Page 8 of Jagged Edges

I pushed myself forward, despite the disappointment in the lack of time that I had available. The roaring of my stomach wouldn't allow me to stay put for long even if I wanted. Mrs. Frank was a woman of many talents, but cooking wasn’t one of them. Mr. Frank on the other hand was phenomenal in the kitchen.

The overnight bag that I’d packed sat near the bath entry. The shower downstairs wasn’t only as partially beautiful as the three upstairs but I loved it just as much. Underneath the sink were a few of my personals. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Sanitary napkins. Body wash. Hair ties. Simple, small items that didn’t feel as intrusive as leaving clothes or shoes lying around. Overstaying my welcome was far from my intentions.

The water bead down on my neck as I scrubbed the previous day’s gunk from my skin. With closed eyes and a humbled heart, I didn’t resent the salty liquid that ran from my face and into thewater that streamed down it. This thing called life had been so hard for me the last five years that I simply wondered if there was really a God. One that cared for me, at least.

Because since I could remember, I’d been in turmoil, starting with the woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. She didn’t. Her love came with conditions and those conditions had destroyed me inside out, forcing me into womanhood far beyond my years and into the streets that didn’t deserve me.

Though I loved my camper to pieces, I’d love a home even more. One like the Frank’s home. One full of love and honesty and love. One that was inviting and warm and filled to the brim with everything a child needed to become a thriving adult in society. That’s what I wanted. What I needed. What I craved.

God, where are you?I whimpered silently.Can you hear me?

For so long I’d struggled with my faith. My grandmother - whom I missed dearly - had imbedded Christianity in my brain and for so many years, it was my greatest escape. Bible study. Vacation bible school. Sunday morning worship. Every time the church doors opened, I was there. My grandmother made sure of it.

But, after a head injury from a slip and fall, she lost the function of the left frontal lobe of her brain. Her health decreased rapidly, leaving her in a facility to be cared for. One that I rarely had the time, energy, or emotional capacity to visit. I hated watching her decline with the years that passed us by. She didn’t even recognize me anymore.

Mascara burned the inside of my lids, forcing me to grab the nearest piece of dry cloth. The stinging was unbearable. Blotting, I cleared my face of the dark stubbornness before placing the cloth at my lips and opening wide.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Muffled, I screamed into the thickness of the dry cloth to relieve the pressure of it all.

“Brisk?” I heard from the other side of the door.

Silence.

“Brisk?”

Silence.

With shaky cords, I responded after a while, “Yes?”

“Are you okay, babe?” Melonie asked, concern dripping from her words.

“I… I will be,” I assured her, “Just having a moment.”

“We’re having brunch upstairs, but I completely understand if you’re not up for it. I’ll tell mom and dad you had to run.”

“It… It’s fine. I’m starving and I could really use some community right now. I’ll be up in a second.” I didn’t want Melonie to worry about me. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to worry about me.

“Okay, babe. We will be upstairs waiting when you’re ready.”

“Okay. And, Melonie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, B. I love you and everything is going to be okay. Always.”

“I know,” I cracked. “I know.”

“See you upstairs… or not if you’re really not feeling well.”

“I’ll make it up. I just need a few minutes, okay?” I admitted.

“Sure thing.”

Melonie’s departure should’ve been the end of my fiasco, but it wasn’t. I was still trying to find the courage to admit how jealous I was of her life without sounding like a complete hater because I loved it for her. I really did. She deserved the love she’d been given and was still surrounded by. But, I couldn’t help but want the same for me. Not from a family that I wasn’t birthed into, but by those who had played a part in the creation of my life.

While Mr. Frank cooked Melonie and her mom breakfast each and every day, I had never even seen my father. While Mrs. Frank instilled honor, respect, confidence, and femininity in Melonie, my mother barely looked my way after my fourteenth birthday. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d celebrated me or any accomplishment I’d made - though there were plenty of opportunities. She never taught me to ride a bike, put on a bra correctly, or the right way to put on a menstrual pad.

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