The Sum of Who I Am
THE SUM OF WHO I AM
By: Yvonne Remington
Copyright 2013
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
"Today marks one year." Twenty-five year old Monica Younger was speaking aloud. No one could hear; it was more to convince herself that she wasn't losing her mind. Just maybe there was an ounce of sanity left in her life. The anniversary was not a celebration, but a reminder that one-year ago that day the court acquitted Monica of killing her five-year-old daughter, Angela.
The authorities found the child after six months and extensive searching, in a shallow grave deep in a nearby wooded preserve. An anonymous tip led the authorities to her body. The authorities could not find conclusive evidence to confirm the cause of death. Everything they had was circumstantial and her attorney got her acquitted. The process took over a year while she waited her fate in jail. Even after the trial, the people in the state of Indiana labeled her as "guilty" and tormented her with death threats and hate mail. In her estimation, "free" was too broad a term and way overused. She wasn't free. She knew she would never be free.
She did not know if she was guilty or not. She spent the year before her daughter's disappearance in a drugged stupor due to her heroin addict boyfriend. Her parents tried to get custody of Angela, without success. Monica believed this was why her daughter was dead today. Life would have been easier if they had stayed out of her life. There wouldn't have been the bickering, shouting and words spoken that could never be taken back. She stayed with the boyfriend out of spite and her parents knew this. Being a quiet child, Angela was always in the middle and disliked the upheaval of her grandparents interfering. She hated seeing her mother unhappy even more.
The guilt, the tortuous fear for her life and the gap in her memory made her wish she was the one who had died and not her daughter.
Screaming voices in her head kept stopped her from sleeping well at night. They started while she was in jail awaiting trial. One of those voices she heard was her daughter calling her; "mommy, mommy, I love you,” Those nights she would wake in a cold sweat, and would have taken her own life if she could have found a way.
After the acquittal, the media paid her for several interviews, giving her side of the story and allowing her enough money to leave town. She took a map of the country and a pin, closed her eyes and stuck a city at random. The result was Littleton, Nebraska, population 13,000 as her destination. She purchased a package of hair dye, cut her brunette ponytail into a punk style and dyed what was left of her hair blonde. She packed her few personal belongings into a backpack and headed for the bus station. She told no one, especially her parents where she was going. This was to be a clean break. Maybe someday she and her parents could reunite, but she didn't have much hope.
The bus station was as creepy as she suspected. People occupying the seats, as well as those waiting for buses coming and going, stared at her as if they recognized her. She doubted it; the blonde short hair and dark glasses gave her an entirely different persona. She asked the clerk about a one-way ticket to Littleton, Nebraska. The sour-faced old woman looked at her suspiciously. Her paranoia drew her in deeper and her desire for flight mounted by the moment.
“It won’t be leaving till the morning. You’ll have to change busses in Omaha.” It made no difference to Monica. She bought the ticket with cash and found the most obscure seat she could find in the hopes that she would not have to share conversation. She snatched sleep on a bench in the terminal until her bus arrived. She boarded the bus and she wanted to evaporate into the seat and make the world go away. She wasn’t that fortunate. A man smelling of yesterday's drunk with a week's beard sat next to her and wanted to talk. He attempted to engage her in conversation without success. The bus pulled away and she excused herself from her window seat retreating to the toilet where she stayed long enough to pretend to use it and then exited to find a window seat by herself in the less-than-half-full bus. She kept her face buried in the window. It wasn’t long before she smelled the same stale sweaty body. She felt the thump of his body as he plopped into the empty seat next to her.
“Missed you, darlin'. I was beginning to think you didn’t want to sit next to me.” Even his breathe was foul.
With the most evil stare she could evoke from the depth of her soul, she stared into his eyes and growled: “I didn’t. I do not want yours or anyone else’s company.” She turned back into the window and listened as he slithered away. A brief smile crossed her face as she drifted off into her solitude.
When she finally descended the steps of the bus in Littleton, she felt a panic attack coming on and wondered if she should get back on the bus and keep going. The town seemed so small. How could someone get lost in a town like this? There wasn’t a building over two stories high. The wide streets displayed only a dozen cars. What had she done? She felt an emptiness inside her that could have swallowed her into oblivion.
Okay, so maybe she would give it a couple months. There was no obligation on her part and she appreciated the western look. She was already here, and besides, she didn’t have another map.
She walked back to the humpty dumpty look alike behind the ticket cage at the station and asked, “Can you tell me where I can find a room for the night?"
"Peggy Cook has a boarding house down on Second Street. She's clean and fair and doesn't mind peoples’ business. She'd be my first choice. Down the block, turn right on Second Street. She's a block up on your right.
