Reinventing Mike Lake Read online

  Reinventing Mike Lake

  By R.W. Jones

  Reinventing Mike Lake

  Copyright: R.W. Jones

  Publisher: Endless String

  Published: June 2012

  ISBN: 978-0-9856431-0-2

  The right of R.W. Jones to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by his in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  To: Jessica

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  People tend to do pretty drastic things when they come to the conclusion that there is nothing left to fear. I wasn’t always like that, and I still may not be like that at all. With her gone, something changed. An emptiness that I never knew possible came through me like a train you never see coming, and I never saw it coming.

  At first you don’t believe it; nobody ever believes it when it shows up at their front door. From the start it didn’t look good. She hung on for almost a year, but from the two month period on, she wasn’t herself. At times I accepted it, and other times I denied it. When it finally happened, I denied it.

  There were so many dreams we never accomplished. Complacency is a death in itself. We never had kids, because when we decided it was time, we learned it was too late. We never had a house to call our own, instead renting from a family friend at a generous price. The vacations were fun, but not having children or owning a house are two things that we considered failed dreams. We never talked about it, but we both felt it.

  The first thing I did was lay there, then I laid some more, and followed that up with more lying. Walking to the bathroom was the extent of my physical activity. I turned on the television, then turned to video games, and eventually started to read. I took myself off the radar screen I had never been on much to begin with.

  Nearly a year passed, and I finally started to come around. By “come around” I mean I got out of bed for longer than a few minutes at a time. I started to write again because I felt like that’s what I should be doing.

  I walked my dog, Bahama, a lot. After close to a year of immobility, we both needed the exercise. Luckily for Bahama she had my parents’ daily visits to look forward to for exercise and interaction, but it wasn’t enough. As Bahama and I began to slim down, I felt even better, though I suspect the sunlight had as much to do with my turnaround as did losing a few pounds.

  Even though a year had gone by, it never dawned on me I was living on my own. In reality I wasn’t living at all. My parents brought me food, did my laundry, and cleaned my house. I can’t imagine they enjoyed seeing their only son in that situation, but at the time that’s the only situation I wanted to be in. They didn’t press me to snap out of it. I was free to let my grief go wherever it wanted to go. I knew even in the depths of the darkest parts and feelings of my grief that if things were getting out of control, my parents would have stepped in.

  It was the reading that helped more than anything. At first, nothing inspired me, but then I started reading stories about people who had taken chances. The stories about college kids hiking through European countries were all well and good, but I was most interested in the adventures of those down and out like me. The stories about people who set out with little – or better yet – no plans stirred something inside me the most. I began getting goosebumps when I read their stories, showing more life than I had in months. I’m sure some of the stories were fabricated, but as a former storyteller I hardly cared. More importantly, something inside me was stirring.

  Even at my happiest times, I’ve always had a nagging feeling that I was missing something. I had never taken my great adventure, and from the comment boxes of the stories I was reading online, I wasn’t the only one. Most comments read something like the following: “I enjoy your story so much and wish I could do something like it, but X, Y, and Z has kept me from doing so.” X, Y, and even Z were sometimes valid points, but more often than not they seemed like an excuse or fear of the unknown. As someone who never lived farther away than ten minutes from my parents, I could relate. During my year of sulking, my greatest adventure was walking one of the small loop trails that surrounded our house.

  But it was on those fifteen-minute walks that I began fantasizing about a different kind of life, one with no restraints, rhyme, or reason. I often pictured Bahama and me just continuing our walk past the confines of the trail, the neighborhood, the city, the state, and beyond. In those walking daydreams I imagined I wouldn’t tell anyone, I would just leave. But I always had the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to do it like that. Mainly, I wouldn’t want to worry my family and friends. I thought they would think I had done something drastic. Looking back and remembering my less than fragile state of mind during this time, I can’t say I would have blamed them for thinking the worst had I just disappeared. I’m glad that I kept my parents’ feelings in consideration even while feeling my lowest. Still the fantasies continued, and eventually they became all-consuming.

  From the time I was really young – maybe middle school – I always had an issue with what society deemed normal. The routine of everyone doing the same thing every day was always mind boggling to me. By “the same,” I mean the 9 to 5, going to bed at the same time, going to college to get that 9 to 5, eating at the same time every day. I didn’t know how to put it into words back then, and I still don’t know how to for the most part, but I just knew that I wanted to eat when I was hungry, sleep when I was tired, and work when I wanted to work. I didn’t want a clock on the wall to dictate what I did. This way of thinking may suggest that I was a nightmare for teachers and to my parents, but I wasn’t. Like so much else, I usually kept these thoughts in my head and fell in line with everyone else. Other than becoming a writer, I did very little in my life to back up the thoughts I thought of so much during my life.

