Loving: A Novel

Chapter 1

Keep going! she urged herself.

Water tumbled from the sky, soaking Karla’s frayed jeans and T-shirt, and burrowing into her pores. The raindrops made her arms glisten and splattered on her head, keeping time to the drum that pounded inside her temples. Her hands trembled as she pressed her palms to her eyes.

The money! Did it fall out?

Karla’s arm shook as she jammed her hand into the back pocket of her jeans. She grazed the thin, folded bills, she sighed, relieved. Relief… for the moment… until memories of her past life once again assaulted her.

Had it already been four years? That time had equally stopped and flown by, depending on the day. She vividly remembered running her fingertips under the seal of a bleached white envelope as though it were yesterday. Inside the envelope, Karla had found the map to her future. She could still feel the texture of the heavy letterhead, smell its unique aroma, and see the bold university emblem at the top. Heart racing, she had skimmed the paragraphs: Thank you for your application . . . so many applicants . . . integrity of the school . . . rigorous academics . . . you’ve been accepted and we’d like to offer you a scholarship . . . .

She hated that her mind still remembered. Rain dripped from Karla’s eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, mixing with a few defiant tears that escaped unbidden. It was best not to dwell on what could have been, even if the present defied her own imagination.

She had never made it to orientation.

Low-hanging scrub oak and pine branches slapped at her before she saw the rise of the stony railroad bed and the slick glimmer of track ahead. Scrambling up the crumbling incline, she left the woods behind.

The woods.

Karla’s stomach convulsed thinking about what she had just done—in these woods—to earn the money in her back pocket. She jerked her head as if to cast away the thought. It didn’t matter how she got the money. It only mattered that she got the money.

It was before noon and Karla had already completed two jobs. Jobs. That’s what she’d come to call them. A job was something a person did for money. Well, she did something . . . and then she got money. So job seemed fitting.

Just ten minutes, Karla. Ten minutes and you’ll be there.

Negotiating the railroad ties, she quickened her pace to the crossing and then turned left onto flat pavement. The change in grade combined with the slick sheen of rain caught Karla off guard, and she fell on her ankle. White dots instantly flashed across a black curtain behind her eyes. She sucked her cheeks hard against her teeth and doubled over.

Ricky’s house was a dozen blocks away. She just needed to get there and give him the money. Then he’d give her the stuff she needed and everything would be better.

At least for a little while.

Hey, Karla!

Karla glimpsed mini-skirted Cindy, whose matted hair and stained tank top had taken the brunt of the summer storm.

Goin’ to Ricky’s, Karla huffed as she limped along.

Okay, girl. See you around.

Karla’s lips curled and her face twitched involuntarily. She needed to get to Ricky’s—now.

Her knees shook as her ankle throbbed. Soon her entire body would tremble. She needed only one thing. She could see the white rock. She hated that her mouth watered for it.

The rain pelted her from every angle. She tried to smooth her hair and wipe the mascara smudges from under her eyes. Ricky might need an extra favor, on top of the money she had, in exchange for the drugs her body demanded.

After rounding the corner to Ricky’s street, Karla ran as fast as she could with her limp. Weeds choked the front yard of the shabby gray house where a broken-down Chevy lived atop cement blocks. Her jaw chattered, and pain shot from her ankle to her stomach with every footfall. Her arms and hands tingled with recognizable electricity. Finally she stumbled up the three cement steps to Ricky’s house and knocked on his door.

Come on, Ricky! Open the door.

Legs crossed and bouncing side to side, she knocked again.

Hold on, hold on, said a gruff voice on the other side of the door.

The dead bolt clicked. The chain clanged. Another lock turned. Ricky finally opened the door, and his espresso-skinned body engulfed the entire doorframe. His naked stomach hung over his drawstring shorts, and she could smell his body odor over her own.

Her angel.

Hey, she smiled slyly, twirling a wet strand of hair around her finger. Her mouth was cotton dry, and every muscle in her body twitched. Can I come in?

