Present Day—Oklahoma
Layla Callaway—young, healthy and desperately desolate; lost in a forsaken and pessimistic chasm bereft of pleasure and purpose. Her descension into the lonely belly of the debilitating beast had taken three years, three years of emotional pain and nail-biting fear. Though she remained cognizant enough to discern the depth of her despair, hope had dwindled, taking with it the motivation to resurface.
Not even dipping into childhood memories could stem Layla’s grief. Rich as they were, lavish with love, happiness and peace, all of them co-starred Katherine—Layla’s mom, best friend, and lone relative—and Katherine was gone, dead for two months, though a massive stroke had smothered her lights three years earlier, leaving her an invalid.
“Three years,” Layla brooded, sitting at Gander Creek’s lone stop light.
The light turned green, and she tapped the gas pedal of her Taurus, creeping past thrift shops, general stores, and meandering people. She eventually cleared downtown and sped up, wistfully sighing at the steely gray clouds rolling in from the west.
Oklahoma’s severe weather was one of the few things Layla still managed to appreciate—the untamed power that humbled the soul, intrigued the mind, and awakened the senses. But while Katherine’s death hadn’t stifled Layla’s love of storms, it had dulled the excitement she got from them. No longer could she and Katherine sit on the porch together, acting like giddy children as they watched the clouds swirl with ferocious grace, counting the seconds between strikes of lighting and clacks of thunder, goading each other into more intense anticipation of whipping wind and beating rain.
As usual, Layla’s memories took a sad turn.
Giant raindrops occasionally slapped her windshield as she parked behind the local diner, recalling the night she found her mom unconscious on the floor. The image would forever be burned into her mind, haunting her dreams nightly. A medical team managed to revive Katherine, but her nervous system was shot. Her brain, however, was a thing of mystery not even three years could unravel. Even the expensive doctors in the big cities couldn’t answer Layla’s questions about Katherine’s mental capacities, so for three years, Layla acted as her mom’s caregiver, unsure if she understood words, remembered the past, or recognized her daughter’s voice and face. Nevertheless, Layla always treated Katherine as if her brain worked fine, and she flatly refused the option of a nursing home. What was three measly years, after all, compared to all the wonderful years Katherine took care of her? At least the time she’d spent nursing her mom gave Layla focus and purpose. With that purpose dead and gone, life was empty.
Layla tied her jet black spirals into a long ponytail then pulled in a deep breath, trying to straighten her shoulders, but she only got them halfway there before giving up. Oh well. Time to go to work, bad posture and all.
She tugged at the knots in her apron strings as she entered the diner, shuffling alongside an outdated bar displaying the usual greasy spoon delights. “Damn apron,” she murmured, struggling with a particularly stubborn knot as she stepped into the break room.
“Surprise!”
Layla cursed and jolted, dropping her apron to clutch the door jamb. When she regained her wits, she looked around, finding two of her co-workers—Travis Baker and Phyllis Carter—next to a homemade cake with the words Happy 21st B-Day written across the top.
“Is today the third?” Layla squeaked. “Of March?” She was in bad shape. She’d forgotten her own birthday.
Travis pulled Layla into a hug as he threw Phyllis an I told you so look. “Hell, Layla,” he gently chided, leaning back to find her face, “you’ve gone and forgotten your twenty-first birthday.” His tone brightened as he wiggled his eyebrows, trying to make her laugh. “I think it’s ’bout time ya had a night out. Ya know, paint the town red. This place could use some color, and ya need to get outta your funk. First, I think, we'll get ya drunk. Then we’ll find a farmhand willin’ to fulfill all your naughty desires.”
In many ways, Travis was a paradox. A country boy born and raised, he worked on the family farm until his dad passed away. Strapped for cash, his mom sold the land, moving Travis to town when he was seventeen. Now, at the age of twenty-three, he still adorned his reed thin, six-foot frame in tight Wranglers and leather boots, and he could easily pass for a star on the professional bull rider’s circuit, but not everything was as it seemed with Travis. Yes, he could handle a ranch and all its inner workings, but he wouldn’t do it without an MP3 player filled with show tunes. Travis was an admitted homosexual—the only one in town.
