Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (10 page)

After
taking a few shaky breaths, I head back to my room and think back over my
regrets. Miss May had warned me of needing to abandon my disappearing acts. Did
I listen? Of course not.

I ran away shortly after Bradley’s
funeral. Life had become unbearable with losing Julia and then him
unexpectedly. John Paul took to hiding in his room with liquor bottles he
snatched either from the house’s liquor cabinet or from the restaurant. He
became a dark individual. My dad seemed to grow quieter after the accident, and
his eyes always held a weariness that wasn’t there before. Jean showed her
behind as only she could and had to be admitted to the hospital for a nervous
breakdown. Whatever. It amazes me that someone who never had a kind word to
spare for Bradley could be affected so greatly by his death. Whoever wails the
loudest, right? Not. Our family’s relationship grew more and more distant after
this tragedy.

The nightmares of those images from the
accident haunted me both day and night. The panic attacks started gradually
during this time. I just couldn’t take it anymore one afternoon, so I ran away,
straight to Miss May’s house. I remember her opening the front door with a
discerning expression on her face, and I immediately began to shout at her.

“Stop looking at me! You don’t see me!”
I screamed. With understanding, she quickly closed her eyes. I took off, hid
behind her couch, and cried myself to sleep. I awoke later that day to find a
blanket draped over me and a pillow under my head. I had not slept that hard in
forever, it felt. My nightmares had already begun to get the best of me. Insomnia
had become a way of life for me early on. A sandwich and glass of tea were on
the floor at the end of the couch. As I lay there debating whether I felt up to
eating, there was a knock at the door. Of course, it was my dad.

“Miss May, I’m here for Savannah,” he
said in a tired voice.

“I ain’t seen her, sir,” she said in
her own tired tone.

“Ma’am, I have put up with you and my
daughter’s disappearing games for years. Do you think I’m really that stupid?”
His frustration was undoubtedly strong.

My dread began to fade away and be
replaced with acute anger at precisely the same moment as Miss May’s. “You mean
to tell me that you knew Savannah was back there in that kitchen with me all
those times? You sir, had enough blame sense to know where yo’ daughter was hiding,
but yo’ fool-self never manned up enough to figure out the
why
?” Miss
May shouted. I had never seen her so upset in all my life. That woman never
lost her cool. “Shame on you, you blind fool. You didn’t see the most important
part… No, I guess I should say that you chose to
not
see the most
important part, since you
is
so smart.” She was spitting the words out
full of vinegar.
 

It had gotten so quiet that I finally
peeped around the edge of the couch to see if I was left alone. Still at the
front door, my dad stood with his shoulders hunched over in defeat and eyes
focused on the floor. Miss May just stood in front of him, intently staring up
at him.

After a while, she finally spoke, “When
Miss Savannah is ready to reappear, I promise to send her straight home. Not
until then. Do yo’ understand, Mr. John?”

He must have realized this would
probably be the only choice he would receive and nodded his head in agreement.
Without another word, he was gone. Relief sunk in for just a brief moment
before Miss May slammed the door and faced the couch.

“Get yo’ white butt out from behind my
couch right this minute!” she said. “This here game of yours is over. It’s time
you quit actin’ like yo’ momma.”

Then it was my turn to snap. I came
charging out from behind the couch and began screaming at her with all my
might. “Don’t say I’m like that witch! I hate her!” I screamed.

“Then stop actin’ like her! What’s that
ole witch do every time things get tough? Huh? Answer me right now!”

“She runs away,” I reluctantly admitted.

“And just what does yo’ stubborn self
do when things get tough?”

“I run away...”

I couldn’t believe this mess. How did I
end up being anything like Jean? I was so disgusted with myself that the
realization caused me to sink to the floor in shock and shame. Miss May left me
to my thoughts on that revelation for the rest of the night. The next day, I
decided to go home. That moment in Miss May’s home was the last time I have
been able to shed a tear. It’s as if I released all I could for Bradley before
slamming up walls to guard my fragile heart.

