Читать книгу True Confessions - Electa Rome Parks - Страница 7

“Kennedy, baby, you ate like a sick bird. Look at this. You left the majority of your food on your plate. This is not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. You need to eat more, dear, in order to get your strength back,” Mother stated, lifting and retrieving the small bamboo food tray from my lap. She had even included a small vase of fresh, colorful flowers to brighten my day. Everyone who knew me knew I adored fresh-cut flowers of all shades and varieties. I would splurge on flowers the way some women treated themselves to a new outfit or shoes.

“I’m not really hungry, Mother,” I declared, changing position and turning away with my back to her. I didn’t want her to see the frustration that was clearly etched across my pinched, crunched-up face.

I understood she meant well, but I only ate as much as I did to please her. I didn’t have an appetite, and I certainly didn’t feel like talking. In fact, I didn’t feel like doing anything but sleeping. I wanted to curl up in a tiny, tight ball, pull my covers over my head, and simply sleep my meaningless life away. Sleep was my comfort and salvation.

“Since when did you start leaving my famous scrambled eggs, grits, and country ham on your plate?”

I didn’t bother to answer. I only pretended to be sleepy as I faked a wide-mouthed yawn. I didn’t even bother to cover my mouth with my hand.

“Usually, by now, you are on your second helping,” Mother volunteered, picking up a few discarded clothes from the floor and placing them in the hamper.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m kinda tired. I think I’m going to nap for a while.”

Even though I didn’t see her face, I knew Mother was staring at me with that worried expression on her butter-pecan face. It was the expression she tried so hard to disguise when I was looking directly at her.

“Baby, that is not acceptable. You just woke up. You’ve only been awake a little over an hour. We have a beautiful day ahead of us and you can’t spend it sleeping all day.” To prove her point, Mother strolled over to my bedroom window and boldly opened my mini blinds so that the early morning sunlight greeted me with a blinding, direct glare.

I groaned and shielded my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Here, sit up,” she commanded, attempting to fluff up my down pillows, and gently propping them behind my back. She reached for the journal that sat on my nightstand.

“Why don’t you write in your journal for a while?” she asked, holding it out to me like she was offering a piece of candy to a small child.

“Mother, I really don’t—”

“That nice doctor said that writing down your thoughts would help you, be therapeutic. Help you come to grips with this, uh, this situation. Here. Take this and let me go and find you a pen. Or do you prefer a pencil?”

“A pen is fine, Mother.”

Reluctantly, I sat up completely and resigned myself to writing in my new journal. Actually, I had kept journals in the past, especially during my college days when life was so new and exciting. I wrote everything down. Up until that point, I had led a somewhat sheltered life.

Reading and writing were major parts of my life; at least, they were before Drake. Reading took me to places I had never been and enabled me to meet bold and exciting new friends. In my books, female heroines did and said things I could only imagine and read about. They were powerful. Something that I wasn’t.

Maybe if I pleased Mother, cooperated, and pretended to feel better, she would go home, back across town to her townhome, sooner rather than later.

Today was my first full day back home from the hospital and Mother decided on her own that she’d move in with me and nurse me back to my old self. The problem was that I didn’t know if I wanted to go back to my previous existence. I didn’t like the old me.

“There you go, baby,” she said, walking back into the room and handing me the Uni-ball purple pens I adore.

“Thank you.”

“You entertain yourself and I’m going to clean up around here until lunchtime. What do you feel like eating today? I know you are glad to be away from that nasty hospital food.”

I shrugged my shoulders because I really didn’t care. Food was the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.

That didn’t derail Mother; she continued to chitchat. “What about a nice salad and a baked chicken breast?”

“That’s fine.” I attempted to offer a smile.

Mother seemed pleased as she ran her hand across my dresser top. “You really should dust around here. Got dust bunnies everywhere. I found one behind your sofa that was big as a small cat. You know I didn’t raise you like that.”

“Okay, could you shut my bedroom door behind you? Please?”

There it was again. That look. I saw that look flash across her pretty face again. Just for a quick moment, a second. If you weren’t careful, you’d miss it. That look that said she was afraid to close the door. Afraid of what I might do to myself behind closed doors. Frightened I might try to hurt myself again.

“Mother, I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll call you if I need anything.” I even managed a faint, small smile again.

Hesitantly, Mother left my bedroom and closed my door, with an inch left ajar. That inch spoke silent volumes. I heard her moving around in my living room and tiny kitchen. Drawers were opened and closed. Water was run in the kitchen sink. I lay back and closed my eyes as I felt that familiar blackness attempt to engulf me; completely overtake me. I pulled my comforter around me like a cocoon of protection and security. My temples were throbbing.

Meanwhile, in the living room, the vacuum cleaner started up, with Mother humming loudly in the background. Crooning one of her favorite tunes, “Amazing Grace”. Then, I heard the familiar sounds of a morning talk show coming on. There was definitely no sleeping now. I looked down and once again examined my brand-new leather journal and thought why not. It had tons of blank, lined pages to write on. Maybe if I wrote some of my thoughts down, I could make some sense of the turn my life had taken. But where to begin? I remembered a college professor telling us that every story has a beginning, middle, and ending. Simple enough. I’d start at the beginning.