Layla had witnessed Travis face persecution in Gander Creek too many times to count. He was shunned daily by its small-minded citizens, and she often wondered how much longer he could put up with it. He stayed for his mother, whose health had waned following a heart attack, and if Travis was anything at all, he was devoted to his mamma. So he remained in a town where most people passed unfair judgment, tossed about slurs, or simply leered at him in disgust.
Layla adored Travis. He was the closest thing to a friend she had, and he was the one person who could bring a genuine, if halfhearted, smile to her face.
“It’s sweet of you to offer me a compliant farmhand, Trav,” she sarcastically replied, flashing him the elusive smile. “But getting drunk and felt up like a dairy cow isn’t everyone’s favorite brand of medicine.”
“Lord knows it’s mine,” Phyllis disagreed, swooping in for a hug. “Used to be anyway. Now-a-days it’s a hot bath and a good book. But I’m an old woman, honey. You’re young and gorgeous.”
Layla felt many things, none of them young or gorgeous, but as a perpetually doting woman, Phyllis always said things like that. The plump, fifty-four-year-old was widowed young and childless, and she remained that way, perfectly content to spend her days toiling at the diner only to return to an empty home. She was her own pleasant company, she claimed in defense, and Layla believed it. Phyllis was an unceasingly positive person and likely hummed a happy tune every time she walked through the house.
“It’s not like you’re ninety, Phyllis,” Layla pointed out. “You could spend the next twenty or thirty years getting your udders felt up.”
“Amen to that,” Travis advocated.
Phyllis rolled her hazel eyes behind thick glasses. “Shoot. That would mean puttin’ down my book and exercisin’. ’Sides, I’m fond of my jelly rolls and the sweets that put ’em there.”
“Ya know,” Travis teased, nudging Phyllis with a bony elbow, “some men like more cushion for the pushin’.”
Layla’s blush flared, and Phyllis smirked, shooing Travis away with a bejeweled hand. “Anyway,” she diverted, smiling at Layla, “happy birthday, hon. I made your favorite cake—dark chocolate ganache with mocha icin’.”
Layla patted her stomach. “Mmm… Are you trying to make me fat?”
“You could stand to put some meat on your bones,” Phyllis lectured.
“Well that cake should do the trick,” Layla countered. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now, Travis somehow talked me into lettin’ him pick out the gift. But…” She held up an index finger, warning Travis not to interrupt. “I must admit, he did an excellent job.”
Travis’ mouth fell open. “Why, Phyllis, if ya keep up those compliments and your yummy cookin’, I just might put a ring on your finger.”
Phyllis rolled her eyes but giggled like a school girl. Travis had a way of boosting a woman’s confidence.
“So what did you get me, Trav?” Layla urged.
Knowing Travis, it was something entertaining and thoughtful. He usually blessed her with humorous limericks written on paper flowers or napkin butterflies, and on a few occasions, he’d brought her foreign candies provided by his vast collection of internet comrades.
“Well I’m not givin’ it to ya, missy,” he refused with a grin, “unless ya agree to have a drink with me after work.”
Blah. Layla didn’t know what a bar was like. She’d never been in one and had no reason to dislike them, but she had absolutely no interest in seeing the people who patronized the local watering hole. It catered to an uncomfortable combination of town drunks, town gossips, and people she’d gone to high school with, all of whom knew about her mom’s death. Gander Creek was a small town where the only topics of discussion were religion, the weather, the deaths, and the gay guy who worked at the diner, so she knew the subject of her personal life had been on the wagging tongues of its bored citizens. She’d be foolish to place herself in a social setting with any of them. If they didn’t bombard her with heart-wrenching sympathies, or avoid her altogether, they’d ask her what she was doing with herself these days, and sadly, she’d have no answer.
“How about this?” she suggested. “You buy the booze, and we’ll drink at my house. You should come, too, Phyllis. We’ll play cards or something.”
