To Know Me (The Complete Series, Books 1-4) Read online

  To Know Me Series

  Books 1-4

  To Know Me

  To Love Me

  To Forgive Me

  To Choose Me

  By: Marcy Blesy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are a result of the imagination of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locations is a coincidence.

  No part of the text may be reproduced without the written permission of the author, except for brief passages in reviews.

  Copyright © 2014 by Marcy Blesy. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Cormar Covers

  Follow my blog for information about upcoming books or short stories. www.marcyblesy.com

  Thank you to my husband and children for their patience and love when believing became too hard. My family is the most important story I’ll ever co-author.

  Thanks, also, to Betty Ivers for your editing expertise and support no matter what question crossed my mind.

  To Know Me

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5:

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  Chapter 9:

  Chapter 10:

  Chapter 11:

  Chapter 12:

  Chapter 13:

  Chapter 14:

  To Love Me

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5:

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  Chapter 9:

  Chapter 10:

  Chapter 11:

  Chapter 12:

  Chapter 13:

  Chapter 14:

  Chapter 15:

  Chapter 16:

  Chapter 17:

  Chapter 18:

  To Forgive Me

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5:

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  Chapter 9:

  Chapter 10:

  Chapter 11:

  Chapter 12:

  Chapter 13:

  Chapter 14:

  Chapter 15:

  Chapter 16:

  To Choose Me

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5:

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  To Know Me

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  Chapter 9:

  Chapter 10:

  Chapter 11:

  Chapter 12:

  Chapter 13:

  Chapter 14:

  Chapter 1:

  To know me is to die. I mean, to really know me, like when you know I can run for hours without so much as a water break, that cinnamon sugar doughnuts are my weakness, or that my dad gave me a whole different name. But I don’t let people get that close. I’ve learned the hard way. Too many people die in my life. Grandma said I was only unlucky.

  “It’s not your fault all those people you love die. It’s just bad luck that you’ve had to deal with grief so young. Not fair at all,” she’d said. That was right before she died on my seventeenth birthday and right after my sister Laura, my dad, and my dog Petie.

  I direct Mom #4 toward the front door of the high school. I always get a new mom when I transfer schools. I have yet to find a school that allows a seventeen-year-old to register herself. I wanted to graduate in Ohio, but too many people started asking questions. They weren’t important questions, just stuff like, “How come I can’t ever come over to your house?” or “Why won’t you ever talk about yourself?” or when I do, “That’s not what you told so-and-so.” I had to leave. To let people into my life isn’t an option anymore. But there are no worries anyone will start to ask questions here. It’s already March. That diploma is as good as mine. Then I can enroll in online college and try to salvage something of my pathetic life.

  Mom 4 is a crackhead. It’s not the first time I’ve had a Mom that was a drug addict. They’re easy to find, standing on the street corner pretending not to be desperately looking for someone to give them a fix. They’re agreeable. All they want is my money. I have plenty of that. This mom seems a little rougher around the edges than most. I had to rouse her from her sleeping spot, wedged between the 7-11 and an ethnic grocery store downtown. She was curled up like a ball, using her own body temperature as a blanket. When I shook her a little, she started screaming. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” as she rocked back and forth. It took her a few minutes to process that I wasn’t the person she was apologizing to. Then she seemed embarrassed, even patting her hair down as if she could make herself look presentable. After a short discussion, neutral-colored concealer for the spots on her face, a brush through her hair, and a spritz of cheap cologne, Mom 4 was transformed. Right now she shakes as she reaches for the buzzer that will admit us to Woodson Prep School. I imagine she’ll get more drugs as soon as I’ve paid her for her services.

