Violet Ugly: A Contemporary Romance Novel (The Granite Harbor Series Book 2)

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Push it down.

  Don’t feel.

  Keep moving.

  It will only hurt.

  Protect your heart.

  I feel a pat on my arm.

  “Stop runnin’, kid.”

  “What if I can’t, Eddie?”

  “I think you just did.” He takes the outside of his thumb and wipes a single tear falling down my face.

  “What about you and Abbey? You’ll be all right?”

  He shrugs. “As long as I show up for life, I think we’ll be okay. But I couldn’t do that until I stopped runnin’ from all the shit I’d caused.”

  “How will I know?” I look up at him as he turns away.

  Eddie stops and turns back. “There’s a moment when you’ll know. You’ll stop runnin’.”

  “Hi, Merit. I’m Dana.” She extends her hand from the plush chair she’s sitting in to me on the comfortable sofa.

  Therapists probably shouldn’t make sofas so comfortable for patients. I assume they want to get their patients in, cured, and get them on their way. Dana won’t be able to do that with her patients if she keeps this sofa. I should tell her this.

  We shake hands.

  Slowly, she leans back in her chair, arms crossed in a relaxed way, as if we’re two old friends catching up after years apart.

  We’re not. Another wall of armor.

  “What brings you in today?” She has a pen in one hand while a pad of paper rests on the small table between us.

  I’m not sure. I mean, I know. I think. I know why I called. It was the right thing to do.

  I haven’t said two words to Dana, except, “Here’s my insurance information,” and, “I filled out a questionnaire that asked about self-harm and depression.”

  “I lost a child.”

  Slowly, Dana nods. “I bet that hurt.”

  I chew on my bottom lip and bite hard enough, so the tears don’t fall. “I don’t want to cry. I want help.”

  “When did this happen?” She leans forward to grab her pad of paper. Probably how she’ll diagnose me. Write down descriptive words that are used only by therapists in the psychology field. “The notepad is just for my own notes. I hope that’s all right?” Dana’s smile is soft. Inviting.

  “Seventeen years ago.”

  Dana nods again.

  Is there a secret code word for nods?

  One nod: keep talking.

  Two nods: wow.

  Three nods: huh.

  Four nods: call security.

  Does Dana have a secret phone line to 911? What if she has a crazy person that she didn’t know she was dealing with?

  “Bet it’s been hard to walk through this. Have you seen a therapist before, Merit?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “No. Except the father, Ryan.”

  “When?”

  “Recently.”

  Dana takes down the information.

  “I want to be free,” I whisper breathlessly. Saying this is the most honest thing I’ve done for myself in a really long time. “I’m tired.” My voice grows hoarse. “Tired of being angry. Tired of fighting myself. Tired of grieving.” I bite my lower lip again.

  Don’t cry, I tell myself.

  “Whom are you angry with?”

  That’s a really great question, Dana.

  I fill my cheeks with air. Let it out. “Myself. Ryan. My mom. For dying.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  I tell her the story about Destiny. The same story I told Ryan. I don’t want to carry this around with me anymore. The conversation, the retelling of a story with an awful ending, feels more freeing every time I tell it.

  Dana’s pen sits in her hand like a cigarette of a seasoned smoker. Light. Careless. Free.

  “Can you tell me more about Ryan?”

  How much time do you have?

  I tell her the story of a girl who called herself Violet Ugly. A girl who grew into a woman, internally bitter and angry. A girl who loved a boy and he loved her the best way he could. A girl and a boy who made decisions based on what they knew at the time. I tell her about a young girl’s dream to go to San Diego to become a marine biologist.

  “Did you achieve that?” she asks about the last bit.

  “Yes.”

  Dana jots down another note.

  I go on, and I tell her about a young woman who lost her mother at eleven years old. Who tried to care for her brother, her father, and a boy she loved from a very young age.

  “That’s a lot to take on for an eleven-year-old girl.”

  Is it?

  I don’t know. I don’t know the truth anymore.

