Firstly, Lastly. Chapter 1

                              Chapter 1

  “I was born, it's all downhill from here”

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My father never really liked me much, I was born on a Valentine's Day. I don't know a whole lot about it, only what my grandmother would tell me. It wasn't a subject she liked to broach much. My dad was her son, and even though he didn't treat me like he should, it was a bond she couldn't break. A mother's love and understanding is something near unbreakable. Not that I would know, my mother died giving birth to me. 

She died alone, holding her last child, hemorrhaging to death. I can only imagine what that afternoon was like, a mixture of fact, and my grandmother's hyperbole. Where was everyone? My father was in traffic, he wasn't a wealthy man. And he was prone to binges of alcohol, drugs, and women. My uncle was an independent contractor, and when my dad was healthy enough, and he had the work, he would “keep your dad busy, idle hands as they say.” 

 Atlanta isn't an easy place to navigate on the best days, but this was a cold, nasty day. A thick, heavy storm laid over the city bringing everything to a crawl. And there he was, my father, stuck in this wet hell, no reassurance of what was happening. 

My grandmother, well, she was babysitting my brother and sister, of course. This was all but a full-time job for her at this point. Both my parents had to work, and the idea of a babysitter, or daycare seemed antithetical to them, I guess. “You can’t afford a babysitter on an alcoholics’ budget. You can’t afford a family either, but that didn’t stop your parents from trying.” My grandmother would say when she was particularly frustrated with my father.

I would ask my uncle what the ride to the hospital was like, when I was a teenager. My father never had a license, even before he was an alcoholic, his predilection to party kept him from achieving even the smallest goals. So, at this time, it was up to my uncle to make sure my dad got anywhere. My uncle had received a call from my mother, he had the only phone on site, just before the storm rolled in. She had gone into labor, and she was driving herself to the hospital. Unfortunately, right before they hit the road, a minivan with a small family had been sideswiped by a dump truck. Leaving them stuck in the middle of 75 South with no hope of escape.

My uncle always stressed that there was no reason for the family to believe there were any issues. I was my parents' third child after all. It seemed like a foregone conclusion that they would walk into, at the very least my mother in labor, or at the most, a bouncing baby girl.

Truthfully, my mother wasn't very healthy, there was ten years between me and my siblings. And my mother, while by all accounts not the user my father is, still partook herself. Her pregnancy with me was fraught with issues, and the fact that she even got pregnant, let alone carried me to term, was in no short “a miracle.” As my grandmother was want to tell the story.

He wouldn't make it to see her, “she was just gone so fast” the nurses told him. I like to imagine it was some Hollywood moment. My father falling to his knees and screaming to God. But I know, this story regaled to me by my uncle, he simply walked out the door, and disappeared for a week. Nobody bothered to find out where he went. 

My grandmother would take the family in when I was three, dad had managed to keep it together well enough to hold onto his trailer that long. I don't really remember life in that trailer, but my brother and sister do. And like old war veterans they would never talk about it. I know it was a small trailer court, I know that it was owned by some private water company, and I know that we had to leave in a hurry, and I don't think it was of my father's freewill. 

My dad wouldn't actually join us at grandma's. According to the state, he lived there. He did have a room in the basement. A simple space, small mirror, dresser with a small TV, twin size bed, and a chair from some dining set that was long lost to time. Mostly he used it to “dry out”, as the alcoholics would say. Every few months he'd show up, looking aged by ten years, gaunt, covered in strange bruises and sores. My grandmother would bring him his food, she would buy him new clothes to replace the baggy or torn up items he had. And often he'd work with my uncle for a few weeks, maybe a couple months, and then he'd be gone again.

He never came to one event, one play, one dance recital, one parent/teacher conference. He didn't know my doctor's name, or my best friend, or even who my first date was. He was just not present in those aspects of my life. My uncle would eventually have to sell his home and move into grandmother’s house. Her health had started to go, and he had never married. His property was small. He had focused more on growing his business over his personal property. So, it was the easiest, and most logical thing for him to just move there. 

It's important to note, my dad was not an abusive man. He never struck me or said anything mean to me. He was just not there, and if he was there, he made zero attempts to reach out. In fact, I think he did everything he could to avoid me. I am no psychologist, but I think the moment my mother died, he couldn't bear the thought of even looking at me. 

