It All Comes Back to You Read online

  I go back to Mama and shake her again. This time, she grabs me and throws me toward the wall. I start to cry and hug Mrs. Noodle. “Please, Mama. The man is yelling.”

  This seems to wake her up. “What man?” She rubs her eyes and jumps up to put pants on. She doesn’t have a shirt, but I’m afraid to tell her. She goes to open the door and the man walks in. “Where is it?” he asks.

  “I don’t have anything, Mose,” she tells the man.

  “I’ll tear this place apart, Joss. You know I will.”

  I hide in the closet behind some boxes. The man is throwing things all over our apartment and screaming. He is going to kill my mother, so I put Mrs. Noodle behind the boxes and walk out to save her.

  “What the hell?” The man yells. “You have a fucking kid? You lying bitch.” He slaps Mama hard and she falls on the floor and looks down. She puts her hands over her chest.

  “Ronni, I have to go somewhere,” Mama says. She runs her fingers through her hair and smiles at the man, flashing her teeth. She tells the man, “I’ll be right back.”

  The man looks at me like I am a bug or snake. He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and lights it, squinching up his eyes. “What’s your name?” He blows a cloud of smoke at me.

  “Ronni.” I go to Mama’s room to help her but she already has her shirt on.

  “When will you be back??” I ask. “I’m hungry, Mama.”

  “You and Mrs. Noodle stay in my room and don’t open the door, Ronni. I’ll bring you a burger or something.”

  And she was gone. I went to get Mrs. Noodle from the closet and curled up on Mama’s bed.

  She came back and woke me up the next day, smelling like she had been in a forest fire. She’d brought me cold french fries in a greasy napkin for breakfast.

  The state’s Child Protective Services removed me from my squalid little life when I was six years old and placed me in foster care. Jocelyn was the only child of older parents who’d died years earlier after retiring to the Mobile area, so there was no alternative. My father was an unknown quantity, though I was sure he’d been an addict, too. Let’s just say my family crest would’ve featured bottles.

  I had no memories of my first foster home, but the second was too present in my mind. I lived with the Randalls and their five other revolving fosters from the age of six until I was ten. They had two biological children as well, daughters named Heather and Danielle who were dark-haired beauties; tall, popular, skinny and highly favored over the rest of us. We were there to generate a monthly check for the Randall Family Foster Farm. I learned not to get too close to the ever-changing roster of kids who came and went. I prayed a lot for the day I’d go.

  Heather was sixteen and in another world altogether, but Danielle was my age. She and I were usually in the same classes in school and she did everything possible to avoid me. Heather and Danielle got their clothes from the mall while mine mostly came from Mrs. Randall’s Goodwill forages.

  The Randalls were very involved in their Baptist church. We attended services Sunday morning and evening as well as Wednesday night. Mr. Randall believed strongly in discipline, usually carried out via willow switch on bare legs. Cursing might get you a whipping, but taking the lord’s name in vain made one a certainty. I learned early on to substitute the “Jesus!” I’d learned from my mother with Danielle’s slightly less punishable “Jeez Louise.” To this day I might say a really nasty word here and there, but Jeez Louise is usually my reflexive response to surprise or disgust.

  When we were eight, Mrs. Randall decided we should join a local Girl Scout troop. She even accompanied us to sell cookies in front of the grocery store to fund a summer trip to camp. It was the first time I felt included in any fun family activity and I sold more than my share of Thin Mints. Danielle treated me nicely in front of her mother, of course, and other girls from our troop did, too. When we were alone, I was shunned.

  I dreamed about Camp Juliette from the minute I heard of it. There would be crafts, hikes in the woods, swimming in the lake and “beach” volleyball, our troop leader, Mrs. Levant, announced with twinkling eyes. All of this awaited on June sixteenth, the day I was sure would begin a better chapter in my life.

  Danielle immediately sought out the popular girls when we arrived at Camp Juliette. I soon noticed her whispering to them and glancing my way. It didn’t take long for me to realize I wouldn’t be making new friends, no matter what their campfire songs said.

