Me: I’ll be there.
I sniffled as I turned my phone on silent, and as I looked up, all eyes were on me. The students’ heads were cocked, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball, waiting for me to teach them. I felt frozen in my spot. I felt empty. Weak. I’d known Susie for years. I’d tried to help her for years. Postpartum depression was a nasty devil, and some women never recuperated.
Some women like Susie turned to other sources of relief, not understanding they’d leave their children behind.
“Miss Harper? What’s wrong?”
I drew in a deep breath. “Would you guys like to make a flip-book today? Or would you like to listen to some stories?”
The students looked around at one another before putting their supplies down.
“What kind of stories?” one girl asked.
I stood from my desk. “We do a lot of creating in this classroom. Painting. Studying. Learning. But there’s a secret to stories that not many artists talk about.”
“What’s the secret?”
“The secret is that every artist takes their stories and uses them as inspiration. They tuck their stories away until they need them for their projects and then use those stories to draw and paint.”
“And make flip-books?”
I smiled. “Yes. And make flip-books.”
“So, you want to tell us stories?”
I walked to the front of the classroom. “I want us to each tell a story about ourselves. And tomorrow, we’re going to make a flipbook based on the story we tell the class. How does that sound?”
I had twelve kids that needed my attention before classes changed and then I got another twelve that needed my attention, in the next hour. They needed my undivided mind. So, what better way to use my art class than to teach these kids where art came from in the first place?
“Do you guys want me to go first?” I asked.
The kids nodded, and I pulled up my stool. I sat down, relieved I had some time to sink into something that wasn’t the floor. Because I wanted to melt away. Poor Millie. Poor Cole.
Poor, poor Susie.
“The story I’m going to tell you today is about the girl who inspired me to become an art teacher,” I said.
“What’s her name?” a student asked.
“Her name was Susie Yarrow. And she was the only person in my corner all throughout school who told me I needed to pursue my love of art, no matter where it took me.”
I told them the story of how Susie found me crying one time on campus. She’d come to visit me, just shortly before her daughter’s first birthday party. I was supposed to come by and help her set up for the party. But instead, I was holed up in my dorm room, crying over something a professor told me: “If you want to teach, teach something the kids will take with them, not something they’ll discard once they graduate.” The statement hurt. It drove me into a well of depression that followed me for weeks. But when I finally let Susie into my dorm room, she looked me straight in my eyes and told me something that still stuck with me to this day.
“Anyone who tells you that you shouldn’t follow your dreams is jealous because they didn’t follow theirs,” I said.
My students smiled, and it made me smile. I reached my hand out to the boy next to me, and he straightened up in his chair. Around and around the room we went, telling stories and laughing with one another. Some kids talked about their parents. Some kids talked about their grandparents. A couple of kids talked about their pets and home, and one of my students even talked about his younger brother. I watched these unsure, homesick elementary schoolers set aside their insecurities and their fears and their biases and their emotions, and I watched them open up to one another as we revealed beautiful memories that sometimes housed painful secrets.
“I’m so proud of you guys today,” I said breathlessly.
We all wiped at our eyes, and I passed around tissues. I looked at the clock, noticing we still had fifteen minutes before our class changes. So, I decided to give them a break.
“Now, who’s ready for the surprise box?” I asked.
The students shot their hands in the air, and I smiled as I walked to my desk. I pulled the treat box out from my lowest drawer, then walked it around the room. The kids stuck their hands in and pulled out everything from small bags of candy to keychains to put on their backpack zippers. I watched them trade and barter. I saw a couple of the kids already making sketches on their flipbooks for tomorrow. I put the box back in my desk and sat down, giving them the space they needed to breathe and decompress from the heavy topic, to talk amongst themselves and enjoy their prizes and just be children for a little bit.
And exactly fifteen minutes later, their teacher stuck her head in the classroom, beckoning for them.
“Bye, Miss Harper!”
“Thanks for the chocolate!”
“This keychain is awesome. Look, it lights up!”
“We need to put our name on our books, right?”
“Yes! Put your name on your books before you leave!” I exclaimed.
Classes rotated and another class of twelve students came in. And we did the same thing. I passed out supplies for their flipbooks, we told stories, then they got the treat box. I did that five separate times for five art classes, filled to the brim with twelve students apiece. And as my day wound down into my free working period, the treat box had been emptied. I made a note in my phone to pick up more things from the dollar store.
My planning period happened to be at the end of the day. Not the most convenient some days, but I would typically prep my lessons for the next day, or if we were in the middle of a project like we were currently, I would be able to pack up and leave early. I took advantage of that today and locked my art room door promptly at 1:45.
I headed straight for my car, not bothering to stop by the front office. They wouldn’t care. They never cared about what the art and music teacher did throughout the day. It was one of the few times I was thankful for the fact that the main faculty didn’t give a shit about their arts program. No one cared about me coming or going, which meant I had no issues slipping out during my planning period if I needed to.
