Story Time!

No Nano for me this year, but I am still writing. Here is more of my book, where I left off in August. (BTW, no internet connection yet -- it's a loooong story.)

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“Your Dad’s birthday is tomorrow.” Camille put more sugar into her coffee, stirring the brew into a mini tornado.

Olivia brought the mug back onto the table faster than she meant to. The dull clang brought the waitress over, who cleared their breakfast dishes away. She didn't want to talk about her father - didn't want to think about him either.

“I know he wasn’t there for you much, but he did love you, Livy.” She paused, taking a shaky drink of coffee. “Just didn’t know how to show it is all.” From the wounded look on Camille’s face, Olivia wondered if she blamed herself for that. She shouldn’t. Her Gran gave love freely, even to grandkids she hadn’t seen for eight years.

"Its fine, Gran, really. He was always on the road anyway. It doesn't matter." Please let it go, Olivia begged in her mind.

Camille pinned her with a sad look. Her soft face looked tighter than normal, the line around her lips was stark white against her flushed skin. "It's been three months since the accident. We're going to have to talk about it eventually."

"Why?!" Olivia slapped her hand on the table. Why did Gran have to bring this up now? After all of this time she had to bring it up on her birthday?

“Because you haven’t talked about it at all. You barely talk to anyone; you haven’t tried to make any friends. I know you must be angry; feeling guilty too I think…”

“No! I don’t feel guilty. Maybe if Dad hadn’t been on the road so often it never would have happened.” Olivia knew she was making a scene, but didn’t care. She could feel the heat of anger on her face. “But then, he wasn’t on the road all that much after all, was he?”

“Livy, I don’t think…”

“You weren’t there, Gran. You didn’t hear the way those reporters taunted me; mobbed our house. ‘Have you met your other Mom yet, Olivia?’ and ‘How could you not know that your Dad had another family?’ When I refused to answer them, they got even more evil. ‘Did those other people die because he was coming home to you?’ As if it were my fault he plowed into that bus!”

An old man in a blue plaid jacket turned to look at her from his swiveling seat at the counter. A few feet away, a waitress looked up from taking an order and locked eyes with Olivia, briefly, before turning her attention back to her customer.

Olivia slid out of the booth and ran to the door; she burst out into the frigid air which bit into her, sucking the warmth from her bones. Behind her, the diner’s door stuck open in the wind. She leaned against it heavily and the wind gave way, slamming the door hard against its frame with a violent tinkle of sleigh bells against glass. She walked to the corner before she realized she didn’t really want to leave the warm lights of the diner.

Why is it always gray here, Olivia wondered as she stood on the sidewalk, her arms crossed over her chest. In Denver the sun came out, even in the winter, on a regular basis. She’d been in Maine since late October and had seen the sun only once, maybe twice. Olivia had always pictured Maine, and her grandmother’s home, as the magical summer haven of her parents’ childhood. Blue skies and sea air. Brightly colored beach towels on sandy beaches packed with treasures swept in with the tide. When Olivia was very small, her mother used to tell her stories of adventures on Old Orchard Beach; the mean pranks she and her friends would pull on the tourists. Her mother would laugh as she told the stories, her eyes lighting up in a way they seldom did otherwise. Most of the stories hadn’t been very funny to Olivia, but she had loved hearing them and feeling close to the place that seemed so far removed from their landlocked home. Olivia closed her eyes against the bitter wind. From where she stood, she couldn’t smell the sea.

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BACK TO CURRENT
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Olivia fumbled frantically through the quilt. Where was it? She hadn't even touched the quilt since she put the rope ladder under it. The daylight was almost gone; the room filling with night.
A hushed voice floated up the stairwell, “I'll check upstairs.”

Abandoning hope of finding the missing rope ladder, Olivia ran on her tiptoes to the window. It wasn’t such a long drop. The roof of the back porch was just to the left of the window, the old gray asphalt-shingled platform her best prospect for escape. From there, if she jumped just right, she’d land atop her grandmother’s wild, untamed flower bed. Olivia was glad she hadn’t thought to weed it.

Bending down, she put her face to the gate of Ziggy’s cage. “It’s plan B, Zigs.” She undid the clasp and pulled open the gate. Ziggy sprung from his prison and galloped down the hall. Though she wanted to take Ziggy with her, Olivia knew she didn’t have time to figure out how. The squeaky steps gave away any stealth they attempted. They were close now.

The window stuck from the humidity of the night, it protested as she separated it from its frame. Olivia could feel her time running out. Subtly was not going to save her now. She heaved the window the rest of the way open and climbed outside, throwing one leg over the sash, then the other.

Dangling over the porch roof, her fingers clamped onto the window frame, Olivia froze, struck by doubt. What if she really hurt herself when she fell? What if she didn’t land on the porch roof? Her arms stretched with her weight and the wood casing creaked. Knowing she couldn’t afford to hesitate any longer, Olivia swung her body side to side creating the momentum she hoped would land her on her target. With a loud crack and a shot of adrenaline, Olivia fell. She landed on her side atop the porch roof, the wind knocked from her lungs, the white painted window trim still clutched in her hands. Her legs felt raw, the gritty surface of the cement shingles clawing at her bare skin as she pulled herself up. Had she screamed when she fell? She couldn’t remember now. Olivia dropped window trim on the roof, close to the house, scooting it under the eave to protect it from summer storms. I’ll fix it when I get back, she thought. For now, her Gran’s bedroom window would remain scarred; the old, unpainted siding beneath it exposed.

She didn't pause to take further stock of the situation. Her side aching from the fall, Olivia moved slowly down the sharp pitch of the roof to its lowest point, just above the height of the garden weeds. She dangled her feet over the edge, closed her eyes and let go. The ground was much closer than she anticipated and she landed hard on her feet, the momentum from the fall pushing her backward onto a spike of yellow tulips. Instantly she knew that she'd injured her ankle. Her foot burned as if it had been dipped into hot wax and her toes pulsed with the unnatural rhythm of her heartbeat.

Olivia rubbed her ankle with one hand and pushed away the overgrowth with the other; scanning the area for intruders. The yard was deep and wide, backing up to a dense forest of white birch and pines. The forest appealed to Olivia who, had she been here as a child, would have imagined a troupe of cookie baking elves lived there, or a flitting group of colorful fairies dancing with the summer breeze. Now, however, grown and settled firmly in reality, the forest appealed as a means of escape. If she could make it into the forest, and keep her footfalls as silent as possible, she would follow the route she’d mapped in her head and make it to the highway on the other side. From there, she would hitchhike into Portland and, if she couldn’t find work there, she’d head down to Boston.

The crickets were loud, filling Olivia's ears so full that she didn't hear the backdoor open, or the footsteps behind her until it was too late. A large hand covered her shoulder; a deep voice slaying every bit of hope she had left.

"That’s enough running. Come with me.”