Mistakes of My Past, Page 3

  “I'm all over it, Mike.” Roxy winks, and shows off by doing the five fillet finger game with a plastic, blunt knife.

  Chapter 4

  Amber

  It's dark and my vision is blurry. I’m certain I'm in danger and I need to pee, but I can't get up, my limbs are jelly and unresponsive.

  I call out but no one comes. So I do it again. “Help me, please...”

  “Shh, shh, I got you. You're okay. Just breathe. I got you. You're safe”

  I open my eyes and wipe my tears.

  The yellow glow from the window casts just enough light for me to see Roxy’s face. She looks like a minion in her big round specs and blue pyjamas.

  I snort a giggle in between cries.

  “Waking me up is funny, huh?” Roxy pushes my hair from my wet face.

  “Sorry, I had another bad dream.”

  “No shit. I didn't know if I should wake you. They say sleepwalkers can die if they're woken all a sudden.”

  “Please, when I’m dreaming like that, wake me. The risk is worth the reprieve.”

  “You're so English. It's cute,” she says and smiles. “I have to get in bed.” Roxy leaps and the springs of her bed creak with surprise. “Depending who’s on shift, they’ll be peering through that window every couple of hours.”

  I look at the windowed door, despising the intrusiveness.

  “Hours? I expected it to be more often.”

  “They’re supposed to do it more often, but they prefer to sleep. Last time I was here, they had a bleeder. Now they check more often.”

  I nod, knowing a bit about bleeders.

  “What’d you dream about?”

  “Stuff,” I reply. Feeling I owe her a better explanation, I continue, “More than stuff,” I sigh.

  “Amber, you can’t let that shit ruin you. If I were you, I'd tell that bastard you ain't coming back and start fighting.”

  She makes it sound so easy.

  “I want to, I do. It’s… he’s… it’s difficult for me to fight. I have no experience. How'd you know it was about a guy anyway?” I ask.

  “It's always about a guy.”

  “He hurt me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “It's complicated.”

  “Always is.”

  I'm surprised that I want to tell her. It’s the first time it's felt like anyone’s listening, the first time it feels safe to talk about.

  “He manipulated me, the people in our village believed every lie he told, and I was so stupid. I didn’t see what he was doing. He wanted my mother’s house and her money.”

  Roxy nods her head knowingly, even though I've barely scratched the surface of my story.

  “That why you slashed your wrist?”

  All my tops are long sleeve, even my pyjamas. Roxy is perceptive.

  “I've been here long enough to recognise a bleeder. But what I don't get is why you'd get that bastard’s name tattooed on you? Girl, that's the ultimate surrender stamp.”

  My hand instinctively holds the back of my neck. She’s right about the tattoo. It disgusts me.

  “He wanted me to get it. Tommy isn’t someone you say no to. I was home schooled you see and very shy, so I didn’t have many friends of my own. It was easy for him to talk me into things and I ended up losing myself,” I explain, embarrassed by my confession.

  “By the time I realised I needed to get away from him, I was in too deep. My mum was dying, and I was spending all my time with her at the hospice. He tracked my phone, took my bank cards…”

  “Couldn’t the cops help you?”

  “I called them once. Tommy and I had been at a party and he got violent on the way home. I’d only had a few drinks, but I was slurring. Instead of taking my statement, they asked him to put me to bed to sleep off the booze. After that he was always quick to remind me that the police wouldn’t help me. I didn’t have the energy to fight him and take care of my mum, so I figured I’d get my peace just as soon as she had hers. I have so many regrets. That’s why I’m here I guess, to figure it out.”

  “You’re stronger than you think. The tattoo can get covered and you’re free of him now.” Roxy glances around the room and smiles. “Well, you will be free if you keep away from the self-injurious behaviours,” she says and winks.

  “Thanks for helping me today. Why are you being so kind to me?”

  “You remind me of myself, the first time I came here, except all prim n’ proper. I guess life has been a barrel of bitches to us both.”