  What’s easy? What’s hard? I just did what I thought was right. What I needed to do.

  So, we sit in the quietness, nestled deep in the confines of her office, protected from the world, as her statement lingers, hovering in the space around us.

  “Yeah,” I finally say. And the emotion of this answer pushes at my chest like the finger of a person who’s mad.

  Push.

  Hurt.

  Push.

  Hurt.

  It’s the first time I’m willing to accept that my childhood wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe pain does this. Forces us to see what we’ve been avoiding for years. For the first time in my life, in a person’s office I don’t really know, I’m willing to see the truth that, when my mom died, my dad checked out for a bit, my brother hid behind whatever he could, kept busy, and I turned to Ryan because he needed me. That I willingly took over the position of Rebecca Young and that I didn’t allow myself to grieve.

  “So, when you lost Destiny, I’m sure that hurt just as bad, if not worse?” Dana asks in a very kind way.

  I don’t allow myself the tears. Once more, I push them down. Just like I’ve always done.

  “How did you deal with it, Merit? Her death? How did you get through it?”

  There it is. The one question I’ve never been asked about my daughter’s death. About my mother’s death. Because here’s the truth. “I didn’t,” I whisper.

  Tears start to fall uncontrollably, as if the grief is met with shock. As if I’m just realizing this for the very first time.

  “I’m sorry.” I push forward from the sofa and put my head in my hands. The pain in my chest is so severe; I’m sure my heart will fall at any moment.

  Please fall. It will be easier than the pain, I tell myself.

  Dana leans forward and touches my knee. “Why are you sorry, Merit?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  I don’t know.

  So, I’m honest. “I don’t know why I’m sorry.”

  The sobs get stuck in my throat.

  Destiny’s scent.

  The heaviness of her body on my chest, right where it belonged.

  My mother’s arms. I was curled up in them in her final days.

  I feel as though I’m stunted—emotionally, mentally. Stunted by grief that I wasn’t willing to face and heartache. The pain in my chest grows, cracking in segments, just like a windshield. Section by section, the cracks push and move.

  “I just pushed it down. I pushed it down, so I could keep moving forward,” I say with a strained voice.

  “I think you pushed it down because you didn’t have the tools to deal with death.”

  The sobs come out one last time, and the hurt in my chest moves.

  I rock and cry.

  For Destiny.

  For my mother.

  For me.

  As I drive home from Dana’s office, the sun is glistening off the Pacific. The grief has met me where I am. But the hope is that maybe I don’t have to carry this baggage around with me forever. Baggage that I didn’t know I had. The secrets I didn’t know I was keeping.

  For the first time in a long time, I see hope. Even though everything with Dana was exposed, someone else knows. Someone else knows, so I don’t have to keep all of these things tucked and folded into me like I
need them. Keeping them for myself, to harbor the worries, the trouble, the grief, so no one has to see the ugly truths about Merit Young.

  I couldn’t see enough to know how much Ryan cared for me. Loved me. I couldn’t see enough of me to know that maybe Eli didn’t care that Ryan and I wanted something more than just friendship. Perhaps I was too focused on what others thought of me.

  As I drive along the coastline, back to my apartment, the pain in my chest loosens. Just maybe I’ll be all right after all. Maybe I won’t, but this is a damn good start.

  Twenty-Nine

  Merit

  Granite Harbor, Maine

  Summer 1995

  My head rests on my mother’s chest, her heartbeat solid and slow. Her chest moves as she breathes. I want to match her heartbeat, her breaths, because her dying isn’t something I want.

  If you’d asked me, God, consulted me about any of this, I’d have told you no. It’s not supposed to happen like this.

  Dubbs, he should die. He isn’t kind. He’s a bad man. And yet he lives. God, why?

  My mother mutters something, and I look up to see her eyelids are closed, just the way they’ve been for the past three days.

  She hasn’t said anything, and I make a note that, if I’m to die an untimely death, I want to die at home, just like my mom.

  Her bedroom window is open. There’s a breeze that makes the white sheer curtains billow gently.

