Bits and Pieces Read online

  BITS & PIECES

  BY

  DAWN HOSMER

  Ant Colony Press, a division of Olive Group, LLC,

  P.O. Box 1577, Belton, MO 64012

  Copyright © 2018 by Dawn Hosmer

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

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Ant Colony Press, P.O. Box 1577, Belton, MO 64012.

  For information regarding new and upcoming titles, please contact Ant Colony Press at

  www.antcolonypress.com

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  For Gabriel, Jesi, Dominic and Krystyna

  The best bits and pieces of my life. You add color to my world every day.

  Chapter 1

  4 Years Earlier

  The heat is stifling even though it’s only early June, proving the forecasters’ theories that this is going to be a year of record temperatures. The humidity is so thick in the air it smothers me as I complete my five-mile run across campus, my chestnut brown hair plastered to my back. Instead of heading home as I normally do when I’m this hot, sweaty, and exhausted, I stop at The Coffee Beanery to grab an iced coffee. Nothing sounds better than something cold to chill the steam rising inside of me, seeping out of every pore. A jolt of caffeine is a necessity to give me energy to make it through showering and my counseling session, which is sure to be a treat. I wish I had an IV drip of coffee to get me through talking about my childhood issues. I’ll settle for a large iced one instead.

  Only one person stands in line in front of me, a man who’s taking his sweet time ordering as I drip with sweat despite standing directly under the air conditioning vent. Hopefully the blast of air isn’t spreading my pungent scent throughout the restaurant. The young woman behind the counter, Alexis according to her name tag, is trying her hardest to be patient as the man changes his order for the third time. She gives me a slight smile with raised eyebrows as the man counts out the change from his pocket, paying the entire ten dollar and fifty-two cent bill in coins. I smile back, glad that I don’t have to deal with annoying customers all day. Since I’ve been waiting, a line has started to form behind me. The chatter of customers fills the air, along with the scent of heaven. Coffee.

  Finally, the man steps aside, dropping change on the floor in the process. I wait to step forward until he’s collected it all, not even bothering to look up to see the long line that’s formed thanks to his lengthy ordering and clumsiness. I finally step to the counter, my breathing now returned to its normal rate since I’ve had plenty of time for my racing heart to calm.

  “Hi! Sorry about your wait,” Alexis says with a smile and jerks her head towards the man now standing at the other end of the counter. She has a pretty smile and the loveliest green eyes. “What can I get you?”

  “No worries. Large iced coffee, heavy on the cream, no sugar,” I say and grab a napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

  “That’ll be four fifty. Please tell me you’re not paying in nickels,” she laughs.

  “No. Pennies, actually,” I joke. “Just kidding. Credit card.”

  Usually I’m more careful and have my gloves on when there’s a risk of touching another person, even casually. But it was so hot out this morning and I had no plans to stop anywhere after my run. Today, my hands are bare. I don’t even think about it until I give my card to Alexis and my hand brushes hers.

  The restaurant, the chatter of customers, my own sense of self is drowned out by a flash of yellow, giving me a glimpse of the future awaiting Alexis. Most of the time, the effect of a flash doesn’t come to me instantly but this time it does. I see her face wrenched in pain, her nose bloodied. Her beautiful green eyes wide open with a dead stare. Hands encircle her throat and a hammer rests on the ground beside her.

  “Miss. Are you okay?” Her question snaps me back to the present.

  I can’t find my voice. I’m afraid if I speak, the description of the horrific scene bombarding my mind will come spilling out of my mouth. Instead of risking that, I grab my credit card and run back out the door towards home, without my coffee.

  I don’t take the time to process any of it until I’ve slumped onto my sofa, back in the safety of my home. I hate these flashes. Glimpses of events that I have no power over consume me. I have no ability to make them turn out any differently. This one ranks up there with the most disturbing of them all. I don’t know the details behind the visions in my mind—not the when, or the why, or the who. All I know for sure is that I have just witnessed the murder of poor Alexis.

  Chapter 2

  Today is the perfect autumn day with the scent of fall heavy in the air. The leaves are showing their colors much earlier this year due to early frost followed by a week of warm weather. Part of the reason I chose to live here is because of fall alone. Chandlersville is the perfect small town, resting lazily in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Only twenty thousand permanent residents live here but it bustles with life whenever the students are in session at Cardell. A lot of residents complain about the students, but for me, they’re part of the charm of living here. I love their fresh energy, their ambition for life, their belief that they can change the world. It is almost electrifying—I think it would be even if I were normal. Plus, the campus is beautiful with old brick buildings and sidewalks and towering trees tucked in the shadows of the mountain range looming overhead. You can feel the history traveling on the bricked walkways, as if the knowledge gained on these grounds throughout the years is trying to seep into anyone on its paths. Whenever I can, I take my morning run across campus so that I can hear the chatter of the students covering everything from the previous night’s sexual encounters, to stress about upcoming exams, to their homesickness and desires to see their families. And since I’m running, my chances of touching anyone are remote, which is imperative for me to truly relax.

