10. Sarah
10
SARAH
Writing has never been so good. Never felt better.
With every word I type, I am transported to each moment it happened. Exactly how it happened, the emotions I felt in that moment, and then I type it, adding some creative flair to make it more elaborate, of course.
This will never get old.
No matter what.
Everything can be taken away from me or depart from me, but not this, never this.
And as tasking, demanding, and sometimes even draining as my job can get, especially with writer’s block, you'd never see me wishing I was doing another job. Why would I?
My life was never better until I found writing, or more like it found me really because every time I think about how I became a writer, I'm still in awe of how quickly things turned around for me.
And it all started with Ian.
Most of the things in my life started with him.
I guess now that I'm putting it all down in a book, it finally feels right. Of course, I know how dangerous this can be, too. Giving people a free pass into my life and head is not exactly the most ideal thing, but if there's one thing I've promised my audience, it's to never hold back a story worth telling.
And I'm not in the habit of going back on my word.
Taking a sip of my fourth cup of coffee for the day, my phone dings for the umpteenth time in the past hour. Someone must be really desperate to get through to me.
Too bad I'm in a ‘do not disturb’ mood.
I get like this when I'm writing, and nothing can pull me out of it except if I decide to allow it.
As if prompted by the thought, my phone starts to ring and at a glance I see it's my aunt.
Groaning, I debate against answering.
There can't be anything urgent she has to tell me, right?
Olivia is away at school, and she and I spoke yesterday morning. My Aunt Sheila is probably just calling to check up on me. I'll call her back later.
Ignoring the call even though it's out of character for me to ignore her, I continue writing. Forcing my thoughts back to the scene before her call came in, I start to type again.
While I'd written down everything that happened between me and Ian earlier, I'm going back now. Diving into the story from the very beginning to give readers a depth into how far back we've known each other.
I am about to write down my third encounter with him, which was also the day I met Justin, and the thought of him makes me sad, but I refuse to dwell much on it. He's gone now, and there's nothing that can be done about it.
That's how fickle life can get. One minute someone is alive, the next they're not. The understanding that you can lose anyone forever has helped me over the years to not grieve too much when someone I know passes on and instead focus on making memories that last.
My phone starts to ring again. Two calls from my aunt in the space of minutes can't just be random.
Quickly typing out a short sentence of what I'm about to write next so I don't forget when I get back to writing again, I pick my phone up and stand up, using the opportunity to stretch my legs.
I haven't stood up all day except the few times I went to pee and refill my coffee.
Damn, it's been a long day. A productive one, though, so you won't hear me complaining.
“Hi,” I say as a greeting when I pick up the call.
“Sar, how are you?” My aunt's concerned voice comes from her end of the phone, and I yawn as I respond to her.
“I'm good. What's up? You okay? You called me earlier.”
“I'm okay, too. I've been sending you messages for a while now.”
Oh, she's the one sending the messages, too?
Frowning, I put my lower lip between my teeth and bite on it softly before I release it.
“What's going on? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing.” Her words come a little quickly, and it makes me start to worry more. But then I shake it off, knowing I'm just being paranoid. “I've just missed you. When are you coming by the house?”
I smile at that.
“Auntie, I'm busy. In fact, I just started writing a new story today. I'm so excited about it. That's why I haven't been able to answer my phone.”
“Oh, so that means you're very busy?”
“Unfortunately.” I sigh.
“Oh. I made some spaghetti with tomato sauce and shrimp, just how you like it.”
She's not even finished speaking before I start to salivate. Damn. She must really miss me for her to prepare my favorite meal. Unfortunately, I'll have to pass. If I leave this story halfway, I may not be able to get back to it as fast as I should. As much as I love to write, I'm the biggest procrastinator you'll ever find when I'm without motivation.
“I'll have to pass,” I say, already knowing she won't be happy. It's what I have to do, though. I can always make it up to her later.
“Please?”
Oh, she knows I can't say no when she begs.
“Auntie…” I groan, already feeling myself giving in.
“Just an hour and you can leave. I already have the food almost ready. Please, please, please.”
“Fine.”
It wouldn't exactly be bad to have some homemade food after the kind of day I've just had, and maybe when I get back home I can quickly get back to writing it.
Although I highly doubt the possibility of that happening, it's worth a shot.