  “Wait!” I say before she pushes the button. “Take a deep breath. Remember the plan. You’ll be fine.” I look straight in her eyes. “Your name is Liza Tatum. I’m your daughter. My name is Mae. I’m a senior, straight-A student. I need to be put on the college track. Okay? That’s very important.” She shakes her head yes. Her eyes scream, “I’m high.” Damn. I should have bought eye drops. “We moved to Illinois from Ohio. You have all my records right here.” I shove a folder with my transfer records into her hands. I know I could purchase a diploma on the internet. For the right amount of money, anything can be bought, but it’s important to me to earn this diploma on my own merits. “Now smile.” She does, only to reveal a mouth with a missing front tooth and stained teeth. “Maybe you should smile with your mouth closed.” She nods. I push the buzzer.

  Down the hall we see who must be the secretary waving us into the office. Her white-gray hair pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and reading glasses on the tip of her nose tell me she’s been around a long time. Most likely, she’s been the secretary since the school was built, which, according to the imprint on the outside of the building, was 1975. Woodson Prep Private School.

  “Hello. Come right in. You must be Mae. Such a lovely name. I’ve been thinking about you ever since your mom called to talk about registration. I have a sister named Mae. My name is Mildred Baker.” I knew I was careless to blurt out Mae when I called last week. I usually choose something common like Ashley or Emily. When Mrs. Baker asked me my name, Mae came spewing out.

  “Please have a seat. I’ll page Principal Williams and take your records.” I hand them to her.

  “Welcome to Woodson,” says Principal Williams when he emerges from his office. He’s a thin man with squinty eyes, like one of those people who’s always suspicious. “What brings you all the way to Illinois from Ohio?” he asks Mom 4 as he looks over my records. Her eyes are bulging like she’s been asked to answer a question that if she answers incorrectly will send her to prison.

  “My…job. I’m a…lawyer.”

  “What kind of law do you practice?” asks the principal.

  “The kind that gets crackheads off the street.” She starts laughing like s
he’s manic. I squeeze Mom 4’s hand to remind her who is paying the bill.

  “Can I have my schedule?” I ask before she can say anything else stupid.

  “Sure.” Principal Williams studies Mom 4 but doesn’t ask any more questions. He looks over my records again. I’ve taken great care to make sure the classes I take at each school will transfer to the classes at my new school. Graduating with an education, not just a piece of paper, is important to me. “Looks like you’ve been in the college track, coming from public schools. Hmmm. You’re moved around a lot, Ms. Tatum.”

  “Yes, sir. Mom’s work, you know?” I point to Mom 4 who smiles with her mouth closed. Thank goodness. A lawyer with missing teeth? I think not. “Everyone in this school is in the college track. That’s the beauty of private schools. We have higher standards than public schools.” He pauses. I shake my head in agreement, though I think that’s a bunch of crap. “We also have higher expectations of the behavior of our students, though we allow students to enroll without a lengthy screening process, which is most obvious by our allowing students to enter with only two months of school remaining….” This time he stares down Mom 4. “We still expect students to adhere to school rules with no exceptions. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Mrs. Baker, give Mae our student handbook to take home to look over the electives offerings. Once those are plugged in, we’ll have you all set to start classes. You can begin as early as tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Tomorrow will be perfect. Do you need Mom to sign anything?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Baker has some forms. There’s also a student coming to give you a tour.”

  “Actually, Mom has an appointment at 1:00, so if she can sign now I can study a map of the school.” I do that all the time, I want to add.

  Mrs. Baker shows Mom 4 where she needs to sign. The pen shakes in her hand. “Liza Tatum” I whisper in her ear.

  “Hey, Mrs. Baker.”

  I turn around. A young man with bright blue eyes and hair the color of a surfer’s stands behind me with a grin as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

  “Hi, Ty. This is Mae Tatum,” says Mrs. Baker. “Thanks for coming down, but it looks like the tour will have to be rescheduled.”

  “No problem,” he says extending his hand to me. I take it. “Nice to meet you, Mae. First hour starts at 8:00, so if you can be here at 7:30, I’ll show you around.”

