Chapter Three - Part 3

If you're new here, or just want to catch up, the everything that has happened up to this point is here.




I got dressed and started breakfast; a few good days in a row combined with enough sleep had revved my appetite, for both food and life. I scrambled up several eggs listening to one of those weekend “news” programs that don’t actually contain any news. Plopping on the couch with my plate of hot food I pondered my options for the day.

I could go take in a movie, or just go window shopping. I don’t have any volunteering or playing today. Maybe I’ll just go get a few movies, change back into my PJs and have a “Me Day”. Do my nails. Give myself a facial. Take a long hot bubble bath. I decided on the Me Day, slid on my shoes, grabbed my purse and headed out into the world.

I decided to walk to the video store, since it wasn’t far and the sunshine and slight breeze made for perfect walking weather. Strolling along, I thought about how I wished all my days could be just like this one. I loved just breathing in the fresh air, and every person I passed seemed to be smiling.

The movie store practically pulsed with promise. I wandered among the neat racks, trying to decide if I wanted a comedy, a romance or something with all action and no thinking required. Each shelf appeared to hold something I’d meant to see but hadn’t, something I’d heard was good or an old favorite I hadn’t seen in much too long.

I finally settled on one romantic comedy, one sci-fi action flick, and season one of a sit-com that I never remembered to watch. I treated myself to microwave popcorn and a cold root beer.

On the way home, I realized the smile on my face probably made me look silly, but I didn’t mind if it did. This is how life is supposed to be, I thought, Fun, relaxed, carefree. I almost skipped, but reconsidered. You can take a good mood too far. Well, maybe I skipped a little.

I suddenly remembered what I’d auditioned for and it stopped me in mid-skip. I’d auditioned to be a wandering musician for the Disney Theme parks! What was I thinking? Giving up this great life to go live with strangers in and play music for tourists who just want to get to the next ride? But I knew why I’d done it; I’d wanted an excuse, a reason to leave Kent and my job. I’d even convinced myself that this gig would be “following my dream” – because I’d be playing music for a living. I couldn’t believe I’d told Karen and Franklin about it, even gushing to them about what an “opportunity” it could be for me. Did they really believe me? No, I decided, thinking back to their reactions, they knew there was a “real” reason, but they both humored me. I sighed. When, no, IF they called back, I’d thank them and politely turn it down.

Back in my apartment, I enjoyed ever moment of Me Day. I made the popcorn and watched the action movie while I munched away. I painted my nails and toenails and gave myself a facial while I watched the old favorite, then made a sandwich to watch the first disc of the series. I did some stretches, just because if felt good, and decided against doing any real exercising. Watching the romantic comedy, I felt a little pang at the happy ending. It would be nice to have someone to love, and who loved me. Not much was missing from this life-path, but maybe that. But that may be fixable, too.

The next day when I talked to Karen, I told her that if she knew of any one available, well, I wasn’t averse to being set up. I hinted the same to Molly in the car, wondering if she knew any men my age, or at least not too much younger. I even gathered my courage around me and posted a picture and a very bare-bones profile on a local dating website, my hand shaking as I clicked the final “Enter” to submit it.

Karen came through like a champ, not that I’d expected any less, and I had two blind dates arranged for the very next weekend. Molly mentioned that her cousin might be moving to town – her slightly older, successful, newly-single cousin. And when I’d had a stiff drink and convinced myself it didn’t matter if my dating profile had a single reply, I checked it to find the inbox teeming with messages from all sorts of potential suitors. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume, I called Karen over to help me go through them. Never underestimate the power of a best friend when trying to screen out the weirdoes on a dating site! We laughed so hard at some of the guys that I actually felt bad (well, for a little bit) and agreed on at least three that I’d respond to. Things were looking up.

