My Dear Stranger

  My Dear

  Stranger

  Sarah Ann Walker

  Copyright © 05/09-1 2014 Sarah Ann Walker

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0991723120

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9917231-2-6

  DEDICATION

  To Jakkob

  You are the greatest blessing I have ever known.

  And I hope every single day I have given you the love and strength needed to make it through life happily.

  There will always be bullies baby, but one day I hope they don’t hurt your heart as much as they do now.

  All my love,

  Mommy

  xo

  Cover Design- James Freeburg

  Cover Synopsis- Sarah Ann Walker & Cheryl Shockley-Dent

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  This was the beginning…

  ... Of the end.

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank my husband once again for the beautiful book cover.

  It’s exactly what I wanted.

  I want to thank my sister Brennah for the funniest, filthiest line ever- I’m glad I could write it into this book (Patrick loved it.)

  I want to thank Paola for being my best friend for a quarter of a century (Holy Shit!)

  Thank you Chris Carmilia always for your support and excitement.

  Thank you Brenda Belanger, my Boston Bruins Beauty.

  Thank you Deniro, Paula, Christina, Megan, Jodie, Randi, Diane, Tara, Joan, Sleepy, Jen, Stephanie, Diana, Darcy, Sandy, Katica, Gladys, Crysti, Peggy, Shanyn, Sam, Briana, Cori, Glenda, Ashley, Jessica, Goldschool, April, Laura, Dena, Lisa, Rosanna, Suzy, Carla, Alanna, Michelle, Hayley, Tracy, Melannie, Whitney, Lou, Lynn, Glenda, Manda, Michelle, Leisa, Retta,

  Triple M Books, A Literary Perusal,

  Wine and my Kindle, & A Pair of Okies to name a few...

  I want to thank my many friends, fans, readers, and bloggers who have supported me this last year. I wish I could name you all.

  Thank you Cheryl Shockley-Dent for being a kind, patient friend when I was stressed.

  And thank you Kim Rinaldi for giving me great advice, and for always having my back.

  Here goes… my third book.

  And potentially my last.

  xo

  Sarah

  This was the beginning…

  CHAPTER 1

  I was cleaning out the spare room this morning and I found my old hatbox filled with my special stuff. You know, the stuff you think is important. The stuff you keep year after year, move after move, man after man. The stuff filled with weird memories, and nostalgic little tidbits which you truly believe at the time are the most important treasures you have. Yes… those things.

  After running out to the garage with my hatbox for a cigarette which I still hide from my husband, I lifted the lid and was transported back in time to a place where these useless things, photos, and pieces of scribbled upon paper actually meant something to me.

  When I found pictures of old friends I thought were going to be my BFF's I smiled. Where the hell are they now, and why don't I actually care about them anymore? It’s amazing to me how once upon a time these friends were everything to me, and now I don't know where they are or what happened to them. And sadly, I really don't care. They were important to me then, but they have absolutely no importance to me now.

  Sifting through the papers and notes; the little love notes and messages from potential boyfriends, the catty notes in high school from my girlfriends trashing another girlfriend behind her back, I'm humored and enlightened.

  I truly never thought I was a teenage bitch, but I guess I had moments like everyone has in high school. You know the moment- the moment where you suddenly follow along and decide to hate the one girl you actually do like for a week because everyone else decided to hate her. A week where she struggled with being disliked, and you thrived on being with the group who disliked her. It's amazing how truly brutal teenage girls can be with one another. Well, until it’s your turn to be hated for that long week. After that week of being hated, trashed, bullied and emotionally tortured I know I never followed again.

  Even when my little group tried to pick one of us to hate again, I know I didn't follow along even once after I had survived my turn, because I remember being the one in the middle. I remember walking with the 'good' group, but still talking on the phone to the 'bad' girl who everyone hated that week. I remember talking to the good and the bad until the week was over and she was back in the fold.

  Thinking about it years later, I realize teenage fear and insecurity for girls really is intense, and I find it amazing how many of us actually survive being a teenage girl.

  I remember being a teenage girl. I remember the confusion and desperation and fear all the time. Everyone wanted to be liked, and everyone wanted to be popular. I was liked and popular, but at a heavy cost.

  I had secrets that hurt, and I hid my real personality for years. I was too afraid to just be myself, like most girls are I think, because being a teenage girl can be awful. That I clearly remember.

  Looking through my hatbox, I finally pull out the dreaded two books I've been avoiding. One is a thick notebook, a diary I guess, but it doesn't look like a diary so I’m fairly sure my mother didn’t read it. It's more of a full sized spiral notebook with 'English Lit' on the front cover as its disguise. I remember thinking I was so clever because my mother would have never read an English Lit notebook hidden among real school notebooks, so I think my secrets were safe from her.