Layla could tell Travis wanted to argue. This plan negated the part of his that got her felt up by a farmhand, but he must have thought better of it, because he sighed and grabbed her gift off the table.
“Only you wouldn’t give a damn ’bout bein’ carded on your twenty-first birthday. Here,” he said, gray-blue eyes sparkling with pride as he handed her a neatly wrapped package.
Layla returned his smile then looked down, a blush heating her cheeks as she carefully tore the wrapping paper from a green velvet box. For some reason, getting gifts from someone other than her mom always flustered her; she never felt like she sufficiently expressed her gratitude, so her anxiety spiked when she saw the jewelry box. Surely Travis hadn’t bought her jewelry. But he had. He’d bought her the most beautiful necklace she’d ever gotten her hands on.
A wide braid of platinum coiled over a large, oval stone, which initially shone vivid emerald green, but a closer inspection revealed a wave of emerald swirling atop deep black and darker shades of green, like liquid in motion.
Layla’s chest tightened with a mixture of guilt and gratitude as she bowed her head over the necklace, presumably to examine it, which she was, but she viewed it through the blossoming tears she was trying to hide. She hadn’t been a very good friend to anyone in so long, and she’d never been the kind of friend Travis and Phyllis deserved, yet here they were, giving her beautiful jewelry. She took a shaky breath, fighting the threatening waterworks.
Travis noticed and leaned over, looking for her hidden face. “Green’s one of your favorite colors, right? I thought it’d go great with your eyes.”
“Not to mention that tan skin of yours,” Phyllis offered, rubbing Layla’s bicep.
Travis was right on both accounts. Green was one of Layla’s favorite colors, and since her eyes were also emerald green, the necklace would go great with them. “It’s beautiful,” she squeaked, feeling weak and foolish. Her head was saying she didn’t deserve something so beautiful, but it would be rude for her mouth to repeat it. “What kind of stone is it?” she asked, relieved it came out clearly.
“Mawsitsit,” Travis answered, “a type of Burmese jade. I searched the internet for three days tryin’ to figure that out, but ended up havin’ to take it to an appraiser.”
“They didn’t tell you what it was when you bought it?” Layla asked.
“I found it at a thrift store,” he explained. “An old man was droppin’ off some costume jewelry when I got there, but he didn’t have a clue what he was givin’ up. Mawsitsit’s a pretty pricey stone.” He looked from the necklace to Layla’s face. “So ya like it?”
“I love it,” she answered. “It’s perfect. And you’re right about green being my favorite color.” She looked up, trying to convey appreciation with an enthused smile. “Thank you. Both of you.” She was thankful for much more than the impromptu party, cake and gift. Layla owed them a thank you for her sanity. If she didn’t have Travis, she might have detached from reality altogether, and since Katherine’s stroke, Phyllis was the only person to offer motherly encouragement.
“I’m glad ya like it,” Travis approved. “Phyllis might’ve killed me otherwise.”
“Darn tootin’,” Phyllis confirmed, always quick to give Travis a hard time.
Layla smiled at their banter as she held out the necklace. “Will one of you help me put it on?”
“You do that,” Phyllis told Travis. “I’ll serve the cake. We got just enough time for a piece before our shift starts.”
Layla turned and lifted her ponytail, letting Travis nestle the mawsitsit in the hollow of her throat. Once the chain was fastened, she turned and tilted her chin up. “How does it look?”
Travis whistled and raised his eyebrows. “Do I know how to pick ’em or what? I hate to boast, but I was right, it matches your eyes perfectly.”
“You love to boast,” Phyllis corrected, passing out huge pieces of cake. “But he’s right. The necklace looks lovely.”
“Thank you,” Layla murmured, turning her attention to her plate.
A moment of silence passed as they ate, and as usual, Travis finished first. “Phyllis, my sweet, if I ask ya to marry me, will ya bake me goodies every day?”
“What would I be getting’ outta the deal?” Phyllis smirked.
Travis shifted his shoulders back. “A young stud of course.”