  * * *

  As the weeks turned into months, Roxy and I fell into an easy routine. She got the bathroom first, and she let me keep the air con off—I hated the cold.

  When Bob helped Roxy plan her discharge, I got an unsettling feeling. I’d delayed my own discharge on the grounds I wasn’t ready.

  Roxy decided that since she didn’t fit with her dad and his family, she was going it alone and the staff helped her find somewhere to live. It made me question if moving in with my dad was the right decision; not that I had another choice.

  Dad owned a business that made ATMs. He spends a lot of time travelling between production sites to keep things running smoothly. When he suggested taking time off to stay home with me, I refused. He’d already taken too much time off work. I told him I needed alone time, time to regroup and find my way. He agreed but only because I’d threatened to rent if he insisted on staying too close. He thought I still had money, so it wasn’t a difficult threat to make.

  * * *

  “You promise you’ll come back and see me?” I ask Roxy.

  “Amber, I’m not visiting you here. This shit-hole is going in my past along with the funk I’m not dragging around with me anymore.”

  “Oh.” I look at her dejected.

  “Hey, I’ll be back to see you, at your place, not here. Here’s no good for you. You’ve got your discharge date now. Don't… how’d you say it like a Brit… bottle it? Whatever; don’t do that; be brave.”

  “Roxy, I’m not sure I can.”

  “Bob’s hovering, I got to go. Look me up as soon as you bounce from this place. I mean it, be brave.”

  Roxy enveloped me in a hug so tight my eyes bulged. She dipped her heart-shaped face one last time before walking out the door. I catch sight of the sheen in her fierce eyes and know I'll see her on the outside.

  Roxy and I spent four months together at Hope; her absence was a turning point. I began thinking for the first time I might be ready for another shot at life.

  * * *

  Good Morning, Ohio and what a beautiful morning it is. The snow is still falling and we at Ohio Live want to hear what our listeners have got planned for this weekend.

  The radio blares in the day room. I eye it with contempt as the DJ joyfully reminds me – it’s Discharge Day.

  “Amber, honey, can you come to the small meeting room. Your father is here.”

  “Sure, Hawk… I mean Sharon.” I follow her tapping heels to the meeting room.

  “Hi, Honey,” Dad greets me as I walk into the room. He looks me over nervously, assessing me for signs of crazy I assume.

  Apparently satisfied, he nods. “How’re you doing? You ready for your big day?”

  I’m going home today. Not home, South Coast of England, where the weather is milder than Ohio’s harsh winters; No, home to Dad’s house, West Chester, Ohio. Although, now it’s happening, I’m getting an attack of nerves. I’ve lived in England since I was four, but, I guess as far as protection from Tommy goes—the Atlantic Ocean offers my best defence.

  “Dad, I’m fine.”

  He still looks worried.

  “I’m ready,” I lie.

  Dad’s eyes are questioning. He sees through my bravado, but he doesn’t press. Dad doesn’t know the full details, the mistakes of my past that have led to this moment. Despite the opportunities I’ve had, I couldn’t tell him about my suffering. We’ve played the conversation safe. Knowing I almost graduated from university, with an English
degree, Dad suggested I finish my education while I stay with him. He even offered to pay my tuition fees and since life hasn’t turned out so well for me in England, I agree, but I won’t let him pay, I’ll need to find a job.

  * * *

  Bob walks into the room and sits on the sofa, thumbing my discharge papers. He pulls my medications out of a paper bag and puts them on the coffee table.

  Until now, I’ve had a nurse doling them out for me and he wants to make sure I'm not going to accidentally overdose.

  “Diazepam for anxiety, one to two at a time, as required, a maximum of eight in a day… if the panic attacks get too much or increase in frequency or in duration, it’s important that you call the helpline and we’ll set you up an appointment.” Gesturing to another box, he continues, “These help you sleep, they should help with the…”

  Freaking the fuck out in my sleep!