My siblings were all but gone by this point, they were twins, so they graduated at the same time. Between work, and their social lives, their presence was so sparse, nobody realized my brother had moved until he turned up with a fiancé. That left me, my uncle, and my ailing grandmother. A cocktail of arthritic joints and cataracts had left her, basically in need of daily assistance. 

She couldn't comfortably get around her kitchen, or even read simple instructions, anymore. So, we had to be there to help her along. Up and down in the bathroom, and the shower. It wasn't always the most dignified existence, but her heart was as pure as it always was. And her sense for the dramatic never faded, but it was when her mind started to go that things at home got dark. 

My grandmother's dementia came on fast, literally within a bus stop. My stop was right at the end of my grandmother’s driveway. I was standing at the bus door waiting for the driver to open it, when the commotion started. All the kids piling to one side of the bus, yelling, pointing, eventually turning towards me. 

“What the fuck is that?”

“Is that your mom out there?” they knew it was my grandmother, of course. They knew a lot of things about my life, in the way only preteens have time for. It had only been in the last year or two that they used it to make my life miserable. Their words are half disgust, half ridicule. Some were laughing, some turning away. One boy, who I used to have a crush on the year before, leaned over pretending that he was puking. His gang of moronic friends found that to be the funniest thing they ever saw, apparently. I could feel it, it started first in my ears, the heat of shame and embarrassment, quickly spreading to my face. 

For a brief eternity I was frozen there in it, my shame. What I was seeing was an Eldritch horror I couldn't have dreamed of. My thoughts, a mixture of confusion, sadness, and a small coal of defensive anger smoldering under it all, waiting to catch fire. Somewhere in the teenage mockery, and swirling thoughts, I knew what we were seeing, signified a new era in my family's lives. 

What they saw was my grandmother, standing in our yard, naked, aside from some hospital socks, picking apples. She had planted four apple trees when she and my grandfather bought the house. Meant to be some kind of symbolism for the years it took them to achieve that feat. They were one of her most cherished items on all this planet. And there she was, in front of my entire class and my bus driver, both whom I have known since I was five, in all her glory, picking her prized fruits. 

I stood there in my own shame, ears burning, but there were no tears. I have always been able to keep my composure around people, even when they are trying to elicit a reaction from me. I stood there, thoughts swirling so fast they were just white noise, it was this noise in my head that kept me from losing my mind right then. It was at this moment I felt the hand of the bus driver on my back.

“Honey, you need to tend to this.” Mrs. McGibney, she was a sweet southern woman, probably in her early sixties. Since I had started Elementary school, she was my bus driver. Her gentle hand guiding me off the bus, I felt the bravado of my shame fading. My brave face beginning to melt. The defensive coal never set fire to anger, but my shame was twisting into sadness. I felt the first tears bubble up.

“Honey, there will be time for that later,”  Mrs. McGibney said, handing me a small emergency blanket she kept on the bus. She had done this many years, and she was well prepared for most things. Even so, I think this was a first for everyone on that bus. 

Taking the blanket from Mrs. McGibney seemed to wipe away whatever shame I was feeling. And I knew right then, I had to save whatever was left of my grandmother's dignity. I made the long walk around the bus, some of my classmates were still hollering, and laughing. Being thirteen, some of the boys were pretty disgusting. 

“Hey, you think she's D.T.F.?” One boy shouted, it means down to fuck. Have you ever thought about the thoughts you have in moments of crisis? How strange are they, really? The types of things your mind lets you reach out for, so you don't yank your hair out during a crisis or tragedy. In that moment, I was struck by the thought that even in this chaos, even being the little bullies that they were. They knew not to break Mrs. McGibney’s golden rule, no cussing on the bus. 

I was just stepping into the yard when I heard the familiar sound of the door closing and the brakes on the bus letting go. Thinking back on it, I think she just wanted to spare me further embarrassment. I would find out from the school Principal the next morning that she had actually radioed in an emergency. But still, standing there, on that bright Tuesday afternoon, I felt completely abandoned, and hopelessly alone. 

“Grandma.” I was making my way to her slowly. She was talking, I couldn't make it out really, it was nearly gibberish. The ramblings of a woman who was in the middle of a stroke. I reached out to touch her, her skin was hot and wet. Her normally perfectly kept hair was a sloppy mess on her head. You could see the streaks of generic hair spray coming down her face. 

She was startled by my touch, letting out a short gasp, before quickly turning around to face me. I could see the confusion in her eyes. Her eyes weren’t focusing, and she looked pale from the late spring heat. “Who the hell are you?” She barked at me. I hadn't heard this tone in her voice before. A mixture of shock and anger, dashed with the sprig of confusion I mentioned before.