She welcomed the walk after being on the bus so many hours. Five different people on the sidewalk greeted her as she passed. Friendly enough at least, she thought, until they knew the truth.
The boarding house was a three-story building that looked like it survived the last century. Upon entering the unlocked front door, a plump, short woman who certainly must be Peggy Cook greeted her. With a shirtwaist dress, an immaculate apron and her silver grey hair pinned back in a bun with not a hair out of place she was right out of a 50’s TV show.
“Welcome, dear. What can I do for you?”
“I would like a room if you have one.”
“Well I just happened to have one, if you’d like to see it, come with me." She showed Monica to an upstairs room that faced the street. “Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”
“No ma’am it depends on how soon I find a job and whether I feel like I am welcome here.” She hadn't meant to say that. Fatigue had taken its toll. It was more of a thought that she spoke aloud.
“Well, I think we will get along just fine. Dinner is still on the table if you’d like. Why don’t you wash up and join us for a bite to eat.” She handed Monica the key. “We’ll finish our business in the morning. You look mighty tired."
All heads turned when she came down to the table, but she was too hungry to care. A pack of crackers all day had not done the trick.
Before she had a chance to enjoy the roast beef, potatoes, corn bread and greens, and the fixings to go with it, the boarders around the table started asking her questions, which she did not want to answer. Where are you from, where are you
going, what brings you to Littleton and how long are you planning on staying. She quickly excused herself and went to her room for the remainder of the night.
She slept well that night. She opened the window to a warm soft breeze with a hint of cow manure gently drifting in occasionally and permeating her room. The desire to keep a window open stemmed from her days behind bars. She did not intend to give up a habit that turned into a luxury. The next morning she woke to find papers shoved under her door. Along with her receipt, she found the boarding house policies and procedures. She showered, changed and went down to the table before the food disappeared. All the boarders but one left for other commitments. Peggy Cook appeared as fresh as yesterday with the same bright smile.
“Well you certainly look refreshed, dear. Come have some breakfast before it’s all gone.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cook”
“Everybody calls me Peggy; it would please me if you would do so too. We’re just a small town with small town values.”
Before she could think about it, she asked:
“Do you know if there is any place in town looking for help? I would like to stay for a while, but I need a job. I’m otherwise just passing through.”
“Why, I believe I do. The donut shop just lost a worker yesterday. She had to move home to take care of a sick relative. I don’t know what Mary is looking for exactly, because I haven’t had time to talk to her, but why don’t you take a walk over there after breakfast and see for yourself.’
“Thank you, I will.” I’m not turning back now. She thought. I’ve come too far.
“It’s just two doors down on the left when you get to Main Street. She opens early.’”
Monica enjoyed her breakfast without anyone asking any more questions about herself. Being a newcomer must be hard in a town like this, she thought. It really wasn’t their fault that the townspeople were so curious. How many strangers came waltzing through town wanting to stay and be a part of the scenery?
She thanked Peggy, left the boarding house, and headed for the donut shop. The town woke to a warm sunny day. This was her first real look at the place she was hoping to start a new life. It was almost too quaint for her. The busy donut shop displayed no sign for help in the window. She entered and all heads turned her way. She smiled her best smile and asked for the owner. The woman behind the counter stopped assisting a customer and greeted her.
“My name is Mary. This is my shop. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Monica Younger. I was wondering if you need any help.”
Mary looked at her with a curious stare.
“Here, have a cup of coffee on me and wait at the booth over in the corner. When I get through here, we’ll talk.” Her gestures were smooth and inviting. Monica felt warmth emanating from her.
When Mary joined her at the table, she asked: “Any experience, Monica”
“I worked in a diner back home.”
“Good, I don’t ask questions, except one. If I hire you, how long do you plan on staying?”
“I guess that all depends on the town. If I’m accepted, there is no end date. If I don’t fit in, it won’t matter.”
“Wow, that’s prolific. I like your style. I think the customers, especially the guys, will appreciate that frankness. Let’s give it a trial period. Say two weeks to see how it goes. After two weeks, we can extend a verbal agreement or not. Can you be here tomorrow morning at 5:30am?”
That was eleven months ago. Now on a grey misty morning in November, she gulped her second cup of coffee and dressed for her walk to work. She rented a small efficiency apartment where she could do a little cooking. The town accepted her and a few single guys in the county sought her out at the donut shop. She chose not to see any of them socially, but enjoyed playing up to their advances while at work.
Making coffee in the morning seemed ridiculous to her, since she worked in a donut shop and could have free coffee anytime she was working. It was important to her, because getting up at 4:30am to arrive at work at 5:30am; she needed those first two cups to get her out the door and motivated to start the day.
