Seasons of Change (16 page)

I try not to think about the possibility that Jake may not want to have anything to do with me after leaving his bed without so much as a note and having maintained radio silence since then. I persuade myself that he’ll realize how important my message is and that’ll overrule his feelings of pride or hurt. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

The diner is coming to the end of a busy breakfast service when I walk through the doors of Sunny Side Up. The remaining customers are finishing up and I can see Crystal, Suzie’s replacement flirting with some of the regulars at the corner table. Once it had become clear that Suzie had no plans to ever come back to work, Big George had employed someone else. I had hoped that she would return eventually, but after seeing the mess she was in this morning, that now seems less and less likely.

I keep my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with any of the customers as I head behind the counter and hurry into the kitchen as quickly as I can without attracting any unnecessary attention. I find Big George in his normal place, cleaning the grill to within an inch of its life.

“Winters, you’ve got problems,” he says with his back to me. “It’s not even your shift and you just can’t stay away from this place.” George laughs.

“You’ve got me,” I admit jokingly, “I just don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not serving greasy eggs and fried onions.”

“I know you mean the best greasy eggs and fried onions this side of Vegas,” he says, correcting me.

“Of course.” I nod, smiling at him as he turns around, cleaning spatula still in hand.

It’s a little incongruous to see the man mountain that is Big George in his apron with a little cleaning utensil between his thick fingers, but when you’ve worked with him for as long as I have you realize that it’s outside in his normal “civilian” clothes, as he calls them, where he doesn’t fit. Here in the kitchen he is the king of his castle. Outside… outside is where
they
have the control. I don’t blame him for wanting to spend as much time as he can in here.

“You look like you’ve come to tell me something,” he says astutely, leaning against the cooling grill. It’s not a question.

“You know I have,” I tell him. I had known how hard this was going to be, but I don’t think I had really understood what leaving this town behind would mean— what leaving the people I care about behind would mean.

“About time” is all George replies, and I know that he’s letting me off. He’s not expecting the tearful, long goodbye—he’s just going to act like everything is normal.

“Guess so,” I respond, wishing that I didn’t feel as if I was about to burst into a hot mess of tears yet again.

“Hey,” George says so loudly he snaps me out of the tears about to overcome me. “What does the sign say?” he asks, pointing up to the wall on the right with his spatula.

I smile as I read the words, although I know them off by heart: “‘No crying in the kitchen.’ And anyway, I wasn’t crying—just must have got smoke in my eye from all that food you burnt in here,” I joke, nudging George with my elbow.

“Hey, Big George does
not
burn food,” he tells me with mock-seriousness. “So get on with what you have to tell me, I’ve got a grill to clean,” he says gruffly, but I can see that this is hard for him too. Goodbyes are always hard.

"Just that I can’t make my shift tonight,” I tell him. “I’ll need someone to cover for me.” I look him in the eye and my expression tells him what I can’t say with my words.

“Okay; you’ve covered enough of the other girls’ shifts, so they can cover some of yours now,” he says reasonably, nodding.

“George,” I say. “Thanks… thanks for everything. That’s what I really came here to say,” I finish, and before he can stop me I throw my arms as far around his big frame as I can reach and I hug him.

He pats my back awkwardly for a few moments before pulling me off of him. “That’s enough of all that now,” he jokes, but I can see the sheen of tears in his eyes. He knows that this is it and he knows that I don’t have any other choice. “I forgot to say—this month your tips got all mixed up,” George says after a few moments, as he looks behind the grill and retrieves a Tupperware box that he’s clearly been hiding.

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking between him and the clear box.

“Just that you had some more tips coming to you, but I just kept forgetting to give them to you,” he tells me simply as he pulls out a roll of cash tied tightly in a bundle with an elastic band holding the straining bulge together. He hands the money over to me, but I don’t take it.

“George, I can’t,” I tell him, taking a small step back, not wanting to receive something that doesn’t belong to me, not wanting to take the money that he’d been saving for his rainy day.

We both know that sooner or later he’ll need it, just like everyone else in this place. Sooner or later the Angels will come for him for one reason or another, and I’m willing to bet that the cash was his “get out of jail free” card. I couldn’t take that from him.

“You can and you will,” he says decisively. “I’ve been saving it for you,” he adds quietly, and I have to pinch myself to keep myself from crying over how sweet Big George is and how I’m never going to be able to repay him for his kindness. “It’s not much.” He shrugs apologetically. “Only about $500, but it’ll help get you where you need to go.”

“George I—” I start, wanting to thank him again, but he interrupts me.

“I don’t want to hear it Aimee.” He holds his hand up to silence me. “The only two words I want to hear out of your mouth are ‘Thank you,’” he tells me, smiling ruefully as his voice softens.

He holds out the cash, waving it at me until I reach out and take the bundle from him, closing my hands around it. “Thank you, George,” I say obediently.

