Her Turn Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Allison Jones.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication in print or in electronic format may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Distribution by Bublish, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-64704-262-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64704-261-5 (eBook)

  Contents

  Ten Years Earlier

  Addie

  Dorothy

  Addie

  Matthew

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Dorothy

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Dorothy

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Dorothy

  Addie

  Addie

  Addie

  Dorothy

  Jameson

  Jameson

  Addie

  Dorothy

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Jameson

  Addie

  Nina

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I want to thank everyone who scrunched

  their noses at me when I told them I was a writer.

  This book is a giant middle-finger to you; but thank you for buying my book.

  Ten Years Earlier

  The doctors say it won’t be long now, but my mother is stubborn. Her will to live far exceeds any medical expectations. She glides between reality and another dimension. And sometimes, I am not sure which is which. Margaret Snyder is a formidable opponent for death.

  She comes from old money, where image is everything. On the outside, she always seemed kind, loving, and very generous. Behind closed doors, the truth was a completely different story. She hid her unhappiness in a bottle, disappearing both emotionally and physically for days at a time. As a child, I thought it was me. That if I were different, she would love me. But now I realize there was nothing I could have done to fill the void in her soul.

  Abandonment.

  Emotional and physical neglect.

  Distrust.

  The foundation for every relationship I have ever had. Except for Owen. Owen has always helped me feel less broken, less unlovable, and less unwanted.

  “Addie! Addie, where are you?” The bellowing echoes through the halls of my childhood home. It is my mother, of course, who is yelling at the top of her lungs even though I only left the living room for a moment. We transformed her once opulent living room into a veritable hospital ward to accommodate her impending transition from life to death. Of course, this transition has been going on for a year, and I am simply trying to keep my shit together.

  If I’m honest, the only reason I’m even living here is because of Owen, my twenty-year-old brother. Born with Down syndrome, he is one of my greatest teachers. He is a complete smart-ass and loves to challenge me, but I adore him. He fills the emptiness. When my mother became ill, she made me his guardian. Truthfully, I was already raising him anyway. Neither of my parents could deal with an “imperfect” child that wasn’t “normal.” Cue the eye roll and middle finger salute.

  My father left not too long after Owen was born. My mother did her best to ignore her son, but she made sure all of her “social friends” saw her as the doting maternal figure. No matter what illusion she managed to craft, she couldn’t take away my memories of her passed out in the middle of the afternoon while Owen screamed in his crib. Or the times when she would disappear with no explanation. There were times when a maid would drop in, but even that wasn’t consistent.

  Alcohol was the only thing worthy of my mother’s undivided attention. It has been just Owen and me all along.

  I suppose most people would be resentful if they had been placed in this position. If their mother’s inability to cope had robbed them of a typical childhood. Truthfully, I have walked through the anger, hate, and resentment. Sometimes residue seeps in when I least expect it, but my life is better with Owen in it. He inspires me and motivates me to be the best person I can be. Maybe it is because he sees our mother with love and compassion. He accepts her for who she is and doesn’t try to change her. He doesn’t have unrealistic expectations. He simply loves her.

  I exhale before I enter the room, and when I walk in, my eyes meet hers. She looks small, vulnerable, lying in the hospital bed cloaked in blankets that, unfortunately for me, don’t warm her cold nature. Her youthful beauty has been ravaged by aging and, more importantly, her life choices. A stranger would see her and think “fragile.” She appears to be so sweet with her ready smile and fake warmth. But her bitterness bites like a rabid dog. I have lost count of the revolving door of caregivers who have come and gone. She despises strangers inhabiting her home. If they are overweight, they are sent packing. Yes, thank you very much; she is prejudiced against those with a little extra junk in the trunk. She fears that they will fall on her and kill her. I’m not even joking. Would that be a bad thing? I wonder. I know those thoughts are awful: but when you spend twenty-four hours a day in an emotional hostage situation, evil thoughts tend to rise to the forefront.

  “Mom, what is it?” I ask, hoping she isn’t gearing up for one of her rants about my weight or lack of a spouse. Apparently, being thirty and single is taboo in her eyes. And the body image issue? Well, it has always been a sore spot. When I was a child, I was enrolled in anything that would keep me moving in an effort to keep the fat at bay. I didn’t inherit my mother’s slender frame; instead, I got the soft, curvy appearance of those on my father’s side. I’m not and never have been obes
e, but when I look in the mirror, I always see someone who doesn’t quite measure up.

