Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
PAYING
FORWARD
(a novella)
Lynn Kinnaman
PAYING FORWARD, Copyright ©2012 Lynn Kinnaman
Revised ©2014
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form or format. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Names, places, characters, events, locations, situations and circumstances are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
By payment of the required fees you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this book or the text may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, stored or introduced into any information storage and/or retrieval system in any form, format or means without express written permission from Lynn Kinnaman.
Cover design: Lynn Kinnaman
Cover image credit: iStockphoto, wh1600
To Cathey Sanders, whose friendship
was my shelter in the storm
and whose memory
inspires me to pay it forward every day.
I miss you.
CHAPTER ONE
MALLORY
Time to make myself scarce.
Even though the morning service was over, the church would be busy today. If I wasn’t out of here soon I’d be stuck in my little nook for the duration. Living in a church basement undetected wasn’t difficult if you had a lifetime of practice staying under the radar.
It took a bit of planning at times, such as when they had special activities. This afternoon was some kind of winter festival, the type of thing people do in the northern states to get through the long cold days of January and February.
Montana would not have been my first choice, but my mom, her head filled with visions of rugged cowboys, dragged me wherever her flights of fancy led. And this last time, it was to the bustling metropolis of Lone Pine, where she decided I was dead weight.
I have to give the woman credit. She didn’t teach me much, but she taught me how to be a survivor. She took off a few months ago, on my 18th birthday, satisfied that she’d done her duty and gotten me to the age of majority. Run, mama, run.
For a while I lived in the car she’d left behind. Since her ‘special man’ returned she didn’t need anything but him. Even though he was a loser.
Without her, life continued pretty much the way it had when she was around, easier in some ways because I didn’t have to babysit her anymore. I was alone, but I wouldn’t be for long.
I wondered, for the hundredth time, if I was the real reason mom left.
I didn’t want to be late to work. I navigated the my beater through the slushy streets, thankful that old cars were made to last. It wasn’t bad as a car, but it made a lousy home. Especially with the weather turning cold. When my friend invited me to attend church with her, I saw an opportunity.
I read a lot, and I remembered a story where some kids lived in the attic of a school. The basement of a church had possibilities. After some stealthy exploring I found a spot that suited me.
Church people were so trusting. They didn’t have things locked up very well. I wasn’t going to abuse their vulnerability, though. I’m not that kind of person. I’m just someone going through a rough patch.
And I didn’t want pity. I took great pains to look like every other girl my age and fit in. Lately it had become obvious I wasn’t quite like my peers, but I took that in stride, too.
My job at the clothing store allowed me to be a mini-fashionista due to a generous arrangement with the owner, Carole. Carole had a soft spot for people down on their luck, especially girls. I think she had a tough time in her past. She treated me to dinner a few times and she was easy to talk to. I think we’re friends, even though she’s old enough to be my mom.
I did well at the shop. I could relate to the customers my age and the older ones, too. Probably because I understood people. Sometimes I wish I didn’t understand so much. Knowing things made life more complicated.
As the bump became obvious I got good-natured comments and innocent questions that verged on prying, but I had my story and was sticking to it.
That wasn’t enough for my boss. She cornered me one evening when we were closing up. “Mallory, are you getting prenatal care?”
“I can’t afford it,” I said. “Besides,” I smiled with confidence. “I’m young, and healthy, and babies are born at home all the time. It will be fine.” Of course, I didn’t have a home, per se, but like Scarlett O’Hara said, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ Things could change in an instant and you never knew what the next day would bring. It would work out.
“You’re going to have the baby at home? Do you have a doula?”
I squirmed. I hadn’t thought a lot about the actual birth. I was trying to avoid it.
“I’d be happy to pay for a check up, if you want,” Carole said. “I’d like to do something to help.”
“It’s going to be fine,” I said. Her intentions were good, but I wasn’t ready to think about it yet. “I’ve done okay so far.” I gave my protruding belly a light tap. “I don’t like doctors.”
“Is there a father around?”
“No father,” I said, shaking my head. “No problem,” I smiled again, determined to be the very image of a woman in control of her destiny.
I could tell Carole wanted to pursue it, but the phone rang and I got the chance to escape. I’d been around enough to know help came with strings. I didn’t like the obligation.
The shopping mall parking lot had an employee section and after I steered into a slot I sat for a moment feeling the baby move. I imagined it stretching. It amazed me that a human being could fit in that space. It horrified me that it would have to get out, and soon.
I pushed that image away, replacing it with my favorite diversion these days. The name game. I had a book from the library that looked like a peacock due to the strips of paper fanned out at the top, marking pages of names I liked.
