September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (49 page)

Right after the candy, just above the
conveyor where my items are stacked, I spot the news magazines and
gossip rags. They all have pictures of the same things: those two
burning towers in New York. The terrorist attack that changed the
world and sparked a war. It’s been a few months, now. Everyone is
afraid of these terrorists, the unknown enemy.

Not me. I know who my enemies are. My
demon has a name and face, and I have defeated her. She can’t haunt
me anymore. I am no longer her victim.

I didn’t wait for anybody to give me a
second chance. I took it.

I’m moving forward, conquering the
terrain, carving my path as I go. I may not deserve it, but I have
it none the less. It would be stupid and wasteful not to take
advantage, at least for a little while. It is a different world and
I am a different person and I can find a way to live that will
honor Jake. I know I can.

Making my way through the parking lot
with my plastic bag, I’m heading for a new place in a direction.
I’m not stopping ‘til I see the Pacific ocean. I’ve never been to
the beach before and am looking forward to it.

After all I have been through, all
that has been taken from me, I have managed to take something back.
And even though I may not have everything I want, I have found
hope.

It’s a new day. Another opportunity to
make up for the past, to take a new direction, one in which my
future is not predetermined.

There is uncertainty, but there is
also possibility. And I’m not scared. I’m excited.

For the first time since losing Jake,
I have hope. Hope for a better tomorrow than yesterday. Hope for a
future. For contentment.

I’m grabbing it with both
hands
.

63

Three years later. . .

I was seventeen years old when
everything I knew blew apart. At twenty-seven, I’m still mending.
But I have something now that I didn’t have then: a new name. A new
life. The world is wide open for me.

I feel the emptiness of life without
Jake every day—some days more than others.

Today is a
more
day. Mainly because
I haven’t been able to shake off what happened this morning: I
think I saw
him
in the park.

I know how it sounds. It
makes me want to puke. I keep thinking,
I
saw someone who’s been dead for a decade and he was alive. He
looked younger, too, and happy
. But when I
think about the way it happened, it makes me wonder if there is a
possibility that it might have been real.

Being unsure about any part of any
detail of anything I see makes me want to puke all over again. I
haven’t heard voices or experienced any delusions in a long time.
I’m careful. I take care of myself: I exercise and eat right. I
don’t take risks.

I was walking through the
park across the street from where I live. It’s a short cut to the
nearest bus stop. A familiar route I take daily. Then, I heard
music. It’s not unusual to hear music in the park; people throw
parties there all the time. But this is Los Angeles, and the part I
live in, most of the music is played by mariachis or has an excess
amount of tubas and accordions. What I heard was an acoustic
guitar. I looked in the direction it came from and saw two boys,
young men really, sitting on the stone fountain in the parks’
center. They both looked to be teenagers, maybe early twenties. The
one with the guitar was thin and had curly brown hair. He smiled
and plucked, then began singing a song I’ve never heard before. As
he got into the chorus, I got closer—stopping dead when I saw the
lanky, brown-haired boy beside him. My heart dropped from my chest,
because it was
HIM!
Jake
—just like he used to look when I
first saw him at Joes’ Pizza—except he was sitting beside the boy
playing guitar, and tapping his hands on his knees, singing a
harmony.

I couldn’t take the chance that I was
seeing things again. I had to be seeing things—Jake is
dead.

So, I ran away as fast as I could. I
wasn’t dressed for a jog either. I was just starting my daily job
hunt, wearing my discount power-suit and heels—which I promptly
took off once I hit the pavement. I passed the bus stop and kept
going until I couldn’t see the park anymore. I ran until I had to
stop. By then, I was way on the other side of Figueroa.

I went into the first place
with an open sign, which happened to be a diner. The waitresses
were all wearing roller skates, but they had decent coffee and a
‘
Help Wanted
’ ad
in the window. I filled out an application. It doesn’t pay much
beyond tips, but it comes with a one room loft to make up for it. I
don’t want to sling hash for a living, but am running out of
options.

+++

As I stalk through the grassy park
early the next morning, I’m singing a new song I heard on the
radio. It’s by this band called My Chemical Romance. Humming ‘I’m
Okay,’ I’m careful to keep most of my weight on the balls of my
feet so my heels don’t sink into the spongy ground.

I left a little bit early because I
have a job interview at that diner, but I also want to search the
park. The muscles in my calves tighten uncomfortably, like a spasm
might be coming on. I bend down and flip my heels off—problem
solved. Then, it’s a leisurely stroll, through the soft green
grass, not caring if the bottoms of my stocking feet are stained
for the duration of their short life. The cool grass feels
good.

Better still, there is no music
playing this morning. No acoustic guitars. No haunting young boys
with bronze hair and hazel eyes.

+++

Taking a deep breath, I sit
down at the back table, across from an older, heavy-set man. His
name tag says,
Zane
. He has buzzed salt and pepper hair and bright blue eyes.
His hand rests across the table. In it, he holds my application.
Glancing between me and the paper, he takes a deep
breath.

“Can you skate?”

I nod, “Yes, sir.”

“How good are you?”

“Been skating my whole life. It’s one
of my favorite things to do.”

He nods. “You know this is under the
table, right? I need someone who won’t ask for a W-2, which is why
the job comes with the apartment upstairs and two comp meals a day.
Another employee puts Mom and Pop into a higher tax bracket and
they’re gonna be retiring in a few years.”

I nod my head as if this is standard.
“Yes. Your parents own the place?”

