Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Me: Cool.

  Just so he knows he can’t hurt me. Just so he knows that his okay doesn’t faze me—even though it does.

  I rifle through the rest of the box, and there’s nothing of important significance, but I take the box downstairs anyway to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. I also take the Christmas decorations down—not because I’m feeling festive, but because I know I’ll need something to do when I can’t sleep tonight.

  You’re isolating yourself, I tell myself. You do this when you’re in pain. Your mother does this all the time.

  I turn on Christmas music, and the rain sounds, though not as loud as it was in the attic. I drum my fingernails on the counter.

  “You know what? No,” I say out loud to Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”

  I text Cash back.

  Me: Actually, I would really like to see you tonight.

  Cash: Okay.

  Me: And I’m going to wear that fucking little black dress!

  Bubbles appear on Cash’s end.

  My heart pounds.

  The bubbles disappear.

  They reappear.

  He responds with a heart.

  Bing Crosby hits the note in “White Christmas” that always gives me the chills. The baritone part at the very end.

  I pour a glass of wine and begin to decorate, leaving both copies of the birth certificates out on the counter along with the notes written by my biological father.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” I yell from the kitchen.

  I see Cash’s face, but it doesn’t look right when he walks into the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, walking to him. “You’re pale.”

  Cash tries to smile, but I can tell something isn’t right. “You look amazing, Scar. I hope it’s okay to do this.” And he takes me in his arms, sliding his hands down my lower back, kisses my forehead, and sighs deeply. His heart pounds against mine.

  But he’s not all right, and we stand here in the dim light of the candles I lit on the table. I take in his woodsy scent, and my pulse begins to race.

  “It looks like Santa threw up in here,” he kids and pulls away after leaving a soft kiss on my lips that makes me eager for more. He looks around.

  Frank Sinatra plays lightly in the background.

  Cash removes his jacket as I walk to the kitchen and grab our plates for dinner. I set them on the candlelit table.

  We sit down at the table.

  “This looks delicious, Scar.”

  “The Whiskey Barrel does great to-go orders.” I wink, trying to push away my unsettled feelings with what happened today and the ashen look on Cash’s face. “How was your day?”

  He quietly chews a piece of the prime rib and wipes his mouth, searching for the right words. “Just another day,” he responds and takes another bite of his meat.

  I begin to rub my earlobe.

  “How was your day?” he asks without looking up.

  “Just another day,” I say with sarcastic confetti sprinkled throughout my words.

  His eyes narrow when he sees me rubbing my earlobe.

  I stop.

  Cash reaches across the table for my hand. “It has nothing to do with you, all right? Stop worrying.”

  My defenses go up. “Look, Cash, I’m invested as much as you, and if you’re having doubts or second thoughts, let’s just cut ties here. And if there’s another woman, please, let’s not play this song and dance.”

  Cash jerks his head up. His stare is hard as his jaw tightens. He sets his fork down, wipes his mouth once more. “Listen to me good, Scarlet.” His tone could cut glass. “It’s always been you. It will always be you. But there are things that have happened between when we were kids up until now that I can’t unsee. That I can’t unfeel. Things that are too much for a lot of people. So, if I’m quiet, know that it has nothing to do with you.” He whispers under his breath, “Another woman, what a joke.”

  This time, I throw down my napkin, and my eyes fill with tears. “You don’t have the best track record, Cash Atwood.”

  “So, you did Google me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Wow, I thought you knew me better than that, Scar. After all the fucking shit we’ve been through.”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to go.”

  Cash holds up his hands, stands, throws his coat back on, and walks out the door.

  Instead of doing what I want to do, which is crawl up into the fetal position and cry, I stand, take our dishes to the sink, and wonder what the hell just happened.

  34

  Cash

  Present Day 2020

  The chill of the December night air hits my face when I leave Scarlet’s. “Another woman,” I mumble as I swing the truck door open. I get in, slam it shut, and pull out of the driveway.

  I smack my hands against the steering wheel, trying to figure out where things went wrong. “Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel one more time.

  I play everything that happened today back in my mind.

  We moved cattle.

  We found a dead heifer.

  Casey and I dug a hole.

  We buried the heifer.

  Scarlet texted me about dinner.

  I responded.

  You lost it before Casey walked up to help you with the heifer. You didn’t hear him calling your name. You couldn’t stop the pain or the memories from the night Conroy was killed. You lost your way.

  I pull into the driveway at home just as Calder is walking from the barn to the house.

  “You did a decent job on the Lost Hill barn.”

  I don’t answer as I make my way toward the house, still fuming.

  “Hey, Cash. What the hell? You all right?”

  “Leave it alone, Cal.” I make it inside before he has time to reach me.

  I walk straight to the liquor cabinet, grab the Jack Daniel’s, and pour myself a shot.

  I drink it down as Cal walks in behind me.

  I pour another and take it down.

  Cal watches me. “You want to talk about it?”