Picking a name for the baby, the right name, was crucial. No one knew that better than me. The first thing I’d done when I checked out the book was to look up my own name.
Mallory. The name meant “unlucky”.
If I hadn’t been convinced of the importance of a name before, that did it. Even before I knew what it meant, the curse of unlucky plagued me.
But that was going to change.
Everyone has obstacles in their lives. A lot of them way bigger than just having a baby. They overcame them. I’ve read about people who had succeeded despite their crummy circumstances.
It wasn’t easy, but I know I can do it.
I was smart. I was responsible. I had a job I was good at. One I didn’t want to be late for.
I locked the car and walked across to the store entrance.
Snow had fallen during the night and it covered everything with a soft white blanket, changing the contours and lines until familiar things became strange. At one time I’d thought about disappearing, too, giving in to what I knew, living the same way my mother had, on the edges of society.
My hand crept to my stomach again and my fingers spread wide, protectively. That was before the baby.
I was determined this life would be differ
ent.
HOLLY
Holly stood at her daughter’s door. “You can’t go. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”
Amy scowled at her, the picture of insolence.
“I mean it. I don’t think any of you know what you’re getting into with these older kids and I don’t think you’re ready. Especially for an overnight camping trip.”
She’d heard plenty from the other mothers about what happened with the college kids in the woods. Alcohol, drugs, guns, not to mention the promiscuity. There was no way she’d allow it.
“I’m a senior! They aren’t that much older than me. How about if I just go up for the day? And stay for the campfire? I’ll be back before 10.”
Great. Like that was better. Maybe marginally, but Holly knew full well that whatever trouble someone could get into wasn’t restricted to after dark. She wasn’t much older than Amy when she’d managed to get pregnant in broad daylight.
The progeny of that liaison now glared at her, defiant and unmoved.
“No. No way.”
“What are you going to do, lock me up?”
Holly smiled despite herself. “Believe me, the idea has some appeal. But I have faith you’ll respect my wishes.”
Amy threw herself onto the bed, poised to pitch a fit. Then she seemed to reconsider.
“Fine. I’ll stay home, then, but I will not go to the stupid FebFest.”
The February Festival had a fancy name but no one could remember it and everyone called it the FebFest. Held on the President’s Day, when school was out, it marked the unofficial apex of the winter season. It gave people a chance to get together, raise some money for the local nonprofits and socialize.
As recently as last year, Amy enjoyed being part of the annual event at Bridger Community Church, with the carnival games, bake sale and craft fair.
What a difference a year made. Amy, a compliant child growing up, had become a contrarian, objecting, it seemed, just to object. Questioning everything she’d previously embraced.
While Holly understood it was typical, that didn’t mean she liked it. Although it was fun to see the ways she tried to push the boundaries.
That’s why Holly didn’t blink when Amy brought a couple of her more extreme friends home in a transparent effort to shock her. When they ended up deep in conversation, an outcome Amy apparently neither anticipated nor wanted, that was the last she saw of them, something Holly neither anticipated nor wanted. Meeting her friends gave her a greater understanding of her daughter’s life, but she was smart enough to know that the quickest way to be cut out completely would be to push, and she didn’t want to be cut out.
“You don’t have to go to the FebFest. We’ll miss you, though,” she leaned over to kiss Amy’s head, but she turned away. Holly sighed. The more she tried to be understanding, the less they seemed to communicate.
Peter ran into the room and jumped on the bed, nearly throwing Amy to the floor.
“Watch it, Peter,” she said, grabbing him in a bear hug. Holly was happy to see the sullenness didn’t extend to her baby brother.
“Hurry up, we gotta get ready to go! I want to win a cake this year!”
Amy’s jaw set. “I’m not going.”
Peter recoiled, as if he’d been drenched by a bucket of cold water. “What? Noooo,“ he wailed. “You have to go, I want you to go.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re such a baby.”
Peter shut his mouth, but his lip quivered and a big tear rolled down his cheek and Amy relented.
“I’ll tell you what, you go with mom and I’ll meet you there.” She looked at Holly. Holly raised her eyebrows. Amy shrugged.
“Hooray!” Peter hugged her. “You can help me get a cake. I want chocolate.”
“Let’s get ready,” Holly said, taking Peter’s hand. She steered him out of the room and glanced back. She glimpsed a hint of the woman Amy would become in the fledgling she was, and her heart nearly broke. Time flew by. She wasn’t ready for her children to grow up and grow away from her.
But then, she hadn’t been ready for Amy at all.
When she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d been afraid to tell anyone. She was too young to have a baby, she didn’t know what Mike would think about being a dad, and she was terrified at what her parents would say.