A lunch date with my dad brightened another ordinary weekday, and I knew that he’d come into town to eat with me so I didn’t have to make an excuse to avoid Shelly. He had pictures of my half-siblings, and a few good stories. I felt quite a pang of guilt for not seeing them more, but felt like at this point it didn’t matter anymore. To them, I was basically a stranger who dropped in on holidays and left quickly. Seeing Dad really made me feel complete, even without a “special guy” in my life. I wished I could spend more time with him, but still, after all these years, just couldn’t face the evil step-mother. Okay, so she’s not really ‘evil’, but she still stole my daddy. I’d think of something. I’d make it better.

The blind dates went decently well – no major sparks, but enough fun that I gave both my phone number and did hope they’d call. Molly’s cousin still hadn’t materialized, but two of the dating website guys had engaged me in regular email conversations. I threw out all the junk food in my house and started taking long walks after work, figuring that getting back into the dating scene meant I’d better be at my best.

One evening the phone rang while I showered after my walk. I heard the machine pick up and a female voice I didn’t recognize. Probably the Disney people. I’d almost forgotten about the whole audition thing, but even though I didn’t want the job, I wanted the affirmation of being offered it. I hurried through rinsing my hair and skipped shaving my legs so I could find out.

The message hadn’t been from Disney. “Lynn? Are you there? It’s Shelly . . .” Ugh, what does she want? Is that .. . is she crying? “There’s um, there’s been an accident and your dad’s at St. Anne’s hospital and I’m on my way there now and I don’t know how bad it is but they said he’s not conscious and I don’t know what else to do or say.” I’m not sure if the message went on, because I’d already called Karen to come and pick me up. I couldn’t drive to the hospital; my hand shook so hard I could barely dial her number.

We sped to the hospital and somehow Karen managed to find where to go once we got inside. Shelly stood alone in a waiting room full of other waiting people, wringing her hands and chewing her lip. She looked so helpless, I wanted to hug her until I remember it was her, my life-long nemesis. Karen led me over anyway, and patted her shoulder. Details spilled out of her in almost random order. He’d been walking to the store. They needed milk and butter and she’d been planning to go the next day, but he wanted cereal for breakfast in the morning. Some kids had stolen a car, they were just joy-riding. Nothing malicious, they hadn’t seen him, hadn’t been looking or maybe they were drunk or something, she didn’t know. It wasn’t on purpose, no one would hurt him on purpose. No one would tell her how he was, or anything. The kids were with her mom – they’re old enough to stay alone, but not like this, not when this has happened. She didn’t know what to do. She’d called his brothers, too. Her sister was coming to wait with us. He’d been unconscious when they brought him in, that was all she knew, all they’d say. She didn’t know what to do. Did I think they’d tell me? Since I’m the daughter? They wouldn’t tell her anything, and she’s his wife. Her words finally dissolved into tears and soft weeping.

I clung to Karen, who lowered me to a chair. I wondered for a moment if I would throw up, or if my heart would explode. I didn’t realize for several minutes that I’d been crying, but I knew that no one had ever hurt this bad. Karen’s arm on my shoulder felt warm and heavy, and I noticed that I’d grabbed Shelly’s hand also. I just needed something, someone – without a word, she held onto me, too. Any animosity I had for her melted. Like me, she loved my dad. I’d never seen it. I hadn’t understood.

Waiting rooms have clocks, but somehow those clocks lie. You sit for hours and hours and hours and the hands move a few minutes. Then suddenly they jump ahead and the time is gone; endless, meaningless, fleeting. Shelly’s sister arrived at some point, and silently took the chair next to her. I struggled to remember her name, until finally she introduced herself to Karen, “I’m Lucy, Shelly’s big sister.” Even with my head down and my eyes filled with tears I couldn’t miss the look she shot me. I imagined all the horrible (but true, I had to admit) tales she must have heard about me from when I lived at home.

“I’m Karen, Lynn’s friend. We don’t really know much right now. We’re just waiting to hear more.” We lapsed back into the endless, painful silence of people in fearful stasis. Someone got coffees for us all. I went to the restroom, probably only because Karen suggested it. She told me that she’d left a message for Franklin, too.

