A Life of My Own

A Life of My Own

Denise Skelton

Smashwords Edition

ISBN-13: 978-0-9790877-4-5 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-9790877-9-0 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-9790877-4-0 (pbk)

DEDICATION

For my friends, Linda, Sue, Cindy, Diane, who always take time to say Hey girl, I’m thinking of you.

For Nikka, who gets up bright-eyed and bushy tailed to go to book-festivals with me, without a complaint, Teaonna who is my guinea-pig reader, Cory who calls to say, Hey, I love you, Kyle, who laughs at my dumb-a** jokes, even when they’re not that funny, and Dakota who tells his mom, Aunt Neecey has it going on.

For Diana, Teresa, Donald and Mike. I know you guys always have my back.

For James, my rock, my sidekick, the love of my life. You are all that and more.

For the awesome readers who kept asking, When is the next book going to be finished? What’s going on with the next book? For goodness sakes lady, what are you waiting for?

Well here it is. Hope it was worth the wait.

Love ya, Denise

Copyright © 2011 by Denise Skelton

All rights reserved

Library of Congress control number 2011942339

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author‘s imagination and are used fictitiously.

First Chance Publishing books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting

Discover more titles By Denise Skelton at Smashwords

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CHAPTER 1

There I was. Just sitting in the driveway like an idiot — my forehead resting against the steering wheel, my heart pounding in my ears, blinking from the wave of tears that threatened to come.

Dumbass. Fat ass. Stupid whore.

Those were some of the last words he said before I left my house on Winston Street. I should have been used to them since I heard them so often, but they still hurt. Yep, those words echoed in my brain before I climbed into my car that Saturday afternoon. I had originally planned to go grocery shopping, but Brian had just thrown one of his famous fits and this left me in no mental condition to go or do anything.

I should have known that my day, which had started off better than usual, would be going south in a hurry. Brian had settled down in front of the television, prepared to watch several hours of his favorite TV shows that he had Tivo’d during the week. He told me that his friends would be coming over around 5:00 to watch baseball, football or some other sports game, and demanded that I fetch him a beer and some chips. The chips were no problem, but when I went to the fridge, I suddenly felt all tight inside. I would have to tell him that we were out of beer. I stood staring at that empty shelf, and prayed that he would stay in a decent mood.

Once I told Brian that there wasn’t any beer, he yelled, Are you dumb or just plain stupid? from his place on the sofa. This kind of talk was nothing new—I was either dumb, stupid, ignorant, or a combination of the three. Today was different though, with my Pop’s recent passing and my eldest stepdaughter Samantha’s newest goal in life being to drive me insane, my emotions were on edge and Brian’s words bothered me more than usual.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I watched his broad shoulders bunch under his Steelers football jersey. His jean-encased, thick thigh bounced as he tapped his foot, with what I once thought was slightly contained energy, but now knew was barely controlled anger.

I tried to stay calm, fighting back unexpected tears. Come on Liz, I thought, get a grip. He’s said a lot worse to you every day for the past few years, and you know better than to go whining about it like a baby.

Taking a deep breath, I quietly replied, Brian, I just bought a twenty-four pack less than a week ago. I didn’t realize that you’d gone through it already. I’ll go right out and get some.

You criticizin’ me, woman? Brian lurched up from the sofa, all 6’3" and almost 250 pounds of him practically vibrating with anger. A spotted red flush climbed into his cheeks, and his dark eyes were snapping fire. I had seen Brian angry, but I’d never seen him this enraged. Brian was a yeller, and he’d yell…a lot. But this was something new. This was a bellowing roar, with a rage that I could almost feel, almost taste. I instinctively took a step back, my heart in my throat.

You know how stressed I get after puttin’ in a full day of work, just so I can keep this house running and make sure that I keep a roof over your head, with your lazy fat ass. If my friends want to come over and kick back, it ain’t none of your damned business how many beers we go through. Your only job is to keep the fridge stocked, and it seems that your dumb ass can’t even do that right. He jabbed a beefy finger at me. It hit me hard in the chest; just that finger causing me to stumble backward.

Just then, Samantha came teetering into the room in three-inch heels and a skirt that barely covered her crotch. Her tank top was hiked up under her perky seventeen-year-old braless breasts to show off a new naval ring that wasn’t there a week ago. I could almost feel the room grow hot from her father’s increased anger. Inwardly, I cringed. She looked like a 28-year-old Playboy centerfold, but I was also secretly glad to get Brian’s attention off of me. I should have known that it wasn’t going to be for long.