“Get away from me, where is Harland?” Harland was my grandfather, I never met him. The tone in her voice became harsher each word, her voice cracking with dehydration. I had to get control of this quickly, before she succumbed to the heat. My grandmother is a saint of a woman. The woman she was after that day, was not the woman I knew as a kid.

She always had a gentle hand, or a calm guiding voice in the fog of life. Even though my parents were gone, she never missed my birthdays, or a chance to bake me a cake, or a moment to tell me she loved me with the deepest hugs I ever felt. Right now though, in my front yard, in front of all our neighbors, in view of every passing car, she had no clue who I was. 

“Grandma, it's me, Sunshine.” Sunshine was her nickname for me, part term of endearment, part inside joke about my “sunny disposition”. I took my backpack off, a circle of sweat had formed on my back, immediately cooling in the warm Spring breeze. I unfolded the blanket, it stunk, not of any particularly foul odor, but of time. It probably stayed in Mrs. McGibney's emergency kit for fifteen years, one of those items you always hope to have, but never hope to need. 

I went to place the blanket on her shoulders, I could just make out sirens in the distance. “I told you, get the HELL AWAY FROM ME!” Those last words cracked on her voice, coming out as a loud shout. The new tone in her voice, something like a possessed cat howling over territory.

My grandmother kept her hair and nails perfect. We weren't a wealthy family, but my grandmother called those things her “luxuries”, which she had well deserved. In one motion she tossed the blanket from her shoulders and slapped me the hardest I have ever been slapped. To this day, and I have only been in a single fight, but this was still the most painful hit I ever felt.

It was more than a hit really, it was a clawing. She took her beautiful, well-manicured nails, and sliced my cheek open right where we stood. I felt it immediately, the warm, sticky feeling of blood coming down my cheek. She got me good, three sharp scratches had opened on my face, her pinky thankfully only left a superficial scratch. But her damn thumb jammed me in the eye. That night I would need to ice it, and I had a gnarly black eye for almost a week. 

I could feel the tears of shock and anger building up in me, but I remembered Mrs. McGibney's words, “Honey, there will be time for the later.” I thought about those words often in my life. And I used them to stand up straight many other times in my life that my knees buckled.

The sirens were closer now, “DAMN IT, GRANDMA, PULL IT TOGETHER!” I didn't realize I was screaming at this point, I could feel my face swelling, and those boys' words kept circling in my head. Damn it, I needed to make sense of what was happening, and I didn't know what else to do. Her eyes widened even further, the sharpness of my voice seemed to unlock something in her mind. 

She stumbled backwards, leaning against one of her prized trees, and sank to the ground. “My head hurts, Sunshine, why am I outside?” Somewhere in this fog of confusion, my grandmother shined through briefly. This broke me immediately, I was able to muster enough strength to cover her with the blanket, before I fell in her lap in tears. 

An ambulance, firetruck, and two police cars pulled up minutes later. I don't know how long, it felt like an hour, me there sobbing, and my grandmother mumbling into oblivion. Before a female EMT walked me away. Because the universe works on serendipity, by the time I reached the back of the ambulance, my Uncle returned home early from work. 

“What the fuck is going on?” My Uncle was barely in front of the house when he parked his truck. He was covered in wall mud, that was the job of the month. By now he ran an entire crew, sometimes he'd bring a guy or two home, let them sleep in “dad's room”. It was a fairly common occurrence that he'd bring the entire crew over on a Saturday. And there would be tons of drinking, and food, and it was honestly always a great time.

My grandmother would make one of her famous desserts. I loved her peach cobbler, but really one of my favorite traditions was her and I making fresh lemonade. It was so delicious on a hot summer day. I found myself drifting into the comfort of those memories for a moment. The EMT grabbing my face to examine it, shook me from the safety of a bygone summer. 

“Ggggrandma,” my voice cracking, looking down at the scene of EMTs, firemen, and police tending to my grandmother. Before I could reclaim and finish my thoughts he was running down there. My uncle and I are not close, but he does love his mother fiercely. And in many ways, he contributed to my life in ways my own father never could. But our love for each other is strictly familial. Beyond that though, there isn't really a bond.

 My grandmother would say he just never liked children, “He doesn't hate you, Sunshine, but even as a boy himself, he was much happier to be around your grandfather and his friends, over the neighborhood boys.” she would tell me, usually after he lost his temper with me, and I would swear he hated me. 

