Behind me, the sound of the waiting room increased with mothers entering the clinic with swollen bellies, just like mine. Many of them have one or two family members, others have their bright-eyed partners. The sight caused my throat to tighten. While Natalie typed my information on the computer, Dr. Graham’s words returned, the room around me is beginning to boil. Within a minute, the sweat on my fingers is smudging the white counter. What is taking Natalie so long? Is she typing a novel—and as for Dr. Graham!
How can he be so heartless to say the father of my child is worried? He’s not even the last people on earth who would be used as a contact for an emergency. I rather use a stranger, a dog—no I rather write random numbers!
The familiar sinister feeling hung on my back and dangled my shoulders. My anxiety is bubbling, soon it will surface into attacks. I suspiciously look at Natalie, typing away. She knows—I know, there’s nothing new to type! I let out a deep dramatic sigh to show her that her patient is feeling impatient, but she ignores it. The waiting room is starting to shrink, the sound from the visual vision is growing loud, and the patients can’t seem to shut up. My breathing quickens, and my vision is growing blurry! I clenched my throat, the rollercoaster has just started. I’m about to breakdown—I’m about to collapse into tears!
Natalie watched me with a confused look on her face. When the yellow note went through the opening glass, my hands shot towards it. Like a vulture, I aggressively snatch the paper from her shell shocked hands. She jumps out of her seat. Unable to give an excuse—I hurry out the door.
Chapter Two
The Road
“The engine thundered, I accelerated to 100 mph.”
Outside of the clinic, I suck in every cold particle of oxygen and recycle them. The self-help books I read on anxiety have been of no help. If my own doctor can trigger a nervous attack, then I must be getting worse. Of course, Dr. Graham isn’t the only contributor. A cashier or an invasive kind stranger have approached me with smiles, as wide as my belly just to congratulate me. They often look around and utter the forbidden word father.
Sailors I call them, fishermen of my past. To dodge their hooks and nets, I turned into a creative liar. There’s nothing more tragic than “he died” to mute them. This small town can’t handle the truth, to them it will be as bitter as a spoon of cold medicine. No one will be able to swallow that my relationship with my husband involved locked rooms, bashed furniture, and punched in holes on every wall. No one wants to hear that announcing my pregnancy involved dodging a beer bottle. Maybe my memories with him were once sweet but they turned unpleasant like the ale he enjoys to gulp.
I’m a hypocrite for wanting to keep my past known but I’m willingly bringing it up in my mind. I shake my head, pretending my memory are specks of dust. I climb into my truck, which by a miracle survived the long journey to Washington State. Among the clean vehicles in the parking lot, my truck stands out from the rest. Instead of glowing the color grey it was manufactured in—it’s coated in a dark mud that just by looking at it, gives me a craving for chocolate cake. As soon as I turned on the ignition, my truck grumbled and trembled, completely aware of the 3 hour drive home. I took a moment of silence, and mentally prepared myself for the long miles ahead.
When the sound of piano keys started dancing out of my one working speaker, my baby jabbed my stomach. Classical music—piano to be exact, always results in painful kicks. I pressed my hand over my round belly, and smiled. This little one, is just like me, he or she has knack for pianos. The thought suddenly made me sad.
In my middle school year, a pianist visit our school to educate us about the art of music. That was the first time I watched someone perform live on the grand piano. The sound captivated me, his fingers looked like waves, forcing the hammer to slam on the strings. Key after key, my heart would flutter. The entire concerto took me to a place of serenity. Every piece the pianist played, took me from my bitter role in the family. Before the pianist left, he inspired me with the encouragement to learn how to play music. I took his words as a demand.
With the little courage I had in me, I told my mother I wanted to be a pianist. She looked at me in disgust. In her eyes, she was so convinced that I couldn’t be anything. Her immediate disapproval caused me to whole heartedly accept her viewpoint. Through the years, I suppressed my desire to be a pianist, and left that dream behind.
The downtown streets grew busy today. Everyone crowded over the sidewalk, entering and exiting the small shops. Many held the latest communicative devices in their hands. Because of my short finances, I fell five years behind our modern technology. Not being able to keep up with the latest trend, changed my perspective, I have become philosopher.
At a stop light I watch them, even with my lack of a proper education, I feel as though humanity is on a cliff, entrapped by the virtual world. The era of technology is now an unknown age. Since the birth of the proper computer, technology has been advanced at an unbelievable rate. Many people were frightened of this development. Citizens and environmentalist rallied the streets, demanding laws be passed to preserve our natural resources before our dependency in comfortability ruins it. The dispute ended with a mandatory law, a tree is required to grow in every block and corner, constricted by cement and wires for no one to touch. The majority didn’t mind after that, all they cared was that they could see a tree and enter a sliding door without any effort. The street light flashed green and I left my thoughts behind.
Wisps of clouds stretched above, smeared by the current of the wind. The broken window in the passenger seat invited a chilly breeze that numbed my cheeks and tousled my brown hair. Goose bumps grew on my arms and I let out a small shiver. A week into the beginning of Fall and the trees are quickly shedding any green off its leaves. In southern California, the sun is still warm, everyone is still in their summer clothes. As for this evergreen state, summer switched into Fall, overnight. The leaves on the road are scattering from the passing vehicles, whirling like confetti on the freeway.
