Always Falling Behind (Dazed and Confused Book 1)
Chapter 1
ABIGAIL
My dilapidated, once-red Toyota Corolla shuddered under the weight of all the belongings I had stuffed into its every available space. Audible sounds creaked from the suspension while I threw myself on the trunk lid, securing it shut for a journey I couldn”t have imagined I”d be taking. First, a call from a lawyer who claims I am the sole living person in a family line dating from 1832, then having to notify my less than stellar boss, bosses actually, that I have to leave immediately to claim an inheritance from someone like me could never be responsible enough to accept. My name may be Abigail Farnsworth-Burton, but my AFB initials spell out my actual life, “Always Falling Behind.”
I looked at my apartment building, one last time vacillating from what was great about this opportunity to obstacles known and unknown. I opened the driver”s door and, when my tush hit the torn, black leather seat, I slammed the door, desperately trying to keep my shit together. In truth, my mood matched the weather perfectly—gloomy. The impossible task ahead of me was well beyond my capacity. With no one in the world to guide me, I put my car in drive and headed out of the run-down apartment building parking lot and prayed to God that taking this risk would be better than the pathetic life I was currently living.
The address the lawyer provided was several states away from where I”d been living. Once a Detroiter, I moved to Chicago with a friend, Seneca, to help her dad start a grocery store. My skills, or lack thereof, didn”t give me many opportunities for other occupations, so I figured, ”Why not,” and made a move. It wasn”t that I didn”t have potential; I did. My high school art teacher, Mrs. Rose, said I was a gifted artist in many mediums, but what she didn”t tell me was that my inability to focus on one thing at a time would be a lifetime nemesis. At the persistent urgings of my teacher, my aunt finally agreed to get me some counseling. After countless surveys and emotional tests, Dr. Hastings proclaimed I had ADHD. Yes, the dreaded Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder millions of people like me struggle with daily.
”That doctor is a crackpot and has no idea what he”s talking about. Besides, who does he think will be paying for all those medications he insisted you needed?” My aunt blustered the whole ride home from that appointment. Did I need medication? Wasn”t I doing okay in school? Sure, I was scatterbrained at times, but I was a teenager! We all were that way.
As I entered the I-90 Expressway toward Mystic, Connecticut, my engine rattled in retaliation for the high speeds it was usually not forced to take. Dolton, Illinois, was not known for its extended infrastructure; therefore, ”Little Red” didn”t have to exert herself often. Fourteen glorious hours of silence were in front of me, and all I had were my thoughts and a cassette player my Aunt Eleanor gave me for the trip, along with her collection of 1980s music she insisted were classics. Whatever. My car had wheels with mildly balding tires, torn leather seats, sporadically working windshield wipers, and a snarky engine that spoke when irritated. Beyond that, I traveled on a wing and a prayer.
Tapping out the worn tunes on my steering wheel helped burn off my trepidation about my future. The lawyer was sweet and kind in his words, ”You remind me of my granddaughter, full of spunk, creativity, and potential.” What the hell was “potential” anyway? Was it a finish line? A magical place where money fell from trees, pool boys brought me margaritas, and I had no cares in the world? That stuff may happen for some people, though surely not for me. That wasn”t going to happen, especially given my troubled beginnings.
The whoosh of semis barreling down the road had my hands white-knuckling through Chicagoland traffic. I didn”t think I could endure fourteen hours of this, except I had little choice. I”d been driving since I was sixteen, only not on jam-packed roads like these. It was time to turn off into a rest area.
I planned to take two days to get to my destination. It was a great plan. Seven hours each day. No stops, fast food, and lots of hyperfocus. One hour into my trip had me rethinking my excellent plan. I forgot about bathroom breaks. That would add at least two more hours to my two-day trip. Sleeping, that was another thing. Twenty-minute naps every few hours would have to be enough for me to get to Connecticut. It would have to be because I didn”t have money for a hotel, let alone the gas my gas-guzzling car required. Yes, this would be my new plan—finally, a solid path to my nonspecific future. I should probably call my aunt and let her know I was okay. That would be the responsible thing to do as soon as I got back in my car. Except I didn”t.
An hour later, I awoke to my phone blaring Journey”s ”Don”t Stop Believin’.” Shit! When did a few minutes of shuteye turn into a full-on nap? I dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone, loaded with cracks from when I threw it across the room last year when I lost yet another job. It was my aunt. Shit!
”Hey, Aunt Eleanor, I was just getting ready to call you.” Yeah, right. An hour ago.
