Page 9 of I’m Not Yours

I stared at the urn, filled with my dad, functioning as a doorstop.

That probably wasn’t a respectful way to use my dad, but I needed to prop the door open in the second bedroom, and the urn was doing the job. In essence, then, my dad was currently opening a door. He had opened so few for me over the course of my life, so perhaps it was fitting that he do so now.

Anger and bitterness started creeping on in, so I put my hands on my legs and stood up—gingerly. My legs were still a bruised mess.

I took Bob and Margaret outside for a walk. Bob took off after a dastardly squirrel and Margaret followed, tongue wagging.

Spot the Cat and Marvin walked along the fence line together.

They were friends. I would have to find them good homes.

I would have to stop getting attached to all of them.

That was hard when Bob and Margaret slept with me on the bed and both cats meowed at me as if we were friends having a normal conversation.

When I meowed back, I knew I was losing it.

And what about Mr. Jezebel Rooster?

I took a deep breath. My dad’s animals sure were cute, even if he sure wasn’t.

My father had never liked animals. I had seen him kick two dogs. Yet these animals were obviously well cared for and personable. I didn’t get it.

I headed into the apple orchard and wandered among the trees. I wondered which tree it was that my dad had leaned against as he’d had his heart attack. I wondered how he’d felt. Was it instant? Did it take awhile to die? What did he think, staring up into those apple trees? Did he have regrets?

When I was a girl I used to steal apples out of an orchard near our trailer because there was often no food at home.

I’d take some for dinner, for snacks, and to pack in my lunch bag.

I brought two apples to school so my lunch bag would look as full as the other kids’ sacks.

They would take out their sandwiches wrapped in plastic bags, fruit, two types of chips, cookies.

Clearly their parents had lovingly packed their lunches.

I would take out two slices of bread with a thin layer of peanut butter or jelly—rarely did we have both at the same time—two apples, and crackers, if we had them. I looked forward to class holiday parties like other kids looked forward to Christmas, because of the cookies and cupcakes.

I knew there were free lunches at school for poor kids, but that would have required my dad to fill out paperwork, and he had refused to do it, yelling, “I am not going to take charity, you stupid girl. We don’t need it—now shut up!”

I was often hungry, but I didn’t want the other kids to know we were poor, either. He had rammed it into me that I was part of the problem of him not having money. He had rammed it into me that I was a burden, difficult, stupid, unwanted, and part of the conspiracy my mother had waged against him.

My dad always laughed at how many apples I could eat, but his laughter ridiculed me.

I didn’t find it funny. Being hungry is never funny.

He told me my face looked like the core of an apple.

Hello, apple-core face . I never forgot that.

He also said to me, Your brain is about the size of apple seeds .

I often went to sleep by myself in our trailer.

My dad always said he was Going out for a short while, be back before a bullet could pierce that there tree .

That meant he was going out drinking. He did that all the time.

Money for beer, no money for food. The dark outside scared me, and I was usually freezing cold and hungry.

I would grab my two blankets and settle in on the skinny bench in our trailer that served as my bed.

The outside noises—the rustling of an animal under our trailer, probably a raccoon, terrified me.

Sometimes I’d hear people yelling at each other in other trailers.

Cars backfired. People came in and out at odd hours.

I always pulled the brown-haired doll with the yellow dress my mother made me close to my chest and went to sleep.

I moved back in with him when I was eleven, after my mom died, and he forgot my twelfth birthday. When I got home from school he was passed out on his bed, black hair back, scars prominent. I asked him where he got the scars one time and he shook me hard and told me never to ask again.

I made a “cake” for myself by slicing up apples in the orchard and piling them together on a paper plate like a layer cake. I sang myself “Happy Birthday,” thought of my mother, and cried the whole way through eating my cake. I was so lonely I couldn’t keep the apples down that day.

My dad sporadically remembered my other birthdays. One time he gave me a box of chocolates. He’d already eaten half of them.

If my dad had any loud and obnoxious friends over, I used to go to the orchard and carve the skins off apples to see how long a train I could make.

I would hide in the apple trees if he was in a bad mood—cursing, lashing out at me—or if I needed to cry for my mother.

I would carve faces into the apples—or boats, or dogs and cats. Apples entertained me.

