The sun shines through the window and sits in my lap. My eye lids are getting heavy, but I don't want to sleep. Not yet. Being up at four in the morning isn't my thing, but to catch the flight, I had to do the early wake-up. And being back home, there isn't going to be any way I can lie down and fall asleep. Not with how my family is.
"It's a half-hour ride home. Why not close your eyes for a little bit?" Mom sighs, her hands gripping the wheel of the fancy four door Chrysler while checking over her shoulder to change lanes.
Close my eyes? I haven't been back here in over two years. The city is growing, and I need to make sure all my good places are still standing. What is the sense of being home if my goodies aren't there anymore?
"I'm good." Am I good? I'm not, but I have to be.
My mom is strength. She stands through all the storms that ever come her way, and to show her I am an emotional wreck inside will only bring on the lectures and the talks that I don't need to go through right now. I know her lectures are just to help me out, but, sometimes, they throw me down to the ground and stomp on me. And, right now, I am doing plenty of that to myself. I don't need the extra foot grinding me in the dirt.
"Are you hungry? I am sure you didn't get much time to grab something to eat during your layover."
"I'm not hungry." How could I be when I have nothing left of my life? Not. A. Damn. Thing.
I will be able to move past it someday, but, as for now, there is nothing that anyone can say or do to make me get over the pain I've been carrying around for the last year. Pain that I don't want to talk about. Pain that I don't want to think about. Pain that I just can't get over.
"If you do decide to stop somewhere, just let me know. I will stop."
"I thought you had to work, and Robert was picking me up."
Robert is nice. Don't get me wrong. I do like the guy, and he is super supportive, but I just feel that I'm not up to his standards with everyone else in our families. I didn't attend college, and went into the military right away after high school. It was four years, but at least I went, right? Except, just like everything else in my life, I didn't finish.
"I managed to finagle a couple hours away from the office. You can just drop me off at the door and I can call Robert for a ride home. I'm sure you want to get some sleep before dinner." She whips in and out of traffic, owning the road as usual. I never did scare easy in the vehicle, and she did teach me how to drive, but let's just say, our driving techniques are more advanced than everyone else.
"I'm good." Resting back into the cushion of the seat, I look out at the city streets flying by the window. No doubt the speed limit is only thirty, thirty-five at the most. Mom is clipping along at forty, damn near pushing forty-five. Lead foot. That is exactly where I get mine from. My mom.
That's the only thing I inherited from her. As for the smarts, the looks, the charm, and the strength, I missed that boat by five-hundred-thousand miles. Mom and my two brothers are all blondes with blue eyes. Gun metal, to be exact. Me. Not so much. Dark mass of curls, and brown eyes.
Though, we all average around the same height. So, maybe I got lucky in that department. I am five-seven. My brothers, on the other hand, complain that they didn't inherit the tall genes. I'm not sure why they complain, though. One was already married with three boys and the other was getting married in just a few weeks.
"You seem awfully quiet." She finds the brake pedal as the light changes from yellow to red. "Damn it. I could have made that."
And I am surprised that she didn't just go on through. It was yellow by the time she approached the crosswalk. Stale yellow, but still yellow. A little smile forces its way to my face. Yeah. I inherited her driving skills. There is no way to get around that.
"How are the books going?" Her finger taps the steering wheel as if she is counting down the time until the light changes to green.
"I'm not sure." I'm really not. I don't look at the sales, nor the account I have my royalties deposited in to. If I did, it would be more depression and more anxiety, and more...
Just thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach. I've been writing for so many years that I can't remember not writing. I just never went anywhere with it. That is, until the advancement of technology made it possible. Still, I just put the stuff up and that was it. Once I was done with a book, I moved on to the next.
"Hannah, you should know. Don't you check your account?"
I shrug.
"That's not very responsible."
I shrug again.
"Hannah..."
Green. The pedal is down and the car lurches forward.
I watch the bank pass by, the grocery store, a pharmacy, a guy wearing a stocking hat and carrying a ratty duffel bag. Anything to keep from listening to the lecture that is coming. I worked for a couple years after getting out of the service, and stockpiled the money. Every single damn cent I could. I could take the summer off to figure out what to do with my life now.
