Tell Me to Stop Page 3

  I don’t like to think about this much, and I talk about it even less. Sydney knows the broad strokes of my mother’s medical condition but not the stress that comes with not knowing how you’re going to pay for all of these expenses without losing your apartment.

  Maybe I should use the money to help her? But the thing about medical expenses is that more and more of them come every month. If I were to pay off my student loans then I would be free of them forever.

  I type in the numbers one by one.

  6..7…8…3…4

  I place the cursor over the Pay Now button and press it without another hesitation. A confirmation page appears.

  Thank you for paying sixty-seven thousand eight hundred thirty-four dollars.

  I let out a big sigh of relief. Sydney grabs me by my shoulders and gives me a big hug.

  She wants to jump up and down but I don’t have the energy.

  I feel like all of the wind has been knocked out of me.

  I’m in shock by what I’ve done.

  Stunned.

  It is only later that night, when I’m lying alone in my room, that tears start to flow down my face. My whole body starts to shake uncontrollably.

  I wrap myself in my comforter and get into the fetal position to weather the attack.

  The tears are hot and salty. My eyes burn as does the small cut that I had on the inside of my lip.

  After some time, the flow slows down. Suddenly I am able to catch my breath and a few moments later, I wipe my cheeks for the last time.

  It is only then that I realize that these weren’t tears of sorrow, but rather tears of joy and relief. Whatever may or may not happen in the future, at least this part of my life is over. This debt that has been weighing so heavily on me, making me feel like I’m drowning, it’s gone.

  Vanished.

  Vanquished.

  Erased.

  And now, I’m free.

  6

  When I get an invitation…

  The following week goes by in a blur. My mother has one of her pain episodes and I spend two nights at her house helping her out and making sure that she has everything she needs. Whenever her back acts up, her mind always goes to a dark ugly place and she starts to blame my father for everything that went wrong in her life. If my father hadn’t gotten her pregnant at eighteen then their strict parents would’ve never forced them to marry. If they had never gotten married then she wouldn’t have spent her life taking care of him.

  “I had dreams, you know, I wasn’t always this fat and ugly,” she says, lying in her bed, watching television while holding her iPad in her hand.

  She doesn’t care what I have to say or how this makes me feel, she just needs me to be here to listen. So, that’s what I do.

  “But it’s having you kids that made me this way. It’s having your good for nothing alcoholic father that made me eat everything in sight. Do you know what it feels like to have your husband spend every paycheck at the bar, leaving me alone to take care of you brats. On what money? I had to beg the next door neighbor to lend me some so I could buy you milk.”

  I want to roll my eyes, but I resist the temptation. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to everything she has been through, it’s just that I’ve heard this series of stories over and over again all of my life.

  “Patrick,” she says, looking wistfully at the window. “If only he had lived, then everything would’ve been fine.”

  Yeah, all of our family’s troubles would be immediately solved if only my mother’s favorite child was still alive.

  “He would’ve married a nice Catholic girl and they would’ve given me four or five grandkids to be busy with,” she continues. “Not like you…or your brother, Owen.”

  “You can barely take care of yourself,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What?!” she hisses. “What did you say?” She pulls the iPad away from her as if she’s going to swat me with it.

  On impulse, from a decade of memories, I cower away from her.

  “I wouldn’t have any of these issues if Patrick was still here!” she roars.

  Usually, I just tune her out and go through what needs to be done. Today is no different. What I want to say is that she can’t just blame Dad and Patrick’s death on every shitty thing that happened in her life. But this would be adding fuel to her fire.

  Patrick, my oldest brother, died on his eighteenth birthday in a car crash. Our father gave him a car and he crashed it into the side of a hill. The police said that they estimated his speed was well over one hundred miles per hour, but Mom doesn’t believe a word of that report. She also refuses to believe that he had a high blood alcohol level because he promised her that he would never drink and drive.

  She doesn’t say anything for a while, letting me fold her laundry in peace. But during the commercial break, she turns to me and asks, “So, what about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When are you going to give me some grandchildren?”

  “Mom, I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “That hasn’t stopped almost every other girl in this neighborhood from toting around a toddler on her hip.”

  “I don’t want a child…right now,” I say.

  “What does that matter?” she asks, sitting up a bit in bed. Her pain medication must’ve started working because she’s suddenly full of energy. “If people only had children they wanted, the world would be a lot less populated.”

  I fold a large fitted sheet and put it in the back of the closet with the rest.

  “I mean, it’s not like Owen can give me any grandkids at this point,” she says. “So I guess I’ll have to settle for yours.”

  Owen is doing ten years in the state penitentiary for an armed robbery charge.

  “He may get parole,” I point out.

  “Yeah, right!”

  “I have years to have kids and so does Owen. I’m sure that you’ll get some grandkids in the future,” I say to make nice.

