I am incredibly happy for Jake and Delilah, but it is hard to watch them be so happy together. I was once Jake—so head over heels in love, with the only person who mattered in life being the girl standing before me. I find it sort of ironic how life can change like that in a split second.
Now, I want nothing to do with any woman. I don’t want to be happy, or fall in love, or even make a friend. I just want to survive this life the only way I know how—complete detachment from everyone except my daughter, and now, Mrs. Fields.
Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of Presley’s death. It’s impossible to think it has been an entire year since I’ve held the love of my life. It remains incredibly raw to me. I can still feel the weight of her dying body in my arms. I can still feel the blood as it soaked through my jeans and saturated my hands. I try to forget that night—more than I try to breathe—but it’s always there the minute I close my eyes. I can’t even think about the good times I spent with Presley because all I can see is the blood and death. It takes over my mind, haunting me constantly.
When I found out Jeremy was dealing and when I thought I lost Mia forever, my life took a radical turn toward hatred. Over the last year, I’ve transformed into a living, breathing villain to others. I never smile anymore. Hell, I don’t know what it feels like to regularly smile anymore. The only person who can make me crack a smile is Mia, and she is the only person I will shed my anger for.
The only other times I can truly dissolve some of my anger is when I’m drunk, or when I’m in the garage beating the shit out of the punching bag. Often times, when my nights are sleepless and the dreams of losing Presley are too daunting to bear, you’ll find me in the garage, slamming my fists into the bag. Needless to say, I’ve been in the garage every night since I got Mia back. As my world lies crumbled at my feet, I feel for a small moment that I can put it all back together when I beat the shit out of something.
As Darcie passes me a shot of whiskey and a mug of Guinness, I quickly slam the shot back and then chase the burn with a big swig of my favorite beer. The taste is delicious as I move from being pained and sober to free and intoxicated, releasing my demons if only for a moment.
And this is me. I’m a man who never looks up anymore. I don’t care to see the world around me. I don’t want to see happiness because all it does is piss me off. Any kind of happiness, even an intoxicated happiness, makes me extremely angry.
I keep my head down whenever I’m around others. I don’t talk to anyone at work unless I have to. I barely talk to my family who lives with me, and I sure as hell don’t talk to anyone when I’m in the bar. I don’t want to appear inviting to anyone because I’m anything but. I just want to keep to myself and survive long enough to get to Saturday when I get drunk, then I will go home and pass out. It’s the only night a week I can sleep without the interrupted thoughts of my dying girlfriend running through my head.
***
The light in the morning is always painful on Sundays. I’m nursing a pretty bad hangover this morning, more painful than most, but last night, the buzz wasn’t coming fast enough. I needed to be numb. Six shots of whiskey and five beers later, I was passing out on the bar and Reggie took it upon himself to drive me home. I remember him dragging me to the couch in his office, but after that, it’s all blank. However, I did get several hours of uninterrupted sleep. It’s something I look forward to every Saturday night.
I stand from my bed and stretch then make my way to the shower. A year ago, I was literally skin and bones; all my muscle mass was gone. Now, I’ve bulked myself up again, maybe more than I was. Working the heavy bag is a perfect way to let off some steam and beat out all the pent up anger, and for the last year, that’s all I have had inside me—anger. Every night, after Mia’s tucked away in bed, I go out to the garage for hours and slam my fists, legs and knees into the hard, leather bag in an attempt to shed the pain and rage. It works momentarily, yet it soon comes back when I’m reminded of how shitty my life has been.
After my shower, I grab my keys and head toward Mrs. Fields’s apartment with the thought of the anniversary of Presley’s death haunting the back of my mind.
