Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Two

As the miles pass by, the interstate
becomes a haze of memories, and memories are such a tricky thing. You can try
to distort them and even try to completely forget about them, but it’s
hopeless. They are what they are, and you just can’t get rid of the dang
things. Sometimes I find myself drifting back in time and have to slam the door
on it quickly. Nothing is ever accomplished digging around in the buried past.
That’s what my grandmother always said. She said it could only cause more hurt,
and I can assure you I have had my fill of that mess.

Unfortunately,
there is no holding the past back on this day. So much is awaiting my arrival,
and my heart keeps urging me to prepare. Panic starts to creep up on me with
the first signs of sweaty palms and fluttering heartbeat. I begin taking long,
deep breaths to try to push the unease away. I don’t have time for this today.
Before I can totally lose it, my phone comes to life and snaps me out of the
attack. Tamping down the anxiety, I reach for my phone.
Please, don’t be any more bad news
.

Checking
the Caller ID, I find this number not so scary, and my finger easily presses
ACCEPT. “Hey. Don’t be mad.” Guilt of leaving abruptly washes over me. “I don’t
have any other choice.”

“You always
have another choice, love. You know I would have gone with you.” The pity is
clear in Lucas’s voice. It’s a quiet voice that is incredibly strong. “I love
you.”

“I love you
too. I’m gonna have to call you back later. Right now I need to focus on driving
forward.” I don’t wait for a response. I hit END on the keypad and toss my
phone onto the passenger seat. All he would have had to say is
come back to me,
and I have no doubt I
would have obeyed. Today, that cannot be an option.

Maybe one
would think I’m overreacting to my past. Maybe I am. I’ll probably share more
of the past later, so you can be the judge. I mean, who really thinks happy
thoughts about their past? Heartache, embarrassment, regrets—these are part of
a past’s makeup, right? This is what I’ve told myself many times, but I don’t
believe it for one minute. Do I blame the usual suspect? Absolutely! I blame my
mother. Jean is at fault, and there is no changing my mind on the matter. So
please don’t even try.

I suppose
you want to know a bit more about her. I guess you deserve that, but please
don’t expect too much. Most of what I know about my mother is hearsay. And I’m
only going to tell it once, so take note.

The sneer
she always had, special just for me, flickers through my mind and I cannot
control the grimace that creeps over my face. My mother is an absolute knockout
with silky blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but those exquisite eyes never
held an ounce of kindness for me. The aging hands of time seem to have no
effect on her, no matter that too many cocktails and cigarettes have been her
main diet staples. I’ve not laid eyes on her in quite some time, but I
guarantee she still looks the same. We shall see shortly. Ugh. Thinking about
seeing that woman again sends pure dread to the pit of my stomach. My left hand
releases the steering wheel and clutches my stomach as I hope to push the pangs
of uneasiness away.
Hold it together,
Savannah
.

My mother
was sixteen years old the first time my father laid eyes on her, and he has
never seen anything else out of those eyes since. John Paul Thorton II was
smitten immediately that summer when a young Jean entered his family-owned
restaurant, The Thorton Seafood House. He was busing tables and nearly dropped
the dish bin as he spotted her—his words, not mine.

He used to
proudly recount how he had walked up to her table, where she was dining on
fresh broiled shrimp with her parents, and welcomed them to Bay Creek. He would
often tease my mother on how she wouldn’t even acknowledge the charming busboy.
That didn’t deter him. No. He was adamant about meeting the most beautiful
woman to ever step foot in Bay Creek. I’ve seen plenty of photos of Jean to
know he wasn’t exaggerating. My mother’s beauty is the type to spawn jealousy
in the most self-secure of females. It’s really not fair.

It only
took Jean until the next day to find out the goods on John. While sunbathing on
the beach, a group of teenage girls filled her in on the fact that John was an
only child and his parents not only owned The Thorton Seafood House, but also
owned The Thorton Seafood Market next door to it.

Thus, the
epic love story of my parents began. Jean agreed to marry my father right after
she graduated high school, thinking life with a successful businessman would be
a piece of cake.

Married
life was nothing like Jean expected, and she had no qualms on sharing her
disappointment over the years. She never could figure out exactly what she
needed to make herself happy and always looked to her husband to figure it out
for her. Of course, he failed miserably.