  Between my shots, I say, “Nope.”

  I take three more before I start to feel the ease and comfort that settle in my head, my chest. The memories play like a flip show—slow. I take a big, deep breath in, and finally, I relax.

  But this is where everything starts.

  I get relief from the alcohol.

  I do things and say things that are hurtful.

  And the vicious cycle begins all over again.

  I drink the Jack Daniel’s until everything grows eerily silent and dark.

  35

  Scarlet: Age 15

  Dillon Creek, California

  I saw Cash waiting for me in the airport terminal, and he took my breath away. After three more months of chemotherapy after last summer, my oncologist used the word cancer-free. Although it wasn’t quite remission yet, I took it and ran with it.

  I took a moment to watch him, watch him in the wild, while women, both young and old, had a hard time diverting their eyes from his looks. All of the Atwood boys were ruggedly handsome, but there had always been something special about Cash. Maybe they could see his heart like I could. Of course, it could be his bright blue eyes, his dark hair, and the way his chest and arms were somehow bigger than last summer. He’d said in his letters that he’d been bucking hay a lot in the spring, which was usually done in the summer, but Dillon Creek hadn’t gotten a lot of rain this year, and it was oddly warmer than most years.

  He was looking for me.

  I ran my hand through my shorter auburn hair, feeling insecure about its length, about my body, about me.

  “Just breathe, Scar,” I told myself. “It’s just Cash.”

  But something between us had changed last summer.

  Our letters had turned to love.

  Our words had turned into plans.

  We’d talked about sex and what it would mean if we went through with it.
r />   I’d daydreamed about Cash while in Chicago.

  I had written my name in my notebook and signed it Scarlet Atwood.

  One night, while on the phone, our conversation had changed, and it’d made my body grow warm.

  And so I stood there, watching Cash. My body felt the new things for Cash. Scary things, feelings I could no longer control.

  After I took a long, deep breath and put some lip gloss on, I opened the door to the terminal, threw my shoulders back, and walked to him with confidence.

  He threw his arms around my waist, and I felt his body against mine. Our hearts strummed together, the old tune we’d always played. The piece was light and airy, and in some parts, it was softer and more romantic.

  “God, you look beautiful, Scar,” he whispered against my neck.

  Chills rippled down my spine.

  Our bodies lingered there for a moment while passersby looked awkwardly at our embrace, perhaps questioning our youth and the position our bodies were in.

  If they only knew the price we’d paid to get here.

  He let go, and it was too soon.

  I looked into his eyes. “Something has changed about you, Cash.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I got my license.”

  “Ah, it’s freedom.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  He grabbed my luggage, and we walked hand in hand to an old red Ford.

  “Scar, meet Red. Red, meet Scar.”

  The age of the truck was reflected on the paint; once maybe a bright red had become a well-worn orange with rust that sat in places most exposed to the elements.

  “Nice to meet you, Red.”

  Cash opened the truck door with a loud creak. “Didn’t have a lot of time to get her fixed up before you came home.”

  Cash drove us to Dillon Creek.

  “I can’t believe my grandparents allowed you to come get me by yourself.”

  “I might have made a few promises.”

  “Like what?”

  “I will drive five miles under the speed limit. I will not take my eyes off the road. I will give you a big hug when I see you. I will make sure you know that they wanted to come.”

  We laughed, and everything was all right in the world. It hadn’t been that way for me in an awfully long time. Maybe the difference was that I’d allowed my heart to fall for Cash. I’d allowed myself to love and to be loved. Sure, Cash and I were young, but when you knew, you knew.

  I could feel Cash’s stare.

  “I’ve missed you, Scar. So much. Sometimes, the letters and phone calls just weren’t enough.” He reached over and placed his hand on my thigh, and my face went flush with want.

  “I’m going to pull my hand back now. Not because I want to, but because I made your grandparents a promise—two hands on the wheel at all times.” He grinned and begrudgingly pulled his hand back.

  I watched him as he drove, seemingly so natural behind the wheel, as if he’d been doing it for years.

  He looked over at me. “What?”

  I shook my head, and my face grew warm again. “I just missed you—that’s all.”

  Grinning, he quickly took the outside of his hand and touched my face. “How’d the appointment go last week?”

  “Good. Scans went well. I’ll do another follow-up in three months.”

  “Did your mom go?”

  At first, I wanted to lie because I knew this was a sore subject between Cash and me. But I couldn’t do that to avoid the hard stuff. If we couldn’t do the hard stuff, then we had no chance at a future together.

  “No, she had to work.”

  I saw his jaw tighten.

  I removed my seat belt and scooted to the middle seat, where I buckled in. I placed my head on his shoulder, my hand on his thigh. “I wanted to go alone.” Which was mostly the truth. I’d wanted to go alone out of fear, but deep down, I thought the little girl inside me needed her mom.

