Life and Other Complications Read online

  Life and Other Complications © 2021 By Heather Mullaly

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To request permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact the publisher at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-7364773-6-6

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  __________________

  The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering.

  -Ben Okri

  Table of Contents

  Tuesday, May 10

  Wednesday, May 11

  Thursday, May 12

  Friday, May 13

  Saturday, May 14

  Wednesday, May 18

  Monday, May 23

  Tuesday, May 24

  Friday, May 27

  Saturday, May 28

  Sunday, May 29

  Monday, May 30

  Wednesday, June 1

  Friday, June 3

  Saturday, June 4

  Still Saturday, June 4

  Sunday, June 5

  Monday, June 6

  Tuesday, June 7

  Wednesday, June 8

  Monday, June 13

  Tuesday, June 14

  Wednesday, June 15

  Thursday, June 16

  Monday, June 20

  Tuesday, June 21

  Wednesday, June 22

  Thursday, June 23

  Saturday, June 25

  Sunday, June 26

  Monday, June 27

  Tuesday, June 28

  Wednesday, June 29

  Friday, July 1

  Sunday, July 3

  Tuesday, July 5

  Friday, July 8

  Saturday, August 6

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Tuesday, May 10

  My friend Caroline Reese lives in a hotel about five miles outside of town. It’s a huge Victorian resort called the Ballentine. The first time I saw it, the Ballentine looked like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, all covered in vines and thorns. Parts of the roof had caved in, and the interior was scorched. But where everyone else saw a ruin, Caroline’s mother saw possibility. She bought the Ballentine and started the slow process of restoring it. Two years ago, the hotel reopened to guests. And this year, the renovations entered their final phase.

  Caroline has taken advantage of the last of the construction chaos to commandeer a room in the north wing. She set up her espresso machine and dragged in some comfortable chairs. The space is eventually going to be repainted, so last month I decided to add some color to the walls. I painted bookcases full of leather volumes, curtains to frame the windows, and a ring of quotes about coffee just above the chair rail.

  When Caroline’s mother saw what I had done to her hotel, I expected her to tell me to paint over it. Which she did. But she also hired me to paint a mural in a room down the hall from Caroline’s lair.

  The mural room is huge. You can see where a chandelier used to hang and the remnants of crown molding. One wall clearly held a mural at some point. But the paint was so damaged by the fire that I couldn’t make out the image. Another wall holds floor to ceiling windows. The last two make up one enormous canvas.

  Mrs. Reese wants the whole north wing to house the children’s activities, like it did before the fire. So she asked me for a child-friendly mural. Standing there that first day, the images were already taking shape in my mind. Rapunzel’s tower would stand in the center, with Hogwarts off in the distance. Peter, from The Snowy Day, would need snowbanks to trek through, and Winnie-the-Pooh would want a honey tree.

  I’ve spent the last two weeks planning and prepping the walls. And today after school, I finally got to add the first touches of color to my enormous canvas. I started with the night sky above Big Ben. Once it’s dry, I’ll be able to add the tiny figures of Peter Pan, Tinkerbell and the Darling siblings flying off towards Never Land.

  “You were smart to keep Harry Potter away from Peter Pan and Wendy,” Caroline said when she came into the room, her hands full of drinks. “A midair collision would have been unfortunate.”

  “I thought so.”

  I climbed down off the ladder, and Caroline handed me the metal water bottle with “Aly” painted on the side. She kept the mug of espresso for herself.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She nodded and then closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of the espresso before she took her first, slow sip.

  I just watched this ceremony. “Most people drink espresso from small cups.”

  Caroline opened her eyes. “Most people lack dedication.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Have you decided what to put in the corner?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “What about the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel?”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “The witch tries to eat them.”

  “You don’t have to show that part.”

  “True.”

  If my foster mother, Mrs. Miller, were telling the story, Hansel and Gretel would have been walking happily through the woods and met a kind old woman who fed them candy without any ulterior motives.

  “A gingerbread house would be fun to make.”

  Caroline’s eyes gleamed. “And you could cover the roof with espresso beans.”

  “You have a problem.”

  “I have many,” Caroline said. “But I am not addicted. Coffee and I are in a committed relationship.”

  “Does Dylan know about this?”

  “Dylan is very open-minded.”

  “I guess he would have to be, if he’s willing to share you with a caffeinated beverage,” I said seconds before my phone rang.

  It was Mrs. Miller calling in a tight voice. Her tone wasn’t that strange. It’s the same voice she uses when something has spilled and she’s trying to keep up her smile.

  I hung up the phone and looked at Caroline. “I have to go.”

  “What does she want now?”

  “I don’t know. She just told me to come back to the house.”

  “But we haven’t had time to hide Luke’s car yet.”

