Miles From Home
Miles from Home
Copyright © 2015 Ava Bell
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover: Lora Lynch of Dream Master Designs
Editor: Jill Hope Weinstein
Formatting by Champagne Formats
For my mom.
AS I LOAD the last of my bags into my car, I turn to take one last look at the house I grew up in. It’s all I’ve ever known. I feel a twinge of sadness as I look at the large porch that’s lined with pots of flowers. I know I will miss it. I always felt safe here, as if nothing could harm me when I was within those walls, but I’m older now and I no longer need the security it once gave me. I put the key in the ignition and drive away trying hard not to look at it in the rearview mirror as it gets father and father away. Just 1,433 miles stand between me and my dream.
My life in Hearne, Texas, was as normal as any other kid growing up in a small town. My mom was always home when I came in after school, and we always ate dinner as a family at the table every night. The church was a huge part of my upbringing. My father is the Pastor of the First Baptist Church in Hearne and he always had high expectations of me as I got older. He expected the perfect “preacher’s kid” and I was, for the most part. My mother, on the other hand, was the opposite. She was the one who balanced everything out. She nurtured and loved me while my father was incapable of showing any emotions towards me. My mother always gave me the security I needed without all the ridiculous limitations my father felt were necessary. She was the one who started me in ballet at a very young age and watched as I fell in love with it. But my father never approved of the long hours and the private lessons. While I was attending Temple College, not far from home, my mom found out she had breast cancer. I watched her suffer for two years, but she insisted that I finish my education, six months ago she lost her battle. I was devastated. I graduated with my two-year degree in fine arts and four months ago I received a letter of acceptance to the very prestigious Barnard School of Dance in New York City. I never told my father about my plans to move to New York because I knew he would never approve. That’s why I left him a letter, which he will find when he returns from his weekend conference on Sunday.
739 miles later, I’m sitting on the side of a country road in the middle of nowhere. I knew I should have paid better attention to the “check engine” light that was periodically flashing at me, as my car sputters to a stop. I can’t imagine what could be wrong, since I just had my car serviced two days ago.
So now what?
I could sit here and wait for a car to come by, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. I could start walking back towards the interstate and hope that someone will stop and call AAA for me, but neither option sounds good, so I wait. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour and not one car has passed by. I check my phone periodically but it still shows no cell service.
“Sam! Hurry up!” I hear my sister yell from downstairs. “Your bus leaves in an hour and it takes forty-five minutes to get there.”
“Hold on,” I say. I hurry down the stairs to find my often impatient sister Karen standing by the front door with her hands on her hips.
“We have plenty of time with the way you drive,” I say to her and she smiles. I walk into the living room to say goodbye to my dad. I sigh when I see that he’s started drinking earlier than normal.
“Dad, I’m leaving now,” I say. “Okay, Sam, have a safe trip,” he says, without looking up.
“Come on, let’s go. He’ll be okay. He’s just having a bad day,” Karen says, as we walk out to the car.
I throw my backpack and guitar case in the trunk. I look over at Karen and notice she looks sad. “I hate when he’s like this. It makes me feel guilty,” I say, getting in the car.
“Sam, you can’t hang around this town forever taking care of him. You have a life to live,” Karen says, driving towards the city.
Karen is quiet for most of the drive to the bus station, but as we get closer I can tell that she’s going into “mother mode.” At least that’s what I call it. For the last eleven years of my life, Karen has been the only stable person in my life. Being five years older than me, she felt it was her job to make sure I was fed, clothed, and stayed out of trouble after my mother walked out on us. I was ten when she decided that she needed more than what my father could give her, so she up and left one day while Karen and I were at school and dad was working. We were just a typical family. Mom taught second grade and dad was a construction supervisor. We were always involved in school activities and sports. Mom and dad would take turns shuttling us to our various practices. I played baseball and took guitar lessons while Karen played soccer. Things looked so normal on the outside but I could feel the tension between them more and more. My dad took it the hardest; he just basically gave up and started drinking on a regular basis. Karen and I were forced to quit sports but I continued my guitar lessons. It’s the one thing I wasn’t willing to give up.