Better Than This: A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel Page 8

  “Frenita!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Do you have my nail file?” I knew she’d taken it. She was about six years old by then and had already started with her prissy ways. Not caring whether or not my grandmother would follow through on the beating she’d promised a few years earlier, I marched down to the pantry and swiped the flashlight from the shelf. I ran back up the stairs and had reached the top step when I heard my grandmother’s voice float up behind me. It held a tone of malice laced with smug satisfaction.

  “You can keep that one, Barbara Jean, but you’re wasting your time. That Pritchard boy has up and left and he ain’t coming back.”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know she was sneering. Later, I’d resolved never to let her see my heartache and pain when I’d realized she was right. I’d spent the next few weeks scouring the Pritchard farm, checking the tree houses, the secret bunkers that contained the stashes of moonshine that Mr. Pritchard still made, as well as our favorite hiding spots. It became my obsession, and I even made it a point to recheck certain places, as well as keep up my flashlight vigil. Our favorite spot was a hollowed-out tree on our property. Kenny and I used it to hide the occasional Mason jar of moonshine that he stole from his father. If he was going to leave me a message, that was our hiding place. I finally stopped checking. I never returned the family flashlight to the pantry and I never asked for my nail file back to lift up the board. I knew what was beneath it. A flashlight without a message to send.

  I let out a deep breath and realized I’d let the joyful memories of secret messages and hiding places be extinguished by the anguish of him leaving without so much as a goodbye. I wasn’t a drinker, and the two glasses of wine I’d had at dinner started to make me feel queasy. Or maybe it wasn’t the wine. Maybe it was the memory.

  I sat up, faced the window, and rested my elbows on the low casement sill. I reached for the lock above my head, and after unlatching it, opened the window about two inches. I leaned onto the small ledge and rested my chin on my forearms. My lids started to droop and eventually close as I inhaled the fresh country air.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed when I opened my eyes and sat straight up. I tried to fathom what had startled me. It was an eerie feeling. Like I was being watched. I was sitting in the dark and no one could see me. Outside, the sky was black as tar. I’d turned off my front porch lights so there wasn’t even any light sneaking around the side of the house. Staring out the window was like looking at a black wall. And then I saw it.

  I gasped when I caught sight of a flicker of light from afar. My brain desperately scrambled around for the memory of our secret code. My breathing was coming in shallow gasps as I felt around the floor for the board desperately trying to get to the long-forgotten flashlight. It had never occurred to me that by now the battery would’ve eroded and a forty-year-old flashlight was useless. In my haste, my hand knocked my phone and I heard it skitter across the hardwood and stop with a thud against the opposite baseboard. The noise shook me out of my panic, and I circled back to the window.

  The lightning bugs. I wasn’t seeing flashlight signals from the distant tree line. It had been a lone firefly. Taking a calming breath, I brushed my hand through my hair and resumed my original position with my chin pressed against my forearms which were again resting on the low windowsill. I waited for the lightning bug to serenade me with its sparkle. Nothing. I stared into the moonless night and willed the firefly to resume its dance. Still nothing. It was obvious this hadn’t been a good idea. The familiar ache of my thirteen-year-old heart pressed down on my chest like an anvil. Stop torturing yourself, Barbie. Let him go.

  I slunk back to the floor and didn’t fight the sleep that was beckoning. I drifted off with the sound of Darlene’s voice echoing in the back of my mind as I mentally conceded that she’d been right. I’d never gotten over Kenny Pritchard.

  Chapter 12

  Moonshine Isn’t The Best Medicine

  “You need to snap out of whatever this is, Barbie,” Darlene said, giving me a firm but understanding look. “So you had a couple of glasses of wine the other night and thought you saw Kenny signaling you from one of the tree houses. So what?”

  It was two days after I’d fallen asleep in my old bedroom. We were sitting on my back-porch steps taking modest sips out of a Mason jar. Ignoring her comment, I passed the jar back to her and watched her take another shallow taste. I shrugged my shoulders, feigning nonchalance.

