The Mason List (2 page)

Chapter 3

Today,
8:42 p.m.

Beep.

The happy
place disappears; the happy place with my mother.  The words slice through as
my first thought in the headache induced confusion.  She failed to haunt my
dreams for some time now. 

Beep.

I will my
eyes to open.  Something nags in the back of my thoughts just beneath the
banging noise in my head.  It was Saturday.  No, it wasn’t Saturday.  I drove
from Dallas on Saturday.  I try hard to remember the day. 

Beep.

My hand
feels around for the bedside alarm buttons to kill the incessant beeping.  The
more I tug, the more my wrist feels caught.  The realization hurt my chest more
than the pain in my head.  I am not in my bed.  I am tied to a hospital bed. 

Beep.

Panic
kicks in as I struggle to move.  The slits of my pale blue eyes move just
enough to take in my surroundings.  The lights glow with halos around each
bulb.  The beauty queen stares back at me.  I want to scream at the sight of
her face. 

Beep.

“Alex,
can you hear me?  Just try to be still.  I’m sorry.  I tried to keep them from
usin’ the restraints but they were afraid you’d do somethin’ again.”

Beep.

“Make it
stop.  Please…please!” I can’t stand it anymore.  The sound jabs at me.  It
jabs in my brain like a knife.  I pull at the band on my wrists.  I try to kick
free.  I yank with every muscle, feeling the joints pull in my hands.

“Alex,
please don’t make it worse.”

Beep. 
Beep.  Beep.

I
scream.  I feel the images again, those terrible pictures searing through my
gut.  They hurt my mind.  They hurt my heart.  A needle goes into a bag
dangling above my head.  The sounds become lost in a gentle swoosh, lulling me
back down into the depths of my dreams; back to the where it all began.

Chapter 4

When
I was eight…

Sitting
in my tree, I watched the people in our yard.  Anger burned deep inside of me. 
They were all just vultures, digging and tossing our stuff around without a
care in the world.  I had the perfect view as they picked apart everything in
their sight.  None of them were concerned that it was my whole life sitting out
on the lawn.  It was just another sale to them.  It meant nothing to the
vultures; no memories or stories. 

I watched
two men secure our couch to the back of a truck.  Their hands fiddled with the
ropes, making them so tight, the fabric split open and stuffing blew out across
the grass.  A man and his wife knocked our table against the trailer and the
leg fell off in the street.  They had the nerve to ask my father for a discount
because it was damaged before it even left our house.  My sad father just
handed back a few dollars to the mean couple who broke our table. 

I hated
the vultures. 
I hated them all!

“Pumpkin? 
I need you to come down from there and help put the rest of the stuff back in
the house,” my father yelled.  Without a word, I climbed down into the garden
and followed him to the front yard.

I shoved
a yellow vase into a box with some old glasses and carried it back into the
living room.  Dropping the cardboard on the hard wood, I heard the glasses bang
against each other.  I picked the box up and dropped it a little harder,
feeling the prickly anticipation for the sound.  The vase vibrated a little
harder this time.  I continued with another try, putting my arm strength into
the throw.  A crackling smash came from inside of the box.

Feeling
the warm tingle of satisfaction, I looked around the room.  The house was
empty.  According the foreclosure notice, we had until tomorrow morning to be
out of the only place I had ever called home.  It was hard to grasp how much
our lives had changed in a year. 

My mother
had something called ovarian cancer.  The doctors were hopeful at first, but
the cancer had quickly spread to the other places in her body.  She had spent
weeks at a time in the hospital while my father alternated between work and
sitting at her bedside.  I had stayed with mean, old Mr. Wilson and his wife. 
The happy days were over; no more mornings playing in the garden and no more
laughing afternoons drawing with my mother. 

For
months, I cried myself to sleep every night, clutching little Digger.  I had
just wanted it to be normal again.  I wanted my bedtime story.  I wanted my
mother.  I was incredibly sad.  I didn’t think our lives could get any worse,
but then my father came home carrying a box.  I knew from his sagging shoulders
something bad happened at work.  My father said his company had let him go. 
They’d used some excuse about a bad economy, but we knew the truth.  He had
missed too many days sitting at the hospital.  My father had cried and cried
that night.  I didn’t know what to do as the big tears rolled down his cheeks. 
Parents don’t cry.

