by Sierra Hill
And she did the best she could back when Melodie and I were still friends in middle school. She was my rock when our friendship unraveled and dissolved while Mel slowly slipped away, turning into a person I no longer recognized.
There were signs along the way that spoke to the change in Mel, but they were small, and like tiny cracks in the pavement, we didn’t see them at the time or understand what they meant. Looking back at what happened, it seems there had been this giant curtain draped over our life, and over the years since. I have peeled the curtain back, giving me glimpses into what was truly going on.
And with each revelation, it breaks my heart even further.
“Hey, Miss Sutton, here’s the last of the dishes,” calls out Darnessa, the teen girl with a shy smile and the designated kitchen lead. I glance at her as she enters the large industrial kitchen carrying a tub of dirty dinner plates and silverware. “Goddamn, this group is a bunch of pigs and eats a fuck-ton of food.”
Elbow deep in dishwater, I wrinkle my nose at the sixteen-year-old and glare at her from under my lashes. “Ahem. What happened to the no cussing rule in the kitchen?”
She provides me with an apologetic look and an “oops, my bad” and drops the heavy tub on the counter next to me, filled with precisely as she described, a fuck-ton of dirty dishes.
I splash a cloud of bubbles at her, and she laughs a throaty sound. Working together in the kitchen for the past three hours, I’ve gotten to know a little bit about this strong and brave girl.
At fourteen, while her mother was behind bars for drug possession, Darnessa lived with her auntie and uncle, a man who ended up raping her and getting her pregnant. After finding out the baby belonged to her husband, the aunt kicked Darnessa out onto the streets, keeping the little baby boy as her own.
Over the last two years, she’s been in and out of foster homes and facilities, until she finally found Holly’s Hope Place.
Darnessa unloads the larger items and rinses them off as I finish washing the pots and pans used for the dinner we made earlier. I haven’t been this exhausted in ages.
“I think this is the last of them, and then we can take a break. But I’m freakin’ bummed I didn’t get any of that dessert.”
Her shoulders rise and fall in defeat over the fact that while we were working our butts off in here, she missed out on the chocolate cake a large box-store bakery donated.
I bump her shoulder playfully and lean in to whisper. “I may have saved us a slice to share.”
The look of amazement that lights up her beautiful face made my mission of tracking down a piece worth it in my book. A gift for a gift.
“No way! How’d you do that? Dayum, girl. Are you magic or something?”
My laughter rings out over the pile of dishes. “Not magic. I just begged my cousin, Ben, to save a piece for us, knowing it would go fast.”
“Thanks, Miss Sutton. You a’ight.”
A bubbly, effervescent feeling takes flight in my stomach from the compliment and warms my heart to hear the appreciation in her statement.
“It’s the least I could do. You’ve been working so hard in here all afternoon. And you’re right. We definitely deserve a break soon.”
I reach for the scrub pad while Darnessa empties and then refills the dishwasher as we continue our quest to reach the end of this mess so we can get off our feet for a while.
As we do, Darnessa hums a tune, an R&B song I’m not that familiar with, but that sounds soulful and beautiful with her perfect pitch and voice.
“Wow, that was beautiful. You have a wonderful singing voice. Do you sing publicly, or have you thought about doing something with your talent?”
She turns and gives me a “what the hell you talking about” look. “Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe audition for one of those talent search shows. I mean, look at all the singers who have become stars! Carrie Underwood, Jennifer Hudson, Kelly Clarkson. Daughtry.”
“Right, ‘cause a girl from the projects is gonna get a recording contract.”
I stop my washing, removing my wet work gloves, and turn to face her, pressing my hip against the edge of the counter.
“How do you know if you never try? I bet if we google it, we’ll find a ton of musicians and celebrities who started off in similar circumstances. Never sell yourself short just because of where you came from or where you are at this moment. You have no idea where life can lead you or the direction it might take if you continue to think positively and with intention.”
Darnessa gives me a wary look like she’s heard this metaphorical stuff all before and doesn’t believe it.
“Listen,” I continue, hoping to get my point across without sounding too preachy. “We all start somewhere, but we all have different jump-off points. It’s up to you to decide to step in the right direction. To have the vision and to know where you want to go. Some people create vision boards to enable them to set their intents and path.”
Her head pulls back. “A vision board? That sounds like some rich, white girl’s bedroom collage, with Zac Efron and The Jonas Brothers plastered all over it.”
I laugh out loud at her description because it’s kind of spot on. “Okay, whatever you want to call it, the point of it is to tell you where you start and where you want to go.”
Picking up a pot, I set it on the edge of the counter to demonstrate, illustrating my point.
“This is your life map, if you will,” I point to the pan. “We all have a starting point. And if you set a goal, then you know which road to take.”
I place another pan opposite the first and a knife in the middle. But then I remove the second pan, leaving the spot empty. “Without that goal or vision of where you want to go, you’ll never know which direction to take or how to get there. And if you never try, you’ll never know what you’re worth.”