  I tune out. I’m on a regime. There’s not a four hour period in my day I don’t have pills to swallow. Between the ones that fuzz it out and the ones that counter the effects of those, I literally rattle when I get my freak on—which is a lot—but not as much as before.

  “You’ll be back each Tuesday for therapy, right?” Bob gives me double thumbs up. He’s not a bad guy, just too keen and upbeat for my liking. He’s always spouting phrases like, “let’s work hard for our recovery,” and my personal favourite, “only we can make the change, right?”

  I nod.

  If only they had a pill for his optimism.

  Dad thanks Bob for his support and we prepare to leave.

  “I’ve got your bags,” Dad says.

  Bag plural. I have one bag with a few clothes and a photo.

  As we make our way through the security doors and sensors, Dad explains, the temperature is minus seven today and apologises for not having brought me a jacket.

  We flew out of London, Heathrow during a freak Indian summer. It’s now January and my clothes are way off for the harsh Ohio winter. He tries to insist I take his fleece jacket. I thank him but decline, there’s no need for us both to freeze.

  The snow is piled high on the pavement and just the sight of it sends a chill through me. I hug my thin sweater to my body. I remember buying it on a shopping trip, back home with my then best friend, Stacey. She told me the cut made my boobs look bigger, but I ended up buying it because Tommy told me it made my figure ‘stand out’. I hate it and not just because it’s bloody Baltic outside and I’m freezing, but because it reminds me of the two people I hate most in the world.

  The journey to my dad’s place is too quiet with neither of us knowing how to forge a relationship. After all, his visits stopped when I was twelve, and since then our relationship has been conducted through birthday and Christmas cards.

  I stare out the window as we drive through one of the built up towns. The buildings still house Christmas lights and the stores advertise post-holiday sales.

  Dad clears his throat. “It’s a shame you missed the holiday. Your mother always loved Christmas. It must have been hard, first one without her,” Dad says, taking his eyes off the road to offer me a sympathetic smile.

  My eyes well at the mention of mum, I look away, out of the passenger window.

  “I guess it’ll get easier with time,” I say, even though I know full well time won’t heal me, my grief is permanent.

  “It must have been hard, taking care of her. If I’d known what you were going through, I would have been there, I swear.” He says this sincerely and I believe he would have dropped everything to support us.

  “It was so quick. One day we were getting the diagnosis, and then eleven weeks later she passed away.” I consider the speed of her decline and the lump in my throat expands making it more difficult to explain to him. “Mum didn’t want anyone to know. She knew it was pancreatic cancer before she even got the diagnosis, from when she watched Grandpa fade. She hid the symptoms until it was too late until…” My voice slips from steady as I add, “She didn’t want you to see her that way.”

  We’d already talked about this during one of Dad’s visits to the hospital. Mum had sent him a letter, explaining her illness. She couldn’t bear to tell him on the phone. But the letter hadn’t reached him in time. Mum had been afraid of being responsible for his pain. She’d known he’d be devastated, that her cancer would become a tumour on his soul, as it had within her body. In her own way, she was trying to protect him. She’d wanted to protect me too, but I was closer. When she told me not to come home on the weekends, I knew something was wrong. So I’d come home anyway, but when you only see a person in snapshots of time, subtle changes are more prominent and you fear the worst. But you’re never ready for when those fears are confirmed.

  * * *

  Dad points out the house as we drive up his street. He explains that it was built in eighteen hundred and back then, it was the only house for miles. Over the years, parts of the land were sold and now it’s one of many homes on the street.

  As we near, I take in its charm. It’s dusted with snow and postcard beautiful with its grand pillared entrance; a smaller version of The White House. The driveway curves around the back of the house and the grounds appear huge, far bigger than is usual in England. But, Dad’s plot sticks out for reasons beyond its charm and elevated position—it’s a building site.

  The back of the main house is worse. Parts of the interior are exposed, wooden boards and tarp flap around in the wind.

