by Ariel Ellens
She's always been a fan of the bacon bread and I reach for two loaves before she asks for it. When I put the bread on the counter, she touches my wrists with her hands. For a second I think she's going to pray for me... yes, it's happened before.
But she doesn't.
"It's so sad," she whispers and nods towards the open archway leading to the back of the bakery. "She's lonely. Missing her parents."
And there it is, the justifying. That's what has happened all my life, people justifying what my mother does instead of telling her to stop it. Instead of getting her help, the find an excuse and assume the excuse will run its course and cure her. But there was no excuse for my mother and there was no cure. The only cure that really exists is already inside us. We just have to take the time to find it.
"She shouldn't be here," I say, trying not to sound bitter.
"All we can do is love," Miss Peters says.
"Yeah," I say, "love..."
Of course I'm not associating it with my mother. All I can see is Colt standing at his mother’s grave, mourning her. It pains me.
Miss Peters pays and I leave the money on the counter for the moment. As I reach down for a shopping bag I see the label-less bottle just as it falls to the floor. It hits and shatters, followed by the harsh smell of alcohol.
She's back to whiskey, back to numbing the pain.
I look up at Miss Peters and out her bread in the bag. She doesn't say a word about the mess I've made and I'm sure she can smell it.
When she leaves I turn and see my mother standing next the archway, a glass of water in her hand.
"I'm drinking water," she says.
I look down at the chunks of glass on the floor and the puddle of whiskey.
"Good," I say, "clean up your mess."
My mother sips her water with a grin on her face. A teasing grin, knowing damn well how much this hurts me.
I look at the neck of the bottle, still intact, and I kick it at her. It spins and skids along the floor and stops at her feet.
"I guess this is my fault," she says.
"You show up, open the bakery, and get drunk."
"Not drunk," she corrects. "People starting coming in right at the opening. And you say the place is going under."
I don't say a word. If I start this, it's going to go back and forth and won't end well. There's a point my mother reaches where she's not so drunk she's falls over but far from sober. This point is where she's mean, unwilling to try or care, and will take out her life on those around her.
"How's your break?" she asks and takes another drink.
"Just fine," I say as I look around the bakery. "Do you have another bottle here?"
"Nope. And in fact, I'm going to close up. I'd rather be home."
That makes two of us. Only I'll stay to keep the place functioning. My mother chugs her water, lets out a long satisfying sound which is nothing but sarcasm, and then leaves. I watch her get into her car and it scares the hell out of me. I fear she's going to kill someone if she drives drunk.
The car is gone and I'm back to work. My mind swirls. I see the money Miss Peters gave me and I open the register to put it inside. The drawer dings and flies open, empty.
Empty.
I don't expect anything less from my mother and it starts to paint a picture for me. She came to the bakery to take the cash out of the drawer and forgot to lock the door. A customer showed up and she had to work.
I look up from the register and stare across the empty bakery. The few small empty tables. Even the street is empty.
I'm empty too.
I know what's coming from my mother and yet a part of me thinks and wishes she will change. That she would come to work and actually work. We can balance the bakery and bring it back to what it once was. And add everything Colt suggested...
Oh, Colt.
We're so far away but close at heart.
In a sad way we are both mourning the loss of our mothers. Mine is still breathing, a living death, maybe the worst kind because all I can do is wait for something to happen. I hate thinking it, I hate saying it, I hate seeing it in my mind, but it’s true. There can never be a good ending to this.
I try to get back to normal, even though I’m not really sure what that means anymore. I gather up the requests for orders and take inventory of what we have and don’t have. Ordering supplies is becoming harder each day, especially when the register is now magically empty. I kick myself for not taking the cash out and doing something with it. I normally do, leaving just a little bit in there so if my mother does steal she thinks she has something. But my mind has been so focused on Colt and my own life, I’m letting things slip through the cracks.
The sad part is that I’m not sure I care anymore.
But if Colt is going to go back home and I never hear from him again...
Tears fill my eyes and I see three blurry versions of an order sheet. The few orders we have aren’t due for another few days so as far as I’m concerned, my day is done.
I turn the lock on the door and as I walk past the register, something hits me. Now there’s a marker and paper in my hand again and I’m scribbling a note. I tape it to the door and don’t think twice as I leave the bakery and drive home. I don’t think about driving to the crumbling yellow house my mother is slowly destroying. I don’t think about chasing down Colt’s exhaust and barely even think about him at all.
I do think about Becca-Ann.
Now is when I need her most.
She would know what to do, what to say.
I grab my phone but talk myself out of trying to text and drive. It’s bad enough I can’t stop tears coming to my eyes and that I’m shaking. When I finally can’t take it anymore, I pull the side of the road so I can send a message to her.
Hey, bitch. I need you. So bad. Things are a mess here. Typical family stuff. Please share good news and make me smile.
I look up from the phone and turn my head. Then I gasp. I’m not sure how I feel about fate or feel about signs in this world. I mean, there are sun rises and sunsets every single day, so what makes one more special than another? There are special moments that sometimes get to me, like seeing the first snowflake falling of an impending snowstorm.
