestly, we’ll go two or three days without seeing each other sometimes. She’s up and off to her first job before I wake up, and she won’t get back from one of her other two jobs until after I’ve gone back to sleep.
But when she gets a day off, does she nap? Does she sit on the couch and relax? No. That crazy woman insists on going out with me and doing fun stuff, making memories. We spend all day talking about what we’ve been up to, but mostly she wants to hear about me and how I’m doing. I tell her how my grades are (all A’s, of course), I tell her about dance class (she really shouldn’t be paying for that, but she knows I love doing it), and she makes me tell her all about my dreams, and what I want out of life. I always tell her I don’t know yet, and she’ll answer, “Well, you’ll figure it out. Whatever it is, I’ll be proud of you”.
She’s like a superhero to me. Can you imagine if I had a dad that was just half as amazing as her? Man, that would rule! But that’s enough daydreaming. I know it wasn’t a lot of daydreaming, but even a little time spent on what could be is time away from what is, as mom says.
“You tell this story to all the bus drivers, kid?” the older woman asked. I hadn’t seen her before today. She was either a new bus driver, or had started a different shift.
“Yeah, pretty much. I like talking to the bus drivers,” I answered. Her question was probably rhetorical, but I don’t care. Like I told her, I like talking to the bus drivers. They usually have a really unique perspective on everything, I’ve found. Driving all around Chicago, picking up so many different people, breaking up a fight or two. That kind of life can’t ever get boring, I would think.
“Your name is Debbie, right?” I asked her, and she nodded in reply as she switched on the right turn signal and prepared to turn onto my street. Well, not exactly my street. But the bus stop here is just a couple blocks from my house.
“My name’s Abby. You’ll be seeing me a lot if you keep driving this route,” I told her. I leaned back, pulling on the cable to request a stop.
“Well, I look forward to many such conversations,” she said with a wry look. She probably thinks I’m a chatterbox, but she’ll get around to liking me. The bus drivers always like me eventually. She pulled to a stop along the sidewalk and opened up the doors for me. As always, I smile and wave before hopping out of the bus and walking up the street to my house.
Chapter Two: Mr. Marino
I always loved July here in Chicago. It’s my favorite month! It’s warm, the skies are blue and the sun shines bright (though it hardly makes a difference on my pale as paper skin), and the trees are such a royal shade of green. Everything is just so full of life! Especially the gardens in front of old Mr. Marino’s house. He’s the first person I pass on my way home that I know well. He’s a perfect gentleman, widowed for almost ten years now, sadly. But you should see his photo albums of him and his wife! His life has been incredible: sailing a boat in the Mediterranean, climbing to the summit of K2, dancing in Istanbul, riding an elephant in Zimbabwe, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef. And that’s just the start.
He always seems to be outside as I pass. Whether I’m coming home from school, dance class, or helping at the food bank, I can find him trimming a rose bush or his petunias, or carefully watering the chrysanthemums. And every time he’ll drop what he’s doing to talk to me, like right now.
“Ah, miss Abby!” he cries, a smile eating up half of his face. He hurries over to the fence to unlock the gate for me and I step inside his yard.
“Hi Mr. Marino,” I replied, extending my hand. He takes it in his, kissing it softly and then giving it a pat. If there’s a perfect grandpa in the world, I tell you it’s Mr. Marino! “The tulips are looking super pretty this year!” I tell him.
“Ah, sì! They must be taking after you, walking past so often!” he says with a laugh.
“Oh, stop it,” I answered, hoping I haven’t blushed as hard as I think I have. I don’t take compliments well, but I’m working on it. I walked over to the open door of his shed, leaving my backpack on the ground and grabbing a pair of pink work gloves and a small hand shovel.
“Need a hand planting the new ones?” I asked, pointing with the dirt-stained shovel at a row of young, green sprouts sitting in small plastic cups filled with soil.
“Sì, please!” Mr. Marino responded as he wiped a forearm across his sweaty brow. “By the marigolds, if you would.”
“Roger that!” I chirped. I liked helping Mr. Marino with his garden, especially on nice days like this. I don’t know if he was a particularly lonely man, but who wouldn’t love a little company now and then! Besides, his garden was just breathtaking: the rows of flowers and bushes were aligned with laser precision and not a single branch or stem out of place. Everything was trimmed, watered, fed, and sweet-talked by Mr. Marino as if they were his own children.
I lifted the new flowers to be planted (they looked like some kind of aster) and walked them over to the marigolds. I got down on one knee in the luscious green grass next to the bright yellow flowers and began to dig tiny holes in a row along the side of them, each hole spaced evenly apart just like Mr. Marino taught me. After getting a few inches down into the dirt, I would pull one of the budding flowers from its plastic cup and transplant it into the ground, making sure it was deep enough for the roots to take hold.