  I hugged her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I left the mural room, ducking under a heavy piece of plastic and maneuvering around work crews to reach the back parking lot. I’m not allowed to drive any of the Millers’ cars, and Caroline is grounded from driving for two weeks. Which left our friend Luke as my only way of getting to the hotel with paint supplies. He couldn’t drive me himself – he was helping his dad today. But he loaned me his car. So I drove carefully down off Caroline’s mountain and into town.

  Trinity, New Hampshire is a small town, barely the size of a Boston neighborhood. Instead of high-rises, we’re surrounded by mountains and forests and the occasional field of cows. Most of the homes here are old farmhouses with wide porches and steeply pitched rooves. When it snows, Trinity looks like a Christmas card.

  I parked Luke’s car outside his house and walked the three blocks to the Millers’. A dark blue sedan with Massachusetts plates was parked out front. The car belongs to Mrs. Peters, my social worker. So when I walked into th
e living room, I was expecting her. It was the man who surprised me. He had graying hair and wore a wrinkled suit.

  “Hello, Alyson,” Mrs. Peters said. “Do you remember Mr. Raleigh, from the District Attorney’s office?”

  My body froze. But my thoughts started crashing into each other.

  Mr. Raleigh promising me that they were going to put Rick in jail.

  Mr. Raleigh asking me questions I didn’t want to answer in front of cameras I didn’t want to see.

  Mr. Raleigh telling me that the case had been dropped. “I’m sorry, Alyson. We don’t have enough evidence to take this to trial.”

  My word hadn’t been enough.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Raleigh said, as if we were standing in his office, instead of my foster parents’ living room.

  The Millers were sitting tight mouthed on the love seat. There was an empty chair next to Mr. Raleigh and a place on the couch next to Mrs. Peters. I chose the couch. Mrs. Peters reached over and patted my hand as I sat down.

  The Miller girls, Hattie and Gabby, are eight and six, and were nowhere to be seen. They were probably upstairs watching a princess movie. Mrs. Miller is always careful to keep them segregated from the messy parts of my life. I think she would ban messes of every kind if she could.

  “Richard Wallace has been arrested, again,” Mr. Raleigh said.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, not with Mr. Raleigh sitting there in the room with me. But it still took me a few seconds to manage a logical question. “For my case?”

  “No. But we’re going to need you to testify.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about another case.”

  “We know. But we’re trying to establish that Richard Wallace’s actions toward this girl were part of a pattern of behavior. Your experiences with him can help.”

  He wanted me to testify. And not just in depositions this time. He wanted me to go to court. To be cross-examined.

  Mr. Raleigh leaned toward me. “I know that we’re asking a lot. But if we add your testimony to that of other witnesses, we won’t have to put the victim on the stand.”

  He let those words sink in. If I testify, she won’t have to.

  If the world was fair, I would never have to see Rick ever again. But if the world was fair, this never would have happened to her in the first place.

  In the end, Mr. Raleigh didn’t have to use the subpoena I saw in his briefcase. I agreed to testify, the way he knew I would. And he gave me a schedule instead. The trial starts on July 5th. My first deposition is a week from Monday.

  Across the room, my foster parents had cornered Mrs. Peters.

  “We don’t have time to take Alyson to Boston for depositions,” Mr. Miller said.

  “What are we supposed to tell our children?” Mrs. Miller said.

  Mrs. Peters’ expression was hard as she looked at my foster parents. “When the court gave you permission to take Alyson out of state, one of the conditions was that you would bring her back for all court-required activities. Testifying in a trial certainly meets that criteria.” Her eyes moved from one Miller to the other. “As to what to tell your children, I would suggest the truth.”

  As if that was ever going to happen.

  The Millers haven’t even told their girls that I have HIV. Mrs. Miller always shoos them out of the room before she watches me take my pills. I don’t know how she explains the fact that she won’t let me touch anything sharp and makes me wash my hands three times before she lets me help in the kitchen. Maybe they just think I’m clumsy and dirty.

  Clumsy I can live with.

  Dirty is harder.

  Before they left, I asked Mr. Raleigh, “What is the girl’s name?”

  “I’m sorry, Alyson. I can’t tell you the victim’s name. We have to protect her privacy.”

  I understand that. I do. But I also wonder how much our privacy leaves us isolated. This other girl could live next door to me, and I would never know. This isn’t something people talk about. But that’s what they want from me. They want me to talk about it, to tell the story.

  Dear _____,

  You don’t know me, but I’m going to be testifying in the trial against Rick.

  He hurt me too, a long time ago.

  I wish I could go back in time and save you from this.

  But I can’t. The only thing I can do for you is try and help Mr. Raleigh send Rick away for a very long time.

  Will you be in the courtroom?

