A Life, Redefined (A Rowan Slone Novel Book 1)

by Tracy Hewitt Meyer

  Jay used to work with my dad at the prison but was fired for smuggling marijuana to the prisoners. He came to the car lot at least once a week to chat with Dan.

  Ignoring Jay’s question, I looked at Dan. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I walked outside and the sunshine hit my face, warming my skin. Within minutes, sweat broke out on my forehead. It would get hot soon and I’d be faced with questions about my wardrobe all over again. It seemed that wearing long-sleeved T-shirts year round was a crime.

  My phone dinged a new text message, but I didn’t check it. The sky was cloudless, a light, pure blue that was almost painful to look at, though more difficult to look away from. It was perfect, beautiful. Spanning as far as I could see.

  It reminded me of something, but I wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t my mom or my dad. There was no perfection there, sometimes not even enough goodness. Nor was it my sister, or Gran.

  Then I realized what it was. The sky reminded me of Aidan. My sweet baby brother was just like the sky. And his eyes were the exact same color as the blue overhead.

  My baby brother died when I was ten and Trina was eight. Hours before he went to sleep and never woke up, Mom and Dad had gotten into a fight over her weight and overall laziness. A spring storm had been brewing since early evening, mirroring the tension circulating inside the house. The wind howled through the trees, making them dance in the darkness, and rain fell in sheets. The lights flickered off and on a couple of times.

  “I’m done with this,” Dad had said. “You’re a worthless wife. I never should’ve married you. My dad was wrong to guilt me into it!” He stormed through the house yanking on his raincoat and grabbing his boots. “I’m leaving. Pack the boy’s stuff. I’m coming back tomorrow to get him. Then we’re leaving. I’m tired of this shit.”

  My mom scurried behind him down the hallway, wrenching her hands over her enormous stomach. Her eyes, red and swollen, followed his every move. When Dad stomped out of the house, he slammed the door so hard the floor shook under my feet.

  Mom didn’t move, her mouth hung open. Her hands shook as she made little whimpering sounds.

  When Aidan began to cry from his crib, Mom went down the hall. She lumbered heavily past his door, not even pausing at his wails, and went into her room. The door shut behind her. The lock turned.

  Trina stared at the television, not moving, not blinking. I got off the couch and followed Mom. Stopping in the middle of the hall, I looked between Mom’s closed door and Aidan’s. His wails hurt my ears, not because of the volume, but because I hated to hear him upset. I went into the nursery. I rubbed his tummy and cooed in my softest voice. His little face was red and blotchy, tiny fists clenched and thrashing in the air.

  He wouldn’t settle so I stood on a stool, bent over the crib and picked him up. He was only two months old but solid as a little linebacker. I managed to pull him into my arms and step off the stool without much trouble. I carried him down the hall and laid him in Trina’s lap.

  “Hold him,” I had instructed her. “I’m going to make a bottle.”

  Trina glanced at me through vacant eyes, as if she couldn’t quite focus. I nodded toward Aidan. “Hold him.”

  Without responding, she wrapped her arms around him. I went into the kitchen and had a bottle warmed and ready within minutes. I was used to making him bottles.

  I took him from Trina and went back into the nursery. Nestled in the rocking chair, I tried to sing a lullaby, making up the parts I didn’t know. He slurped and gurgled as the milk spilled into his mouth.

  Aidan was an angel. At least he looked like one. It was no wonder Dad loved him so much. It was impossible not to. There was no jealousy in my heart over how Dad felt about Aidan, because I felt it too.

  He looked a lot like Trina, with blond curls that were just starting to form around his little round head, giving him the image of a halo. His eyes were blue, round, clear. With cheeks that were permanently stained red, he looked like a cherub from a Bible story.

  As I held his bottle, he reached his little fat hand up and grasped one of my fingers. I cooed, sang to him; even laughed as the milk spilled out of his mouth and down his chin.

