Categories > Original > Romance > PS: Sincerely, Me
Book One
Chapter One: The Lake; The Beginning
August, 2003
I was wearing a white wife beater. And more conveniently, a black bra. The rain trickled onto the lake making millions of tiny ripples in it’s moss green water. I could start to feel my clothes dampen and I knew soon that my shirt, or lack of one, would become translucent and stick to my skin and reveal how badly my stomach was discolored with my tan arms. But I continued to sit on the boulders around the lake. I was convinced that my embarrassment was worth staying here rather than going back to an empty house.
My parents had this pseudo relationship where they would act like they still loved each other. It was a rather good show for fourteen years. Neighbors, friends, even family thought they were soul mates. At my father’s fancy office parties he would have his arm coiled around my mother’s dainty waist with his hand resting ever so affectionately over her hip while he held an expensive glass of champagne in his other hand. He would tell a joke and on cue she would laugh with her well trained oh-Jim-you-are-the-funniest-man-on-Earth-I-love-you-so-much tone. Then he would look at her with his gray eyes full passion and she would return the lust with a shy smile that people around them felt obligated to look away.
In some ways I had even became part of the show. Public outings, business vacations, even in the grocery store, I had to be dolled up in the latest fashions. I had chestnut brown hair with perfect ringlet curls that later darkened and became more like loose curls. My mother always flaunted me around, while my father would always proudly place me on his hip. I was their creation of their perfect marriage.
Well, that is what everyone believed.
That was back when I was oblivious and thought Santa was real, along with the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, and various childhood figures. It wasn’t until I entered middle school when I noticed that my father would be gone for longer business trips and my mother started to have frequent outings when he wasn’t there. And when he was there she would peck him on the cheek and he would ask how she was. She would simply reply “fine” and he would nod. Then there was no more conversation. He would spend his time either sleeping, reading the local Maine paper, or on the phone talking business for hours at a time while my mother would continue going out with her friends. It didn’t bother me for awhile, I did have my own occupations to worry about (various science projects, book reports, boys) and I had no problems being by myself, I was rather independent, but silence can only be comforting for so long.
It would be rare to hear my parents fight since they barely talked, but one night during my freshman year I recall almost perfectly the harsh, hushed whispers coming from their room down the hall. Like a curious kitten examining the new guest, I crept out of my room and out into the hall. The voices were clearer and I can almost quote the whole conversation.
“What do you want from me Kacie?” my Dad asked, it was apparent he was trying hard to keep his voice low by the strain in his voice.
“Nothing. Nothing at all Jim. You can’t do anything except work. Work, work, work,” my Mom also had a strain in her voice, but it wasn’t from trying to keep her voice at a whisper since her voice was naturally quiet.
“I work to support this family. To support Brodi. To support you and this ridiculous lifestyle. And you’re telling me you’re running off with that, that, that son-of-a-bitch because I work too much? Well fine then Kace, you run off with him, but do not expect me to be here when you realize the mistake you made.”
I could hear the heavy foot steps of my father pace back and forth. The rustle of my mother’s nightgown. Their heated breathing. I took a few steps back to my room and crouched down. As if that would make me undetectable.
“I never said I was going to leave Jim, or run off with him, or whatever. You know how much this family means to me. You know how much you mean to me.”
“Really, because last time I checked wives aren’t supposed to be out fondling with some postman,” his voice rose, but was hushed by a simple shh.
“Jim…” she pleaded.
“I’ve heard enough Kacie. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same. You’re looking rather cheap lately,” his tone was lined in ice that I could even feel the frost of his words against my skin.
And the light turned off, leaving me in the dark hallway and for the first time I felt the true pain of loneliness. I was by myself. I stood up and walked back into my room quietly. I sprawled myself on my full sized bed. A million thoughts ran through my head, but they all led to one simple question: Why?
I didn’t sleep that night.
The silence was too deafening.
Or the night after that.
My mother had gone out, and I waited for her to come back, but she didn’t return until the early AM.
Or for that week.
My father had left for another business trip, but he didn’t say good-bye to me like he usually did.
It was during that week when I realized that I was no longer allowed to be a child and throughout the rest of my high school years I spent as much time away from home as much as possible. Until we moved out of the capital and to Greensville, a small city by Moosehead Lake, the summer before my senior year. Since it was summer it was harder to make friends, so I spent most of my time walking around town, which brought me here, sitting on the lake’s edge in mid-August rain with my now soaking wife-beater.