  My other favorite thing to do here is to drive high into the mountains, along the winding roads of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and stop at various places along the way to hike, to take in the scenery, to smell the fresh mountain air. To enjoy the peace and solitude without encountering another person for miles. The view of the fall foliage is especially beautiful from the mountaintops. It’s as if God has painted an immaculate portrait in the leaves of all the colors that ravage my soul. The only time I can envision God is when I think of Him as a painter, since that’s the one way I’ve found to relieve myself of the burdens I carry deep within.

  I moved here five years ago, when I was twenty-six. I had to get away from my parents, the hustle and bustle of the city, all the memories. I needed to figure out who I was. One thing about my gift is that I’ve accumulated so much from others over the years that I don’t know what’s
really mine and what’s someone else’s. Some things I can trace back to a flash and know who it came from; other things aren’t so clear. The questions bombard my mind almost every second of every day. I place an order for a latte and wonder if I even like coffee or if I picked that up somewhere along the way. I walk down the street and am drawn to something in the window of a shop, a piece of furniture or a knick-knack and I question whether the real Tessa likes it or if the pull of the item comes from elsewhere. Each time I get dressed, I have no idea whether the clothes hanging in my closet are my style or if I inherited my choice in fashion from some stranger. I cannot do anything, make any decision, without second guessing where it came from.

  Five years ago was my breaking point. I’d had enough of my family and their attempts at fixing me. I’d reached my limit with the labels, the medications, the doctors, the hospitals, feeling like a freak. My parents protested but I was too close to losing it completely, and beyond caring what they thought anymore. They’ve never believed me anyway, always quick to medicate me or slap a diagnosis across my forehead. I would rather be alone than always be with people who think I’m insane, crazy, needing to be locked away. Maybe I am. I’m still trying to figure that one out.

  I’ve found one other person that actually believes me, besides my brother, Cyle. Even though I must pay her to listen, it’s a relief to have someone to dump all of this on. Her name is Ophelia and she’s my therapist. She teaches courses at Cardell in addition to having her full-time counseling practice. I’ve seen her regularly for the past four years. From the stories she tells, she’s seen and heard a lot, so very little shocks her. She’s the one who pushed me to pursue painting as a way to sort out everything and help me figure out who I am, saying that in art, the real “us” tends to come to the surface. I don’t know if that’s true, but painting is calming and gives me a place to leave all the junk swarming around inside of me.

  I’m meeting with her today for our weekly Monday morning appointment. As usual, I arrive ten minutes early so that I have time to relax before our session. An instant calmness washes over me when I enter the waiting room, which I’m sure was her goal in creating this space. The walls are painted a calming shade of aqua that reminds me of the waters off the coast of the Bahamas; a memory I picked up from someone, since I’ve never been there myself. Photographs fill the walls, with scenery ranging from sandy shores to mountaintops. Soothing music plays through the speakers with sounds of nature filling the room—the roar of the ocean waves, birds singing their melodies, a gentle mountain spring. Instead of your typical uncomfortable seating found in most waiting areas, there are two plush sofas and matching side chairs. There have been days I’ve come here so heavy with exhaustion that I manage to sink into the sofa and drift off while I wait. I could live here in this waiting room. There are no magazines, no chit chat of other patients, only the serenity of the sounds, the smell of lavender, and the comfy couches. It’s the most relaxing ten minutes of my week.

  The time passes too quickly and the door to Ophelia’s office opens. A scruffy man, probably in his early twenties, shuffles out with downcast eyes and quickly makes his way out the door. The look on his face shows the pain that was dredged up in his session. I’m sure I’ve walked out that door looking the same way countless times, afraid to make eye contact with anyone for fear that they can see straight into my battered soul.

  “Tessa. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be ready for you,” Ophelia says. As usual, her curly, dirty blonde hair looks unkempt but in an attractive way. She is dressed in her typical bohemian style with a loose-fitting muted brown, tie-dyed dress with a floral print jacket and earthy shoes. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills the room, instantly comforting me, as she shuts the door gently behind her.

  I rest my head against the back of the sofa and take in the sounds of the ocean waves filling the room. After only a few short minutes, Ophelia opens the door again. “All set, Tessa. Come in and take a seat.”

  Her office is as inviting, if not more so, than the waiting room. There are many seating choices, seeming to cater to whatever mood her clients are in. Today I choose the overstuffed eggplant chair in the corner, facing the windows, trees filling the view outside. I wrap my legs up in the chair with me as Ophelia brings me a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream, in a mug that fits my hands perfectly.

