Pitcher's Baby (15 page)

Chapter Twenty- Six

Charlee

Mom has been living under our roof for a
month now, and I wish I could say things were getting better, but they aren’t.
I do my best to avoid her at all cost. She started coming up to my room every
time I’m home and sitting on my bed, trying to make small talk with me. It wouldn’t
be all that bad if every time I looked at her I didn't see a shadow of her old
self. I keep waiting for the day to come where she reverts back to herself.

Cold.

Selfish.

High.

Every time I have to use the bathroom, I
find myself waiting until the last minute before walking in, afraid that I will
find her with a needle shoved up her arm again. It hasn't happened yet, but I
know the day is coming. People don't just change like that. It's unnatural.
Inhuman.

My door cracks open as she knocks and
walks in. I set my journal down, annoyed with the way the words are flowing in
it, and give her my undivided attention. She seems nervous, and the way she is
skirting around whatever she needs to say is putting me on edge too. Sighing, I
wait for her gather her nerve and spit it out.

“I was wondering. If you're not busy, that
is, if you would mind giving me a ride into town? I really need to run into
Wal-Mart for a few things. If not, that's okay. I can wait for your brother to
get home and ask him.”

“Oh. Um, Lucas is actually on his way home
right now.” I watch her shoulders slump forward and hurry to finish. “I’m sure
it’s no problem though, as long as you don't mind him tagging along?”

She instantly brightens, and her happiness
actually makes me happy, even for just a moment, and then I remember I'm not
supposed to like her, so I erase the smile off my face.

“I'll come get you when he gets here.” I
say, dismissing her from my room. I pick my journal back up when I hear the
door shut and try to finish my latest work. It’s titled
My Dark Symphony
.

Never
again will I feel this pain,

Hearing
the echoes of our love

Every
time I turn my head, I see your face

Hear
your voice screaming my name

Always
lost and in vain

The
shadow of our past haunts me still

Whenever
I pretend to go to sleep

I
see you smile at me as the wind takes my breath away

Just
another memory that continues to appear

In
my dark symphony . . .

I
take a ride on this train

Chasing
these tracks to a room by the lake

Thinking
of your smile

I
look into the blue white sky

Your
eyes are always in my mind

All
I wanted was to hold you while you disappeared

Leaving
me here alone, you went your own way

It’s
just another sad story

Lost
inside my memories

As
I bask in the arms of my dark lover

But
she will never replace you

My
sweet dark symphony . . .

Ride
along with me

Ride
along with me

You
and I together we will be

Just
another note stuck

In
my dark symphony . . .

Feeling
your presence everywhere I go

Wanting
to feel your touch

Every
time I surrender to her

My
sweet monster . . .

I
close my eyes and still pretend

You
and I are making memories

In
my dark symphony . . .

Ride
along with me

Ride
along with me

You
and I together we will be

Just
another note stuck in my dark symphony . . .

Lucas finally talked me into showing him
some of the poems I have written last week, and he suggested I let him put them
to music. The thought intrigues me as much as it terrifies the living hell out
of me. I have always just written what I felt or sometimes didn’t feel, and the
thought of someone else reading them or hearing them scares me to death. Even
if no one knows they are actually mine, I imagine people would figure it out.
Like they would hear a line or two, and all heads would turn toward me,
followed by loud outcries of FREAK and LOSER. Then again, I’m probably giving
myself too much credit. I’m the invisible girl that no one notices. Except for Lucas.
He notices me . . . a lot.

We have grown closer since the day in the
cemetery, or maybe it was the day Aaron and I had the falling out and Lucas
came to my room. That was a night I wouldn’t soon forget. I was forced to share
some of my past with him that evening so he could better understand what was
going on, and oddly, it didn’t bother me to share anything with him. I guess in
a way, I felt if anyone can understand pain and heartache, it’s him. I still walked
on egg shells for an entire week after that, waiting for him to decide it was
too much for him and to run in the opposite direction, but he didn't. It
surprised me.

It scared the hell out of me.

I hear him pull up outside and remember
that I never asked him if he was cool going to Wal-Mart with us, so I run down
the hall and meet him as he reaches the door.

“Hey. You mind riding to the store with Mom
and me ?” I ask breathlessly.

“No. Of course not.”

“Cool. Thanks, babe.” I lean in and,
standing on my tiptoes, I give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Mother, let’s go,” I yell for her, and
moments later, we are all crawling in the car and headed to Wally World.

I have a serious addiction to all things
Wal-Mart. It doesn't even make sense. I just absolutely adore this place. I
mean, what other store on the face of the earth can you buy clothes, food and
animals at? Not to mention food to feed said animals, as well as shampoo and
flowers and . . . online, you can even purchase funeral caskets and urns.
Seriously, look it up. Not to mention that everything is dirt cheap. It has to
be my favorite store . . . ever. I'm practically bouncing in my seat just
thinking about what I need to buy today. Which brings me to the only downfall
of Wal-Mart. It is impossible to go inside its glorious blue walls and make it
back out without purchasing something—anything. I’m telling you. Just try it
one day.

Lucas’s eyes meet mine in the rearview
mirror, and he chuckles to himself, knowing what a treat this for me. He thinks
I’m nuts. I might be . . . a little, but he loves me anyway.

Whoa.

