Featherlight

Copyright © 2012 by Laura Fields

All rights reserved. This book may not be
reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from
the author.

It all began on a rainy day. Weak light filtered in from outside while
lightning flashed. The calming pit-pat of rain dripped off the roof, broken by
the occasional clap of thunder. The storm was bad, which meant no internet or
TV until things cleared up, but it didn’t matter; I was reading an exciting
book on my favorite chair. The chair of green and dark blue had been in the
family for generations. Its worn seat and smooth edges had the power to comfort
me like no other object.

The storm was large and threatening, which should be intimidating to a
girl at home alone. It wasn’t. The comforting sounds of a Texas storm were
perfectly normal because I was born and raised here. The only time a storm
wasn’t comforting was when there was a tornado warning. A tornado could
completely eradicate our trailer house and eat me for supper.

Luckily, it had hit in the middle of the day, and I could see
everything that was happening right outside the window from where I was
sitting. With a sigh, I closed my book, grabbed my glasses, and stood. The
thunder clapped again, as if applauding my movement, and the room lit up
momentarily while the rain increased. The living room was quite small, with a little
window facing the scraggly back yard. Behind the yard were the woods.

Thick trees dominated the area behind the house, large and menacing. I
explored it, occasionally, when I was thinking deep and mysterious thoughts. I
loved to go a small ways into the woods, just enough to be out of view of the
house, and to pretend to be different person. An assassin, a person running for
their life, a werewolf, or just anything that would strike my fancy that day. I
would sit on the leaves, look around, and
think.
My personal way of
venting. Of course, that was before everything changed.

I left the room and the storm picked up, slowly increasing in
intensity. Slowly, I walked down the hall and looked around my dark and empty
home. Only Mom, my aunt (on occasion), and I lived here. The house was old and
had two bedrooms. Let me tell you, when a storm rolled in, it was downright
creepy.

My favorite part of the old house, though, was the study. Most of my
time was spent in the room reading. I always loved learning new things, and
since there was so much information out there on the web and in books, I needed
to take full advantage of it.

As I reached the kitchen to grab something to eat, I noticed that the
rain and thunder had started to lessen. Even though I was far from hungry, I
was trying to decide what to cook when the phone rang. I checked the caller ID before
answering.

“Hello?” I asked, already knowing mom was calling to check on me.

“Hey Jacque, I just been called to do an emergency deliver and won’t
be home for a while.” She paused. “I just wanting to make sure you’re good with
me being gone for a few days. Your aunt will be there to check on you soon.”

My aunt Linda came over from time to time to see how I was fairing.
She was a little bit younger than my mom’s 39 years. Since she was like a
second mom to me, I told her that would be fine.

Kudos to my mom for asking my permission to leave, because we both
knew she would still go even if I wanted her to stay here. I thought it was odd
that they would call in an emergency deliver right before thanksgiving, but I guess
someone had to do it.

“Sure thing Mom, stay safe.”

She asked again if I was going to be okay, and I reassured her.

Mom was a truck driver. I know, I know. That’s an odd occupation for a
woman. She was gone a lot because of her job, so I’ve been staying at the house
by myself since I was little. She usually comes home late at night and leaves
early in the morning. Mom would hire babysitters for me during the day but
stopped when I was old enough to be home alone without burning down the house. The
solitude was never as bad after school started because I was so busy with
classes. Summer was a different matter, but Mom won’t let me get a job because
we “don need da money.”

We hung up, and a guilty knot settled in my stomach. I was recovering
from induction chemo therapy, and I knew that she felt terrible for not being
here for me.

I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia, which basically
translates to mean that I was very, very unlucky. To get rid of the Leukemia,
the doctors made me have 5 light chemotherapy sessions. The last session was a
week ago, and I had another check-up appointment tomorrow.

The first couple days of chemo were easy. There were so many bad
stories about it all that I expected to feel terrible a few minutes after my first
session. Instead, it took three days before I felt the full effects. In the
beginning, I felt nauseous and my lips began cracking. It only got worse from
there, and to make a long story short, it was not fun.

I had been getting better every day after the last treatment. I still
felt slightly weak but much more alive than I had one month ago. Although the
chemo sessions were a nightmare, nothing was as bad as losing my hair. The
silky locks had flowed down my back, but after my hair started falling out I
had it buzzed. Luckily, all of my dark eyelashes and eyebrows had stayed. It
still sucked that I had to wear a hat in public, because my head was as bare as
a baby’s bottom. Not wanting to think too much on my leukemia, I turned all
thoughts to my mom.

I loved her dearly, and I worried about her, worrying about me. She
always preached about how I should never let anyone walk on me, that I’m my own
person, and I need to have my own opinions. She taught me to be strong during
chemo and she taught me that men were not the answer to life (which didn’t make
any sense, coming from her).

It took ten years of abuse for her to learn to say ‘no.’ I would have
stopped the bastard, but it all started when I was the ripe age of 4, and,
unfortunately, I developed an extreme fear of my father. I never stood up for
myself. Fear kept me immobilized for the duration of my childhood while my
mother and I were harmed.

