Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 62
Abby tried to put a reassuring smile on her face. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I hope so. Hurry, so we can go see.”
Within a few minutes they finished their cones and climbed into the minivan. This time Abby avoided looking at other cars on the road, staring straight ahead until they reached their driveway.
As the garage door slid open, she immediately saw the empty space where Eric’s Jeep should have been. Her heart sank as the hope he would somehow be home by now was smashed. Then her spirits lifted at the thought of a message on the answering machine.
She hurried the girls into the house and went straight into the office to check for any messages. Though the light wasn’t blinking, Abby punched the PLAY button, just to hear the message from that morning, just to hear Eric’s voice.
“I … I guess I just missed you. I wanted to tell you that I love you and … I’m sorry.”
As she listened to the now-familiar words, she wondered if she had misunderstood the intent of the message earlier that day. She had assumed he was apologizing for not accompanying her to the doctor’s appointment. Now she began to believe it was something altogether different.
Confusion and worry coiled together in her mind. She didn’t understand what was happening.
She went upstairs to help the girls get ready for bed.
“Mom, why isn’t Dad here to tuck us in?” Susannah asked as she climbed into bed. “He always tucks us in.”
Abby looked from Susannah to Tiffany. “I’m not sure when he’ll be home.”
“How come, Mom?” Susannah asked.
Stress made Abby’s tone sharper than usual. “I don’t know, okay?”
Both girls stared at their mother.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said, putting a warm smile on her face. “Now, let’s get you tucked in.”
After the girls were settled in for the night, Abby wandered down the stairs. It was getting late and she feared Eric would not be coming home at all that night.
Just like before. She shook her head. I thought that was behind us.
She considered calling her mother or sister, but immediately dismissed the idea, not ready to confirm their low opinion of her husband.
Walking slowly around the house, Abby locked the front door, activated the burglar alarm, and closed all the blinds. As she reached for the book she had gotten from the library earlier that day, she saw the green origami bird on the bookshelf and vowed she wouldn’t open it until Eric was there with her.
Unexpected tears filled her eyes as the reality that her husband was missing seeped into her very soul. Abby sank to the floor and leaned against the bookshelf, tears rolling down her face. All kinds of images raced through her mind, and now that she didn’t have to put up a brave front for her daughters, she let the pictures flow freely.
Eric, what have you done? Could I have helped you? Why did you leave?
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she slowly stood and trudged toward the staircase, not bothering to turn off the lights.
Dropping her clothes in a heap on the bedroom floor, she crawled under the covers on Eric’s side of the bed and pulled the blankets up tight against her chin. The baby began its nightly ritual of kicking and Abby rubbed her belly to comfort herself as much as to comfort her baby.
During the night Abby woke up several times from nightmares she couldn’t recall, each time reaching over to receive reassurance from Eric and jolting awake when she remembered he wasn’t there.
Chapter 4
It had been twenty-four hours since Abby’s world had shifted. Now, as she lay in bed waiting for her alarm clock to tell her it was okay to give up on sleep, she decided it was time to do something about Eric’s absence.
As she gazed at the ceiling, a new day stretched in front of her—a day that could end well if Eric came home, or badly if she didn’t hear anything. Tossing back the covers, she rolled out of bed and headed to the shower, where the hot needles woke her up completely and soothed her clammy skin. Once she dried off and pulled on her robe, she used her towel to wipe the steam from the mirror, then stared at her face. The heat of the water had turned her cheeks into blazes of pink. She knew that wouldn’t last. The circles under her eyes had been steam-shrunk into submission, and her wet brown hair dripped paths of water down the back of her robe.
Wrapping the towel around her head, she padded into the walk-in closet and stared at Eric’s clothing. On impulse, she rifled through the carefully arranged rows of shirts and pants to see if anything was missing. She wasn’t certain, but there did seem to be a few items absent. She grabbed a handful of his shirts and pulled them off their hangers, burying her face in the fabric. Eric’s scent filled her nostrils and she closed her eyes, picturing his grinning face.
How could you leave without telling me anything? She thought. What’s going on?
Carefully hanging Eric’s shirts back up, Abby stared at his clothes again. Then overwhelming anger at her husband coursed through her and she wrenched half the shirts and all of the pants from their hangers in a vain attempt to purge the helplessness and rage.
Abby stopped mid-pull and slowly sank to the floor, drawing her legs as close to her chest as her pregnant stomach would allow and laying her cheek against her knees.
Where are you? her mind shrieked. Why haven’t you contacted me? Don’t you care about me? Don’t you care about our children?
Abby stared at the pile of clothes on the floor as she thought about that day, eleven years before, when Eric had confided in her.
They had both been in college, Eric a junior and Abby a freshman, when they met in a biology class. After they had been dating for four months, Eric had asked her to come with him to the park. They were walking hand in hand when Eric pulled her onto a nearby bench.
“Abby, I have something very important to tell you.”
Thinking he might be about to propose, Abby sat silently on the bench, watching the man she was falling in love with.
“You have no idea how hard this is for me.” Eric looked directly into her eyes as she smiled her encouragement. “Last year, I finally faced up to something.”