The bills
had piled up everywhere: pink ones and blue ones and eventually red ones.  Some
were from hospitals or doctors.  Some came from the little plastic cards.  They
all wanted money as my father struggled to find another job.

Maybe he was
a little too honest in the interviews.  They were always sympathetic with his
situation, but he was never picked.  My father took odd jobs, but it just
wasn’t enough money.  The bank ordered us to leave the house by the end of
May.  We could no longer pay for our pretty, little cottage and my garden.  I
was losing both my mother and my home. 

I had
cried for days and refused to come out of my room, losing my temper more than
once, smashing doll china like the Mad Hatter destroying high tea.  The meltdowns
became farther apart as I slowly came to acceptance.  With every breath, I felt
the fear and uncertainty of our future.  With every breath, I felt a hard,
ridged coat form over my heart.

My father
looked for us a new place to live and place to take care of my mother.  The
treatments had stopped working months ago.  It was time to just keep her from
feeling pain.  He found a hospital west of Fort Worth in a town called Arlis
that took charity hospice cases.  My father wanted us to live there too.  I hated
the idea of moving.  I hated leaving my home.  I hated the bank; it was cruel,
like the evil queen who attacked Snow White.

As we
packed the house for the move, my father handed over two small boxes.  He
struggled to look me in the eye as he said choose only the things that were
most important to me.  I stared back, wanting to scream in his face.  His sad
eyes had stopped every word from flowing out of my mouth.  Instead of yelling,
I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood.  I bit down hard, feeling the coat
squeeze around my heart.  I needed that coat to block out how dark I felt
inside.  It would keep the tears away.  I may have only been eight, but I felt
the reality of the outside world like someone twice my age.  No more daydreams
up in the trees.  It was time to be strong.  I needed it and my father needed
it too. 

Without a
word, I had followed my father’s instructions and only packed items I needed
for the trip.  All the jeweled dresses and crowns stayed in the closet; this
Arlis town was no place for a laughing princess.

“Hey
Pumpkin, can you get those blankets and pillows out?  We can stretch those out
in your room tonight.”

“Ok,” I
muttered, snapping back to reality.  My tongue traced the familiar cut that
still remained on my bottom lip.  I watched my father pile the remaining items
up in the living room.  The creases on his forehead seemed ingrained on his
skin.  Today had been hard on him too.  We were leaving with only few boxes and
a little money, which only existed because we sold everything in our house.

I got the
blankets from the garage and laid them out on the carpet in my room.  My little
white bed had sold this afternoon.  The new owner seemed like a nice little
girl holding her mother’s hand.  Maybe she would love it as much as me.  

I wrapped
up in the blanket while my head rested against the pillow.  Digger bounced out
from some hiding place deep in the house.  His little tongue licked my nose and
eyes.  I pulled him close in a bear hug.  It would be my last night with
Digger.  He was staying with Mr. Wilson.  My father had rented a room at an
extended stay motel in stupid Arlis.  I had begged my father to let me take
Digger, but the stupid motel said no pets. 

I
squeezed the little dog tighter as my father walked into my bedroom.  He sat
down on the floor next to me.  “You ok, Pumpkin?”

“Can’t we
just sneak him in the room?”

“I’m
sorry, but it’s better for him to stay with the Wilsons than the motel taking
him away.”

“I
know.”  My throat hurt on the words as the tears burned in my eyes.  The coat
around my heart got thicker, and I cried no tears for Digger.

“It will
be ok.  You’ll like Arlis,” my father said, as he tried to pull together a
smile.

“How do
you know?  You’ve never been there!”  I snapped back.  In the weak moment, I struggled
to contain my anger. I hurt too much tonight. 

“Alexandra! 
You need to change your attitude about this!” I felt myself cringe; he never
got upset with me.  I didn’t want to make this worse for him.