  Let me clarify: I am not a troll. Not that I have anything against trolls. I am sure someone thinks they’re attractive. But me? Well, let’s just say that I am vertically challenged, coming in at a solid five feet even. My short blond hair is spikey and unruly; it’s the only edgy thing about me. One guy I went out with said that my “blow job” lips were my best asset. Those were the first words out of his mouth when I met him (along with, “So when are you giving me a blow job?”). That date ended before our drinks were served. So, yeah, apparently, my plump lips rival the filler-laden pouts of celebrities and porn stars.

  “Addie, I’m so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m so sorry.” She keeps repeating the apology over and over.

  “What are you sorry for, Mom?” There could be a multitude of things. My mind is racing. This is completely unlike her.

  She grabs my hand and looks at me. Her stare is vacant. Death beckons. Her last breath leaves her parted lips, and I am left without the answer to her deathbed apology.

  Addie

  Present Day

  I look around my modest Brooklyn apartment and exhale. It isn’t extravagant, but it is all me. A slew of well-placed bookcases hosts my collection of literary classics. I won’t lie—when I say literary classics, I am referring to the romantic-themed kind. Still, I would describe myself as a voracious reader. I love the escape books provide, and since I haven’t seen any action since the Clinton administration, it’s nice to see someone is getting some, even if they are fictional.

  Picture windows frame the living room where I have a prime view of the street below. Cozy, oversized chairs provide a place for me to read or write. I love the energy of our Brooklyn neighborhood. It’s so full of life. It became a soft place to land after my mother died.

  A month after my mother’s passing, I was let go from my duties as a freelance columnist for a local newspaper. I should have known something was up when my editor approached the conversation as a sympathetic counselor would.

  “Addie, how are you doing?” my editor, Joyce, asked me as we sat in her office, her brow furrowed.

  “I’m doing okay. Adjusting to our new normal.” I twisted my hands in my lap, a lame effort to ease my anxiety. To be completely honest, the only grief I felt was for the mother I deserved but didn’t get.

  “Good. It will take some time. The reason I called you into the office is that we are making some changes, and I thought it was only right to tell you in person since we’ve worked together for so long. Unfortunately, we aren’t using a freelancer anymore for your home section. As you know, print is suffering, and we feel that an in-house person would save us money. I’m sorry that we have to let you go. If you need a recommendation letter, I’m happy to supply that. You have been an asset to the paper, and we are sad to lose you.” She didn’t make eye contact with me, and an awkward silence fell over the room. There goes ten years down the drain.

  “Oh. Wow. Umm, well, okay. Thank you for the opportunity. I’ve enjoyed the last ten years working here.” I seriously sounded like a robot. In my mind, I was going out in a blaze of glory with my middle finger raised in the air. Instead, I stood, shook her hand, and left her office in a daze.

  I wallowed, consoling myself with ice cream and wine as I sat around in my favorite pair of pajamas. Darkness became my friend. And not just in terms of my mood. I literally didn’t turn on any lights. By the seventh day, my apartment was littered with empty food containers, and an ineffable stench permeated the air. After some investigation, I found the source of the smell. It was me. Showering hadn’t even been on my radar.

  In actuality, the monotony of writing about home design week after week was getting tedious. I had grown to hate it, but it gave me purpose. It gave me an identity. After being let go, I was plagued with thoughts that I wasn’t good enough and wondered where to go from there.

  I inherited a considerable amount of money from my mother, which provided a generous cushion. On the eighth day of my reclusiveness, I realized that this could be the moment to step out of my comfort zone. You know how we all talk about taking a goal to task, and then we add, “Someday I’ll do it”? That day was my someday. Well, In fairness, I postponed that someday to the next day; I still had some more ice cream and wine to consume, but not together, of course. That would ruin them both.

  But after that, instead of waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, I lit that bitch up myself. In my head, I am a badass. However, in reality, I am fearful of change. Fearful of not being accepted. So instead, I take care of everyone else to simply avoid the possibility. That’s me: the caretaker. After days of mourning the loss of a job that, quite frankly, was lacking inspiration, my attitude began to shift. Instead of looking at the loss of my job as a bad thing, I decided to see it as an opportunity. Incredibly healthy of me, don’t you think?