Woman, you know you always welcome.

Karla stepped inside. The room reeked of pungent body odor mixed with butter. Ricky closed and locked the door behind her. Dark sheets, nailed directly to the wall, covered the windows. The flickering TV illuminated stained plaster walls. A damp puddle formed under one window, and a green paisley couch hugged the feminine curves and bones of an eighteen-year-old newbie who lay snoring.

Ricky’s tennis-racket-shaped hands pressed into the small of Karla’s back, propelling her toward the yellow haze that emanated from the kitchen’s bare fluorescent ceiling fixture. Fast-food bags and condiment packets ran riot over the counters and overflowed from the trash can. A bag of popcorn inside the open microwave explained the buttery smell. Karla turned toward the table.

There it was.

The magical rock that she lived for. Can C-Ca-Can… Her jaw muscles danced at the sight of it. Can I get some?

Ricky laughed. What? You want my popcorn? he teased as he grabbed the bag from the microwave. You know I don’t share my popcorn, he said, shoving a handful into his mouth.

Karla slid between the table and chair, crumpling into the seat. Please, Ricky? Her desperate tone, deep and smooth, sounded just above a whisper. She took the money out of her back pocket and held it out to him.

Ricky nodded but didn’t take the money

Karla slid her pipe out of her pants and filled her craving. Her body relaxed within seconds, setting her mind free from her constant companions of worry and fear. No longer a prisoner, she closed her eyes and dropped her head back.

She felt Ricky’s presence behind her, felt his fingers graze her hair and catch in the knots and tangles before coming to rest under her chin. Use my shower, woman, he said softly before placing a tender kiss on her lips.

Eyes closed, Karla smiled and nodded. Remaining still, she lingered in her high as long as possible, for it was her only reprieve from life and pain, thoughts and pasts.

* * *

Hannah stood next to the supply closet in her preschool classroom. She had just put the scissors and glue sticks away when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Timmy bend down to free Gracie’s car—it had gotten stuck behind another toy. He didn’t say a word, just moved the toy and then continued playing with his trains.

Oh, Gracie . . .

Hannah hugged herself and looked around the room. Abigail and Emma played tea party; Tyler ran around roaring and holding his fingers like dinosaur claws; Landon, Michael, and Dean competed in a jumping contest; and Olivia and Shanna colored. As always, Timmy played trains and Gracie cared for the baby dolls. Future hospitality servers, a camp director, athletes, artists, a mechanic or engineer, and a mommy—was that what these children would grow up to do? To be?

Hannah soaked in the chaotic sounds, the way the classroom suddenly felt hot from all the warm bodies running about… the way the room captured the light scents of sweat mixed with finger paint and modeling clay. Everything about the room was a balm to Hannah’s aching heart, melting her worries and concerns. Teaching preschool was her dream. A simple, yet extraordinary, dream.

A green carpet spread like grass across the floor, and yellow chairs dotted the room like sunflowers. The alphabet, written in large block letters, bordered the top of the walls like gladiolas, splashing color across the room from ceiling to floor. Paintings and projects, posters with shapes and numbers, calendars and charts filled the space in between.

But something else resonated throughout the room every day, something that, perhaps, Hannah enjoyed most…

Innocence.

The hearts and minds of these four-year-olds were pure, innocent, and accepting. They had all been especially accepting of Gracie. Different and unique as she might be, every child had truly welcomed Gracie.

Gracie playfully nudged a doll’s face with her nose and then let out a soft, breathless laugh. A twinkle—one that only comes from a loving mama as she looks upon her baby—shone from Gracie’s big, island-water-blue eyes. Have a good rest, baby, Gracie whispered. With the awe and delicacy of a gemologist building a custom engagement ring, Gracie laid the doll in the miniature, white-wicker bassinet. Then she covered the plastic infant with a small, handmade quilt.

