Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (5 page)

She shook
me in a violent snatch one more time. “Tell me!” She let me go with a slight
shove so that she could light a cigarette. I hated the smell of it, and she
knew this as she puffed the smoke right into my face. The acrid smoke attacked
me before I could close my airway off, causing me to choke out a cough.

“Your
parents took her to get some help,” I muttered while staring at the floor.

She took
another long drag, and my room began to fog with the vulgar smoke, setting my
eyes on fire. “Just how do you suppose they knew to do that?” She looked
nervous in that moment, like she might have been caught doing wrong. This one
sign of weakness from her gave me just enough courage.

I looked at
her with as much hate as I could muster. “I
suppose
I called and told them she was—”

Jean didn’t
allow me to finish. This smart-mouthed comment earned me a handprint across my
cheek. With my cheek on fire, she pushed me back to the floor. I was too busy
clutching my cheek to catch my fall, so my head banged into the corner of
footboard of my bed. The skin on my scalp felt a little wet, but I was too
stunned to check it. My attention was on my mother, who was pointing that
cigarette at me as though she wished it were a gun. And in that very moment, I
had my first suicidal thought. I had desperately wished it was a loaded gun and
that she would use it on me. The standoff between us teetered for mere minutes,
but it felt like a lifetime to me. I do believe we both had a death wish for me
during this.

She shook
her head and stormed to the door. “I don’t want to see sight of you for the
rest of the day,” she said before slamming my door shut.

Later that
night, I crept to the bottom of the stairs and spied on Jean while she was on
the phone with her mom. She was demanding that they tell her where Julia was
and to bring her back. Jean backed down when words such as child neglect and
social services entered their conversation.

“Fine. Keep
her. I was at my wits’ end with her anyway.” The nervousness trembled in my
mother’s voice. Something that was not present often. “I… I tried to get her to
eat. Just ask her.” The conversation ended with little more commentary than
that. She turned around and caught me listening, and I knew I was about to get
the beating of my life. Instead, she seemed to not think I was worth her effort.
Jean retrieved a bottle of wine and a glass and disappeared into her room for
the rest of the night. I went back to my room and pretty much hid there for the
next ten months. That was how long it took before the facility for eating
disorders would release Julia to come back home. Those ten months alone with
Jean were a living hell. Life was lonely, and I felt even more lost.

~
~ ~

Shivering
and aching all over, I wake up on the bathroom floor and feel right
disappointed in myself. Here I am, in a luxurious hotel suite, and I end up
spending the night on the blame bathroom floor.
What an idiot.
The crick in my neck and my sore back rebels against
movement, but they eventually allow me to rise off the floor and go straight to
the shower. I release the towel that is haphazardly wrapped around me and step
into the hot spray, trying to wash off the restless night. I don’t ever sleep
well. Most nights, I end up roaming around the condo with a nagging
restlessness keeping me company. Last night was a bit rougher than my norm. Too
many memories chasing me around, and let’s not forget about the stupid alcohol
idea.

After the
shower, I down two aspirins with an entire bottle of water. By the time I’m
dressed, the resolution to not go to Bay Creek is firmly in place. I am on the
verge of a complete meltdown and it’s just not worth it. I pack my bag with
determination and head back to Lucas and to my safe life—the only place I
should be.

Okay.
So not even
a half hour down the taunting road, I find myself making a U-turn and start
heading back south. Ugh. I have to do this. This unpleasant task has to be
followed to the very end. It’s time to face all the demons and just have it
out—no-holds-barred.

Two more
long frustrating hours pass before my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten in
well over twenty-four hours. I pull off the interstate and find a quaint
country diner. As I walk through the door, the aroma of savory eggs and sausage
frying sends my stomach into a mean growl. The smells remind me of a local
diner set right on the beach in Bay Creek. It is rightfully named the Beach
Shack because it resembles a dilapidated beach shack with well-worn clapboard
siding and a rusty tin roof. It serves the best biscuits and gravy I have ever
eaten. It’s tradition for locals and tourists alike to indulge on the greasy,
delicious fair before hitting the beach for the day.