  “You were tipsy and figured out it was the lightning bugs getting the best of you, so what’s the big deal? It’s not like you’re in denial. You owned up to your mistake that Jake isn’t Kenny. How is this any different?”

  “It just is, Dar. I should know better. I’ve been making ridiculous assumptions. It’s not like me and I’m tired of feeling stupid. And I’m even more tired of being haunted by why Kenny left without a word. It’s been almost forty years. Why haven’t I gotten over it?” I sat with both elbows resting on my knees and looked out over the acres of barren fields behind my house. Storm clouds were rolling in from the north and there was a chill in the air. I welcomed the bite of autumn that had blown in overnight and left goose bumps on my arms and neck.

  “Because he hurt you, Barbie. What he did was unfair and heartbreaking, nobody would argue that. But Kenny is gone, and can’t come back. You may not have forgotten him or the pain he left behind, but you’ve moved on from the little girl whose heart was crushed.”

  “Have I?” I asked with a cynical laugh.

  “Yes, you have. You’ve made a good life for yourself. You’ve always been a fighter, a survivor.” She rested a hand on my thigh.

  “I didn’t fight for my marriage,” I said flatly.

  “I think we both know it wouldn’t have changed the ending,” she quietly answered. “And as far as Kenny is concerned, you have no choice but to move on. You can stay in this funk of always wondering or you can put it behind you and see what God has planned for you. Besides, you are way too hard on yourself, and even more than that, I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself.”

  “I already admitted that you were right, Dar. I told you before that I agreed with you—I'm not over Kenny Pritchard.” I absently twirled the Mason jar in my hands. “I’m over the love part. I’m no longer in love with him. Haven’t been for a long time. But I’m not over the abandonment. I still can’t get past the fact that he left without a word. And after you told me he was in prison, how he never once replied to any of my letters.”

  “He didn’t reply to most of mine either, Barbie.”

  I twisted my head around to face her. “Most of yours? Does that mean he replied to at least one of them?”

  She nodded. “The first one was to thank me for visiting Jonathan when he was sent to a home on the other side of the state following their father’s death. And a few more after that. They stopped after a while.”

  My eyes burned with the sting of unshed tears. After the breakdown in my old bedroom, I didn’t think I had any left. I’d visited Jonathan, too, but it hadn’t gone well. He’d seen me and his brother together so often that I couldn’t go near him after Kenny ran away. His mind couldn’t imagine one of us without the other and when I showed up without Kenny, it only upset him. Even after Kenny left and years before I’d headed for college, I’d tried to take Jonathan fishing, or hiking in the woods like we’d done with Kenny. But he would see me and start crying uncontrollably. I had no doubt that if Jake hadn’t been in Jonathan’s room at Hampton House on my first day there, it would’ve played out like it had the last time I saw him. I’d been a college student and happened to be attending a lecture near Jonathan’s group home when I stopped in unannounced. My visit without his older brother in tow upset him so badly they asked me not to come back.

  I felt Darlene’s hand gently rubbing my back. I stifled a sniffle and asked, “Did Kenny ever mention me in his letters?”

  I wouldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to see pity in her eyes. I to
ok another swallow of the fiery liquid and concentrated on my grandfather’s old woodshed. It looked like it was ready to fall down.

  “Only once,” she practically whispered. “After I’d written that you’d gotten married.”

  This time I did look at her.

  “He wrote back that he was happy for you. That you deserved to be in love. To have a happy life.”

  “That was all?” My voice was hoarse. It was clogged with thousands of words that would be left unsaid.

  “Yes, that was all.”