  “Thanks.” I look to the ground. Making eye contact with hot guys is never a good idea. They ask too many questions. Questions lead to knowledge. Knowledge leads to relationships. My relationships lead to death. I don’t care what Grandma said about just having bad luck.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh, please,” I hear next to me. Mom 4 is bracing herself on Mrs. Baker’s desk. She’s turning five shades of red. Her hand starts shaking. “No, no, no,” she keeps muttering. I’ve got to get her out of here.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” asks Principal Williams. And then she bolts. I don’t know what to do. So much for blending in.

  “Bad sushi,” I add before grabbing the student handbook and running out the door behind her.

  I fumble with the keys to unlock the door to my car. As soon as Mom 4 is inside, she passes out on the backseat. I hit the gas and accelerate out of the parking lot before anyone else sees us. Sarah was right. Running away wouldn’t be easy. I don’t know what the hell just happened. I could use my best friend to help me figure this out, but putting her life in danger is not an option.

  “You’re paranoid,” she’d say. “People don’t die because they know you. Coincidences. Really bad coincidences are all. I know it sucks. I know it hurts but pull yourself together. You are driving everyone away by your crazy talk.” That was the last conversation we ever had. She was right after all. I was driving everyone away and killing some of them, too. I left to protect them.

  I pull into the Walmart parking lot, crack the window open, and lock the crazy lady inside. After fifteen minutes I return with Mom 4’s goodie bag. I’m not a heartless daughter. I pay them but also try to leave the moms with more than my money: comforts like a blanket, slippers, flashlight, and snacks. Mom 4 is still sleeping, so I drive through town and back to the corner I found her on. I look at the dilapidated buildings. Each building has one more broken window than the next, some boarded up with cheap plywood, some with jagged glass, and some with pretty flower curtains blowing in the wind, showing an owner’s attempt to replicate suburbia despite the poverty that pours from the neighborhood. I wonder what happened to Mom 4 to send her to this hell hole. I know my payment today won’t make a dent in her life. That makes me sad. She looks so peaceful now. I can’t keep her, though. I can’t keep anyone anymore. I open my water bottle to douse her face.

  “What the hell?” She bolts upright.

  “Look, I don’t know what happened back there, but it’s time to go.”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry.” She keeps repeating it over and over, but I don’t think she’s talking to me.

  “Here’s your money.” I hand over $150 in cash. “Please do yourself some good and use it for food and shelter. You deserve more than this street corner.” I hand her the bag, too. She clings to me like a child that’s been frightened by a bad dream. I don’t mind, though. It reminds me of Mom’s hugs.

  Chapter 2:

  I drive back to my two bedroom apartment. It has everything I need: a couch, a kitchen, a shower, and a toilet. I bought the couch and a coffee table at a garage sale when I drove into town last week. The old guy who sold it took pity on me when he saw my small Toyota Camry and drove the furniture to my new apartment. I don’t live in seedy downtown, but it’s not exactly suburban living either. It’s the kind of neighborhood where no one asks questions about a young girl securing a month-by-month rent on her own. Over the phone, no less. All the landlord wants is the rent paid on time. I’ll keep him out of my business by paying early. I don’t know too many seventeen-year-old girls who could live alone, but a lot of eighteen-year-olds do it, so what difference is a year? I don’t have a choice. It is what it is. Such is life.

  I lay on the couch that acts as my bed to look over the school handbook. There are only 200 kids in the whole high school. Maybe I should have chosen a larger school, but I wanted to be within an hour of home this time but not so close Mom will know I’m here. That’s one reason I chose a private school, less chance of running into kids that may know me from track or cross country meets. Other than electives, most of the kids in my first period English class are going to follow me from class to class. When the same group of kids shuffle through the hallways to lockers and back to the same classroom, there’s a lot more opportunity to get to know people, and this is something I definitely don’t want to do. When I decided to run away at the end of my junior year, I vowed I’d never let anyone get close to me again.