This diner
is pretty neat as well. It resembles an old farmhouse with blue gingham
curtains and tablecloths and roosters perched around the perimeter as though
they are keeping an eye on the place. The old wooden floors creak when I enter
as though to welcome me. The hostess, who is wearing a gingham apron and an
old-fashioned farm dress, greets me and escorts me to a table near the front. I
end up ordering biscuits and gravy to compare to my childhood memories. They
are okay, but not as rich and creamy as the one back home.
Home
? Yep, I just slipped, didn’t I?

I sit for a
while and overanalyze my slip-up. Boy oh boy. I can’t believe I called Bay
Creek home. Honest mistake, I suppose. Speaking of which, it’s time I stop
lollygagging and get on with it. Well… Soon. I’ll head out
soon
.

While I try
talking myself into heading out, I end up ordering a fudge brownie, hoping it
will give me the boost I need to get back on the road. The decadent treat
reminds me of an amusing memory and I sit at that table and laugh loudly with
myself over it. That laugh has been the only thing to feel right in these last
few days.

I did get a
bit of revenge on ole Jean over the ordeal with Julia. Jean’s only other
indulgence besides fine wine is fine gourmet treats. Well, let’s be more
honest—her whole life is an indulgence, but gourmet treats are close to the top
of the list. Of course, local gourmet isn’t good enough for the brat. She has
to have her decadent treats delivered all the way from New York. She had
discovered the most scrumptious cookies on one of her many vacations without us
and had set up a monthly delivery of the treats. Great, right? For Jean maybe,
because no one else was allowed to eat any. These little fudgy jewels are
double chocolate chip cookies with tiny chips of toffee and almonds nestled
throughout in rich chocolate goodness. They are made from the finest
ingredients, and this is evident in the price tag. I thought about ordering my
own box over the years, but the allure of them isn’t so great when not being
told it’s forbidden. Isn’t it funny how that works? We always want what we
can’t have, simply for being forbidden.

Jean
forbade us to touch them. Of course, each one of us had made the mistake of
snatching one of the melt-in-your-mouth cookies at some point or another, and
we ALWAYS got caught. My mother would make us pay for our wrongdoing. My father
didn’t even dare touch her precious cookies. She acted as though she was the
only one deserving of the fine treats. Yep. Spoiled rotten—brat.

Well, one
day I was home alone and missing Julia something awful. Jean wouldn’t tell me
anything about how my sister was doing. She said it was my punishment for what
I did. I was sitting in the living room, folding a basket of laundry when the
deliveryman dropped off her monthly cookie order. I dutifully brought the
package to its designated cabinet. I hesitated for just one split second and
that’s all it took for the evil idea to take root.

I placed
the box on the counter and stared down at it as I decided what to do. My first
idea was to eat every single one of them, throw the box out, and deny their
delivery. Then I thought some more and a smile crept over my face when the
brilliant decision resolved. For me to be deemed a chronic procrastinator, it
took me no time to act on this decision. Retrieving the cayenne pepper from the
fancy spice rack, pure giddiness washed over me. I worked a knife under the
seal without damage so that I could glue it back once my task was complete.

Then I
walked the cayenne pepper and cookies outside to a picnic table to the far edge
of the backyard. And just let me tell you, I pulled each cookie out, giving it
a good wet lick before sprinkling it heavily with the cayenne pepper. The dark
fudgy texture of the cookie seemed to absorb the cayenne instantly. No red
speckles were visible. After licking and dousing each one, I took the package
back in and super-glued the seal shut and placed the box in its rightful
cabinet. I then dashed upstairs to scrub any evidence from my mouth, laughing
the entire time. I was finally going to get one up on that witch, and it felt
so good. Now, call that evil or callous or whatever you want. I choose to call
it creatively one-upping my enemy. She deserved it and you’re not changing my
mind about it. You know you’re giggling right along with me.

 
That night after supper, Jean dismissed us all
as she prepared to enjoy her freshly delivered treats. I watched from the
hallway as my mother placed two generously sized jewels on a dessert plate and
made herself a cup of tea. As she sat down, John Paul tapped me on my shoulder
and just about made me yelp in surprise.

“What are
you doing?” he whispered with a smirk. I guess his instincts warned him I was
up to mischief, being that he is an expert on the matter.