After an eternal stay in the waiting room, a man in blood-spattered scrubs called out “Ragasmort?” I don’t know how I got to him, if I jumped up, or was pulled. I don’t know if I walked to him, the next thing I can remember is standing between Karen and Shelly as he said “I’m so sorry . . .” the rest of what he said are phrases in my memory – “did all we could”, “too much internal damage”, “unconscious from the time it happened, probably didn’t even know what happened”. There were papers to sign, arrangements to be made. Where should the body be sent? How do we order flowers? What about an obituary? I marveled that Shelly knew the answers, knew what to do. I hugged her over and over and told her how sorry I was. She seemed to know what I meant, I couldn’t say more. We’d both lost the most important man in our lives, and finally, I could see her for more than a father-stealer. I regretted how I’d been, but the words to say it eluded me.

Karen called me off work, spent days at my house, made sure I ate something, because even though I felt completely empty, the very idea of food made me nauseous. I wept and wept and wept.

Getting ready for my father’s funeral, I stood in front of the TV. Not watching it, I didn’t remember turning it on, but I must have, probably to combat the crushing silence. Karen showered while I dressed, after her third straight night sleeping on my couch. The perfectly calm anchorwoman started talking about a hit-and-run that had killed a local man and about the boys arrested for the crime. I froze, suddenly sharply focused on the television, hearing each word like a clear shot on a silent day. The “leader” the boy who’d driven the car, who – according to the other two – had been the one to suggest stealing it, who’d hotwired it, the one who’d run down my father in broad daylight - he had a record. They showed him being walked to wherever it is they walk criminals on TV, his jacket up around his head, but I knew him. I knew the customized leather jacket. I knew the hat. And in that one awful, disgusting moment I knew that it was all my fault.

That kid (later, when the police talked to us, they told us his name, minor or not) had been in trouble over and over. He’d done all the things you hear about out-of-control teens doing and he’d ended up in a juvenile facility. And Franklin had gotten him out. I remembered it so clearly; remembered Franklin showing me his picture, so proud of how he’d “saved him from an institution, when what he really needs is someone to believe in him”. He’d located a foster family, gotten him enrolled in a vo-tech school, even found him a part-time job. Franklin had a picture of this kid, this murderer, on his desk, wearing the hat and ugly, obvious jacket I saw on the news. If Franklin hadn’t intervened, he’d have been in the juvenile home. He wouldn’t have stolen a car. Dad wouldn’t be dead. And it’s my fault, really, because in this life, I saved Franklin. And it cost my dad his life.

I must have made some sound because Karen charged out of the bathroom in her towel, “What? Are you okay? What?” I could only point at the TV, which now ran a commercial for some amazing wrinkle cream. I struggled, “He . . . it... I know . . .”

“Take a deep breath and tell me.” Karen looked so scared I almost laughed, forgetting for a moment the horror. I breathed in and out a few times, clearing the shock from the edges of my brain and trying to form a coherent thought.

“The boy who killed Dad, on the news, they showed him, I know him. Franklin’s kids, he’s one of Franklin’s kids that he helps. Franklin got him let out and now dad’s dead.”

“Oh, oh my .oh ..oh no. Oh, that’s awful. Franklin didn’t say . . .” She trailed off. We both wondered if and when Franklin found out that the child he reached out to had killed someone, someone close to Franklin’s own friend. I didn’t know what else to do; I went back to getting dressed. Nothing would help now. Even if they gave him the death sentence, which of course, they wouldn’t for an accident, that wouldn’t make it better. Dad wouldn’t come back. My half-siblings would finish growing up without him. Shelly’s a widow, I’m an orphan. Just thinking it made me cry again. And I thought I was out of tears. Guess not.

The funeral went as planned. People said nice things, some minister read a few bible verses, prayed, gave a little sermon. A woman I didn’t know sang a lovely hymn. We filed out behind the coffin, road to the gravesite, said our final farewells. I can’t tell you if it rained or not, was cold or windy or sunny. I didn’t notice who attended or didn’t. My grief and guilt were blinders editing out all but my pain and the box hiding my father. People hugged me. I cried. I cried and cried and cried. And afterwards, we went to Shelly’s house and ate cold sandwiches and casseroles made by people who loved Dad.

