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But he was wrong. I’ve done plenty of things right. He was the one who refused to acknowledge them.
Anne and I talk a little longer. I’ve spent the past ten years practically alone, so it feels odd having someone treat me like a person with feelings and dreams and ambitions. I’m not a number or a cop killer or someone to attack or bully. Her warm attitude is a blanket in the empty void. A promise. A flicker of hope.
“I should go now. I’ll contact a lawyer about the sale,” she tells me, “and then contact you so we can arrange for the transfer of funds.”
“Sounds good. Thank you!”Thank you for helping me start my life over.
Anne leaves, and I retrieve the bike from the garage. I need to get some more groceries since there is only so much I can fit in the basket, and it’s about time I check out downtown Maple Ridge. The town that will soon be my permanent home.
I climb on my bike and head toward Main Street.
At the library, a single-story brick building on the edge of downtown, I lock up my bike and walk along the sidewalk. I still don’t feel like a resident. I’m more like a tourist who’s constantly looking over her shoulder.
The two-story buildings on either side of Main Street are quaint. Like chalets. An excited hum vibrates inside me. While Maple Ridge might not be San Diego, the city I loved so much, the small town is beautiful with the gorgeous mountain backdrop.
And it’s now going to be my home.
I go into a store that sells clothes, but the items are overpriced and meant for tourists. What do most residents do when they need clothes? Drive to Eugene? Order them online?
I don’t have a car, so the first option is out. And I don’t have a computer or phone, so buying them online also isn’t an option. I guess along with clothes, I’ll need to get a phone soon.
The next store, Little Wonders, has aHelp Wantedsign in the window. Antique cribs and cute dresses and stuffed animals decorate the window display, and the pang of emptiness and loss sucker-punches me in the solar plexus.
The Amelia I knew would have loved this place with the cute cuddly animals. Would seven-year-old Amelia love it?
I pull open the door and walk to the front counter. I could see myself working here. Sure, it’s not what I imagined when I was studying for my journalism degree, but I need a job, and there are worse things I could be doing.
“Hi, there.” The woman on the other side of the counter must be in her late fifties and is all smiles. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, please. I saw that you’re hiring.”
“That’s right. Do you have a résumé?”
I inwardly cringe. I haven’t gotten around to creating one yet. Hell, I don’t even have a computer I can write one on.
I smile back, fastening on what I hope comes off as a confident smile. “I don’t have one on me right now. I can drop it off, though.” Maybe I can use a computer at the local library and print my résumé off there. Except…I haven’t worked in ten years—other than in prison. And that’s not something I wish to highlight on my résumé.
“Do you have any retail experience?” The friendly curve of her mouth doesn’t falter even a fraction of an inch.
“I-I don’t. But I’m a fast learner.” The words stumble from me, trying to find their footing. It’s been over twelve years since my last job interview.
“Hmm. I really wanted retail experience.” The corners of her mouth dip slightly, but it’s nothing too discouraging. “How about references?”
My stomach sinks, shame and disappointment weighing it down. “I-I don’t have any.” I never asked my brother-in-law or sister-in-law if they would be a reference. They had already helped me find a place to stay after I was released from Beckley. It felt like too much to also ask for references—especially when they didn’t know me all that well.
“I’m sorry, dear. I do have someone else in mind for the position. But if you leave your résumé with me the next time you’re in the store, I’ll be sure to keep it on file.” Her smile no longer seems quite as genuine as it did a moment ago.
“I will. Thank you.” I flash her the most optimistic smile that I can muster and head for the entrance, stopping long enough to check out a few items as if I’m considering buying them.
Several people are walking on the sidewalk when I leave the store. No one is paying attention to me, and I make a detour to the florist. The early afternoon sunlight brightens the flowers on display. Especially the red roses, their petals the shade of spilled blood.
A memory seeps in of cold concrete pressed against my face and of blood—my blood—spreading across the gray floor. My first thought after I was stabbed, when I registered the blood, was how beautiful it looked. Like rose petals.
My second thought was how I’d survived an abusive husband only for an inmate to kill me. During the years of living in fear, wondering if the next strike of my husband’s fist would be the one that finally killed me, not once had I imagined my life ending in this way.
And as my life drained away on the concrete prison floor and my vision darkened, fear, anger, sadness—none of them visited me. Instead, I’d been relieved.
Relieved the last thing I saw in a world of hatred and rage and distrust was a thing of beauty.