  After his bottle, I burped and changed him, then laid him back in his bed. He made only one small whimper of protest. When I started singing again, his eyes grew heavy. There were no blankets in his bed and none nearby. But his hands and feet felt cold. The storm raged on outside, rattling the windows.

  I went into the hall closet and pulled out the smallest blanket I could find. It wasn’t a baby blanket but thicker and heavier. I wrapped him up, careful not to cover his face, not even covering his shoulders. I tucked the blanket under his arms and around his torso. His eyes drooped until they shut completely and he released a soft, satisfied sigh.

  Taking care of my brother was so natural, easy. I loved doing it. I really did. That night, the bad feelings of my parents’ fight were replaced by warmth in my heart. I could not have known that my baby brother would never wake back up. That I would be the last one to take care of him, hold him, see those light blue eyes. That I would become the one blamed for his death because I had put that blanket on him.

  AS TEARS filled my eyes, I tried to tell myself to look away from the sky, to convince myself that it would do me no good to stare at something so beautiful. It would only break my heart a thousand times over. Hadn’t it already been broken enough?

  Without realizing it, I had lifted the sleeve of my shirt and was scratching at my left arm; the dozen red, angry marks old and healed but still vibrant against the paleness of my skin. With my fingernail I traced each line, forged the years after Aidan’s death–when Dad’s dark, accusing glare followed me through the house; when Mom grew more fat and unkempt than ever; when Trina narrowed her eyes and spat, I hate you so softly I wasn’t sure I heard it.

  And now, with each line I traced, I put more and more pressure using the edge of my nail. The skin did not break, but the pain was sharp and the burden of my heart slightly less.

  Then Dan yelled my name.

  I jumped up and yanked my shirt sleeve down. I went inside without a word, grabbed my backpack and bolted out the door with the two men’s eyes burning a hole in my back.

  WHEN I went to school to pick up Trina from cheerleading practice, she wasn’t with the rest of her squad. “Jennifer, do you know where Trina is?” I asked a sophomore from Spanish class.

  “She was here a minute ago, but I’m not sure where she went.” She started gathering her stuff.

  I walked along the sideline, trying not to steal looks at the soccer team running sprints. A few catcalls rang out, but I didn’t know if they were for me or someone else.

  I walked toward the concession stand, where the bathrooms were, hoping to find her there. “Trina? We’ve got to go.” Dad didn’t like when we were late. If we had to go out later in the evening, he usually didn’t mind so much. But he knew we should be home from work and practice by six fifteen. And it was almost ten minutes after six.

  I went around the side of the small brick building. Soft murmurs wafted through the air. “Trina, we’ve got to go. Dad will be home.” Those words would do it. And they did. Trina popped around the corner, pulling her shirt down. A boy I recognized but didn’t know followed behind with his hand on the back of her skirt.

  “Let’s go.” I walked away.

  Trina and the guy started laughing, talking so low I couldn’t hear what they said.

  Then someone shouted my name.

  “Rowan!” Mike ran toward me. “Hey! See you soon?”

  He skidded to a stop right before crashing into me. He bent over, hands on his knees, inhaling short bursts of air. He was wearing athletic shorts, a T-shirt, and knee-high socks that showed the outline of his shin guards. After a few moments, he stood up.

  “Yeah. I have to take Trina home and then I’ll be back.”

  Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face and he wiped them away with the hem o
f his shirt, displaying the hard muscles of his stomach in perfect fashion.

  “Cool. I’ll shower up and meet you there.”

  Trina walked up, alone. She ran her hand through Mike’s hair. He yanked his head away and Trina laughed, loud and clear. “Don’t want me to mess your hair up?”

  “I was talking to your sister, Trina.”

  My eyes widened at the same time hers narrowed. She took a step back and looked at me. “Dad’s waiting, Ro. Let’s go.”

  “I’ll meet you at the car.” I held out the keys.

  She yanked them out of my hand and stormed off.

  “Your sister is something else.” He frowned.

  My heart did three flips and I swallowed the giggle that threatened to escape. Maybe he didn’t like Trina. Did that mean he liked…But I shut down those thoughts before they even formed.

