IN THE
MIDDLE OF
NOWHERE
Julie Ann Knudsen
Copyright © 2012 by Julie Ann Knudsen. Cover and CHAPTER heading image copyright © Cover and CHAPTER heading image copyright © Yulia | Dreamstime.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Smashwords Edition: May 2012
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN | CHAPTER FOURTEEN | CHAPTER FIFTEEN | CHAPTER SIXTEEN | CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN | CHAPTER NINETEEN | CHAPTER TWENTY | CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | CHAPTER THIRTY | CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE | CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX | CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT | CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | CHAPTER FORTY | EPILOGUE
ABOUT JULIE ANN KNUDSEN
To my family.
This book wouldn’t have been possible without your support.
CHAPTER
ONE
My iPod blared through my room and woke me instantly. My eyes snapped open, but I quickly knew there was a problem. Half of my body was still asleep. I rolled onto my back and realized that my whole left side was completely numb. In a matter of seconds, the numbness went away and was replaced by the feeling of thousands of tiny pins and needles jabbing me.
I had to get up before the music traveled through my paper-thin walls and woke my brother. I jumped out of bed, forgetting about the shooting pain in my left hand, arm and leg. I stumbled as I reached my dresser, but managed to switch off my iHome before collapsing onto the floor.
I sprawled on my back, on top of my white shag area rug. I moved my arms up and down making fake snow angels like I did when I was a kid, hoping to rid myself of the pain that consumed more than just my left side.
If I could have, I would have stayed on my floor for the rest of the day, for the rest of my life. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I ran behind and missed the ferryboat to school. My mother would scream from one end of the house all the way to the other, as she swept up cat hair and hurried my brother and me along.
As I moved my limbs up and down I thought about how wonderful it would be if I could travel back in time to when I was little again, to a time when I was truly happy. Back then, my realities were Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and my only worry was how these mystical bearers of gifts would enter my house, undetected, and not set off our alarm system.
Even though the numbness was fading from the outside of my body, I couldn’t help but sense as though it was taking over the inside of me. I wanted to feel again. I wanted my old life back, my old school, my old friends and my old mom.
Then I heard it, the unmistakable footsteps as they climbed the hardwood stairs and traveled across the hallway floor, reverberating toward my room at the very end.
I jumped up and quickly locked my door before anyone could open it.
The knocking came anyway.
“Getting dressed,” I yelled. “Be right down.”
I threw off my pj’s, grabbed a T-shirt and pair of jeans and headed toward the bathroom where I would attempt to get ready for another useless and sucky day.
• • •
I almost missed the 7:00 A.M. ferry that was to take me across Casco Bay from my new home on Pike’s Island to the Maine State Pier in Portland’s Old Port section. Unlike the elementary school, which was located on the island, the junior high and high schools were located three miles across the bay, on what the locals referred to as the “mainland.” Portland had two high schools, which made the student body of my sophomore class a manageable size of about two hundred kids.
Everyday, the other year-round students and I would take the Casco ferryboat to and from school, even in the cold, dead of winter. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like crossing the small inlet of ocean in the middle of January, even if it were only going to be for twenty minutes. There was a closed cabin and heaters inside, but I was chilled to the bone most days and it was still only the middle of September.
Once there, the other kids and I would board the dull, yellow school bus that would take us on a mile-long drive and drop us in front of the cold, concrete steps that led to the large and looming front entrance of Portland High.
Everyday after I got dropped off at the dock, my mother would head back and bring my brother, James, to his elementary school, which was a block away from our house on the island.
And just as I had suspected, my mother ranted and raved about how late the two of us had been that morning.
“Hurry up and get in the car!” she yelled. “You’ll both have to eat dry cereal again today.”
My mom grabbed her car keys, while James and I grabbed our backpacks and headed out the door. We were lucky that she was even awake and able to drive us at all.
I missed the days when my mother would gently and lovingly wake me before school. She would sneak into my bedroom and plant butterfly kisses on my plump, seven-year-old cheeks. Sometimes my mom would even wear her favorite lime-green, paisley apron as she happily made homemade, chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, right after she propped up a bottle for my baby brother as he lay in his bouncy seat.
I could sense that poor baby James wanted to eat the pancakes, too, as his little blue eyes followed the fork from the plate right into my mouth before I began to chew the yummy meal.
Today we had to make due with the tiny boxes of cereal we always had on hand for cases of emergency, like the one this morning.
I relished the quiet car ride as I munched on my Froot Loops. I stared out the window at the homes and street signs we passed on our way to the ferry and read: JUNIPER, MAGNOLIA and WISTERIA. I wanted to try to memorize all the names because, even though the island was only two miles by two miles wide, I still found myself getting lost sometimes when I’d venture outdoors, in need of some alone time.