I should have hated apples because of what they reminded me of, but I didn’t. They saved me. I ate them, I juggled them, and used them for throwing away my rage.

I reached up a hand and brushed the leaves of an apple tree on my dad’s property. The apples were beautiful—red, golden, light green.

I would miss them when I left.

My letter would have arrived.

She was a viper. She took advantage of her position. Seduction should not be a part of promotions.

The you-know-what would be hitting the fan. It almost made me laugh.

“No, I will not go out to dinner with you tonight.”

Jace stood on my porch wearing a white shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He could not have looked hotter if he set himself on fire.

“Why not, Allie?” He smiled. If it were possible, I would have melted into goo.

“Because I don’t want to and I want to and I won’t go.” I slammed my teeth together. “That didn’t make sense.”

“Not much. Come out to dinner with me tonight and we’ll talk about it.”

“I’m your patient. Aren’t you supposed to keep a professional distance?”

“You’re my ex-girlfriend, and that overrides the patient-doctor relationship. Besides, our relationship, professionally speaking, is over because I’ve already sewn you up, plucked splinters out of your skin, and wrapped your ankle.”

His ex-girlfriend. That I was. Even the word girlfriend gave my heart a wallop.

It was about eleven in the morning. I had hobbled around to feed and take care of the horses.

Bob chased his enemies, the squirrels, barking, and Margaret followed him as usual, tongue hanging out.

Spot the Cat came up and meowed at me and I meowed back like a fool.

Spunky Joy’s head hung over Leroy’s neck and they were both happy to see their servant, me.

I had not gotten hit by a horse’s hoof. I had not fallen through a ladder.

The day was young, but so far, so good. I had not showered yet, so had not gotten to the makeup point, and was wearing old jeans and a flannel shirt, my usual chic and glamorous attire, so different from who and what I used to be. Then Jace arrived at my door.

“Why can’t you show up in my life when I’m wearing something other than raggedy clothes and have brushed my hair?”

He smiled, rocking back on his heels. He was huge and huggable, darn him. “You look good to me.”

“I don’t look good to me. I think I smell like a horse. I need to check the lovely colors of various bruises on my body. Bruising adds a special shade of beauty.”

“I’ll take a look at your bruising.”

“You will not.”

I remembered Jace’s hands on both of my legs at the hospital. He was completely professional, but I thought I was going to burst into a ball of desire. His hands could still do that to me, after all these years. Still.

He smiled. “Ma’am, I think I should check out your legs.”

“Very funny, Jace.”

“Drop your pants.”

I laughed, despite my rebellious hair, despite my bruises and my stitches. “Don’t make me laugh. For some reason it makes my legs hurt.”

“If not dinner, how about breakfast?”

“No.” I grinned.

“We could sit at separate tables in a café.”

“No, again.” Oh, he was lovely.

“We could sit at separate ends of the café, and I won’t look at you.”

“No, a third time.” He reminded me of one of those heman warriors in movies. “I’m going to read a Jane Austen book.”

“Bring it with you.”

“No.”

“Okay, then we’ll do it the other way.”

“What other way?” He smelled luscious, too.

“We’ll have breakfast at my house.”

He took a few steps forward, then lifted me up into his arms and started walking out to his truck. “Just keep still, ma’am, and I’ll have you fed and watered in no time.”

“You can’t do this!” I laughed, my arm looped around his neck, our faces inches apart.

“Looks like I am, darlin’.”

I kicked my legs but it hurt. “Shoot. I can’t even kick you or my stitches will bust and my bruises will turn more purple or yucky green.”

“Hang tight, apple-lover lady.”

“I am an apple-lover lady. I think I’ll use it for my next résumé . . .” I gave up. I wanted to give up, I knew that. I was having a hard time resisting him. The man is a force of nature. What he wants, he goes after.

“Don’t move your legs, and close your mouth so no more refusals come out. Bacon and eggs makes everything better.”

He put me in his truck, corralled the dogs back in the house, shut the door, and away we went.

I knew I should have gotten out of the truck.

I knew I should have protested.

Getting involved with Jace would end in no place right or good or happy. It would end in tears and loss, and Jace would get hurt if he knew the truth. I did not want to hurt Jace.

I went anyhow and I felt selfish for doing it.

I told myself to enjoy him for one more day.

One more day only.

I would get a job and move and he’d never have to know anything else, anyhow.