Teach Me To Live (Teach Me - Book One) (3 page)

“Madison, you’re home,” Mom’s voice flooded the entrance of our grand foyer. I quickly shifted to hide the pink ink currently throbbing against the skin of my hand. Any kind of ink on the body is a negative thing in Dad’s eyes. Mom sees the world the way Dad views it. She’s a good wife. She’s a loyal wife.

Mom is the perfect woman. She’s kind, gracious, and charitable. She’s everything I wish I could want to become. But I just don’t. I long for so much more. I just don’t exactly know what that more is yet. Adventure maybe?

“I was just out—getting a—um, coffee.” I stuttered, watching with a wildly beating heart as her deep brown eyes trailed slowly over my face. They roamed over the conservative pink summer dress I wore and down to my proper wedge sandals.

She took a small step toward me, inclining her head slightly forward. “Are you feeling all right, dear?”

“I am,” I bobbed my head assuredly even though I felt my freaking heart was about to rip from my chest. My heart rarely ever lay in my chest with obedience. My anxiety didn’t allow me much in the name of calm. “I’ll go wash up before dinner.”

She nodded tightly. Obviously suspicious of my abnormal behavior, I could feel her eyes trail my movement as I skirted around her.

“Of course,” she clasped her hands before her belly. “Your Father is on his way and dinner will be ready soon.”

I didn’t reply as I made a mad, and likely inappropriate, dash for the stairs. Without looking behind me, I took each step quickly and I prayed I’d make it to my room before my heart exploded, ending me right here and now, before I even had a chance to decide if I planned on calling the man who so brazenly wrote his number on my hand.

Jeez, who in the world was I kidding? I wouldn’t call him. I didn’t possess the ginormous lady balls one would need to pick up the phone and call some enigmatic man I’d spoken to in a coffee shop for all of, well, five whole minutes.
And let’s face it—size matters.

With a trembling hand, I opened my bedroom door and pushed through the threshold into my personal space. It was girly; like, really girly, and sort of childish. I hated it.

The lacy white frills were enough to kick-start my gag reflex. I’d been bugging Mom and Dad to allow me to at least redecorate my room for months. They still hadn’t given me an answer. I knew Dad was afraid that I was growing up. Ditching the lacy frills was another notch of evidence that his fear was, in fact, valid.

Pressing my back against the closed door, I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged my arms around my midsection tightly. I could feel the pounding of my heart, the rushing of blood through my veins, and the unsteady pull of each ragged breath. Behind my eyes a bright white light pulsed as I breathed in and out. In and out.
In and out.

I knew I should probably seek help for this new feeling of anxiety. It’d started only a short six months ago when the reality of University applications became a very common topic of family conversation. High School was finished. Finals were written and passed. Every new day I faced the very intimidating rest of my life.

The pressure to conform to the young woman Mom and Dad wanted me to be was debilitating. The weight of their expectations crushed me from the inside out. I felt as though my spirit were locked in a box, and my body was that box. Do you know the kind of desperation that’s building inside of me? The kind that convinces you that your own body is the prison you should fear most? The kind that pushes you to escape any way you can?

Every new day, I swallow the despondency building inside of me. Every new day, I pray that today isn’t the day the volcano of my caged emotions chooses to erupt, wreaking havoc on the intricate perfection that is my existence. Every new day, I pray that this day might be the day I find the courage to beg for a chance to meet the spirit inside my body—the girl I long to be.

Every new day I fear her.

The racing of my pulse hasn’t calmed by the time I push myself from the door. It doesn’t take long to cover the distance of my bedroom floor to the ensuite bathroom. Flicking on the lights, I scowl at my reflection in the mirror. How everyone sees a girl of calm perfection when they look at me is confounding. All I see when I stare at my reflection is chaos.

Is it possible to be considered perfect by so many and loathe yourself with every fiber of your being?

I know; I’m being ridiculous. Some would even say melodramatic. But this is how I feel inside. It’s the honest truth and that’s saying something considering the fact that I lie more to everyone and to myself, more than I admit the truth. I’m a coward, I know. But lying is just so much easier. It’s easier to pretend that you have this wonderful life and these wonderful plans, than it is to admit you don’t have a freaking clue.

I have this wonderful life worthy of the front page of a posh magazine, and yet I’m whining. Really, it’s ironic. I’m spoiled rotten and yet so deprived.

I’m utterly pathetic.

Turning on the tap, I shoved my hands beneath the water before I remembered the number. It takes me all of a second to pull my hands from the stream in a desperate attempt to salvage the line of inked salvation.

Patting my hands dry, I moved quickly from the bathroom to my journal beneath my pillow. I’m a writer. It’s a hidden passion, and I say hidden because Dad believes writers are somewhat of a joke. He thinks we’re all a bunch of emotional, manipulative cracks. I think he lacks the ability to appreciate a dose of good emotion, but hey, a career in facts will do that to a person, right?