  I don’t remember what particular story I read that brought me over the edge, but one night I knew I was going to do it. I can only imagine my parents’ surprise when exactly one year after the day my wife died I left a note on my kitchen table that read:

  “Dear Mom and Dad,

  Bahama and I went on a little longer walk than usual. We will call when we get to where we are going.

  Love,

  Us”

  2

  My parents, being the insightful people they are, surely noticed that my SUV was missing from the garage, so they knew in short order that our walk was actually a drive. Regardless, I am sure that my mode of transportation was hardly their main concern when they noticed Bahama and I had left the house in quick fashion. While the topic of suicide had never been discussed between my parents and me, I knew my parents were concerned that was a route I could pursue.

  One night after dinner at their house during my year of grieving, I went into my old room, now the den, intending to check my e-mail. Instead I was greeted with a Google web search one of my parents, p
resumably my mother, had recently done. In the search box was “what to do if you expect someone could commit suicide.” She had 7,840,000 websites to help her answer that question, according to the search result, yet the issue had never come up between us. Forgetting about my e-mail, I walked out of the room, kissed my mom goodnight, and told her, “Don’t worry; I would never do that to you.” She looked at me, and smiled. Despite this moment – one I thought had cleared up any concern my mother may have – I knew it would be in the best interest of everyone if I called her soon and let her know I was okay. I wanted to wait until I had an idea of exactly what I was doing before I called them.

  About the only thing I knew was that the car was heading south. Bahama’s 20-pound frame was sitting on the console between the driver and passenger side seats, performing her duties as co-pilot. I thought to ask her where we were going. The last time I had this profile view of Bahama, my wife was right on the other side. I knew that leaving the house could bring a whirlwind of emotions with it, but I still wasn’t prepared for the thoughts every memory could elicit.

  At the same time we hit the state line of North Carolina, I instantly remembered that I wasn’t the only one in my family that had endured a major period of pain and grieving. Just eight months ago, my sister Chloe saw her own marriage end suddenly. Unfortunately, I lost count on the number of years Chloe and her husband Richard had been married because my sister and I had been estranged for years, mostly because of Richard. After I heard the news of their divorce, I called Chloe offering an apology, but she simply said, “It’s what you all wanted anyway.” She then hung up the receiver with a thud.

  I learned shortly after that phone call that the last thing Richard has ever said to Chloe and their 6-year old daughter Cassidy was, “I hope I never see you two sluts again.” In the months since, Richard had made no attempt to see his daughter. My mom heard Richard was living on a friend’s couch in Tennessee, but she wasn’t really sure. Being waist deep in my own grieving, I didn’t think to offer condolences to Chloe. Plus, she was right, it is what we wanted, but we didn’t want it to happen that way. My mom’s plate was full dealing with both of our mourning periods while knowing that her son and daughter didn’t talk to each other.

  Despite having many uncles, aunts, and cousins living within close proximity of each other, our main family consisted of only my parents and my sister, just 18 months younger than me. We grew up without the constant bickering between siblings that I had seen in nearly all my friends. When we had problems in school – tough tests, tough teachers, or tough situations with boyfriends and girlfriends – we always came to each other. Though we would never admit it at the time, we were best friends. When she met Richard while in college, things changed between us.

  Richard was an alcoholic and despite being charming at times, his inability to control his drinking, and in turn, his temper, was concerning to our family. We weren’t friends at all, but we went to the same small college, so our paths crossed frequently at bars and house or dorm parties. Partying and college of course go hand and hand for many, including myself, but it was evident his drinking was out of control, even at a young age. Richard came from a family of hard drinkers, and because of this he had been advised by concerned family members that he should slow down his drinking, or better yet, quit altogether. But like a child you repeatedly tell not to touch something, the temptation, and perhaps the genetic inclination, was too much.

  I always held out hope that Richard would slow down, but had my doubts. Chloe assured us he was just “being a college kid,” but deep down I suspect she knew his drinking was more than that. Sure enough, after college he was drinking even more. The problem now was that he was married to my sister. Even on the day of their wedding I smelled liquor on his breath, even after their reverend, the same reverend that had married my parents 26 years prior, politely asked no one in the wedding party, which I also presumed included the groom, to not drink on the day of the wedding until after the ceremony. You didn’t need to smell it on his breath to know he had been drinking; his eyes had given it away.