James broke the silence and spoke with a mouthful of Cheerios. “When can I go on the ferryboat to school? That’s not fair that Willow can go on it and I can’t!”
I turned around from the front seat and shot him a dirty look. My eight-year-old brother was so annoying and his ridiculous question didn’t even deserve an answer. Our mom gave him one anyway.
“I told you before, James. You have two more years on the island and then you’ll take the ferry over to Portland for middle school. Only two more,” my mother emphasized as she held up two of her fingers.
Thankfully, our Jeep Cherokee pulled up to the pier and I climbed out, but not before my mom rolled down her window.
“Have a nice day!” she shouted after me, loud enough for the other kids to hear. They turned and stared. I was completely embarrassed. I gave my mom a quick wave, turned and braced myself before boarding the boat ride to hell.
CHAPTER
TWO
Pike’s Island was among over two hundred islands that were scattered throughout the Gulf of Maine’s Casco Bay, a small area of water in the northern part of the Atlantic Ocean. Pike’s was located a few miles off the coast and was one of the four isla
nds that was inhabited year-round. Pike’s Island was the largest and had a population of approximately two thousand people in the winter, but swelled to over six thousand residents during the summer.
Most people, including those living in New England, didn’t know that this small group of islands even existed, let alone that people lived on them and had to rely on boats to get to and from civilization.
My family and I ended up in this cold, remote place after a tragic set of circumstances drove us here. I was ten years old when my father, while on his way home from work, was killed instantly after he was hit, head on, by a drunken driver. The male driver was an illegal immigrant, had no license, no insurance and died a week later.
My father was a supervisor at a manufacturing plant that made engine parts for helicopters. The company was a small, family-owned business and after my father died, my family no longer received any of his benefits. Fortunately, my mom had a job as the head librarian at the local community college in our small Massachusetts town and we were able to get health insurance and other benefits through her.
I was lucky because, even though I was young when he died, I still had memories of my dad. My poor brother, James, however, who was not yet three when he passed, was too young to recall very much about him. My recollection of the accident and the night the policemen showed up on our doorstep remained somewhat foggy. I don’t know if I blocked out these terrible memories or if I, too, was not old enough to fully remember them.
What I can recall from the days following his death was that there seemed to be hundreds of people who filtered in and out of our home and even more who showed up at his funeral to pay their respects. My mother felt that James was too little and would be disruptive during the service, so he stayed back home with a sitter. Despite standing as close to my mother’s side as I could, even burying my face into the folds of her black woolen skirt, I still felt afraid in the big, cold cathedral as each of the mourners passed and expressed their deepest sympathies.
My father didn’t have any living relatives close by. He was an only child and both his mother and father had died long before I was born. That made my mom, brother and me his only survivors.
It was clear that everyone adored my father, especially me, his only daughter. He called me his princess all the time and when he really wanted to butter me up to help him with some unpleasant chore, he’d call me Willie.
“Willie? Where are you, sweetie?” he’d called. “Come and help your old man with the trash.”
Reluctantly I’d emerge from my hiding place feeling guilty if I didn’t pitch in.
“I don’t know how our family of four can generate so much garbage,” he’d say as he dragged the cans toward the curb. “Baby James barely eats at all, and what he does eat ends up in his diaper anyway.”
My father would roll his merry, blue eyes, slap the side of his head and act all surprised.
“That’s it,” he’d say with a smile as he plugged his nose. “I’ll betcha that half of this trash is your brother’s dirty, stinky diapers!”
We’d both laugh as we finished up our trash duty. Afterwards, my father, on cue, would stop and stoop forward. I’d take a running leap onto his back and wrap my skinny limbs around him before beginning our journey up the long driveway into our warm and cozy, trash-less home.
• • •
My mom and dad didn’t have a lot of money and the meager life insurance policy that my dad did have mostly went to pay for the cost of his burial. My mom was able to keep up with the mortgage payments, but sometimes there was little else to spend at the end of the month once food was bought and other bills were paid.
As hard as it was to have lost my dad, we were consoled by the fact that we were able to remain in the house he treasured so much. He’d renovated most of it with his own two, calloused hands after he and my mother purchased the three-bedroom Cape at a very low price. My mother was afraid the walls would cave in and fall down around us the moment we moved in, but my dad loved the fixer-upper and promised to make it as good as new for her.
My dad built beautiful oak bunk beds for James, even though he was still in a crib, and an ornate dollhouse, with a working chandelier and tiny drawbridge for me. It was no coincidence that my dollhouse resembled more of an elegant castle than a comfy home as he made it especially for me, his princess.
