by Calia Read
Trina stares at Mom as though she has three heads. There’s an uncomfortable moment where I think she’s going to completely snub Mom and walk inside her house, but finally she waves back. Seconds later, her girls follow suit. Somehow their stiff waves become synchronized, as if they’ve practiced it before. It’s awkward and formal and says, Let’s acknowledge the crazy person so she’ll leave us alone.
They all look at us like we are the Big Edie and Little Edie of Wildwood—two crazy ladies that taint their wholesome and safe subdivision. But they’re wrong. This isn’t Grey Gardens. I remember watching the documentary a few years back. I was fascinated by the two charming—albeit eccentric—women holed up in their once grand estate in the Hamptons, blissfully unaware of what was going on around them.
Now that I feel myself being compared to them I no longer find Big Edie and Little Edie charming.
How dare any of our neighbors look down on Mom?
Especially Trina.
I call her a one-upper. Whenever someone has good news, she has an even better revelation. You have a bad day? Forget about it because it doesn’t come close to the kind of day Trina’s had! People barely tolerate her, but Mom does. She would stand there on her porch, nodding along while Trina rambled on about her day.
Mom once tutored one of her daughters. I think it was the middle daughter, Jenny. Who the hell knows; they all look the same. Anyway, the girl would come over almost everyday. She would sit with Mom at the kitchen table where they would painstakingly sound out words and slowly read each sentence aloud. Mom had an infinite amount of patience. She never lost her cool, no matter how many times Jenny got a certain word wrong.
Trina, of all people, deserved to return some of that patience. It was the least she could do.
I can just picture her gossiping with one of her friends about how she had to interact with the nutso Susie Kerrington. And I can vividly imagine one of her vapid friends tilting her head to the side and patting Trina on the shoulder, saying, “God, Trina. Your neighbor sounds crazy.”
“I wonder what’s wrong with her,” Mom says in her wistful voice.
“She’s probably just distracted. With three kids who knows what she has on her plate,” I reply lamely and try to steer Mom toward the front door. She slowly shuffles forward and keeps looking back at Trina and her girls.
“I bet you’re right.” She gives me a weak smile as I reach around her and slide my key into the lock. “Her youngest, Jenny, is in seventh grade, isn’t she?” She doesn’t give me time to reply. “Remember when I tutored her? Lovely girl.”
“Yep.” I drop my keys in the key bowl right next to the front door. “I remember you telling me that.”
“I recommended that Trina get the sweet girl a tutor. But she didn’t listen to me. Got all huffy on me. You know how parents can be. Oh, my kid is brilliant! My kid doesn’t need help.” She puts air quotes around the last word and rolls her eyes as she walks into the living room. The remote control and coffee are right where she left them.
Dammit, I should’ve removed the batteries from the remote before we left. I’m beyond sick of watching the Home Shopping Network and The 700 Club. But if the television’s shut off that means silence and that might be worse than any of the mind-numbing shows Mom watches.
“Do you want to take a shower?” I ask nonchalantly.
She looks over at me with bright eyes, like I told her I’d found the cure for cancer. “That sounds wonderful. It’ll warm me up.” She places the remote on the end table and stands up.
I watch as she walks toward the stairs. She grabs the bannister, her pale skin almost translucent against the mahogany wood. Suddenly, she stops in the middle of the stairs and twists around to look at me. She wears a peculiar expression on her face: part suspicious, part insightful.
“What is it?” I ask.
She motions for me to come closer, so I do. When I’m right next to the stairs she bends over and whispers to me, like we’re surrounded by people, “I know how they look at me.”
“How do they look at you?” I ask. I don’t know why. Perhaps I want her to say the words. Crazy. Insane.
“They all think I’m psycho. But I’m not.” She pulls back an inch. “You don’t feel the same way, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say adamantly.
Mom smiles at me. “I knew you’d feel the same way.”
She pushes away and goes up the stairs. I watch her, goose bumps trailing beneath my skin; I lied to her.
Sometimes I do think she’s insane.
I HAVE DISCOVERED that from a distance it is incredibly easy to read people.
In the shadows, people don’t notice you. They let their guard down. Let you into their life without even knowing it. After a while their movements become predictable and you start to feel more intimate with them. You know when they’re irritable or sad. Happy or anxious. And while they keep desperately seeking a cure-all for their afflictions, you stand there in shadows, knowing what they need.
My last gift was what you needed. But you barely noticed. You were too busy with your despair.
Ah, despair, despair, despair. Too many people get caught in that bitch’s web. And the sad truth is that they never find their way out. They never find their figure eight.
They never find me.
The truth of the matter is you didn’t find me. You got lucky and had the tables turned. You may not see me yet. But you will.
Something as big as me takes time to acclimate to. Until then I’m going to give you another present. This one you’re going to take notice of. It is truly something.
I’m actually quite proud of myself with this one. It’s so good that I’m going to let you think that fate, kismet or whatever bullshit you call it was responsible for it. Besides, I have a million more gifts just waiting for you, that I can take credit for.