I took each of my siblings aside individually and apologized for not being there. I told them how much I regretted the miserable teenager they’d known me as and that even though I complained for most of the time we’d lived under the same roof, that I did love them. I promised to do better by them. I meant it and I think they knew it. Both hugged me and forgave me and said they understood.

At the end of the day, I stumbled exhausted into my apartment, assuring Karen that she could finally go home. I needed to sleep, to heal, to start moving on. And I meant to.

But, when the darkness closed in, when I’d turned off the lights and the radio and climbed alone into my cold bed. When the shadows moved too much and the only noise was the pounding of my guilt in my ears, I couldn’t take it. I got out of bed and paced. I tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t follow it. I got out my guitar, but couldn’t find the solace in the music anymore. I started a journal entry five times and crossed out every word each time. I couldn’t read, didn’t want to eat, even showered in the hopes the hot water would relax me. Finally, I gave in to the one thing I knew would work, but didn’t want to use as a crutch. I knew how bad it could get. But I opened my medicine cabinet and dug around until I found an old bottle of sleeping pills. I carefully read the directions three times – take 2 tabs 1 hour before bedtime. One hour? What am I supposed to do for that hour? I took them anyway and checked the time. After fifteen minutes, I decided to try a hot bath. Even though I’d just showered, a hot soothing bath – well, that might be just the ticket to go with the pills. I started the water and went in search of a good book, an old favorite that I could “read” without really paying close attention. Heading back to the bathroom, I passed the fridge.

A glass of wine? No, probably shouldn’t with the pills . . . but really, it couldn’t hurt, and I need the rest, I need to sleep. Rationalizing away, I poured a half a glass of red wine and returned to the bathroom. Slipping into the hot water with my good friends “Book” and “Alcohol”, I started to feel just a little better. I sipped the wine, maybe a little faster than I intended. I felt warm and comfy.

The water began to cool. I checked the time on my cell phone, fortunately within reach of the tub. An hour and a half had gone by. And I’m still not sleepy! I drained some of the water and pondered. Turning the hot water on to refill, I climbed out of the tub, into my robe and went to the kitchen for more wine. Just a taste I thought, refilling my glass. Back into the tub. A half hour later, I did it again.

Hmmm, it’s nice and warm in here. I’m still sad. This book doesn’t make any sense. What was I doing? Oh. I was going to take some sleeping pills! Let’s see, pills, pills, where are the pills. Here they are. Take two every hour before bedtime. I’m sad. Why am I sad? Dad. My daddy died. Because of stupid Franklin. Stupid me.

“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry, so sorry.” I sobbed to the mirror. I looked down at my hands. An open bottle of pills rested in one hand the lid in the other. Had I taken one yet? I decided I hadn’t and read the label. Take two . . . something something . .blah blah blah. “My fault, my fault. I just want to go to sleep and not wake up. I don’t want to be in a world with out my daddy.” I took two pills. Washed it down with a glass of wine. The wine glass looked so sad, empty and all. I went to refill it.

What was I doing? Oh, getting wine. Hmm, this bottle’s empty. I’ll just make something. What’s in a .. that thing I like? I don’t know. What do I have? Vodka? Okay, let’s have some of that. I’ll mix it with, oh, uh, here’s some OJ, that’ll do. Just a splash of the vodka. So I can sleep. Because I was going to take some sleeping pills! Yes, I needed the drink to take the pills. Where are the pills? Bathroom – get to bathroom. Oooh – dizzy. Get the pills, get into the tub. Water is warm. How many? Label’s too fuzzy to read. Probably two or three. I feel better. This is better. I’ll take a few more since I feel so much better. Warm. Fuzzy. So nice. Mmm, juice. Cool juice tastes so good. Finally sleepy. Just close my eyes. Bed’s too far. Sleep here. Warm. Comfy. Sleepy.