Sam, where the hell do you think you’re going dressed like that? Brian said loudly, but in a much less angry tone than he had used with me.

Samantha was a pretty girl with curly brown hair and a beautiful smile. On a good day, she would take on the whole varsity football team to defend one of the less popular kids at school. On a bad day, she would be the first in line to take a whack at anyone she thought unworthy and beneath her, including me. She batted her big brown eyes. Just out with the girls, Dad, she said sweetly. And then she pouted and said, You don’t think this outfit makes me look pretty? in that whiny tone she used to use when she was nine. Her daddy was wrapped around her slender finger.

Brian's tone softened a bit more. Baby girl, you’re always pretty, but that’s not the issue right now. Where’d you get those clothes?

Ooh, you probably mean this. She gestured to her miniscule mini that was at least six inches shorter than last time I’d seen it hanging in her closet. Liz picked this out for me.

I felt my mouth pop open at her obvious lie while she stood batting her eyes at her father again. Brian shot me a heated look. When his back was to her, Sam grinned at me in a manner that always made me want to grab her and shake her senseless and then she glared at me with that squinty-eyed, mean look that reminded me of her mother. She made sure her Dad only saw the grin when he looked back at her. This little scene must have been staged as repayment over the dress I refused to buy her last week on the grounds that it only covered about half as much skin as the one she was currently wearing. The girl was getting more and more like her she-devil momma every day, as hard as I tried to keep it from happening.

I thought it was a little short, she continued, but you know me, Dad; I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by not wearing it. I groaned inwardly. Damn, the she-devil would be so proud.

Snapping my mouth closed, I glanced at Brian, seeing his jaw clench, and I felt the muscles in my stomach go tight. I started moving in the direction of the kitchen, inching toward escape. I was only able to make it a few steps before Brian turned his fury back on me.

I told you these girls don’t need to be playing the whore like you. Why you insist on buyin’ them these hoochie outfits is beyond me.

I looked into his dark eyes that shined with relentless cruelty. Normally, I would just be my usual quiet and agreeable self until he wound down, but this time I couldn’t help it. I was raw from my personal loss and my constant battling with Sam. I looked down pointedly at my ratty t-shirt and faded jeans. You call this a hoochie outfit, Brian? Pop’s funeral was the first time in seven years that I’ve even worn a dress, and that black sack covered me from neck to wrist, just like you wanted.

Brian's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, and he looked from me to Samantha. I groaned inwardly. Damn it, Liz. Way to go. Instinctively, I started creeping in the direction of the kitchen again; my shoulders had gone as tense as my stomach while I tried to escape the pending explosion.

Stop it right there! he roared. What the hell are you trying to tell me? Are you trying to tell me that you want to dress like a whore, but I won’t let you? Or are you sayin’ that I don’t keep you living in the high-and-mighty style that you want?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam slipping out the front door, giving me a little finger wave as she left. Her laughter drifted inside as the door closed behind her with a little snick. Mean-spirited brat, I thought, and not for the first time. I loved that girl as if she was my own, but the older she got, the meaner she became. As hard as I tried to maintain a bond with her, we just clashed against each other in every possible way.

I stifled my own spark of anger, and went back to trying to repair the damage my stupid mouth had caused. No Brian. I bit my lip and sighed. I know that you work hard –

He cut me off mid-sentence. Maybe if you had hung onto some of that money from your Daddy’s insurance, instead of blowin’ nine grand on a damned funeral that he was too dead to appreciate, I’d have some money to get you some clothes. That’s your own fault, you dumbass.

This went on and on, until I was ready to run screaming from the house, but I stayed and took it, just like I always did. Nothing new, I told myself over and over. He doesn’t mean I; he’s just stressed. A litany of the same old excuses ran like a broken record through my head.

Now, after nearly an hour of suffering through Brian's uncanny ability to list my numerous faults, I sat in the driver’s seat of my somewhat beat-up ‘98 Honda Civic, and rested my forehead on the steering wheel as I let the tears finally fall. I didn’t know what caused it, or what was the breaking point. I was used to it. I was used to Brian. I knew his moods, and I knew better than to talk back, but lately, it just seemed so much harder to handle than ever before. Why couldn’t I just suck it up and get on with my errands? I felt as if I was falling apart.