  I look over my choice of electives: band, chorus, fitness, wood shop, home economics. I choose fitness and chorus. Dad used to say when I started singing that the angels stopped what they were doing to take notes. Now Dad’s my angel. I killed him. I didn’t literally kill him, but I might as well have. That’s what guilt does to you. He and Mom used to fight all the time…about me and what I did. They couldn’t agree on how to handle the situation, so one day Dad just moved out. Mom was pissed.

  “So that’s what you do when things get tough? You leave. Nice example you’re setting for your girls,” I remember her screaming at Dad’s truck as it backed out of our driveway. But, at night, I could hear her crying through the bedroom wall. I knew how sad she was that Dad was gone.

  I never should have gone with Kyle that night. If I’d made a different choice, none of this would have happened. Two weeks later, I was helping Dad hang curtains in his new apartment when he lost his balance on the ladder and fell through the glass kitchen table underneath him. He didn’t die right away, but after being in a coma for a week with a head injury, Mom pulled the plug. He died in about forty-five minutes. It was all my fault
.

  Chapter 3:

  I prepare for my first day of my senior year in a new school for the third time this year like I have every other time before. I pick out a pair of jeans, white top, tan cardigan, and flats. No short shorts. No too tight shirt. It’s not like I couldn’t pull that look off. I mean, I have the body to rock tight clothes. I can’t help that. I tried once to get fat. I couldn’t. Plus, I was sick for days. And no matter how old I get I still want my mom when I’m sick. That’s not going to happen anymore. Sometimes I dye my hair to blend in, but that’s usually a disaster. I have dark brown hair, and without a real professional stylist, it’s hard to turn hair the color of chocolate milk into even a dirty blonde. Once I chopped my hair real short, cut off all the waves. That made me stand out more. It took months to grow back. Now I wear my hair in a ponytail or loose bun.

  I know what’s going to happen today. Everyone will stop what they’re doing. The teacher will ask me to talk about myself. I’ll make up some lie about how my dad’s job transferred him here. I look forward to getting to meet everyone. Blah. Blah. Blah. Insert a few more lies. Then come the judgments. From the boys: “She’s cute. I’ve got to get her number. She’s probably easy.” From the girls: “She thinks she’s cute. She must be a bitch. I bet she’s easy.” Sometimes a girl or two will take pity on me and try to make friends, but I blow them off. Then they will take sides with the “She’s a bitch” crowd. By the end of the week, only the boys give a damn about me anymore. Several try to hit on me. They think they’re being clever. “Let me show you around town.” or “You need a friend to study with?” or “Come to the baseball game with me Friday night. We’ll go out for pizza after.” But when I rebuff their advances, they, too, will join the girls and want nothing to do with me.

  My phone dings. It’s not the first time I missed my daily check-in. When I decided to leave home, I told Mom all the thoughts in my head. I wasn’t going to sneak off in the middle of the night and have her send the police out looking for me. The last thing I wanted was to be a face on the evening news or to have my picture tacked to every telephone pole in the county. Plus, I knew how hard it would be on Mom if I left. But I knew if I stayed, well, I couldn’t take that chance. I just knew I had to leave. Mom argued and begged me to change my mind. It wasn’t going to happen. She had a lot of guilt, too, over Dad moving out and letting Laura ride to the gas station on her own despite her better judgment. Other than going to work, all she did was sleep. I did our grocery shopping and cooked all the meals. I paid the bills that came every month. She shut Grandma out of her life, too. I knew that my staying certainly wasn’t helping Mom, and maybe my leaving was the only way to protect her from herself or something worse. Frankly, she was too weak to fight my resolve. I agreed to two compromises. Check in once a day via text and keep the GPS tracker on my phone so that if I missed a check-in she’d have permission to send the police looking for me. I planned on getting part-time jobs to pay for my food and rent, but on the day I left, she handed me an envelope with some of Dad’s insurance money and told me to be kind to myself.