The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

For my mother, I’m certain that it was the former that sent her off into oblivion and left me with a woman that resembled someone I recognized, but none of the characteristics that made me love her.

I was fifteen when my mother decided to pack us up and move away from the only house, the only world I ever knew. Framingham, Illinois was the sidewalk-lined streets of idyllic USA with perfectly trimmed yards and garden parties every Sunday. I’m sure it’s changed in the nine years since we’ve left.

My mother claimed to have aspirations, old ones, ones she said my father suppressed when they ended up married and pregnant. This new woman acting as my mother wasn’t someone that I recognized. She wouldn’t listen when I begged to stay and finish high school. She wouldn’t listen when I told her that I could move in with our church’s pastor, his wife, and kids. She wouldn’t listen when I told her that I had no desire to go to Vegas or Los Angeles – that my home was in Framingham.

Despair is a peculiar thing – it takes on so many forms. It pulls the recluse from its hollow and the exhibitionist into solitude. I mourned for my father, for my family, for the loss of affection. But I also mourned the loss of my mother. When my father died, something in her shifted and she became someone I despised.

It didn’t take long for me to learn that drugs and alcohol became her comforts, and as we packed up the car to head West, she placed an oversized and overfilled duffle bag into the trunk of the car that I’m certain she paid for with the remainder of the house sale.

Remembering our journey leaves me shaking and sweating. An overwhelming urge to vomit rises in my throat, cutting through the memories that haunt me. The twisted metal. The orange and yellow blaze. The gripping fear. So much fear. But hope lingered. Without hope in the memories, I’d be no better off than the woman that birthed me.

I hear a knock at the door and then retching followed by a familiar bang.

Not again.

Stumbling from my bed, I brush the sleep away with the back of my hands. The darkness encases my apartment and as I look above the small stove, the microwave’s clock blinks with the numbers three zero zero. Great, only one more hour I could have attempted to get some shuteye. But what’s one more day working through the nightmares that plague me still?

Another thud sounds outside my door and I remember why I crawled out of bed in the first place.

I open the door to my apartment only to find my Uncle Jeff leaning against the frame. He’s not sturdy enough to hold himself up, nor am I quick enough in the early morning to catch him as he falls over my threshold.

Crouching down I take in the deep wrinkles on my uncle's tanned skin, reminding me of worn leather – soft and rough at the same time. In the last four years, he’s been through so much. That was when we lost Susan – his wife, friend, soul mate. The two did everything together and owned the majority of the businesses in town. Since her death, Uncle Jeff struggles to manage the trio of shops lining Main Street – the diner, convenience store, and auto shop. Well, in the past year it seems all Uncle Jeff can take care of is the latter while I’m doing my best to keep the other two afloat.

But the one good thing about our town is that everyone loved Susan, she was the proverbial town Grandma. They all felt the weight of her loss and they all step in when Jeff and I are overwhelmed. Which, for me, seems to be a daily occurrence.

Garbles sound between Jeff’s thin lips and I know that I need to get him inside quickly unless I want to clean a spot in the hallway. Hitching my hands under his arms, I drag him as carefully as possible to the couch in my living room and deposit his upper half onto the cushions. I repeat the motion with his feet and hips.

Of course, the moment I get him settled his tired eyes open into small slits and he stares at me, silently professing his apology. But I don’t need one. After everything he and his wife did for me, I’d carry the man to bed every day for eternity.

I don’t even realize that a small tear has rolled down my cheek as I watch the man I hold closest to my heart wither away into a shell of himself, not until his weak and trembling hand reaches up to wipe it away.

“You’re a good girl,” he whispers then turns over to face the back of the couch.

When he’s sober tomorrow, I’ll find out where he found the alcohol. No one in town is allowed to serve or sell to him – his own proclamation as the town mayor. It rings especially true with the anniversary of Susan’s death only a month away. Makes me wonder how far he’s traveled to find a bottle to lose himself in, or who snuck him some when he was desperate enough to beg.

I hate to see him this way. It’s tiring for him and for me, an endless loop of sorrow, begging, then a small splinter of joy.

The clock on the microwave beckons me for another glance and I give in, groaning when I know that I’ll be unable to attempt any more sleep. Might as well get up and get the diner started for the 5 a.m. morning crowd.

I take a quick shower, tossing my long blonde hair into its typical ponytail and then donning my yellow polo shirt and black pants. It’s going to be hot in the diner but if I’m the one stuck making the food again then I’d rather not have oil splatter on my bare legs.

When I emerge from my bedroom in the back, I turn the corner and find my uncle still resting in the same spot where I left him.

The darkness of the early morning engulfs me in its blanket of shadows. I never used to be frightened of the dark. The way it sucked away every ounce of light was part of some childhood fantasy that I found beautiful. But now? Now the darkness leaves me in a state of fear – a nightmare that I dread being caught in.

I rush from the ledge of my building’s entrance, down the two streets of concrete and trees, until I’m finally able to twist the key into the lock of the large metal door. As if by mental memory, I begin prepping the three large coffeepots, cinnamon buns, and waffle batter. I

’m not even sure I know what I’ve completed until the buzzer in the back sounds and in walks Joanne, our morning waitress.

“Mornin’,” she calls out as she grabs her nametag and pins it perfectly onto her matching yellow polo shirt. “No, Tucker?”

From what I can tell, our morning cook has zero desire to make it in this morning, just as he’s been absent for the last two days. I’d fire him and his twin if there were anyone else in town that could cook worth a damn and needed a job. Unfortunately, that just leaves me. I offered to teach Joanne how to cook the menu, but she complains that the steam and grease mess with her hair.

No one takes into account that I’m trying to run all three businesses and complete my nursing school prerequisites. It’s been slow going, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time – ever since my brush with death.

My eyes close instinctively at the thought of my accident, how the shadows had loomed around me, pulling me into their darkness. The panic attack is on the verge of overtaking me again – twice in one day, definitely not what I need. But I’m saved when Joanne reaches her thin arms around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. She might not realize that she just helped me fight my demons before they got too close, but I’ll clench her offering with all that I am.

“Time to open up. I’ll call Tucker in a bit and make sure he shows up this afternoon. No sense in you working both shifts.”