”Hey, yourself. You forgot to call me so I could send you all your medical records. I”m moving in a couple of weeks, and you should have these for your next doctor appointments. Where can I send them?”
My mom”s sister, Aunt Eleanor, raised me from age four. She did all the mom things my mother would have done, except my mom died of cancer, leaving me an orphan. Where”s my dad? Ha! More like a sperm donor without a forwarding address. I never knew the guy, and I”m not looking now. I had the basics my aunt could afford to provide, along with some sage advice about stuff I can”t remember, but I”ll know them when I need them. I was sure of it—sort of. That was my plan, and I was sticking to it.
”I wish I could tell you I have an address, except I don”t. I”m moving to Connecticut, and the place I”m moving to may or may not be working out for me. Can you give me a few days? I”m sorry I didn”t call last week when you left a message. I totally forgot, and then this move came out of nowhere, and now I”m trying to keep it together to get this inheritance figured out.” I pleaded for more time. I always did. I knew it annoyed her, but I couldn”t help it. Maybe that ADHD thing was real.
”Inheritance? What in the world are you talking about?” she barked at me as if I was an idiot. I may be many things, but I”m not an idiot.
”Listen, Aunt Eleanor, I have to get back on the road and can”t talk while driving. I”ll fill you in on everything later. Bye!”
I promptly pushed the end button, threw my phone on the passenger seat, and shoved my fingers through my loose hair. It was time for a pep talk. I did them daily—several times a day, if necessary—this time to shore myself up for the next leg of my journey.
”You got this, girl. Breathe deeply. Settle your mind. You only have one thing to do: get to Connecticut in one piece,” I uttered to assure myself. I huffed air out of my lungs to pump myself up, then threw my gearshift into reverse, squealing the tires as I completed a two-point maneuver back onto the expressway. There was one thing I was very good at, and that was talking myself into anything I wanted. However, thinking through the details of how to get the job done, not so much. As I mentioned before, that was how I gave myself the call name, Always Falling Behind.
I”m the queen of two steps forward, one step back. I chuckled, ”If my ancestors who left me this giant inheritance could see the person who would one day claim their legacy, they would have rewritten their trust.” Anthony Brickner assured me this trust was ironclad—with one minor adjustment: to claim the one hundred and sixty acres, mansion, and pool, I didn”t have to be engaged or married as previous inheritors once had. New legislation made that antiquated statute obsolete; now, all I had to do was claim the deed within thirty days of the bequeath. I spent a whole night searching the internet for what all these words meant, most were four-dollar words requiring a college degree. I may have graduated high school, and I may not be an idiot, but I didn”t have either a college or law degree at twenty-four, and I wouldn”t ever have one, to be sure.
Two more hours of nerve-racking trucks and high-speed drag racers, and I was done for the day. My stomach grumbled, my bladder was near to bursting, and the needle on my gas tank pointed at zero. I guess it”s Cleveland or Bust. Knowing I would most likely never be in this city again, I pulled into a gas mart three miles down from my exit. Whenever I could focus properly, I could be pretty efficient, this being a perfect example: bathroom, food, and fuel. I was feeling proud of myself after suffering through a disgusting unisex bathroom and stomaching a leathery hot dog spinning on a slow roller from behind a glass partition. Not wanting to make another pit stop in an hour, I purchased a small bottle of water, some Skittles, and a bag of corn chips along the way. Healthy eating certainly wasn”t a top priority; for the record, it never was nor had been. I”m a survivalist, I have no ego, and I don”t measure myself against any other person, mostly. I grabbed the white plastic bag and walked with my head held high back to my car, pondering where I would stop for the night. Surely, I could keep going for a few more hours?
As I unlocked my car, a young man a little older than I asked if I wanted to give him a ride.
”A ride? I don”t think so.” I may be poor, but I was taught not to give strangers a ride.
”I could pay for your gas. Come on, driving alone must suck.” He prodded, giving me a wink.
He did look sexy in his tight, black T-shirt and ripped faded jeans. His hair flopped over his left eye and pierced through its strands to my chest.
”I”m good, thanks,” I replied, quickly getting into my car and locking the door.
As I pulled away, he stood with his hands on his hips, staring at me like he lost his prey for the night. Good! The distinct feeling of dodging a bullet passed through my mind, feeling my mother”s presence like I always did when I had a serious decision to make. I didn’t know how I knew she was with me, but I did. That protection had never steered me wrong, and her protection was definitely concrete tonight. Thank God!