“I’m
sorry, Dad.  I didn’t mean that.  I know you’re right.  It will be good
there.”  The words didn’t calm the storm I felt inside, but it made my father’s
face relax a little.  I said the words he needed to hear.  I said the words to
comfort my father. 

I blocked
out his voice as he continued to talk about that stupid town and that stupid
motel and that stupid hospital.  I bit my lip until I tasted the salty blood in
my mouth.  I squeezed my eyes shut, begging the darkness to carry me away.  

By the
time I woke the next morning, my father had the old SUV loaded with our
belongings.  The back had boxes packed to the ceiling.  The Wilsons stood
outside talking to my father.  I saw Mr. Wilson pat my father on the shoulder
as they nodded about something I couldn’t hear.  I carried Digger over to his new
home.  Mrs. Wilson smiled down as I handed over the ball of fur. 

“We
promise to take good care of him,” she said, trying to reassure me.  I muttered
thanks
and climbed in the truck.  I saw the tears in my father’s eyes as
we backed out of the driveway.  Mine were completely dry as I pressed my nose
against the glass to look one last time.  The coat around my heart got even
tighter, seeing our little cottage with the garden fade into the distance.

Chapter 5

When
I was eight…

From the
hospital room window, I peeked through the closed curtain and watched three
children on the red and yellow playground.  They seemed happy.  A boy joined in
for a game of tag.  He chased a girl around the green hedges.

“You
should go down there, Alex.”  I heard a faint voice come from the bed.  My
mother was in a deep sleep most of the time.  I preferred it when she was out
because I knew she didn’t feel the pain.  Those wishes came laced with
selfishness.  I liked to sit in silence.  It was easier than a forced conversation
with a dying person even if she was my mother.  I really didn’t know what to
say anymore.  The days just seemed better when her skeleton face didn’t speak. 
Shame filled my chest.  I stopped the terrible thoughts and buried them with a
crooked smile.

“It’s ok,
Mom.  Do you want me to get you a drink?”  I left the window to sit in the
chair next to her bed.  Her skeleton hand patted my arm.  I felt a shutter and
focused on her bald head instead. 

“Maybe a
little sip.”  She looked so pale, and I saw the strain on her face as she tried
to speak.  “I worry about you, honey.”

“Why?”

“You
should be doing something, I don’t know,” her voice cracked.  A faint cough
interrupted and then she continued, “Fun.  You’re like a little grownup, now. 
I miss my little Alex in the trees.”

“I’m,
ok.  Really.  Besides, you were right.  It was dangerous climbing up in the
trees.”  Fleeting images of our garden flashed through my mind.  I wondered if
my mother understood the trees were gone from our lives forever.

I pulled
the blanket up around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.  My throat fought
back a gag.  Her skin used to smell like the roses in our backyard.  Now her
skin stunk like moldy bread. 

“Mom,
I’ll see if…”  My words trailed off as I watched her eyelids close.  I sighed
with relief and settled back in the window sill.  Silence. 

It didn’t
take long for the Tanners to get into a routine.  We arrived in Arlis at the
end of May.  Over the last few weeks, we shuffled between the nasty motel and
the hospital.  My father and I took turns sitting beside my mother’s bed.  He
would leave some afternoons to search for a job, but got the same reaction in
Arlis and the surrounding Palo Pinto County.  Not a single person wanted him.

I studied
the cheap, fake pink and blue bouquet in the corner vase.  My father bought the
flowers last week in the half-price bin at Dollar General by the extended stay
motel.  I wrinkled my nose at the mere thought of the “suite” we called home. 
Suite
my foot!
It was filthy and a strange animal lived in the bathroom.  Each
morning, I studied the small pile of poop left in the corner by the
brown-stained tub.  I had it narrowed down to a rat, a wall possum, or a
snake.  I assumed a snake could poop too.

My
clothes always smelled musty from the odd fumes that seeped through the walls
from our neighbor on the right side.  I did not like him.  He scared me.  I
wanted to tell my father how much he scared me, but I knew there was nothing we
could do about it.  Every night, that man stood on the balcony.  His eyes
followed each of my steps to our apartment.  From the base of his throat, an
evil tattoo glared like a second pair of eyes.  My father turned the lock on
the door, but I knew that two-headed monster stayed just on the other side of
the old wood.