Chapter Ten

As the first hints of sunlight begin
peeking through my peach colored curtains, I decide sleep has eluded me, and it
is pointless to try to get any now. I roll to my side and close my eyes to the
new day for just a bit longer.

Hurt…all I
feel is hurt. I lay here and beg my memory to give me a reminder of a better
day with my dad. I conjure up as clear of an image of him that I can. He is
tall and lean in this memory. His clear grey eyes match mine, as well as his
dark, wavy hair. His is dusted with some silver, though. The crow’s feet around
his eyes and laugh lines only accentuate his handsome features.

He is
barking with laughter in this flash of memory, and I grab hold of it for dear
life. This is a good one, and it feels like a treasure that I have just
discovered again after a long forgotten season. Snuggling back into my quilt, I
let the memory perform its soothing act…

It’s a warm Sunday afternoon and both the restaurant and market
are closed as we are preparing for the end of the season celebration. Dad
always treats the employees with a bountiful feast and fat bonuses. I’m finally
old enough to receive one, and I’m beside myself.

The place is lively with beach music singing lazily in the
background while we prepare for the festivities. A small group has paused in
their tasks to dance the Carolina Shag. The couples hold one of their partner’s
hands as they do the smooth steps. They are laughing as they spin around and go
back to the dance steps. I can’t help but watch with a smile for a few moments
before heading back outside.

My job for the day is to set out crab traps and haul them in
often for the crab boil. I’ve already hauled in one batch and am back to check
the traps for a second round. Prepping the traps is gross. I have to stuff the
bait basket with raw slimy chicken parts before casting the pods out into the
inlet. And let’s not forget the trickiness of emptying those ornery suckers
once caught. Blue crabs like to hold on for dear life, and you have to
carefully pry them off. The odds of being pinched are ever in that favor. Yes.
I was pinched earlier in the day. I look down at the red whelp on the top of my
hand and scoff at it.

I take my responsibilities from my dad seriously, so forging
ahead with this unpleasant task is a must. I find the trap to one of the pods
has come open, so I pull it onto the dock and replenish the bait. I lob the
clunky trap over the water and lose my balance, casting myself in the inlet
right along with the trap.

I emerge from the murky water and try to stand, but my feet
quickly sink into the sticky mud. I end up falling backwards. Roaring laughter
echoes over the inlet as I reemerge for the second time. I find my dad standing
on the dock in hysterics, holding his stomach as he laughs at the hilarity.

“Daaadyyy!”
I whine while trying to dislodge myself
from the snares of the inlet mud. Trust me. This stuff is like gloppy glue and
it has no incentive to let you go.

“I told you to gather us some blue crabs and your behind
goes swimming instead.” He’s still laughing.

“It ain’t funny!” I begin to gripe but end up snickering
over the situation too.

“You might as well make yourself even more useful and gather
us some fresh baby clams,” he says as he scoops up a mesh clam basket.

I’m ‘bout to whine even more that he should just help me
dislodge myself when he starts sliding off his Sperry Top-Siders. Then he hops
right into that murky mess with me, still laughing. I’m floored that he just
did this and I know Jean will surely scold him over the fact that he has just
infused the pungent inlet water into his new collared shirt and shorts. But he
seems to have no care in the world in this moment except to share a chuckle
with me.

We glide along the low tide surface to dig the little clam
jewels out of the mud and place them in our basket. During this impromptu clam
harvest, Dad tells me how proud he is of me for the hard work I put in during
this summer. He also says that he will go with me to pick up the car soon. He
talks car for a bit and I have no idea what any of it means, but I don’t mind.
I focus on just simply enjoying the timbre of his voice. I memorize the late
sun dancing along his grey eyes and watch as the water drips from his nearly
black mane. He is my dad, and I have his undivided attention in the middle of
this Atlantic creek. I feel important and loved.