Since I walked out of the funeral home the day she was buried, I haven’t acknowledged her death visually once. I have yet to visit her grave, and in all honesty, I don’t think I ever will. There is no part of my brain willing to accept that she’s dead. I just want to live in my semi-peaceful oblivion with my head down. I have a constant reminder whenever I close my eyes at night of what I’ve lost; why would I go to a grave and relive that pain when I’m awake? Nothing good will come from it, so why put myself through that? Existing for my daughter has worked for the past year and I don’t want to upset the balance. I just want to exist for Mia and everything else can simply fade away into nothing. Staring at a headstone in the middle of a graveyard won’t bring Presley back, so what’s the point?
Pulling into the apartment complex, I reflect on how it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. Now that Carter is rotting in prison, I’ve come to terms with being here and don’t find it difficult to control my anger every time I pull in to park.
Nothing has changed since I’ve lived here. The building is still rundown, the shrubs overgrown around the broken pool, and the security gate still doesn’t lock. When Presley was pregnant, I was so sure this was the happiest place on the planet because we were finally making a home outside the walls of where I grew up. The three of us were going to be a family and create happy memories I never had when I was a child. Again, I find it ironic how utterly wrong that was—my stupid, optimistic disposition.
I can hear cartoons on the TV when I walk into the apartment. Mia is sitting on the floor playing with her dollhouse people.
“Dadda!” she squeals then comes running into my arms. It warms my soul hearing Mia’s first word, and that word is my name. The smile I almost never don always surfaces when I look at my daughter and it’s spread across my face now. All I have to do is wrap my arms around my little girl and my smile breaks free from its aching prison.
“Hi, my sweet girl. How’s my baby?” I kiss her cheek and she snuggles for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder, something she always does when I hold her. It’s a very brief gesture, but incredibly precious and only ours.
She’s grown so much in the last year. The doctor says she’s in the ninety-eighth percentile for her height and eighth percent for her weight, but he told me she’s completely healthy. Her baby face is starting to slim since she’s constantly running, jumping or dancing with happiness. I am amazed at how well she’s adjusted to life since her first year in this world was so traumatic. The doctor has reassured me how resilient children are, and that, with the proper love and care, Mia will grow to be a well-adjusted child.
I’ve had to complete a year’s worth of random drug testing and home visits from Cindy with the Child Protective Services office. She was responsible for getting Mia back into my arms so quickly when she was taken, so I did anything she asked to keep myself in her good graces.
The first test was very insulting; I clearly remember how impossible it was to keep a lid on my anger. I couldn’t get Jeremy out of my mind. It was still very new to everyone, and the house was fueled with a toxicity we could not cure. However, I managed to keep myself under control long enough to get through the first visit, and after that, they seemed more manageable.
As always, Mia looks absolutely adorable dressed in her purple and pink outfit with cats on the front of her shirt. Delilah has been a godsend when it comes to the care of a little girl. She helps me shop for clothes and has taught me how to braid her hair.
I want to do everything for Mia now that I’m her only parent, so I’ve insisted on learning how to brush and care for a little girl’s hair. It wasn’t easy at first—I would have to chase her around the house just to get a comb through it—but we’ve established a routine of Mickey Mouse and fruit snacks while I attempt to tame her wild head.
She still looks a lot like me—her caramel skin matches mine, as well as her high amounts of energy—but her eyes are all Presley. They are the same honey-brown color, wide and expressive just as her mother’s were. I get lost sometimes looking into her eyes. They remind me of a happier time and make me miss my love every single day.
Mia leans back in my arms with a look on her face that is very serious, and I know she’s deep in thought. She lifts her hand and points to her shirt. “Titties?”
I panic slightly, thinking Jake has taught her something inappropriate for his own humor. He is always trying to get Mia to say something stupid, and I have this horrible feeling when she starts preschool next year she will be teaching her classmates some colorful new words. However, when I look again to where she’s pointing, relief washes over me.
Suppressing a laugh, I try to correct her. “Kitties.”
The cutest giggle comes from her mouth, and she smiles with delight. “Titties.”
“No, kitties,” I attempt to correct again, putting more emphasis on the K sound. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind then squirms out of my arms, resuming her play with her dollhouse people. Apparently, this conversation is over.
