Every Rose (19 page)

I make up for lost time with him by writing about our recent memories that we’ve made, which cause me to digress to memories of long ago. I treasure every moment I get to spend with Michael, knowing that our spell will be broken by secrets and miles soon enough. Michael has been so unexpected, refreshing. I’ve never met anyone so honest with himself and others. I hope to emulate him.

“Whatcha writing over there?” I’m pulled from memories of the last few days. I glance over and smile at him. We’ve been lounging on his balcony, enjoying the sounds of the waves and comfortable silence.

“I’m journaling about our last few days together,” I reply. “What about you?” We’ve both been alternating between reading and writing. He’s using the journal I gave him. So sweet! Admittedly, it has been hard for me to concentrate, though. Every time I hear his calloused fingers scrapping across the turning pages, I imagine them on me.

“Right now, I’m working on some lyrics.”

“Aah…I would love to hear them.”

“You will when they’re ready.” He gives me his secret smile. Maybe they’re about me, I muse. “Sit tight. I wanna show you something. I’ll be right back.”

“’K,” I reply quickly as he has suddenly dashed into the apartment. I wonder what he’s up to.

He returns with an old black and white marble composition book. “What’s this?” I sit up a little so that I can examine it more closely and shift to give him room on the chaise.

“This,” he says, framing the composition book in his hands playfully, “would be the play you wrote when we were in ninth grade English.”

“Are you serious?” I gasp.

“Yep.” He’s glowing with excitement. He must get how much this means to me.

“Michael,” I say his name and it’s full of wonder, “how did you get this?”

“I quite artfully persuaded Mrs. Barfelt to give it to me after she graded it. It wasn’t easy,” he continues, “She really wanted to have it as an example of student work.”

I open it up and read the title page, “The Diary of Anne Frank—In Action: A Play by Michael Bang, Kimberly Cline, Lorraina Dabney, and Clinton Ross.” I laugh as I remember us all getting together to plan our project. No one knew what to do because we’d never been given full creative license before this moment. It had been all worksheets and bookwork up until that point in our academic careers.

“I remember how you ever so democratically placed our names on it in alphabetical order even though you did most of the work. You surprised me so much with this,” he tells me. “I was so used to you being so logical about everything. I’d never seen you really let go and be creative. And, then, BAM! Everyone in our group is floundering, wondering, arguing about what on earth we’re going to do. You just wandered over to the window with your hands on your hips, looking out like you were studying the most complex of views. Then, you turned around and said, ‘We’re going to write a play based on Anne’s diary.’ It was genius. Your face lit up like Christmas. The imagination I saw dancin’ in your eyes was magical. I fell in love with you all over again.”

Tears have sprung to my eyes at his description of that moment. He’s made it feel like it just happened yesterday. “I think you are remembering it with a bias slant. I don’t know that it was all that dramatic,” I kid.

“Oh, it was. Trust me.”

“That’s when I started writing in earnest,” I remember. “I’d written a little over the years but just for me and only little snippets. After we performed that for the class and Mrs. Barfelt graded the hard copy, she pulled me aside and drilled me with questions.”

“Like what?”

“She wanted to know how I went about writing it and stuff. I told her that Anne’s diary is so vivid that I could just see it, ya know? Anyway, she seemed happy with my answer and told me that I was an excellent writer. I was so shocked. I figured out years later that there was already a published play version. I guess she was afraid that I’d copied it. Anyway, other than my singing, I don’t think anyone had ever paid me a compliment like that one.”

“You’ve barely let me hear you do anything more than hum,” he complains.

“That’s because I sound like a screeching, sopping wet cat compared to you,” I tell him in all seriousness.

“Pssh…” he asserts and fiddles with the notebook, “So, did you start writing more after this?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I am suddenly very sad. He must sense that because he puts his finger under my chin and tilts my head up for a light kiss.

“What did you write?” he questions against my lips.

Goosebumps make quick work of covering my body down and back up again. “Hmmm? Umm…poems and stuff.” He places a kiss on each of my cheeks, on the tip of my nose, and then his lips find mine again for another feather light kiss.

“Why did you stop writing?”

His spell is broken. “How do you know I stopped?” I pull back and ask him.

He frowns and places his hands on the arms of the chaise, surrounding me. “I just know. So, why?”  Crap. When Michael wants something or wants to know something, no pat answer will do. He’s tenacious, gum on the bottom of my shoe.

“I just…did. I got busy and preoccupied with school. I will have basically finished two degrees,
Summa Cum Laude, in four years, one of those degrees is even in English; and I work almost full time. There just weren’t enough hours in the day.”

“You know what I think?”

“What’s that?”

“I think that’s what you were born to do—write. You are gifted. Reading your memories back reminded me of what a great storyteller you are.” My gaze has drifted down, and he pauses to bring it back to meet his. “Look at me,” he demands and I immediately comply. “Not many people have this gift. You have to share it with the world. If not, withholding it is the most selfish thing you will ever do,” he finishes passionately. Hmm…
Selfish begat selfish
.

“Thank you for believing in me,” I mumble.

“Now, how do we get you to believe in yourself?” he wonders.

I swallow hard and tell him, “I’ve written more this last week than I have in years. We may be on our way there. Don’t give up on me.”

“Never,” he promises.

I try to change gears in this suddenly serious conversation, “You know, I never did figure out how you managed to get classes with me that year. P.E. I could understand, but Advanced English I and Spanish. I would think for someone who failed the year before you would have been in less…challenging classes.” He throws his head back with laughter. I laugh with him but smack in the stomach with the notebook too. He’s laughing at me. “What? Why are you laughing at me?” I grumble.

He barely pauses long enough to squeak out, “Did you just figure that out?”

I take in a deep, indignant breath. “No,” I protest, “I just didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of knowing that I wondered about it.”