I said
nothing, shook my head, and tried to shoo him to go back upstairs, but he
wouldn’t budge. I reluctantly let him stand over my shoulder to watch the
anticipated show he had no idea he was about to witness.

Jean sat
and took a small sip of her tea before seeming to decide it was still too hot.
She then selected a cookie off the plate. She sniffed it, and I thought I was
busted right on the spot, but then she took a substantial bite. She chewed for
a few seconds as though she was trying to decipher it. Confusion, then panic,
ran across her face in a cartoonish manner. It was all I could do to hold it together.
She spit the cookie out all over the table and started rubbing her napkin
across her tongue. When that didn’t help, she grabbed up her tea and took a
good scorching gulp before spitting it out in a spray all over the table. She
jumped up, causing her chair to tumble over as she ran to the sink. She drank
and drank and drank straight from the faucet, heaving like something possessed.

I pushed
past John Paul and shot upstairs to my room for a good laugh. Later on that
night, he eased into my room with an amused expression on his face. I was lying
on my makeshift bed on the floor. This was where I had slept for the past eight
months. If this seemed strange, John Paul kept it to himself. He just sat
beside me and snickered as he playfully nudged me with his foot.

“What did
you put on those cookies, Savannah?”

“I don’t
know what you’re talking about.” I ended up laughing right along with him. Now
that, my friends, is a good memory. I just wish I had more of them kicking
around.

Chapter Six

I grab a to-go cup of coffee and hit
the road once more. A few uneventful hours pass before my phone starts singing.
I try to sound upbeat as I answer. “Hello. This is Savannah.”

“Where are
you?” John Paul asks. Before I can answer, he continues his rant. “Why are you
dragging your a…” (My brother has a mouth on him. Sorry.)

I interrupt
him before he can spit the curse word out completely. “Oh! It’s so nice to hear
your pleasant voice this lovely morning. No need for ugly language. I should be
there in about another hour or so.”

“You should
have been here
yesterday
. This ain’t
a casual visit, but here you are just shooting the breeze like our dad didn’t
just die.”

This is the
slap of reality I didn’t want, but needed. Yesterday’s call felt like a dream,
and in this moment, I realize that it is a permanent situation. I have lost my
opportunity to have a relationship with my dad. When I ran from my demons, I
ran from him too.

“I’ll be
there soon,” I say through a tight throat before ending the call. I power the
phone off and drive silently the rest of the way on autopilot.

I love my
brother, but his own personal demons have scarred him—some immediate and some
surfacing over time. The last time I saw him was about five years ago. He was
in his mid-twenties then, but already seemed to have lived a rough long life. I
guess in some ways he had.

He spent
his days on the beach in a lounge chair sleeping off hangovers or on a
surfboard. His nights were spent at the restaurant where he
helped
my dad run things. John Paul’s
idea of helping was wooing all of the attractive female tourists. With his
long, sun-bleached hair that touched well past his shoulders and rugged good
looks, this was no problem for him. He is as good-looking of a man as Julia is
a beautiful woman. They are both very striking, and people tend to stare. I
look nothing like them. I’ve already told you that, though.

And boy did
he always have an endless supply of tall-tales to share. One of his favorites
was the time he tossed a baby green garden snake at my feet, and I cried like a
baby and passed out, which landed me in a big pile of cow manure. He said I
walked around smelling like crap for weeks. The true version of that story was
he raided my parents’ liquor cabinet and got smashed. His drunk-self found me
hanging out with some friends in an old barn near our house. That sucker tossed
a copperhead snake at me. The poisonous creature bounced off my shoulder and
struck a garden rake beside me. Unfortunately, the only part of the story he
had correct was I did cry like a baby. That was the last time I hung out with
that crowd due to my embarrassment over his drunken taunting and my crying fit.
This is the short simpler version of that tale. Please don’t ask for the longer
and more complicated one. I’m just not up for sharing it.

His buddies
couldn’t get enough of his farfetched stories and were always begging J.P. to
tell another one. And boy, can he spin a tale right out of thin air. Everyone
calls him J.P., but me. Evan was the one to call him that first, so I never had
the desire to call him anything but John Paul.

Yeah, so
one night a buddy made a crucial error when he asked my brother to share the
story of what happened to our cousin Bradley. Needless to say, that certain buddy
ended up in the emergency room and John Paul ended up in jail. That was the
last time anyone ever mentioned Bradley’s name in front of John Paul. I’d say
that was a hard lessoned learned.

