Hold on You

by M. S. Brannon

  My head is fucking with me. That can’t be Maddie. She would never come back to this place. Hell, she didn’t come back for her own father’s funeral. Since that night a year ago today, I have been living in the past every damn day. Maddie has been the only person on my mind, and that is why I see her now. It’s all in my head.

  She staggers even closer, the wind completely gone and her face exposed as she walks to me. I shake my head, knowing I am looking at a ghost. Before I can confirm anything, though, she falls hard over a gathering of large rocks collected by her feet.

  Fearing she fell close to the edge of the cliff, I run around the car and look down at the broken, sad woman on the ground. She is lying on her side, balled up in the fetal position and nursing her abdomen as she sobs into her hands.

  She trembles from the sensation of her bare skin against the grass. Her skin has been scraped from the jagged cliff rocks, and blood is running down her legs. My emotions are in overdrive as I fall next to her, landing on my knees and looking down at this woman. Breathing heavily, I hear the pounding of my heart in my ears, drowning out any other thought except fear.

  Is this Madison? The smell of her sweet perfume shoves me back to a time when I was never angry, a time when life was full of hope and promise.

  Several seconds go by before I can get my breathing back to normal. She is still lying on her side, crying into her hands. Her shoulders bob up and down as she pours out her relief.

  I lean up on my elbows, immediately feeling my gut burning with pain. As the adrenaline leaves my body, the agony starts to set in, although I am familiar with this feeling. It happens seven days a week for me.

  I look over to the sad girl, still reeling from my earlier thought of who she is, and I finally confirm my dreaded thoughts. I blink my eyes, trying to erase what I am looking at, but it is there—the reddish-orange stargazer lily tattooed on her right thigh. It marries with the blood and scrapes on her leg, looking utterly tragic. Shit, the tattoo doesn’t lie. The drunk woman is in fact Maddie Stone.

  I look up to the stars and wonder what the hell this is supposed to mean. Why the hell is she here when I am? What the hell has gone so epically wrong that she would want to take her own life? Was this Daniel guy why she broke? Her reasons are eerily similar to mine, and all I can do is wonder why. Then, as more questions arise in my head, a faint voice breaks them all down, breaks me down.

  She rolls to her back and looks up to me kneeling over her. The gash on her forehead is bleeding down her face, and her stomach and legs are scraped from the fall.

  “You … You look like someone I used to know.” Her eyes widen for the slightest moment, recognizing me, and then finally Maddie passes out.

  “Every once in a while, I see that someone you used to know, too,” I whisper out to the wind.

  I make it to my feet then grab my painful past tightly in my grasp. I cradle her firmly to my body, and against my better judgment, I put her in the cab of my truck.

  As I drive down the winding road, I look down at the girl I used to know, wondering the entire time what kind of woman she has become.

  “You’re drunk again, aren’t you?” Lisa screams to me just as I walk inside the door.

  “Why the fuck do you care? You’ve only ever cared about yourself from the moment I met you,” I snap back and glare at the horrid woman.

  My gut is churning from being soaked in booze and agony. I spent the last three days at the cliffs, drenched in my own personal hell, and when I come home, she morphs back into the bitch I have always known her to be. If it weren’t for everything else, I would have left her ages ago.

  “You’re such a fucking waste! How can you live with yourself, knowing how pathetic you really are?” She walks up to me, pressing her frame very close to mine. I can feel her firm body digging into me, and I want her to go away.

  I lean forward then shout, “Fuck. You!”

  Lisa wastes no time driving her palm into my face. A surge of fury ignites from deep inside. I don’t capture any sense about the situation other than “get this woman the hell away from me.” In my whiskey soaked state, red is the color that runs across the floor and pools at my feet.

  chapter two

  MY GRIP IS SLIPPING. THE ROUGH side of the cliff is ripping into the flesh of my hands, but I hold firmer to the jagged rock. My body is cold, and the pain is great. Every bit of my life flashes before my eyes: the last night I spent with Daniel, my job, my mother, my father—everything. It is all there, and all I can do is see how horribly I screwed it all up. Then his face appears from nowhere, his all American good looks and that heart throbbing smile looking back at me. It’s Nate, the Nate I left with a single word over ten years ago.

