All Who Dream (Letting Go) (2 page)

 
“Angie will be just fine, thank you.”

Indeed I
was
wondering why she had called me to
meet with her.

“I am quite connected when
it comes to the voices in this city, Angie. It’s my job to know the latest
trends and movements, as you could imagine. Many well-known authors have sat in
that very chair you occupy now.”

I nodded hesitantly. How
else could I respond when I couldn’t yet make heads or tails of where this
conversation was going?

“A good
friend and old colleague of mine is the owner of
The Edge 102.5,”
she continued.
“He insisted I read your blog. He claimed what I would find within your
entries was a rare and deeply connected portrayal of a single mother. And while
I hesitate to call your writing addictive, I will say we want you, Angie.

“We are
launching a campaign this summer—one focused primarily on families. Not only does
Pinkerton Press have interest in publishing your blog into book format, we also
want you to represent this generation of single moms.”

She paused, gaze wide and
focused, as if she could see my head spinning right off my shoulders.

“
Excuse me
?” I rasped, my heart making strenuous efforts to beat
right out of my chest.

Smiling, she rose and
moved to perch onto the edge of her desk.

“We would like you to join
our publicity tour in New York City, as well as several other locations on the
East Coast, this summer. Though we would put a rush on the publication of your
book, it wouldn’t hit bookstores until late fall. So in the meantime, you would
be meeting, representing, speaking, and interviewing as a contracted author
with Pinkerton. You have what we’re looking for, Angie.”

I shook my head. “But my
son—”

“We’ve planned on you
bringing him. This may be
unusual
protocol for us, but I am almost never wrong about people. What I’m offering
you
is
a six-week, all expenses paid opportunity to
connect with other mothers who desperately need what you possess. And if that’s
not enough…we’d like to offer you a ten thousand dollar advance.”

My eyelids nearly
fluttered off my face. Surely, I hadn’t heard what I thought I heard.

“I can give you until
Friday to decide,” Dee went on. “We can go over contract terms and specifics if
and when you decide to proceed. I can assure you I will personally see to your
arrangements while on tour.” She stood up. “Please don’t hesitate to call me
with any questions.”

Questions?
I could hardly think through the haze of dollar
signs in my mind. Ten thousand dollars was a third of what I made all year. I
could catch up on a lot of bills…pay rent ahead of schedule…afford for Cody to attend
soccer camp in July.

But this is crazy. I can’t be a spokesperson
for single moms!
 

I swallowed. “I…I’ll call
you by Friday. Thank you, Dee.”

I wavered to my feet and
allowed her to walk me to the door.
 

Her
gentle tone purred as she turned toward me, eyes locking with mine. “I was a
single mom for nearly ten years. Don’t underestimate what your voice could do
for others. I surely don’t.”

For being
five-foot nothing and less than a hundred pounds, my best friend, Rosie, gave
hugs that could double as a chiropractic adjustment.

“You made
a decision yet?” Rosie
unwrapped
her arms from my
waist and immediately began straightening chairs for tonight’s meeting in the
community room at Hope Church.

I
followed suit in the row behind her. “No, I haven’t, just like I’ve told you for
the last two days,” I replied.

She
huffed. “Well, I don’t see what you’re waiting for. This is the best thing ever
to happen to you, Ang. I mean,
hello
,
Briggs and Charlie even offered to fly to New York to bring Cody back home for his
soccer camp. And Carol told you she would give you whatever time off you needed
at the flower shop. You have no excuses.
Nada.”

“I’m not
trying to come up with excuses, Rosie-”

She
whirled around, hands gesturing as wildly as her little Latina mouth could
speak. “Yes you are. Every time I call you, you give me a new reason why
leaving is a bad idea. Be honest with yourself Angie, you’re scared. And I can
understand that. You have a lot to consider when it comes to you and Cody, but
you know what my mother always said?”

Rosie
loved to quote people. I shook my head.

“God
never wastes an opportunity.”

An hour
later, I peered out into a sea of faces, some I recognized, but many I did not.

Over the
last several years the numbers had gone from a mere twenty to upwards of two
hundred on any given Wednesday night. It was humbling; it was beautiful.

I walked
to the center of the small stage and opened my journal, my stomach knotting as
I prepared to share. No matter how many times I spoke on a Wednesday night,
this part never got easier.

I cleared
my throat. “Welcome to
The
Refuge. My name is Angela
Flores and I’m a survivor of domestic abuse. If you’re new here tonight, please
know that all of us have had a
first
time
and that you’re in a safe place. Five years ago I took a seat in the back,
wishing my life had turned out differently. I was hurting, and broken, and very
confused. But I found hope here…and healing, though sometimes old mindsets die
hard.” I looked into Rosie’s face in the crowd. She winked at me. “Tonight is your
chance to start over, to reclaim peace and freedom in your life. I wrote a poem
several years ago I would like to share with you. It’s called,
The Last Time
.

“When the last time is the last time, you’ll
know it in your heart.

You’ll know the dream that crumbles when
your world’s been torn apart.

When the last time is the last time, you’ll
feel it in your soul.

You’ll deny the pull of darkness for a light
that makes you whole.

When the last time is the last time, you’ll
run for safety’s haven.

You’ll run from all the pain and loss, and
for the life worth saving.

When the last time is the last time, you’ll
let out a victor’s cry.

You’ll hear redemption call your name, and
peace no more shall die.”

I handed
the microphone off to the next speaker and made my way down the steps. This was
not a place for clapping and carrying on, but of silent affirmation. Heads
nodded around me. As I made my way toward the back of the room, several hands
reached out and clasped mine.