Each one is bigger and better than the last.
You’ll see.
“YOU’VE GOT MAIL.”
My head jerks up so fast it slams into the lamp to my left. Instinctively I rub the side of my head and slowly take in my surroundings. I’m so out of it that it takes me a minute to realize that I’m up in the computer room.
In a daze, I try to remember what I was doing before I fell asleep. Looking for jobs is a given. But I remember that after awhile I gave up and then binge watched a sitcom on Netflix and that’s why the volume was cranked up so freaking high.
I rub my eyes and ignore how raw my throat feels. It’s two a.m.
With my palms flat on the desk I sit up straight, ignoring the crick in my neck. I click on the new e-mail, ignoring the fuzziness in my brain and the serious cottonmouth I have going on. I should technically drag my tired ass to bed but my mind is slowly starting to wake up and it’s telling me two things: find a damn job and take care of your mom.
I’m doing neither of those things well lately. But I’ve never been good at handling stress. Typically, if I don’t have the answer that I’m looking for, I move on.
I hate remaining idle and everything lately has been about keeping still and being patient. Already I’m on the cusp of a small panic attack. There’s a misconception about panic attacks. They can sneak up on you no matter what you’re doing. At least, that’s always been the case for me. I start to think of all the things that are stacked up against me. All the things that I’m failing at and can’t get to and it feels like thousands of bugs are crawling beneath my skin. My legs get itchy. Sometimes I even break out in hives. I can’t focus on a single thing and it feels like I’m going to pass out.
Before I check my e-mails, I hurry to the bathroom. With my hands curled around the lip of the counter I stare at myself. Now that I’m up, there’s no getting back to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll be a zombie and cranky.
With a sigh I open up the medicine cabinet and look at the array of medications neatly lined up. There are so many that Mom could open her own little pharmacy. I grab the one that says Melatonin and read the dosage: 3m
g. Nope, that’s not enough. I place it on the counter and grab the Remeron. 30mg. That’s more like it.
I grab one Remeron and two Melatonin. Once they’re swallowed I neatly place them back in their correct positions and hope that the medicine does its job. More than half of those medications are Mom’s but the rest are mine. With the exception of the sleep aids, I don’t take the rest.
Why? Because I’m perfectly fine. I may have stressful moments here and there but who doesn’t? It doesn’t mean I need medication to make myself feel better.
I turn off the bathroom light and go back to the computer room. I pass Mom’s room and peek inside. It’s so dark it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Finally, I see the small outline of her body. Slowly, I close the door and walk into the computer room. When I sit down, I click on the new e-mail. It’s from the same person that e-mailed me a few days ago.
Again, there’s no subject. Nonetheless, I click on the e-mail but am disappointed when I see all the person wrote is: Where have you been?
My hands fly across the keyboard as I write back: Sorry. Think you have the wrong person. I press send. Seconds later I get a reply. I don’t think I do. This is Selah… right?
The sight of my name makes me jolt slightly. Who is this person? Maybe it’s a friend from high school that I haven’t spoken to in years? Or a friend of a friend that I randomly gave my e-mail to? Who knows? Either way, I don’t reply.
Then I receive another e-mail.
Selah from JustWrite?
It takes me a few seconds to realize what this person is talking about. Then I groan.
Over six months ago, I joined JustWrite. It’s a website that is strictly for writers and aspiring writers, a place where they can go to vent and ask questions. It was an impulsive move on my part, sponsored by too much merlot and self-confidence. I had spent the entire night thinking about the coulda, woulda, shoulda’s of my life. Not pursuing writing easily fit into all three categories. Writing always seemed like a shooting star: always out of reach but so beautiful to look at. At the time, joining JustWrite sounded like a great idea because it brought me just a bit closer to my dream.
I really, really, really need to deactivate my account. I haven’t logged on in months. Things have been too hectic.
In total, I have about twelve manuscripts on my laptop. Only two are complete. I’ve only allowed Mom to read one of the books. She was biased though. I could’ve written a book tentatively titled Ten Easy Steps to Grow a Chia Pet and she would’ve thought it was the most moving story she’s ever read. On par with War and Peace.
This hidden passion for writing has remained my best-kept secret for years. I like it that way but sometimes, just sometimes, I long for someone to read my stories and connect with my words. One of those sometimes drove me to create an account on JustWrite.
I ended up addicted and for a while I was constantly active. I couldn’t help myself; there was this tantalizing sense of anonymity that was impossible to resist. I could tell a virtual stranger all my goals and thoughts when it came to writing and not have them rejected. In return they could do the same with me. We became a support system for each other.
My hope at the beginning was to find people like me. Yet ever so slowly, more and more of my Internet writing buddies were taking leaps of faith. Whether it was self-publishing or submitting their manuscript to agents, they were attempting to reach their goals. I never had the courage to publish. And trying to send my book out into the world right now is out of the question.
Don’t reply, I think to myself. You know nothing about this person.