At 14 years old, I saw my mother slapped one too many times. My
glasses were crushed on the ground next to me, but that didn’t make the sight of
them any less alarming. Peeking out of the hallway closet, I blurrily watched
her shove my dad with all the strength she could muster.

“Get out!” She yelled and he stumbled. “I hate you! Just leave us
alone!”

He left. Just like that. I ran to my mom and hugged her, carefully not
pressing my bruised cheek into her chest. All I can say is that he better be
glad he hasn’t shown his face in years, because I’ve gotten over my fear of
him. At least, I hope I have.

I didn’t date. It’s not that I’m unattractive, I just didn’t trust men.
I can thank my father for that. Besides, Mom and I are living proof that we
don’t need a man in our life. Mom makes a descent living, and I’m perfectly
happy without a dad.

I didn’t attract much attention at school. At least, I didn’t back
before the chemo started. With glasses, typical features, and standing at a
grand total of 5 feet and 1 inch, I never merited attention. As long as I kept
my head down, no one messed with me, and the interested guys usually gave up
after I didn’t respond to their stupid pick-up lines.

Being 19, I had a driver’s license and could drive myself to and from
school, but other than that I didn’t go out much. I guess I was just an
introvert. I liked to go see what other people were up to, how they acted, what
they talked about. I liked watching others.

Books, to me, were a safe haven. I read how people interacted and
developed friendships, lovers, and enemies. I always loved the stories with a
good, strong heroine. One who wasn’t afraid to stand up in what she believed in,
like my mother. One who didn’t care what people thought.

The storm had passed, and chirping crickets signaled late evening. The
sun was hiding behind clouds, but the day was still considerably lighter than earlier.
I stretched and gave up cooking, deciding to go for a walk instead. On my way
out the kitchen, I glanced at the calendar. It was the middle of November and
cool outside. Deciding that my improving health after chemo deserved a
celebration, I put on a long sleeved shirt, pants, gloves, and a hat. I then
bravely stepped outside and headed for the woods.

 The cool air blew gently around me and softly rustled the trees. My
steps were smothered by the damp leaves on the floor of the woods. Staying on
the path, I went to my favorite spot to think. The small clearing held a thick
log running through the middle, caught by another tree a foot in the air. I
perched on the damp bark, letting my feet dangle.

It took a lot of effort to walk down here, even though it wasn’t far.
Thanks to the after-effects of chemo, my breaths came hard and my stomach hurt.
I let my thoughts quickly fly me away from my current pain.

One day, I was going to open a shelter for abused children and
mothers. I was going to advocate for equal treatment of women in all homes. Who
says equal treatment ends at the workplace? I was going to stand up for the
women who were too afraid to do it themselves, like my mom. I would change the
world.

 If I had remembered my book, I would have sat there and read until
the sun set. Instead, I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the woods.
Birds chirping, twigs cracking, leaves rustling. Nature healed me in ways like no
amount of rest could.

Wait, did I hear twigs cracking? I opened my eyes and glanced down,
hoping to see some wildlife. A rabbit, perhaps. I didn’t see anything, but I
did
hear something, or someone.

“Don’t fall asleep, lovely.” The woods seemed to whisper.

A man. Adrenaline pumped through my body, and I remembered to keep my
expression neutral. Who was out there? I would show no fear. These were
my
woods.
I
owned them, and he was trespassing. I crossed my arms over my chest
and decided to look annoyed that this stranger disturbed my peace, even though
my heart thumped from fear. My fight or flight response was kicking in, and it
was telling me to run. Run fast.

“These woods are lovely, dark, and deep…” He murmured from somewhere
deeper in the forest. It was a test. A challenge. He was seeing if I had the guts
to stand my ground. I couldn’t let him know how frightened I truly was. And to
think that I was hoping to glimpse a rabbit earlier. Oh, the irony.

 I decided to reply. Show no fear. Also, I couldn’t refuse a
challenge.

“But I have promises to keep,” I told the hidden stranger as I slid
off my log. When I was safely on the ground, I finished my part, “And miles to
go before I sleep.”

I began backing away, towards the house. As I was backpedaling, a man
emerged from the woods and smiled. The classic predator. He was around 40 years
old with graying dark hair, and that was all I noticed before my instincts took
over and I was sprinting through the woods.

The women in my adventure books would have stayed and fought. Stood
their ground. Of course, I wasn’t trained to kill a person, and I didn’t have a
gun strapped to my boot or a knife in my belt. So, doing what any other sane
person would do, I tucked my tail and ran.

I used to be fit. Every Thursday, Mom insisted that I walk to private
self-defense classes, even though I was sure that no one would attack me. I
liked the classes and learned a few cool tricks. They kept me in good shape,
too. On cool spring days I used to run through the woods or around the
neighborhood. I could run for quite a while, and I could have been fast if I wanted
to be.

That was before my leukemia. That was before the chemotherapy.
Regardless, even if before-chemo Jacque had been running, this person behind me
would have caught her. Before-Jacque’s pride would have been wounded at the
thought of a man over forty beating her, but I was too busy to think about that.

 The house was within view, and I had about a ten yard head start. He
caught up to me just as I emerged from the woods. I was about two steps into
our back yard before he tackled me and we both went down. He made sure to turn us
so that I landed on him while he landed on the ground.