My father
simply wanted them to be a team, with Jean working alongside him in the
family-owned businesses. She had other plans, and he gladly let her do as she
pleased. He only wanted her happy, no matter what it took.

My mother’s
only redeeming quality is she is an absolute culinary genius. Give her a few
ingredients and she can produce a masterpiece. Her creations dominate the menu
at the restaurant. Her famous spicy shrimp and grits dish is the bestseller to
this day. I’m rolling my eyes because, honestly, complimenting my mother leaves
a bad taste in my mouth. It’s something I don’t take too kindly to doing.

Jean
eventually decided that maybe a baby would make her happy. This delighted my
father to no end. He had tried to talk her into it from the start of their
marriage, but she had her reservations.

Almost nine
months after her decision, a beautiful baby girl named Julia Rose Thorton was
born. She looked just like Jean, with bright blue eyes and curly blonde hair.

The
fairytale of motherhood ended as soon as the first not-so-beautiful diaper
occurred. This had my father scurrying to find a nanny.

A year
after Julia’s birth, Jean became pregnant again. She had promised my father a
son, and she wanted the whole “growing a family” business behind her as soon as
possible.

John Paul
Thorton III was born with the exact blue eyes and nearly white-blond hair as my
mother and sister. My parents had the perfect family. With a nanny by her side,
Jean spent most of the family’s time between the beach and the family
businesses. Life was good for them for nearly three solid years until the
unfortunate mistake happened.

Jean was
absolutely devastated when she discovered she was pregnant for the third time.
My parents were content with two children and had decided that was enough.
I’m
smart enough to know what it takes
to prevent more children. I guess they were a bit naïve. That’s what they get,
if you ask me.

My mother
has told this story more than once over the years. Cue the violins
.
She stayed utterly miserable for the
entire sentence of the pregnancy. I weighed in at birth over a pound more than
my siblings and have never lived that one down either. She says I caused her
hideous stretch marks that ruined her perfect abdomen. Well, let me just say
for the record, I have seen that abdomen in a bikini over the years, and it
looks flawless to me.

“You were
already giving me a hard time before you were even born.” She would complain on
and on about this in her whiny drawl. Scarlett O’Hara has nothing on my mother.
“I stayed sick the entire time. On top of that, you decided to be a week late.
No surprise with your procrastinating self.”

I was born
a procrastinator and really haven’t ever been motivated to get over it. So I like
to take my time. What’s the big deal? I’ve been witness to poor choices being
made in haste over the years and really want no part in that.

Jean never
really shared much with me about her life, but she had no trouble articulating
her disappointment in me. Never letting me forget. Never forgiving me.

To
emphasize the mistake point, I also look nothing like my perfect family. I take
after my father’s side, with grey eyes and dark brown hair. I have the height
and dark complexion, but that is where the similarities end. I guess that
deemed me unfit for a “J” name, so I have an “S” name. Who knows what the
symbolism of that is? I could guess a few reasons, but what’s the point? I
really don’t care enough to figure that one out.

Brushing my
rebellious hair behind my ear, I scan the congested interstate. Summer is not
the time to have to head down south on the fly. It’s full-blown vacation
season… Ugh… Another memory reaches over and pokes me harshly in the side,
feeling like a thorn pricking me. I actually jolt with the pain of it.

I took too
much out of my mother with my unwelcomed presence. Before I turned nine months
old, she took her first of many extended
vacations
.
She was gone nearly a month before my father tracked her down in Virginia. He
had to plead with her to come home, promising to hire a housekeeper as well.
She hesitantly agreed to come back. This is when a bottle of wine and a pack of
cigarettes were what it took to get Jean through the day. I’ve had a few
heart-to-heart conversations with some of the staff at my dad’s two businesses.
They seem to find some satisfaction in sharing unpleasant things about Jean.
I’m not the only one she rubs wrong.

I’ve not
needed anyone to fill me in on some things, though. I have known from the
get-go that I was a mistake. Maybe God had an off day or something. All I know
is He made a mistake. Sadly, I wasn’t the only one.