A sinking feeling started in Abby’s heart as she realized this conversation was about to take an unexpected turn.
Eric took her hands in his. “You must know how much I’ve grown to care about you these last couple of months.” He smiled, his whole face lighting up. “I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone.” The smile faded. “But if this relationship is going to go anywhere, I think you have the right to know something about me that…” His gaze dropped to his lap. “That might make you want to forget you ever knew me.”
Abby’s pulsed quickened as she waited to hear what he was about to reveal.
“When I was in high school I gave in to a temptation I never thought I’d be faced with. I started smoking pot.” He concentrated on his hands before going on. “Then I began snorting cocaine. I even began dealing it.” He lifted his gaze to meet Abby’s.
She stared at him, shocked by his admission.
“And to make matters worse I got arrested. Even though I wasn’t convicted, it was horrible. Not only that, I started failing most of my classes.” He stared at his hands. “I did some awful things to pay for the coke.” He looked back up at Abby, an ashamed expression on his face.
“Last year,” he continued, “when someone I knew died of an overdose, I finally realized I could be next. That’s when I quit. Believe me, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through, but I did it.” He stopped and looked steadily at Abby.
“Why did you try it?” She wanted to understand him.
Eric closed his eyes briefly, then looked at Abby. “Looking back, I can see I was trying to escape the problems I was having with my father. Hanging out with certain people didn’t help. In fact, that was one of the things my Dad was always bugging me about. He didn’t like my friends, but I just wanted to fit in and part of being accepted was using the drugs. I went along with it. I have to
admit I liked it. It seemed to make my troubles fade away.” He looked at Abby as his voice softened. “I know it sounds lame now, but I just wanted to fit in.”
Abby was quiet. Finally she said, “I know how it feels to want to be loved.” A lump formed in her throat as she thought back to her own childhood.
His face brightened. “Thank you for listening. I knew you’d understand—”
Abby stopped him. “I need to think about this for a while. I feel like I know you and can trust you, and I care about you a lot, but this is a pretty big deal.”
Eric was quiet, but he nodded.
In the end she’d decided to trust him. Now, sitting in her walk-in closet and staring at the mess she’d made on the floor, Abby thought about Eric’s drug problem.
Could he have had a relapse? Am I foolish to believe he’s changed? They say once you’re addicted it’s something you have to battle for the rest of your life. But after that last time, he promised me he was really done with drugs now …
Then the doubts started crawling in and she had to squeeze her eyes closed to make them go away.
When she felt in control of her thoughts, she stood, ignoring the pile of Eric’s clothes, and with calmness she didn’t feel, grabbed some of her own clothes and walked out of the closet.
As difficult as it was, for the girls’ sake she had to get control of her emotions. She plodded over to the love seat in her little alcove and sank down onto the full cushions, staying there until she felt composed.
Once she was ready to meet the day, she wandered down the stairs and punched the code into the burglar alarm to turn it off, then paused, thinking how even this small thing made her think of Eric. They had chosen the code together.
It was recently, after they had been living in this house for five and a half years, that Eric had suddenly decided they needed a burglar alarm. After the man had installed it, she and Eric had come up with their own code. They had toyed with the idea of using the digits of the year they had married. Though it was corny, Eric had loved the idea. But in the end they had settled on Tiffany’s birth year, thinking it would be easier for her to remember the code—if they decided to teach her how to use the system at all at only nine years old. Now, after turning the alarm off, she couldn’t help but reflect on the suddenness with which Eric had decided they needed to buy one. She was glad he had, though.
She flipped off the porch light and opened the front door.
The late-April morning felt wonderful. She smiled briefly as she looked at the pansies blooming in her flower garden, ignoring the weeds. Stepping onto the front porch she saw the cat’s empty bowl. She picked it up and brought it to the kitchen, where she scooped out the day’s portion of food.
As Abby set the bowl back on the porch, the sound of a bell on a collar caught her attention. Pumpkin, their orange tabby, scampered up to be scratched. Abby obliged, then walked down the driveway to retrieve the paper, looking up and down the street at the neighbors’ houses. She envied their normal lives.
Silently hoping Eric hadn’t had another relapse, she spread the newspaper on the counter and searched for any mention of an accident with an unknown victim. She found nothing.
She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not. Is it better for him to be hurt rather than using drugs again? The thought seized her already-troubled mind, and she scolded herself for losing faith in her husband. Then, thinking about the promises he’d made more than once, she wondered if he was trustworthy. Abby went into the family room and lay on the couch, exhausted from the events of the last twenty-four hours. She wanted to rest for a few minutes before it was time to wake the girls for school.
Instead, she woke to the sound of the television. She sat up on the couch and saw Tiffany and Susannah engrossed in a morning cartoon, still wearing their pajamas. Abby looked at her watch and jumped up.
“Girls! School starts in twenty minutes.”
Looking at their mother in surprise, they sprang into action, running upstairs to get dressed while Abby went into the kitchen to pour them bowls of cereal.
After dropping them off at school, Abby drove back home and noticed the sink was full of dirty dishes. In contrast to the day before, when she had tackled the job with energy, today the task seemed overwhelming, and she still had to go to work later that morning.