“I’ve been trying all morning to correct her, but she’s quite stubborn.” Mrs. Fields comes from the back room and walks up to me, giving me a hug. “She’s a little spunky thing sometimes, but I always manage to laugh.”
I return her hug, feeling a small amount of peace as she shows me affection. I’ve never really had a mother’s love, but when Presley died, we established a relationship that very much resembles what a mother would have with a son. Even though she’s old enough to be my grandmother, I still think of her as a mother.
I go into the kitchen and start pulling dishes from the cupboard, setting them at the small table in the dining area. We work in comfortable silence together as we get everything settled for lunch.
When Mrs. Fields dishes up the food, I pull Mia from the floor and put her in her chair. I place a bib around her neck and blow on her food in an attempt to cool it off while Mia waits contently for her lunch. When I place it in front of her, she giggles and digs in. Mashed potatoes immediately cover her face as she shovels her food in her mouth. The sight makes me laugh and reminds me of her first birthday when she shoved cake in her mouth. She just can’t get enough and must take after her daddy with her unquenchable appetite.
Mrs. Fields joins us at the table and dishes up our plates. My mouth waters when I smell the roast chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables in front of me. I love Sunday dinners with Mrs. Fields because she always goes all out and never runs out of food. She knows how much I eat and I think she enjoys taking care of someone again. Before Presley and I moved next door, I got the feeling Mrs. Fields was very lonely. Then, when she started watching Mia, she sprung back to life and has enjoyed looking after us since.
We sit in relaxed stillness for a while until Mrs. Fields speaks, breaking the silence. “I’m sure you know what today is.” Her voice is quiet and sad. I can feel my mood plummet when she reminds me it’s been a year since Presley’s died.
I clear my throat as I set my fork down then take a large drink of milk. “Yeah…I know.”
“Have you considered going to her grave yet?”
I feel like my heart has collided with a truck. Of course I’ve considered it. I’ve considered it every single day when I shut my eyes and get reminded of what’s missing from my life. “I’m not ready for that yet.” It’s all I need to say and the conversation is over. Mrs. Fields recognizes my heartache and doesn’t pry any further. She gets it and never pushes.
“Did I tell you my granddaughter is graduating next weekend?” And just like that, the subject has been changed.
“No. Are you going to make a trip to Wisconsin?”
“Yes, I’ve told you about my daughter, she won’t come visit me here because this place holds so many memories from her childhood. It makes no sense to me, but I leave her alone about it. However, I will see my baby sister and hopefully my niece. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her. She and my granddaughter used to be so close.” Mrs. Fields looks at the wall behind me, obviously lost in a memory, then she continues, “I will be leaving on Friday and won’t be back until Monday. The ceremony is on Sunday afternoon, but there will be a little party on Saturday night that I want to help my daughter get ready for. I won’t be able to watch Mia for a couple of days.”
“Sounds good. I will ask Darcie or Delilah to watch Mia while you’re gone.” It’s then I that realize I don’t know much about Mrs. Fields personally, and I’m curious. “What’s your granddaughter’s name?”
A forced smile comes across her face. “Sophia Jane. She’s such a beautiful girl. She’s graduating from college and went to school to be a teacher.” The look on her face tells me there’s tension between the two of them, but I avoid it and shovel in a mouthful of potatoes.
We finish the rest of our meal in silence, and then I move to the kitchen to start clearing up the mess. Mrs. Fields and I have a system on Sundays—she cooks and I clean. It’s the least I can do when she’s done so much for me in return.
When Mia starts throwing food, I know she’s done with her dinner. I pull her from her chair after wiping mashed potatoes from her cheeks, hair and clothes as best as I can.