But this, next to me, is powerful.
Without knowing it, I have pulled my car to the side of the road, next to a cemetery.
I look at the black iron gates and the hill cascading with headstones and it makes me shiver.
Is that the cemetery where Colt’s mother had been laid to rest?
There are at least a dozen cemeteries in town and for a second I think about going to each one until I find Colt. So I could grab him, hold him, and make him open to me. But if I do that, then I’ll have to open to him. Maybe whatever we have - or had - is best left as a little fun between the sheets.
Becca-Ann texts back, finally.
What’s wrong? Did someone hurt you? I’ll kick some ass. FYI - Stevie found some balls and text me. He’s cute, so nervous, even in text. Total dork. lol
That makes me feel a little better. Becca-Ann needs someone like Stevie to keep her grounded and Stevie needs someone like Becca-Ann to show him how to have fun.
Another couple who seem good enough to be together but are literally miles apart. Colt and I are just emotionally miles apart.
Ugh.
I hate this.
I write back to Becca-Ann.
Just confused. I’m starting to hate the bakery. My mother is bad. The guy I met may not be what I thought. Then again, I don’t even know what I thought.
Wow, can you say ‘super confused’? Yeah, that’s me. Hello, my name is Isabella...
My phone beeps as I stare at the cemetery again.
Aw, Isabella... I hate being here right now. Paris boys are no longer fun. I kind of want to see Stevie. And I need to hug you. I hope you at least got some from your guy. I promise things will get better. Just look for a sign. I have to go. Love you, bitch.
I don’t rep
ly.
Ugh.
Remember that thing I said about fate and signs? Yeah, well Becca-Ann believes in them. Sometimes I think way too much, but then again, it’s never failed her. If she’s in a bind, she waits for a sign and it works out.
Now I look at the cemetery again.
Is that my sign?
My sign for what?
For Colt?
For death?
Death of what...
The bakery?
My life?
Something else?
It’s all too much for one day.
I drive home with the radio as loud as I can, allowing the music to drown out the noise in my head. When I walk back into my apartment I stumble, literally, and choke up.
The place still has a small lingering smell of Colt.
In the bedroom, I look at the messy bed and picture Colt and I in my bed.
How could the day be like this?
One second I’m in bed with Colt, actually feeling... actually living... actually falling in love...
And now I’m staring at the messy sheets with my heart twisted and confused.
I’ll never understand life.
-Chapter 16-
Now it’s been two days. I can't believe I count days like this but I have nothing else to do. I've called friends to chat but when it came to make plans I just make excuses. I don't want plans with friends, I want plans with Colt.
I took the sign off the bakery door finally, the one that read: CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY
It was the truth but it caused hell for my mother. The sweet people of our town started calling her and a few showed up to check on her.
Good.
Maybe they found her a mess - a drunk mess - and could sympathize with me. Or they'd probably take her side and assume its my role to handle everything. Again with the excuses, right?
Each minute passes like an hour and I tell myself this is going to be the last hour before I close again but I don't close. It feels wrong to close. I text Becca-Ann and I don't hear back. All I can picture is her in some fancy French culinary class learning things I'll never know and things I'd die to learn. Or I picture her on top of the Eiffel Tower with one of her Paris boys, flirting away... or more. The 'or more' is more likely.
I make a list of product to order but don't place it. I'm afraid if I do we won't be able to pay the bill and I'd hate to screw over long time vendors.
The door finally opens and I welcome the sound, ready to do cartwheels from the back. I can finally interact with someone, anyone.
It's Stevey.
I'm not really in the mood for his poetic woes about Becca-Ann, but if he talks maybe I can shift my mind away from Colt.
Yeah, right.
"You look upset," he says.
He's halfway across the bakery... is it that obvious I'm not all the way here today?
"Tired," I say.
"Bull," he says. "But I won't ask. Because you won't tell."
"That's right."
"Then again... I saw the sign..."
"Family is fine," I lie.
"No it's not."
"It never is."
"Fair enough."
Stevey is at the counter and his eyes are beaming,
"So I heard you text Becca-Ann..."
"Yup. It was great. I think she likes me... well, I know she does. She told me."
"That's great. Just don't..."
I stop. I don't want to take anything away from Stevey. He's been waiting for this moment for a long time.
"What? Did she say something?"
Damn. I've messed things up again.
"No... it's just that's she's going to be gone for a while."
"Eight more months. And plus, I got some extra shifts at working... I'm going to save up and fly there."
I think about the price of a plane ticket. It can't be cheap. All the way to Paris and back? But there's a romantic gleam in Stevey's eyes, suggesting anything can happen. I'd hate to tell him that life isn't like the movies, but face it, the movies are so much better, aren't they?
"I don't care if I have to get a second job. I have to see her soon."
"We'll, you never know, right? Life works mysteries."
"Mysteries like you not smiling and your boyfriend not here?"
