I am sharing with you guys, the opening chapter of my book, feel free to leave a comment, share, and I will keep you guys updated when the book will be re-released. Thank you.
~ Debbie ~
Ten minutes, just ten more minutes, I thought. That was all I would give Mum before ringing home again.
I’m sitting perched on the edge of the wall, hands on my lap; the strap of my bag held tightly in my hands as I watch the passing traffic. A single droplet of water makes its way down my face, stopping at my chin, before dripping onto my hands. I stare briefly at it before turning my attention back to the road, as I scan it again for my mother’s green hatchback. It wasn’t the best car in the world, but as Mum always said, as longs as it gets us from A to B, she was happy.
I sigh, wishing Mum would hurry up. My dripping hair and the chill of the air cause me to shudder; now I regret not drying it as Wendy suggested. She of course washed and dried her hair after our swimming session. Right now, I wished I was buckled up in the car, deep in conversation about mindless chatter with my mother.
We always talked about everything, and Mum understood me, another reason why I love her so much.
I had been trying for days to talk to her, to get her alone; I want to talk to her, about the changes to my body, or the lack of them. Other girls were sprouting these enormous breasts. Where were mine? It was enough to make me scream.
I continue to watch the traffic as my mind wandered, praying Mum was alone, and that neither Greg nor Sally had insisted on tagging along. They were always craving for her attention these days, and I rarely had time to talk to her in private.
A double-decker bus passed, I loved riding them, and watched it until it disappeared, thinking I could have been home by now. Yet Mum insisted on picking me up, explaining to me, that even though I was thirteen, she did not want me to ride the bus alone. What harm would come to me, I argued. Which did no good; I was to wait on the wall for Mum to pick me up. Of course, I did not blame Wendy; parents made you do these family visits together. My own were the same. After all, they were not getting any younger, at least that was what Steve would say, he was right of course. Pushing Steve far from my thoughts, as much as I love my eldest brother, if I was to think about a boy, it would not be him, I smiled. I do not even have to think or say his name, to have my heart racing at the thought of him. I whisper his name.
Biting my lip, I shake my head, really now is not the time to be thinking about drop-dead-gorgeous Joshua Lawson, no I should be watching out for Mum, which reminds me, she is taking forever to get here, come on Mum.
I turn my attention back to the road and the cars whizzing down the one-way carriage. A four-lane road, all going one-way, one of the busiest roads in the area I know. I inhale deeply, instantly regretting it, as the scent of chlorine and exhaust fumes hits me. I would have to shower when I get home. Wendy suggested I wash it, but being me, I wanted to wave her off when her parents collected her. I drop the handle of my bag, and wring my hair again, as water drips onto the concrete below my feet. Satisfying me that most of the water is now out of my hair. Once again, I wish to be inside the warmth of the car. Instead, I remain on the wall as the wind whipped at my face, causing me to shudder. I wrap my arms around my body to keep warm. Where are you Mum? I stand, hovering from one foot to the other, searching the cars for ours.
There is still no sign of my mother, I sit down, and shuffle on the cold brick wall, wishing Wendy had not left me.
Five more minutes pass.
“Come on, Mum,” I mutter to myself, craning my neck to check down the road for her again. I roll my emerald-green eyes. It was not like Mum to be this late.
I watch the cars pass by, weaving from lane to lane; one caught my eye, a blue van, weaving across each lane, causing cars to honk their horns. I could not believe the way he was driving. I watch it as it turns left at the end of the road and disappears from my view. This is so unlike my mother, being this late; I debate ringing home, but that meant leaving the meeting point and going back into the swimming pools entrance where the phone is. I decide to wait.
I begin counting red cars, a game my family often play on long journeys. After counting fifteen in a row, I am bored with the game, no fun on your own. This was beyond the joke, where was she? I stand once again; passer-by’s stare at me. I smile at them and continue to watch the traffic. Then I notice the same blue van. It switches lanes, again and then again. I shake my head; the driver of the van was all over the place.
I spot my mother’s car approaching me. I see her wave, and smile as our eyes lock. Then as if in slow motion, the most horrific scene plays out before my eyes. The van switches lanes once again, right into my mother’s path. The look on her face as she steps on the brakes shows on her face, but it’s too late, the car ploughs into the van at such speed she had no time to react. I watch in horror as my mother flies forward. I close my eyes, and crumble down to the floor, shielding my eyes not wanting to see the scene continue to play out. Hearing metal on metal, as screams fill the air, it’s only then I realise it is me who is screaming. I remain in a heap on the floor and prise one eye open, not wanting to see. It’s as if time stands still; the sound of sirens fills the air. I open my other eye; watch people rush to the scene; I feel a hand help me up. Asking me if I am okay, if I am hurt? I shake my head, and stare at the two mangled vehicles, one of which is my mother’s. This can’t be real. I’m daydreaming, aren’t I?
I watch the scene unfold, stare at my mother slumped over the staring wheel, the broken glass, shattered on the ground. I gasp for air, and cannot find my voice, only a whisper leaves my lips.
“Mum, mum.” Tears fall.
Emergency vehicles approach the scene; I am now on my feet. The man releases me; I am sobbing so hard my chest aches. I swallow attempting to make my feet move forward; a police officer heads my way, and begins to speak to me, I see her lips move, but do not hear the words that tumble from them.
I watch as they pull my mother from the car and lay her on a stretcher. The whole time the police officer is speaking, I mumble she’s my mum, as I watch them cover her with a white sheet. No, I scream. She can’t be dead; she can’t. They are wrong; they have to help her, I push my way past the officer, but I am pulled back.
I scream her name over and over.
“She’s gone, love; she’s gone,” the police officer says as she holds me to her, and I sob uncontrollably.
Three days later, the death of my mother does not feel real. I see constant flashes of the accident. It’s all my fault my mother’s dead. I know it is, no matter what my family tell me. I am to blame. If I had not needed a lift home, Mum would still be alive. I swallow, as anger builds up inside me. I refuse to leave my room; I can’t do it. Having them all look at me, with those eyes telling me they wish it had been me. They try to tell me I am not to blame, but I know they do; I blame me. I’ve not eaten since my father brought me home from the hospital, I can’t eat. My mouth feels dry; my stomach rumbles, but I cannot fill it. I do not deserve food.
Even my best friend, Wendy cannot entice me out. My mother was dead; nothing would be the same again. I lay on the bed, playing the what-if game. If my Mum did not need to pick me up, or if I had ridden the bus home; she would still be alive. Sally, my youngest sister would not be lost, so young she does not understand where her mother has gone. Greg has every right to blame me, at ten years old he understands what I have done.
I stand, tears stream down my face; snot mingles with the falling tears as I storm across the room. I am angry, angry with myself, the driver, at my mother. As my anger explodes, I take it out on every poster on my wall, destroying them in seconds.
Sitting among the debris of paper, I sob; more tears trickle down my reddened cheeks. It’s not Joshua’s fault; it’s mine. Scooping the pieces up, I lay them on the bed. The posters beyond repair, I fall back on the bed with a fist full of Joshua Lawson. He is and always will be my favourite character from the show on TV, Victor. I lay and look up at the only poster of him, which survived, the one on my ceiling. His face stares down at me, smiling; I close my eyes.
Joshua takes one-step towards me and pulls me into a hug, and whispers in my ear.
“It will be okay; I will be here for you, always. It’s not your fault, remember that.”
I open my eyes, hoping one day I can believe him.