  The first time we played volleyball I missed a lot of returns. Rachel Tomkins, with long blond hair and green eyes, the prettiest attendee of Camp Juliet’s glorious summer, pronounced me “spastic” in front of our entire team. I began to sit out anything I could, claiming headaches and vague stomach troubles. At night I cried silently in my bunk bed and hoped things would get better. I fell asleep listening to Danielle and her friends giggling about boys and clothes.

  I wasn’t hated or ridiculed anymore; it was much worse. I ceased to exist.

  My final camp trauma came when a water moccasin was captured and displayed on the sandy shores of Lake Juliette. We were assured over and over it was safe to swim afterward and forced to enter the water. I never, ever got over my fear of snakes.

  Danielle and I shared a small bedroom. She said much more to me, but the only thing I recall clearly is four years of, “Leave my stuff alone.” She collected things, mostly figurines of horses and troll dolls.

  My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Whitley, was ancient by our standards. Her white hair and sensible shoes made her seem a hundred or so, but she was probably more like sixty. For once, Danielle and I were in different classes and I didn’t have to wither in her poisonous shadow. And God bless her, Mrs. Whitley seemed to know everything about me before I opened my mouth the first day of school. She asked me to stay after class.

  “Ronni, I’ve heard good things about you. I’m hoping you can help me with some things in the classroom this year. Would you like that?”

  I nodded, mute with wonder about the “things” she might want.

  “Also, I think that like I do, you love to read. I brought a book for you from my own collection. It’s old and worn, but I think you might enjoy the story.” She handed me “They Loved to Laugh” by Kathryn Worth.

  “When you finish this book, Ronni, I want to know what you think of it.” She saw the immediate anxiety on my face and chuckled softly. “No, honey, not in a book report way. I want to know if you like it, that’s all.” She patted my arm. “When I need notes delivered to the office or papers collected, I may call on you to help. Would you mind?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you.” I clutched the book to my chest and hurried to the car line before Mrs. Randall sent a search party.

  Two days later I tried to return the book to Mrs. Whitley. “I loved it so much,” I told her. “It’s the best book I’ve ever read. Honestly, it made me cry, Mrs. Whitley.” I pushed the book across her desk and smiled. “I feel like every word was meant for me.”

  “I thought you might,” she said. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Ronni. Now, I want you to keep this copy and promise me you’ll read it to your children someday.”

  It’s still one of my favorite novels.

  She introduced me to Miss Sasso, the school librarian, and explained my “book tastes.” Miss Sasso hurried up one aisle after another, gathering the stories that would spark a lifetime love of reading.

  I started collecting something of my own: words. Whenever I found a new and intriguing one, I’d look it up on the school’s computers or in the Randalls’ fat dictionary. Each was written with its definition in a red spiral notebook I kept under my mattress. Danielle had her horses and trolls, but I had “prevaricator” and “rendezvous” and “ephemeral.”

  One Saturday in December Danielle and I had our thousandth argument over private space in our small room. I stood firm on the imaginary center line as she screamed I was on her side. She lunged past me and grabbed my red notebook. I chased her down the hall and w
atched in horror as she flung it into the fireplace. All that work―my entire collection―disappeared in seconds. Danielle stood glaring at me, arms crossed in defiance. Then slowly, little by little, she started to smile.

  I ran back to our room and grabbed her new pink sequined sweater from the Gap and her favorite purple-haired troll. I threw them into the flames before she could stop me, mainly because she didn’t think I’d actually do it. The next thing I knew, Danielle was hitting my face and I grabbed her long, lovely hair and shoved her to the floor. I sat atop her and hit as hard as I could. Mr. Randall pulled me off and sent Danielle to her room.

  I was in trouble, but it was the most fortunate trouble ever. I was removed from Danielle Hell within two days and sent to live with Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy Brooks, where I was the only foster child in a warm, comfortable home. They were young and childless and all of their attention centered on me. Best of all, I could stay in school with my wonderful Mrs. Whitley for the remainder of the year.

