The Significance of Moving On Read online

  The Significance of Moving On

  By: Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  All rights reserved. This book or any portions 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 book reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Summer

  Chantal

  Chapter One

  “Okay—okay girls, settle down.” Looking around at my three best friends I raise my shot glass of contraband tequila. End of junior year. We’ve lived together, the four of us, since the first day of sixth grade.

  Braids, school uniforms and no Tom, a.k.a. the best big brother a girl could ask for. God, I was scared living that far away from Tom, my rock, for the first time. Then these girls happened.

  “Tonight we toast to destiny,” I start the toast we’ve done at the close of every school year since we overheard it from a group of senior girls and discovered the glories of fake IDs freshman year.

  “That brought together one plus three,” Pamela, or Pam as she goes by, continues.

  “And though for summer we must part,” Ann takes her turn.

  “It’s just ’till fall and trouble starts.” Kelsey, my actual roommate and best friend, finishes.

  “Too-rah!” We all shout and shoot back the golden liquid, then break down in a fit of giggles, falling all over each other.

  Collapsed on the bed, I hiccup and reach for the bottle. We’ve got twelve hours before I have to be on my flight home to Michigan, and I plan to spend the next five to six of them sloshed with my girls. One last hoorah before we head our separate ways. I’m pulled in two very different directions. The one that doesn’t want to leave these girls even for the summer, and the other way which cannot wait to get back to my older brother.

  It’s incredible, I turned eighteen a couple months back and Tom promised me a trip to the casino when I get home. The girls wanted to take me, but Kelsey doesn’t turn eighteen ’till the end of summer and I’d never go without Kels.

  Then, there’s Tom.

  For something this special, for the first time being on (almost) equal footing as my brother, going to the casino together both as adults, well it’s a moment I want to share with him first. Because I wouldn’t be the person I am now if not for him.

  Hell, I wouldn’t have ever met these three amazing women if not for him. A hot-shot photojournalist could hardly cart a twelve-year-old around the world with him.

  My poor brother, what did he know about bourgeoning junior high hormones and periods?

  Enter Edgewood Prep Academy. I never thought I’d love shipping off to boarding school, but it grew on me quickly.

  We drink until we empty the bottle of tequila and two bottles of sparkling white wine from the Sonoma region of California.

  Kelsey lays sprawled across our Dijon mustard yellow suede sofa, three of the four bottles lay tipped on their sides, scattered over the floor of our common room—it’s a nifty name for a living room that connects the two bedrooms in our dorm—along with Pam and Ann.

  My best friend Kelsey lifts her head to look her unfocused eyes into mine.

  “I won’t last the summer without you, Al.” Her words slur and she punctuates her statement with a giggle-burp.

  Drunken giggles aside, I understand. Her family might have more money than… than…—shoot—I hiccup. What was I saying?

  Oh yeah… Kelsey’s family might have more money than God’s half-sister, but her home is about as warm as a Russian nuclear winter.

  “Then come visit, babe. Tom loves when you visit. We entertain him.”

  “I don’t know if I can. Mom has all those cotillions booked. It’s time to auction me off to the family with the most power and influence.”

  “I didn’t even know people still held cotillions. That’s kind of archaic.”

  “It’s all about business,” she says, slurred words muffled from her hands vigorously rubbing over her face.

  “We’ll figure it out.” That’s my promise to my best friend.

  We slowly start to drift off into drunken sleepyland. My eyes dip closed, staying closed longer each time until they pop open after I don’t know how many minutes and I grab my phone to check the time. With all our end of the year celebrating I forgot to set the alarm, but there’s still four hours until I have to be at the airport for check in.

  Maybe we have to skip showers and only have time for a breakfast of orange juice and aspirin. At least Kelsey gets me to the airport on time.

  She doesn’t go home until tomorrow.

  Since she can’t go past check in with me, crying tears of wine and tequila, she hugs me tight.

  People with luggage and loved ones scurry past us.

  “Don’t have too much fun without me, Al. You and Tom going on your grand adventures before the summer’s up. I wonder what he has planned this year.”

  “Come visit with us. Then you’ll know firsthand, babe,” I practically beg.

  I have to get going. I don’t want to leave her behind but we’ll find a way for her to stay with us. Tom and I are like the Weasleys to her Dursleys. So yeah, we will figure it out.

  One last hug and I walk through check in to stand in line at security.

  “Bye bitch!” she calls out to me. There’s a laugh to her voice even as I hear it thick with tears.

  Shoes, purse and carryon on the belt, I stop to pose in the x-ray machine for just a second. The TSA agent laughs and winks at me. He’s actually kind of cute.

  But I move quickly because I don’t want to piss off the line behind me.

  After collecting my shoes, purse and bag, I lean against an ugly beige wall to quickly slip on my shoes because they just announced boarding for my flight over the loudspeaker, then I take off running.

  I get to the gate right after they’ve called first class passengers, which is after they call for special needs passengers.

  Business class. That’s what I fly. Not as expensive as first class but has more legroom than coach.