  Anyway, it’s a scrapbook diary. It’s my diary, but I only wrote the important stuff in that book though- not the day to day 'dear diary' stuff some girls used theirs for. My diary held only the important stuff; like the deaths of musicians, or the deaths of fellow high schoolers from drunk driving accidents. In that book I only wrote the really big stuff. It started when I was 15 and I kept adding only truly important information until I was 22.

  Really, it's more of the social history that created me.

  Skimming through I find I'm shocked by just how much tragedy I believed personally affected me at the time. It's weird how in my teenage brain I thought the death of 4 students from a different high school, whom I had never met, was my tragedy to mourn. Yes, the death of 4 teenagers affects the whole community, but somehow I made it about me, though I had never met them, nor really cared about them at all. Yet there I was attending the massive funeral at the other high school- our rival high school no less- crying dramatically in my school uniform to show MY school's support. But really, it was absurd and highly dramatic, though I think that is the way of high school girls sometimes.

  Flipping through pages I see the events that DID truly affect me personally. The sudden death of a close friend from a rare, acute sickness that stunned me and the city I live in, making her front page news for 4 days straight. The death of my grandfather which absolutely broke my heart. The death of a teacher who I had a major crush on also making the front page headline because of his stupid car accident when he fell asleep behind the wheel.

  Death.

  It seems I've always been afraid of death, so I’ve often found myself dancing with it as close as I could. I did things, and I experienced things. I tried things but I always survived, though sometimes I was shocked by my own survival- Not that I actually wanted to die when I was a teenager, because I didn’t. And NOT that I wanted attention through my hidden dramas because I neve
r told anyone at the time about them. So, no one else knew what I was doing, or feeling, or experiencing, or imagining for myself at the time. But I knew.

  I danced with death for years, and I don’t know why. I was so afraid of death, but I pushed my body to do things, take things, experience things that could only imply I had a kind of death wish. But I didn’t. I have always been afraid of death, and I still am actually.

  Some days it’s amazing to me how far I’ve come. I did things no one knows about, and I lived things I’ve never spoken of. But to the people around me now, I’m a wonderful, accomplished, loving person, and no one knows just how far I’ve come. But I know.

  I’m a wife to an amazing man, and I love him for making me amazing in the eyes of others. I love him for knowing there is more to my past but never asking about it. I love that he has never asked me to speak about my past.

  He wooed me, married me, and he allowed me to become the woman who would be married to someone like him, no questions asked. Even though I can be very lonely some days with him, I never take for granted the fact that he helped me become all I ever wanted to be in other people’s eyes. And he’s good for me.

  I’m a mother as well. I’m a mother to a beautiful son who I adore. I am a good mother and I truly love being a mother. Other parents think I’m a terrific mother, and I’m proud of that.

  I love being a mother to my son, and I love knowing I’m doing everything I can to make him feel valued and secure in his little life. I want him to know that he is an amazing person as he grows so he never feels the sense of fear, insecurity and sadness that I felt growing up. I want him to know he’s amazing, so he feels amazing. And so far I’ve raised my son well.

  He’s happy and well liked. He has everything he needs but he’s not spoiled. My son possesses an intelligent, beautiful soul which I’m proud to say I helped create. My son is everything to me. He is the strength that tethers me to this world I live in.

  Lighting my 7th cigarette in our garage, I’m glad I’m alone. My husband knows I sneak a smoke or two once in a while, and though I know he disapproves, neither of us actually acknowledge I smoke, therefore we can’t ever really argue about it. I think that’s the best thing about my husband; He knows stuff but he never acknowledges it, therefore it’s like my hidden stuff doesn’t play out in our wonderful life together. My husband doesn’t acknowledge anything bad, therefore I’m not actually doing anything bad.

  *****

  I’m alone this weekend- My very first alone since the birth of my son. My husband took my 6 year old skiing with his whole, huge family, and I opted to stay home, which is an absolute first for us.

  After much discussion around our dining room table, I finally agreed to let my husband and son leave me alone so they could go skiing with my in-laws. And I know my son will be fine. I know he will. He may be the youngest of my husband’s huge family, but that’s going to work in my favor, I think. My son will have all his aunts and cousins watching his every move. Plus, I honestly do trust my husband with my son anyway, so I really shouldn’t feel nervous. But I do. I can’t help it.

  My son is my blessing on this earth, and this is the first time we will be apart since he was born. This is the first time I will not kiss, and hug, and giggle with my little boy. This is going to be the longest 3 days of my life, I think.

  I am alone, and this is the first time being alone in over 8 years. I’m alone, and this is why I’ve decided to rid myself of my hatbox today. It’s time.

  My husband knows my hatbox lives under the spare-room bed, because my husband knows I took this hatbox with me when we moved twice. My husband knows this is private, and I know he has never opened it, nor snooped. My husband is too good a man for snooping. Plus, my husband doesn’t want to know certain things about me anyway, which is good. He doesn’t want to know, and I no longer want to tell him, so we have a mutual understanding. He doesn’t ask, so I never have to tell. Ignorance in this case truly is our bliss.