At the end of the evening, I talked with Jenny—a woman Rosie
brought to me. My heart broke for her. At the age of twenty, she had been
exposed to more heartache than most would know in a lifetime. Growing up with a
violent father, she lived now with an abusive boyfriend. It was a recipe for
destruction, but tonight she had taken the first steps toward healing her past
and reclaiming her future—one free of violence. I cried with her as she told me
her story, and our conversation ended the same way I ended every conversation
with a first-time visitor, I handed her a card with my phone number on it,
along with explicit instructions to call me day or night as needed.

As I
drove home to pick Cody up from his friend’s house, my thoughts lingered on Jenny.
Her story pulled me back to the memories of my past, reminding me of the voices
I had ignored for so long.

I packed carelessly, stuffing a third pair
of sandals into the large, black duffel bag on my bed. My bedroom door flew
open with a bang, and I staggered back.

Briggs, my younger brother by a year, stood
in the entryway, his legs planted wide. “Tell me it’s not true.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, staring a hole
into my duffle bag. Why couldn’t I disappear into it?

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.
It’s all over school, Ang.”

My eyes darted toward his, my stomach hallowing
as our gazes connected. This close to graduation I’d hoped the rumor mill
would’ve been busy with other gossip, but apparently I’d been wrong.

“I love him, Briggs.” The statement came out
weaker than I had intended.

He wrapped his fists in his hair. “No, you
don’t…and Dirk
Luterra
sure as heck doesn’t love
you
, Angela!”

“And what makes you such an expert on love?
You have a new girlfriend every week!” He wasn’t the only one who could yell in
this family.

“You don’t know him.” He dropped his hands to
his sides and took a step forward. “You might think you do, but I see how he is
when you’re not around. He’s a lazy deadbeat.” Briggs grabbed my wrist, eyes
pleading as he looked from me to the duffle bag. “Please call this off. I’m
begging you, please.”

 
“I’m marrying
him, Briggs.”

He released my hand as quiet commanded the room.
Minutes twisted into a long braid of silence. We were at an impasse—our first.

My brother’s stare brimmed with a potent mix
of hurt, fury, and disappointment. But my desperate need to be loved was
stronger than the deepest dregs of his opposition.

As he walked toward the door without another
word, panic swelled in my chest.

“Wait—are you making me choose?” I blurted.

Briggs turned around slowly. Our eyes met,
and a dull pain burned in the back of my throat.

“There is no choice, Ang. You’re my sister;
you’ll always have me. I’m just afraid I won’t have
you
anymore.”

I lifted
up a silent prayer for
Jenny, that
she would break the
cycle now. That she would never have to know the pain and betrayal of a husband
who would vow to love and protect her and then do the total opposite.

Betrayal
tainted love’s purity.

And
tainted love changed one’s view of humanity.

After
helping Cody with his second grade math homework and saying bedtime prayers, I
logged into my blog,
A Lone Joy
. I
read the counter at the bottom and nearly fell out of my chair.
That’s impossible!

My most
recent post had been on the topic of
Fear:
A Parent’s Deadliest Pitfall
—a subject I knew all too well. My heart
thumped hard as I read through the comments.

“…I never thought anyone would understand my
struggle as a single parent…until I read your blog.”

“I used to cry at night after my daughter
was born, I felt so isolated and alone…and afraid. A friend suggested your blog
recently and it’s given me hope. I can do this.”

“Your posts make me laugh, cry, and feel
connected. Thank you, Angie.”

Pushing
back against my chair,
a new
warmth radiated within my
chest.

“God never wastes an opportunity.”
Rosie’s
voice from a few hours earlier echoed in my thoughts.

Maybe she
was right. Maybe, just maybe, my simple little blog had a purpose beyond my
understanding.

New
York.

Who would have thought?

(Six weeks
later)

 
“Mom!
Mom! Look at
that!” Cody exclaimed
,
looking out the window of the
plane and pointing as New York City came into view below us.

Cody had
been like the energizer bunny ever since we stepped foot in the DFW airport in
Dallas. The trip to New York was only a three-hour flight, but I was grateful
to be landing. Rosie had put several of her favorite books onto my e-reader,
but there was no way I could read when Cody quizzed me on every fact he’d
studied about The Big Apple. My eight-year-old loved facts; he lived and
breathed them. Unfortunately, I wasn’t nearly as well-versed in the city’s
history or attractions. When he’d started making the questions multiple
choice—just so I could get a few answers correct—I knew it was going to be a
long, long flight.

“Did you
know that the Brooklyn Bridge was the first bridge to be lit by electricity,
Mom?”

“No,
sweetheart, I did not.”

“Did you
know that
there are enough restaurants in New York
City for one person to eat out every night for 54 years and never visit the
same place twice?”

“No, sweetheart, I did not.”

As we
made our way through the busy airport to baggage claim, I scanned the crowd.
Dee had assured me that the assistant they were sending would be holding a sign
with our names on it. Cody spotted his Transformer suitcase come down the
conveyor belt. I pulled it off, and seconds later, reached for my own. At least
I’d had the good sense to wear comfy clothing for the trip. But if Rosie knew I
had on a pair of black
capri
yoga pants and a yellow fitted tee, she would probably disown me as her
BFF.
 
I liked comfort; why was that such
a crime? On the fashion-plus side, I’d worn makeup. That should count for
something. It wasn’t like we were going anywhere other than the corporate
apartment this evening, Dee had sent me the itinerary in advance.

Cody and
I rolled our suitcases through the swarm of people at baggage claim, and headed
through the doors to stand on the curb. Then I spotted the bright green sign
with our names on it. As I approached the young Wynona Ryder lookalike holding
it, she was standing on her tip-toes, scanning the crowd.

“Um…excuse
me?”

“Yes?” she
said in a perky tone, turning vivid green eyes on me.

“I’m
Angela Flores and this is my son, Cody. Are you with Pinkerton Press?”