That Wednesday

© 2011 Frantzline Tingue. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/18/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8249-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8250-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011902691

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedicated to:

Franck Tingue, Mrs. Andrea O’Brien, Jean Belizaire and anyone else that helped me out. Love you all!

One moment you’re gliding happily along.

Next moment, you’re standing in the rain watching your life slowly fall apart………

Contents

Chapter one

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter one

She sits on the couch in her annoying and talkative guidance counselor, Mrs. Hare’s room, too depressed to enjoy its comfortable cushions pressing softly on her sore, un-relaxed body. Lemony Snicket says in one of his novels, that the way sadness works is one of the strangest things someone can encounter in the world. When you’re struck with a great load of sadness, it’s as if you’ve been set on fire, not only because of the great pain you feel growing deep inside your heart, but because the sadness may spread quickly around your life, making it difficult to realize anything but your sadness, depression and what caused it to develop in the first place. And just like fire, it spreads everywhere, devouring every sort of happiness you once had.

Well this young girl Darcy, of course, has gone through many different sad moments in her life, but never as great as this. It’s heartbreaking to discover something horrible when you can’t do anything about it. Not able to stop it. Not able to go back. Not able to do anything but cry.

Darcy, I know this is hard for you. Says Mrs. Hare, To feel pain after a loss is normal. It shows we are still alive and human. So you must talk about it and express your feelings. It will help you. Trust me.

Darcy looks away without saying a word. It’s her first day in her guidance counseling class and she has just met Mrs. Hare, her guidance counselor. Already she finds her annoying and can’t stand her voice. Mrs. Hare sighs and finally leans back in her chair. Darcy begins to smile because she thinks Mrs. Hare has given up, but then she reached into a box and pulled out a huge notebook. Here you go. Mrs. Hare hands the notebook to fourteen-year-old Darcy.

Why do I need this? The young teenager asks without moving one muscle to take the book.

I understand how you feel. I understand you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s not good to hold all your feelings in. It’s okay to express yourself and talk of your troubles.

Says who?

Take the book, Darcy. Write what happens to you, your feelings and everything you can think of. Darcy rolls her eyes as the annoying adult continues, If you do it once in a while, you’ll feel better. No one has to read what you put in. It can be just you and the pages of this large journal. She stares and then continues, It’ll be your own choice if you want to show it to anyone. If not, okay, just keep it for yourself.

Darcy Danielle (Green) Carter takes the book, and flips through all the pages. Without saying another word she gets up with the notebook in her hand and leaves the room.

Tuesday, March first, 1969

14 years old

It all started That Wednesday. The accident, the move, and my guidance counselor, Mrs. Hare.

Mrs. Hare says I should write my feelings and what happens to me in this notebook. I have no idea why I took the book. I could’ve just got up and left without taking it because she wasn’t forcing me to. Well, I don’t have to show it to her or anyone, she told me. I definitely don’t plan to. All Mrs. Hare said was to write in the damn thing and in a couple months, I’ll feel better. It sounds stupid but she says it will work so I’m trying it anyway. I guess this journal is better than her asking me how I’m feeling every day. I always tell her I don’t know. I REALLY DON’T! How are you supposed to feel when someone has just died? Empty? Maybe I feel sad because something sad just happened? Can’t she guess? Why does it matter? Why does she and/or anyone else care so much??

I know my Mom’s dead. They know she’s dead. Why do I have to explain any ridiculous feelings to them or in this book?

I went to calm myself a little before I actually explain how it all happened. It was a Wednesday of mid November. I was with my friends Kelly and Charlie. And although I’ve known them since we were babies, I haven’t seen them since that day. While Kelly and I were helping Charlie work out a math problem, out of the blue Mr. Johnson, our school vice principle, called me to the office. He told me that my mother had gotten into a terrible car accident and she was struggling to survive at a nearby hospital. My older brother Tim came with his car and we drove to the hospital. When we had gotten inside, it was crowded and I felt dizzy. I hoped that my mother would be okay, but unfortunately, like everything else in life, it didn’t work out and she didn’t survive. My brother, a seventeen year old, who drove but didn’t have his license, yet, began to cry and sob and swear out loud. There was nothing but a long straight line on the screen and a loud high-pitched steady tone that made my head bang, my ears pop and my heart shatter.

