“HI MRS. BOUDREAUX. Is Tess there?”
“Oh hello Hillary. No dear, she’s with Jameson. I think she’s at his house. Do you want the number?”
Un-Fucking believable!
“No thanks Mrs. Boudreaux. I’ll talk to her later.”
I hang up the phone and cover my face with my hands and just cry. How could she do this to me? I thought she was my friend? What kind of friend does something like that? A swamp crotch friend, that’s what kind. Yes, as pretty as she is she smells like swamp crotch. I grin evilly. I would never tell her that but a pretty face can’t hide that kind of smell.
I look out my window and notice the rain has stopped. I quickly wipe my tears, put a pair of shoes on, grab my car keys and run down the stairs while yelling to my parents “I’ll be back later!” before they can even ask any questions. I need to escape the hurt, the pain. There’s only one place I can go that will help ease the searing pain in my chest, in my heart. The dock.
When I pull in to the parking lot I’m not surprised that no one else is down considering the weather from today. I’m thankful at the same time. I grab a blanket from the trunk of my car I always leave in there in case of an emergency. I’m sure the dock is pretty wet and I want to sit and zone out.
All the outdoor porch lights lit up the restaurant on the hill, and I hear someone make an announcement that the band is taking a ten-minute break. At least I’ll have a few minutes to be alone with my thoughts uninterrupted. I want someone to tell me everything is going to be okay. Tell me that this is all just a bad dream. Tell me good things happen to good people. Tell me this will have a happy ending. Now would be a perfect time for a friend to show up, sit with me, and give me a shoulder to cry on. There’s only one problem with that. Only one other person knows about this place and I’m pretty sure he’s not coming.
TAP TAP!
Testing. Testing 1, 2, 3. Can everyone hear me? Alright everyone. We’re back! Ready for some more music?
Please don’t play sad music. Please don’t play sad music I pray to myself but it doesn’t work. Immediately the lyrics to Nazareth, “Love Hurts”, come through loud and clear.
“You have got to be kidding me?” I shout!
I can’t.
I just can’t stay here and listen to this.
I’m going home.
“You’re just too much work.”
October 7, 2001
IT’S TIMES LIKE THESE I wish this was my weekend to work but nope. Not me. I don’t have that kind of luck. At least not the last couple of days. On a brighter note, waking up to the sun shining is a nice change from the doom and gloom of yesterday’s rain storm.
As I head out into the living room I feel slight relief that yet again no one is around. Grabbing a glass of orange juice, a necessity for my morning I hear something outside. I peek out the kitchen window to see my dad raking the lawn. That man can never sit still. I give him credit though, he takes pride in a nice looking lawn. I know the wind and the rain were bringing down leaves and branches and that was just driving him nuts. As I put the orange juice back in the refrigerator I see a note from my mom.
Hillary,
Out for the day shopping with Bev. I need you to fold the laundry in the dryer and start a load of towels in the washer. After that you can wash the dirty dishes in the sink. If I’m not home by 4:00 p.m. you start making the spaghetti sauce.
-Mom
This lady is unbelievable. There is no fucking way I would ever do this to my kid. Charge her rent every month, as if she is a tenant, not family, give her a curfew even in her twenties and then leave her a list of chores while she goes shopping. I would never. You know what’s even worse though? I’m still going to do it just so I don’t have to hear her trash talk me on the phone with another person. But with paying rent, the small amount of money I make at my job, and trying to stash away as much as I can each month, it’s going to be a long time before I can live on my own.
IT’S ONLY 2:00 P.M. and I’ve done the laundry and the dishes. I even started the spaghetti sauce just so there is plenty of time for the fresh peppers and onions I added to provide lots of flavor. My mother’s idea of adding flavor to a jar of Ragu is salt and pepper. She’s terrible at cooking. An Italian woman bad at cooking is not something you normally hear of, but yet, here she is.
All day while doing laundry and dishes I’ve been contemplating calling Tess. Now that I’m done with everything I find myself standing in the middle of the living room staring at the phone. I grab the cordless and step out on to the front steps. I’d rather sit on the back deck but Dad is still raking in the back and I don’t want him to hear me. I could just stay inside the house but for some reason being outside in the fresh air it relaxes me a little.