“So how has your mother been, Abby?” Mr. Marino asked me. He had shuffled over to the shed and retrieved his garden hose.
“Good, I think,” I replied.
“You think? Do you not know?” Mr. Marine probed as he hooked his garden hose up to the spigot along the side of his narrow home.
“I know,” I replied quickly. “I just…this is one of those times when I don’t see her for a while. But I’ll see her tomorrow for sure.”
“
Sì, your mother works very hard,” said Mr. Marino. He was watering his flowers now with a delicate misting of water from the hose.
“She has to,” I replied. “It’s just the two of us, and I can’t get a job yet.”
“Doesn’t your mother have family in…ah, forgive my memory. I’m an old man.”
“It’s okay,” I laugh. “Texas, that’s where we’re from. And no, none that would help anyway.”
“I see,” Mr. Marino responded. We continued gardening in silence for a while after that, until Mr. Marino finished watering the flowers. He turned the water off and then returned the hose to the shed. When he reappeared outside, he said, “Excuse me for a moment Abby, I have to fetch something from inside.”
“Okay, I’m almost done here,” I replied.
“Don’t leave until I’ve said goodbye!” he called as he marched up the two small, stone steps that led to his front door. The screen door squealed as it turned on its old hinges, and then Mr. Marino disappeared inside. I finished digging the last two holes in the dirt and then plopped the flowers into their new homes. Setting aside the little shovel, I leaned down to get eye level with the flowers to inspect my work. Everything looked straight and properly spaced, so I nodded once as a ‘good job’ to myself. I retrieved the hand shovel and walked over to the shed, depositing this and my gloves back in the tiny storage space. When I turned back around, Mr. Marino was just coming back out of the house.
“Ah, perfezione!” he exclaimed after looking at the newly planted flowers. “Thank you for your hard work, dear Abby.”
“Don’t mention it!” I replied.
“Well, you did a good job. So here you go,” he said, and he held out his hand to offer me some cash.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I said. I felt more than a little awkward accepting money from Mr. Marino. I had no idea what his financial situation was, and even though mom and I operated on a shoestring budget we still were better off than many people.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Marino insisted. “Where I come from, you do good work, you get good payment. I have already said you have done good work, now here is your payment.”
I hesitated a moment this time. Mom had just paid rent for the month, so we were pretty strapped for cash at the moment, especially with a grocery trip coming up. Mr. Marino wasn’t offering a ton of money, but every little bit helped.
“In fact,” he continued when I didn’t respond for a couple seconds, “I’d like to hire you for your gardening services. You are here so often helping it’s downright criminal for me not to pay you.”
“Mr. Marino-”
“Tsk, tsk!” he interrupted, wagging a long, wrinkled finger at me. “There is no more discussion about it! You will be here twice a week. And I know you are a busy young woman, so you pick the days and just come on over.”
He smiled at me when he said this. How could I say no to that sweet, time-worn smile? I’d be getting a real job in a couple years anyway, might as well start now.
“Thank you, Mr. Marino,” I said as I took the cash from his outstretched hand. I folded the bills in half and slid them into my back pocket. “That’s very generous.”
“You deserve it, my dear,” he replied. “But no more gardening for today, I think. I could keep this up all day, but this old vessel that traps my spirit cannot.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said with a wink. “Pun intended.”
It was such a bad joke, but Mr. Marino obliged me with a deep-bellied laugh. “You make me laugh! You’re like a young Jerry Lewis!” he said. I have no idea who Jerry Lewis is, or Buddy Hackett, or any of the other people he mentions who were apparently famous at some point. But I pretend to understand.
“Oh come on, I could never be as funny as Jerry Lewis!” I replied.
“Perhaps one day. Perhaps you will be famous comedian, eh?” he laughed.
“Perhaps,” I said. I got up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and he kissed mine. “I’ll let myself out. See you this weekend?” I asked.
“That’d be delightful,” Mr. Marino responded. He waved goodbye and turned to head up into his house as I returned to the sidewalk, closing Mr. Marino’s gate behind me.
Chapter Three: The Herrera’s
Leaving Mr. Marino’s yard, I continued heading home. Across the street, a couple houses down was the Silver family’s home. I didn’t know much about Mr. and Mrs. Silver, but they had a son who was eight. Sometimes he’d be outside playing basketball in his driveway, and I would stop to play with him for a little while. It took a while for him to get comfortable around new people, on account of his condition, but that didn’t stop him from being just the sweetest kid you’ve ever seen once he got to know you! He wasn’t outside today, so I kept walking.