Don’t get me wrong. I always had a roof to live under when it came down to it. I always received what I asked for and was always polite. Obeyed the old rules. Never had to worry about getting a job, since I had an abundance amount of money in my trust fund. I even received a car I still didn’t know how to drive.
But there was always something missing. But how can you miss something if you never possessed it?
I tried not to think too hard about that question.
I watched the water build up on the tips of my shoulder length, black-dyed hair and drip down onto my tattered jeans signed by friends from my old town. Some of the names bled due to the rain, but I doubt they mattered much to me. I didn’t have many close friends. Just acquaintances, scapegoats, to not be home for that week. There was only one friend that I would truly miss and she refused to sign these pants because she refused to believe I was leaving.
Shayla Rae Johnson. The only person I had ever bothered to get to know, and the only person who ever bothered to get to know me, not my status.
She was almost a year younger than me, but she often acted the big sister part in our friendship. When I had met her in my freshman year she had long, blonde, wavy hair that cascaded around her sun-kissed face and accented her never fading smile. Shayla could have easily been the envy of any native Californian girl, except the fact that she had never left the state of Maine and she was already the envy around town. Even I was jealous of her.
Her father was a lobster fisherman which required him to be gone for months at a time and her mother had passed during the birth of her younger brother, which is where we found our common ground. Both of us had missing parents and had to grow up prematurely, but our similarities, besides our love for musicals and never ending need to change our hairstyles, stopped there.
We were complete opposites, but in a way, needed each other. If I were longitude, she was latitude. If she were North, then I was South. If she were Paris, I was Nicole, and so on and so forth. I always thought it was weird how close we had gotten, and how we instantly clicked despite our major differences.
When I left, she was the only person to wish me a farewell and a threat to call her or else. I wasn’t surprised or disappointed that Shayla was the only person to witness my departing because that was the only person I had learned to care about throughout my high school years.
But I could never call her my best friend.
The rain had become steady now and the ripples began to collide together faster, making the water appear as if it was trembling. I pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and checked the time. 2:36 PM. Sighing, I shoved it back into my jeans. Another four hours to kill before I could go home and drown out the sound of silence with music. I focused back on the drips of water dripping from the ends of my hair and debated on what color would look good on my complexion. The sound of the droplets hitting the lake brought a sense of tranquility, drowning out the static of silence and the East coast summer humidity.
Tilting my head back, I let rain pelt against my throat. The drops were big and had a sloppy sort of noise as they hit my skin. I smiled at the tingling sensation each drop made me feel.
I felt alive.
I decided to test this feeling and quickly stood up on the boulder. I gained a balance and began to walk across the rocks. My heart began to race, and as I started to get comfortable I moved at a quicker pace. I hiked over to an old willow tree a few rocks down that hung over the edge of the lake. I remember hearing about this tree when I first moved into this town, which was almost a month ago. It was nicknamed Lover’s Willow and where many received their first kisses, first confession of love, or just plain first time of having sex. Only a small town would have such a notorious landmark such as a willow.
Walking up to the old tree, I made out markings of hearts and initials, various quotes, and phrases. I traced over a few as a thought passed through my mind.
Were my parents ever in love like this? Like these silly teens who were convinced they had found their soul mate?
The thought replayed over in my mind. If they were in love, why did they fall out? If they weren’t in love, why were they still together? Was I the cause of their marriage falling apart? Was there even a cause? Why did I even care so much…
Distracting myself, I went on reading the quotes and phrases. Some were barely readable, some were extremely cliché. Even the “Roses are red...” poem was carved onto the tree. I began to turn away, when near the base of the tree a freshly carved saying caught my eye. Curious, I bent down to read it.
When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.-Hemingway
I immediately recognized where the quote had come from. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. I tried to recall the time I had read the book, but I couldn’t place it to a certain time. It had to be within the last year or two otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to identify it that quickly. I read it over again and smirked with an idea. I pulled out my house keys and with one hand against the tree to support my weight, I carved with my other. When I was done I stood up, wiped my hands on my jeans, and reread it. I let out a small chuckle of amusement.
“Serve me anytime, eh?”
I froze, clutching my keys. Ceasing even my breath.