  Mom sits up a bit, narrowing her eyes. Her hair is stringy and unkempt and she’s dressed in her usual long puffy nightgown that she wears day and night. Her face is splotchy and looks much older than her forty-eight years.

  “Are you stupid or something? Why did you waste all of that money on education if you’re still as dense as you were growing up? Don’t you get it? I want you to have kids for me. I want Owen to have kids for me. I want some damn grandkids now.”

  I used to think that she looked older than she was because of her hard life, her drinking, and her pain medication. But now I think she looks older because of her meanness.

  Luckily, the commercial ends and her attention goes back to her program. I head into the kitchen to make lunch, but then sneak out onto the back porch for some fresh air.

  The trees are only now starting to bud and the weather is still cold and unwelcoming. But the cold feels good on my face.

  When I first paid off my loans, I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision. My mother has a lot of medical bills and perhaps I should’ve used some of the money to help her. But the last two days told me that I did the right thing.

  Paying off my mom’s bills wouldn’t have improved her situation that much and she wouldn’t have even appreciated it if I had.

  Zipping up my coat, I slip my hands into the pockets. Feeling the outline of the envelope that arrived yesterday sends shivers up my spine. The paper is thick and luxurious and the letter itself has gold foil around the border.

  I pull it out and look at it again. I run my fingers over the insignia at the top. There are no floral leaves or lions standing on their back legs, but it is no less elegant and exquisite: a large C enclosed in a box.

  Dear Ms. Olivia E. Kernes, I begin to read the words again silently, but moving my lips.

  7

  When I read the letter…

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Mom swings open the screen door, hitting me with it in my back. When the meds are working, she doesn’t need the ca
ne and instead uses it as a weapon.

  I drop the letter onto the floor and quickly scramble to get it.

  “What is that?” she asks, pointing her cane at me.

  “Nothing, just…bills.”

  Holding the door open, she waits for me to walk past her and then grabs the letter out of my hand.

  “What are you doing?” I reach to get it back, but she pushes me back with her cane.

  “You have always been so secretive. Even when you were just a little kid. Writing stuff in your little diary, putting a lock on it and hiding it under your bed,” she says.

  Unwilling to physically grab it from her, I stand and wait.

  “Dear Ms. Olivia E. Kernes,” she starts to read. “Thank you for accepting my gift. I know that you have used it in a meaningful way. What is this about?”

  I shrug and shake my head.

  “I know that you must have questions as to who has sent it to you and why. I would like to alleviate your curiosity and invite you to my home for an introduction. Please know that any and all expenses will be taken care of. I hope to see you there.”

  I have read this letter so many times since it arrived that I have the words memorized. Below that is the signature line that reads,

  Sincerely, NC

  Maui, Hawaii

  * * *

  PS. If you accept my invitation, please email me at nc@apricotway.com

  * * *

  “What the hell is this about?” Mom demands to know. “What gift?”

  I’m not sure how to answer this question except I cannot tell her the truth.

  First of all, she doesn’t know the extent of the loans that I owed because she thought me wanting to get an education was my way of wanting to be better than her.

  Second of all, I cannot tell her that I received a check in that amount and didn’t share a penny with her.

  “I got a gift in the mail. I wasn’t sure who it was from, but it was nice and I kept it,” I lie.

  She narrows her eyes.

  Unlike my brother, I’m not a very good liar and she’s a very good investigator. One of the things that I did learn from Owen is that the best lies are those that are closest to the truth.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I hesitate.

  I can’t tell her that I got any money because she’ll expect me to share it with her. But I do have to tell her something.

  “A small statue of an…elephant,” I mumble.

  A few days ago, I saw this clay elephant at my favorite thrift store and I considered buying it. But it was forty-five dollars and kind of an extravagant expense for a pretty useless object. Now, I make a mental note that I have to go back and get it, if for no other reason than to have it in my possession in case she asks to see it.

  “An elephant? Why would someone send that to you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And now this NC wants you to go see him?” she asks, pointing to the letter. “Go to Maui, all expenses paid?”

  I shrug.

  Mom comes so close to me I can smell the stale cigarette smoke on her skin. Her dark eyes look vicious. I take a step back but the hallway is so narrow that my back touches the walls. There’s nowhere to go.

  “What the hell are you up to, Olive? You trying to find yourself a rich man or something?”

  “No, ma’am.” I shake my head.

  “‘Cause you know that you can’t. You’re too ugly and fat. Why would he want you?”

  Her words land as if she was actually punching me.

  Tears start to well up in my eyes.

  My mouth gets parched and I try to swallow the big ball forming in the back of my throat.

  I’ve heard her say these things to me since I was a little kid so you’d think that I would be used to hearing them by now. But I guess that’s the thing about mothers, you only get one and you keep giving her chances because you don’t want to lose her.