Only a few
years into my mistake of a life, another tragedy hit our family. Jean’s cousin,
Rena died of a drug overdose. Rena was the black sheep of my mother’s family,
so her son had to wear the scarlet letter as well. Sadly, a five-year-old
Bradley was found lying next to his dead mother. People say he sat beside her
lifeless body for two days before a neighbor found them. My heart squeezes too
tight at this thought, and I have to rub my chest to loosen the pain’s grip.

Bradley was
only a few months older than my brother John Paul, so family members encouraged
my parents to take the poor boy in. They all thought he would adjust better
with us. Reluctantly, my parents agreed. My dad was quick to get the adoption
complete, even though Jean bickered about the senselessness of it. My dad took
pride in making Bradley a Thorton.

Bradley and
I had a few things in common. We seemed to both be unwanted guests in Jean
Thorton’s household. He didn’t too much fit in either, with his unruly red hair
and green eyes. His fair skin took a beating with our many beach excursions.
Jean always had a hard time remembering sunscreen. Her excuse was that it was all
she could do to keep herself straight with having to raise four rowdy children.
Whatever. Eyes are rolling, because I remember the presence of maids and
babysitters much more than I remember Jean’s presence. The word
babysitter
inflicts its own unique pain,
and I recoil away from it before it can leave another mark.

In the
years that followed Bradley joining our family, our house was filled with too
much noise, too little love, and too many vacations for Jean.

Enough with
the thorny Thorton family tree. I’m sick of the dang thing poking me. It’s on
the verge of drawing blood. I don’t want to think about that anymore, and I’m
sure you’ve heard enough. I need to focus on the demons dancing and try to
figure out a way to get them to stop once and for all.

Chapter Three

After several hours driving down this
unwelcoming paved path, I am completely over the idea of going back home. It’s
late in the afternoon, and I’m sick of being trapped in the confines of this
blame car. I start scanning the green signs for an appealing exit, and it only
takes another half hour to find one. It’s a beach exit, and I can hardly wait
to bury my feet in the warm sand. I ease my car into a public beach access lot,
and my lungs are already craving the savory Atlantic air. After killing the
engine, I slip off my shoes, grab my phone, and take off towards the beckoning
waves that call me in whooshes and muted rumbles. As my feet find the sizzling
beach surface, I shoot Julia a text.
Where
r u? R u on ur way?
I wait a few moments for a reply. As always, it goes
unanswered. I send Lucas one next, letting him know I am okay and taking a rest
stop.

I walk down
the coast for a good stretch, trying to work out the kinks in my back and legs
from traveling in the cramped car. I take several deep breaths of the warm,
salty air as I check out the beach scene. It’s pretty packed with vacationers.
Virginia has gorgeous beaches, and this one is lined with a welcoming
boardwalk, unlike the beach back home in South Carolina. My home beach is lined
with beach houses and condos. The breeze is quite warm and whips my long hair
in my face. I shuck off the lightweight hoodie I had to put on before leaving
Rhode Island and twist my hair into a knot. Relief is instant with alleviating
the stifling hair off my neck. The breeze scoots back by and tickles the newly
exposed skin, allowing me a contented sigh.

My body is
overheating almost immediately. I have an overwhelming desire to shuck my
clothes and dive in, but restrain from doing so. Instead, I yank up my sleeves
and roll my pants legs up before strolling over to the shore to test the
temperature of the ocean. It’s heavenly and refreshing on my scorched feet. I
love the texture of the squishy wet sand as the tide washes it between my toes.
I stand here until I’ve sunk enough that my feet are now hidden and probably
intruding on some hermit crab’s home.

If I ever
felt like I belonged anywhere, it has to be on a sandy beach or in the
saltwater. I’m an average surfer. Or I was the last time I rode a wave, and
that was well over five years ago—closer to six, I think. Maybe I’m considered
an ex-surfer now, but I still feel the want running through my veins though. I
was never as good as my brother or Bradley, but I could hold my own. In my
defense, they had a better teacher than I did. I was self-taught. The brief
thought of their teacher stings and sends an ache through my stomach.

Weakness
subdues me all of a sudden. I push my way out of the water and plop down in a
dry vacant spot on the sand to stare at the ocean. Looking out over the
crashing waves, I notice the ocean seems right agitated today. It keeps
growling at me, and after a while, I growl back. The foul mood is in the air, I
do believe. I stand my ground and glare back at the moody tempest of the
Atlantic Ocean. Farther out, the sky is bruised with deep purples and black.
Although that storm is far away, I can see its effect on the sunny beach.
People around me are taking notice and seem to be hesitant on their next move.
Stay or go? Be cautious or pay no mind to it?