As soon
as we settled in each night, I struggled to sleep with the banging and yelling
from the neighbor under our bed.  The words came through muddled except for a
few snippets that sounded like
pig-faced bitch
.  My father just turned
up the volume on the television louder to drown out the noise. 

Sometimes
I watched our downstairs neighbors.  He was a skinny man for having such a loud
voice.  I thought the woman was rather pretty and nothing like a pig-faced
bitch.  Once, I watched them from the front window until I coughed.  The walls
had black mold from rain coming in through holes in the glass.

I hated
that place.  Although hate didn’t come close to describing my feelings for our
new home.  I needed a word stronger and bigger than just
hate
. 

“Hey. 
How are my girls?”  I turned to see my father walk back in the room.  He gave
me a little squeeze.   Something seemed off.  I’d gotten pretty good at reading
my father over the last year.  He leaned over to kiss my mother on her
forehead.  The sleeping corpse never responded. 

“Dad, is
something wrong?”  I had to ask even though I was afraid of the answer.  Given
our recent luck, it was inevitable our life would just get worse.

“No
Pumpkin, everything is fine.”  I saw by the tilt of his eyes that my father was
lying.  We sat for a couple of hours as the sun faded into the sky.  My mother
never woke up after our little talk.  My father and I left for the night.  The
soles of my shoes squeaked on the floor.  They hurt my feet and I needed new
ones.  My toes seemed to double over at the front just to fit inside. 

My father
and I crossed the parking lot.  I saw the Bronco under the street light.  The
old truck sat packed to the roof, just like the day we arrived in Arlis.

“Dad!”  I
gasped, looking at the truck and then back to his devastated face. 

“I
couldn’t pay the weekly rate last week so the manager let it slide.  When I
didn’t have the money today, they made me pack everything up in the car.”  My
father stood on the hot pavement staring at the ground like he failed all of
us.  

My
stomach lurched as the reality twisted inside my body. 
I’m homeless.
 
The Tanners literally were homeless without even an option for a place to go. 
I knew a flood of tears wanted to flow in ugly streams down my cheeks.  I pursed
my lips and bit down hard on the lower one.  I no longer allowed tears.  Not
since we lost our home.  Not since we had to travel to Arlis.  Not since I left
Digger. 

I settled
in the passenger side of the Bronco.  My eyes felt vacant as the deserted parking
lot.  I cranked down the window with the manual turn knob.  I needed air.  I
couldn’t breathe. 

“Wait,
Alex.  We can’t put them down until all the cars are gone.”

I wanted
to scream.  I couldn’t hold back the words.  Turning to unload a gut full of
hate, I stopped cold.  Tears gathered in the corners of my father’s eyes.  One
rolled over the edge.  His face tilted toward the driver’s side window to hide
the fact he sat crying in our old car.  A sob cracked in his throat, turning
into a terrible sound, like a wounded animal.  I pretended not to see the
breakdown.  Resting my head back against the seat, I stared at the stains on
the cloth ceiling of the Bronco.

Over the
next few nights, I curled up in the passenger seat and rested against the hot window
glass until it was safe to roll it down.  We visited my mother during the day. 
I snuck into the hospital bathroom to wash up.  Some nights, I just I dabbed
off my arms and legs in the sink.

My father
left every morning to find anything to bring in money.  He tried to walk as
much as possible to keep from using the last of our gas.  Even if he found
something, I knew it would be a few weeks without money unless someone paid
cash.  I sat in grateful silence each day that my mother was too weak to catch
on to what was happening right under her hospital room window.

On the
eighteenth
night of sleeping in the Bronco, my father and I sat in the front seat watching
the sun set.  I took a bite of my pimento cheese sandwich from the vending
machine.  Halfway through it, I noticed mold growing on the underside of the
bread.  My stomach fought back a gag as I hid the rest of the sandwich in a
napkin.  I didn’t want to upset my father.  The hot air couldn’t handle another
one of his breakdowns. 