They were already disappointed with their free-spirited daughter. The news would test their love in a way that made her afraid she’d finally done something so bad they wouldn’t forgive her.
Before facing them, though, she had to tell Mike.
She remembered his face. Pure shock and disbelief. She felt like it was her fault, even though he’d been pushing her to “go all the way” for months. He’d gotten out of the pickup, walking to a bridge overlooking a creek. She didn’t dare get out and join him, uncertain of what he would do, unwilling to demand a response.
The passion between them had overwhelmed everything, and the excitement of being together had been like an addiction.
After a while, he’d returned to the truck and gotten back into the driver’s seat.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
She stared at him. What did SHE want to do?
Hmm.
What DID she want to do?
“I guess,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I guess I want to have the baby.”
He nodded. “Then I think we should get married.”
Just like that.
Married.
Hearing him say it, she realized her life was about to change forever. She looked into his eyes, wondering if it was obligation or love. What she saw reassured her.
“Okay,” she said, taking his hand. “Now we have to tell my parents.”
“Mom!” Peter’s voice snapped her out of her reverie.
He ran down the hall toward her.
“I want to wear my dinosaur tee-shirt. I can’t find it.”
She brushed her memories aside. “I think I saw it in the dryer.”
She found the shirt and he pulled it over his head. “Hurry up so you can help me get the cookies in the car.”
On their way out, she resisted the urge to go back and hug her daughter. She found her to be both frustrating and endearing, and the parenting role to be a balancing act between too much freedom and not enough.
In this case, she had to be consistent. Her motherly intuition was throwing red flags all over the place. Something in the air, something not good, and she didn’t want her daughter involved.
“Bye, Amy,” she called out. “See you at the festival.”
“Yay!” Peter said, a cupcake in hand and frosting on his face. “Hurry up, sissy!”
“Okay, Peter, see you soon,” Amy called back as they went out the door.
CAROLE
Carole checked the clock, calculating her options. If she took the pies over now, she would have that out of the way with plenty of time to pick up her mother. But she’d have to leave right now. Unfortunately the pants she intended to wear were in the dryer, still too damp for comfort. Since she’d gained weight, she refused to buy any more fat clothes. She figured it would force her to lose weight. All it had accomplished so far was endless washing, as she couldn’t go three days on the outfits she had.
Digging through her closet, she looked for something that might work. Her anger surged. Why had she let this happen? It didn’t matter what the reason, the result was now she felt uncomfortable in her own body.
She opened the dryer door, pulled out the pants and shook them. Good enough. As she slipped them on, she felt the dampness cling to her skin. She’d turn up the heat in the car. That ought to do it. She checked the clock again. Great! Now she’d had no time to get the pies there first. It would be rush-rush, panic-panic, as usual.
No matter how hard she tried to get ahead of the game, she rarely had the luxury of enjoying a moment of her day, intent on simply keeping up. Like a rat in a treadmill, she ran constantly, never feeling like she was getting anywhere. And th
e additional burden of her mother made things even more difficult.
Her mother’s mental illness and her caustic comments made time together sheer torture. In her presence, Carole kept a running dialogue with herself to stave off the hurtful remarks.
She read books on how to deal with difficult people.
She attended support groups.
She prayed.
But still mother’s sharp words would slip through the cracks of her assembled armor and find their mark. Accurate due to life-long practice.
She loaded the pies carefully into the car. Two cherry, two apple. They smelled wonderful and tasted just as good. She knew, because the third cherry pie sat in her fridge, minus a generous sample wedge for testing.
She pulled up in front of the retirement village, where her mother had an apartment. Knocking on the door, she felt her stomach clench. What awaited her on the other side of the door? Would her mother be nice, be angry, be calm or vicious? She’d hope the woman would mellow given she was 80 years old. After all, the words “life’s too short” were never more apt than when you had reached the twilight years.
She knocked again.
“Coming, I’m coming!”
The door opened, revealing a wizened pixie face, twisted into a scowl.
“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you give me a minute to get to the door?”
Her mother wobbled out, pulling the door firmly shut. She turned the key in the lock, then jiggled the handle. This was a routine Carole had watched a million times. Safeguarding her possessions was mother’s Holy Grail, and she lived in fear of someone encroaching on her space or absconding with her stuff.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you heard me.” Carole hated that her voice sounded so weak and helpless.
“Well, you think I’m stupid, can’t hear the door knock.” Her mother clung to her arm as they shuffled to the car. Carole opened the door and helped guide her mother into the passenger side.
“What’s that I smell? Smells burnt. Did you make pies again? You should do something besides pies, I don’t think they are your best…”
Paying Forward (The Lone Pine Series) Page 1
