A Song I Used to Know, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Immortal
Immortal Works LLC
1505 Glenrose Drive
Salt Lake City, Utah 84104
Tel: (385) 202-0116
© 2023 Genalea Barker
genalea.wordpress.com
Cover Art by Lenore Stutznegger
lenorestutz.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information visit https://www.immortalworks.press/contact.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-953491-69-5 (Paperback)
ASIN B0CNNBLBGN (Kindle)
For my parents, who are still adorable and in love after nearly 50 years.
And of course, for Brett. Our story might not be harrowing, but it’s ours and I love it.
Most of my life has been about survival—keep my head down, stay afloat, get by. But here I am, staring at my road not taken, with a second chance to make it happen. Robert Frost made the whole two roads scenario seem romantic and glamorous. I just feel like I’m having a panic attack. Or a stroke.
I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans, watching students file into the classroom—the very classroom I’d be in right now if I could just get my feet to move.
Why won’t my feet move?
This is a terrible idea, that’s why.
It would’ve been a better idea two years ago, back when I still had basic social skills and a sliver of courage. Why did I wait so long to do this?
Survival, Stevie. Remember?
Right. I guess it tracks I’d put college on hold after Uncle Gene died. I had bills to pay. Groceries to buy. But I had dreams once, too. Goals. Maybe they were juvenile, but they were mine. I need something to be mine again. Even if it’s fifteen credits at East Washington College paid for exclusively by financial aid, not a full-ride scholarship to Stanford based on talent and merit. That dream was swallowed by Gene’s diagnosis. Rotted by his cancer.
This is fine, Stevie. You’re. Just. Fine.
Except I’m not. I’m frozen, much like the day Gene collapsed onto the pavement, and I just watched, useless as my brain devolved into mush and the world turned upside down.
I know how to calm my nerves; I’ve done it a million times before. But do I really want to be known as the weird girl who hums to herself from day one?
Screw it.
I close my eyes, humming the same tune I’ve had stuck in my head since I was a child. Something my mother sang to me, haunting and beautiful in a minor key. Sadly, I’ve never been able to remember the words. They died with her.
Three rounds of my wordless tune and a deep breath later, I find a seat at a table only moments before a lanky, middle-aged professor takes his place at the podium.
He’s midway through introductions when someone slips into the seat beside me—a girl with damp auburn hair sticking to her forehead as beads of sweat drip down her face. She’s out of breath and near tears. Quietly, I ask if she’s alright. She nods, chewing her lips, lids blinking over her emerald eyes.
Wasting little time on pleasantries, the professor passes around questionnaires and instructs us to interview our table mates.
My partner takes the initiative of sliding the paper in front of her and removing a notebook and pen from her bag. I want to ask if she’s alright again, but my conversational skills are rusty at best. Instead, I follow her example, taking out my supplies.
She asks the first question on the pre-printed lists. “Are you native to Spokane, or did you move here for school?”
“Born and raised.”
“Me too.” We both scribble on our papers.
“That’s kind of a weird question, don’t you think? I mean, who moves to Spokane to attend a junior college?”
“Probably no one,” she says, her features softening. “So why choose EWC?”
“It was kind of my only realistic option.”
She squints, perhaps pondering my answer, then moves on. How old am I? Which semester of school am I in? My answers pique her interest. If I’m twenty-one, why am I just starting out? Have I been working? Traveling?
I could tell her my legal guardian and only family in the world became ill just after I graduated high school, and I took a detour from college, instead spending a year watching him die slowly. That it drained the ambition and nearly the life out of me. That I’ve spent the last two years working at Credit Zen—the least zen workplace in the world—talking to people only behind the safety of a phone and computer screen. That last spring, when they offered me my third promotion, I went home and applied for EWC and filled out FAFSA forms because I realized if I didn’t, I might very well die working in a smelly cubicle in a hellhole call center.
“It was finally the right time.”
She jots my ambiguous answers in her neon notebook and licks her lips.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask.
She bobs her head but quickly transitions to shaking it. She’s definitely going to cry.
Oh no.
Forget comforting someone; can I even remember how to talk to people? Without a script staring at me?
“I think it’s supposed to get easier,” I manage. “You know, the whole finding your rhythm thing.”
“I hope so. I mean, I was so certain I could do this. So eager to prove to my parents I could handle this. But it’s only the first day, and I’m already a hot mess.”
“Everyone’s a mess on the first day,” I say, attempting to console her.
“Not my level of mess.” A lonely tear slides down her ivory cheek. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. “You know, I spent most of the last year building houses in Ecuador. You’d think I’d be able to manage a couple college classes. But I’ve already gotten a parking ticket.” She lowers her voice to whisper-scream. “My parents are gonna kill me.”