Gracie’s orange popsicle-stained lips formed the words, Hello, God. How are you? Please help the doll baby rest. Amen. As soon as she said Amen, Gracie’s eyes sprang open and her gaze danced around the room, twirling at the possibilities of what to do next—Play-doh, tea party, crayons, blocks…

Lost in a world of dolls and blankets, prayers and butterfly kisses, Gracie would never know what Timmy had done to help out… again.

How many times had that same scene played out in Hannah’s class? A dozen? At least. Each student knew that the pink-and-white Barbie car had to stay near Gracie at all times. No one else played with the car.

Not because Gracie didn’t want to share it, but because she couldn’t share it.

Inside the car sat a fanny pack that contained a battery-powered pump and ice pack. A long, skinny, clear tube slithered out from the fanny pack and lodged itself straight into a vein in Gracie’s shoulder. The contraption delivered continual medicine that, ultimately, administered medication into Gracie’s heart.

Without it, she would die.

Gracie had pulmonary hypertension, or PH. The blood vessels in her lungs would constrict and make it difficult for blood to exit her lungs. To compensate, the right side of Gracie’s heart pumped extra hard, adding tremendous stress to the critical fist-sized muscle in her chest.

Hannah sighed, wondering why… why Gracie, why this disease?

Gracie’s disease would never go away; it would affect Gracie her entire life.

It could even take her life.

The average life expectancy for a PH patient was two and a half years. At four years old, Gracie was already living on borrowed time. Borrowed time . . . at four! Goose bumps tickled Hannah’s arms, and a chill drizzled down her spine, touching every nerve along its way. She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced at the clock. It had rained all morning, and Hannah wondered if it would ever stop.

* * *

Karla had no idea how long she’d sat at Ricky’s wobbly kitchen table. Slow deliberation propelled her out of the kitchen, but even still, she felt like she floated through the house. If she could live every moment of her life this way, she would. This feeling, this mental state, is what kept her working. Soft snores from the girl on the couch mixed with the rain pounding the roof. A daytime talk show hummed from the tube TV in the corner, capturing Ricky’s attention.

Karla reached the bathroom and walked her fingers up the wall for the light switch. Who builds a bathroom like this? she mumbled. She had to step into the tub to close the door.

With the door closed, she couldn’t escape her reflection in the cracked and splotched mirror. The sight stole away her high. Dirt splattered her cheeks and neck. Lost somewhere in a creamy pool of bloodshot threads were eyes of chocolate. Thin, yellowed skin stretched taut over her cheekbones and chin. Was it only four years ago when she had been a popular cheerleader… and valedictorian?

She looked away.

Kicking off her shoes, she peeled away her wet jeans and shirt. Despite her efforts not to, she was compelled to look at her swelling belly.

Clothed, she could forget what lay beneath. But not now… Naked, the truth revealed itself. She tried to suck in her stomach, but the bump remained.

Last year, another street girl had gotten pregnant. Karla heard she had gone back home, back to someone who’d helped her. That wasn’t an option for Karla.

Once in the last four years, Karla had glimpsed the little blue house where she had grown up. It was no longer blue, and rosebushes bloomed in abundance where Karla’s seashell garden had once existed. Karla had spent hours sitting in that bed of seashells, examining each one, imagining how the lines and ridges of every shell had formed in the Atlantic Ocean. She had hand-selected each shell on countless beach trips from her early childhood years. Anytime she went to the beach, she walked the shore, scouring the sand for shells of all shapes and sizes. Of course, the jackpot shell had been the very first unscathed, unbroken conch shell. She had ended up finding seven in her shelling years. Seven conch shells proudly bordered her shell garden where thousands of seashells filled the small plot of land just below her bedroom window.

Those shells had been Karla’s most treasured possessions.

Where had they gone?

Each shell had held a piece of Karla. And now they were gone. Every single one. Someone had probably dumped them into the trash without a second glance. Karla’s chest hurt at the thought. Were her hand-selected seashells now nothing but crushed remains of what had once been beautiful… magical?

So many things that had once been…

Karla noticed that an addition had been added to the back of the house, new shingles covered the roof, and an expensive front door with an ornate oval of glass replaced the old wooden one.