For the first time in a long time, I wished for silence.
Chapter One: The Lake; The Beginning
August, 2003
I was wearing a white wife beater. And more conveniently, a black bra. The rain trickled onto the lake making millions of tiny ripples in it’s moss green water. I could start to feel my clothes dampen and I knew soon that my shirt, or lack of one, would become translucent and stick to my skin and reveal how badly my stomach was discolored with my tan arms. But I continued to sit on the boulders around the lake. I was convinced that my embarrassment was worth staying here rather than going back to an empty house.
My parents had this pseudo relationship where they would act like they still loved each other. It was a rather good show for fourteen years. Neighbors, friends, even family thought they were soul mates. At my father’s fancy office parties he would have his arm coiled around my mother’s dainty waist with his hand resting ever so affectionately over her hip while he held an expensive glass of champagne in his other hand. He would tell a joke and on cue she would laugh with her well trained oh-Jim-you-are-the-funniest-man-on-Earth-I-love-you-so-much tone. Then he would look at her with his gray eyes full passion and she would return the lust with a shy smile that people around them felt obligated to look away.
In some ways I had even became part of the show. Public outings, business vacations, even in the grocery store, I had to be dolled up in the latest fashions. I had chestnut brown hair with perfect ringlet curls that later darkened and became more like loose curls. My mother always flaunted me around, while my father would always proudly place me on his hip. I was their creation of their perfect marriage.
Well, that is what everyone believed.
That was back when I was oblivious and thought Santa was real, along with the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, and various childhood figures. It wasn’t until I entered middle school when I noticed that my father would be gone for longer business trips and my mother started to have frequent outings when he wasn’t there. And when he was there she would peck him on the cheek and he would ask how she was. She would simply reply “fine” and he would nod. Then there was no more conversation. He would spend his time either sleeping, reading the local Maine paper, or on the phone talking business for hours at a time while my mother would continue going out with her friends. It didn’t bother me for awhile, I did have my own occupations to worry about (various science projects, book reports, boys) and I had no problems being by myself, I was rather independent, but silence can only be comforting for so long.
It would be rare to hear my parents fight since they barely talked, but one night during my freshman year I recall almost perfectly the harsh, hushed whispers coming from their room down the hall. Like a curious kitten examining the new guest, I crept out of my room and out into the hall. The voices were clearer and I can almost quote the whole conversation.
“What do you want from me Kacie?” my Dad asked, it was apparent he was trying hard to keep his voice low by the strain in his voice.
“Nothing. Nothing at all Jim. You can’t do anything except work. Work, work, work,” my Mom also had a strain in her voice, but it wasn’t from trying to keep her voice at a whisper since her voice was naturally quiet.
“I work to support this family. To support Brodi. To support you and this ridiculous lifestyle. And you’re telling me you’re running off with that, that, that son-of-a-bitch because I work too much? Well fine then Kace, you run off with him, but do not expect me to be here when you realize the mistake you made.”
I could hear the heavy foot steps of my father pace back and forth. The rustle of my mother’s nightgown. Their heated breathing. I took a few steps back to my room and crouched down. As if that would make me undetectable.
“I never said I was going to leave Jim, or run off with him, or whatever. You know how much this family means to me. You know how much you mean to me.”
“Really, because last time I checked wives aren’t supposed to be out fondling with some postman,” his voice rose, but was hushed by a simple shh.
“Jim…” she pleaded.
“I’ve heard enough Kacie. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same. You’re looking rather cheap lately,” his tone was lined in ice that I could even feel the frost of his words against my skin.
And the light turned off, leaving me in the dark hallway and for the first time I felt the true pain of loneliness. I was by myself. I stood up and walked back into my room quietly. I sprawled myself on my full sized bed. A million thoughts ran through my head, but they all led to one simple question: Why?
I didn’t sleep that night.
The silence was too deafening.
Or the night after that.
My mother had gone out, and I waited for her to come back, but she didn’t return until the early AM.
Or for that week.
My father had left for another business trip, but he didn’t say good-bye to me like he usually did.
It was during that week when I realized that I was no longer allowed to be a child and throughout the rest of my high school years I spent as much time away from home as much as possible. Until we moved out of the capital and to Greensville, a small city by Moosehead Lake, the summer before my senior year. Since it was summer it was harder to make friends, so I spent most of my time walking around town, which brought me here, sitting on the lake’s edge in mid-August rain with my now soaking wife-beater.