Then a little smile broke through the waterworks as I had the crazy thought that Pop was probably sitting on my shoulder, causing me to run my mouth. I laughed aloud, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Pop never had much use for Brian when he was living. He once told me, Lizzie Babe, you could probably stand on your front porch, throw a rock, and hit a better man than that good-for-nothing loser you went and married. And I couldn’t imagine that God Himself could have changed Pop’s mind in the few months since he’d died.

With Brian’s yell to Git your ass to the store and git my beer, woman! still ringing in my head, I checked to make sure my purse was on the seat next to me and started the car. My Civic gave a little rattle and shudder, but finally purred as she always did. I gently patted Betsy’s dashboard in thanks and put her in gear, backing out of the driveway.

I looked in the rearview mirror at the house that Brian and I had shared for the last eleven years. Brian forever said that he was going to take care of the peeling paint, the rickety rails on the front porch, and the patchy front yard. Now the house was a far cry from the tidy little place it had been when we’d first gotten married.

As the house faded from view, the memory of Brian and our first meeting rose to the surface of my memory:

To new beginnings!

New beginnings! several of my coworkers and I said in unison as we were clicking wine glasses and beer bottles together in a toast. It was my sixth month of being a gainfully employed, independent-woman, but that wasn’t what we were celebrating. Cheryl, a blond mother of four, was celebrating her first outing with the girls in almost a year. Tammy, a buxom 42-year-old, was in high spirits because her mooching Romeo of a boyfriend had found someone else to siphon off of after four years of, Oh, baby, they just fired me ‘cause they’re jealous of me and are afraid that I’m gonna take his job. And me. I was celebrating signing a lease for my very first apartment.

I was so excited. At 23, I still lived with my father, which wasn’t a problem. I loved living with him and he assured me that he enjoyed having me around, but I thought it was time for me to experience life on me own. I had a new wardrobe. No more jeans, tees and drugstore clearance perfumes for me; I was a going to be a skirt, silk blouse and Eternity sort of girl. I was a starry-eyed 23-year-old and it was going to be wonderful.

Tammy ordered another round, and I had just placed a five on the stack of money for our waitress when I spotted him from across the almost-packed nightclub. He was watching me for several long moments and all the chatter from my friends faded like background noise. He was tall, with broad shoulders and muscular legs, and so good-looking. He stood out from the other men around him with his wavy dark hair and beautiful, almost perfect features. Giving me a sexy grin, he winked, and I blushed, thinking that it must be a mistake and he couldn’t possibly be looking at me.

He weaved his way through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor and strolled up to me as if he owned the place. Never taking his eyes from mine, he asked if I was with someone. I pointed to my girlfriends, who were suddenly quiet.

I know this might sound like a line, but it would just make my evening and perhaps my entire day if you allowed me to sit with you for a while, he said.

I was so giddy and excited I could hardly speak. I just nodded and hoped that he didn’t notice my hands tremble as I slid around in the booth giving him space.

Tammy and Cheryl made a bathroom excuse and disappeared, then I was left alone with this gorgeous hunk.

Brian. His hand reached out for mine.

Liz. Our hands clasped and I felt an electric warmth.

Elizabeth. Beautiful name for a pretty girl. He leaned close, not close enough to touch me, just close enough that I could drown in his intoxicating scent. He was still holding my hand and I was sure if he held it a little longer, I’d melt in a puddle right at his feet. I was ready to leave when I spotted you and I just knew I had to at least know your name first. Then he gently lowered my hand onto the table.

I just nibbled my lip, trying not to giggle like a twelve-year-old. Tell me, pretty Liz, how old are you?

Twenty-three.

Wow, you must think I’m pretty old. Uh, I’m thirty-three. He eased back a few inches.

No! I said a little too loudly and then lowering my voice I added, You’re not old at all.

He gave me that sexy grin again, settling into the booth and listened intently as I told him about myself. We talked about our families, movies and current events. Though he was older by ten years, we seemed to have a lot in common. We both liked to watch true-crime shows, were addicted to salty snacks and loved Motown music (both his mom and mine sang and danced to it every Saturday morning while they cleaned). And I was amazed that a man like him – being the size of a pro football player – had such smooth moves on the dance floor. When he left the table to talk to one of his friends and get us another drink, Cheryl and Tammy made their way back to the table. We all watched him and whispered about how handsome he was and I told them how sweet he seemed. I couldn’t believe that this attractive, kind man was interested in me, and I was swept off my feet almost immediately.