As comforting as it was to stay in our house, it wouldn’t be forever as I had hoped. Toward the end of my freshman year of high school, the community college where my mother worked downsized their staff due to a decline in enrollment. And because my mother was paid the most in her department, she was let go first.
I had never seen my mother cry so much except after my father had died and couldn’t have realized at the time that this would now be the norm for most days to follow. I didn’t know how to help or what I could do to comfort her. I gently patted her shoulder as she sat at the kitchen table and cried over her cup of coffee and the want-ad section of our local newspaper.
“Everything’s gonna be all right, Mom,” I tried to reassure her. I was only fifteen years old, but so desperately wanted to believe it, too. She touched my hand, but never looked up. I know she didn’t want me to see her tears.
After months of failed attempts at finding a job that would keep us in our house, my mother had no choice but to put it up for sale and make plans for moving out. The problem, however, was that we had no place to go. With no job, no income and very little coming in from unemployment, our choices were limited even if we wanted to rent a cheap apartment in our small town. My mother’s parents were older and couldn’t afford to support us. They already were on a fixed income living in their fifty-five and older community. We couldn’t have moved in with them even if we had wanted to. No children were allowed.
After tearful meetings and endless phone calls with my mother’s older brother, Ron, my grandmother arranged for our family to sell our beloved house. Before we knew what hit us, we found ourselves packing up our lives and saying good-bye to everything we knew and loved before relocating to my uncle’s summerhouse, far away, on an island, in the middle of nowhere.
CHAPTER
THREE
The other students and I shuffled through the hallways of Portland High as we headed to our homerooms. I took a seat in the back of the classroom and laid my head down on top of my books. I was still cold and tired and couldn’t warm up no matter how hard I tried. I must have dozed off for a minute or two and dreamt that someone was calling my name. I came crashing back to reality when my name was called even louder this time.
“Willow Flynn!” Mr. Singer yelled out as part of his morning roll call.
I looked up and raised my hand. “Here.”
I put my head back down on my pile of knowledge and forced myself to stay awake.
“Tessa Anderson?” Mr. Singer sang. Sure, he called my name with venom in his voice, but called out to Tessa as if he were reciting poetry. “Tessa?”
Mr. Singer scanned the classroom. Perfect Tessa Anderson was nowhere to be found. He gave up.
“Michael Cooper.”
Michael Cooper was sitting two rows to the left of me, but didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at me and smiled. Nervously, I kept my head down and looked away.
“Michael Cooper! I see you back there,” Mr. Singer shouted. “Answer me!”
Michael slowly turned toward the teacher. “Sorry. Here.”
Just then Tessa Anderson sailed into the room, waved to Mr. Singer and sat. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Singer. My locker was jammed and I couldn’t get it to open.” She was such a suck up and a liar.
“Not a worry, Tessa,” Mr. Singer beamed. “Just glad you made it here at all.”
Mr. Singer was so creepy looking with his long, bushy sideburns and slicked back, greasy hair. He was stuck in the 80s and looked as if he were hoping to win “best costume” at a retro-themed Halloween party.
I must have dozed off again for a split second, but was awakened after somethi
ng hit me in the head. I looked down and saw a tiny paper airplane on the floor next to my feet. I sat up and looked around.
There was Michael Cooper, with his intense, dark eyes, smiling at me again. He was starting to give the creeps as much as Mr. Singer.
He mouthed to me, “Read it.”
I picked the airplane off the floor and opened it. Inside, scribbled in pencil, was a note.
“Sweet dreams, my dear,
Sweet dreams, you dare?
Be done with dreams
And face your fear.”
What the heck was that supposed to mean? I glanced over at Michael but his back was to me as he coughed and faced the plate glass window. I crumpled up the airplane and stuck it in my coat pocket. I’d toss it in the garbage on my way out of homeroom. But I needed to get outta there fast in case Creepy Cooper tried to talk to me.
I looked at the clock. The minute hand ticked. The bell rang. Homeroom over. I bolted for the door and ran straight into Tessa Anderson.
“Sorry,” I apologized.
She shot me a dirty look. “Chill,” she said, before twirling back around and hitting me in the face with her long, shiny blonde hair. Tessa looked exactly like the sort of girl who’d be smack in the middle of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, while my picture would be plastered on the side of a box of apple cinnamon flavored oatmeal.
I rolled my eyes, tossed the note into the trash and raced into the hallway, hoping to disappear into the abyss of other swarming students.
CHAPTER
FOUR
It wasn’t long before my mother found a job working as the assistant librarian at my brother’s elementary school. She was thrilled because, even though it was only part-time, all three of us would now be eligible to receive health insurance. The money wasn’t great, but we were living rent free, as my uncle owned the house we now called home on Juniper Drive.
In the Middle of Nowhere Page 1