I’m
wrestling with my own storm. Stay? Or go? Be cautious? Or pay no mind to it?
Memories tap me on the shoulder and whisper in the breeze.
Remember me? I’ve not gone anywhere. Remember?

A car crash
or a fatal heart attack is an instant mind-numbing catastrophe. Immediate and
sharp is the pain, and your mind refuses any comprehension of it. Sometimes a
tragedy slips in unnoticed for an unmeasured period. By the time you give
notice to this devious disaster, it has already done its irreversible damage.
Like a disease, it’s relentless and selfish as it snakes its poison in hidden
crevices until everything is infected.

Evan Grey
was an invisible tragedy. He brought so much light into our dysfunctional family,
and everyone was consumed by that light. So fascinated by the wonder of it that
the darkness seeped right in without detection.

It’s easy
to be so starved for attention to the point of becoming addicted to it, if ever
given the opportunity. Dad had no attention to spare between Jean and the
businesses. And Jean used all of her attention on herself. Her family would
describe her as spoiled. I would just say she’s rotten.

Evan walked
into our family one afternoon with an abundant supply of attention and gave to
each one of us children generously. He spent hours upon hours showing the boys
how to throw a curveball, bait a fishing hook, and how to ride the perfect
wave. To us girls, he gave us a listening ear and unwavering affection.

How did
this young man enter our lives? I blame it all on Jean, of course.

~ ~ ~

“Children!
Come meet our new friend,” Jean shouted from downstairs.

Julia and I
were sorting our cassette tapes, arguing over who was the true pop queen. I
believed it to be none other than Cyndi Lauper, and Julia insisted that Madonna
should hold the title. I could hear the boys down the hall, sounding like they
were about to come through the wall. Sounds reminiscent of a demolition site
came from their direction, which was nothing unusual.

We convened
in the hallway and headed downstairs to meet whomever our mother had dragged
home this time. Standing at the foot of the stairs was none other than Adonis
in the flesh. This god of beauty and desire had golden-brown hair and ice blue
eyes that seemed almost clear. His skin seemed to glow with a bronzed tone.

Jean waved
her perfectly manicured hand in his direction. “This is Evan. He will be
keeping an eye on you every now and then, so I can run errands,” she said with
her southern drawl a bit thicker, as usual, when in the company of a man.
Errands to Jean meant beauty appointments and lunch dates with her girlfriends.
She didn’t have any of us fooled.

“Momma, I
think we can keep an eye on ourselves.” John Paul bucked up, trying to sound
grown-up in front of our new guest. Bradley stood a bit taller, mimicking our
brother.

“I agree.
Talking your father into that is another story,” Jean said. For some reason,
our father was always adamant on not letting us stay home unattended. He said
too many mindless accidents happened when children were left alone.
He had no idea.

Evan didn’t
seem bothered by our disappointment. He simply smiled as he gave the boys a
manly handshake and slap on the back, using what reminded me of a coach-like
gesture with his players. The boys told him their names and then shot back
upstairs to continue to do who knows what in their room. I stood listening to
the banging and hoped I could also escape soon.

Evan
approached us girls next while our mother introduced us. The gentle hug he gave
Julia caused a girly giggle to slip from her prissy lips. “It’s nice to meet
you ladies.”

Evan then
turned towards me, but I dodged the hug with a quick side step out of his
reach. Physical contact was not something I had much experience with and had no
desire to receive it from a stranger. Even before the disease of things to come
began festering, I was already adverse to people intruding in my personal
space. Sure, Dad would give us the one-armed side hug every now and then, but
that was very rare. When Jean was around, she required and obtained all of his
attention.

“Now Miss
Savannah, that was terribly rude,” Jean snapped. She turned her attention to
Evan. “She’s my youngest and a bit feistier than the others.”

She cut her
eyes towards me to make sure I was listening.

“She is
what you would call an unplanned surprise.”

She said
this like the words tasted sour on her tongue. My mother always felt the need
to share that tidbit with every new person that came along. It was like she
always wanted everyone to know the burden I was on her. I guess she didn’t want
me to forget it either. Trust me. I never have.