Like my older brother, William, and my sister, Linda, I was tall, hitting 5’7 at the age of twelve and stopping at 5’10 somewhere around sixteen. This made me taller than many of the boys while I was in middle school and half of them partly through high school. And, although I had inherited my clear skin from my mother and my dad’s big chocolate-brown eyes, that was where the family resemblance ended. William and Linda were positively gorgeous. They had my mother’s perfect skin, beautiful hair and magnificent figures, whereas I had my father’s round curves, which always made me self-conscious. When I was twelve, I started joking that a band of vagrants had left me on my parents’ doorstep, and that Mama and Pop felt so sorry for the dumpy baby that they decided to adopt me. Pop, William, and Linda would laugh off my joke, saying things like, When we saw those beautiful brown eyes, we knew you had to be one of us, or You’re as crazy as we are, and if you weren’t one of us, you’d have run off to find your sane family by now. They always made me feel loved, but a small part of me always wondered why I didn’t look like my brother and sister, why I couldn’t be beautiful like them. Don’t get me wrong; Linda and William were great older siblings. They always watched out for me, and they tried to include me, but I always managed to go off by myself. By the time I was fourteen, I found my friends in library books, and aside from a few girls I’d met during my two years at Penn State University and one or two from church, I never had much of a social circle.

My mother adored Pop, and Pop worshiped Mom, and they were terrific parents. Every morning my mom would rise early and make breakfast, and we’d meet around the table around 6 A.M. Most evenings there was always something going on; sometimes Pop had to work a little later, or William had some sporting event, but breakfast was for family. And when Mama died from cancer, Pop took over the ritual. He woke up extra early; usually William, Linda and I would follow and we’d all make breakfast and have family time, just like our mom would have wanted.

I wanted that in a husband. I wanted someone to love me as much as my dad loved my mom. Someone that thought his wife and his children were his world. And Brian made me feel that from the first night we met. He made me feel loved and wanted with no doubts. His attention was just what I needed to blossom, and despite Pop’s misgivings, we were married just a few months after what I believed then was to be the best night of my life.

The first two years of our marriage, Brian was the dream husband. I found out that I was pregnant and at Brian’s request, I quit my job as a computer programmer to care for the new baby and his two girls from his previous marriage, Samantha and Shannon. The girls, Sam at six and Shannon at four-years-old, were certainly a handful. As I hounded them about homework, washed countless loads of laundry, clipped coupons from the Sunday paper, and constantly searched cookbooks for new and appealing recipes to surprise my family with at dinner, I never missed my job at all. By the end of the two years, we were a real family, and I loved both girls as my very own.

At the end of my first trimester, it was discovered that I had a hormonal imbalance and I lost our baby. Eight months later I had another miscarriage. I was crushed and Brian held me and rocked me all night while we grieved the lost of our child. I just knew that it was my fault, that I was broken, but he assured me that I was just fine. We’d wait a year, and try again. He said that I was a great mother to our girls and I’d be a great mother to our baby. At that moment, I never loved him more. I never loved my life more. I felt like that was my niche in life and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.

Even when Brian was tired after long days of running a forklift at a nearby plastics plant, and snapped when dinner didn’t taste quite right, or I’d forgotten to pay the water bill on time, I forgave him. He was my husband and provider, and he took care of me. When the girls started back-talking and undermining my authority with their dad, I thanked God anyway for giving me two daughters to raise since I didn’t seem destined to have any children of my own. I tried to love them even harder; maybe I was a little smothering at times, but I wanted to be the best mother I could be.

When Brian’s ex-wife, Stephanie, suddenly showed up and asked if she could take the girls out every other weekend, I thought it was a wonderful idea. Everything went well for a short while. The girls were glad to have their mother back in their lives; they seemed to take right to her. They never seemed to blame her for those years she had not been in contact with them. Her occasional visits grew to where she was at our house more and more often, poking her nose into my marriage and comforting the girls every time their stepmom was a bitch and made them clean their rooms. I ignored my irritation and focused on being grateful that Stephanie was staying involved in Sam and Shannon’s lives. Having lost my own mom at twelve, I was utterly devastated and lost; I didn’t want them to know the pain of missing their mother again.

Lost in thought, I almost missed the turn into Wal-Mart and had to slam on my brakes to catch the driveway in time. I turned the wheel sharply to pull into the parking lot and the next thing I knew, a horn was blaring and my head snapped forward as my car plowed into the back of another vehicle.

Great! Can this day get any worse? I thought. And then, Oh shit, Brian’s going to hit the roof. Before I knew it, tears were welling in my eyes and pouring down my cheeks.

I shakily pulled to the side of the parking