Mary’s bright usual smile greeted Monica when she arrived that morning for work.
Monica had a bad night with night sweats and visions of her daughter plaguing her sleep. They were less frequent since moving to Littleton; however, they would not go away for long.
"Gee Monica, you look terrible. Out last night drinking were you?" Mary tried to be funny, but she could tell it wasn’t working.
"No but I wish I had. Then I would have an excuse for feeling so lousy” Monica put on her apron and put the donuts in the display case.
"When you are ready to talk, let me know." Mary had tried in the past to get her to confide in her with no results.
"Mary, you know you're my best friend and there are some things I just have not been able to talk about. I'm sure you know I have a past and it's not pretty."
“That is obvious. Even a fool could see you are a tortured soul. However, I know you will come to me when you are ready to talk. Friends don't push friends, unless it's for their own good."
"Thank you, Mary that means everything to me." Preparations for the day were almost complete. Their first customer was always Ken Martino. Ken owned the auto body shop and came in to get coffee and donuts every morning, without fail. He made it clear he was interested in Monica and asked too many personal questions for Monica's liking. Sometimes, the way he looked at her, she wondered if he knew her secret.
"Good morning beautiful, are you ready to take me up on lunch today?" He did have a nice smile.
Ken was a kind person and Monica did like him, but her answer was always 'no'. He would be the one person who could wheedle her story from her before she knew she had done it.
"You look like you could use a friend who listens. I'm a good listener."
"Ken, when I'm ready, I will let you know, until then, I would appreciate it if we could just be friends." She was doing her best to be polite, but the urge to say something ugly kept coming up in her throat, lack of sleep didn't help-
"You got it, sweetheart. I promise." He took his bag of donuts and went on his way.
The day was pleasantly busy, but Monica found time to get Mary alone.
"Mary, can you arrange to meet me in the park after dinner, alone, I need to talk."
"Sure. I'll have the neighbor come over and stay with Jennifer for a bit." How does sevenish sound?" Mary's daughter, Jennifer, was four years old and painfully reminded Monica of her own daughter.
Monica decided she could not stay in Littleton any longer and bear her secret. It was time to tell Mary the truth before she moved on. She owed her that. Ken was getting too close and she was feeling more uncomfortable around him. She liked him more than she cared to admit but was just as scared of letting her guard down around him.
The sun was sliding behind a thick gray cloud when Mary joined Monica on the park bench. There was a late autumn chill in the air and most of the park was deserted.
"Mary, I've got to leave Littleton I can't stay anymore and deceive you. You're too good a person for that. It’s not that I’ve lied to you. It’s just I am not who you think." She told her everything. Mary never interrupted. Dusk set in and the two continued to sit.
“Have you ever thought of getting back in touch with your parents?” Mary asked.
“Even my parents believed I killed my daughter. They said so on the witness stand. However even my mother's damaging testimony could not convict me. My parents made it clear that I was out of their lives for good.” Monica said.
“There wasn't a night that went by that the screams from other inmates also didn't keep me awake. They put me in solitary because those inmates threatened to kill me. When I was acquitted those threats and the ones from the general public for my life made me realize, I had to leave Indiana and find a new life, somehow. It was in jail that I was able to break my drug habit. So,
you see why I can't stay. The story will come out. The hate is still there and people still think I did it. I don't believe I did, but I was responsible for her, and I let it happen."
"So, when do you stop running?” Mary questioned.
"I don't know. I don’t know anything anymore. I would like to stay. I really like it here. I could be happy here, but what you see is the sum of who I am."
With tears in her eyes, Monica got up and started to walk away.
"Stay, Monica," Mary called after her, "we can work this through together. I’ve lived in this town a lot longer than you have. I have faith in these people and believe they will stand behind the person they have known over the last year."
Monica stopped, turned looked into Mary's eyes, and saw for the first time in a long time, a tomorrow.
About the author:
She is recently retired but still an active artist. She dabbled in painting, photography and graphic design. She has been writing poetry and short stories since her late twenties. Most of her poetry survived, but her short stories kept evolving. Through study and reading, she now is able to spend the time to improve her craft and share it with an audience. Her stories are about ordinary people having extra ordinary occurrences in their lives. Hopefully, these stories will please the reader as much as they pleased her to write them.
How A Prank Turned Into a Crime
Last House on Flamingo Road
Now You've Done it
Pirates Demise
Shame on You!
The Cat's Dowry
The Last Straw
The Statistics of Winning
Where Rubber Meets The Road
You Can Run, But You Can't Hide
A Flash In the Pan
Connect with Yvonne online:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/yvonne.remington
Blog: https://yvonnemremington.blogspot.com
email: yvonnemarie46@gmail.com