Oh geez. How many times have I heard that one?
I got a C in Algebra, my parents are gonna kill me.
I broke my phone, my parents are gonna kill me.
If I’m out past my curfew again, my parents will kill me.
All these years, I’ve never responded with, “At least you’ve got parents.” Sometimes I wanted to. I mean, I can’t remember the sound of my parents’ voices. What I wouldn’t give to hear them scolding me for a mistake.
I find a clean but slightly wadded tissue from my backpack and hand it over. “Ecuador, huh? Tell me about that?” Maybe she just needs a distraction.
She sniffs, wiping her eyes then nose with the tissue. “I got my GED when I was sixteen—homeschool kid. I didn’t feel like starting college yet, but I also didn’t feel like working the cash register somewhere. You know?”
I nod, even though I don’t know. Choice wasn’t something I had a lot of experience with. Especially not in recent years.
“I went with my church group on two different missions. Four months each. They were awesome experiences, and I’m glad I went, but I’m struggling to adjust back. It’s hard to explain but it’s like I’m coming out of a safety bubble.”
That, I could understand a little better. In my own way.
“Change takes time,” I say. It’s all I’ve got for now.
She nods. “Thanks for being nice. I needed a friend today.”
The sound of friend sends a trickle of warmth through my veins. “I did too. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Merrin.”
“I love that.”
A timid smile forms on her lips.
“I’m Stevie.”
“Stevie?”
“Technically, it’s Stephanie. But I don’t remember the last time anyone called me that.”
She laughs. “I get it. I have five siblings, and I think maybe two of us regularly go by our full given name. Most of the time, it’s nicknames.”
“Five?”
She rolls her eyes. “We’re not ultra-religious or anything.”
“No, I wasn’t thinking that. I promise.” How different her life must be. I might like to have a sister or brother. Maybe not five. But…someone.
Merrin takes a breath, releasing what’s left of her tension, and shoves the used tissue into her pocket.
“Next question?” she asks. I nod. “What is your favorite brand of toilet paper?”
I snatch the list from her, snorting. “That’s not seriously a question, is it?”
“Nah. Just curious.” She offers me a deliberately creepy wink.
“You and I, Merrin. We’re gonna get along just swell.”
I never knew three classes could exhaust me so thoroughly, but despite the utter fatigue, this first day feels like a rite of passage, and I can’t shake the feeling I might be doing the right thing. That my encounter with Merrin was a good omen, and I might not die alone and miserable. Such hopeful, promising thoughts, I can hardly stand it.
With thirty minutes to spare before my work-study shift at the on-campus daycare begins, I sit on a bench and eat my sad, bland peanut butter sandwich. Last time I went grocery shopping they only had name-brand jelly, and I’m not the kind of person who spends an extra two dollars for name-brand jelly. I wish I could be. Even if I had the budget for it, I’m not sure I could get over that mental block. Growing up poor messes with your ability to splurge, even if that splurge is a matter of pennies.
Credit Zen paid okay, but they wouldn’t work around my school schedule. It was a relief, honestly. Like I was being given permission to move on. Granted, I’m still questioning my sanity over quitting a full-time job to enroll in a junior college and take a part-time work-study position. I’m not typically one to veer from feet-firmly-planted scenarios. Once I forced myself to leap, though, things just kind of worked out.
I thought it was a joke at first. The universe pulling me in close, waiting for me to let my guard down right before it slapped me in the face. But that hasn’t happened.
Yet.
My stomach teased by cheap bread and peanut butter—just enough to make me feel hungrier—I unlock my bike and pedal to Bright Beginnings for my first shift.
Margorie, the director and possible angel who gave me the job based on nothing but my promise of competency and experience providing end-of-life care for Uncle Gene, greets me at the front door.
“The first day is crazy,” she says. “I’ve got about fifty fires to put out, so I hope you like being thrown in the deep end.”
Like it? No. Used to it? Hell yeah.
Before I answer, a young woman about my age comes jogging down the hall, calling, “Sorry, Marge, but I can’t find the hair nets.” We make brief eye contact, and she smiles.
“In the cabinet above the stove,” Margorie says, then gestures to the other girl and me. “Scarlett, Stevie. Stevie, Scarlett.” We nod at each other, and Scarlett jogs away.
Margorie points to the preschool room. “You met Jill when you interviewed, right?” I nod. “Great. Follow her lead, help her however she needs, keep the tiny humans alive. Got it?”
“Keep the tiny humans alive,” I repeat.
She pats me on the shoulder. “Atta girl.” After a quick adjustment of her pink-rimmed glasses, she smooths her silver bob, then returns to her office to answer the phone.