Don’t get me wrong. I always had a roof to live under when it came down to it. I always received what I asked for and was always polite. Obeyed the old rules. Never had to worry about getting a job, since I had an abundance amount of money in my trust fund. I even received a car I still didn’t know how to drive.
But there was always something missing. But how can you miss something if you never possessed it?
I tried not to think too hard about that question.
I watched the water build up on the tips of my shoulder length, black-dyed hair and drip down onto my tattered jeans signed by friends from my old town. Some of the names bled due to the rain, but I doubt they mattered much to me. I didn’t have many close friends. Just acquaintances, scapegoats, to not be home for that week. There was only one friend that I would truly miss and she refused to sign these pants because she refused to believe I was leaving.
Shayla Rae Johnson. The only person I had ever bothered to get to know, and the only person who ever bothered to get to know me, not my status.
She was almost a year younger than me, but she often acted the big sister part in our friendship. When I had met her in my freshman year she had long, blonde, wavy hair that cascaded around her sun-kissed face and accented her never fading smile. Shayla could have easily been the envy of any native Californian girl, except the fact that she had never left the state of Maine and she was already the envy around town. Even I was jealous of her.
Her father was a lobster fisherman which required him to be gone for months at a time and her mother had passed during the birth of her younger brother, which is where we found our common ground. Both of us had missing parents and had to grow up prematurely, but our similarities, besides our love for musicals and never ending need to change our hairstyles, stopped there.
We were complete opposites, but in a way, needed each other. If I were longitude, she was latitude. If she were North, then I was South. If she were Paris, I was Nicole, and so on and so forth. I always thought it was weird how close we had gotten, and how we instantly clicked despite our major differences.
When I left, she was the only person to wish me a farewell and a threat to call her or else. I wasn’t surprised or disappointed that Shayla was the only person to witness my departing because that was the only person I had learned to care about throughout my high school years.
But I could never call her my best friend.
The rain had become steady now and the ripples began to collide together faster, making the water appear as if it was trembling. I pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and checked the time. 2:36 PM. Sighing, I shoved it back into my jeans. Another four hours to kill before I could go home and drown out the sound of silence with music. I focused back on the drips of water dripping from the ends of my hair and debated on what color would look good on my complexion. The sound of the droplets hitting the lake brought a sense of tranquility, drowning out the static of silence and the East coast summer humidity.
Tilting my head back, I let rain pelt against my throat. The drops were big and had a sloppy sort of noise as they hit my skin. I smiled at the tingling sensation each drop made me feel.
I felt alive.
I decided to test this feeling and quickly stood up on the boulder. I gained a balance and began to walk across the rocks. My heart began to race, and as I started to get comfortable I moved at a quicker pace. I hiked over to an old willow tree a few rocks down that hung over the edge of the lake. I remember hearing about this tree when I first moved into this town, which was almost a month ago. It was nicknamed Lover’s Willow and where many received their first kisses, first confession of love, or just plain first time of having sex. Only a small town would have such a notorious landmark such as a willow.
Walking up to the old tree, I made out markings of hearts and initials, various quotes, and phrases. I traced over a few as a thought passed through my mind.
Were my parents ever in love like this? Like these silly teens who were convinced they had found their soul mate?
The thought replayed over in my mind. If they were in love, why did they fall out? If they weren’t in love, why were they still together? Was I the cause of their marriage falling apart? Was there even a cause? Why did I even care so much…
Distracting myself, I went on reading the quotes and phrases. Some were barely readable, some were extremely cliché. Even the “Roses are red...” poem was carved onto the tree. I began to turn away, when near the base of the tree a freshly carved saying caught my eye. Curious, I bent down to read it.
When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.-Hemingway
I immediately recognized where the quote had come from. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. I tried to recall the time I had read the book, but I couldn’t place it to a certain time. It had to be within the last year or two otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to identify it that quickly. I read it over again and smirked with an idea. I pulled out my house keys and with one hand against the tree to support my weight, I carved with my other. When I was done I stood up, wiped my hands on my jeans, and reread it. I let out a small chuckle of amusement.
“Serve me anytime, eh?”
I froze, clutching my keys. Ceasing even my breath.
For the first time in a long time, I wished for silence.
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