“Hmm… What are hound dog stud fees up to these days?”
Travis smiled as he bowed his head, yielding to the witty comeback. Then their boss walked in.
“Happy birthday, Layla.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“I sat tables one, three and nine,” he announced. “I’ll let you guys fight over ’em.”
“You guys finish up,” Layla offered. “I’ll take their drink orders.” She gave her leftover cake to Travis then retrieved her apron, dusting it off as she left the break room.
The rest of her shift proceeded without incident, and she was in a fairly decent mood thanks to the surprise party and the storm raging outside vapor shrouded windows. Not only did she admire Mother Nature’s mysterious beauty and strength, the torrents of rain kept the dinner rush to a minimum. Bad for tips, but good for stress.
Shortly after midnight, she clocked out and patiently waited for Travis and Phyllis to do the same. Then the three of them worked out a game plan. Phyllis would follow Travis to his house so he could drop off his car. Then they’d head over together.
Great, Layla thought. This would give her time to clean. She hadn’t hosted company since the day of her mom’s funeral, and her messy house proved it.
Once home, Layla scrambled to pick up dirty clothes, junk mail, and unread newspapers. When the doorbell rang, she was finishing the dishes. “Come in,” she shouted, drying her hands on her t-shirt.
A few seconds later, Travis and Phyllis entered the kitchen, each bearing five bottles of alcohol.
“What did you do,” Layla asked, “rob the bar on your way here?”
“No,” Phyllis laughed, discarding bottles on the counter. “Travis’ liquor cabinet.”
“I like to entertain,” Travis explained. “And I didn’t know what the birthday girl prefers,”
Layla eyed him suspiciously. “I think all this would do a pretty good job of getting me drunk.”
“I’m merely givin’ ya options, sugar. So, juice or pop?”
Layla scanned the array of liquor bottles and mixers. “Juice.”
“How ’bout you, Phyllis?” Travis asked.
“I’ll have what Layla’s havin’,” Phyllis answered, seating herself at the kitchen table with a deck of cards.
Travis mixed three identical drinks, garnishing Layla’s with a birthday bow. Then he joined them at the table for a game.
By one o’clock, the liquor had relaxed Layla more than she’d been in… well, she couldn’t remember. And by two o’clock, she was downright tipsy.
Travis and Phyllis observed Layla’s mellow mood and decided to take advantage. “So…” Travis hesitantly began, “what’s next, sugar?”
Phyllis shot him a disapproving look, and he apologetically shrugged, but the reprimand was unnecessary; the broad question flew right over Layla’s tipsy head. If she hadn’t been drinking, she might have noticed the shift in body language or the sudden tension in the air. As it was, she assumed Travis was talking about the game they were playing.
“I don’t know, Trav. It’s your turn.”
Travis contemplated his hand. “So…” he started once more. Then he cleared his throat and looked at Layla. “I know ya don’t like talkin’ ’bout your personal life, Layla, but you’re my friend, and I like to think I’m your friend. And as your friend, I wanna know how you’re doin’ and what you’re doin’. You’ve been cooped up in this house for too long. Ya did the right thing by your mom, but she’s…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed.
Gone. He didn’t have to say it. Layla knew. And he was right, about all of it.
Layla kept her eyes on the table, sad and ashamed. “You are my friend, Travis. You, too, Phyllis. The only friends I have. And you do have the right to ask me how I’m feeling and what I’m doing.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to look Travis in the eye. “I’m sorry I gave you the impression you shouldn’t.” She felt awful that Travis and Phyllis thought they had to tip toe around her. She never meant for it to be that way.
Phyllis laid a hand on Layla’s arm. “I remember when ya first started workin’ at the diner, honey. I looked at ya and thought that girl can do anything she wants; she’s goin places. Ya were so outgoin’ and spirited, not to mention the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. Now I know all your plans were pushed aside when your mom got sick, but now’s your chance to start fresh.”
Layla stirred her cocktail into a cyclone, trying to remember the carefree girl from her past. Once upon a time there were things she dreamed of doing, places she wanted to see, and relationships she yearned to form, but it had been so long since any of them were a possibility, they’d become delusions.