While Mrs. Fields sits and rests on the couch, I take Mia in the backroom to change her clothes and diaper then sit down in the rocking chair. As always, I rock her back and forth, singing the lullaby Presley used to sing her to sleep. Moments into the song, Mia falls fast asleep. I hold her for a couple more minutes, embracing my baby in my arms, then lay her down in the crib.
Passing down the small hallway, I take the opportunity to look at the pictures on the walls. She doesn’t have much hanging up, just a couple of her wedding photos, an older picture of a woman who I assume is her daughter holding a young child, and mountain landscapes. None of the pictures are recent and it makes me wonder why.
I move back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up the mess, rinsing and scrubbing as I put the dishes in the dishwasher and leftovers in the fridge. Once the kitchen is tidy again, I sit with Mrs. Fields for a few peaceful minutes before my food coma settles in and I fall asleep.
Chapter 6
Zoe
The blood is dripping down my face in a constant, steady flow. It’s falling from my hairline, tracing over my temple and dripping off my jaw. The pain isn’t too bad, but this “incident” is a time too many and I can’t handle this anymore. I’ve been with him for a year—the longest I’ve been anywhere in the last four years—but these last two months have been unbearable. I’m stronger than this.
The second he put his hands on me, my mind was made up. I will not let a fucking man hit me. Granted, my mouth got me into trouble, however that doesn’t give him the right to punch me in the head. I have nothing to stick around for; he was my only real connection to this place.
I start yanking clothes from hangers in my closet and tossing them into a large, black suitcase. I decided to move in with Terrance only a few months ago, so my trunk still has most of my belongings in it. My motto always is: if it won’t fit in my car, then I don’t need it.
When I get to a new place, I look for the cheapest living situation, knowing I won’t be staying for long. For the last four years, I’ve lived a budgeted lifestyle, sleeping on an air mattress and cooking my food in a tiny microwave. I haven’t used any of this stuff since I moved in with Terrance, and am actually looking forward to going back to the life I understand—a life where I only depend on myself.
When you move around as much as I do, it doesn’t make sense to keep stuff that doesn’t fit into your car. That way, when I’m ready to up and leave, there’s not much to pack up.
I give the large apartment another last look, grabbing a picture frame of me and my cousin, Sophia. I smile to myself, instantly brought back to simpler times. She was my best friend until the night everyth
ing changed. I miss her every day, but like my mother, she won’t have anything to do with me. The pain of being disowned is still there, yet I won’t give in—not a single inch. I was telling the truth and they chose to believe the lie.
All of that is in the past and my future lies with me and my decisions. I won’t let another person dictate my life again. With that thought, I grab my suitcase and haul it to my car, which, other than my trunk full of possessions, is the only thing that truly belongs to me.
Just after I was disowned from my family, I took a bus to Colorado because I had always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains. I wanted to live on a mountain, away from civilianization. That way, I couldn’t be disappointed by people again. When I made it there, I immediately got a job as a waitress at a truck stop where I had spied a fire engine red 1970 Chevy Chevelle for sale across the street. I dug the color, style and the black racing stripes painted up the center. I needed that car. That car represented my freedom and the ability to do whatever the hell I wanted.
Soon after that, I got a night job as a bartender, making a decent amount of cash. The car’s seller was asking fifteen thousand for the car, and from my understanding, no one was willing to pay the asking price. It wasn’t in the greatest condition—it had some rust spots around the bottom—but the interior was nearly perfect and the motor was decent.
Living on nothing for months, I saved ten thousand dollars and made the seller a deal. He accepted a blow job and seven thousand dollars for the car. Not my finest moment and not the first time I whored myself out for something that I wanted, but what’s done is done. I have no regrets. I have a car and my freedom.
It’s so hot this morning, and I’m ready for cooler temperatures. I pull out the map and red marker from the glove box then place a big X over the state of Louisiana. I won’t be coming back here anytime soon, if ever. I lay the map across the hood of the car and study all the red X’s across the United States—I’ve lived in several different states since I left my family in Wisconsin.
Surviving Love Page 4