  “So,” Ophelia says as she sits in the leather chair across from me, “how are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I know that I better clarify before Ophelia reminds me what fine stands for (Freaked Out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional) even though all could apply to me most days. “I’m happy that it’s fall but I’ve been having some pretty bad days.”

  “Glad to see you finally learned not to stick with the fine answer,” Ophelia laughs and picks up her notebook and pen. “Let’s talk about the last week. Have you talked to anyone besides me?”

  “Well, let’s see,” I raise my fingers as I list off the people I’ve spoken to. “The cashier at The Coffee Beanery a few times, and the one at the grocery. I’ve talked to Cyle once on the phone. I had to call the cable company as my internet was on the fritz, so that counts as someone, right? Ummm…let me see. I think that’s it.”

  “We’ve talked about this. You cannot possibly have a happy, fulfilling life if you live in complete isolation. We all need other people.”

  Tears instantly fill my eyes. “I know. But, I’m scared.”

  “Of?”

  “You know. All the usual. Them getting to know me and thinking I’m a freak. Touching them. I don’t even know who I am, so what in the world do I have to offer anyone?”

  “Will you ever know unless you take the risk to find out?” Ophelia says. I grab my first tissue, feeling like my mother as I twist it in my hands after dabbing my eyes.

  “You know I’ve tried. I always end up right back where I started. Alone. Where it’s safe.”

  “Any flashes this week?”

  “Only one. Of course, I think it was the only person I touched all week. It was a blue one, which I actually enjoyed.” I go on to tell her about the incident in the checkout line at Sweeney’s, the small market on the corner near my apartment.

  I had a basket of groceries and was waiting in line behind a mother and her son who looked about four years old. He was begging his mom for a piece of candy as she was trying to load her groceries into the cart.

  “Charlie, I’ve said no a thousand times. Put that candy bar back and don’t ask again,” she said, without even looking back in his direction, her patience for his whining wearing thin.

  He tried with his chubby, little fingers to get the candy back in the holder but instead somehow managed to knock the whole box onto the floor. He looked back to me once it fell, his lower lip sticking out, about to burst into tears.

  “Oh, Charlie. Ugh...” his mother said, trying to move the cart out of the way to get back to pick up the mess.

  “It’s okay. We’ve got it, don’t we Charlie?” I said, stooping down to help him pick them up. He held the box and I placed the candy bars back in it.

  We were almost finished, and his mother was thanking me, when my hand brushed against Charlie’s arm. A blue flash and then the memory of being thrown into the air by a father’s big strong arms, high above his head. Memories of giggling so hard that my stomach hurt and begging to do it again as those same strong arms caught me, cradling me close. That quickly, I remembered what it felt like to be loved and protected by a father. I felt the joy at being young and finding pleasure in the simplest of things. I was so thankful for those spilled candy bars and little Charlie, because it gave me another place to go back to when life is too overwhelming or scary. A happy memory. A place of security where I know someone will catch me as I fall.

  “That memory is so comforting. The feel of that father’s arms as he catches what feels like me. But like always, remembering this and feeling it so deeply just confuses me. Did I ever feel secur
e like that as a kid with my father? Or are all my feelings of safety from someone else, ones I’ve picked up over the years?” I say and grab another tissue.

  “Well, let’s look at that. I want you to close your eyes and picture your father,” Ophelia says as I close my eyes and his face fills my mind. “Okay. Take a couple of deep breaths and then tell me about the memories you can find with his face in them.”

  The memories flood in, like water spilling over a dam. “The first one that comes to mind is a family dinner. We are all there, my brothers, my mother, my father and me. Everyone’s laughing and enjoying a good meal. I’m probably six or seven. The boys are all sharing stories of different adventures they had when they were younger. They were talking about a snow day off school when they built a huge snow fort and then had snow ball fights all day while hidden behind the walls of their fortresses. Everyone was talking all at once and laughing until I added my memory of the day. I was hit in the nose so hard with a snowball that blood gushed from it and Mom thought it was broken. Then, dead silence around the table. My father forcefully pushed his chair back, stood up and said that he couldn’t sit there and play my pretend games. He shouted that it was Christopher who’d been hit in the nose with the snowball, not me. Then, he left the room. We ate the rest of the dinner in silence. You see, I hadn’t even been born yet when the snowball fight occurred. This must’ve been a memory I got from Chris, without even knowing it.”

  “What do you feel when you remember that instance?” Ophelia asks.

  “Rejection, embarrassment, confusion, sadness,” I say as tears spill out over my still closed eyelids. “My dad always thought I was crazy or playing mind games or something. Why can’t he ever just believe me?”

  Silence fills the room for so long that I finally open my eyes. Ophelia sits there, pen poised above her notebook, waiting on something from me.