  “Good morning, Miss Bradley.” The attendant greets me as she checks my ticket. Once she determines everything to be cool, she hands it back to me. “I hope you enjoy your flight with National today.”

  “Thanks,” I give her my chipper response. Because I find chipper always works best in social situations. For example, flight attendants are usually more inspired to toss me an extra bag of honey mustard peanuts midflight when I’m smiling and chipper.

  And let’s face it, those honey mustard peanuts are the bomb. Wait—you can’t say bomb on a flight. I think they could throw me in jail for that. Honey mustard peanuts are the best. There you go, Mr. Security Man. I changed it. They’re the best. Right.

  Moving on.

  The window seat already has its occupant when I arrive at my row. Ever since a lady got sucked out of the window when some plane’s engine exploded, I only do aisle.

  It’s a man in—surprise, surprise—a gray business suit. He’s hunched over texting on his phone when I approach, but straightens up, laying his phone face down on his tray when I sit.

  And the way he looks at me, it’s skeevy. The guy looks to be in his late forties. Sharp haircut. Sandy brown, no visible gray. Though probably not as thick as when he was in his twenties. But as I said, late forties—as if that would ever happen.

  I mean, forties aren’t old, but I’m newly eighteen, and my guess is he’s texting his wife. There’s definitely a golden glint from his left ring finger.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” he says.

  Yes. As I thought, not just skeevy, but smarmy.

  Ugh.

  “Hi,” I casually answer, because it’s not usually safe to ignore these types of men.

  He openly peruses my body, stopping to stare for long moments at my chest, and I’m not even showing any cleavage. Great. This should be a fun flight.

  “Traveling alone?” he asks. Well, I could lie, except we’re on a plane. He’d know I lied when no one joined me.

  “Yep.” God, I hate this part. My pits begin to sweat because I just know he’s going to say something inappropriate.

  “Staying in Michigan or transferring flights?” he asks about our destination, right as his phone dings from a text he’s doing his best to keep me from seeing. He jots off some quick words, then turns his attention back to me, expectant look in his eyes.

  “Getting off,” I tell him, immediately regretting my word choice. Tensing, I suck in a sharp breath, which draws his attention to my mouth.

  He leans across the whole of the seat separating us, pushing way into my personal space. His breath fans the hair around my ear, close. “Ever joined the Mile High Club?”

  “No,” I answer curtly now.

  “It can be amazing. Two strangers connecting for one moment in time. What do you say—how ’bout you let me get you off before you get off?”

  Now would be the time when I lie, and I lie big. “I just finished my junior year of high school”—that’s not a lie—“I don’t think it’s even legal for you to get me off”—which it is, I’m eighteen—“So… ”

  His spine straightens, he doesn’t pull back yet.

  Okay, lie two. Pulling my
purse onto my lap, I unzip the first pocket and withdraw my phone, going to Tom’s contact and angling the screen strategically for him to see.

  “Wh-who you calling?”

  “My brother. He’s an agent in the FBI’s sex trafficking division. I want to make sure when we land, he has people waiting to talk to you.”

  I don’t actually know if the FBI has a sex trafficking division. But the lie must sound plausible because Mr. Creepy-Dude turns sheetrock white.

  So I use what’s left of my lady-balls and point to the phone in his hand. “Which means you should text your wife and tell her you won’t be home for dinner.” Perfect timing. His phone pings again with another text right when I say wife.

  Karma, bitch.

  He withdraws to his seat completely. As in, he might move his seat to the wing if that were an option, and begins texting frantically until we’re ordered to put our phones away for take-off.

  It’s a pleasant flight from here on out. The man avoids eye contact, hell, he doesn’t even clear his throat the rest of the plane ride he’s next to me.

  About an hour in I get up to use the bathroom and when I return, dude is M.I.A.

  We’re on a plane, not somewhere he could hide, but he certainly makes sure I don’t see him again.

  When we land an hour later, I’ve all but forgotten about Mr. Creepy because Tom, my Tom, should be waiting for me.

  Purse strap slung around my shoulders, I stand and open the overhead bin to grab my carryon, being jostled and shoved by other passengers trying to be the first off the plane.

  A kind woman pauses the line to let me take my spot in front of her and move along with the rest until we disembark, able to fan out in the tunnel.

  Saginaw. Home sweet home.

  My heart beats faster with anticipation. You couldn’t pry the smile off my face with a crowbar. My feet move faster through the terminal until I find myself dodging and weaving between all the bodies hurrying toward baggage claim.

  One large roller case later, I move into the large area of the airport where families and friends connect all around me.

  But no Tom.

  Well, he could be in the bathroom, which means I sit on my bag and wait—for about ten minutes.

  Still no Tom.

  I pull up the text with my flight information that I sent him. Correct times. Correct day.

  Oh…kay…

  Phone to ear, I actually call my brother this time. No answer. His voicemail picks up. Just to be safe I leave a message, but keep trying back anyway.

  After an hour more of waiting in this stupid airport, and I still can’t get ahold of my brother, I use my phone to hire a ride-share driver to take me home.