I knew exactly what it meant that very second. My mother, my only mother had died and I was too shocked to cry or scream like Tim was. I wanted to murder the person that had crushed her with their truck. I knew Tim was angry enough to stab someone, and it wouldn’t be his first time. So I tried to comfort him and calm him down before the treacherous person in him would come out like it did a lot of times when I was younger.

I can’t help but say that this is all my fault. I can’t help but wonder if I had just put on what she wanted me to wear that, this would have never happened. Just that Wednesday morning, Mom and I had gotten into an argument of what I was wearing to school. She won and I told her I hated her. At that very moment, just four months ago in November, as I stood hugging Tim tight and the Doctors tried to bring her back; I realized how stupid I was. I got angry just because she wouldn’t let me wear shorts and a very small orange t-shirt to school. I couldn’t cry then, but at the funeral, a couple days after, I couldn’t hold it. My worst fears have come true. My mother is dead, my brother is drinking again and I had to move away from my best friends and my home, to my father’s. I cried my heart out while my father held me tight. Dad and Mom separated when I was nine. Dad kept the house and Mom moved to a small cabin near Grandma Clara’s home. First Tim had stayed with Dad and I stayed with Mom. Though afterwards, when Dad began to drink again and go out at night, Tim got scared and ran away to mom and me. I had just turned ten and Tim twelve when he showed up at the door crying and pleading for Mom to let him stay with us.

After that, Mom hated Dad a lot more. Dad. My stupid dad made almost everyone angry…even I, although I was his favorite, hated him for ways he acted half of the time. But at the funeral, his eyes were piercing red. I know he wanted to cry, but still, he held back his tears and didn’t. I guess he thought since he’s a man he can’t cry, no matter what. He used to tell that to Tim. We both thought it was complete poppycock. Which if you don’t know is a curse but some people say it plainly means nonsense. He hugged me tight and kissed me on the forehead then persuaded me not to cry using these words: Everything is going to be okay, DD. It’s all right. but I knew it wasn’t. Nothing will be normal again. We’re not whole without our mom. I miss her. But she’s gone and I can’t change that.

Now we’re back in the old house. Dad’s downstairs. He’s even more depressed now, I guess. He just stares and pats his hard head like he’s mentally ill and we have to remind him what’s going on. I didn’t go to school today. Tim didn’t either. He says he’s got a fever, but I’m… I don’t know, I guess I don’t want to deal with another day at that worthless new school I have to go to. I don’t wanna go to Mrs. Hare’s class every day after lunch. I think it’s stupid even if it is only for a month. I hate that she’s always asking how I feel. She wants to know how I really feel; she should read this ridiculous, stupid, retarded (all the bad words you can think of) book she gave me to write in.

My younger cousin Jerald, who I sometimes call Jay, just came into my room and asked me if he could sit and color on my bed. I told him he could and now he’s sitting next to me with his paper and pencil. Dad doesn’t think we should waste our money on a lot of crayons so Jay uses pencils and pens and I don’t think he minds about that a lot. Jerald’s Mom, my aunt and Dad’s little sister, died two years ago. Jay was three then and Dad took him in and took care of him since his father is in jail for stealing something very valuable but I don’t know what it was. I don’t think Jay remembers his parents at all. When I look at his situation, I see how lucky I am. At least I knew my mom, and my Dad can take care of me and I’m fourteen. Jerald’s five; it’s possible he doesn’t even remember his mom who died of cancer and his dad who’s in a jail cell somewhere. I feel like I should be there for him. Jay’s only five and already has he gotten a piece of real life. I didn’t get a taste of reality until Mom and Dad separated about six years ago.