  Mrs. Brooks was a large, bosomy woman who loved to cook. Her response to any bad day was cookies, cake or biscuits. Her response to any good day was cookies, cake or biscuits.

  We read and watched TV together, snacking in happy silence. She funded every Scholastic Book Order I’d ever dreamed of. We took trips to the mall in her tiny Toyota, gradually replacing my wardrobe with pieces I wasn’t ashamed to wear.

  I was happier than I’d been in my life.

  Two years later I came home from school to discover “Ma Brooks” slumped in her chair in front of Days of Our Lives. She’d suffered a massive stroke. I called 911 and screamed for help, hysterical in my belief she could be saved if the ambulance would hurry.

  She couldn’t.

  I stood in Jimmy Brooks’ arms and cried in the hospital’s waiting room, knowing he could never care for me on his own.

  I came to Fred and Lena Johnson in Birmingham through their church. They were a kindly couple already in their late sixties as I struggled through adolescence, and they treated me as the daughter they’d always wanted and taught me the lessons they’d learned over a lifetime. Mom and Dad filled my head with a fragile sense of self-worth and possibility; my battered heart with unconditional love. They legally adopted me on my sixteenth birthday—the proudest day I’d ever known.

  Mom volunteered at the nearby nursing home twice a week and insisted I help. It was there, watching her hold the hand of an elderly stranger as she read to him, I decided to become a nurse. The kindness, the wisdom, the sheer friendliness and gratitude of those old people brought tears to my eyes.

  Much more importantly, they made me feel needed.

  I told Mom about my decision. “You have so much goodness in you, Ronni. I knew it from the minute I met you. I’m thrilled you’re going to share it with those who are thirsty for the smallest kindness.”

  We had far too few years as a family. Both Mom and Dad had battled cancer throughout mid-life, and they died within weeks of each other while I was in nursing school. I found myself alone again at twenty-one. Selling our house paid for my degree and a shiny maroon ‘06 Honda Accord I nicknamed Ruby. She was taking me to Birmingham now.

  I never heard a word from Jocelyn, nor did I want to try to locate her. My mystery father had no idea I existed. I used to daydream about him, and had assigned him Robert Downey Jr.’s face and voice years earlier. He probably looked more like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

  Friends from high school had all moved on and away. I was grateful for Kait and a few others at Fairfield, though we rarely found time to socialize.

  My first job out of nursing school was juggling bedpans in Nashville, where I’d followed a boy who believed he was the next Kenny Chesney. Looking back, my main attractive quality was Ruby’s ability to transport us and our few belongings to a squalid apartment he’d rented, as far from Music Row as Siberia and about as appealing. He called himself Dakota Pine and carried a guitar when he went to the bathroom. I had known him in high school as Pete Turner, acne-plagued and awkward. Dakota was much smoother and managed to find a barmaid/singer/ songwriter/whore named Daisy to replace me while I was working the night shift. I headed back to Birmingham, crappy lyrics ringing in my ears, and began to plot my next escape to a better place. The following day, though, I found an online ad hiring for Fairfield Springs. It was nursing home heaven.

  On the other hand, my love life was pathetic. I had an awkward relationship with a guy named Kenny throughout high school, a military nut with testosterone to match. His jealousy and possessiveness drove my parents crazy. I’m sure they celebrated when he managed to get through Army basic training and boarded a flight to Iraq two years after graduation.

  My five months with Dakota/Pete was followed by a series of interchangeable domineering males and older men—father figure, anyone?—none of whom lasted very long. My most recent dating experience was a short-lived fling with a musclebound egomaniac named Todd. Kait fixed me up with him in a fit of desperation over my endless whiny complaints of loneliness. He stopped calling or texting me after two weeks of romantic splendor (that’s sarcasm), and was now obsessed with a redhead he’d met at his gym named Ashlee, sleek as a seal with large, incongruous boobs that looked like a coconut bra on a skinny tree.