Besides, what is the point to living, anyway? I don't care. I am not anything special. The only thought I have is ... why am I still alive when the good people are dying? I would certainly give up my life for one of them to live any day. My heart is shattered, and there is nothing that can mend the pieces.
The city blocks turn into country fields, but then turn right back into city blocks again. I twist in my seat to look behind to see if I missed something. I hadn't. It is like I can see the other side of the city blocks just over the couple corn fields. Facing forward again, I swallow the thick lump in my throat and listen to the soft humming coming through the speakers.
In the snap of a finger, Mom pulls in front of a tall, glass building. The drive is a turn-around where two other fancy cars are parked right by the no parking signs.
"Okay, Hannah-Banana. Try to get some sleep. Quinn wants you to meet his wife-to-be, and Taylor is sure you won't even recognize the boys by now." She pushes open the door and slips out quickly to greet a grouping of business dressed people.
I open the car door and suck in the rich, city air. Even being so far away from the lake, I can still smell the aquatic scent that always litters in the air. And I hate it. I hated it before when I lived there, and I hate it now.
"This is my daughter, Hannah."
My ears perk, and I get out to see two tall and gorgeous women dressed in skirts and blouses that breathe money. One has the most beautiful auburn hair that is miraculously twisted into a clip, and the other has a short pixie cut that shapes her face. But then, he appears.
Tall, blond hair, and a hint of facial hair that is coming in for the evening. His shirt is a deep purple, and the silver tie is perfectly knotted.
"Hannah?" Mom waves her hand in front of my eyes, earning my attention. I look at her as the lump pools together in my throat. "Hannah, this is Shane Bartholomew. He is one of the marketing managers. He's not doing anything for now, and he said he could go over some marketing strategies with you."
I nod. His eyes are blue. Not like my brothers' eyes. Not like Mom's. But these are a real vibrant blue that just shoots out like lasers, crying look at me. And I am looking at them.
"I'm a bit hungry now." The words come out of my mouth, as I look over the blond haired man again before turning to Mom.
"We just came back from our meeting downtown. Why don't you join us?" the redhead asks. "I would love to talk about your books."
I breathe in, and then out. I study her for a moment. Her lips are plump and tinted with a deep red lipstick that seems to not dissolve. Probably one of those kinds that are one hundred dollars a tube and need special remover. Perfect—just like she is.
"She's a little tired. She just flew in." Mom places her hand on my back and steps closer to me.
"Your arms must be tired then." Blond guy steps forward on his left foot, reaching between the ladies, and his hand shoots out at me. Then, it brushes my arm and my heart jumps hard in my chest. Enough to make me gasp a little.
Instead of speaking, I turn my gaze to my arm where the contact was made. In the past year, nothing has gotten my heart to beat again. Not even a hint of beating. Until now.
"She's in zombie mode." Mom laughs and nudges me forward, closer to the strangers.
"I'm tired." I meet his eyes before I look down at the smooth concrete under my broken down black boots. They are my favorite, and I have had them since basic training. They are the most comfortable pair of footwear I own. It just really sucked untying them at airport security.
"Honey, you can go home. Robert should be there in an hour or two. The garage door opener is on the visor. Just let yourself in, and he will grab your bag and bring it in when he gets home." Her hand rubs circles on my back, through my plain black t-shirt.
I nod and push a curt smile to my face. I am tired. I am very tired, and the exhaustion is kicking in. But, I know what will happen once I get to the house. Though everything will be quiet, sleep will never come. Again. Just like every damn night.
The deep voice rumbles in the air again, and I look up to those laser blue eyes. His mouth moves, but I can't make out what the words are. He is saying something. But, those eyes.
I make myself look away, only to notice that everyone is now staring at me. Taking a step back, I hold up my hand and give a polite wave, telling everyone it was nice to meet them. Taking my chance, I rush around the back end of the brand new vehicle and slip into the driver's seat.
A car.
My mom was always a car driver.
I am now driving a car.
I wonder if she would get mad if I took a little detour, went to Kenosha, and drove it over Pepsi Hill to see if I could catch some air.
I bet I wouldn't be breathing when she found out. And that wouldn't be a bad thing.