Pushing thoughts of work aside, she realized she couldn’t put off doing something about Eric’s disappearance any longer. The uncertainty was crushing her.
Whether he was intentionally missing or not, he could be hurt. So she started by calling the local hospitals. The second one she called said they had a John Doe in the emergency room matching Eric’s general description. They wouldn’t tell her what his injuries were but suggested she come down to see if it was her husband.
After hanging up the phone, Abby felt saliva gathering in her mouth. It was a signal that she was about to throw up. Pressing her hand against her lips, she hurried into the bathroom and flung up the toilet seat, hanging her head, waiting. She was grateful when nothing happened.
She gently closed the lid and sat down on it.
It’s probably not him, she tried convincing herself. I’m sure it’s someone else. I’ll check to be certain, but I’m sure it’s not him.
Once she felt in control, she rushed out to the car and raced to the hospital. Parking her car haphazardly, she hurried into the emergency room. Frustrating Abby’s haste was a line at the counter. She tried to get someone’s attention as nurses strode by. Everyone ignored her until a man in a white jacket noticed her pregnant condition.
“I’m Dr. Edson, ma’am. Can I help you with something?”
She looked at him with appreciation. “Yes. I think my husband might be here.”
He looked puzzled. “You don’t know?”
“He’s missing and I think he might be here.”
“Oh.” He paused, then asked gently, “Our John Doe?”
“Yes. Can I see him?”
She followed the doctor down the hall toward an examination room. He stopped outside the curtained area. “He came in this morning and he’s in pretty bad shape. If he’s your husband, the police will want to talk to you. Do you want to call someone to be with you?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, anxious to see if it was Eric.
The doctor looked at her with uncertainty. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
Abby breathed in sharply as he pulled back the curtain. The man on the bed had several wires attached to him and an oxygen mask on his face. It was hard to make out his features with all the swelling. Walking softly to the bedside, she gazed down at the unconscious man.
“It’s not him,” she said with a mixture of relief and frustration.
The doctor nodded as Abby turned and left the room.
Find No Way Out Online
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Carol Davis Luce
Self-taught Late Bloomer
My motto is, “If I can do it, anyone can do it.” I wasn’t born to write. I didn’t aspire to be a writer from the time I could hold a Crayon. I could, however, draw, and make things take shape through form and color on paper and canvas, and that’s the path I traveled well into midlife. The artist’s life opened up my eyes and mind to expression and sometimes stories through composition on that blank eighteen by twenty-four inch stretched canvas. Then one day it changed.
As a voracious reader, I was content to read what others wrote. I admired those writers who had mastered the craft. I was happy to dwell in their world for 300 pages, to laugh, cry, and be enlightened and surprised. Until one day when I closed a book by my favorite author and felt something was missing. The novel was a mystery/suspense with elements of romance. The suspense was killer. The romance, however, was lacking, missing those subtleties that resonated with me. I wanted more. The promise of romance was there, but fizzled somewhere along the way. For me, it wasn
’t about graphic sex. It was about sexual tension, passion, love. After searching unsuccessfully for novels to satisfy my romantic suspense fixation, looking for just the right balance, I realized I had to write the book myself.
Only I knew nothing about writing a novel, let alone a genre book with a sub-genre. So I went to the library and checked out a reference book titled, HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL. Easy enough, right? If dedication is easy, then it was easy because I was driven. My artist’s passion shifted to focus on the writer’s canvas. That canvas was structure, words, emotion, and truth. And the rest is history.
Well, almost.
I burned up two electric typewriters before investing in a computer. I checked out every book on the “book writing” reference shelf, and many grammar and stylebooks, and two years later, my 800-page opus, NIGHT STALKER, was finished—
Almost.
I learned about the important shaping process, without which most stories would be unreadable. Editing. The passion and pain of cutting and revising. Finding the jewels that lie buried in too many, or misguided, words. Three years and a dozen revisions later, 400 pages lighter, it found a home with a traditional publisher. Within the first few months of release, it went into three printings and became the flagship for the sub-genre “Woman in Jeopardy/Romantic Suspense” at Kensington Publishing.
Where it started…
I left school at sixteen to marry my high school sweetheart. Six years later, as a housewife and mother, I channeled my artistic talent into sketching and painting, selling my work at a local art gallery. A quarter century later, I traded in my paints and brushes to hit the keyboard. Our three sons, not much for novel reading, are waiting for my books to be made into movies. That childhood sweetheart I married a lifetime ago is now my soul mate of 50 plus years. His encouragement fueled me, and his support allowed me to pursue my goals.
Going back to my motto of, “if I can do it, anyone can.” There has never been a more opportunistic time to try your hand at writing a book. Or taking the plunge and self-publishing. My decision to self-publish my upcoming suspense novels came about when I hit the proverbial brick wall after five published books. With a stalled career, I had a choice. Teach, or see my stories in print again. I chose the latter. My first self-published book is the short story trilogy, BROKEN JUSTICE, followed by my suspense novel, NIGHT WIDOW.