I’m not
sure what he picked from the machine tonight.  My father said he ate a sandwich
while I was washing off in the bathroom.  I think he was lying.  My stomach
rumbled trying to digest the molded bread.  I was afraid.  The coins would
eventually run out and so would the supply of spoiled food. 

I fluffed
my pillow against the glass and did my best to block out the sticky heat.  Two
cars stayed in the corner of the lot.  I wanted to yell,
go home to your
stupid house.
  

The
Bronco had developed a lingering smell of dirty socks and bologna.  Each
morning, we killed roaches that scattered across our seats.  I think the nasty
bugs lived in the boxes we stored in the back part of the car.  They came out
at night looking for food.  I felt the bugs; their tiny legs pricking my skin
as they stepped down my arm and across my stomach while I slept.  My father
insisted they didn’t have teeth. 

I took a
deep breath watching the parking lot.  The air pulled sharp through my nose but
it felt so hot.   Every breath was like sucking in the fumes of a hair dryer. 
I fought the urge to sling open the door and run down the street with my feet
pounding against the cement.  I would run until my shoes filled with blood from
my curled up toes. 

A man
walked out the side doors to the last car. 
Finally!
  I could get a cool
breeze through the window.  He stopped dead in his tracks and stared in our
direction.  Noticing the jet black hair, I recognized him as one of the people
who took care of my mother.  Dr. Mason fixated on the Bronco.  He continued to
stare with a worried look on his face. 

No,
no, no!
  He was
coming over.  He would see us; the creepy homeless people living in the parking
lot.  I wanted to slide into the floor and put the pillow over my face.  
Go
away
!  I screamed in my head while my Dad rolled down the window for Dr.
Mason.

“Hey,
Henry.  How ya holdin’ up tonight?”  I saw Dr. Mason’s eyes glance to the back
of the Bronco.  Even in the low light of the dark parking lot, I knew the
doctor had a good idea of our current problem.  Old boxes packed to the
ceiling.  Clothes draped out over the head rest drying from today’s hand
washing in the shower.  And the smell.  I knew the exact stench that escaped
like a giant cloud of death when the door opened.

“Doing
ok, Dr. Mason.  Did you need something?  Has something changed with Anna?”   I
heard my father trying to keep his voice steady.  At this point, I wasn’t sure
if the tremor came from the fear that something had happened with my mother, or
just plain embarrassment of getting caught in the parking lot.

“No,
news.  Everythin’ seems to be holdin’ steady at the moment.” Dr. Mason looked
over in my direction and I quickly dropped my eyes to the floor.  I wished my
mind possessed magical powers to dissolve my body into the carpet floorboard,
but I was no longer the child who believed in fairy dust. 

“I saw
you leavin’ and thought maybe you’d like to stay in the room with Anna
tonight.  I think it’d be big enough to pull in a couple of cots.”  I looked
back up in surprise, but only saw kindness in his expression. 

My father
glanced at me with a strained face as he tried to hold it together.  He asked
for my reassurance.  I wrinkled my nose and tilted up in defiance.  I was so
tired of being his strength.  Slowly, I nodded back at my father and gripped
the pillow tight in my hands.  
Fine!
 

“Sure,”
my father said with a smile.  “I think that would be nice change to stay
overnight.  Could do Anna some good.”

Dr. Mason
walked back to the hospital while we gathered a few items from the back.  I
looked over the parking lot and took in the reality of the moment.  Shame
pumped through my body with each beat of my heart.  I hated charity.  I hated
depending on others.  I hated being homeless.  I hated people knowing we had
nothing.

Every
fiber of my being wanted to scream as I followed my father back through the
sliding doors of the hospital.  Each tennis shoe clomp on the tile took us down
a path of no return.  The stomping made the tight shoes hurt worse.  I didn’t
care.  Until tonight, it has been our secret and now everyone would know. 

Since she
got sick, a little piece of my life disappeared every day, yet we still
survived on our own.  Tonight was different.  It was the first step into the
bottom of the barrel.  We needed so much more than just a cot for the night. 
Dr. Mason had to know this about our life.