Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Learning to Cry

  Christopher C. Payne

  JournalStone

  San Francisco

  Copyright ©2010 by Christopher C. Payne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  ISBN: 978-0-9828119-0-0(sc)

  ISBN: 978-0-9828119-1-7(dj)

  ISBN: 978-0-9828119-2-4(ebook)

  JournalStone rev. date 7/2/2010

  Cover Design by Christopher Perez

  Edited by Whitney Howell

  Photography by Nancy Skramstad Mueller

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my three daughters. They are the loves of my life. While they have and still do provide me with more heartburn than I care to admit, they are also the most amazing things that have ever happened to me. All three of my girls are incredible human beings, and I hope they learn some of life’s lessons the easy way versus taking the long route, as most of us do.

  I would also like to mention the most amazing woman I have ever met, Connie Johnson. She is always so tolerant of my writing and the time it takes from our relationship. I am still unsure if anyone will ever read my ranting or if this will be a successful career. But I can say I love doing it, and writing has changed my life. If it were not for Connie and her incredible support and love, I am not sure I would have made it this far. After all of my years searching, she has helped me understand the definition of what love means. I would freely give her my heart, but she has held it since our very first date.

  I also want to call attention to all the teenagers out there and the trials they face every day. Sometimes we, as adults, forget what it was like and how consuming those tumultuous years really are. Granted, the insanity of being a teen is unmatched by any age. But we, as parents, should do everything we can to help them foster as much emotional stability as they can muster every single day they head out the door to that dreaded school.

  We all take our lives for granted, and it sometimes takes a monumental event to help us understand how lucky we truly are. While all three of my daughters might cause me pain at times, they are three of the most wonderful human beings I could ever hope with whom to be associated.

  I would also like to thank my parents. I didn’t agree with many things they did while I was growing up, but now that I am an adult I can see how trying it is to raise a child who is enduring the insanity of high school. I guarantee when my daughters are grown they will reflect back on my nurturing skills and take issue with some of my decisions, as well. I think all we can do as parents is our best and cross our fingers this is enough.

  Finally, I absolutely must thank the editor of this book, Whitney Howell. She is an incredible writer and an amazing person with whom to work. She helped elevate this novel above and beyond my abilities. Her input and suggestions were an integral part in helping me achieve a final product that exceeded all of my expectations.

  Melissa is safe, curled up in her bed

  Her nightmares are filled with visions of red

  A child flies through the air with such grace

  A gawker takes notice, with shock on his face

  An automobile might travel too fast

  Abruptly on impact, the speed cannot last

  People are made up of blood, flesh and bone

  The death of a child leaves you forever alone

  Prelude

  Melissa

  Melissa sat, dazed and confused, on a hardwood floor. Her head felt like it was spinning in different directions all at the same time. Was that even possible? She wasn’t sure, yet it seemed to be happening. What is spinning? Is something spinning if it is moving in a circular motion, or is it simply moving in a circular motion. What is the definition of spinning, anyway? She suddenly felt the need to look it up in the dictionary, but that was stupid. What was happening to her? She lifted her hand in the air and watched as it held a rhythmic beat, like it had a mind of its own.

  She felt herself crying, but didn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if she was really crying, yet there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Was she alone? She felt alone, yet she always felt alone. Melissa had nobody, and there was no one who cared. What was happening to her, what time was it? She was confused on time at the moment. It seemed to be floating by, and she had lost track of where she was or how long she had been here. Where was she? She appeared to be sitting on some hardwood floor in the middle of a bedroom she didn’t recognize.

  The last thing Melissa remembered was heading out of her mom’s house and hooking up with Sarah. She and Sarah were finally going to the party they discussed for the last several days. Melissa had been looking forward to this party for some reason but couldn’t seem to remember why. She had worn her blue spaghetti-strap top and her purple flowered bra underneath. Her mom had yelled at her because she was leaving the house with her bra straps showing. Damn, her parents were constantly harassing her about her bra. They constantly complained about how they could see it underneath her shirts. Who the hell really cared what they said. She was tired now. So damn tired. She was not a slut no matter what her damn parents said.