Well I don’t know. To answer that stupid question of Mrs. Hare’s I feel confused, empty and weak. And I don’t think there’s nothing anyone or anything can do to change that.

Wednesday, March 2nd, same year

I’m at school. I don’t really talk to anyone and I’m really bored so guess I’ll just write. Dad forced me to go to school today. Tim stayed again though. He wasn’t lying yesterday about being sick. Dad said that he had spent the day before at his friends so they probably had gotten into some trouble with drugs and Tim must’ve caught something. So he’s going to the nearest doctor.

Mr. Ray, my teacher, just called my name and asked me why I wasn’t here yesterday. He gave me a frustrated look as if he already knew what a miserable day I’d give him. I didn’t feel like answering but I just told him what I wanted to say. After his, Darcy Danielle Carter? Why were you not here the other day? question. I said, Well if you really want to know, Mr. Ray. I did not have a great day, yesterday and I really did not feel like attending another worthless day at this ridiculous school so I decided to stay home. And if you don’t mind at all, I don’t like you calling me by that name, sir. I rather like to be called DD Green. You know, because my first name is Darcy and middle name Danielle and I rather take the last name of my mother and not my father.

A couple of kids beside me chuckled at what I said and to tell the truth I wasn’t trying to be funny so I have no idea why they were laughing. Well, whatever, I was sent out with a, DARCY! I WANT YOU AND YOUR SMART MOUTH OUT THIS CLASS THIS INSTANT! So now I’m outside of my classroom writing. As if I really care much. I basically get garbage like this every morning before I get called back in and that’s poppycock too because why would I want to go back to class, when I’m having so much fun throwing things at other kids, walking back and forth in the hall and roaming around the school like the free girl I should be.

Right now I’m laughing at myself for how stupid I am, as I always do. Mom and I used to do this all the time. Laugh and laugh until our sides were so sore that we couldn’t laugh anymore. When I was about eleven I woke up in the middle of the night and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Tim was sleeping and I thought Mom was too. I had gotten dressed and ate some cookies and milk. We couldn’t afford any television, then but we had a radio so I had sat and listened to the radio, as I ate hoping to fall asleep again. What are you doing up Darcy D.? My mother said when she had gotten downstairs. You should be sleeping honey; you need your beauty rest. And I laughed, don’t know why though, the way she said it I guess. And well, Mom laughed too and we didn’t want to stop laughing so we started telling jokes and funny stories and we watched the sun come up together.

And some days, when we would get into fights, we would possibly forget what we were fighting about or it would be so ridiculous what we were fighting about that we would stop and laugh. But that morning of the day my mother died, before I could even say something like, OH! Mom you know I didn’t mean that. or What in the world are we fighting about? or I’m sorry, Mom, you’re always right. She went out of the house, and I watched her drive away in the small, ragged car she had gotten from her brother, my Uncle Jonnie.

I was really shocked she took off like that but I shook it off afterwards. Besides, what I said was pretty mean and if my child had said that to me I would have slapped him/her right upside the head. Well, I guess she was still driving around going only she knows where and the big red truck ran her over and crushed her as if she were a small irritating bug.

The police said that when they were called over with the ambulance, she was badly hurt. Mom’s car was upside down; her seat belt was still on her and was causing her soft skin to tear. She was bleeding badly. Just writing it down on these pages makes me shiver and I want to cry. But I have to hold it in now, because I’m being escorted back to class.

Everyone keeps staring at me. I don’t know if they’re looking at me because of my so-called smart mouth or because I’m writing this all in my notebook as I sit at my seat. This girl, whose name I think is Cindy, just gave me this nasty glare and I really don’t know why. But when I looked up to see what Mr. Ray was pointing at, a boy named Nick I met in December threw a smile my way. I smiled back. Well, I at least tried to and then I looked back down to write it in my book.

