Chapter 7

Give and Take

Abby

No!

My mind screams as I run down the trail as fast as I can, the soil, pebbles, and leaves crunching beneath the soles of my sneakers and the wind blowing in my face.

Where am I going? I don’t know. I’m not even sure if this is the same trail I walked on with Roger earlier. The trees and shrubs all look alike as I pass them by – a green and brown blur. I just want to get away, to be alone.

Why am I running away? That’s easy. It’s because I’m scared.

Suddenly, I find myself at the top of a small slope. I run down, hoping to find safety in speed, but my foot slips. Losing my balance, I slide down and end up at the bottom of a pile of leaves.

I don’t get up. Instead, I stay still as I catch my breath, looking up at the sky that has suddenly turned gray.

Just like my body has turned from one burning with heat to one burdened by worry and fear.

It isn’t Grant exactly who scared me away. It’s what he whispered in my ear.

You can’t fight it, Abby.

It’s scary for one reason only – because it’s true.

I can’t fight the guilt gnawing at me inside out from rejecting Grant. I can’t fight the joy that bursts in my chest whenever I remember watching Miss Saigon with Grant or dancing in his arms at that party. I can’t fight the blush that coats my cheeks at the slightest recollection of how he made my body feel. And most of all, I can’t fight the desire to feel his body next to mine again – a feeling that washes over me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes at his slightest touch, just like earlier.

What is all this? Love?

Whatever it is, it makes me feel helpless and that scares the hell out of me, so much so that it has my body in a state of panic and anxiety, my chest heavy and tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes.

It scares me. Not only because I’ve never felt like this before, but more so because I never thought I’d feel this way. I promised myself I’d never feel this way.

I promised myself I’d never end up like my mother.

Just then, I feel a drop of water on my forehead, followed two seconds later by another on my chin. And another. And another. I get up, running to seek shelter under the nearest, largest tree as rain falls all around me and trickles down the leaves and splatters off the ground to the tune of its own melody.

A little rain can hardly hurt me now…

It was raining when my mother died. I don’t remember much of that day – not the words said during the funeral service in the chapel, not the guests clad in black, not the music playing as they laid her down into the earth. I clearly remember, though, that after everyone had left, I knelt in front of her open grave. As I threw in the rose that I had been gripping so tightly, I swore that I would never live like her or die like her.

For seven years, I watched her go from one man to the next. It was a cycle, really. During the first few days or weeks, sometimes months, she would go around wearing freshly styled or dyed hair, makeup, and sexy clothes, euphoric that she had a man. She was constantly doing anything and everything she could to please him – cooking, dressing up, giving him gifts, massaging his feet, squealing like a pig while she let him fuck her night after night. Anything in the hopes of keeping him from leaving. He left anyway – the second phase – and she would beat her fists against his chest and grab his thigh like a toddler, sobbing uncontrollably. I hated seeing her like that but the third phase was worse – the phase when she wallowed in self-pity, crying her eyes out every day and drowning her sorrows in alcohol every night. Sometimes, it lasted for days. Sometimes, longer than when she was with the last man. After that, she’d come to her senses. It was what I called her Phoenix Phase. I liked being with her during this phase because it was when we spent times as mother and daughter. During those days, I tried to make her feel like she was good enough and that I was enough for her. But it was never enough, and it wasn’t long before the cycle started all over again.

I swore to my mother and to myself that I would never be a victim to such a vicious cycle. A cycle, as my mother demonstrated, that could only end in ruin and death. I swore that I would never give too much of myself and definitely not give without getting as much in return. I swore that I would always be in control of how I felt.

Yet, here I am, unable to stand in front of Grant without my knees shaking or my heart racing or my palms prickling with heat, unable to resist his advances, unable to stop thinking about him. And worst of all, unable to stop wanting him even though I know he’s out of my league, even though I know how much he loves women, even though I know he probably just wants to fuck me some more.

Why does wanting Grant feel so good even though he’s bad for me? Why does he make me feel so helpless? Or what if I’m really just not as strong as I want to be? What if I’m just like my mother? What if I end up just like her?

As the rain pours, some drops finding their way through the sheets of leaves, my cheeks grow wet with tears. Tired, I close my eyes, my last thought of my mother before I drift into unconsciousness.

Help me, Mama.