  I sat up straight and put the lid back on the Mason jar. “I guess there’s nothing left to say then. It’s a mystery that will never be solved, and like you said, I have to put it behind me.” I started to wilt again and heard myself say, “Maybe coming back here wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

  “Stop talking nonsense, Barbie! Whether you want to admit it or not, this is your home.” She pointed back over her shoulder and said, “Your home. It no longer belongs to Juanita Anderson and her miserable self. You were loved and are still loved by more people than just me. Look how happy you make Jonathan. And the town folk are so glad to have a doctor in their midst. You must be the last doctor on earth who actually carries a medical bag in case of an emergency. And that comes with a responsibility and expense that you incur without complaint. And think about it, how many doctors nowadays get paid in hugs, fresh eggs, buttermilk pies, and promises to flush out your septic when it’s time?”

  Her last comment made me laugh.

  “You belong here, Barbara Jean Anderson. I just wish the real Barbie would show herself.”

  Her last comment startled me. “What do you mean by that, Darlene? I’m the real Barbie. I haven’t changed.”

  “Oh, please. The real Barbie wouldn’t have turned in her track sneakers for a tennis racket. Or convinced herself she likes classical music instead of country.”

  “Tennis was something Richard and I could do together at his club,” I said somewhat defensively.

  “And let me guess? They didn’t play country music at the club?” she argued using air quotes to drive home her point. “I think you stopped being who you were because of Richard. You already told me how he insisted on that fancy and ridiculously expensive condo because he didn’t want to hassle with a yard. He was an attorney and you’re a doctor for goodness’ sake. Ever heard of a lawn service? I find it hard to believe that you agreed since you grew up getting your hands dirty.”

  Is that what I’d done? Traded in my true self for the life that Richard had meticulously mapped out for us? Dar was right. I was a runner. Had always been a runner until Richard convinced me to take up tennis so we could do something together. I’d gotten tired of asking him to run with me and eventually those solitary jogs in the park turned into tennis matches with him at the club. And as far as the country music was concerned, I’d started listening to it again after college, but Richard insisted on classical when we were together. Whether we were at home or in the car, he’d turn into The Music Nazi. And he always had a good reason why. After all, that’s what he did for a living. He was a litigator. He could convince a squirrel that it was a zebra. Classical music was good for the soul, it smoothed out the rough edges of our stressful days, he’d told me. Eventually, I’d believed it.

  “We didn’t need a yard because we couldn’t have children,” I countered, feeling the need to defend myself.

  “Bull,” she tossed back at me. “You could’ve adopted children.”

  I felt lightheaded and couldn’t decipher if it was from what we were drinking or the slow dawning that her accusations were true. Darlene had come dangerously close to a truth I’d not allowed to surface since the day I said my wedding vows. Richard had been a white-collar bully, and worse yet, I’d enabled him. He’d completely orchestrated almost every aspect of our marriage. And I’d been so absorbed in my work and being the perfect spouse, I’d allowed it. I was mortified at the realization. I jumped up and started pacing.

  “You’re right, Dar. Everything you said is right.” I stopped and gave her a hard stare. “Richard never abused me. Richard was a good guy. I need to be clear about that.”

  “I never thought Richard wasn’t a good guy, Barbie. He had to be good or you wouldn’t have married him. I’m only saying that in the little time we’ve gotten to know each other again, and the stories you’ve shared about him, it seems that you lost your way. He led and you followed.”

  I plopped back down next to her and ran my hands through my hair. “Is it possible I subconsciously allowed it because I needed someone to be in charge? I’d worked so hard to become a doctor; I think I was exhausted with responsibility. Like I needed someone else to take the reins for a while. I never realized I’d never taken them back or asked to share them.”

  “I think it’s very possible. Maybe it’s why you’ve been fighting so hard to prove yourself capable since you’ve been home. You have an air about you now that says you don’t need anybody. It’s not a weakness to need or count on others. Look at how many people here rely on you. Do you see them as weak?”

  “Not at all,” I stated. I looked over and smiled. “Why do I feel like a weight has been lifted? I guess I should be angrier with myself, but I’m not. I feel.” I paused, searching for the right word. “Relieved. I feel relieved and lighter for some reason.”

  She reached for the Mason jar and, holding it up, asked, “Because moonshine is the best medicine?”

  “Not bad for forty-year-old hooch, is it?” I teasingly elbowed her in the side.