“Nah. I’m the night manager. I came in
this morning for the interview.” Zane takes a napkin from the
dispenser on the table and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Mom
and Pop is just easier to say than Henrietta and Voytek.” He smiles
at his little attempt at humor, so I do, too.

“Would I have to buy my own
skates?”

Zane shakes his head. “We’ll provide
you with a pair. What’s your size?”

“Six and a half.” I mumble. “What
about a uniform?” The other waitresses are all wearing black
bottoms with monogrammed pockets and hot pink button-down shirts.
They look like a ladies bowling league on roller skates.

“It’s twenty-five for the uniform. You
pay when you can. You know, most people don’t want to move for a
low paying job.”

“Well, it suits me. I don’t own a car
and I’m in my second year of business school. My night class is
just down the street. Right now, I’ve got five roommates who are
all model-slash-actresses moonlighting as dancers. The house is a
constant party-zone and I need a quiet place to study.”

He smiles wide and sets a small silver
key on the table between us. “You’ll do. The place is small, but
it’s clean. I’ll give you a few days to get moved in. You can start
Wednesday morning at seven.”

“
Great.” My face is
stretched in an uncontainable grin.

Now I just have to learn how to
skate.

+++

I stare down at the saucer and cup in
my hand. The coffee shudders inside the ceramic mug as I set it on
the tabletop in front an elderly man. They say he’s here every
Tuesday. He’s not the reason I’m shaking. It’s not the working on
skates, either. I’m a natural skater. The first time I put them on,
I could just do it. It’s easy, mostly. And way more fun than
walking. I just have to remember not to swing my feet out too far
on either side so I don’t kick the chairs or roll over customers
toes.

It’s the song on the radio that’s
playing through the diner. Usually the music is from one of the
jukeboxes, but when it’s slow, like now, the radio kicks on. It’s
supposed to be an easy listening station.

This song is anything but
easy.
Angel
by
Aerosmith.

The sound of it still makes me want to
smile, then I can’t help but remember what happened, which makes me
want to curl up and die.

Leaving the coffee and cream on the
table, I turn and head back to the counter to keep busy.

One of the beautiful things about the
state of California, aside from the natural beauty, is when the
state asks if you’re a convicted felon, and you check the ‘no’ box,
they take your word for it. I found that out when I applied for
state health insurance—it’s one of those unenforced laws. I have to
manage. Management is the most important thing. I needed insurance
to pay for my meds and therapy. Part of maintaining good mental
health is staying away from stressful situations. Don’t get too
hungry, too angry, or too sleepy. Those are my triggers. Oh, and I
have to ask for help when I need it.

The last notes of the song fade into
an Elvis tune as my name is called.

“Sheri-berry!” The grating voice of my
boss calls out to me.

“Coming,” I call back to Chip, and
make one more swipe over the glass pie case before rolling to the
doorway of the kitchen to poke my head inside.

Chip is a good manager and
a shitty speller. My name is supposed to be
Sherry,
like the wine. But when Chip
printed up my nametag, it was spelled with one R and an I, like
some mid-western idiot made it up. So I roll around for ten hours a
day with my misspelled name pinned to my chest. Even so, everyone
calls me Sheri-berry, rhyming like a stupid playground name
game.

For obvious reasons, I had to change
it. I chose the best I could—the one that was easiest to remember.
The lyrics from Jakes first song gave me Sherry, and then I took my
mothers’ last name, Barry. I guess I was asking for it.

I’ve settled into something
here at this little out of the way diner in an old neighborhood.
It’s my own routine. I work in the days and go to school at night
and make time for therapy, eating, sleeping, and homework in
between. It’s an odd sort of normal—maybe something like
that
normal
that
everyone is always talking about. The one they openly reject and
secretly savor.

“You rang?” My voice is low, monotone,
imitating Lurch from that old Munsters TV show. Funny to those of
us who are too poor for cable. If it weren’t for public access, I’d
have no culture. Besides, Chip happens to look a lot like that
creeper. But I don’t tell him that because he’s the only son of
owners, Voytek and Henrietta.

“Table two’s waiting and Jeanine’s on
her break,” he orders from over the rim of his glasses.

I salute him and take two greasy menus
under one arm, fill two glasses with water, and head on
over.

“Hello, my name is Sheri. Can I get
you something to drink?” I set the glasses down, then the menus in
the center and go for my writing pad. Focused. Poised, with my
pen-tip set to paper, anticipating. The two guys grab the ice
water, down them in a flash, and then ask for refills with what
sounds like strong accents. Every other person in L.A. has an
accent, though. You get used to them.

When I get back with the water pitcher
to grant the request, their noses are buried behind the lunch
menus.

“How much for an order of chips?” One
with curly hair says.

“They’re French fries, here.” The
second says.

“Half-order or whole?” I ask, and then
realize I haven’t looked at their faces. I’ve been concentrating on
not banging the tips of my skates on the chair legs.

Eye contact makes me go weak in the
knees. The man who asked about fries looks exactly like the boy
from the park.

The boy who looks exactly
like
Jake
.

My mouth goes dry when I see those
hazel eyes, set under a strong brow and full lips, slightly
puckered as he focuses on my wide eyes and gaping jaw.

The name flies out, taking my breath
with it. “Jake?”

Hazel eyes stare widely back at me.
“What’s that?” His full lips ask with an English accent.

My skates roll back from the table.
The oblong restaurant zooms by. Chip and the cooks watch me plow
through the kitchen. A few voices crack out questions, but I can’t
stop. The air breezes by as I make my way out the back door of the
kitchen, leaving their questions unanswered. I have a few of my own
that I need to sort, first.