Now, I’m thinking back to how I met Nick. It was a Sunday I think…beginning of the second week of December. It was five days after I started school and about two weeks after Mom’s funeral. I’d decided to check the mail when Jay was not yet done with his dinner. I looked up, seeing the sun was setting and I saw a boy, who looked about my age, on our doorsteps. He shook and quickly stood up when he heard the door open and I was just about ready to grab something and knock him right on the head. WHAT DO YOU WANT? I screamed so loud that it made Jay fall out of his chair, and that’s when I realized all the bruises, cuts and the blood on the trespassing boy’s face. His big swollen eye stared at me as I slowly calmed and asked him what he wanted again.

He hesitated and said something along the lines of, Oh. Hey, DD. I’m…uh looking for my mom, does she live here? I don’t remember answering him so he asked me the question again. I just stared because I was so confused on how he knew my name and asked him instead of answering. After I asked him he sighed and told me we go to the same school. I nodded with a smile, remembering he was the same boy that I saw the first day I came here when he’d said hi to me by my locker. Oh… I said, and looked at him again. He turned away, so I guess that meant not to ask about the bruises on his face and the swollen eye. I asked him to repeat who he was looking for and he said. My mom. Her name is Kathy Wilson.

Oh you mean Mrs. Wilson, She lives across from me. I pointed at the grey house right across the street, There, She’s about thirty, brown eyes, short hair, and has a little girl named Dana, Right?

Uh…yeah I guess that’s her. Nick looked down and turned bright red, Could I…Use your bathroom before I go. I don’t want her to see, you know… He pointed at his face. All this.

I gave him a slight nod, let him in and led him to the bathroom where I stood at the door as he washed his face. I gave him a towel and alcohol to dab at all his bruises and cuts. He winced about once or twice as the blood filled up the towel and dripped down into the sink. I wanted to ask him so badly what had happened so finally, after he’d washed his face again and the blood went down the drain, I asked him. Um…not that it’s any of my business but, what happened?

Nick sighed again and stared at all the blood that filled the towel. It looked as if he was finding the right and safe answer to say. He told me he got into a fight.

I wondered if he’d lost because of all the bruises so I asked being a little nosy. He gave me a weak smile and told me he’d say he lost. I nodded with a laugh as he pressed hard on his dark and swollen eye. After telling me that he should get going, I walked him out and asked why he didn’t know where his own mother lived. He told me that he lived with his Dad but didn’t like it there anymore so he came here looking for his mom, but didn’t know which house was hers. And you’re related to her three year old daughter, Dana, right? Since Mrs. Wilson is your Mom. I asked him.

Yeah, but I’ve never met her. She’s my half sister. He said. I walked across the street and knocked on Mrs. Wilson’s door. She opened it quickly with little Dana behind her. I didn’t need to say a word because she recognized Nick instantly. She ran and hugged him and cried out, Oh! Nick, My baby! Nicholas! She started to cry. And if you listened carefully you could hear Nick sobbing quietly on her shoulder.

I felt weird just standing there. So I turned to leave, not only because it’s not really normal to stand and watch someone cry especially if it’s a very good-looking boy from your class, but also because I, too wanted to cry. I began to think about how I’ll never, ever get to hold my mother like that again. And most importantly, she’ll never get to hold me again, call me baby, and kiss me until my whole body is sagging, soaking wet with saliva from her wonderful, loving kisses. Why couldn’t that be me? I was jealous, angry, sad and wanting to be Nick at that moment. I wanted to feel a mother’s touch just one more time. Images of Mom started to flash repeatedly in my head, but before I could even get out the door, Mrs. Wilson called my name and ran over to me.

Thank you! Thank you so much, Darcy. She said and hugged me, too. I tried to imagine her as Mom but it wouldn’t work and it just made me want to cry some more. So, I held it, nodded, and went on my way.

I knew that the next day would be the same as any other, but I hoped inside that when I’d see Nick at school, he wouldn’t be too embarrassed to talk to me for at least a little while. And so far, he’s the greatest kid here. He doesn’t ignore me