Darnessa digests this advice for a second, as I grab the dish towel and finish drying the last of the pots, internally pleased with my pot and pan analogy.
Then she asks in a bored tone, “Can we eat cake now?”
18
Miles
Miles: I’m running behind schedule. Will be there in an hour. Sorry, man.
Ben S.: No worries. Appreciate the heads up. See you when you get here.
Due to an emergency with Granny, I had to head up to Mystic last night and am on the train right now heading back into the city, already two hours late for the volunteer event.
This was not at all how I planned on spending my weekend. But after getting the call yesterday afternoon from Granny’s nursing facility, I had to make the trip to discuss her condition with her doctor and then to follow-up with her nursing staff.
Apparently, Granny became agitated yesterday, which is common with dementia patients. But, when the nurse’s aide tried giving Granny her meds, she slipped, losing her balance and fell to the ground, reinjuring her ankle and bruising her hip, which was just beginning to heal.
Exhausted and extremely irritated over the situation, I ended up staying overnight in our old house. The house that I still own, even though Granny will never move back in, and I have no reason to keep it. But I haven’t sold it just yet. Too many memories exist there, and letting it go would mean letting go of my mom, Granny, and my sister.
And I just can’t do that right now.
Granny had been sedated while I was there, and I only had a brief good morning and goodbye conversation with her before returning to the city. She wasn’t lucid enough to realize it was me, giving me only a blank, far off stare when I kissed her goodbye.
I’ve said too many goodbyes in my lifetime. You’d think it’d get easier the more times I’ve had to say it, but it doesn’t. Losing the two closest females in my life, my mom and my sister, and now slowly and painfully losing my grandmother to Alzheimer’s, it’s no wonder I don’t want a relationship with a woman. Why would I want to fall in love and possibly lose her?
It’s like knowing exactly how much it’ll
hurt if you slice your hand with a knife but do it anyway.
Staying at the house brought back too many memories, and I’m in a shitty mood by the time I leave the train station and catch a cab to the youth center. I pay the driver and walk into the old building, the exterior decorated brightly with colorful murals of butterflies, puppies, kids laughing, and fields of flowers with the sunshine above.
It lifts my spirits only slightly, and then they dim again when I walk into the center to find an audience of kids and adults sitting in front of a makeshift stage watching and focusing on a girl belting out a pop tune.
I search the room to locate Ben, hoping to get some direction on what he wants me to do, but don’t readily see him. I spot an empty chair in the back of the crowd, so I take a seat and wait until the presentations and songs are over.
The group claps and cheers as the girl finishes her song, and then an older woman steps up on stage and takes the microphone from her hand, thanking and congratulating the girl named Darnessa for her lovely song. She then turns to introduce the next individual.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s not often we get volunteers who want to get up to share their own stories, but we’re honored today to have Miss Sutton join us. She’s a student at New York University studying to earn her master’s degree in social work, similar to many of your counselors. I can’t wait to hear what she has to tell us. Let’s give a warm Holly’s Hope welcome to Miss Sutton.”
My jaw drops open, and my head snaps up the minute I hear her name. I scan the crowd from left to right, in search of Sutton, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me or whether it really is the same woman.
Sure enough, there she is.
Free from any traces of make-up, her face is clear and marked only with rosy, flushed cheeks. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with flyaway strands making their escape around her ears. She’s dressed down, wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a dark blue T-shirt with the Morgan Financial emblem etched into the front pocket above her heart.
Her smile takes my breath away. She’s naturally beautiful, with an inner light so bright that it shines like a spotlight across the room.
I automatically move to the edge of my seat, leaning forward with the need to be closer to Sutton. To listen more attentively. To catch every word that leaves her full, gorgeous lips.
I let out a breath I don’t realize I’ve been holding in as she speaks.
“Hello, Holly’s Hope crew! First, let me say I am so proud of you, Darnessa. You took the first step and did it!”
Sutton gives the thumbs-up sign to the girl who’d been on stage to sing. The group erupts in another round of applause until they quiet down again, and Sutton continues.
“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to share my story with you today. I felt compelled to tell you about myself and why I want to go into social work so that I can hopefully work with kids like you someday.
“I had a friend when I was younger. In fact, we were inseparable until we went to high school. It was during our freshman year when I noticed some changes in her. She began changing her appearance, wearing a lot more make-up and different clothing styles that she’d never worn before.” She cringes a little, making a funny face that has the kids giggling with laughter.
“But those weren’t the only things different about her. She stopped wanting to do things with me, her best friend, and began hanging out with a different crowd. One that I knew based on what I observed and what I heard, were bad influences on her. She started smoking. Stopped doing her assignments. Started skipping school. And eventually, the last year of her life, she stopped going to school altogether.”
Although her recounting of this situation could be about anybody, there’s a realization that hits me like a bat to the back of my head. It’s jarring, shaking loose memories of Melodie during her teen years.
While I had been away at school, first at Yale and then in Philly at Wharton, Granny would fill me on Mel’s status during our weekly phone calls. And when I’d learn about her ditching school, or when Granny found a pack of cigarettes in Mel’s backpack, I would do my best to imitate the parent she didn’t have and discipline my younger sister.