Don’t get me wrong; I love my Dad. I freaking adore him. I just wish he adored me in return. I know he dotes on me, but it’s not the
me
I house inside my body. The girl my family knows is the girl they wanted me to be. The girl they molded me to be. And, I know that in part, it’s my fault. Never once over the years that I allowed them to mold me, have I fought the girl they wanted me to be.

Stealing a breath for bravery, I penned the smudged phone number into the journal. By the time I wrote the last digit, the pounding in my heart wasn’t the familiar claiming of anxiety. Instead, the pounding was owed to the intoxication that was the rush of new possibilities and excitement.

I didn’t know if I would call him—ever. Yet, knowing that I had his number and that I could call him at any point was exhilarating. For once in my life, I was doing the forbidden. I had a boy’s number. And he was a boy I knew Dad wouldn’t approve of. Covered in tattoos with penetrating blue eyes, I had a feeling he’d romanced many a girl from her panties. The man whose number I now held in the safe confines of my journal was a man Dad would raise the roof over. That’s if he ever found out that his sweet little girl was even considering something as profane as contacting him.

Smiling to myself with a new kind of hope I had yet to experience before this moment, I made my way to the bathroom to once again wash the ink from my hands. As I watched the pink spill away from my skin, the feeling that I had a secret became all the more satisfying.

“Have you given further consideration to the applications?” Dad’s voice sounded on the tail end of a large swallow of red wine.

I felt my spine stiffen, but I kept my face impassive. “Yes. I’m considering the University of Alberta.”

“Really?” He paused to regard me closely. “Why?”

“I’d prefer to stay close to home,” I said. I knew my father. That was the answer he wanted to hear—and that was the answer I gave.

Daddy smiled. “Yes, you’ve always been a homebody.”

I nodded, because that was true. All throughout Junior High and High School, I had been a homebody. I rarely went out with friends and that was probably because I didn’t have all that many. However, it could be argued that I didn’t have many friends because I didn’t really go out. It really depended on how you looked at it. Was the glass half empty or half full?

“I have,” I nodded, forking my carrots around my plate. I’d lost my appetite.

“I’m glad to hear you’re giving University serious consideration, Madison. It’s important.” Dad announced as though I didn’t know this. “You know that, right?”

“Of course, Daddy,” I forced a tight smile. My Father was a good man. He loved me more than I could possibly know. He was my Daddy and I was his little girl. He wanted what was best for me—but did he really know what was best for me?

He beamed, falling victim to my sweet façade. “Would you like to know what else is important?”

I shrugged, feeling suddenly tense. “I would.”

“You’re nearly nineteen years old. Your Mother and I have been discussing your living arrangements for a while . . .” his words trailed off and I tried to quiet the rushing of blood behind my ears.

My living arrangements?
Were they saying what I thought they were saying? Was I going to get my own apartment?

“What about my living arrangements?” My eyes moved back and forth between Mom and Dad. I was certain, that if one of them didn’t speak soon, I would have a seizure.

Mom clasped her hands together giddily as she announced. “You’re soon going to be free of your frills!”

My heart deflated slightly as my mind went from my own apartment to a bedroom makeover. “Great,” I smiled, honestly grateful for the news.

“Have you finished eating, dear?” Mom asked, her voice vibrating with excitement. Did she plan on stripping the frills from my room tonight?

“Um,” I shifted nervously. “Yeah.”

Mom’s eyes landed excitedly on Dad. “Can we show her now?”

“Of course, darling,” Dad’s eyes remained lovingly on my Mother. In spite of all their faults, my parent’s truly did have an inspiring marriage. After all these years, and all their hardships—and there had been many—they were still together. Love wasn’t lost between them. As proper as Mom and Dad were, they were kind-hearted and loving both between themselves and toward me. Again, I was a lucky girl.

I followed my parent’s from the dining room to the back patio. They took the small stone walkway through the garden to the pool house, hand in hand. The pool house was a grand and yet intimate space reserved for guests. I didn’t understand what they were doing leading me to the pool house.

Dad turned to ask me eagerly with a hand on the doorknob. “Are you ready, Madison?”

I nodded slowly, nibbling at the corner of my lip as I tried to keep my growing anxiety in check. “Sure, Daddy.”

He beamed as he swung the door open wide. “Tell me what you think?”

Eyeing my parent’s with a look that announced clearly that I thought they’d lost their minds, I stepped into the pool house. The entirety of the pool house had been redone in shades of warm beige and spa green. A deep mocha hardwood floor glimmered in the golden afternoon sunlight peering through the soft green curtains. The space wasn’t large by any means, but it was an intimate and perfect guest suite.

I turned back to my parent’s. “You redid the pool house?”

How had I not noticed the workers trekking in and out of the house? How was it possible that the pool house had gone from the pleasant place it was to this serene space I was currently standing within, without my noticing?