Page 5 of The Scars I Bare
“I know, Mama. You tell him thank you every time you see him.” I laughed, an attempt to break the tension.
“He saved my son!”
“He saved several other people on that ferry, too, but I doubt they’ve sent him a gift basket every week for the last three years.”
She shook her head, adding some sliced apples to the pan. “Well, they should have, and it’s not every week. At least, not anymore,” she said with a sly grin.
I knew not to argue. My mama was as Southern as you could get, right down to the famous cheese grits and buttered biscuits she made for breakfast. The Sutherland family could be traced all the way back to one of the founding families of Ocracoke Island. It was why, when Mama spoke, you could still hear that distinctive brogue that was so unique to this place; tourists would travel from all over the world just to hear it.
Watching my sixty-five-year-old mother bob around the kitchen, dancing to a song she’d most likely heard that morning in church, I couldn’t help but feel a sadness sweep over me.
Everyone had their place here. Jake and Molly had each other. My mom had her group of friends from church. Taylor had the family business.
I used to know what that felt like. A sense of belonging.
But, now, I felt like driftwood lost to the sea. Just coasting from one day to the next until I faded into oblivion.
After saying my good-byes to my mom, I drove the short distance home, thankful for the few minutes of quiet it offered. The island was busy this time of year, the population soaring as high as the temperatures. But, when the sun set, it remained fairly peaceful. The restaurants along the harbor were still alive with activity, but thankfully, it didn’t spread too far.
Pulling into my small driveway, I killed the engine and headed for the front door.
Stepping into my two-bedroom cottage, I wanted nothing else but to walk into my bedroom, collapse on my bed, and fall asleep. It had been a long day, and my prosthesis was aching something fierce. Even after nearly three years, I hadn’t fully grown accustomed to it yet. It made me sweat, that stupid, thick neoprene sleeve gripping what was left of my arm like a damn vise.
And the weight…
God, it was heavy.
But it eased people’s minds and brought the staring down to a minimum. So, when I was out in public, I wore it, and I tried to blend in. I tried to disappear.
The people of the town had gone out of their way to make sure I got one in the first place, throwing several fundraisers for the victims of the ferryboat tragedy. I’d tried to turn down their generosity, but when the town put their minds to something, there was no backing down.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure our family would have survived otherwise.
At least, not at first.
The Sutherlands were known as one of the wealthiest families on the island, owning a fishing company that could date back several generations. But the wealth was no match for the hospital bills my accident had generated. So, I had taken what I could from the town while my brother rebuilt the company in my absence, making it what it was today. And saving us from financial ruin in the process.
We’d grown from a small commercial fishing company, catering to local restaurants and markets, to a full-service tourist experience. In a few short years, my brother did what no one before him had been able to do.
He’d made our business a true success. And he had done it completely on his own.
Without me.
Not even bothering to leave the living room, I disconnected the first layer of my prosthesis, and it felt like heaven. With the weight gone, I took a moment to roll my shoulder and stretch my neck. The movement in the small mirror across the room caught my attention, and I couldn’t help but stare briefly at my reflection.
Not much of me had changed in the past few years, physically-speaking. My eyes still carried the same dark green hue my mother adored, and the sandy-brown hair most of the Sutherlands were known for still hung from my head, albeit a bit longer than usual. I’d maintained most of my muscle mass, turning to long-distance jogs around the island to clear my head, something I’d learned from the shrink back at the hospital.
The one who’d forced me to write.
Tossing the pieces of my prosthesis on the couch, I took a seat at the small desk in the corner of the living room and booted up my laptop. I briefly thought about playing a game of solitaire or watching something on Netflix, but I knew none of that would do. Ever since I’d stood next to that memorial, staring out onto the water, I had known I’d end up here.
I needed to write.
When the psychiatrist had first encouraged me to do this exercise in the hospital, explaining it would be a good way to express my feelings and thoughts in a way that felt safe, I’d thought he was a nutcase.
I still did honestly.
All I knew was, it helped, and if it kept me out of a psychiatrist’s office, it was a win-win for me.