I’m not sure why, but I wore a bright smile on this particular walk home. Don’t you just have to smile sometimes? Even if you nothing to smile about…well, make that especially if you have nothing to smile about. I mean, aren’t those the times when you could use a smile the most? I’m pretty sure the science backs me up on this, that smiling can improve your mood. But even if it doesn’t, I choose to live like it does. It’s better than just being grumpy and bringing everybody down, isn’t it?
Anyway, this isn’t one of the bad days for me, a day when everything just starts to feel like a bit too much to handle. I have those sometimes, and I smile through them the best I can. No, this was more of a regular day. I hadn’t seen my mom this morning, which was normal, but I spent a few hours at the food bank which always puts me in a better mood. Some of the other volunteers shake their heads at me. Not in a bad way, they just think I should be in line, not in the back. But I tell them I don’t need that. As rough as it is for mom and me, others have it way worse, and they’re the ones who need our help.
A red car went driving past me on the road, blaring obscenely loud music. I could hear some very foul language being used, so I made a face at the car as it rolled past me. It’s bad enough that I have to hear those words being used on the bus, can’t I just walk home in peace? I really wish I had a nice seat of headphones to listen to music and block that kind of stuff out when I’m out in the city. Oh well, what’s a girl to do? All I know is that I’ll never tolerate bad language in any home of mine.
I can finally see the front of my house. It’s a narrow, red brick house with a steep black shingle roof on the other side of the street. A low chain link fence runs around the front and back, which keeps nothing out besides maybe a squirrel, and ivy is starting to overrun it in places. The highest window facing the street is my bedroom window, as if the pink curtains don’t make it obvious. See, I’m kind of a ‘girly girl’. I love all things pink, skirts are my favorite type of legwear, and I would kill for an expensive set of make-up, like the sets I see at the mall. Well, not literally of course.
I glance over my shoulder before crossing the road, looking for any cars. Just one is coming at a pretty slow pace, a white Chevy Impala, driven by a young Latina woman. It’s Mrs. Herrera, one of our neighbors. I bound across the road in front of her, knowing she’ll be pulling over to the side to park in front of her house, and then I wait along the sidewalk for her. She sees me and gives me a beautiful smile. Mr. Herrera is a lucky man, I tell you.
“Hola, Abby! And gracias!” she says as I open her door for her.
“Hola, señora Herrera!” I responded. She popped the trunk of her car open and I walked around to the back to help unload her groceries. She doesn’t protest, not anymore. She’s learned by now I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer when it comes to helping!
“Where have you been today?” she asks as she grabs two or three plastic bags. She tried to grab the gallon jug of milk, but I made sure to get my hand around it first. I let her carry the eggs, bread, and a few small boxed goods.
“Food bank,” I reply as she shuts the trunk lid with a slam.
“You are such a special girl,” she says with a smile, running a hand through her jet black hair, and I smiled back
politely. I follow Mrs. Herrera up the steps that lead to her front door, where she stops to fumble for her keys. But before she can select the right one, the door is popped open from the inside by her husband, Mr. Herrera, with their twin daughters in his burly arms. I think their first birthday is coming up in a few weeks.
“Welcome home, my beautiful wife,” he says, and he isn’t lying; Mrs. Herrera is gorgeous. He gives her a kiss, and then allows her to lean in and kiss their daughters. “Oh, and Abby! Perdóname, come in!” he says to me, stepping back so that we can carry all the grocery bags inside. I know my way to their kitchen by now, so I head right there while Mrs. Herrera drops her few bags by the door so that she can take her daughters from her husband, and he then brings the bags to the kitchen.
“Thank you so much for helping my wife,” Mr. Herrera says to me as he lays his load of groceries on the countertop next to where I set mine.
“Oh, don’t mention it,” I say, opening their fridge to put the milk and eggs away.
“But I must. You do far too much for others and precious little for yourself,” he says.
“Shouldn’t everyone, though?” I ask.
“You’re right,” he laughs. “Abby, if everyone was like you, Mrs. Herrera and I would still be in our homeland.”
I only nod in response. Both he and his wife’s families had been forced to flee from a civil war in their country when they were children, and had come to America. I didn’t like to think about that much because so many children had not been nearly as lucky as Mr. and Mrs. Herrera in escaping that conflict. Also, there’s that whole ‘not so good at accepting compliments’ thing. I know it’s good to help people, but I guess I just don’t feel comfortable accepting praise for it. I mean, if you really think about it, this should be the bare minimum expectation of people, not an inspirational exception.
We finish putting away all the groceries in silence. Well, we were silent. The babies in the next room however were voicing loud complaints about something. Mr. Herrera thanked me one last time before I left, and I said goodbye to Mrs. Herrera, who was settling in on the couch in preparation for feeding the screaming babies, on my way out. I bounded down the stairs that led me back to the sidewalk then turned towards my house.
His Name Was Zach (Short Story): Abby [Alone] Page 1