* * *
I woke up groggy and confused. I felt like puking, and my head pounded but I felt too tired to get up and do so. Pummeling my aching brain, I realized I must have overdone it a bit with the pills and alcohol. That was stupid, I could have killed myself! Wait a minute . . . how’d I get out of the tub and into . . this bed? This isn’t my bed. I opened my eyes. This isn’t my room! In fact, the room was moving – not spinning, like I’d been drinking, but definitely in motion. Turning my aching head to the side, I could see a window – and streetlights whizzing by! Even in my stupor, I deduced that somehow I’d gotten in a motor-home. I couldn’t make any sense of that, however.

What the . . .? I began to realize what I’d done. I’d thrown away a great life-path in the throes of my alcohol induced grieving. I awoken in a new life-path, and for some reason was in a motor home, sick and achy. Not fair, Death, I didn’t mean it! I was high or drunk or whatever. In pain!

Death formed beside my bed, driving out more of my stupor. “And how am I to know when you ‘mean’ it? You knew the deal. You put yourself in the position to make the choice.”

“But you can read my mind, you knew what I meant.”

“When you said it, you meant it.” Death left and I knew he wasn’t coming back. I rolled over and sighed, knowing nothing could be done except getting on with it. And then I saw it. The most horrifying, sickening thing I’d seen in a long, long time – a huge poster . . .

“Don’t miss Seduktra!! The naked guitar playing beauty! Which is more exquisite, her body or her music? Decide for yourself!” The text scrawled around a huge portrait of me! Nude as nude can be with flaming red hair, a strategically placed guitar and a playful smile.

“SEDUKTRA???? Oh hell no! I don’t care who is or isn’t alive in this life. Death? Hello?Is this some sort of sick joke?” I knew it wasn’t. I already started to remember appearing on the small rickety stage in the carnival that featured me, as part of it’s late night entertainments for “mature” guests. Money thrown on stage was all mine, plus a small living stipend, this motor-home, and oh – ugh – Billy Jon, my . .no, couldn’t be . . . a look at my left hand confirmed it. Billy Jon, my husband. I didn’t know or care how I’d gotten here. Or where Karen or my dad or anyone was. I had thrown away the last life-path carelessly, and sworn to myself not to do it again, but for this one, well, I didn’t think I needed much more thought. I grabbed a mirror, on the table near the bed. My stomachache and head-throbbings had returned with a vengeance. “Death, get me out of here!!”

An old-fashioned looking intercom sat next on the same table, unnoticed until it crackled to life. “That you, sweetie-ookums?” The words dripped with sticky sarcasm, making me sicker and somehow more tired. The intercom only works one way, I remembered, and I struggled to holler “Billy Jon? Don’t feel good.”

“Yeah, I know it, babe. You’re not gonna. See, I was gonna do it and not tell you, but that just didn’t seem right. I’m killing ya, honey. I know you done screwed Mr. Phillips” (funny, I knew he was right, even though I didn’t have a clue who Mr. Phillips might be) “And, well, I suspect there’s been plenty more. I love ya and all, but I ain’t gonna have a cheating wife. So, there was some wear on the exhaust pipe, you know under the RV here? And I just, well, I helped it a long and let’s say I also helped some holes in your floor. Your room’s just fillin’ up with that carbon and oxide stuff. “ Monoxide, you idiot, I thought. Not that it matters much to me at this point.

He continued, “And I’ve locked your doors and windows and all. Sealed ‘em up real good last week, remember how cold it was? That’s what I’m gonna tell ‘em. I’m gonna say ‘Dang it, just last week she asked me to seal up the windows, so drafty, ya know? So cold – it’s bad for her voice . .. ‘ And they’ll all feel so bad for me, driving along, with my window open and singing our favorite songs as my poor wife died right under my nose. So goodbye, there, Lynn, or should I say ‘Seduktra’, ya whore! See ya in hell, darlin’!” A burst of static followed his final pronouncement and I actually smiled as I felt myself slipping away. Billy Jon didn’t know he’d been helping me out.