  So, God, if you’d asked me, I’d have given you my opinion, and said, Don’t take the good people. Take the bad ones, the ones who hurt people, the ones who do bad things. Don’t take the innocent ones.

  But God clearly didn’t hear my plan.

  I push my face into my mother’s frail chest, needing her scent. Needing her arms. Needing her body against mine. A mother’s love should never be taken for granted. But I guess kids don’t know that until their mom is gone, and all that’s left are traces of ash and pictures.

  “Mommy”—my voice is quivering, as I know what’s coming—“I know you want to stay here with us. I know. But, if you need to go, I understand. I won’t be mad.” But the tears start to burn my eyes. “I can take care of Pop and Eli.” But who’s going to take care of me? “Mommy? I love you.”

  There’s a low rumble in her chest. Hopefully, she hears me.

  Something inside me tells me to go get my brother and Pop. Although I don’t want to leave her, nestled on her side, I have to.

  I pad down the hallway to get my brother and Pop.

  “Is it time?” Eli asks, terror written in his eyes, asking the question we’ve all thought about but not spoken out loud.

  “I think she’s close,” my lips barely get out. The heavy ache in my chest burdens my body.

  Pop somehow is already in my parents’ room when Eli and I walk in. He’s sitting on the bed with her, stroking her face.

  If I ever had a picture of what love looked like, a snapshot of what real love was, I’d take this one right here. My dad and mom.

  Losing a mother is hard. But losing a love is also hard.

  Pop is on one side, and Eli and I get on the other side of her.

  The only sound there is are two birds at the window, calling, singing, maybe letting God know that heaven will have another angel soon.

  I don’t say anything out loud because I’m too embarrassed, and Mom won’t be able to answer me anyway.

  Will someone meet her at heaven’s gate when she arrives?

  Is it a long trip up?

  Will she know where to go?

  Will she have someone to guide her?

  Does she need a change of clothes?

  I guess not. Since people are buried in clothes and there’s no toothbrush or a fresh pair of underwear, I assume she won’t need them.

  What happens to her body? What will Pop do with it?

  “Where will her body go after she dies, Pop?” Eli asks.

  But Pop can’t speak because his eyes are full of tears. And love. And sadness. But they don’t fall. When I see this, it tells me that I can’t cry, that I need to be strong for Pop. My brother.

  Mom hasn’t talked in two days. Before that, there really wasn’t much communication either. The medicine the home nurse had given her kept her quiet. Comfortable. At ease.

  Still, Eli’s question lingers. Pop hasn’t answered it yet.

  “Mom … Mom wants to be cremated.” His voice is strained, his jawline tense, as if maybe to keep the tears at bay.

  We’re bright kids—or so Eli and I have always been told. That means, they’ll burn her body, and all that’ll be left are ashes.

  I wonder if Mom can hear us. I wonder what she thinks. Her family planning their final good-bye.

  “Mommy?” My lip quivers as I pray she’ll answer me. That this will all have been a bad dream or that she’ll miraculously recover right in front of us. And it will be a miracle.

  Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, God? Create miracles?

  I feel Pop’s hand on my back. I don’t want to upset him more than he is, so I burrow down against her legs, against her light-pink summer sheets. The ache in my chest rises again. I close my eyes and allow myself to drift. Dream.

  That she isn’t sick.

  That she’s sleeping.

  That she’ll wake up soon.

  That we’ll go get ice cream.

  That she’ll tickle me and apologize for her absence lately. That all this is fatigue.

  I pray.

  I’m awakened by Pop’s voice, a slow, soft, “Merit.”

  But there’s something in his voice that’s familiar and not at all familiar. Maybe it’s his tone. I’m not sure.

  My eyes open. The room is darker. The window is shut. The birds are quiet.

  “Merit.” I hear my dad’s voice again.

  I fell asleep.

  “Mom. Where’s Mom?”

  I sit up, and I’m facing the opposite direction I fell asleep in because, when I turn my head, my dad is still by her side. My brother isn’t anywhere to be found.