  I didn’t meet a lot of men through work under the age of eighty. I had my choice of great-grandfather figures any day of the week.

  I double-checked the address as I pulled up to the building. Mr. Sobel must be a fancy lawyer indeed; the converted mansion serving as his office reeked of courtroom conquest. It was framed by leafy magnolias and azalea banks. I checked my face and hair, then patted Ruby’s dashboard for luck.

  The reception room was hunter green and burgundy, suitable for British hunting lodges and moneyed clients. An elegant black woman rose to greet me behind an antique cherry desk, offering her manicured hand. “You must be Ronni,” she said. I took in her gray silk suit and Jimmy Choos, feeling frumpy and ridiculous in my TJ Maxx sundress and cropped sweater.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m Veronica Johnson. Your office is lovely.”

  “Thanks, I’m Laura. Did you have any trouble finding us?” She waved at an armchair upholstered in pheasants, indicating I should sit.

  “No, not at all. I used to live in The Magic City,” I smiled. “I haven’t been back in a while, though.”

  “You live in Harrison, right?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Well, I’ve seen correspondence from Mrs. Thompson and references to you in her paperwork.”

  Of course. I was feeling more idiotic and out of place by the second. “Oh yes, Violet. Did you ever meet her?”

  “Once or twice, some years ago. She was one of Mr. Sobel’s favorite clients. A beautiful and elegant lady.”

  I wondered if Laura was trying to imagine how a creature like Violet had anything to do with me. If I were in her place, I certainly would. “Yes, she was.” I shifted in my seat and tried to smooth the wrinkles set in my dress.

  “Mr. Sobel will be with you in a minute. He had a meeting in Homewood and is running a bit behind. May I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I answered. “Well, maybe a glass of water would be nice.”

  “Coming right up.” She crossed to an impressive wet bar with an array of crystal glasses. I wondered if I should’ve asked for scotch or bourbon.

  “Ronni?” A man nearly my height poked his head out from behind a polished oak door. He had short, curly red hair and eyes the color of cornflowers. I liked him instantly. “I’m Mel Sobel. Please come in.”

  Laura followed, delivering my ice water on a linen napkin and setting it on a mahogany table next to an overstuffed chocolate velvet chair. I sat and sipped, watching Mr. Sobel shuffle through papers on his desk. His office was all muted browns and beiges. A host of framed diplomas and awards decorated the walls. I spotted a photo of him with the governor.

  He looked up and smiled at me. “First things first. You know Vio
let left you a sum of money, and we’re issuing part of it to you today. She had me place most of it in a trust for you.”

  I nodded.

  “The trust is valued at about two hundred and sixty thousand dollars at present.”

  I coughed and managed to spill water on my lap.

  “The amount you’ll receive today is fifty thousand dollars. One hundred thousand more will be disbursed upon completion of the manuscript. You can’t touch the rest until,” he paused and glanced at his notes, “you’ll turn thirty in four years, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” I swiped at my lap with the napkin.

  “There is a condition of inheritance, Ronni, and Violet was adamant about it. Her will stipulates you must complete the book based on her life within one year of her passing. You are to share absolutely no information she furnished you with anyone during the process. If there’s an issue, you can tell me—only me. You cannot seek help to write it.”

  He glanced up and saw my frown.

  “But, Mr. Sobel, I’ve never tried to write a book. Violet believed I could, but...”

  He nodded and continued without expressing an opinion. “When your manuscript is finished, it’s to be submitted to my niece for consideration. There is no guarantee it will be published. Violet told you about this, right?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, trying not to embarrass myself further. My brain was already shrieking How can you write an entire book? You don’t know the first thing about it! “But, Mr. Sobel, what if I don’t get it done in time?” I asked.

  “She insisted the one-year timetable was vital for a number of reasons. If you don’t submit the completed manuscript within that period, your inheritance is limited to the amount we issue today.” He paused and smiled at me. “She really wanted you to realize your dream of becoming a writer, and she knew a thing or two about unfinished projects.”