“Good. Now get out of my kitchen,” he yells at me good-naturedly, not looking at me again and just turning back to attack the grill with his spatula and some good old-fashioned elbow grease.

“I’ll be seeing you George,” I say, proud of myself that I’ve managed to get the words out without my voice cracking and breaking.

“Be seeing you, Aimee,” he replies so quietly I can only just hear him as I walk out of the kitchen.

I take a last look around at the diner, one of the few places where I had felt like I was actually doing something rather than just marking time. I nod to Crystal, who gives me a little wave as she counts out the change for a customer, and then I walk out the door into the bright morning sunshine, feeling more ready than ever to do what I have to.

If you’ve never withdrawn your entire life savings in one go then you won’t be able to understand the strange mix of excitement, fear, and anxiety that flows through you as you walk down the street with more cash on you than you have ever seen in your life at one time.

I’ve been paying into my account regularly since my dad died. At first it had only been a few dollars here and there—whatever I could earn from cutting the neighbor’s lawn or washing dishes in the diner. But as time went on I got older and started waitressing and getting tips, so my monthly deposits grew steadily.

But there was never enough. What I had was never enough compared to what I figured Jake and I would need to be free and clear of this town. My mom had her own account where all my dad’s life insurance and pension money had ended up, and that was enough for her to live on, so I knew she would be alright once I had left.

But as time went on and I started to realize how much things like gas, motels, food, and basic living cost, it became pretty clear that the small fortune, as it had seemed to me I had when I was fifteen, was going to be less than sufficient for Jake and me to make our great escape.

Even now, after years of hard saving, there was still only just enough for us both to live on for a month, maybe more, after taking us as far away from Painted Rock as possible. After the money ran out we’d have to get jobs as we could, travel from one place to another, until we could finally find somewhere to settle where we felt safe. Somewhere that the Bleeding Angels would never find us. Somewhere that we could finally be free.

Like I said already—people in this town talk. So before I even went into the bank I knew there was no way that I could just ask them to hand over my life savings in one big chunk without some an explanation that wouldn’t sound suspicious to anyone they told. The last thing that I wanted was for anyone to take an interest in what I was doing, to put two and two together, and come up with the correct answer—that I was getting out of this two horse town.

So I had to do the only thing that I could do: I lied.

“That’s a lot you’re taking out all at once,” the cashier had said, looking curiously at me through the glass partition.

“I know,” I tell her, dropping my voice as if I’m telling her a secret. “It’s just that my mom’s in kind of a bad way and the hospital bills are bleeding us dry,” I explain, adding a theatrical glance around the building so that it looks as if I’m embarrassed at having to admit that we’re in dire straits. “You know how it is. With insurance companies, they find every which reason not to pay what they owe,” I confide in her, shrugging my shoulders and sighing loudly.

“Don’t I know it,” the cashier responds instantly. “Those insurance companies, they just take your money and give you a whole lot of false promises and then when you need them, it turns out you didn’t read the fine print,” she snorts.

“That’s what I’m saying,” I agree with her, glad that I’d been attended by this middle-aged woman and not the guy a few years older than me sitting behind the counter in the far corner.

I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his neck as I'm waiting in line, and tattoos only mean one thing in this town: that you were or are an Angel. Even if the cashier dude had served his time and then gone on his merry way, you still couldn’t be sure that he didn’t report in to any of the bikers, telling them about anything he’s noticed, any strange deposits or withdrawals that could signal something is about to happen.

Anyone that looks like they might have links with the Angels should best be avoided, especially today, especially now.

“So do you want me to go ahead and close this account down then, honey?” The woman behind the counter asks.

“No ma’am,” I say certainly, “I most surely don’t. Once that insurance company agrees to pay what they owe all this money is going to come back into my account,” I explain to her with the simple belief of a young girl, and the cashier doesn’t say anything.

She just nods, giving me a pitying glance. I’d thought about it already—closing my account might raise a red flag and I wasn’t willing to take any chances.

So that’s how I find myself walking down the street with more money than I’ve ever had in my possession at one time, hoping that I don’t look as shady as I feel. I feel a little like I’m doing a sneaky walk from the Pink Panther as I make my way down the street, and I hope that all the precautions I’ve taken of throwing the Angels off my scent have worked.

I figure that just going to the Post Office to speak to Sal and to the bank to collect my money might seem a little suspicious—hence the long, convoluted route I was taking to get home, stopping in almost every shop I could find. If the Angels were watching me, I figured they would either have lost interest in my shopping trip or they wouldn’t see anything that would cause suspicion.