  After the wedding, my sister and I grew farther apart, both by relationship and distance, after they moved to North Carolina. My sister was a dental assistant, and attributed the move to her job, but in reality I believe she was trying to separate herself from the constant arguments regarding her husband and our family. She had hoped of going to dental school, but when the time came to make the decision, she opted not to go. My parents said this was because Richard said it wasn’t necessary because he would make a lot of money. He, of course, was saying these things when he was jobless, a title he held for most of their relationship. Because Chloe didn’t go to dental school, a goal she had spoke about for years; it further diminished her relationship with our parents. It wasn’t that my parents had been forcing her to go to dental school; they just knew in their hearts that she wasn’t going largely because of Richard.

  Over time we stopped calling each other. During the last few years I had only seen her once, at my wife’s funeral, but we hardly spoke, though I hardly spoke to anyone that day, or in the following year. After Richard left, I wasn’t quick to offer condolences when she was surely going through one of the hardest times of her life. My parents had gone down to North Carolina occasionally after the divorce to help her get back on her feet, but I had never gone on any of those trips. Instead of being thankful my parents were going down to help my sister out, I remember being upset that they were leaving me during my time of mourning. I never stopped to consider the position my parents were in: dealing with mourning children.

  When I got in my SUV that morning, I’d be lying if I said it was with the goal to visit my sister. The “Welcome to North Carolina” sign and the resulting thought process was responsible for that. Still I physically had to make the decision if I was going to visit her or not. I’m sure she would be surprised, to say the least, to see me. I still had 60 miles to mull my decision.

  As my sister’s exit grew closer, my heartbeat grew faster. I had decided what I was going to do. I pulled out my cell phone to call my parents. My mom answered before the line even rang on my end.

  “Where are you?” she asked, worried.

  “I’m getting ready to go see Chloe,” I replied. “I remember the city, but can’t remember the address.” Truth is – I never knew it.

  After a pause on the other end of the line in which I could tell my mom was processing this information, she said with what sounded like a smile, “I’ll be right back, it’s in my address book.” I knew she was happy, as we always had an understanding that didn’t involve many words.

  3

  I parked just on the edge of her long circular driveway, about as far away as I could be from her house while still on her property. In my mind this gave me a chance to leave unnoticed if I were to change my mind before I got up to the door. I quickly realized this wouldn’t be an option. About five seconds after I put the car into park I could see through the dusk that the front door had opened.

  “Who’s there?!” yelled a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, causing Bahama to turn her head questionably.

  “Mike, Chloe’s sister – I mean – brother,” I yelled back, nervous of the voice I couldn’t see. I waited for a response for a few seconds. When none came, I begrudgingly headed to the door.

  The screen door was shut, but the front door remained opened. As soon as I reached the top step Chloe appeared, with her daughter Cassidy in tow. I wasn’t sure if our mother had called Chloe or not, but given the welcoming I got from her man friend, I guessed the answer was no.

  Because of Bahama’s black and brown fur and the darkening sky, she was tough to see, but as soon as Cassidy saw Bahama she squealed, “OHHHH! A PUPPY! Can I play with it?” looking excitedly between her mom and my best friend. While Bahama was far from a puppy, coming in at around seven years old, she still acted like one when meeting a new friend.

  “Yes, go ahead take her out back. We should hav
e a tennis ball,” replied Chloe, but Cassidy and Bahama were through the back door before the sentence was finished.

  Chloe didn’t invite me in verbally, but turned around and headed back into the center of the house, leaving the front door open behind her. I took this as an invite, and headed in.

  In the living room, Chloe was just turning off the television, and sat down on one end of a large sectional couch. I sat down on the opposite side.

  “If you’re busy, I can leave and come back another time,” I said while motioning with my head where I guessed her visitor was, though I really had no clue.

  “Oh, that’s Mr. Fields, my neighbor. He was fixing my water heater for me. He owns the company that installed it.”

  “Well, he didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

  “He’s just been helping me out some since Richard left. Being our closest neighbor he heard a lot of what was going on over here. He also has a daughter my age, so I guess it comes natural to him to protect me a bit.” When she mentioned the part about Richard leaving she glanced in my direction to see my reaction. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react. I followed up with what I thought was a safe question. I was wrong.

  “How are things anyway? How is your daughter dealing with everything?”

  She made a snorting sound under her breath and then let me have it, which I had sort of been expecting, saying, “You don’t even know her name do you?”

  I did.

  “Did you drive down here yourself just to make sure he was gone?”

  I hadn’t.

  “I know you guys didn’t like him, but he was my husband and I loved him,” she said, fighting back tears.

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t really known what to say to her for the last few years, so this was nothing new, except now I was in the same room as her. I said the first thing that came to my mind.

  “Thank you for coming to the funeral. I’m sorry I wasn’t here more for you in your time of need.”