  Part of me hopes you won’t be there. That you won’t have to ever be in a room with Rick again. That you won’t have to listen to people talk about you as if you’re too broken to ever be put back together.

  And part of me wants to see you. To put a face to the fact that I’m not the only one. To know your name.

  I hate not having a name for you. It makes it seem like you’re not real.

  So I’m going to call you Olivia, at least for now.

  I don’t want to do this, Olivia.

  But it’s not your fault.

  None of it is your fault.

  -Aly

  Wednesday, May 11

  Last night I couldn’t sleep, because I couldn’t stop thinking—about Rick, and the trial, and the girl, and my friends. Luke and Caroline don’t know about any of this.

  I tried to paint. But after hours of staring at a blank canvas, I gave up, put on running clothes, and left the house while the sky was barely gray.

  There was no gradual warm-up to this run. I took off sprinting down the sidewalk. I pushed myself until my legs were asking if I had lost my mind, and my lungs were gasping for air. But it still wasn’t enough to distract me. I could still see Rick, still smell his cologne, still hear him whispering in my ear.

  The shape came out of nowhere.

  One second there was nothing. The next there was a man practically on top of me. I pulled back. Or at least I tried to, but I tripped over my feet and fell, landing hard on the grass.

  I was scrambling backwards, my heart trying to explode out of my chest, when a voice said, “Aly?”

  I looked up, as he crouched down. Luke.

  Luke has grown at least a foot and a half in the nine years that we’ve been friends. His shoulders are broader, and his face has lost its round edges. But he’s still Luke.

  I pulled in a ragged breath. “You surprised me.”

  “You’re late, but I surprised you?” he said.

  It’s Wednesday. We always run on Wednesdays and Saturdays unless one of us is dying. I only felt like I was.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Luke dropped down to sit next to me in the grass. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “Except make you think I’m losing my mind.”

  Luke smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time.”

  I love Luke’s smile. It’s warm and steady and reaches all the way up to his eyes. I love that he has no idea how gorgeous he is when he smiles. I love how much time he spends making other people smile.

  My life would be considerably simpler if I loved fewer things about him. Because falling in love with your best friend, who looks at you like you’re his sister, is a terrible idea. In my defense, I didn’t plan it. It just happened.

  “So what’s wrong?” he said.

  “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Meds or Mrs. Miller’s cooking?”

  “Both.” It wasn’t a lie. My drug protocol can cause insomnia and dinner was awful, the way it always is when Mrs. Miller is in a bad mood.

  “Someday, they’re going to come up with an HIV med that doesn’t have side effects,” Luke said.

  “And Mrs. Miller’s cooking?”

  “I don’t think science can fix that one.”

  I smiled at him.

  Luke stood up and offered me a hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  I let him pull me up to my feet. But I didn’t want to go home and stand in the shower and think.

  “We’re running.”

&n
bsp; “Aly, you’re exhausted.”

  He was right. But I started running anyway. It took him two driveways to catch up.

  We’ve run together for so long that falling into step is almost second nature. I’m typically faster than he is. But today, he was rested, and I wasn’t. I had to work to keep up with him. Which was good. I needed the distraction.

  When we made it back to the Millers’ house, Luke walked up the porch steps with me, the way he always does. But today, he didn’t just tell me goodbye and walk away. He stood there, studying me. Usually, I do a pretty good job of covering my emotions. But this morning, I was exhausted, and he knows my face too well.

  “You know you can talk to me about anything,” Luke said.

  And I nodded, wishing so hard that it was true.

  Thursday, May 12

  When we first moved to Trinity, Mrs. Miller hadn’t planned to tell anyone that I have HIV. But my social worker insisted that she tell my school. Even then, my HIV-positive status was only supposed to be shared with the staff who needed to know. But my third-grade teacher confided in her sister, who told her best friend. Within two days, the whole town knew.

  My classmates’ parents all said it was fine, that it wouldn’t be a problem. But they didn’t want their kids sitting next to me in class or playing with me on the playground. Apparently, I looked like the kind of eight-year-old who might bleed spontaneously or start up a brothel in the reading corner.

  One whispered secret and I was treated like a leper, while Mrs. Miller was elevated to the status of sainthood.

  “You are so good to take her in,” the women at church told her.

  And Mrs. Miller always said, “We all have to do what we can.”

  It was one of those church members who suggested that I would benefit from the Children Living with Life Threatening Conditions Support Group at the regional hospital. I didn’t want to go. But Mrs. Miller didn’t care. She was now playing the part of the devoted parent of a sick child, and sick children belonged in this group.

  It didn’t turn out that badly. Because on my first day of Group, I met Luke and Caroline.

  Caroline’s leukemia went into remission two years ago, and she dropped out of Group. (She likes to say that she flunked dying.) But Luke and I are still here, and he drives me out to the hospital every Thursday afternoon after school.