  He is reaching out for me to grab his hand, telling me I need to take hold. All the while, he’s still smiling like the happy boy I left all those years ago.

  My mind toggles back and forth, back and forth. Should I grab his hand, or should I do what I always do and escape?

  I look down to the rolling waves, hundreds of feet down. My only chance of living is to take his hand. I swallow my pride long enough to reach for his palm. I will allow Nate to help me up, and then maybe I can forget what I did to hurt him. With undiscovered strength, I reach my hand up and get within inches of his welcoming hand. I am almost there, almost touching his skin when he retracts.

  His all American boy features transform into those of a hateful, angry man, the boyish looks gone.

  “Goodbye, Maddie,” he sneers then withdraws his hand.

  Before I can understand what’s happening, I fall.

  My death is near, and I scream…

  “Noooooooo!” My body jerks awake, and the immense pain sears from deep inside. I close my eyes tightly as the agony throbs from my midsection.

  Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I can feel something bandaged on my skin, and my head feels like I was clubbed with a baseball bat. What the hell happened last night? Where did I go? Where am I now?

  The last thing I remember is the doorman to my Manhattan apartment telling me I am no longer allowed to enter the building, that Mr. Clark is terminating our relationship. I was also informed that my belongings were boxed, and he would have them packed into my car. I am no longer welcome to stay at Rockford Lofts.

  I remember standing outside the twenty story building with people running into me as they walked on the sidewalk. In my hand was a small box of my personal effects. I had already lost enough that day, and now, I had to lose my house, too? So, how did I end up in so much pain and bandaged around my waist? Was I in a car accident?

  After I left the bar, I went for a drive. That I do know, but where the hell did I go? I could answer all my questions if I open my eyes, but I am afraid of what I may find. If I was drinking and driving and got into a car accident, then I could possibly be in jail.

  I know I can’t lie here, eyes closed, ignoring the inevitable, but I do. For several minutes, I try to recount what the hell happened after I left the small bar outside of the city. However, the only answer lies in this room.

  I inhale a deep breath and note the clean smell, though not of antiseptic like in a hospital, and it’s definitely not jail. It smells like freshly laundered sheets, and the room is utterly quiet. Again, I don’t think I am in either place.

  I run my hands along the bed, noting how soft the sheets and blankets are, and the mattress feels like a fluffy cloud. Other than the gut wrenching pain in my side, I am quite comfortable. Hotel. I must have found a hotel somewhere and passed out.

  No longer fearing where I am, I slowly open my eyes and feel my head explode with pain as the light shines in from the windows. I quickly pull my hand up and shield my eyes from the bright sun. Damn. Where the hell am I?

  I roll to my side, but the pain overtakes my desire to get off the bed and shut the curtains.

  “Ouch, dammit!” I shout as I try to keep my body still.

  I don’t even hear the key in the lock, but when the door shu
ts, I know I am not alone. Housekeeping usually announces themselves before they fully walk in, so what shitty hotel did I end up at where they don’t do that?

  I spread my fingers open that are covering my face to look over at the person in my room. She is a short, stout woman with her black hair fastened in a bun, wearing a flowery dress with an apron tied around her waist. However, when she speaks, I know exactly who she is and where I am. Suddenly, jail sounds like a better place to be.

  “Oh, Maddie dear.” When I get a look of her face, I see it has aged. Regardless, I know I am looking at Juanita, and I know I am in the last place I want to be—my home town. “Shhhh … Don’t move too much, baby. You took a nasty fall.”

  I cough a little, and my stomach rolls with queasiness. I am going to … yep … It is going to happen.

  Just as I turn to my side, the vomit burns my throat as I begin to expel it. Thankfully, Juanita moves lightning fast as she pulls a decorative bowl from the dresser and puts it under my mouth, minimizing the mess. As I wretch, she manages to twist my hair back, tucking it in my shirt. Then she runs her hands across my back, all the while holding on to the bowl. I can’t think of anything else as I release the contents of my stomach and endure the terrible pain in my side.