  “I’ll see you there soon. I’m starving!” He rubbed his stomach.

  “Me too.” I don’t know why I said that because I was no such thing.

  He grabbed my hand. His was warm, slightly moist; much larger than mine. He squeezed it and then darted off. I pressed my palm against my chest and couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. I watched his calves, round and muscular and taut, pump him back toward the team.

  “Ro!” Trina yelled from the car. “Dad’s gonna be mad.” That was all it took to make me turn from watching Mike’s backside and hurry to the car. There was a distinct flutter deep inside my chest, but I wouldn’t let Trina know anything about it. I set my lips and ignored her sideways stare as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  TRINA WAS silent the whole way home, bolting into the house before I even got out of the car.

  I gave Levi a hug and tummy rubs, then walked inside, trying to decide if I needed to change or wear what I had on.

  “Rowan?” Dad’s deep baritone halted me mid-step. He was sitting in the chair in the living room. “How was school?”

  It took several moments for the words to sink into my brain. I hadn’t heard that type of question from him in forever. Probably not since the fifth grade. Maybe not ever. Why were he and Mom so concerned with me and school today?

  “It was fine.”

  “I got a call today.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was music, volume turned low, coming from the kitchen. It sounded like classic country, which is the only thing Dad listened to. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. I knew all their songs by heart. He listened to this music when he was in a good mood; well, a good mood for him. So the call must not have been a bad one.

  “Who from?”

  He stood. My hands clenched the hem of my shirt. His boots pounded against the hardwood floor, sending vibrations all the way up my calves. Stopping in front of me, I could feel his hot breath on the top of my head.

  “The school.”

  His name tag read Jack Slone, Corrections Officer written in black block letters deeply imbedded within a solid white background. It stood out against the somber gray of his uniform.

  “Do you want to know what they wanted?”

  I nodded against my better judgment.

  “To tell me that you and Trina have been tardy twenty-five times this year.”

  A tiny bead of sweat rolled down my back.

  He grabbed my chin with his strong fingers; fingers that fired guns and wielded police batons.

  “Look at me, Rowan.”

  I did.

  His eyes, hazel with red veins snaking through the white, stared down at me. I tried not to blink. He raised his other hand and I winced. Dad had never hit me, but there was an undercurrent of something that pulsed through him and made my knees knock together each time he got angry.

  “I don’t want another tardy slip the rest of this year.” He ran the hand through his closely cropped hair.

  He released my chin and walked into the kitchen. I darted to my bedroom and shut the door. With shaking fingers, I yanked a brush through my hair and since it was already six thirty, I didn’t bother to change.

  MARIO’S PIZZA was a tiny sliver of a restaurant, owned by one of the few immigrants in our rural area. Mario was from Sicily and had come here when he was twenty-one. He was now old, with two grown boys who also worked in the restaurant.

  The restaurant was nestled at the end of a strip of local shops: post office, pharmacy, the used bookstore where Jess worked. I parked along the side of the building. Mike’s car wasn’t there yet and I didn’t know if I should go in and get a table or sit in the car and wait. If I waited, I didn’t want to look like I was waiting. So I flipped open my phone and texted Jess.

  Guess where I am?

  Where??

  Marios. Guess who I’m mtg?

  I had just started to type the M, when I glanced at the clock. It was six forty. Where was Mike?

  I didn’t finish the text. Instead I replayed each and every discussion we’d had about meeting. He’d confirmed on the field, just an hour ago, and earlier in class. It was his idea to meet for pizza. Did he change his mind?

  I wrapped my arms around my stomach and hurled the phone into my bag.

  Maybe I should go inside and check. I didn’t want him to think I stood him up. But then, if he wasn’t there, wouldn’t I look stupid if I turned around and left?