  Opening a lounge chair in the garage is strange, but I have a feeling I’m going to be here a while. Walking back into my kitchen I brew a whole pot of coffee while wondering if my son and husband are almost at his family’s resort. My son is probably drawing in the backseat, and my husband is probably listening to one of his conservative, long-winded talkshows on the radio. My son has an amazing ability to tune everything out when he’s concentrating on his art, which is just another reason why I love him so much.

  Opening the treat drawer, I pull out a fresh pack of cigarettes. Pouring the whole pot of coffee into a huge hockey mom thermos, I wait. I know what I’m going to do, and I know I have to prepare myself. I know what I’m going to do and I’m scared to do it. But I will. It’s time.

  Walking back into my garage, I walk right to the waiting lounge chair, take a large gulp of the hot coffee which burns all the way down my esophagus, and I settle in. With shaking hands, I light another cigarette, because its time.

  Opening the hatbox one last time I reach in and slowly graze my fingers along the teal blue silk of my special journal. I remember the feel of this silk, and I remember caressing the texture of red and yellow thread within the Asian blue silk. I remember resting my cheek against this special journal throughout my endless nights alone, and I remember the texture of silken thread imprinting my cheek as I held on tight and cried around it.

  Rubbing my cheek against my journal, I can’t help but smile. I wonder if the adult me even remembers what it felt like to be the teenage me. I wonder if the words will still hold the same weight for me now that they held for me then.

  Sitting back in the lounger with my thermos of coffee, my pack of smokes, and my mind buzzing, I settle in for this.

  It really is amazing to me where I ended up when I think of the years I spent with this special teal blue silken journal keeping me alive.

  Opening the cover of my special journal I see my teenage girl handwriting and smile again. My writing is cute and decorative with circles on the i’s and a little heart on the top of each page. God, I was so young and naïve.

  My Dear Stranger I

  I’m lying here staring at the silhouettes upon my bare walls as the stars glow, reflecting light through my windows. The world seems audacious, bold and daring.

  You promised to call me to see if I’m still alive, but if I wasn’t alive, would I answer the telephone? I can’t believe how much I drank tonight. I can’t believe how much I threw-up. I can’t believe how you took care of me tonight at that nasty bush party. You’re such a good friend Petzy, and I know I’m safe with you when I drink like that. I know you are my friend even if I don’t want more than friendship with you.

  My room is so dark tonight, even with the moonlight glow through my window. And I can’t help but just lie here. Why can’t I sleep? Probably because I passed out in Petzy’s car for a while when he left to collect all his friends. Maybe this is a second wind or something.

  Why am I crying? Maybe I’m hung over already? I don’t know, but I feel wide awake and sad, and my tears are spilling all over my purple pillows. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I need another drink.

  Looking, I see the man again. The man in my dreams. He follows me around and He enters my soul. With His dark eyes, He lets me weep quietly in my bed while He watches me silently. Why does He stand there in the corner all the time? Why does He take my crying silences and make them His own?

  When He just stands there while I write, I feel kind of paranoid or threatened, I’m not sure which. I know He tries to appear real, but He must be a dream. He has to be a dream because I know I’m okay, even though I’m awake.

  Lighting a cigarette, my parents are still pretty cool about me smoking in my room and I love that. With my white hardwood floors and minimalist furniture, there isn’t much to burn. And as long as my window is open, and I don’t smoke in my bed, my parents stay cool. Though right now I’m technically lying in my bed, which they forbid, I’m sitting up, sort of, so they can’t be mad at me if
I’m caught.

  Grabbing my ringing phone quickly, I’m glad my parents bought me a private phone line for my birthday. Answering, I smile. Petzy does care, and he did check in. Petzy questions my health, and asks if I’m still living. I speak sarcastically, uttering reassuring words to him, but I’m honestly happy he cares enough to call. And when he is satisfied, he says his simple goodbye as we end his conversation.

  I see the man again. He stares at me from the corner as He waves his ghostly hand. Why does He come to me? What does He want from me?

  I close my eyes, trying to leave Him absent from my room, yet when I reopen my eyes He sits at the end of my bed.

  Quietly, softly, He hums to me a lullaby as I slip into a comforting trance of early childhood. This lullaby is familiar, yet I can’t place it.

  I lie here with my cigarette burned to the filter, creating a stench hidden by beautiful streams of white fading smoke, while He sits at the end of my bed watching me write.

  Who called on this man to enter my soul? Was it a guardian angel, or a friend? Why has He come to me again? Why does He always return when I show Him such little affection?

  I should probably stop writing now because it seems a little rude writing, trying to ignore the man who waits at the end of my bed for something from me, I think.

  Last night I decided to do something. I was holding my diary and pen and I tried to stand from my bed but my knees buckled and I fell to the floor. I remember just as quickly as I fell, He stood and picked me up delicately in his arms. Placing my limp arms around His broad shoulders, I finally felt a sense of tranquility in the night.