  Dad stops the car behind a block of pallets and building supplies. My anxiety rears its spiteful head. This house offers little protection from the elements or from intruders.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Dad, I’m not sure I can stay here…” I stutter. Closing my eyes, I practice my breathing.

  Dad waits patiently and then adds, “I know it's not what you’re used to, but with a little vision...” He fidgets with the car key. “I’ve been working on getting it done up, but the winter’s stalled its progress.”

  I don’t want to hurt his feelings or for him to think I’m ungrateful by getting prissy about a little dust, so I try to explain, “It’s not that, I… What with my recovery…”

  I don’t want to worry him by telling him I’m scared Tommy might come after me. I haven’t heard from him, but I’ve made the mistake before, thinking he’d let me go, only to find he hadn’t finished yet.

  “You’re right. I should never have expected you to live here. With the house being done up, I thought the guest house might be… cosy.” He looks over at me, dejected. “I’m always on the road, you could come with me, but I didn’t think it’d be good for you, staying in hotel rooms. I can go to the realtor tomorrow, see if there’s a rental.”

  Dad had always tried to keep up with my mum’s lifestyle, her wealth. Mum would never say anything unkind about Dad but I got the sense that she was lonely in their marriage. Dad was quite the workaholic.

  Wait, a guest house?

  I follow Dad’s eyes.

  “You mean?” I point, my eyes widening with realisation. A proper little house, that’s separate from the main building. I expel a long held breath in relief. "Oh Dad, that’ll be great. I wasn’t trying to be ungrateful.” I could hug him the relief is so acute.

  Dad smiles and looks happy. I feel hope for the first time in a long time.

  Chapter 5

  Amber

  Refreshed after a long shower, I pick out an old university tee and pair of sweat pants. As the thought occurs to me, I smile at my American tongue. I unpack the rest of my toiletries and meagre collection of clothes.

  Dad told me that he’d ordered me a credit card, so I can replenish my wardrobe and buy groceries. It’s not fair for me to be living off Dad. I have a healthy income of my own, what with Mum leaving me the estate and Grandpa’s shares. But I don’t have access to it, not that Dad knows. So I reluctantly agree to have the card for groceries only, short term until I get myself straightened out.

  I waste time upstairs. I’m
unsure what to talk to Dad about. I haven’t told him much about my toxic relationship with Tommy, which if I did, might explain my weirdness. But I’m not ready to go there yet.

  Holding the only photo I have left of Mum, I place it on the dresser, moving it from left to right so the glare from the light above doesn’t detract from its beauty. I wish I could resent Sue for only packing one photograph when she packed a bag for me to leave with Dad. But, it was my own cowardice that prevented me returning home to pack more. I was too afraid he’d get to me. I didn't believe I'd actually ever get away from Tommy. Yet here I am, safe. I know that would make Mum happy.

  The photo is a selfie, of Mum and me in Paris. We’d both brought berets for a laugh and the Eiffel Tower is in the background. She’d booked the trip right after we were told there was no hope. I cherish the memory of that trip, even though it’s tinged with sadness.

  My social media accounts have hundreds of pictures of Mum and me. As much as I yearn to see them, I’m on a self-imposed ‘No Contact Order’ from Tommy. If he’s forgotten about me, I don’t want to remind him I’m still alive. So, I resist the urge to log in and bask in our memories.

  To distract myself, I take out the phone Dad gave me and text Roxy. She loves it when I ham up the Brit so I give it full pelt:

  One sincerely hopes that your freedom from my company is not too ghastly :)

  After twenty minutes with no reply, I make my way downstairs.

  Dad is looking through the kitchen cupboards with obvious disdain. He opens a cupboard, shuts it and opens another all the while looking perplexed. He’s getting cross with himself, scratching his bald head, before opening another cupboard door.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  He’s startled as he looks across the island toward me.

  “I was going to make us mac and cheese but, I forgot the mac.”

  “I can cook something?” I offer, even though technically this isn’t true. I’m not an experienced cook. “What do you usually eat?”

  He looks sheepish, “I usually go to the bar, hit a drive through…”