  The driver shows up twenty minutes later and she’s kind enough to help me with my bag.

  She drives a newer looking sporty-type minivan. And when I climb in back, there’s a child’s booster seat and a stuffed, plush sea turtle lying next to it, reminding me of the summer when I was eleven, Tom took me to Sea World. It had been the summer after our father died.

  Where could Tom be?

  He’s never not shown. Never.

  The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

  Twenty-five minutes pass before the driver pulls into the driveway.

  Tom’s car is parked by the garage.

  Lights are on inside.

  And when I open the door, I hear the faintest chords of Chopin’s nocturne in E minor. It has a longer title I never remember, but that’s neither here nor there.

  Gritting my teeth, I climb out of the minivan and walk around back to the hatch to remove my bag.

  The heavy suitcase rolls behind me, catching on the cracks in the sidewalk leading up to the porch. We live in a beautiful two-story brick colonial. Tom and I looked at probably twenty houses before we settled on this one. Even though I’d been living with our father at the time, Tom involved me in everything.

  Which begs the question, why is my brother inside listening to blaring decibels of Chopin when he should’ve been at the airport picking me up?

  I unlock the door, swing it wide and yell, “Tom!”

  Chapter Two

  “What the Hell, kid?”

  For every summer for as far back as my memories go, even when I’d been living with our father and we’d come to visit, my brother’s shown up at the airport smiling. The first thing out of his mouth—“What the Hell, kid? You’ve gotten taller… smarter… prettier”… any manner of positive adjective he could throw out. And I loved it. Loved him.

  We’d sit for hours in the lush, green grass of his backyard. He’d pull his shoes off, I’d pull off mine, and we’d ruffle our toes, laughing at the tickle while he told me about every moment of the year we’d spent apart; his travels, the people he’d met, sights he’d seen. Tom lived such a glamorous life.

  No amount of citronella could keep the mosquitos from stinging and biting. But as the sun would begin to dip below the horizon, casting over the yard the same glorious purple shadow I’d longed to see each summer, the entertainment began. First the crickets chirped, frogs croaked, and in the years we were lucky enough, the cicadas buzzed the background music for the main attraction, the bobbing and dipping and spinning light show—the dance of the lightening bugs.

  Those were the happiest times of my life. My big brother was eighteen when I was born. We share a common father but not mother and his mother was none too pleased to find out about me. But he didn’t care. Tom loved me. That’s all I know. No matter how screwed up our families were, he loved me.

  So someone needs to explain to me, goddammit it, why I’m sitting on the front porch clutching his last goodbye to me in my hands while the paramedics load his lifeless body into the back of the ambulance? You fucked up, Tom? Really? I’m eighteen years old now—hardly a child. We could’ve figured it out. Why didn’t you just trust me to help you?

  I hate Chopin.

  I hate poker tables and gambling debts.

  And I hate him being so stinking selfish that he’d leave me sitting at the airport wondering what the hell was going on, while he’d been here, taking his last breaths on this earth all alone.

  Now I’ve got no one.

  I want to cry but my body’s dried up like a desert wasteland. No tears. No saliva to swallow. I’m dry. Parched. Empty.

  Even so, it’s hard to watch the ambulance pull away with no lights flashing. There’s no reason to have them. A uniformed police officer appears to my left, stepping too close, taking up too much of my personal body space. He becomes this vortex sucking away the air surrounding me too quickly with his questions—so many questions.

  He has them.

  I have them.

  What I don’t have are answers.

  The next forty-eight hours go by in a blur. Food won’t sit. Sleep won’t take. And then there’s a pen. A document. And a signature of next of kin. Signing means the truth, he’s really left me. Forever. And for what?

  Before my brain really has the chance to process any of this, the hospital is gone, Tom is in the morgue and the cab I guess I must have called rolls to a stop in front of his house. The place was to be my home for the summer, but now it’s a beast; an ugly, snarling beast striking fear into my heart from simply looking on it.

  The driver seems decent, trying to engage me in conversation, but there’s just no way. Pushing the fare through the partition without speaking effectively shuts him up, and that’s it. He’s gone now, too.

  Everyone is gone except me. I’m still here, standing on the front lawn, not sure what my next move is supposed to be. The grass in the front doesn’t beg to be squished between my toes any longer. The green’s not as vibrant, the feel not as lush. But I sit because I can’t go back in.

  I can’t.

  My feet won’t move. Won’t allow me to be consumed by the ugly, snarling beast of a house.

  Oh, and if that’s not enough, it starts to sprinkle. A sprinkle I could handle, but then, it never stays just a sprinkle. If it did, we wouldn’t have sayings like, when it rains, it pours. And that’s exactly what it does, turning swiftly to a full-on summer downpour.

  No amount of water could wash away the stains of this place, though. So I sit under the canopy of darkness cast over the city from cloud cover. But just as suddenly as the rain starts, the clouds move on, probably proud of the job they’ve done, transforming me from a girl to a soggy lawn ornament. The shower eases up until dissipating all together. My rain-soaked blouse clings to my body for a warmth that neither of us will find.