But one truth remained. No cosmetic changes could erase what welled up in Karla’s heart at the sight of the house: sadness and terror… sadness borne by the realization that her leaving home abruptly at eighteen had not moved her mother to reach out or look for her—ever.

The terror was what she tried to escape every time she took a hit from her pipe.

His name was Tony. Her mom’s boyfriend who eventually became Karla’s stepdad. The man who tormented Karla and did things no man should ever do. Especially not to a child…

The slap of cold water from Ricky’s mildew-covered showerhead brought Karla back to reality. The reality that she needed rid of this thing—this inconvenient bump—as soon as possible.

Grabbing the bar of soap, she violently scrubbed, rubbing away the dirt, sweat, and memories that stained her. A quick rinse and she dried with a threadbare towel that lay in a heap with others in the corner of the tiny bathroom. Ignoring the pile of wet clothes she had discarded earlier, she rummaged through a trash bag under the sink that held clean thrift-store finds that Ricky kept just for her, his special girl.

Over the years, Ricky had asked Karla—more than once—to get off the streets and come live with him. Karla refused every time. She didn’t want to be someone’s slave; she was her own woman and never planned to rely on anyone else. But I love you, baby, he had told her. Karla had slapped him. Don’t ever tell me that again, Ricky.

She didn’t want to be loved.

Her mom had told Karla she loved her.

Tony had told her.

Vomit lodged in her throat. No, she didn’t want to be loved. Ricky was stupid for thinking he could ever change that.

Ready for another hit, she left the bathroom for the confines of the kitchen.

What you gonna do about it? Ricky sat where Karla had been at the table. Karla stared at him. That. He pointed to her stomach and raised his eyebrows.

"Cállate, Ricky," she snapped at him in her first language. She grabbed her pipe from the table.

The gentle pelting of rain on the roof signaled the storm’s end, and the sound doused the hardness in Ricky’s gaze.

You need to go down to the pregnancy center. See the lady down there. Ricky heaved his bulk from the chair and towered over Karla.

It’s my life, she said, chin up and still defiant.

That’s what you think. He gave her a half smile.

Something about the way he smiled and his direct gaze sent chills down her spine. Fight or flight. Every nerve in her body screamed for the former, but she knew she needed to get away before she said or did something stupid, something she’d regret. She turned and blindly ran from the kitchen. Fumbling with the locks and chain, she tore open the door and raged down the steps, away from Ricky.

* * *

Hannah clapped her hands twice. Story time, everyone! Ten seconds later, everyone sat on the story-time carpet for the last story of the day. The story was accompanied by the contagious laughter of the kids who made silly animal noises harmonious with the words Hannah read.

Living in the moment. Yes, Hannah’s preschool students lived in the moment. Daily, they reminded Hannah to enjoy the present, not long for the future or groan about the past. The concept was a refreshing gulp of chilled water. Hannah was thankful the children had poured it into her cup. Now she just had to drink from it.

Some days, that was hard… and today was one of those days.

After the story, Hannah individually dismissed each student to his or her parent. Doing so, she commented on the student’s behavior and understanding of concepts from the day. It was one way she maintained constant, up-to-date communication with the parents.

Can I help sort the crayons? Gracie asked.

Absolutely! Thanks for helping. Hannah turned to Gracie’s mom, and smiled. Hey, Rachael! Hannah nodded toward Gracie. She’s doing really well with her sight words.

Rachael kissed Gracie’s head. Good job, sweet girl.

We’ve been practicing, right, Mommy? Gracie’s eyes cut to Rachael as she offered a mischievous side grin that carbon-copied Rachael’s.

Hannah felt the tentacles of envy wrap around her heart. How she wished that she had a boy or girl to look into her eyes and call her Mommy . . .

Does your class start tomorrow? Rachael asked.

Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears as if to tuck away her thoughts, then she nodded. "Yes. Five hours a day, every Saturday, for the next six