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We’re both quiet as she finishes wrapping my foot in gauze. “The cut is pretty deep. I’d feel better if you went to get it checked out.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m sure it will be fine.”
She knows as well as I do that I won’t go to a doctor. I had to let our health insurance lapse four months ago. It was an added expense I couldn’t keep up with. A few years ago, I had to take a second mortgage out on the house to help with my mom’s legal fees. And though Belladonna’s does okay, it’s barely enough to make ends meet. Mom tried to find a job for months after being released from prison. But nobody in town would hire her. Now she spends her days helping me with Belladonna’s. She helps tend to the greenhouse and makes all our products. She even suggested we start an online store and has started working on setting up the website.
There are times, like now, when I look at my mother and see the world’s weight on her shoulder, that I can’t help but feel guilt eating away at my insides. Because no matter how much blame she puts on herself, we both know it’s my doing. My actions landed my mother in prison. Before my mom went away to prison, she was so vibrant and full of life. She came out of there as a shell of the person she was. Don’t get me wrong, my mother is still beautiful. But the light in her eyes is gone.
“You stay here and rest your foot,” Mom says, pulling me out of my wandering thoughts. “I’ll clean up the glass.”
I shake my head. “I need to board up the window. I’ll go to the hardware store first thing in the morning and order a new one.”
“Sukie…”
“I’m okay, Mom. I promise.” I stand and kiss her cheek.
I wait for my mom to retrieve the broom and dustpan from the closet, then disappear down the hall before I grab the flashlight from the table beside the front door and go outside to the shed where we keep the tools. I breathe through the pain that shoots through my foot with each step. Just as I round the back of the house, something catches my attention. I shine the flashlight on the back of the house, and what I see has me choking back a sob. Written in bold strokes and bright red paint is the wordMURDERER. This is the second time in recent months this has happened. In total, since Mom has been home, this makes five.
The vandalism started almost immediately after her release. At first, it was cruel taunts, but soon insults turned into slashed tires and broken windows. I can’t count the number of windows I have replaced in our house. But things escalated to someone spray painting vile stuff on our home last year. They either come in the middle of the night or when I’m at work.
On a few occasions, I’ve gotten a frantic call from Mom while I was in town because someone was bold enough to come onto our property in broad daylight while she was home. They do this because they know the police won’t do anything about it. The jerks doing this used to hit up Belladonna’s when they were feeling extra cruel. That stopped when the local motorcycle club president, Salem, stepped in one night when two teenage punks decided to put a brick through the store window. My friend Sage, who lived across the street above her salon, went after the boys. Sage is crazy; her man, Salem, was unhappy about that incident. The club made the two boys apologize and clean up what they had destroyed.
Since that night, nobody has messed with Belladonna’s again. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for our home. With Sage’s connection to the club, I know if I told her what was happening, she and the club would help, but I don’t want to burden others with my problems. A few months ago, my mom and I discussed leaving Salem. Neither of us wants it to come to that, though, because Salem has always been our home. This house and its land once belonged to my grandma Pierce. Grandma Pierce was my dad’s mom. I’ve lived in this house almost my whole life.
My grandmother and grandfather purchased the land and the house in the fifties. It’s a cottage-style home with a charming blue exterior, a pink door, and these cute window boxes filled with flowers and white shutters. My favorite is the yard. I consider our white picket fence timeless, along with the time-worn brick walkway. Then there are the trees and flowers. My grandmother had no rhyme or reason when it came to landscaping, which is why our yard is covered in an assortment of wildflowers.
Another thing I love about it here is we are off the beaten path—no nosy neighbors and away from town. My home is my happy place, my oasis. I’m angry that anyone thinks they have the right to defile it and encroach on my safe space. Our roots are in Salem. Leaving this place and so many beautiful memories would break my heart, but it might be time.
Two hours later, the window is boarded up, and the glass is cleaned. I wait for Mom to fall asleep, then sneak back out to take care of the outside of the house. I didn’t tell her about the hateful message. I didn’t have the heart. I didn’t tell her the last time it happened, either. Luckily, I have some leftover paint from before.
The sun is starting to rise by the time I finish painting. My foot is throbbing, and I could use a shower before heading into town. Thankfully, Mom is still asleep when I sneak back inside. I go into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee before heading to the bathroom for a shower. Walking in, I peel off my dirty pajamas, now ruined by paint, and toss them in the hamper. I turn and look at my reflection in the mirror and brace my palms against the sink. My blue eyes look dull from lack of sleep, and my hair needed a wash two days ago.
I wish I could let Sage work her magic on my head, but that’s another expense I can’t afford. Sage and Juniper are always gushing over my beautiful hair, but I don’t see it. It’s long and thick, but it’s just plain old brown. There is nothing about me that stands out. I’m five-foot-two on a good day, my hair is dull, and my figure is nothing to write home about. I’m not saying I’m ugly, because I don’t think I am. However, the definition of plain Jane suits me.
I don’t dress up, and I don’t wear makeup. The last time I even wore lipstick was when I was twenty. It was a time in my life I was feeling particularly lonely and desperate for some normalcy, so I signed up on an online dating site. I matched with a guy who was going to college in Boston. I knew better than to try to meet anyone local. The guy was charming and good-looking but obviously looking for a hookup. He assumed that’s what I was in for. The date ended before it began. I had apparently signed up for the one site mostly known for hooking up.
I’ve made no more dating attempts since. The problem with that is that loneliness never goes away. I lie in bed at night thinking about what it would be like to be touched and kissed, to wake up in a man’s arms. Another thought creeps into my mind as I close my eyes. Visions of Harlem consume me. The man is rude, brash, and, not to mention, dangerous. Yet I can’t stop thinking about him.
Harlem is a member of Fallen Ravens motorcycle club. I’ll admit, the club used to scare me, but ever since I became friends with Sage and certain events have placed me in the path of the Ravens, I have learned they are not as scary as I once thought. Dangerous? Absolutely. Harlem is no exception.
Something about the man sets him apart from the others in his club. Something dark but also sad. I see it in his eyes. He keeps whatever has made him the way he is close to his heart. I’m the same way. People like me and Harlem are good at burying the ugly parts of ourselves deep down in the pits of our souls. We all have secrets, and we all have our reasons for keeping them.
Mine eat at me every day. Some days it feels like I’m drowning, choking on the lies that have caused so much pain to the one who loves me the most. Every day I have to live with the fact that I have ruined lives.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?”
I jump at the sound of my mother’s voice.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked on your bedroom door twice, but you didn’t answer.” Mom looks at me with concern.
I plaster a smile on my face. “I’m sorry, Mom. I must have zoned out.”
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I wave her off. “I guess I’m just tired. All I need is a hot shower and a cup of coffee.”
“All right.” She doesn’t look convinced but drops it. “Want some breakfast before you go? I’m making eggs and bacon.”
“Breakfast sounds good, Mom. Thanks.”