  “She’s gone, Bug.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s right there, Pop.”

  My insides build with nerves. My stomach begins to twist. My heart starts to pound in my ears.

  “She’s gone, Bug. She went to heaven,” my dad says, reaching out for me.

  “No, Pop. No. No. No.” I scramble to her side.

  Her body is still warm. She can’t be dead. I nuzzle my head into the side of her neck, but her breath is gone. Her chest no longer moves.

  I move my hand to her chest and wait for the slow rhythm of her heart.

  But the beat can’t be found.

  I tuck my feet underneath me, my shoes on her sheets. I can’t help the incessant sobs that begin to come from my mouth. My body involuntarily giving everything it can.

  Death isn’t easy. Nor is it fair.

  I don’t think I’ll survive this one. The way my body feels.

  It’s just my mom and me on pink sheets as the room falls away.

  She’s not cold, I tell myself again.

  Bodies turn cold when they die. I’ve seen it on television.

  The detective always says to the other detective, “Body’s cold,” when the body is clearly dead.

  I lie here with my mother until someone touches my shoulder.

  Time is a well-oiled machine. It moves forward, no matter what happens. It doesn’t stretch. It doesn’t shrink. It certainly doesn’t pause.

  “Rusty is here to take Mom.” It’s Eli’s voice. “Come on, Bug.”

  I refuse to cry. Tears won’t bring back my mom. Tears only bring more sadness. I can’t afford that. I told my mother I would take care of Pop and Eli, so that was exactly what I’m trying to do.

  When I want to cry, I push my tongue to the roof of my mouth and tell myself it’s all a dream. That Mom never existed. Or that she’s in the kitchen. I put myself to work. Do laundry. Finish dishes. Make lunches. Hang clothes. Clean a room.

  I push all
the sadness deeper, tuck it away, lock it in a box, and never let it come out again. I won’t allow myself down that rabbit hole.

  When someone dies in Granite Harbor, it seems like the whole town mourns.

  We have an endless food supply. Really, I’m sure that Jenny Love’s seven different casseroles will sit in our freezer for a long time. Everyone knows Jenny Love can’t cook worth a crap. It’s the thought though. We live on Milton’s famous chili, the one he makes every year for the Chili Cook-Off for the Fall Carnival and Ida’s award-winning homemade raspberry cobbler.

  Granite Harbor mourns with us. The Maine Warden Service mourns with us. The chaplain, Katherine Bernstein, the second warden chaplain in the state of Maine, sat with us right after Mom’s death. Gave her eulogy. Told me it was okay to cry. She’s also the same chaplain who sits with families when a loved one goes missing. A lost hiker. A snowmobiler who falls through the ice. When the mission becomes body recovery rather than a search effort.

  But I don’t dare cry.

  I am afraid I won’t stop.

  The wardens are here now to talk with my dad. I know they’re here for support.

  “Has she cried, Brand?” Katherine asks my dad as I sit in the dark hallway of our house.

  Warden McCullen and Warden Brash sit with my dad on the couch in the living room

  “Yes. When Rebecca first passed. Sat with her body until Rusty came. Nothing since.” Pop looks down at his hands.

  Katherine nods. I remember her voice from the eulogy she gave at my mom’s service. It was soft. A voice I wanted to get lost in. A voice I wanted to hide behind and soak up. One I wanted to remember in moments of panic. Moments of chaos. Moments such as these where I’m not sure where to turn.

  As I listen to her talk softly in the living room, I tiptoe to the end of the hallway from my room, deeper into the darkness. I take a cleaning rag to the floor and start in one corner, quietly scrubbing.

  In the darkness, I clean because I can’t stay still.

  In the darkness, I hide, so I can’t see my feelings.

  In the darkness, I run, so I don’t have to face the world.

  I’d rather not.

  But it’s what I do.

  Does Katherine need a daughter? Her kids are grown, but surely, she needs a broken little girl who’s trying to put the pieces back together.