I headed straight for my car and raced across town. I set my sights on my brother’s house and didn’t stop until I’d pulled into his driveway. I took side streets to avoid traffic lights and rolled my way through stop signs; anything to get me there quicker.
I had a feeling Cole was there and in need of comfort.
I pulled up behind my brother’s SUV. Cole’s massive truck was parked beside Lance’s more sensible vehicle, and it made me giggle. Cole had always been obsessed with pickup trucks. The bigger, the better. I sat there for a minute, gathering myself, stuffing my emotions away in order to better prepare myself for the onslaught I was sure to face once inside Lance’s house.
But nothing could have prepared me for the look in Cole’s eyes.
“Lance. I’m here,” I said as I walked into the house.
“Living room,” he called out.
I walked down the hallway before taking a sharp left. The second I stepped foot into the living room, there was Cole, sitting there with his hands mindlessly between his legs, tears rushing down his cheeks. He didn’t look up. He didn’t say a word. He simply sat there, staring at the carpet, unmoving and unwavering.
I looked over at Lance, and he shook his head.
“Cole, if there’s any way I can help—if there’s anything I can do—please, let me know. I know how much Susie meant to you. How much she meant to all of us,” I said.
But the words seemed to hollow.
His eyes slowly rose to mine, and my heart shattered. I took off, dropping down onto the couch next to him and wrapping my arms around his neck. He leaned into me, tucking his face into the crook of my neck. As he let out a shuddered sigh, I felt the wetness of his tears fall against my skin.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Cole,” I whispered.
He hugged me tight; so tight I cou
ldn’t breathe. I held him as close as I could get him, then squeezed my eyes shut. Now wasn’t the time for me to cry. This was Cole’s time to grieve. I’d get plenty of that time to myself, later. Right now, he needed our comfort and our unwavering support.
“Why couldn’t she just—just stop?” Cole whispered.
I shook my head. “Addiction isn’t that simple, Cole. There’s a reason why they call it a disease, because it takes so long to remedy.”
“Oh, God. She’s dead, Layla.”
As he held me tighter, I couldn’t stop my tears from falling. I couldn’t stop my heart from aching. I couldn’t stop my soul from breaking.
Susie was gone.
Which left all of us silently wondering what in the world would happen with her daughter.
2
Cole
Half a bottle of rum after a death would make any man weak. Once Layla wrapped her arms around me, I fell against her. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I was tired. Worn down. Confused and angry. I didn’t have the control I did last night. After staying up all night, pacing around the hospital and finally watching my sister pass away, I didn’t have any more strength. Alcohol only tossed fuel onto the fire, making my tears burn as they fell from my eyes.
I was sad, yes. But more than that, I was angry. Pissed off to the max. Not at Susie, though. Never at my sister. How the fuck could our mother do this to us? She was the root of all these issues. The shitty things she’d done to us. The lack of respect and care she took with us. Yeah, sure, Susie’s postpartum depression probably played a hand in all of it coming to a head. But it had started much sooner than that.
It started with our fucking childhood.
“I’ve got you. It’s okay,” Layla said softly.
“I’m gonna go get him some water,” Lance said.
I felt Layla nod against my cheek. I kept clinging to her. Holding her close. Feeling her heart beating against my chest. She was alive. Lance was alive. My niece was alive. I just needed that reminder that my life hadn’t completely crashed down around me. Drinking in anger was never a good choice. But drinking while sad? It always unraveled me. My heart didn’t know how to feel. My soul didn’t know whether to burn or turn dark. I felt myself shaking against her -- my best friend’s sister -- as she continued trying to soothe me softly in my ear.
“I’m so sorry. I’m here if you need me. We’re all here. And we’ll do whatever we can. Okay?”
My mind spiraled with so many things. Last night had been such a blur. Mom had called me and told me to get to the hospital because Susie had “done something stupid again.” My first question was about Millie. When my mother told me she’d picked my niece up, my gut reaction was to go over there and get her. I didn’t want my mother to have any influence on that little girl. She’d had enough influence on us. But even I heard the dread in Mom’s flippant response.
So, I rushed to the hospital instead of heading to her house.
Right now, the only thing keeping me from marching into that house and taking Millie was the rum Lance poured down my fucking throat. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t intentional. The last thing I needed was to cause more family drama. Yet, at the same time, this was my mother we were talking about. Millie was barely five years old, and she’d lost her mother. I knew she’d be looking for guidance. Help. Someone to answer her questions.
And she was with Holly. My mother. The Queen of Cold.
“Here. Drink this,” Layla said softly.
I leaned up from her shoulder and sniffed deeply. I took the cool glass of water and chugged it back, feeling the alcohol slowly push through my veins. I drained the glass before handing it back to her, trying to get my bearings about me. What time was it? How long had I been at Lance’s?
“Thanks,” I said.
“Of course.”