As I walk through the front door, the realization hits me that this is the last time I’ll be doing it for God only knows how long. It’s the last time I’ll be coming home. The last time I’ll see my mom sitting on the armchair that I left her in that morning. It was hard enough to say goodbye to George—how do I even begin to say goodbye to my mom? I take a look at the time and realize I have a few hours before Jake should be showing up, and that’s assuming he decides to listen to what Sally has said and shows up at all.

I leave the money by the front door, feeling like a weight is lifted off of me when I drop the packet on the floor. Who knew that money could make you feel so uneasy?

I draw up a chair next to my mom and take her hand in mine as I brush her red, wispy hair out of her eyes. “Hey Mom,” I say to her, ducking my head down so that she looks at me, or at least looks through me. I lift the glass of water to her lips, which are cracked and dry, and she automatically takes a few swallows before I place it back down on the table. “Things are going to change Momma,” I tell her as I stroke the taut skin on the side of her face. “I’m going to be leaving Painted Rock for a while.”

It’s hard to keep on making eye contact, but I try. It was something that Dr. Moyes had said to me—to keep engaging her in conversation, to talk
to
her, not
at
her. I’d been doing it for six years with no noticeable effect, but it still made me feel like we were talking, even if it was only my voice I was hearing.

“I’m going to leave tomorrow,” I tell her. “But I’ll come back. Once things are better here, I’ll come back.”

I assure her and I tell her that because it’s the truth. I really do believe that things will change, that they’ll get better because they have to. They can’t carry on like this forever.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say. “I really am. But Sally and Bill Summers are going to take care of you. They’ll make sure that you’re good and that you’re eating, and I guess you may go live with them for a while,” I explain. “I guess it’d be easier for them that way. And you’ll meet Jonah. That’s Jake’s little brother. He’s seven and you’ll like him a lot—he’s a sweetheart and I guarantee he’ll make you laugh,” I tell her, despite the fact that I haven’t heard my mother laugh since I was a kid.

“And I don’t want you to worry about me,” I add. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll be with Jake and we’ll look after each other, okay? Just like we always have. So don’t worry,” I repeat, wishing that my hands weren’t shaking as much as they are.

We sit in silence for a few minutes and my thoughts drift away until I’m brought back to the here and now by a pressure on my hand.

My mother is squeezing my hand.

I can feel it. I look down, but now her hand is as relaxed as always. I look into her eyes to see if I can see any sign of consciousness, of her trying to tell me something. But there’s nothing there. I close my eyes, wondering if I’ll feel her squeeze my hand again, but nothing happens.

I must really be going crazy if I’m starting to imagine my mom is trying to communicate with me after all this time
, I think to myself. I stand up and gently lay her hand back on her knee and go about the routine of making something to eat. My stomach is so full of butterflies at both the thought of seeing Jake and of what it is that I have to tell and him and what I’m going to ask him to do.

I feed my mother and search her face for any signs of awareness of what I’m saying or what’s going on around her, but there’s nothing there. I remind myself that it’s dangerous to want something so much—it makes you start to see things that aren’t really there.
Perhaps that’s what happened with Jake
, the little voice in my head pipes up right on time.
Maybe you just wanted to believe that he felt a certain way about you so much that you saw what you wanted to see, not what was actually there.
I trudge up the stairs to my bedroom with the idea spinning and spinning around in my head.

I open the only suitcase I have in my possession and start filling it with clothes, photographs—anything that I think I might need or want, anything that I think might help to remind me of home.

I look at the psychology textbook that I’d borrowed from the library and hadn’t gotten around to giving back yet. After a moment’s thought I throw it into the suitcase along with everything else. It’s probably the closest thing to stealing that I’ve ever done, but I figure that this town owes me something after all it’s put me through. And besides, I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in Painted Rock that actually uses the psych section of the library.

As I pull out photographs and old albums from my dresser, a whole host of memories come rushing back with a force that almost knocks me over.

I sit on the bed as I leaf through the pictures, some of me with my parents, some of my mom and dad on their own looking all loved up and happy. I can’t really remember seeing my mom as happy as she was in those photos.

There are pictures of me and Jake playing in the field out the back of the house, and then there’s one that holds my attention more than any of the others. It’s a picture of a birthday party; it must be one of Jake’s, because I don’t recognize half of the people in the photo.

Jake, Suzie, and I are right in the center of the photo and off to the right is Ryan, looking over at us with an expression on his face that is as close as you can probably get to hate when you’re six. But that isn’t what draws my attention; it’s what’s on the other side of the photo.

Sally is talking to someone in the background of the shot, and it’s hard to tell, but it looks like they’re arguing. When I take a closer look at the person she’s talking to I gasp, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing.

The man that Sally is arguing with isn’t her husband and it isn’t my father—it’s Scar. Or Travis, as he would still have been when this picture was taken. It’s not only his presence at the party that surprises me or even that he seems to be arguing with Sally, the most placid person on the face of the planet. It’s what he’s pointing to.

He’s pointing to Jake.