  As she looked down at the hardwood floor again she wondered where her bra was. She seemed to be completely naked except for her socks. Why were her socks still on? One sock was green with stars, and the other sock was purple with some form of leaf pattern. She never did wear matching socks. It was kind of her thing at this point. Matching socks were stupid if you really thought about it. Who cares if your socks are the same on both feet? Socks are covered by shoes. Your shoes should be matching, but your socks? Damn, for that matter did your shoes even have to match? Why was she sitting on this hardwood floor? Her butt was really starting to hurt, and she was naked. Why was she naked? She started screaming. She had to stop the spinning. Her head was hurting, and she felt herself screaming as loud as she could.

  As she continued to stare at her socks she saw there were two little squirrels sitting over i
n the corner. They were staring back at her and seemed to be having a conversation. One squirrel was asking the other one if it felt they should be disappointed in Melissa. Why the hell would a squirrel be disappointed in Melissa? Why were these squirrels even talking? There was that movie about those animals that could talk. What was the name of that movie? “The Secret of…….?” No, that didn’t make sense. Damn, it was “The Witch and the Wardrobe.” It had that big lion in it. Could the lion pounce and eat these two, shitty little squirrels? The two of them were really beginning to bother her at this point. Still, she was screaming, but she couldn’t remember why. She was naked. Was that the reason?

  She felt her arm being pulled, and while Melissa attempted to yank it back, she just didn’t have the strength. God, she felt so weak. Why did she feel so tired? She wanted to sleep, yet she couldn’t possibly close her eyes. It was as if somebody had given her 80 cups of coffee and, at the same time, injected her with some kind of sleeping potion. How can you be so sleepy and have so much energy at the same time? Was she getting her tonsils out? The last time she felt so detached, she remembered waking up in a hospital bed, and she had just been through surgery. Her dad was there holding her hand. Where was her dad now? Why wasn’t he here with her? She loved her dad even if he was a complete asshole. Why do dads have to be assholes?

  Who kept pulling her arm? It looked just like Sarah except for some reason this person was all red and had horns sticking out of her head. Why would Sarah have horns sticking out of her head? This thing kept asking her to hurry up and seemingly wanted to help her. Help her do what? Why was she getting dressed? Why was she not dressed to begin with? What the hell was going on? Had she died and suddenly found herself flailing about purgatory without a place to go and no clothes to get there? She couldn’t stop crying. Why were there squirrels in this room? Who is this person, and why was she helping Melissa put on her pants? Where was her underwear? If those two God damn squirrels didn’t shut up soon she was going to walk over there and kick them with her foot, one at a time. DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME, she thought. WHAT IS HAPPENING?

  OMG, her legs hurt so badly. Actually, it was her crotch that was thumping with pain, but her legs ached, as well. Had she had sex with somebody? She didn’t see a boy in the room, only this horned person who somehow resembled Sarah. She was being helped up now, and it seemed like she was being guided towards the door. There was a bed in the room that she could now see from her elevated angle. Everything has such a different perspective when you are standing up. A few feet higher and the entire vision of her surroundings was completely enhanced. It was a bedroom, but not a bedroom she recognized. Jesus, her entire body felt like it was being pinched in some sort of vice. It was so hard to walk, to move, to keep her head from exploding into a thousand little pieces.

  She was falling now, but the devil girl was holding her up, thank God. They walked out the door, and she flipped off the two little squirrels on her way out. Fucking squirrels. There were several boys standing outside and they seemed to be laughing at her. Jesus, one of them was not wearing any pants. He was just standing there naked, pointing at her, saying something.

  “Get that slut out of my house.”

  Who the hell did this guy think he was? She wondered if the two God damn squirrels belonged to him. I bet they didn’t care for him very much, if they did. Sometimes you don’t get to pick your parents. You are just stuck with what you get and have to make do. Life is like that sometimes. Getting stuck with stupid shit and, then, figuring out what to do next.

  God, she didn’t feel good. Why did she feel so badly? Suddenly, she was puking right there next to the couch. She thought it was a couch, but it might have been a chair. She didn’t initially feel the pain, but from the corner of her eye she saw some boy grab her by her hair. He pulled her out the door. Why was he dragging her? Why was he ripping her hair out of her scalp? She tried wiping some tears from her eyes, but when she looked at her hand, it was red. OMG, was that blood? She felt herself heaving again as she grabbed at the boy’s arm and tried to walk upright. She could feel a trail of vomit following her through the opening. She could always find her way back at least. It was like the trail of breadcrumbs that Hansel and Gretel had left in their wicked witch story, except it was puke.