Just
thinking Bradley’s name causes pain to course up and bite me harshly, so I tamp
that down as far as I can and focus back on the road.

The closer
I get to Bay Creek, the sicker I feel. I dread beyond dread having to come face
to face with my mother again. She had such a big part in me running away in the
first place, and now I blame her and myself for robbing me of any time I could
have had with my dad. He was a hardworking man, and I know he loved us, even if
he didn’t have enough hours in the day to express any of it.

Jean is a
different story. I’ve learned in my short life a valuable lesson—some battles
are unwinnable, and the best thing to do is knock the dust off your shoes and
move on. Jean is a battle I will never win. All my memories of her are the
same. No matter what, at the first sight of her I have always felt a jolt of
apprehension as to what was going to be wrong. She is unpleasable. I know. I
tried unsuccessfully for years to do nothing more than to please my mother, and
I failed miserably.

After
calling my grandparents about Julia, it seemed that Jean just wrote me off
completely. I spent my teenage years trying to make up for it too—getting
perfect grades, keeping all of the house chores done without complaint, and
working part-time between the restaurant and the seafood market. It was all
fruitless. She always found me to be imperfect and my attempts beyond flawed.

~
~ ~

“Just what
are you doing to that chicken?” Jean almost shouted as she came up behind me at
the stove. I could feel the hate in her voice slap my on the back.

I was
cooking supper and had dazed off into my own little world. I couldn’t help it
because I was so darn tired that evening. I had just completed a shift at the
market after school. After supper, I would have to do the dishes, a load of
towels, and finish a midterm paper. My brain was fuzzy with all the tasks
completed and frazzled with the ones that still awaited me. The repeated
nightmares had already begun to keep me company most nights, so a good night’s
sleep had become something of my past.

My mother’s
shouting only rubbed my exhausted-self wrong. Without thinking better, I
blurted out sharply, “I’m making blackened chicken. What does it look like?” I
turned to meet her glare with my own to only earn a handprint across my face.
She snatched the tongs out of my hand and made herself useful in saving supper,
which was fine by me.

I watched
as she quickly scooped the chicken out of the pan and demanded I hand her a
clean one. I was none too happy about that because it meant more dishes for me
later, but I figured for the safety of my face it was best to keep that
complaint to myself. I gave her the pan and stood holding my throbbing cheek
until she began barking out other orders to me.

“Get me the
garlic and rosemary,” she commanded. I watched intently as she gently peeled
the skin of the chicken back. She made a paste with the garlic, rosemary, and
some butter, which she spread over the chicken before smoothing the skin back
over it. She placed the chicken in the clean heated pan, and without looking
away from the sautéed chicken, she barked for me to slice some shallots. Once
done, I nudged the cutting board in her vicinity while maintaining my distance.
She threw it in with the chicken.

“Now hand
me my glass of wine.”

I did as I
was told. I figured it was time for a drink after having to put up with me, but
to my surprise, Jean doused the chicken with the white wine instead. She did
amaze me with her culinary techniques. Even though I earned another slap in my
face, the meal had been worth it. I often use that exact same chicken recipe in
my own kitchen, minus the animosity.

~
~ ~

It is late
morning as I hit the city limits of Bay Creek. Relief washes over me that I’ve
made it as uneasiness seeps through me over the exact same point. A beautiful
driftwood sign with lots of brightly colored flowers planted along the base
welcomes visitors to this picturesque town. It’s a lovely place too. The
country and seashore landscape mingle together and allures people right on in.

I slowly
drive past my childhood home and take a quick glance at it. Besides a fresh
coat of white paint and freshly landscaped lawn, the two-story colonial looks
exactly the same. Cars line the driveway as well as along a lengthy stretch of
the street. The wraparound porch has mourners scattered about it. All the
guests either have a plate of food or a cup of drink, as they huddle in groups,
deep in conversation. I’m sure the house is packed full of guests tending to
Jean’s every need. I can’t bring myself to hit the brakes and before I know it,
I am turning off our street. I set a course for the six-minute drive to my
dad’s prides and joys. Crossing over the familiar waterway, the clinking and
clanking sound of the ancient drawbridge welcomes me back.