  Once I am done, it is too much, and I fall onto my back, retreating into the darkness.

  I am not sure how much time lapses before I open my eyes again, but this time, I am more coherent. The sun isn’t as bright, which tells me it is probably coming up on evening. I thank God the light is not killing my eye sockets right now.

  Slowly, I pull myself up to my elbows and look around the room. Somehow, I managed to get back to my hometown and to the bed and breakfast my former best friend’s family owns. I would recognize the outdated floral wallpaper anywhere.

  Nothing has changed about the room, either. An antique, distressed, four poster bed is the focus of the room, and adjacent to the bed is a large, matching chest. The French doors leading out to the balcony are open, and white, sheer curtains dance as the wind lightly blows in. From what I remember, this is the nicest room in the place. However it has been over ten years since I last saw the inside. For all I know, it has changed because there is no way this room would be empty when we are coming up on Memorial Day weekend. This place was consistently packed from late April until October.

  I finally make it to a full sitting position and swing my feet off the queen-sized bed. When the balls of my feet caress the carpet, they, too, are in pain. Why am I in so much pain? I had to have been in a car accident, and my damn car is probably messed up. It is all I have. Everything I own is in that car and it, too, is probably destroyed, which is just perfect.

  I put weight on my feet and make it to a standing position. It hurts, but I have to find a mirror. I need to inspect every inch of my body.

  I creep over to the mirror tucked away in the corner. It matches the rest of the bedroom set and looks as old, too. It is then I see the aftermath of my intoxicated night.

  The first thing I notice is I am not in my clothes. I am wearing an oversized man’s T-shirt; my bra and panties are still in place, but my skirt is gone. When I look behind me, I see it lying at the foot of the bed, but where the hell is my shirt? I shake my head and realize that is minor in the grand scheme of things.

  Assessing myself from top to bottom, I can see my hair is knotted and messy, and remnants of grass are woven through my chestnut strands. I have a few scrapes on my forehead, and when I graze my fingers to touch them, they hurt like hell. However, my biggest pain is coming from my abdomen, but I don’t know how I will take my shirt off to look at them. Every time I lift my arms, the pain is excruciating. I will worry about that later.

  I look back to the rest of my body, twisting myself to the side and seeing a huge gash right down the middle of my tattoo on my upper right thigh. It is destroyed or will be when it heals. Oh, well, that was an impulsive move to impress someone who is no longer in my life, someone I don’t want to see.

  My knees are scraped to hell, and it looks like I have road rash on the rest of my legs. By the look of my body, my car has to be totaled.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The light knock on my door makes me jump, making me wince in pain.

  “Ouch! Fuck!”

  Just as the expletive leaves my mouth, Juanita walks through the door, looking as sweet as she was when she was helping me puke. She must be in her sixties by now, but she appears to be as spritely as she was a decade ago.

  “How are you feeling, honey?” Her endearing Latina accent is strong as she speaks.

  Juanita is a short woman who is heavy in the midsection. Her black hair has grayed slightly, but I don’t think she has a single wrinkle on her face. She looks as young as she was the last time I saw her. Her eyes are the darkest brown, and her smile is perfectly friendly.

  “I’m okay, but I’m so sore. What the hell happened last night?” I ask.

  “You had a terrible accident, and it could have taken your life.” She comes around and runs her small hand across my arm. “Someone was looking out for you, honey.” She then kisses her crucifix around her neck and says a silent prayer.

  “My side is killing me. Can you help me look at it? I can hardly lift my arms.” I tug at the bottom of my shirt and do my best to maneuver my arm up, but the pain is too much.

  “Oh, stop that,” Juanita demands in her motherly tone. “Let me help you.”

  She comes to my side and starts gathering the fabric, bunching it up to my right arm. I bend my elbow and then tuck it to my side. Thankfully, the shirt is big enough I can squeeze my arm through the sleeve, but not without pain. I wince and am suddenly jolted once we get my first arm out. Repeating the same action, I breathe deeply as my left arm goes through the sleeve. When she finally lifts it over my head, I look in the mirror and gasp.