  She takes a step back and pours herself a cup of stale coffee. "You want any?” she asks.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be hard on you but that’s the kind of world we live in. You seem to live in the clouds. You are pretty enough to make someone a wife, but you’re not pretty the way those Hollywood actresses are. I just don’t want you to be disappointed, honey.”

  I nod. Her sudden shift in tone and her pretense that she is saying all of this for my benefit makes me feel even worse.

  “Listen, I have to go,” I say.

  “You’re not going to stay tonight? What if I need you?”

  “You’ll be fine. I set up all of your medicine next to your bed, the laundry is done. The food will be here shortly,” I say, grabbing my duffel bag and my phone and charger out of the wall.

  “Fine, go!” she says coldly.

  “Can I have my letter please?”

  “No, absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head. Then she takes out a cigarette and lights my letter on fire with the lighter.

  I don’t bother grabbing it out of her hand. Instead, I stand there in a trance watching it burn. The same fate came to my high school diploma the day after I graduated and my first passport when I was foolish enough to have it sent to our house.

  “This is for your own good,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say, walking out.

  “You’re not going to say goodbye?” she yells after me as I close the door behind me.

  Tears start to stream down my face before I get inside my car. I can barely see through them as I open the Note app on my phone and type up the letter that I have committed to memory. When I’m finished, I stare at the email address that NC provided.

  I don’t know who sent this gift or why, but I do know two things. One, I am going to accept this invitation. Two, I am never going to see my mother again.

  8

  When I get ready…

  “You can’t go there by yourself,” Sydney says, walking into my room and closing my suitcase. I go into my closet and grab a strapless dress I haven’t worn since last summer.

  “What do you think about this one?” I ask, pressing it to my body and extending one leg in front of the other. It’s very soft and has a light floral design, hanging loosely like a tunic. The neckline is made of a twisted gold material that gives it a bit of flair.

  “Olive, you’re not thinking clearly. You just spent a few days at your mom’s and that always makes you a little crazy.”

  “I’m not doing this because of her,” I say.

  “So, why? Why are you doing this?”

  I shrug. “I want to know who sent me the money.”

  “This could be a really dangerous thing, Olive. You could be sex-trafficked for crying out loud.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Sydney asks.

  “Sex traffickers don’t usually send you over a hundred and fifty grand ahead of time.”

  “Whatever.” She throws up her hands. “You know what I mean. What do you even know about this NC?”

  I shrug.

  “He has an email address, woohoo!” she says sarcastically. “Apricot Way. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, I tried to look it up but I couldn’t find anything about it.”

  “Well, I found out something.”

  I fold another pair of leggings and look up at her. “What?”

  “There are like a hundred people with the acronyms N. C. In Maui.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say.

  Sydney walks up to me and puts her hands around my shoulders.

  “What did your mom say to you, Olive?” she asks.

  Her lips are trembling and she looks terrified. I’ve never seen her this concerned about anything before.

  Sydney is the one person in my life who knows the most about my mother and what she has put me through. Lately, it seems like all I do is complain to her about what’s going on in my life, but she has always been there for me. I appreciate her listening more than
she will ever know.

  “Nothing special, just the usual shit,” I say.

  Thankfully, she has never asked me why I put up with all of it. She has her own issues with her parents, mainly the fact that no matter how much she succeeds she never seems to quite live up to their expectations. So, she knows exactly why I put up with all the crap that my mother delves out.

  My mom’s mean and angry and has never had many friends. The few that remained were driven out of her life over the last year when her pain and her hatred got worse. My father went out for a carton of milk never to return again. One of my brothers is dead and the other is serving a long prison sentence. My mother is all I have and I can’t just give up on her. At least, that’s what I always told myself to get through it before.

  “I’m done,” I say quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had enough. She caught me with that letter, she read it, she mocked me, and she lit it on fire.”

  “I am so sorry,” Sydney whispers, putting her arm around me.

  “I can’t keep letting her treat me like this,” I say. “I know that she has a lot of pain, but I have to stop accepting that as an excuse.”

  “Is that why you’re doing this?” she asks. I shrug.

  I open my underwear drawer and pick out a few black panties and my favorite t-shirt bra. I decide to pack another significantly less comfortable lacy one as well, just in case a special occasion comes up.

  “Yeah, that’s partly why I’m doing this. I need to get away. I took a week off work and I figure I’ll take my chance on this.”

  “I know that you want to go somewhere but…I’m just worried that this isn’t a safe thing to do,” Sydney says.

  “I’ll have my phone on me. As soon as I get there and I know exactly where I’m going, I’ll text you. I promise.”

  She walks over to my closet and pulls out a red dress. Folding it up carefully, she packs it into my suitcase.

  “But this is your favorite dress,” I say. It’s also one of my favorite ones to borrow.