“You need anything else, buddy?” Lance asked.
He clapped his hand against my shoulder, and I shook my head.
“Nope. And the next time you want to pour rum down my throat, warn me first,” I said.
He chuckled. “I’ll get you another glass.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Rum?” Layla asked.
I watched her quirk an eyebrow, and the expression on her face almost made me laugh.
Almost.
“Yeah. Rum. I think it’s your brother’s way of keeping me here instead of storming into my parents’ house and demanding Millie,” I said.
She nodded slowly. “I mean, I don’t want to bring up yet another tough conversation. But I figured with what’s just happened, it might bring your family closer together?”
“Yeah. Right. With my mother? She’ll use this as leverage for something. I’m sure of it.”
We sat there in silence as Lance came back into the room. I knew it was hard for people to process the severity of what happened with me and Susie growing up. It was hard to prove psychological and emotional wounds. If there wasn’t a scar or pictures of bruises, people usually assumed things were just fine. When in reality, things were never fine.
Not with a mother like mine.
“All right. Another glass of water and you should feel better,” Lance said as he sat down.
“Thanks. Again, I app—”
He held up his hand. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. You know your place is my place. You have a key to it for a reason. I’m glad you finally decided to use it.”
“I still feel bad for waking you up so early this morning.”
“The fuck? Cut it out, dude. If there’s any time for you to wake me up, it’s something like this.”
Lance put his arm around the back of the couch as Layla settled her hand against my knee. I sat there, in between them, feeling their foundation gird me. All my life, those two had been my rock. My solace. My soft place to fall. Layla always gave me that sweet reassurance with a warm hug, while Lance had no issues delivering harsh advice that was always needed. Every time I went through something, they were there. Every time I struggled with Susie after she had my niece, they were there. Hell, the two of them were the first at the hospital the day my niece was born. They got there before our own mother did!
They were more family than my own actual family had ever been.
I looked over at Layla and found her staring aimlessly at her hand on my knee. I wondered what she was thinking. How she was feeling. I couldn’t imagine the toll this was taking on her. Because I knew she and Susie had been close these last few years. But losing my sister to drugs like that? It had to be reminiscent of when she lost her fiancé.
A drug overdose in Vegas at his bachelor party.
I settled my hand on top of hers, and she took it. She looked over at me, her eyes clouded over with unshed tears. I nodded softly, letting her know it was all right to cry. Silently, she let them fall.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
“Me too,” she said, sniffling.
She fell against my chest, and I held her around her shoulders. I set the glass of water down on the coffee table in front of us. Then, I pulled Lance into the mix. The three of us sat on his couch, crying and shaking and trying to make sense of this bullshit, trying to figure out how the fuck we were going to plan the funeral and support Millie and explain to my niece what in the world had just happened.
I held them tightly, the three of our bodies wrapped around one another. We lay back into the cushions of the couch after crying our eyes out, and my head began pounding. I released Layla, and Lance unraveled from me, their sighs dictating the same sort of thing. I wiped at my cheeks as I looked up at the ceiling, trying to crack my neck and release some tension.
“What brought on the drinking?” Layla asked softly.
I sighed. I looked over at Lance and wondered if it was appropriate to fill her in on everything. Because, as much as I cared for Layla, Lance always knew more than she did. I only told her what was necessary to get the basic picture across. Lance shrugged at me, and I rolled my eyes. Useless, that man s
ometimes. I closed my eyes and collected myself, trying to gather my thoughts as best as I could.
Then, I drew in a deep breath.
“You know, as much as I hate to admit it, Susie had always been a bit misguided,” I said.
“How so?” Layla asked.
I shrugged. “You know a bit about Mom. How cold she always was toward us. How we never had much because Mom always thought we were being selfish. That kind of thing. But I think it impacted Susie a lot more than it did me because she always saw it as her fault. Never a fault of Mom’s, but that she somehow kept disappointing her.”
“Lance has told me a few stories. But what I don’t get is why she was that way with you,” she said.
“The short of the story is Mom and Dad got pregnant with me before they were ever married. Hell, with what I’ve been able to piece together over the years, Mom got pregnant with me on her and Dad’s third date.”
“Yikes,” she said.
“Yeah. And when a high-society man gets a woman pregnant, there are two options. Pay for her to have an abortion and keep quiet about it or marry her. And he wanted to marry Mom. She didn’t want to marry him, though. She always had these dreams of being a famous singer and ‘making it’ in Hollywood one day. I don’t know the details, but they ended up married before she even started showing and they covered it up as best as they could.”
Click here for the entire story FREE with Kindle Unlimited
Also By Natasha L. Black
Here are a list of my previous releases, some of which that went to the top 100 of all of Amazon.
Playing Pretend: A Contemporary Romance Box Set
Brother’s Best Friend
Faking It
Bad Boy’s Secret Baby
My Ex’s Secret Baby
Forbidden Protector Page 15