Did I just say he loves me? Does he? I
haven't really thought about it before right now. My bouncing stops. Flashes of
our time together over the last few weeks spin through my head. I see him
kissing me. Watching me. Smiling at me. Touching me. Always. My mouth is
suddenly dry, and I think I might hurl into his backseat floorboard. He notices
the difference in my behavior.

“What's wrong, Charlee? Did you leave your
purse at home?” He laughs at his own joke. I laugh too . . . sorta. But my mind
is somewhere else. I'm so happy he can't read my thoughts, because they would
probably give him whiplash right now. I can't focus on one single thought.

Does he . . . love me?

Is it possible?

Do I?

Oh my God. I do.

We park near the front of the store, and
when Mom pulls the seat forward, I rush out.

“Grab Everly for me, please?” I ask,
making a beeline for the store.

I hear them both laughing behind me,
joking that I’m in a hurry for a sale, but really, I just need a minute—alone.
I head straight for the bathroom and close the stall door, shutting the world
out. My head drops to my hands as my heart drops to the floor.

I freaking love Lucas Bouchard.

Fuck.

The tears start falling as soon as I think
it, and I have no idea why. I should be happy. I should be jumping up and down
and screaming it from the rooftops. I Love Lucas! And yet, I feel like puking.
How did I not see this coming? We spend almost every single day together. He’s
funny, sweet, charming, and he takes care of me. He's a good guy. A really good
guy, and he deserves so much better than me.

He doesn't need to know.

I can hide it.

Yeah. That's what I’ll do. I don't really
have any other choice, unless I want to break up with him and never see him
again. My heart constricts painfully in my chest just thinking that. No, I
can't do that. I'll just go on pretending I didn't have an earth-shattering
epiphany in the car. I’ll pretend I'm not head over heels in love with him and
maybe—hopefully—things will be okay.

My mother walks in the bathroom on my way
out, startling me. She looks me up and down before pulling me back to the sink
and opening her purse. She pulls out some facial powder and passes it me. I
take it, grateful to have something to help cover up the fact that I have been
crying, but I don't know how to say that to her.

“It's okay, ya know,” she says, leaning
against the wall, watching me.

“What's okay?” I ask.

“Loving him. Letting him love you. Not
everyone in your life is going to hurt you . . . like I did.” I don't know how
to respond to that. I glance up at her in the mirror. She is staring down at
the floor, but a part of her must sense my gaze, because she looks up, and the
sadness I see reflected in her eyes captures me. I pull my gaze away, ashamed
to witness that much emotion coming from her. I'm supposed to hate her. She
ruined my life. But over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed something different
about her. She has become selfless.

“Maybe.” I say, and maybe she is right.
Maybe it is okay. If only I could find the courage to let myself go so freely.
If only I could overcome the one thing standing in my way—myself. I turn,
handing her the powder back, and smile a halfhearted smile. That smile says
everything I can't say right at that moment, everything I don't know if I'll
ever be able to say.

My simple, sweet smile tells her,
Thank
you
. It tells her,
I'm glad you have changed
,
I'm glad I got to
know this version of you
. She understands the words I can't say, and in her
returning smile, I hear,
You're welcome
, and
Maybe one day
.

Yeah. Maybe one day, Mother.

We
separate when we leave the bathroom, our moment in time over, even though it
keeps playing over and over in my mind. I wonder if I was wrong about her all
this time. Maybe she has changed. Maybe she was never that person, and the
burning addiction just had its grip too tight on her. I wonder if I’ll ever
know.

Do I want to?

Maybe.

I find Lucas at the back of the store,
digging through the five-dollar bin of movies. He smiles when I walk up,
covering his eyes with my hands.

“Guess who.”

“Hmm . . . Michael Meyers?”

“Nope, try again.”

“Captain Hook?”

“Ha! Nope.”

“I know! It's the crazy stalker chick from
Alabama. The one who kept leaving me love notes!”

I pull my hands away and stab at his ribs,
demanding he take it back. We are both laughing so hard, it's hard to breathe.
He manages to twist around and pin my arms to my chest while he holds me close.

“Okay, okay, I take it back. Gah, crazy
lady . . .” It feels so good in his arms, cocooned in the safety of his
embrace. I don't want to ever move, but it’s time to go, and I don't think we
would be able to walk all the way up front like this, although I am willing to
try. He pulls back and looks down at me for a moment before lowering his lips
to mine. They collide in a blast of heat. Everything I’m feeling comes through
in that kiss, answered by his own. I could continue kissing him forever. Who
needs food or water when you have Lucas Bouchard’s lips? They are more than
enough for me.

We’re waiting by the front of the car when
Mom walks out. She only has one bag in her hands, and I wonder what was so
important that we needed to come to Wal-Mart for, but that's her business, not
mine. She looks across the lot, spotting us, and crosses over. I see it
happening in slow motion. She's just made it across the busy intersection when
she trips, falling to her knees. I don't think about the fact that I don't like
her, or about the hell she put me through. I don't think at all. I rush over to
her and squat next to her. Several people are looking now, but no one is
checking on her, and this pisses me off. Lucas joins me and helps me stand her
back up. Her palms are bleeding from breaking her fall on the asphalt, and
there is a giant hole in her jeans, showing a scraped knee as well.