Within an hour, I will be entering the hills of wild pines and in another 2 hours, home. There are many national forests in Washington State, but I’m destined to live in the heart of the Okanogan Forest. According to Ms. Clarisse, the national forest used to be a tourist attraction. Trails were mapped out, camping sites, and roads created for those who wanted to come in contact with nature. Now there’s a heavy regulation with limited seasons for those outdoor enthusiasts. Fortunately for me, it’s the perfect place. My husband wouldn’t think of coming here.
The radio signal was lost. The road is less populated with passing vehicles, until I was venturing alone. I shouldn’t complain, being physically alone is no different than feeling alone. In fact, this road is like me, used for the convenience of others. I thought of my mother and a pinch in my heart made me gasp.
Since my pregnancy, thinking of her has become difficult. So much insecurity has grown out of the reality that I exist for her convenience. I spent my childhood wondering why it was easy for her to say “I love you” to my siblings but found it difficult to say it to me. I reasoned with myself that being the big sister—I couldn’t receive the same treatment. For years I have thought myself that this was just how I was supposed to feel, that it was normal for me to have self-doubt, and hold no self-worth—I thought it was my noble duty.
Growing up gave, I wanted to be strong and hate my mother, my siblings, and step-dad, but it was too late for me. My chance to become a resilient child was over, I have become a product of low self-esteem. My little amount of confidence displaced me, I converted my hate into guilt, and in return—I hated my existence. At twelve years old, I suffered from insomnia. It was the year I discovered that my alienation in the family was no accident. The memory is still clear in my mind, out of all my dark moments in life, I’ll never forget this point in my life.
That day, the sun was setting, an orange sky draped over the neighborhood. Our neighbor’s tall fence casted a shadow on our side of the yard. I
was only passing by, when I heard my mom chatting on our neighbor’s porch. Like most Californian suburbs, we were squeezed together, capable of hearing just about everything that’s going on. My mother and neighbor were known to famously chat for long hours. As I passed them, something caught my attention There, I discovered my origin, and the children my mother had before me. Children she willingly terminated.
Her first pregnancy ended in a natural miscarriage, she was a teenager, dating her first love. Her second pregnancy was denied by her longtime boyfriend. Apparently he was furious about the news, he didn’t want to be a father, so he ended the relationship. My mother aborted the baby, and went back reconcile, but he didn’t take her back. Her third, was from my father—her husband. I remember how fast my heart pounded when I heard my mother say Lola’s dad. All of these years, she never mentioned my biological father. Whenever I asked, with a tone of detestation, she would refuse to talk about him. After a financial quarrel with my mother, my father left to find a new job in the bay area. He was gone for a few months and my mother concluded—on her own, that he left her. With that, she aborted my would-be brother. A month after the abortion, my father came back. My mother hid the fact that she was pregnant with his first child. Slowly, they worked on saving their marriage, but when it concluded to a divorce, my mother hid the fact that she was pregnant again, this time with me. When the divorce was finalized, she told my father she was pregnant. My father who was returning to Mexico begged her to let him keep me. My mother refused, seeing her pregnancy wasn’t going to change his mind. She wanted him to beg her to take him back. That’s when she told him a lie that crushed his heart. She said I wasn’t his.
“That was the last time I saw him.” she said to my neighbor. “He had the face of a white pale ghost.”
“Does little Lola know about her father?”
“No.” she scoffed. “If he’s dead to me, he’s dead to her.”
My father believed my mother’s lies and then left, this time for good. It angered me that he didn’t ask for a paternity test, that he didn’t wait for me. My mother eventually re-married and had two children. Growing up, I couldn’t walk pass them without my siblings glaring at me. We didn’t share the same dad, I was an enemy to them.
On the road, my truck roared as I pressed on the gas.
It took me years to find out why my father wanted to keep me, but now I know—my mom isn’t right in the head.
My feet fused with the gas pedal, and accelerated to 90 mph. I should have decelerated, but my thoughts pressed on my past.
On my 18th birthday I stood by the yard, watching my mother throw my clothes into the lawn. Without any warning, she suddenly didn’t want me to live with her anymore. According to her, the fact that I’m an adult was going to count against her financially. She argued that I have become a burden because there was no use in putting me on her programs. My step dad agreed, my younger siblings agreed.
I did my best to reason with them, I told them I would work hard and give them everything I earned, but they had made up their minds. Nobody wanted to deal with me. When my friend took me in, his parents pressured me into marrying him.
No, not again, I’ve had it with them—all of them!
“Not this time!” I shouted. “You hear me!”
The engine thundered, I accelerated to 100 mph. The passing trees started to blur, the wind howled through the broken window. My arms trembled from the jerking steering wheel.
I suddenly got a kick in my belly, in that split second, I snapped back to reality.
My foot immediately released the gas pedal. Ahead, is a curve just a football field away, my heart pumped full adrenaline. I gracefully reduce my speed. I was moments from driving off a hill, my emotional attacks are going to be the death of me
“I’m sorry.” I whispered to my little one. “I shouldn’t put you in danger—I’m sorry.”