Yet my hands continue to hover above the keys. My heart starts to pound, the sound grows louder and louder until it’s all I can hear.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. What’s your name?
Quickly, I log onto my account. I tap my fingernails on the desk as I wait for the home page to load. When it does I see I have six new friend requests, two hundred and fifty alerts and three new messages.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
It shows my last login was a month ago. Right around the time I moved back home. Makes sense.
I reload my e-mail and see a new message.
Jackson Cooper.
I quickly type his name in the JustWrite search bar and press send. Within seconds his name pops up. Turns out, we are friends and we have been friends for approximately five months. There’s hardly been any interaction between the two of us other than comments on chapters that we have posted on one another’s manuscripts. People are typically very interactive so it’s impossible to keep up with comments, but…
“How did I miss you?” I mumble aloud.
No, really. How did I accept his friend request and not give him a second look? Most people have pictures of typewriters, books or some aspiring quote as their profile picture. This guy has an actual photo of himself. He’s leaning against a brick building. Judging from the winter coat, it has to be during the wintertime. His hands are tucked into his pockets. His eyes are dark brown and his hair is the same color. Resting my chin on my hand I lean in closer to the screen for a better look. He’s smirking in the photo, as if he and the person taking the photo know something that no one else does.
It’s completely cocky, but undeniably intriguing.
A new e-mail pops up and I hurriedly switch tabs.
Let’s switch over to messenger.
I should really go to bed, but instead I type, Sure.
It only takes a minute before a small box on the left hand corner of the browser pops up. I smile.
Are you looking me up?
No. I type back
Yes you are… I’m not a crazy stalker just so you know.
That’s exactly what a stalker would say.
I assure you I’m not.
I pause for a second before I type out my reply. I can feel the smile spreading across my lips.
Don’t believe me? I read the first twelve chapters of “Thread”. I was the one in the comments section who suggested that Caroline travel back and save Daniel.
“I remember you now!” I say aloud like he’s in front of me.
He’s talking about one of the many unfinished manuscripts just saved away on my laptop. It centers around a girl named Caroline who time travels to 1820 and meets Daniel. She’s convinced that Daniel needs her help but in order to help him, she has to risk that she’ll forever alter the future—including her own existence.
The fact that he remembers my story, let alone that tiny tidbit of information makes me grin. I’m a quiet person by nature but when it comes to writing and books? Well, I turn into a different person. I can’t shut up even if you paid me to.
Did you ever take my advice?
Truthfully? I did and it completely altered the chapter for the better. Suddenly, it became cohesive and flowed just like I wanted. I’ve always wanted to say thanks to the person who made that comment, but never got around to it. Now that the chance is presented to me, I play it cool and elusive.
I did. It worked out great.
You’ve been pretty MIA lately. Are you still writing?
Not as much as usual. And you?
Did I really care if he was writing? Not really. But it seemed like the right thing to ask. And if I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I wanted to keep this conversation going.
There’s never enough time in the day to write.
“Amen to that,” I mutter aloud.
There’s a beat of silence. Adrenaline courses through me and I realize that I haven’t felt this way since… well, since I moved back home. There’s a greedy side to all of this—the part that recognizes something good and will do anything and everything in its power to keep that feeling.
Even if it means taking a risk.
I exhale a shaky breath and quickly type out, Don’t take this the wrong way but why are you choosing now to message me?
There’s a pause. One minute goes by. Then two.
You updated your Ab
out Me recently. It says you live in Decatur, IL?
Instinctively I want to tell him that he’s wrong. I haven’t been on for months. But then I remember that my Facebook is linked to my JustWrite. When I updated my ‘About’ info on Facebook it must have automatically updated JustWrite without me knowing.
But what’s that got to do with him?
As though he can read my mind, a new message pops up that makes me cautious and intrigued at the same time: Just thought it was interesting. I live in Decatur, too.
Sorry to hear that, I type and press enter before I can think twice.
Social media has so many perks but the one thing that drives me crazy is that people can’t see your emotions or feelings, whether you’re kidding or not. Happy or sad.
Luckily, he seems to know I’m kidding because he replies, HAHA
There’s another beat of silence. Then another message from him comes through. What brought you here?
This is my hometown. But I came back to take care of my mom.
When he doesn’t reply, I quickly type. Don’t worry. It’s nothing too bad. But she can be a lot of work.
So that’s why you haven’t published any more chapters then. Mystery solved.
You’re really gung-ho on those chapters, aren’t you?
Yes and no.
???
Yes because you joined JustWrite around the same time I did. We were in a lot of group chats with people with the same dreams as ours. They’re trying to publish and go further.
How do you know I’m not trying to go further?
Well you haven’t been on in months. Kind of telling. Unless you are trying to publish then I’ll take back everything I said.
No, you’re right. I’ve put it aside.
So when are you going to pick up where you left off on your SMUT book?
Definition of SMUT: Sexual fiction. Some people give it a negative connotation, but I couldn’t care less. It’s what I want to write.