  Writing a book has always been in my peripheral vision. The idea of creating a fictional novel about a forty-something woman navigating life seemed to speak to me. As a single woman, society deems me a spinster or a lesbian. I hold nothing against either, but I simply do not belong in either of those groups. Still, according to society, I should be hoarding cats by this point. And for the record, I do not have even one cat, but I do have Owen, who is as moody as any four-legged feline.

  People are immediately drawn to Owen—to his infectious grin and laughter. We have the same blond hair, but his is coarse and thick while mine tends to be thinner, hence the reason I keep it in a short pixie cut. His low muscle tone could be a detriment, but he never lets it stop him. His exuberance for life is inspiring, and when he says, “I love my life,” it makes all the “big” stuff that I worry about seem so unimportant. He is open to any possibility.

  He adjusted well after Mom died, but the reality is that it has always been just the two of us anyway, so we quickly settled into a rhythm. He is employed at a neighborhood grocery store that happens to be down the street.

  “What are you doing today?” he inquires, breaking me from my memories.

  “Writing,” I respond.

  “Again?” He rolls his eyes.

  “Yes, again,” I state, my voice dripping with annoyance.

  “Maybe Mr. Schmitt will hire you at the store. You could work with me, and I would be your boss.” He grins and giggles.

  This is our conversation every day. He doesn’t understand that I’m really writing a book and have been for quite some time; that writing is my job even if, at this moment, it isn’t lucrative; and that someday, someone and maybe several of their friends will want to read it. I watch him walk to his job.

  For the first few months, I walked him to work every day, which elicited innumerable complaints. “Addie, I am thirty. I am a man. I can walk alone.” Whatever. So instead, I watch from the stoop of our apartment building, asking him to text me when he gets there. His text always reads, “I’m here. Get a life.”

  He’s right, you know. I will get a life after I complete this book. The finish line is on the horizon.

  I was ten when Owen was born; he was a late “oops” baby. Since my parents opted out of raising him, I became his caregiver, advocate, mother, and sister; and he—well—he became my everything. When he was younger, I walked him to school every day, his chubby hand connecting with mine. His smile was infectious. Once we would reach our destination, he would turn to me, open his arms, and give me the best hug I have ever encountered. There was never a better way to start my day.

  My life is so much better with Owen in it—even when he gives me the finger (which happens regularly). His developmental delay has never been a hindrance. It doesn’t define him, and if anyone feels sorry for him, they are missing the bigger picture. He is thriving, appreciative of the present moment. While the rest of the world stresses about mundane issues, Owen lives his life with ease. He is a
contributing member of the community, and most of all, he is loved. He is a walking example of living life in the moment. I want to be like him when I grow up (but without the attitude).

  I shuffle over to my laptop, settle into my writing chair, pray for some creative mojo, and delve into the project at hand. My book, Finding the Light, centers around Sherry, a forty-something woman on a quest to find herself, even with the layers of baggage that bind her. Along the way, she opens her heart to love while uncovering secrets that have plagued her family for generations. Sounds nice, right? There are some characteristics that we share, but I shape her into being a lot of things I don’t see in myself. She is poised and beautiful but still struggles with finding her way in the world. That latter part is what we share. I want to fit. I want to find a place where I belong. I want the happy ending.

  Lost in thought, I barely hear my cell phone ringing. The name on the screen makes me grimace. It’s my cousin-in-law, Dorothy. Dorothy is married to my cousin, Matthew, a passive, unmotivated individual who uses me as his personal ATM. Dorothy, on the other hand, has a penchant for not asking and simply taking items that don’t belong to her—like jewelry. Yes, Dorothy is a shoplifter and has been caught on numerous occasions. She seems to skate through the court system and is never accountable for her actions. Oh, and she might also be a hoarder. However, she maintains a façade of success with her designer duds and perfectly coiffed blond hair. I suspect that the money I “loan” them goes toward Dorothy, always looking like a million bucks instead of toward their bills. Color me surprised. Her willowy figure and manicured fingernails complete the illusion. She is a real piece of work.

  Why do I continue to participate, you ask? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because, besides Owen, this is the only family I have left. It’s toxic and dysfunctional, I know, but I crave acceptance and love. My hope that people will change and start to care about me consumes me. Logically, I know it’s not going to happen, and yet I continue to play the game, thinking that one day, people will treat me the way I deserve. I am sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with my issues.

  Anyway, like a dumb-ass, I answer the phone. It is simply the next stage in the cycle of insanity.