He makes a motion of chopping my nose off my face. “Nose to spite face!” He accuses.

“Yeah, yeah, I know!” I concede. “Anyway, now I want to know.”

“I got my mom to take me up to registration early so that I could have some one-on-one time with my counselor. I assured her that the only way I would apply myself, as they had been asking me to do for years, was if I could be in advanced classes that year. I assured her that the only reason I failed the year before was because I wasn’t academically challenged. She was putty in my proficient hands,” he finishes maniacally.

“It’s a good thing we went to a small school,” I say. “Or it wouldn’t have been quite that easy.” I feel the need to take him down a peg or two.

“Oh, I would’ve found away. I was highly motivated,” he assures me with a glint in his eye.

………………………………………………………

Michael leaves to go get Chinese takeout. I remain sitting on the balcony, staring out at the waves and the vastness of the Gulf. It wasn’t too long ago that I swore I would never be back to this area. That if I could get out, I would never return. I even dreamt of living in a well-visited, touristy area so that my family would come and see me; and I wouldn’t even be required to visit them here. Now, look at me, contemplating a life here with Michael. It’s crazy how quickly my life has changed. I thought I would never find anyone. I never really wanted to find anyone. I wanted to devote myself to my chosen career, have a nice house, have a few friends. That was going to be my life. All I can think of now, though, is having that career but devoting myself to my relationship with Michael. The career used to be the main course; but, now, it had been relegated to nothing more than a much ignored, yet required, side dish.

“That was delicious,” I tell him as we finish our General Tso’s Chicken. “So, anything planned for tonight?”

“No, not really. What would you like to do?”

“Well, I wouldn’t really
like
to go visit my father, but I think that I
need
to.”

“OK. Do you want to go alone or would you like me to go with you?”

I contemplate this a moment. “I think it would be good for you to go, but I have to warn you he was very angry with me the last time I saw him. I’m not really sure what to expect.” That thought leads me to another. “Have you seen him lately?”

“No, he stays to himself since he got out.”

“Aah…yes, his illustrious prison sabbatical,” I say acerbically. He had been arrested and had served some time for assault and battery. “Nice.”

“Alright, I guess there’s no time like the present. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I reply.

………………………………………………………

We pull up outside my dad’s place, and I am astounded by how absolutely trashed my old homestead is. When I lived here, it was a real deal, living, breathing, working farm. Now, it was like a ghost town, and my dad was the only living occupant. Seeing it eases the ache I feel for my old way of life because nothing even resembling my childhood home still exists.

Michael kills the engine, and we sit in silence for a minute or two. Finally, I take a deep breath and release it. “I think it might be better if I go and judge what kind of mood he’s in, OK?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait here. Let me know if or when you want me to join you.”

I squeeze his hand and let it go quickly. If I don’t move quickly, I may never have the courage. I make my way up to porch and raise my hand to knock on the door. A snarl stops my hand mid-air. I turn my head to look at the mangiest pit bull I’ve ever seen. “Hi, puppy,” I coo. “Aren’t you a poor little thing?” I continue in my little singsong voice. I crouch down and let him sniff my folded hand. He immediately decides I’m not harmful and rests his head on his paws, keeping his eyes trained on me less I become a threat. I ease back up and rap on the door.

I hear a lot of grumbling and movement. I see the curtain move back and hear someone announce my presence. I push my hair back behind my ears, swallow the lump in my throat, and say a silent prayer. I repeat a calming mantra over and over as someone shouts, “Be right there.”

Finally, the door swings open with a welcoming flourish as if I’m some kind of idiot who believes that everything going on in there is perfectly acceptable and normal. “Is my dad here?” I ask the woman with the crazy wide eyes whose name I can’t remember.

“Yeah, he’s coming. You wanna come in?”

“I’ll just wait here if that’s OK.”

“Yeah, yeah. OK. He’ll be right out.”

I turn and stand on the edge of the porch, trying to focus on the beautiful man starring back at me. I give him a slight smile. He smiles back at me brilliantly. I wish I could be that optimistic. I’m lost in this thought until I hear a shuffling behind me. I start to turn around when I hear his gravel filled voice.

“Lorri,” he snorts, “what are you doing here? You finally figure a way to have me arrested, or you wanna just hang me from that fucking tree over there?”

Oh, shit! Oh, shit! is all I can repeat in my head. My eyes fall on his face and I notice that he has a long, thick beard and scraggly salt and pepper hair that juts out in tangled clumps all over his head. He’s so gaunt that his nose protrudes at an awkward angle from his face. My gaze travels down his shirtless form until it reaches his red clay covered pants. He’s barefoot. My mouth drops open to try to respond; but when I make eye contact with him, I see the absolute absence of humanity in his stare and that scares the shit out of me. He barely had any before. Now, there was none.

I take a deep breath, shake my head, and turn to make my way back to the Jeep. My mind is reeling. There’s no way I can talk to him. He’s loaded or high or something. There is no dad here. Michael is looking at me with a look of utter astonishment. I turn my finger round and round. Start the car. Start the car. I will him. Thank God, he gets it. I hear the Jeep crank up.

I hear my dad behind me. I think he’s still on the porch, though. Thank God! “It works both ways, Lorri!” he screams at me.

I don’t think so!
I spin around and point my finger at him. “You’re
damn
right it does!” I counter. What has gotten into me? I’ve never raised my voice at either of my parents, especially not my psychotic one!

I jump in the Jeep. As I’m pulling my seat belt on, I glance up and see him running at me with his fist raised. Michael is turned around and starting to back out slowly and I chant lowly, “Go, go, go.” as I watch my dad chase me out of his driveway. Michael floors it and backs all the way out to the road and spins his tires as he slams it into first so that we can get the hell away from him.