After I end the call, I pick up my laptop and ensure all I've written so far is saved. Then I put down some more sentences to outline the next chapters I have to write. Everything is in the plotting process right now.
I'm not even writing the way I normally would. There's no synopsis yet, no proper outline. Just writing as it comes to me. There are only two ways this can go: good or bad.
I can always go back to proper structuring if this fails.
I turn off my laptop, run into my room, and take a shower. I throw on a simple dress and pair it with a cardigan, and then I'm off to my aunt's house.
Her house is not so far from mine, so I don't bother taking my car. Instead, I walk to her place, allowing myself to enjoy the fresh air as the sun sets for yet another day.
Briefly, my mind wanders to Ian, and I wonder if he's still in town. I quickly push the thought aside and focus on the moment. If Ian needs me, he'll call me.
When I get to her house, there's a new car parked outside, and while I don't recognize it, I refrain from bothering my head over it. If Sheila had a guest she would have let me know ahead of time.
I burst into the house without knocking, because the place is pretty much like home to me. No one is in the living room, but I can hear movement from the guest bathroom.
Why is she not using her room’s bathroom?
“I'm here,” I announce my presence, plopping down onto the couch unceremoniously. The old cushion lets out a sound at my size, and I shake my head at it.
If only she'd just let me change it for her. But she's too stubborn about taking money, insisting all my extra funds should go into a trust for Olivia.
“I didn't hear your car,” my aunt says, and I turn to see her coming out of the kitchen.
Who's in the bathroom, then?
She comes further into the room, her arms coming around me in a hug, her whole body smelling of tomato sauce.
“You smell like food,” I say into her shoulder, and she laughs. Pulling back, her hand pats my hair, a fond smile on her face as she looks at me.
“How are you?”
Something about the way she says those words suddenly has me perking up.
“I'm okay. Are you?”
“Yes. Come serve the food with me.”
I let her drag me into the kitchen, my eyes cutting to the bathroom door. It's taking all my strength to not ask if she has a guest, but I don't want to be nosy.
As we enter the kitchen, I notice there are three plates on the table.
She definitely has someone over!
When we're inside the kitchen, she keeps me busy with chats about the town. She asks about Ian, and I quickly brush it off. I still can't believe she recognized him at the hospital. It's been so long since I told her about him and showed her his picture.
“So, what new story are you working on?” she asks as we step out of the kitchen, both our hands occupied with bowls.
“Oh, um, it's a story about…” The rest of my words die in my throat when I lay my eyes on the guest she has over.
Stomping to the table, I slam the bowl down in front of me. If my action upsets him, he doesn't act on it.
“Hello, Sarah,” he greets me so calmly you'd think he wasn't a deadbeat father.
“What is he doing here?” I face my aunt in anger.
He looks between us skeptically.
“He just wants to talk,” she offers.
He's had many years to want to talk before now, but he never made any move. How convenient is it that he remembers I'm his daughter now that I'm successful?
“No,” I say and start to walk out of the room.
My aunt runs after me, and she's in front of the door, preventing me from leaving within seconds.
“I don't want to talk to him.”
“Just hear him out,” she says softly.
I can't believe her right now.
“This man left me. He left his wife, your sister! He might as well have been the one who killed her because we both know he drove her to an early grave. Let me remind you again that he left me, his daughter, without once looking back.
“For years, I wondered why he left, if it was because he didn't love me, or I just wasn't worthy of love. Do you know how that's affected me? How it affected every relationship? Always leaving me to wonder when the other shoe will drop and they'd leave! And suddenly, after all these years, he wants to talk? Because I'm successful now? He's delusional if he thinks I'm going to give him a dime of my money.”
“I don't want your money, dear.”
His voice irks me.
He's somehow made it from the table to now stand behind me.
“Don’t you fucking call me that. And don't talk to me unless I'm talking to you. In fact, do everyone a favor and leave. You're not wanted here.” I snap my fingers literally in his face as I rage.
“Sarah.” My aunt tries to get my attention from where she's standing in front of the door. I pretend not to hear her.
“Leave!” I maintain, my eyes still on Neville, my deadbeat father.
“Sarah,” my aunt calls again, her tone more demanding this time around.
“I said leave!”
“He's dying,” I hear my aunt say. Turning, I look at her in confusion, sure I must have heard her wrong.
“What?”
“He's dying Sarah. He has leukemia.”