  Finally she was outside and saw the devil girl screaming at the boy. At least she wasn’t screaming at Melissa. Her head was pounding now. She didn’t know if she could take much more. God, this night sucked, or was it good? Jesus, she couldn’t remember anything. Where the hell was she? She just wanted to be home. She needed to be home. She didn’t want to throw up again, didn’t want to feel this pain. This searing loss of what life was meant to be. Why did she screw up? Why did everyone point a finger at her? Why was everything her fault? Dear God, please let her go home.

  Melissa woke up in Sarah’s bed. Damn, what a night. She had finally tried acid for the first time, and it had been fun. But she knew it hadn’t ended well. She couldn’t remember everything, and Sarah was still sleeping. She knew the party had been, at least, interesting. How could they have been so lucky, going to a party with some high school seniors? Jesus, her head hurt. She must have hit it on something because there was dried blood all down the side of her face. She would have to clean up before going home. If her parents saw this, they would freak. She was only 15, but life was just starting to fall into place. She laughed a little as she looked down at Sarah. Her hair was so bunched up on top. It looked like two little horns were sticking out of each side.

  God, what was that smell?

  Why did she smell so awful?

  Day one, my daughter is born

  Father

  June 4, 1994. It seems that the day my daughter was born is a good place to start, since the primary focus of this story will be on her. I don’t think you can say she will be alone, though, at least not literally. When you tell a story about an individual, you open up the history of an entire family. Families are more intertwined than the intricate weavings of the most elaborate spider webs. The secrets and inner knowledge that individuals hold against one another are better data profiles than the CIA has on Osama Bin Laden. This may not be an appropriate comparison because the CIA has been looking for Bin Laden for years now and can’t track him down. Our government agencies do have their issues, almost as many as teenagers themselves.

  I should note for the record, June 4, 1994, is not actually the day my daughter was born. To be specific, this is the day before she was born. June 4, 1994, was, simply put, the beginning. It was the day my then wife received the phone call. The baby was not due for a few weeks. The doctor phoned and informed Cheryl that some of her blood work came back and there were some concerning results. The doctor wanted her at the hospital as soon as possible. My now ex-wife’s response had been to ask if she could set up an appointment in a few days, not thinking it was anything serious. Her face drained of blood and became ashen when the doctor told her she needed to come in immediately. The doctor was anxious and urgently encouraged her to head to the hospital within the hour.

  I was not home at the time of the dreaded conversation. Having been a routine day before the disturbance erupted, I was working. Cheryl had only recently begun her maternity leave. She had wanted to wait as long as possible before eating away at the precious little time off her company allowed. What is the deal with companies in society? Are they growing more callous in general, or has it always been this way, and I am just now becoming aware of the dilemma. Sure they will throw you a baby shower and buy you a few gifts with the money some of your officemates pooled together, but time off for a newborn is measured in days. How long does it take to get adjusted to your first-born child? Apparently it takes no more than six to eight weeks unless you choose to use your vacation time, as well. Corporate America is a callous, cold-hearted, bureaucratic steel and iron coffin, in my opinion. You go there to work and, then, die slowly, one day at a time.

  My hysterical ex-wife phoned me in a panic. She was f
rantic as she hurriedly explained her dictated instructions. I rushed out of the office when she informed me of the situation, jumped in my car, and headed home to pick her up. My boss at the time was understanding, being a father of four children himself, so it wasn’t a big deal when I headed out. I was only taking a few days off, regardless of when the baby came. Fathers apparently need very little bonding with a newborn and nowhere near the graciously allowed time a mother is offered. A father’s time off can usually be measured in a few days at best, as if that makes any sense.

  When I arrived, Cheryl was near hysterics. You have to understand that throughout the pregnancy our unborn daughter had developed every disease imaginable. The routine went like this: We would go in for an appointment to see the doctor. There would be the standard tests that all mothers and unborn babies endure. We would, then, head home, and the anticipatory mom-to-be would read up on the test’s actual purpose. Before the sun set, she would have herself convinced the baby was suffering from water on the brain, malformed facial features, or would not be able to walk or talk or see or hear or whatever else could possibly go wrong.

  This would last a few days until the results were returned, and we would find out all was normal. Now that the doctor was calling with a valid concern, the situation was bordering on mass hysteria. We threw some stuff in a bag and headed off to the hospital. This was not exactly the way we planned the birthing process. What happened to breathing and coaching your way through pain? Where were the pillows and that nice lady nurse who was calm, collected, and telling us everything would be ok? This was not what we had signed on for.