Within mere
minutes, I am sitting in my idling car in the parking lot. I eventually turn
the car off and climb out to inspect the places. They look exactly as they
should with two exceptions. One is the fresh coat of paint. The other is the
fact that it is smack-dab in the heart of tourist season and these two
prominent establishments sit here abandoned. It’s an eerie feeling to be here
alone on this balmy summer day. The quietness allows for the ocean’s tune to
lull through the empty parking lot in a way I have never heard. The air is not
filled with the usual aroma of succulent seafood being cooked up inside. Only
the briny salt air is present, and this scene leaves me feeling hollow.

After
choking back the hurt, I walk up the porch of the restaurant that is lined with
lonely rocking chairs swaying mournfully from the breeze. On the door is a
wreath with an explanation as to why the tourists will miss the best beach meal
they could have found.

We are sad to announce the untimely passing of proprietor,
Mr. John Paul Thorton II. We will keep you posted as to when the businesses
will reopen.

People have
left cards and notes tucked throughout the wreath, offering their condolences.
In this moment, the impact of it all finally hits me. I’ve lost my dad… Lost
him and there’s no changing this bitter fact that I can hardly comprehend.

Not being
able to take it, I run down the block to the beach and stumble to a stop in the
sand. He’s gone.
Really gone
. And I
have run out of time to make amends. My chance is lost to know my dad and to
let him know me. The hurt is crushing and strikes me with such a blow that I am
brought abruptly to my knees. If the beachgoers find my meltdown strange, they
don’t act on it. I’m left alone to dance with a few of my demons for a spell.

I rock back
and forth in the sand for a while as I fight off one of my attacks.
Breathe, Savannah. Breathe. In… Out…
Breathe.

The sea
breeze has whipped my hair across my face, so I don’t see it coming when strong
hands slide under my arms and pluck me from the sand in one swift snatch.
Before I know it, I am pulled around and encircled in a vice grip embrace. His
shaking vibrates through me, and it’s obvious he is close to tears. We say
nothing to one another in an understandable silence. Needing some space from
the beachgoers, he eventually leads me back to my car. He holds my hand the
entire way, and I rein in my anxiety over the physical contact.
He’s not gonna hurt you
. I’m guessing
his worry is that I’ll run off again is why he won’t let go of me. He’s no dumb
blond, because that is exactly what I’m thinking about doing. Once we reach the
parking lot, he turns to face me, and I get a good long look at him.

“You’ve cut
your hair?” I ask my brother. His long surfer locks are gone. I have not seen
my brother with short hair since grade school. John Paul is sporting a short,
yet perfectly messy, style. It looks good, but it’s not him. He is too rough
and tough for such a preppy look.

He weakly
smiles as he rubs his hands through it, as though he can’t believe it himself.
I stare at his red-rimmed eyes with concern and wait for him to find his voice.
I guess he is unable to speak, because he swoops me up in another hug. He’s
still trembling, and I begin to hurt for the pain he is going through. I
suddenly feel selfish for taking so long in getting here to him. Not once in
the past two days have I considered how he feels for losing his dad. A dad that
he knew well compared to my own relationship. And he has been here going
through it all alone.

“I’m
sorry,” I whisper against his shoulder. He nods his head in agreement, but
still says nothing. “John Paul?”

“
Your
mother made me cut it,” he finally
chokes out, making us both laugh at his way of forming the sentence. Neither
one of us much claimed her through the years.

“Great day.
I’ve really missed you,” I confess honestly. “How’d you know where I was?”

“I watched
your butt sneak by the house earlier. Only two possibilities as to where I’d
find you. Here or at Miss May’s.”

We walk
over to the market’s porch and have a seat. We rock for a bit before I ask,
“How is she?”

“Madder
than a wet setting hen at you.”

“What?
Why?”

“You
disappeared on us over five years ago, Savannah. Isn’t that enough?” There’s a
pucker of hurt between his blond eyebrows and I feel guilty for being the
cause.

“I
suppose,” I admit.

We sit
staring over the empty parking lot for a little longer, catching up. I know I’m
just putting off the inevitable, so I finally agree to follow John Paul back to
the house.