We glop along until the tide comes in enough to unstick us
from the mud. If you can imagine trying to slosh through an enormous vat of
foul-smelling chocolate pudding with a heaping amount of glue added, then you
can just about get the idea of how one is in a mess if stuck in a creek bed.

Later this evening, me and my dad laugh and chat through our
share of garlic butter–soaked steamed clams on the back porch of the
restaurant, where Jean exiled us. She said we were stinking up the place with
the pungent odor of the inlet clinging to our skin and now dried clothes. I
don’t mind one bit. It’s a very rare occasion for me to have my dad all to
myself.

I resurface
from this comforting memory with a rare smile. It feels good, but I know it
won’t last. There’s a lot to face, and I am just stalling now. I shuffle
through the stack of photos I helped myself to from John Paul’s room once more,
and then head downstairs for a much-needed caffeine fix. My hopes are to beat
Jean waking up so I can enjoy my coffee and maybe another piece of cake alone.
Disappointedly, I find her sitting at the table with her own cup of coffee. She
is in her dressing gown, but her shoulder-length blonde hair is curled and her
make-up painted on tastefully. Typical Jean.

Without a
word, I go straight over to the coffeepot and pour myself a large cup. I can
feel her eyes boring into my back—judging me and belittling me with her every
thought. I toy with the idea of going out to the porch to have my coffee in
peace, but decide to be civil and sit at the table with her.

“Did you
take care of everything yesterday?” She drawls the words out as she gazes out
the set of French doors that I just notice have replaced the picture window.

“Yes. I
just have to drop Dad’s suit off at the funeral home in a little while,” I say,
and then ramble off the details. “The service will be the day after tomorrow.
It’s gonna be held at the Oceanfront Chapel. I thought he would like it there
since it was the church he attended as a child, and that’s where Bradley is
buried.” I stop there because I can sense it coming as I watch dissatisfaction
cross her face. I inwardly brace myself.

“Maybe you
should have asked me what your father would have wanted before you stormed out
of here yesterday.” Her voice is laced with bitterness, and I wonder if she
ever gets tired of the taste of it. “Why’d you think you have the
right
to assume all that? You are
nothing more than a
stranger
to this
family.”

“I was
ordered
to take care of everything
without bothering you. That’s what your busy-bee friend instructed.” I’m so
furious I’m beginning to tremble. “I can do nothing right!”

“Explain to
me why we are dragging this out for two more days?”

This throws
me for a loop. I actually thought she would be glad to have the extra days for
the attention. I smart off a response. “It gives your hotshot daughter ample
time to decide to find
her
way home.”

She snorts
at this. “No need in being so snide. Julia Rose has a busy career. I don’t
expect you to understand that.” She looks me over with her nose wrinkled like I
might stink.

“Just what
do you mean by that?”

“Exactly
what it sounds like. Your sister is earning a living while you lay up in your
condo with nothing but time on your lazy hands.” She crosses her arms on the
table and glares at me.
She’s a fine one
to talk
.

“You’re
right, Jean. I’m absolutely worthless.” I grab my cup of coffee and start my
escape back upstairs. The day has just started, and I have already had to spend
too much time with the witch. “Just write down what you want changed and I’ll
take care of it,” I say over my shoulder.

“Just leave
it,” she says. “It’s too late to be changing things around now.”

I raise my
hand up in surrender and leave her be. Slamming the door for good measure, I go
over to the bedroom window and stare out to the backyard. The voluptuous oaks
shadow most of the grassy space while they seem to be guarding the lone
gardenia bush. Breathing in a deep gulp of the country air, I can smell the
heavy perfume of the white flowers from up here.

I chug back
my cooling coffee before heading over to my closet. After scrounging around,
I’m able to find a pair of jeans and old Hard Rock T-shirt. I change into them
and pull my long brown hair into a messy bun. I head to the bathroom to brush
my teeth and wash my face. I skip make-up all together in hopes it peeves my
mother. Taking a few deep breaths, I go back to the kitchen.