  I chewed my fingernail as an SUV pulled into the next space. Before whoever was inside got out, I bent my head and rummaged through my bag until I found my phone again. Just as I was reading Jess’ string of angry texts, demanding to know who I was meeting, someone banged on my window.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I glanced up with a smile. But it wasn’t Mike. It was Trina, smirking. Beside her was the guy from earlier. My heart tumbled to my feet. Ignoring the sirens screaming in my ears, I rolled down the window.

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself, Ro? Waiting on someone to come and pay you some attention?”

  The guy had his arm around her shoulder, fingers grazing the top of her chest.

  “No, Trina. For your information,” and I wanted to not say the next words, because…what if he didn’t show? But I just couldn’t stop myself. “I’m meeting Mike. Mike Anderson.” I also couldn’t stop the satisfaction that spread across my face at her reaction.

  Her lips pinched together and for the slightest of seconds, her expression flashed anger. But then it was gone like it was never there. “Oh, sure. You’re supposed to study tonight, right? God, Ro. Get a life.” Her laughter rang out over the parking lot as she sauntered into Mario’s, the guy trailing behind like a lovesick puppy.

  I slunk down in my seat. For all of the times to be stood up, why did it have to be in front of Trina? My bottom lip quivered as I started my car. I had to face the facts. He wasn’t coming.

  Then someone pounded on my window again. I almost didn’t look up. If it was Trina again, I’d just die right there.

  But I did look up.

  And it was Mike Anderson.

  RELIEF WASHED over me like a warm, spring rain. Not wanting him to see the moisture in my eyes, I blinked several times then rolled down the window.

  “Rowan, I’m so sorry! I was on my way, but Coach wanted to talk to me about scholarships.” Words tumbled out of his mouth. “Do you want to just go to the library?”

  Trina was inside the restaurant with her date-of-the-moment. If I went in with Mike, it was hard to tell what her reaction would be. She could ignore us. Or diss her current date and come on to Mike again. Or she could say something embarrassing and hateful.

  “I’m good. Let’s go to the library. Unless you’re hungry.”

  “Nah, I can’t eat. Not now. Coach says I may get a scholarship to play soccer. Two colleges are interested.”

  “That’s great.” I forced my words to sound excited, though I couldn’t understand in the least how it must feel to be so good at something that colleges fought over you.

  Tonight Mike wore jeans and a yellow soccer jersey that had Brasil emblazoned across the front;
both items of clothing falling just right over his body.

  “So, let’s go to the library. I’ll follow you in my car.”

  I nodded, casting one last glance at the restaurant. I got to spend an evening with Mike Anderson. It didn’t matter where or how. So take that, Trina.

  THE LIBRARY was empty, quiet in the way only large, book-filled rooms can be. Mrs. Grey, our pinch-faced librarian, scrutinized my library pass through her glasses as if she hadn’t seen it a hundred times over the years. Finally she thrust it back at me and settled into her desk chair. Mike followed me toward the end of the rectangular room, past cubicles with ancient desktop computers, past ceiling-high bookshelves.

  We threw our bags down on a wooden table, its surface carved and colored as a testament to high school life: a misshapen heart with Katie and Brian etched inside, various scribbles, and a few unfortunate although funny remarks about Mrs. Grey.

  Mike pulled out his biology book and it landed with a thud on the table. His notebook followed. He sat then looked at me with brows raised. “You okay?”

  “Oh…yeah.” I didn’t realize I was staring at him. No, studying him. And he’d just caught me doing it. I fell into the seat beside him and bent down to get my things, and to hide my blush. There was something about this guy; his energy field engulfed everything around him, including me. Being near him made my skin actually tingle, and my head turn into a mass of idiocy.

  “Where should we start?” He tapped his pencil against the table. “Believe it or not, I’ve tried to think of topics, but I can’t. Science isn’t really my thing.”

  What was his thing?

  I cleared my throat. “I’ve thought of a couple. Here.” I slid a sheet of paper over.

  He scanned the sheet. “I like this one.” He pushed the paper back to me with his finger on Effects of Global Warming on the Intensity of Hurricane Activity. “My mom is all about global warming these days. She thinks it’s a sign that God is angry with us.”