Read Online Surviving Valencia by Holly Tierney-Bedord - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Holly Tierney-Bedord
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asylum.
“I came here to visit their graves and that is what I intend to do,” I said. No one even looked at me. I reached for the keys in Adrian’s pocket and he grabbed my wrist. It didn’t hurt so much as anger and surprise me.
“I love those little cherries,” sang my mother. Then she burst into a giggle fit.
“Adrian!”
Finally he turned to me and made eye contact. “If you’re going, I’m coming with you and I’m driving. I haven’t had as much as you.”
“You’ve had much more than I have. Let me go. Let me do this alone.”
He stood up. “Roger, Patricia. We’ll be back shortly. It’s going to be too dark to find our way tonight, but your daughter, God love her, gets these ideas…”
“No. I really need to do this by myself,” I said.
“I’m not losing another child!” said my mother, sounding shrill and wasted. This surprised me. I often felt that she thought of me as some kind of relative, but not her child. A younger sister, perhaps.
“Adrian, please,” I whispered.
My dad was back with a bucket of ice cubes. “Try these cubes. Tell me what they taste like.”
“I like this game,” said my drunk mother, popping one into her drink. “Well Roger, let me think. Don’t tell us. These taste like ginger.”
“Noooo. Guess again.”
“Figs? Fig Newtons?”
“Closer.”
“Are these made of prunes?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
And then, miracle of miracles, Adrian handed me the keys.
“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling genuinely grateful. The cemetery was only a mile away. I ran to the car and got in, immediately locking my door as if I were in a scary neighborhood. I adjusted the seat and took a second to catch my breath. It was such a relief to be alone. I felt the pressure in my head instantly begin to dissipate.
Start the car.
Hurry hurry.
Get away before someone stops you.
I decided I might never come back. The best thing to do, the only solid option, was to drive forever.
Adrian tapped on the window then and I had no choice but to open it.
I lowered the window and he leaned in. “I just wanted to give you a kiss. Be careful.” He kissed my temple. “Don’t stay away too long.”
“I won’t.”
“Too many more of these are going to make me sick,” he said, holding up a fresh drink with a plastic sword of cherries bobbing in it.
“Well, you can always just stop drinking them, you know.”
“Can I?”
“Can’t you?”
“The ice cubes are frozen prune juice.”
“That’s gross.”
He leaned in for a kiss on the lips.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I rolled the window back up. It was starting to get much colder out.
He stood there, seeming less like the enemy than a sad and trustworthy dog.
You have to be married to understand how quickly it can change like that. And change back.
He waved as I pulled away. I was glad he wasn’t with me.
Chapter 18
Valencia and Van have the first two gravestones in our family plot. When they died my parents bought four plots: the two for my brother and sister, and two for themselves. My parents’ graves already have their names and dates of birth chiseled into the brown granite, with vacant spaces awaiting their dates of death to be filled in. Back when they did this, I asked why there weren’t five gravestones. They explained that I would want to be buried with my husband and it would happen so far in the future that I shouldn’t worry about it.
“What if I don’t have a husband when I die?”
“You will,” said my mother.
“How do you know?”
“Everyone gets married. Don’t worry about it.”
“Could I stay in Valencia’s place?” I asked. After all, it was empty. But they were saving it for her, in case someday her body turned up. The possibility of Valencia was a firmer placeholder than the reality of me.
I felt then and still feel that they should have bought another plot. Not a headstone, but a plot. A space for me. Who cares if it was expensive? Who cares if it would have
“I came here to visit their graves and that is what I intend to do,” I said. No one even looked at me. I reached for the keys in Adrian’s pocket and he grabbed my wrist. It didn’t hurt so much as anger and surprise me.
“I love those little cherries,” sang my mother. Then she burst into a giggle fit.
“Adrian!”
Finally he turned to me and made eye contact. “If you’re going, I’m coming with you and I’m driving. I haven’t had as much as you.”
“You’ve had much more than I have. Let me go. Let me do this alone.”
He stood up. “Roger, Patricia. We’ll be back shortly. It’s going to be too dark to find our way tonight, but your daughter, God love her, gets these ideas…”
“No. I really need to do this by myself,” I said.
“I’m not losing another child!” said my mother, sounding shrill and wasted. This surprised me. I often felt that she thought of me as some kind of relative, but not her child. A younger sister, perhaps.
“Adrian, please,” I whispered.
My dad was back with a bucket of ice cubes. “Try these cubes. Tell me what they taste like.”
“I like this game,” said my drunk mother, popping one into her drink. “Well Roger, let me think. Don’t tell us. These taste like ginger.”
“Noooo. Guess again.”
“Figs? Fig Newtons?”
“Closer.”
“Are these made of prunes?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
And then, miracle of miracles, Adrian handed me the keys.
“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling genuinely grateful. The cemetery was only a mile away. I ran to the car and got in, immediately locking my door as if I were in a scary neighborhood. I adjusted the seat and took a second to catch my breath. It was such a relief to be alone. I felt the pressure in my head instantly begin to dissipate.
Start the car.
Hurry hurry.
Get away before someone stops you.
I decided I might never come back. The best thing to do, the only solid option, was to drive forever.
Adrian tapped on the window then and I had no choice but to open it.
I lowered the window and he leaned in. “I just wanted to give you a kiss. Be careful.” He kissed my temple. “Don’t stay away too long.”
“I won’t.”
“Too many more of these are going to make me sick,” he said, holding up a fresh drink with a plastic sword of cherries bobbing in it.
“Well, you can always just stop drinking them, you know.”
“Can I?”
“Can’t you?”
“The ice cubes are frozen prune juice.”
“That’s gross.”
He leaned in for a kiss on the lips.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I rolled the window back up. It was starting to get much colder out.
He stood there, seeming less like the enemy than a sad and trustworthy dog.
You have to be married to understand how quickly it can change like that. And change back.
He waved as I pulled away. I was glad he wasn’t with me.
Chapter 18
Valencia and Van have the first two gravestones in our family plot. When they died my parents bought four plots: the two for my brother and sister, and two for themselves. My parents’ graves already have their names and dates of birth chiseled into the brown granite, with vacant spaces awaiting their dates of death to be filled in. Back when they did this, I asked why there weren’t five gravestones. They explained that I would want to be buried with my husband and it would happen so far in the future that I shouldn’t worry about it.
“What if I don’t have a husband when I die?”
“You will,” said my mother.
“How do you know?”
“Everyone gets married. Don’t worry about it.”
“Could I stay in Valencia’s place?” I asked. After all, it was empty. But they were saving it for her, in case someday her body turned up. The possibility of Valencia was a firmer placeholder than the reality of me.
I felt then and still feel that they should have bought another plot. Not a headstone, but a plot. A space for me. Who cares if it was expensive? Who cares if it would have
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