I rolled my
eyes in my older sister’s direction, and she returned the gesture to me. She
was on my side back then. My throat thickens as I wish that were still true.

“Oh, I
enjoy feisty.” Evan laughed. “That will keep me on my toes.”

He winked
in my direction, making my face flash heatedly in a blush. Yep. He was
definitely Adonis.

Evan had
recently moved to Bay Creek to attend his senior year of college and to be
close to the beach. He was an avid surfer and would have been on the west coast
but his grades weren’t up to par and, as punishment, his dad would not send
him. Bay Creek was their compromise. When asked what his major was, he would
reply with a smirk that
Fun
was his
major. He didn’t take school seriously, hence the poor grades. He came from old
money that came cushioned with a trust fund, so he had no worries in the
financial department.

Evan would
normally hang out with us once or twice a week after Jean dragged him in our
lives that naïve day. The boys took up most of his time in the beginning. Most
days, they would disappear to the beach, the batting cages, or to the pier. I
enjoyed all those activities, but Julia and I were always stuck at home doing
an endless list of chores.

He would
abandon the boys every now and then to help us out. It was great. He would let
us watch all of the MTV we wanted, and we would spend afternoons dancing around
the living room to the latest jams.

Things were
great in the beginning, as most things are. It only took a few months for the
darkness to become evident. The disease would be irreparable, leaving lifelong
side effects that would be debilitating at times or a nagging, festering sore
so easily aggravated at other times.

~ ~ ~

My phone
pings with a new text, bringing me back to the now. I’m hoping it’s from Julia
but am not surprised that it’s not. It’s from Lucas.
Just come back home.
I want to send back that I don’t know where
that is exactly. I decide to ignore it instead. There is no need in worrying
him with my demons, and those suckers are dancing full force today.

Don’t get
me wrong. I love Rhode Island and its charming living. Nothing is cookie-cutter
there. Homes and businesses are unique and sturdy in their ample age. The place
feels rich with history. There are always festivals and activities on the
horizon. This northern home has provided many an adventure since I had arrived.
There has been an abundance of savory lobster rolls and rich clam chowder
consumed, just let me tell you. My stomach arouses awareness with a snippy
growl as I have these thoughts.
Growl all
you want
. I can barely swallow my acrid emotions today, much less food.
Ignoring my hunger, I picture the house Lucas and I have worked hard at making
a home. Our home.

I’m crazy
about our home. It is firmly planted on the shore as though its roots have been
maturing over centuries, so it can weather any storm wanting to stir up ruckus.
Adirondack chairs sit patiently in the small yard, and cedar shake siding lends
a beach cottage impression to our condo. It’s a homey place that seems to
always be welcoming guests to come grow a sit, and the waters paint an
ever-evolving coastal portrait for them to admire. I love it, but I feel as
though I am only a visitor, and I’m just wandering around this life until I can
figure out where I belong.

I expand my
lungs to full capacity with the savory air one last time before releasing it
with a heavy sigh. I stand and dust the sand off as best as I can but know some
of it is sneaking away with me on my trip. I don’t mind its company. Standing
straighter in hopes of bringing forth some bravery, I head back to my car to
continue this journey. It’s a trip I can make in one long day if I set my mind
to it. But today my mind just isn’t up to being set.

Easing back
onto the highway, I open the sunroof and turn on the radio. Of course, the
first station selection is an all eighties and nineties station. Figures. The
music of my youth—
stolen youth
. My
anxiety starts to get the better of me, so I crank up the music, which is none
other than Madonna belting out “Holiday.” She persuades me to sing along, and
the next thing I know, I’m screaming to the top of my lungs.

Out of the
corner of my eye, I notice a truck full of teenage boys driving alongside me,
witnessing my little episode. Feeling embarrassed, I turn the blaring radio off
and stare forward, hoping they will just go ahead and finish passing me in the
fast lane. Instead, they hang right beside me. They are probably thinking they
have stumbled upon a mad woman—maybe I am.

The guy in
the passenger side sort of hangs out the open window and hollers at me. “You
alright?”

I holler
back sarcastically. “Why no!” Without waiting for a response, I roll up my
window, return my gaze forward and continue my screaming fit as I drive on.