  With the low hum of the tires against the highway, I saw the familiar signs of home—no rush hour traffic, the cow pastures, redwood trees, the ocean, the occasional billboard advertising the Benbow Inn, Humboldt Soup Company, water companies for marijuana growers. We passed Humboldt State University, College of the Redwoods, the bird refuge as we drove the open road of Highway 101.

  This is where I belong.

  This is where my heart is.

  In this truck.

  With this boy.

  In this place.

  I’d never been so sure of anything in my whole entire life. That I knew to be truth in its purest form.

  Cash leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “I’m going to take you home to see Erla and Don, but I have a surprise for you, so when you’re done, give me a call, and I’ll come pick you up.”

  Cash and I drove out to Centerville Beach. It was nice, being able to go farther out of town than we used to. The horses and the four-wheeler could only get us so far.

  Cash grabbed a blanket and a picnic basket from the back of the truck, and we laid the blanket down on the sand. Set the picnic basket down.

  Cash opened the picnic basket and took out two waters and two sandwiches. “Turkey, lettuce, cheese. No tomato or onion, right?” he asked.

  “Nailed it. And I’m starving.”

  He took his sandwich out after handing me mine. “Surprised Erla let you out of the house without eating.”

  “Since the cancer, she doesn’t force me to eat anything.”

  But I saw his body language change when I mentioned the cancer. His movements became rigid, tighter.

  “Hey,” I whispered and took his hand and pulled it to my lap. “I’m okay. See?”

  Cash met my eyes. “I know.”

  He tried to hide the fear, but I saw it staring back at me in the form of an uncertain smile. I knew he felt helpless, and watching me suffer was probably one of the hardest things he’d ever had to live through.

  We ate our sandwiches and listened to the ocean waves that poured in against the shore.

  The ocean in Northern California wasn’t like the ocean in Southern California. It was sneakier, colder, and meaner. It has been known to snatch children, adults, and pets off its shores that got too deep, too close.

  But it was absolutely beautiful from this view as the bright orange sun dipped into the ocean.

  It is truly amazing how quick sunsets actually are, I thought to myself.

  Cash removed an old, empty bottle from the picnic basket.

  “What’s that?” I asked, wadding the parchment paper from my sandwich into a ball.

  The Dillon Creek Meat Market has the best sandwiches in the county.

  He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a note. Handed it to me.

  Cash Atwood and Scarlet Brockmeyer. Forever and always. June 2008.

  I grinned at Cash as I leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. I quickly pulled away, for fear it might get too far and too out of hand here on the beach.

  It dawned on me. My list.

  “Item number eight!” I squealed.

  I took the bottle and dropped the note inside. We abandoned our spot and walked to the water’s edge just as the last wave left the shore.

  I looked at Cash.

  “Well?” he said.

  And I threw it as far as I could into the ocean.

  We couldn’t hear the glug or the splash over the waves that continued to crash against the shore. We quickly turned and ran back toward our blanket, where we collapsed together and faced each other on our sides.

  “I like your hair,” he whispered. “But I would have loved you without hair for as long as you’d have me.”

  And with that, he gently and slowly put his lips to mine, and I opened to him. Our mouths explored one another, and heat moved through us and against us.

  We tried our best to keep things calm between us, but when I felt him harden against me, he stopped and said, “Nope. Not here.”

  36

  Cash: Age 16

  Dillon
Creek, California

  Scar’s hair had come back a different shade of red. A stronger red, a more vibrant red. Still thin, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in the world.

  With her handwritten letters, I could tell when the chemotherapy had gotten the best of her because her handwriting became weak and light and almost hard to read. Times we had talked on the phone, I could hear the strain in her voice, the tired hoarseness.

  I’d tried to tell her that we should hang up, so she could rest, but she’d said, “No, please. Just tell me a story.”

  I knew she was lonely, and my heart broke.

  It had been hard to be so far away from her and so helpless, all at the same time.

  One night, half-asleep, she’d talked about a woman named Marmie. A woman I’d never heard her talk about. A woman I’d never met. She said that she was good to her and took time with her and read her stories and took care of her when her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t. When I’d asked her about it later, she’d changed the subject, so I didn’t think it was too important.

  I’d felt better when Erla and Don were there. Once a month, they’d gone to be with her, and Scarlet always cheered up while they were there. Several times, I’d asked if I could go with Erla and Don, but they always said it wasn’t a good time. Maybe it was Scarlet who hadn’t wanted me to see her so sick, but I’d felt like I had every night on the phone, and the letters that we sent back and forth, I’d felt as though I lived it with her.

  The thing about Scarlet was she never asked for help, no matter what. So, that was why I was standing on the Brockmeyers’ porch, staring at the front door, thinking about Scarlet’s list. Thinking about getting every single item crossed off her list. Because what if she was not around to finish it? What if the cancer came back? What if she gave up? What if she was too tired to keep fighting? Fear started to tickle my spine, and my head began to spin with what-ifs.

  The door opened.

  “Cash? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you knock, son. Please, come on in,” Don said.