Ray of light beamed through the window. Curtain parted slightly as its end trailed on the rumpled sheets. Blue-black outline of the room gave a hint of glamour and fashion décor. Morning breeze fluttered the curtain. Poster-plastered bedroom walls with reflected sunlight illuminated a profile bust of Madonna, her head tilted back in arrogant glory, jutting a defiant jawbone with ruby painted lips. Facing her was Axl Rose, microphone gripped, bandanna ribbon ties and bracelets bound his wrists, a symbol of his own imprisoned childhood life, now free to express himself with skin art from shoulder to hand and his trademark forehead bandanna. He could have been serenading her, with “Sweet Child of Mine.” Big hair Jon Bon Jovi, the teen heartthrob, bared his pecs underneath a leather and metal studded jacket. Patrick Swayze in his classic dance warm-up tank and tight black pants, held the hands of his dance partner at his chest, the strength of his arms clearly indicating he could twirl her above his head. Across the wall from the window above her bed was a sexy, male volleyball champion.
Jessie stirred as the cool breeze fluttered the curtains and cast more light into the room. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets and pulled her knees to her belly in a cocoon. The boom box on the floor lit up with the guitar pic of Slash, a wake-up call and serenade from the rock singer who she felt understood her own life.
She’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that
Special place
And if I stared too long
I’d probably break down and cry
Sweet child o’ mine
Sweet love of mine
She lay on her back and stretched her arms above her head, then pulled herself up with tight abs and lowered her arms to cover her breasts with the sheet. She tucked her legs up to her chin and stared straight ahead with the early morning waking dreams, figments and fragments floating in her mind’s eye. A menagerie of images—vivid colors blending, shapes distorting, a part here but missing from there—a mind processing to make sense of her emotions that bubbled up unannounced, but would not go away no matter how hard she tried to push them down.
She’s got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain
Her hair reminds me
Of a warm safe place
Where as a child I’d hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by
Sweet child o’ mine
Sweet love of mine
Brad was her only connection to the people at the party. She was left there alone.
Why did Lars leave me?
Jessie did not see Sherri or Antonio after she returned to the dance floor so they may have left together, and with Lars looking for her, Sherri must have felt she would be safe. Yet, she had only met Sherri that day, did not even know her last name. She had no means to contact her or Lars. She could call Brad, who could call Sherri, who could call Antonio, who could call Lars, but for what purpose? He had taken her and dumped her, left her on the beach in the cold of the night.
Scumbag!
For once she felt like such an airhead. She had always been on top, the head and not the tail. What happened?
Duh! Her bruised heart responded—You let your heart love someone. This was no longer a game of “take, dump, and leave.” You were vulnerable to his game because your game had an endpoint—him—and his play was a stepping-stone—you.
Yeah, I got stepped on, but I showed him! Haha! To see his face again when I threw wine all over his hundred-dollar shirt!
Naked, she stepped out of bed to her closet to find her robe.
Where do we go?
Where do we go now?
Where do we go?
Sweet child o’ mine
She threw open the drapes to fill the room with the morning sunlight. The stiff breeze blew open her satin robe below the sash. A front moved across the plain. With nothing to stop its trek, it could be seen for miles on the horizon—dark, ominous thunderheads seemed to hover inches above the ground. Her heart blown open, it was a thunderhead of anger and betrayal.
“I’m not going to let this stop my game. I’m stronger than this setback. Brad was so full of himself, and yeah, I did allow him to buy me. But he never had me. That was my ace in the hole. They always had to wait as I strung them along.” But I so readily let Lars have me. I gave myself to him. Why?
Jessie looked out across the plain. Mammie’s house backed up to pasture with tallgrass bent over from the wind. Her heart responded—You gave yourself away because Brad rejected you.
Recognition of this caused her to flinch. Sadness rose from a deep well. She could not stop the depression as before. It loomed and tightened her throat. She felt heaviness on her shoulders. Hands folded held her robe closed. The burdensome yoke slumped her shoulders. Her head humbled in submission. Her eyes flooded and a tear dropped to the floor. “Oh, God. I don’t know how to pray.”
She knelt beside her bed and looked underneath to find the blue suitcase tucked in the far back corner. She slid underneath to grasp its handle and pulled it to the center of the bedroom. Cross-legged, she pressed the buttons to release the brass latches. With trepidation, she opened its top.
Tucked neatly on top was a baby blanket—hers—that her momma left behind the first time she ran off with a jerk that said he loved her. Jessie was only a child, abandoned to Mammie’s rule. She spread her hand across its soft downy strands and traced the head of a white lamb knitted within. She removed the blanket and held the lamb up against her cheek and nose and closed her eyes. The traces of momma and baby lingered in the fibers as she imagined her snuggling against her momma’s breast.
Her first set of baby shoes, white leather high tops as wide as they were long with white ribbon laces. She tenderly held up a long white lace gown—her christening dress when she was just six months old. Below that was an eight by ten photograph of Momma holding her—both her momma and daddy looking at her smile at them. A tear formed at the edge of her eye and dribbled down the side of her face. She did not bother to wipe it away, for it was only a prelude.
The next picture was Momma in a swimsuit, a daring two-piece that showed her belly button, one leg crossed over the other standing on the beach, surf in the background, hips long and smooth covered with what she called “bloomers.” She looked to be Jessie’s age, shortly out of high school. Daddy must have taken the picture, for he was the only sweetheart Momma had known before they got married. The sadness rose again, this time flushing her face, and her eyes swam in a sea of sorrow. The brash voice of daddy, the curt words, the rising cry of Momma, the shatter of the bottle—If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, I wouldn’t have married you.
Where do we go?
Where do we go now?
Where do we go?
Sweet child o’ mine
Yet, she knew her daddy loved her. When he was home, he doted on her, brought her presents, dresses, and dolls. Then it felt right to accept his gifts, now she thought, it seemed he was trying to right a wrong. She had considered taking a California trip to see him, but that was as far as she got, just a dream of seeing her daddy, touching his face last seen when she was five. The only picture she had of him was the next and final photo that remained, one of Momma and Daddy. It was a candid picture, just a black and white snapshot with ridged edges. Daddy was holding a bowling ball with Momma at his side.
That was it. That was Jessie’s life in a nutshell.
She would move on just as she had done with the rest of her past. With so little to hold onto, it was easy to let go, just tuck it away in a suitcase and hide it under the bed.
You know the bed feels warmer
Sleeping here alone
You know I dream in colour
And do the things I want
You think you got the best of me
Think you’ve had the last laugh
Bet you think that everything good is gone
Think you left me broken down
Think that I’d come running back
Baby you don’t know me, cause you’re dead wrong
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone
What doesn’t kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn’t mean I’m over cause you’re gone
Copyright: Guns N’ Roses Music, “Sweet Child O’ Mine”
Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Mgb Scandinav, Perfect Storm Music Group AB, Kurstin Music, Kelly Clarkson, “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)”
Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge
Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge.
Author of transformational fiction—
Real characters in real life drama that tell the story of their transformation to become more like Jesus.
To read the scenes sequentially, begin with
“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”
Located in the May Blog Archive. Click on the episodes and enjoy.
This episode is pre-published. The book will be available Spring 2018.
Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at lightbycambridge@gmail.com.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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