I didn’t believe in angels, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a possibility they were real. If they were, I knew my mother would be an angel, and if she was watching over me, I hoped making her dream come to life would make her proud.
Just as I did every week, I called my brother that night to update him on Dad’s condition.
Derek lived up in Chicago and had been saying—for the past fourteen years—he was going to get back to visit. It turned out I was always the one to make the yearly trip up north to see him.
As we talked that night, I could tell he wasn’t upset by the news of Dad’s deteriorating health. “Well, maybe it’s time for you to step back completely. Let’s be honest, Jax, you’ve done more for that man than he deserves. You don’t have to keep being a parent to a guy who didn’t even parent you correctly.”
I sat down in Dad’s favorite recliner and sighed. “Easier said than done.”
“I’m serious, Jax. You’ve done enough.”
I didn’t respond because after the accident with Mom all those years ago, I didn’t feel as if I’d ever do enough to make up for what had gone down.
“I have a lot of karma to clean up, Der. The least I can do is look after him in his final days.”
He sighed through the phone, and I envisioned him pushing his hands through wavy hair that matched mine. “If this is about the accident—”
“It’s not,” I lied. Of course it was a lie.
Everything about my life was a result of the accident from years before. Every choice I’d made to push people away was because of the mistakes of my past.
“Jax.” I could hear Derek’s pain for me through the phone. “What happened was not your fault. You can’t hold that shit on your soul forever. Believe me when I say this…it wasn’t your fucking fault.”
He told me that every time we talked.
I never believed him.
After we ended the call, I headed to bed and allowed the darkness of the night to rock me to sleep again.
6
Kennedy
If you gave a Kennedy a muffin, you’ll probably pry to learn some facts.
That seemed to be the motto of the people in Havenbarrow.
I’d awakened to more neighborly folks showing up with goodies to welcome me to town. The number of times they handed me food while trying to peer into my home was unnerving. What was even more concerning was how I’d say something to one visitor, and by the time the next one came through, they were already caught up on my whole life story.
It turned out news spread through Havenbarrow like wildfire, and when the stories spread, they somehow became a little worse than when they started. It was as if we were playing telephone in elementary school. Currently, I was an unemployed single female, squatting at my sister’s property without her knowledge.
I’d never truly considered myself a city girl until that moment right there. Back where I came from, no one cared who you were, and the only gift they were offering was a hand pressed to their horn if you waited two seconds too long after a red light switched to green.
The one saving grace for the small town other than my not-so-nosy neighbors the Jeffersons?
My other lovely neighbor, Joy Jones.
Joy was quite the character to take in. That morning when the sun came up, she walked outside on her front porch and sat down in her rocking chair with a smile on her face and a large cup of coffee in hand. A few of my nosy visitors told me it was a daily routine for her.
Her silvery hair was tossed up in a messy bun held together with two knitting needles, and her thick-framed vibrant orange glasses sat on top of her head. She wore a brightly colored bow in her hair that matched her dress for the day, and she always greeted everyone who passed by her house, even when they didn’t speak back to her.
When no one was passing by, she was busy talking to herself—or, more accurately, talking to her husband, who was no longer alive. She also scribbled away on paper, writing letters as if her life depended on the ink bleeding onto the ruled pages.
It was heartbreaking to watch, yet more concerning was how the townspeople ignored her when she did slip out of her delusions. When she greeted the passersby, she was so kind, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. It was as if they were afraid to offer her a wave, a good morning, good evening, or good night on their walks around the block.
What bothered me even more was how quickly people ridiculed her. If they did speak her way, they mocked her, calling her Crazy Joy, the woman who never left her front porch. Rumor had it she hadn’t stepped foot off of that wraparound wooden porch since the day her husband died. Sometimes, teenagers would mock her, flipping her off as they laughed with each other in groups.
“Hi, Crazy Joy. Cook anyone up in your house lately?” they harass before I scolded them and hurried them away.
“Have good days, sweethearts,” Joy said as she waved their way, not even bothered in the slightest. Still, Joy kept greeting everyone who passed, and her smile never faltered. It was as if she was above being bothered by an individual’s judgments and cruelty, as if the others’ opinions and thoughts didn’t affect her joy.
She truly lived up to her name. I wished I could be more like her—less affected by the world around me—but my feelings were so much like the wind, moving wherever they were blown. It was a flaw of mine, one my husband had made sure to tell me about all the time, too.
“Pull yourself together, Kennedy. You can’t react and take everything I say so personally,” he’d always tell me. “Your emotions are going to ruin everything good that we have.”
I’d been trying my best to delete his words from my brain, but it was easier said than done. When someone makes you feel so little, your mind locks onto your flaws.
“I’m sorry they were so cruel to you,” I said to Joy.
She looked my way with the biggest smile on her face and shook her head. “Who was cruel, sweetheart?”
I grinned back.
Never mind.
I went back to reading my book on my own front porch as the beams of sunlight warmed me from head to toe. It was funny thinking about how Joy hadn’t left her house for years. To others, it probably seemed insane, but I understood. I hadn’t driven a car in over a year for my own personal reasons, and Joy hadn’t ventured out for hers.
I wasn’t saying it made sense, but I understood. Sometimes, no matter how much they want to fight it, a person becomes so invested in their fears that they do everything in their power to keep them from coming to life. I didn’t know what Joy’s fears were or what was keeping her from leaving her home; all I knew was I got it.
Life is hard. We have to do whatever it takes to keep ourselves and our minds comfortable. For me, that meant not driving. For Joy, that meant staying home.
I wondered how she managed, though. I wondered how she kept living without stepping foot outside her home. She didn’t seem to have any children or even a caregiver who came to aid her from what I could tell.
Later that morning, my questions were answered as a blue pickup pulled up in front of the house. Needless to say, my jaw dropped to the ground when I saw Mr. Personality step out of the vehicle. He walked his way straight toward Joy’s front porch, his arms filled with grocery bags.