“Bright Beginnings, this is Marge.” She looks up from her desk and gives me a final thumbs up. I salute and turn for the pre-k room.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m expecting when I open the door, but fifteen toddlers simultaneously shooting me hopeful grins that immediately fade into disappointed pouts wasn’t quite it. A few begin crying for their parents.
Oooooh.
“First day,” Jill calls from somewhere amidst the sea of toddler tears. “They’ll adjust.”
And they do. Most forgive me for being “Miss Stevie” (“Miss Stebie” if they can’t quite pronounce their Vs yet) and not their parent, and we stumble into a haphazard rhythm. Messy and chaotic as this job may be, I already love it.
After a few hours hanging with these kids—answering their questions, helping them tie their shoes, singing silly songs with them—there’s a swelling inside my heart I think might be pride. Or hope. As a bonus, they serve the kids an afternoon snack, and I get to eat, too! Salvation in the form of yogurt and graham crackers.
By the end of the day, I’m certain starting school was the right choice, even if it means a little extra struggle financially. At least the house is secure.
My pitiful, gloomy house.
The longer I live here alone, the more I hate it. This place used to almost feel like home—a safe space. Back before Gene got sick. But now? Now it’s hard to imagine coming home to a worse sight at the end of my day.
It's little more than a depressing shrine—a reminder of all the people I’ve lost. All the dreams I left behind. I could sell it, but where would I go? An overpriced apartment building somewhere? If I could even find one that would accept me on my wages and non-existent credit history.
So, I keep the house, night after night, sleeping on a mattress on the living room floor, surrounded by stacks of second-hand books and CDs. Aside from the coffee table and old stereo, there isn’t much else to speak of. I sold uneccesary appliances and any furniture that was in good condition, hauled everything reeking of cigarette smoke to the side of the road, and bid farewell.
Now it just reeks of solitude. Or maybe that’s the empty refrigerator.
I grab an old family portrait from the mantel, brushing my thumb against those long-ago faces. Happy young parents who thought they had a lifetime ahead of them with the bright-eyed, honey-haired toddler in their arms. “Hey guys,” I whisper. I hold my parents to my chest, sinking to my mattress.
I roll onto my side, clutching my picture in one hand and selecting a CD with the other—I need the company. I’ve consumed music like oxygen over the years, hopeful I’d find out my nameless lullaby was real. Each time I grabbed a stack of discards from the library or hit up a garage sale, I imagined that melody miraculously bursting from the speakers, gifting me a long-lost treasure. But a dozen years, thousands of hours, and countless genres later, the song remains an enigma.
I asked Uncle Gene at least a hundred times if he remembered the lyrics, but he never obliged.
“Sing me Mommy’s song,” I’d beg.
“Hush, Stevie.”
Always the same. Be quiet, Stevie. Stop asking, Stevie. Give it up, Stevie.
Even on his deathbed, Uncle Gene swore it was all a false memory I conjured in my despair.
“I’ve never heard it before. Let me sleep, Stevie. I’m tired.”
I can’t blame the guy. If I’d been him, I probably would’ve resented me, too.
I don’t remember much about the night of the accident, but I found an old newspaper clipping once.
Icy road conditions.
Drowsiness a probable factor.
My car seat ejected before our sedan rolled down an embankment, killing my parents, leaving me the sole survivor.
Miracle.
Lucky.
Blessed.
I’m not sure who was luckier, me or Uncle Gene. Sure, I woke up in a hospital room to find out my parents were dead, but Gene was thrown in front of a filial bus at the same moment he lost his only sister.
Before he became my parent, Uncle Gene adored me; I have a few pictures to prove it. But that was the beautiful before, when he was still a carefree, sometimes babysitter. Before my father’s carelessness left me behind. Afterward, the hope drained out of him. He tried his best to love me, but he could never bury the past.
Then along came cancer. Even if trying to beat cancer wasn’t akin to capturing the wind in a net, I don’t think he would’ve had the resolve to fight it. Once that diagnosis came, he willingly succumbed. What was left to live for, except a child he resented, who’d given up everything to care for him while he slowly slipped away?
I start the stereo and roll back onto the mattress as music bounces off the barren walls of my house. With a deep breath, I tell myself, “I can do this,” even though I’m not sure I can. Hugging the picture back to my chest, I absorb the music and the memory of my parents’ love, letting the world fall away.
Growing up, most of my friendships were on the surface. Strictly shallow end. We hung out at school, hardly ever outside it. People don’t exactly line up around the block to be besties with the poor girl, especially not the one who lives with her grouchy uncle.