“Let me clean your face,” the EMT, a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, was opening an alcohol swab. “Scratches like this run a big risk of infection.” The alcohol on the swab was cold but burned like hell. I winced and pulled away. 

“Human hands are nasty, and from the looks of your grandma over there, who knows what kind of germs she has on her hands right now.” He was really cute, I had to fight the urge to develop a crush on him. One of those hero complex type deals you hear about sometimes. I sort of felt like a heel in that moment. I should be worried about my grandmother, and I am thinking about some guy. 

“I don't think these should scar, especially if you care for them properly, do you have you kind of antibiotic cream in the house?” 

I couldn't bear the thought of eye contact with him, partially because the teenage hormones were raging for some damn reason, but mostly because to make eye contact, human contact would probably have caused me to lose my entire mind right that second. I shook my head no. 

“Well, maybe I got something in the back of the truck here I can leave with you.” He was preparing a couple butterfly bandages, the type that pull minor cuts together. “You know, whatever this is, you shouldn't blame yourself.” 

“What?” His statement seemed to zip through my head. I was in a daze, it was a warm day, standing directly in the sun, I felt hot and dizzy already. I had taken a drink from the fountain at school before getting on the bus, but in all this commotion I hadn't thought to get water, but now I was suddenly dying of thirst. 

“I see things like this all the time, this wasn't your fault.” 

What the hell was he saying? I felt my hormones die inside of me, did he think my grandmother struck me out of some sort of abuse? She would never, first grandma, and then those boys, and Mrs. God damn McGibney leaving me on the side of the road. All for some strange man to assume some kind of abuse. I felt the warmth of a crush turn into the flames of anger. 

I had just opened my mouth in rebuttal.

“Out of the way, we're coming through.” Three EMTs with my Uncle in tow had my grandmother on the gurney. It was so quick, they had her up in the back of the ambulance, Uncle buckling into the small seat for riders, and closing the door in a matter of seconds. 

“Here kid, think about what I was saying.” The cute EMT who I wanted to give a piece of my mind tossed me a tube of Neosporin. “There’re instructions on the box.” And just like that, he was in the driver seat and pulling away. The sirens sputtered to a start, and they were off. Even though I stood there watching the entire time, the siren still gave me a leaping startle. I took a deep breath and tried to collect myself a little bit.

It was now just me, and one police officer. He stayed with me for fifteen minutes or so. Took a statement about what happened before they arrived, what I had seen, was she on medications, the standard stuff. He walked me to the door, carrying my backpack. They left the emergency blanket in a heap, I folded it, leaving it gently by the front door. 

“You're going to be ok here, alone?” I wasn't actually alone.

“I have my cat, and I think I can call a friend to come sit with me while I wait.” I so wanted to be out of this conversation, I wanted to hide in a hole and die. My face hurt, my heart hurt, my entire soul hurt, the last thing I wanted was the fake nicety from a cop. He reached into the front pocket of his uniform, pulling out an egg white rectangular business card, “That there is my personal cell phone. I'll make sure to leave the ringer on all night.” he flipped the card between two fingers , holding it in my direction. “If you need anything, anything at all, call this number. I have a daughter, I would dread the thought that she was alone during a time like this.”

“Thank you sir.” I said politely, please just go away, now. Taking the card from his fingers.

“Please, it's Daniel.” God end this conversation, please. 

“Thank you, Daniel, but really this whole thing has just left me tired. If you don't mind, I think I am going to go inside now.” He nodded in acceptance, really he wasn’t being forceful, but I think he could sense my urgency to leave the conversation. With that, he turned on his heel, and started the walk back to his patrol car. 

I opened the door, I felt the chill of air conditioning hit me first. A feeling of cool nostalgia, of that first moment walking in your door for the day, washed over me. I almost forgot the two hours that had just passed in my front yard. Almost. I turned to look out my window to see Officer Daniel pulling away. It was that moment, when I was truly alone, that I let myself grieve the situation for the first time. 

“Honey, there will be time for that later.” Mrs. McGibney told me, those words rang in my head. As I laid there in the threshold of my house in the fetal position, crying, they were the only words I could think of, over and over. “Honey, there will be time for that later.” Well, I hope now was later enough, because here it comes. I slept there, on a pile of old, and dirty shoes by the front door. I didn't leave that spot either, not until my uncle called the house phone several hours later.