Chapter Three
The Red Cabin
“…my mood dampens into the miserable woman I am.”
The Okanogan Forest remains protected by specialists in biogeography, landscape ecologists, firemen, and restoration strategists. Occasionally, I see government vehicles parked on the roadside of the forest. Sometimes, they’ll flag me down, and ask me where I’m going. I had a long time explaining to them that I live here, and had to carry proof at all times. No one was pleased to know that a pregnant woman is living in a protected environment. My saving grace is mentioning my relation with the previous owner, Ms. Clarisse. Only by her last name were they convinced of my legal documentation. Now they wave at me with a warm greeting, seeing that I’m not a threat to the forest and all.
When I noticed a familiar withered sign, my truck came to complete stop, I pulled to the side and stared at the letters that read.
The Mable Resort
Pass the sign, is an old dirt road, smaller than the two lane freeway I spent 3 hours on. The suspension of my truck squealed from the bumps. Ahead, is the entrance to the cabin, landmarked by two large spruce trees. My truck shook, beat from the long trip, but willing to enter the narrow gravel path. A row of pacific yews compressed against one another. As I passed, my truck scraped and brushed against the branches.
Wild plants have grown in undesired parts around the property. Sprouting young trees are growing in areas that may harm the cabin. I looked into hiring a contractor to trim and clear the plot, but the cost is outrageous, they wanted me to cover the cost it will take for them to drive to the cabin and back.
Ms. Clarisse’s former property has a lot of history, it served many generations. The cabin itself is called ponderosa, it was named after the ponderosa trees in the region. Ms. Clarisse’s family purchased this lot of land for family gatherings, and camping. The tradition in their family, was to pass the cabin down from mother to daughter. Ms. Clarisse should have passed it to her daughter, but that’s a story of its own.
The two level cabin is a story high, lifted by bricks of stone. The red wine paint is a few months fresh. The roof is slanted by a long peeked ceiling with two long windows. The bricked chimney shyly peeks from behind.
Every six months, Ms. Clarisse has hired a group of contractors to rebuild any wear and tear. Now I’m responsible for keeping this place in perfect condition. The porch upstairs, is decorated with my coffee table, stacks of books, and magazines. My favorite wool blanket hangs on the rocking chair, waiting for my return.
I parked next to the footpath, near the borderline of the lawn. The faster I can get inside the cabin, the sooner I can stay warm. The engine clicked off, bubbling with exhaustion. I inhaled the fresh pine scent of the forest. Before entering, I looked towards the back end of the cabin, I fell under a sour sight that made me regret my return. The kitchen that leads to the back exit of the cabin, naturally, my garbage can would follow. There, the raccoons—the culprit creatures of the night, have paid me another visit. My trash can has been tossed on the ground for the hundredth time! In two short weeks of moving here, those dumpster divers have become my mortal enemy. To fend off my neighbors, I tried adding heavy rocks on the lid of the can, but it resolved nothing.
Apart from the irritating raccoons, my common visitors are often groups of white-tailed deer, and a few elk. These are peaceful visitors, my worry is attentive on the dangerous animals, like the black bears, wild cats, and wolves. The black bears should hibernating by now, but that only leaves me with two dangerous predators. So far, none have taken interest in me.
I followed the slaps of stone, the wide front yard looks lonely as usual. An old picnic table aged next to a barbecue grill. I stopped to imagine Ms. Clarisse running around the yard as a child, and later as a woman, tending to her children. Walking up the stairs, the view of the forest expanded. This area is equally surrounded by a mixed family of pine trees and their evergreen needles. Most of the golden leaves belong to the birch trees. My favorite tree of all is the large oak that glowing tones of yellow and orange leaves. The best part about having a lifted porch is th
e sense of security. I feel at peace here, no house has ever felt like home, none, except this cabin.
As usual, I came home exhausted. I can’t drive comfortably for three hours, with a baby pressed against my swollen bladder. About every 30 minutes, I had to pull over, get off my truck, crouch, pee, and repeat for the road ahead. I shed my feelings of shame when it comes to relieving myself. There’s no cars to worry about and so what if the wild animals saw my butt. Releasing pee is as satisfying as succumbing the urge to scratch an itch.
Every time I enter the cabin, I expect to see the walls made out of logs. Instead, I’m reminded that Ms. Clarisse detested the interior cabin-style look. The interior of the cabin is renovated to look like a regular modern home with plastered walls, tile floor, and plush carpeting. According to Ms. Clarisse, this isn’t how the cabin originally looked, she mention there was countless remodeling throughout her family’s generation.
The living room is two steps down with a double panel window facing the north end of the forest. The first floor has a small bathroom, kitchen, living room, and laundry room. Upstairs leads you to a long hall leading to an open study room with tall windows exposing the stunning scenery of the Okanogan Forest. Three bedrooms, and a large bathroom occupy the second floor. When I first arrived, I had to keep my jaw from dropping. Ms. Clarisse refurnished the cabin like it was prepared for a catalogue shoot, not my arrival.
The Birth (The Black Wing Book 1) Page 2