"First, he's not my boyfriend. Never was. Second, you read the sign on the door... "
"Fine. But he's still not here."
"Wait, when did you read the sign?"
"Yesterday."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Didn't want to bother you. I know you like to be alone when you're upset. Now stop changing the subject. Where's Colt?"
"He had business to tend to."
"Business?"
"That's what he said."
Stevey frowns. "Sorry. You just never know how things are going to work out..."
My phone beeps and when I look at Stevey I get the same feeling I had when I was sitting next to the cemetery the other day. I try to resist believing in signs but I'm failing at it.
I believe Colt will find me and talk... and I believe in Stevey and Becca-Ann...
"I've got to go," Stevey says. "I just wanted to check on you. Thanks for your help with Becca-Ann... she told me you told her about my lip ring."
"What else did she say?"
"She told me I should have gotten my nipple pierced like a man. Or my..."
"She was kidding," I say as I imagine Stevey dropping pants at a tattoo/piercing shop, desperate to impress Becca-Ann. The again...
"You think so?" he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. "Probably."
My phone beeps again.
Stevey says goodbye and leaves. I really hope he doesn't get anything else pierced... Becca-Ann loves playing games with boys. She once got a guy in high school with hair down to the middle of his back to shave his head by saying she’d flash him after school. He did his end of the deal and yes, Becca-Ann did hers.
She's wild.
Ugh... I really really really miss her.
I look at my phone and it's Becca-Ann.
Bitch... quit bothering me while I'm busy.
I laugh. It feels good to laugh.
Busy better be in school. No Paris boys anymore... Stevey is waiting for you...
Something tells me that she will do whatever she wants. Better yet, she'll admit to it and convince Stevey it was okay.
Ugh. He's a dork but really cute. I'm thinking about him a lot now. Enough about me... do you still have your French notes from high school?
My French notes? Seriously? Why the hell would have French notes lying around?
No. I don’t have anything from high school...
My gears are turning and Becca-Ann is fast to reply.
You’re coming to Paris! I got you a ticket to fly out here. In one week. Plan it. Figure it out.
I’m speechless... or I guess I’m ‘fingerless’. I don’t know what to write back. My first thought isn’t about closing the bakery for days, it’s about Colt. Then, yeah, the bakery comes to mind.
I can’t go to Paris.
But why not?
Why can’t I?
It’s my dream... Becca-Ann and I. Together. In Paris. Food. Guys...
Oh, no, now I sound like her.
Becca-Ann texts me, not liking my lack of reaction.
Hello??? Text me. PARIS!!!!
I’ve still got nothing.
Paris?
That would be a dream. A long flight where nobody can bother me. I can sleep, think, maybe open a notebook and let some things out. I once wrote, just thoughts and ideas, failed attempts at poetry, but my mother found the notebook once and started reading thing out loud while drunk, laughing at me.
I never wrote again.
Then being in Paris... the atmosphere. I have no idea what it’s like but as I gaze upon the empty bakery I know it has to be better than this.
I finally text back.
Thank you, Becca-Ann. For all you do,
even when you’re not here... I really love you. Bitch.
I didn’t accept.
I didn’t decline.
Becca-Ann took it the way she always took it - in her mind, the decision has already been made and that was that.
Good! I love you back, bitch. I’m going to send you the info through email. You just have to print the stuff and get the ticket. Just like that. Oh, and we will be sharing a room... maybe even some Paris boys...
I smile. That would be nice. A little fun with language barrier. Or better yet, maybe a hot looking guy in Paris who speaks English but has a wicked accent. Or maybe someone rich who can care for me for the rest of my life.
Ah, it’s nice to fantasize, isn’t it?
The reality of my life is this bakery because with it comes the history of not just myself but my family. Can I just walk away from my mother? What would happen to her? She couldn’t manage the bakery, she couldn’t manage herself. In fact, I’m dreading seeing her again, which I probably should today.
Which I probably should do right now.
It’s close enough to closing and the walls of this place feel like they are slowly collapsing on me.
I text back to Becca-Ann, offering a gentle reminder that Stevey really does like her and that I hope she keeps her hands in dough and not in the pants of some Paris boys. She just replies with a winky face, almost annoying me. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from Becca-Ann. She’s perfect and beautiful in her own way.
I linger for another few minutes, not because I’m waiting for customers, but because I’m waiting for Colt to appear.
He doesn’t.
I walk to the front door and place my fingers to the lock. As I turn, I can feel the metal against metal and the thickening scrape as the lock engages. It’s like the rusty call of a family dying. I close my eyes and turn, not wanting to see the street outside. Sometimes I swear I can see the ghosts of my grandparents. I can see them holding hands - their old, wrinkly, vein filled hands - smiling, Grammie resting her head on Grandpa’s shoulder.
I feel terrible but isn’t the dream of any person to live a dream? Or at least have a dream?
Being stuck in these four walls isn’t a dream. I used to think it was a bandage but it’s only a blanket on me.