A softball-sized lump forms in the back of my throat and stinging realization forms at the base of my spine.
No, this couldn’t be.
There’s no way that this woman is the same Sutton that was Melodie’s best friend.
An uncanny and remarkable coincidence, but not possible. The girl I once knew as Button was just a cute little girl, not a strikingly beautiful woman.
She continues, “It broke my heart because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to break down the resistance my friend, Melodie, kept putting up. And what I later found out was that Mel had started using drugs. I don’t know the specifics because, unfortunately, we lost touch, and I stopped checking in on her. And to this day, I’m sure there were some clear warning signs, but I failed to see them. And then it was too late, and my best friend died of a heroin overdose. I don’t know that I will ever fully forgive myself for not being a better friend to Mel.”
The entire room spins, and all I see is red.
Angry, grotesque red blotches cover everything and everyone in my vicinity.
It’s as if I’ve been stuck in reverse over the last seven years, stopped at a red light waiting to move forward, and this is the triggering event that propels me forward.
And all I want to do is yell and hate Sutton for doing this to me.
19
Sutton
“You did great, Sut. I’m so proud of you for sharing that with the kids.”
Ben wraps a warm arm around the back of my shoulders and squeezes before giving me a loving peck on the cheek. “I just wish you didn’t have to go through that when you were a kid.”
“Thanks, Ben. I just felt compelled to share it, you know? It was really cathartic, and had you not invited me, I may not have had the chance to meet these kids. It felt good working with them. In fact, I think I will come back. It’s reinvigorated my desire to finish school.”
We walk hand-in-hand toward the back of the room as participants fold up their chairs and chat in groups around us. I’m not kidding when I tell him that this day really helped revive my passion for this work, and I can’t wait to come back here to volunteer more often.
“Oh, come on. You’d have finished your masters no matter what. Out of the two of us, you always were first in everything. Remember that time when we were kids—”
Ben’s sentence is cut off by a booming voice. One I’ve become all too familiar with recently, but it seems to rattle Ben, who is surprised by the interruption.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Sutton?” Miles’s voice is ice-cold and accusatory, and he is undoubtedly pissed off. He’s visibly shaking and stands in front of me with a menacing, contemptuous glare.
I feel Ben’s protective instincts kick in as he steps forward, forcing his way in to create a buffer between Miles and me.
“Miles, hey, man. Not sure what’s going on here, but why don’t you lower your voice so we can talk about this?”
Ben, ever the people pleaser, places a gentling hand on Miles’s shoulder, whose body seems to buzz in protest, his eyes wild and hands fisted tightly at his sides with controlled rage. Over what, I’m not sure? It hadn’t even dawned on me that there was a possibility he might be here today. I haven’t seen him in days—a week, in fact.
Miles jerks his shoulder away, staring hard at Ben and then pinning me with his riotous blue gaze.
The words he forces through his mouth are pop, pop, pop. Like confetti poppers or gunshots. “I. Need. To. Talk. To. You. Now. Button.”
Oh wow. He went there. Using the nickname he gave me when I was just a kid, because he teased me, saying he thought my name was weird, and that the end of my nose looked like a button.
The memory has me nervously sucking my lip between my teeth, and I glance a
t Ben, who is completely out of his depth obviously unaware of what’s going on between Miles and me. I’ve given him no indication that Miles and I know each other or have a shared history together.
Ben’s expression holds wary protectiveness, telling me in his gaze that he will gladly do what I want him to do. I scan around the room to see if there’s anywhere Miles and I can go for privacy and then decide the kitchen might be empty. Giving Ben a hug and a kiss on the cheek, I tell him, “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”
Turning back to Miles, I tip my chin toward the kitchen. “Come on, Miles. Let’s talk in there.”
I don’t look behind me to see if he follows because I know he will. I pass several people along the way, and Darnessa comes rushing up to me, throwing her arms around me.
“Thank you, Miss Sutton. You gave me the push I needed to sing in front of everyone. Did you like it?”
She steps back, her chin dropping to her chest, looking up from underneath her lashes in a shy gesture.
“Darnessa, I am so proud of you. You were incredible. See? I still have chills from listening to you.” I hold out my arm for her to inspect, although truth be told, the goosebumps are from seeing Miles and the uncertainty about why he’s so angry with me.
She smiles timidly and shrugs, her toes tapping on the floor excitedly. This would be a picture-perfect moment had it not been marred by Miles’s outburst a moment ago.
And I don’t want any of that to taint Darnessa’s enthusiasm, who seems oblivious to any tension between us.
“Honey, it was all you. But listen, I need to talk to my friend, Miles, here privately for a moment. Can we get together afterward?”
As if she hadn’t even noticed him standing behind me, her head snaps up to meet Miles’s gaze, who plasters on a polite smile for her, at least.
“I caught the end. You were amazing.”
And just like that, Miles turns on the charm, and it’s so obvious to see Darnessa melt from the weight of his compliment.
