Page 117 of Bad Intentions

Rika: Lol. Wanna come over?

Me: Sure.

Rika: Trevor might join in.

Me: With a new conspiracy theory?

Rika: Probably. And a cold case.

My chest shakes with laughter. My finger hovers over the keys.

Me: I wrote several new songs btw.

I did. In the last week, I wrote five, and that’s the most I’ve done in months. I have so many stories to tell, so much to unpack, so many people out there to share it with that I can’t stop humming, twisting thoughts into words, reaching for my guitar.

Rika: Can I hear them? Pretty pretty pretty please?

Me: I’ll bring my guitar. It might not be anything special though.

Rika: Hey-hey-hey! Let me fix your crown, sis. You are a star! Even though tonight you’ll be singing to only one fan.

I don’t have a crown. Not yet. But I have someone who believes in me enough to make me think I’m worthy of one.

When I get in my car and pull out of the driveway, I feel like I have wings. I finally got the answers about my family’s past. They are not pretty, but they make me who I am. My parents never wanted me, but I have the best grandmother one could ask for, and I’m driving to see my sister. A sister! I have more family, and I’m grateful. I’m done glorifying trauma. My past has taught me to be strong, and I refuse to take it as a sickness.

It’s the first time in years we are having a big dinner at our house. I might even eat Grams’s pancakes for breakfast tomorrow.

I’ve been thinking of fixing Mr. Bunny. Life is just like Mr. Bunny, who might look pathetic, but he’s a trouper, and he’s carried me through rough times.

Yes, Mr. Bunny is definitely getting a tune-up. He won’t get a new eye, but he’ll get a pirate patch. Because he’s not broken. He has battle wounds. Those are signs of courage. And as far as I know, those have always been something to be proud of.

64

KAREN

Josie is talking me into getting more medical tests run. I’m too old to be probed, picked apart, and sedated for hours. But I agreed. Sort of. To please her. Obeying the young ones seems to be the only way to shut them up these days. I did barter, though. Josie agreed to sit down with me properly and go through my and her mother’s pictures and important belongings. They have stories. Young ones don’t value those much. What are they going to show their grandchildren one day? A hundred pictures of the food they ate on a regular basis? Thousands of selfies they took? We have a boring generation of old people coming soon.

While I was in the hospital, the doctors did additional tests. Said, with the current prognosis, I might have two years or so. That’s nonsense. The last time they gave me a year. I confronted them. They said I am an anomaly. They are more optimistic now.

I’m too old for people’s nonsense of calling the things they don’t know how to solve anomalies.

The anomaly was the guy who continuously ruined my life for years, now dead. He and his nutjob. Birdie seemed decent enough when she worked for me. Turned out you had to dig deeper to find the rot. Those two are not an anomaly anymore. They are dust.

“You’re one foot in the grave,” Donna jokes.

That might be true, but I have two feet, two arms, and if everything fails, I still have teeth to bite my way out. Now that this ordeal is over, I’m not ready to go yet. They say I’m stubborn. Maybe that’s what they say about all old folks. We have a low tolerance for nonsense. And the world today? Well, they must be handing out some type of bulk discount for nonsense.

I hear Josie’s car drive off—she’s gone to hang out with Rika. Those two, they’ll stick together. When it’s my time to go, Donna will keep an eye on them. They are tough young women. Those who never went through rough patches will never appreciate a smooth road.

The flames in the fire pit grow higher. I look at Donna and meet her smile. As if she knows what I’m thinking. The woman who barely smiles is smiling. How about it?

Donna takes a sip from her tumbler and a tasteful drag of her Winston, her usual combo. These days, she starts drinking early in the day.

“I need a couple of those just to get my compass straight,” she explained, which translates into, “I’m getting old and don’t give a damn.” I missed this woman.

She hums a little, staring at the fire. Donna is the one who once taught me about Sacred Burns. We’ve done a number in our lifetime. But this one is the most important yet.

Twenty-five years. Four bodies. A lost daughter. The secrets we’ll take to our graves. A despicable man I wished I’d never met. But then, we wouldn’t have had two smart brave women for granddaughters. Sometimes, beautiful things are born out of terrible secrets. Go figure.