Of course,
Jean is at the table with a fresh cup of coffee, but now she is dressed in a
black dress suit. A few of her friends are already back manning the kitchen.
One is just finishing up a few dishes while the other one is placing muffins
and pastries onto a platter.

Without
looking up, Jean says dryly, “I know you are not thinking about leaving this
house looking like that.”

I scoot
over, grab a foam cup since I forgot my cup upstairs, and begin preparing a
to-go cup of coffee. “Sure am,” I mutter.

“You look
like crap. You need to get properly dressed,” she says too calmly.

I grab a
napkin, place several donuts in it, and shove the bundle in my bag for later. I
snatch an apple fritter and take a very unladylike bite, cramming my mouth as
full as I can. I turn to face Jean and the spectators to our little
conversation. My mouth smacks on the doughy goodness for a bit, and then I
answer her through my full mouth, “Well…I’m a grown woman, and I can look like
crap if I darn well please.” As soon as I do this, I wish I could take it back.
What’s the point in being snide with her?

I try to
smooth things over before exiting the kitchen. “By the way, Dad did a great job
remodeling the kitchen.” I should have known better. I know I should…

“Don’t you
go thinking all of this will be yours one day,” she snaps.

A bitter
laugh rips from my snarling lips. “You have no worries on me
ever
wanting to reside in the house
where Evan Grey ripped my innocence away!” My words lash out full of venom. My
eyes sweep across the kitchen, and the realization of spectators enters my
view. Their jaws drop open and my mother dribbles coffee down the front of her
top. I really didn’t mean to spit out that tidbit at the end. It just slipped,
but it was worth seeing my mother’s reaction. I have not enjoyed such a
response from her since the cookie incident.

I have had
enough so I whirl around, grab the business keys off the hook, and slam the
door—leaving them silently stunned.

~
~ ~

I drop my
dad’s suit off with the receptionist at the funeral home and make a hasty exit.
Funeral homes creep me out. Plus, I’m still reeling from my encounter with
Jean. I have no idea why my dad was over the moon about her. I guess love
really is blind.

I decide to
go meet with the other two loves of his life. At least they are welcoming. And
more importantly—quiet. I park in front of these two structures that are such a
major part of me. They are identical buildings that have loyally kept each
other company year after year. The structures resemble two vintage beach houses
that have been removed from their lanky stilts. White clapboards dress the
outside, and the grey, weathered cedar shingles shield the structures from the
coastal sun. Swaying palmetto palm trees are tucked around the perimeter, with
one standing between the twins. Small discreet signs painted in sea-blue
sway from the porch rafters. I know the
exact name of the color because I helped my dad pick it out before I
disappeared. The one to the left identifies The Thorton Seafood Market in white
script, and the one hanging on the right building’s porch identifies it as The
Thorton Seafood House. These two beach jewels need no sign to be found. People
just know. Yes. It’s that good—award-winning good. I’ve already mentioned that
didn’t I?

I stare a
bit longer before trekking across the crushed seashell parking lot. My mother
harassed my dad repeatedly throughout the years about getting the lot properly
paved, but he actually stood his ground on keeping it original.

After
unlocking the market door and stepping inside, my nose discovers a smell that I
have never smelled emitting from this place. It reeks of old seafood and
overripe produce. This is a gourmet specialty store. Seafood has always been of
the highest and freshest quality. If my dad couldn’t get it from the local
docks or in his shop within a few hours of being plucked from the ocean, then
he simply wouldn’t sell it. Frozen was a big NO. Another unique quality of the
market is that whatever seafood dish you can dream up cooking, you can find the
needed ingredients waiting patiently on the shelves and bins. To be assaulted
by such wrong smells hits me deep in the pit of my stomach, and I worry a
special Thorton era may be coming to an end.