  “This goes down so smoothly. After all these years and it still packs a punch. No wonder the Pritchards’ moonshine had a good reputation.” She giggled, followed by a belch.

  “You remember what it tasted like?” I questioned.

  She shook her head, unscrewed the lid, and took another sip. “No, I’d never tried it before today, but I’d heard about it.” She delicately wiped her mouth. “I can’t believe you found four jars still intact.”

  “Me either.” Before Darlene showed up, I’d grabbed a basket and trudged out to the woods searching out every secret hiding place that Kenny and I had stashed moonshine. These were all places that I’d checked after he’d run away, but had never revisited to collect the liquor. Some places were vacant. It was possible I hadn’t remembered correctly or my grandmother had found them. She knew that Kenny and I used to steal the whiskey and bury it. It’s why we had more than one hiding place, and how I managed to find four jars. There were probably more if I could remember where they were.

  After taking another swig, Darlene passed the jar back to me and held up her hand indicating she was done. I looked at the vessel that we’d barely put a dent in and had to agree. This stuff was potent.

  We spent the rest of the morning scraping wallpaper off the dining room walls while she continued to dish out words of wisdom that soothed my spirit. It wasn’t until hours after lunch that Darlene insisted the moonshine had worn off and she could drive home. I busied myself with chores and was so tired I skipped dinner. I showered and headed straight for bed. Even though I was no longer feeling the effects of the alcohol, I took two aspirin before heading upstairs. I had another busy day tomorrow and didn’t want to wake up with a moonshine headache. They were the worst.

  I crawled into bed and thought about Richard and how a lot of the things Darlene touched on had been true. But I found myself unable to dig up any anger toward him. I’d already forgiven him for leaving me for Fancy. As far as our marriage was concerned, Richard had grown up in an uncontrolled and chaotic environment, so he was doing what he thought necessary. He managed every aspect of our lives for us. It was my fault for getting caught in his net. If I’d resisted, he would’ve conceded, but I’d been happy to let him take the lead while I concentrated on my career.

  “I guess we were both a little at fault, Richard,” I whispered into the dark. As I drifted off into what would be a dreamless night without any bathroom interruptions, I realized
that moonshine wasn’t the best medicine. Letting go of the past and forgiving yourself was.

  Chapter 13

  What’s For Dinner, Darling?

  I didn’t want to get out of bed. The wind was blowing so hard the house was creaking. It appeared that autumn skipped her subtle shift into winter, which seemingly appeared about eight weeks early. It was freezing and I’d gone to bed the night before without turning on the heat. I shivered as I made my way downstairs to the bathroom and thermostat. Sitting on the cold toilet seat I mumbled, “Sure could use a hot flash about now.” My hormones refused to answer, choosing instead to lie in wait to ambush me at a more inconvenient time.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and headed for the couch. I turned on the television and checked the local news for the weather report. I was right about it feeling like winter. It was the coldest day in late September since 1905. The silver lining was, they were predicting a return to average temperatures by tomorrow and a heat wave next week. Sounded to me like Mother Nature had gotten into my moonshine because she was acting crazy.

  I peeked outside and saw a gray and murky sky. It was a day that screamed for scarves and soup. Better yet, stew. For once, I had everything I needed, and before I knew it, I had all the fixings for Brunswick stew filling up my Crock-Pot.

  I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time to drive to Greenville for my appointments and make a couple of stops to do some shopping. It was time to buy a good pair of running shoes. I arrived at my doctor’s appointment ten minutes early and was ushered in immediately. Dr. Natalie Hoskins was a lovely woman about my age. I’d been seeing her for the past fifteen years. After we exchanged pleasantries, I updated her on my current health status. All was good except for the occasional night sweats and hot flashes. After handing off my pap smear to her nurse who left the room, she said, “I see you’re using your maiden name, Barbie. I like it. Barbara Jean Anderson has a nice ring to it and is a lot easier to pronounce than Poznanski.”