  It looks like a tie-dye design you find on a T-shirt, but the only colors are purple, blue, and red. There is a horizontal bruise stretched from one side to the other. It looks like I was hit with something. The scrapes appear to be a little deep, but I assume the biggest one is what is covered with the bandage.

  “Oh, my God, what the hell happened to me?” I connect my eyes with hers and fight back tears of pain and fear. I cannot remember a single thing after I left the small bar. Was I drugged or just that drunk?

  “We’ll talk about that later. Come, let’s get you in the shower. It will make you feel better. Then I will make you some homemade chicken and dumpling soup.”

  I nod my head in agreement and try to recall anything that will help me, but nothing comes up.

  Juanita ushers me into the bathroom where she helps me in the shower. I don’t feel embarrassed that she is seeing me naked, because that is the least of my worries at this moment. The only things I need to be worried about are what the hell happened to me last night and why I ended up here of all places.

  Once my shower is finished, Juanita hands me a men’s button up shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. I wonder for a second where they came from, but as soon as the pain collides with my brain, I can think of nothing else. With her help, I manage to get dressed, and then she holds my hand as I walk down the hall and look at the long flight of stairs.

  “Come, the doctor wants you to walk as much as you can.” Juanita grabs my arm and tucks it into hers.

  “I saw a doctor?”

  “Yes, Dr. Wellman came out last night when you arrived and looked you over.”

  I take my first step and feel like I will never make it down.

  “He still has a practice? He was old when I saw him as a kid.” I was poor growing up, and going to Providence to have a pediatrician instead of the local family doctor was unheard of, so I never had wellness checks as a kid. I only went to the doctor when I absolutely had to, and usually, I was taking myself. My mother was too screwed up, and my dad didn’t care if I was sick or not. He didn’t care for me much at all.

  “Oh, no. He stopped practicing a long time
ago, but he likes to … hang around here sometimes and was here when you came in.” Juanita blushes slightly and clears her throat. It makes me smile a little because I think she has a thing for him, or maybe they have something going on. The last I remember, Juanita never married, and she spent the majority of her time taking care of the family who owns this place. “He said you’ve broken your ribs and have a bunch of nasty scrapes all over.”

  “Shouldn’t I—” I suck in deep breath, wincing in pain. I stop descending for a second, trying to find the strength to move the rest of the way down. It takes me a minute, but I manage to finish my descent and my thought, as well. “Shouldn’t I wrap up my ribs or something?”

  “Dr. Wellman said that could be bad for your lungs. You have to move around a little each day, take Tylenol, and take deep breathes.”

  We finally make it downstairs, and when I walk around the corner, I step into the vast dining room, noting how quiet and empty it is. The round tables are covered with white linens and set up with rolled silverware as well as a fresh flower and vase in the center of each table. I walk to the huge windows and note the view is still spectacular. The ocean is rolling against the large, jagged rocks, and the setting sun lights up the night as the orange rays shine in. The divider between the kitchen and dining room is pulled back, making the view of the kitchen available. I find my way over to the small corner table to the side of the room, getting a good look out the front window, and slowly sit down.

  Juanita is clanking around in the kitchen, and when I look over, I see she is getting bowls from the cupboard.

  As I look back out at the ocean, I can’t help being reminded of the time I spent here as a teenager. I would help out during busy season, but spent most of my time sneaking in and out of my old best friend’s room. We were wild teenagers—well, I was a wild teenager and wasn’t afraid to try anything or do anything. He was the opposite. Always calm and cool, Nate was able to keep a level head and tended to rein me in when I went too far. I was a daredevil when I had been drinking, and by our senior year, that was all I seemed to do. Life at home was worse, and I self-medicated with vodka, always dreaming of a better life away from this small Rhode Island town. Turns out, it isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, considering my current state and the fact that I am jobless and homeless. I would say it down right sucks.