“If ya don’t mind me askin’,” Phyllis continued. “How’s your finances?”
“Well,” Layla answered, “I don’t know, but I’m meeting with my mom’s lawyer Monday to figure it out. She had some money set back for me, but I don’t know how much, and the house is paid for, but I don’t have a clue what it’s worth. Other than that, I have about three thousand in the bank.”
Travis was wiggling in his chair, waiting for Layla to finish. “Hey, didn’t ya say somethin’ one time ’bout wantin’ to live in California?”
Ever since Layla could remember, Katherine talked about moving to the west coast following Layla’s high school graduation. She’d make up bedtime stories about visiting the ocean, where they’d meet beautiful people and live a fairytale life. But the stories were distant dreams now; they’d floated away with her mother’s spirit.
“California?” Layla asked, raising an eyebrow at Travis. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, but if you lived there, I could visit. I’ve always wanted to see California.”
“Well plan a vacation and book a motel, because there’s no way I can afford a move to the west coast. The cost of living there is ridiculous.”
“Whatchya wanna do then?” Travis countered. “I know there’s better out there for ya than a dirty diner off the highway. No offense, Phyllis.”
“None taken,” Phyllis assured. “Layla’s way too good for the diner.”
“See?” Travis pressed. “Even Phyllis agrees with me. So what is it ya wanna do with yourself now that ya got nothin’ keepin’ ya here?”
Layla considered this as she flipped through her cards, but the alcohol hindered her thought process, and not even a lame excuse for a life plan came to mind. She had to give them something. They were looking at her with hopeful expressions, desperate to help.
“I don’t know,” she finally replied. “It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about stuff like that. I guess I’ll wait until after I talk to my mom’s lawyer then weigh my options. I have a lot to consider in the meantime.”
Phyllis gave her a motherly smile. “We’re not tryin’ to rush ya, honey. We just want ya to be happy. You’ve always been so sweet and responsible. We think it’s high time ya acted selfish. Time to do what’s best for Layla.”
“Thanks,” Layla mumbled. “I’d be in awful shape if it weren’t for you guys. And I promise to make an effort to… move on with my life.” She meant it, but didn’t have high hopes for the endeavor. “Now,” she added, anxious to abandon the subject, “can we get back to this game so I can kick your butts?”
She did, in fact, kick their butts. Then she thanked them for everything as she walked them out. After watching Phyllis’ taillights disappear, she stepped inside and shuffled to her room, falling into bed partially clothed and fully scatterbrained. She was alone again, left with nothing but her thoughts, and her head was full of them.
Could she really turn her old, empty and sad life into something new, purposeful and happy? What was holding her back? Her mom was gone, she’d never known her father, and to her knowledge she didn’t have any other living relatives. She was a lone woman. The only permanence in her life was a lonely house full of sad memories, a dead-end job, and a couple of co-workers she was lucky enough to call friends.
Her thoughts faded as she drifted to sleep, and for the first time in three years, she had a dream that wasn’t a nightmare.
She stood naked on the edge of a cliff, towering over a gray ocean, waves crashing below as wind whistled through the forest behind her. The only source of light was the moon, its rippling reflection littering the sea with diamonds.
Layla wasn’t fazed by her uncharacteristic nudity, nor was she afraid of standing on the cliff’s edge. She was euphoric—peaceful yet charged, every nerve ending, bone and hair follicle crackling with intoxicating energy.
The wind picked up, tickling her bare skin like delicate, cold fingers, twisting and lifting her onyx curls. She tilted her face to the sky and closed her eyes, concentrating on the tingling of her body as she inhaled salty air. She felt as if she could walk off the cliff and fly to the massive moon. A mere jump away, it serenely floated atop endless water, a beacon of peace tempting her to take the leap.
Her lids slowly drifted open… and she was deeply disappointed to see the clock on her nightstand. She slammed her eyes shut, trying to retrieve the dream, but it was too late. She was wide awake.