Page 8 of I'm Not Yours
I stared at my dad’s urn. I could hardly believe it when the attorney my dad hired to handle his estate and cremation called me about his death. I was so angry.
So, so angry.
I ride my bike to get rid of some of that anger. I have a really cool bike. It was expensive. I have cool bike clothes, too, also expensive. I am not trying to show off; I’m trying to outride being poor and desperate. My mother bought me a pink bike with a basket, which I rode in Montana. I loved it. My dad wouldn’t allow me to bring it back to Oregon.
When I was twelve, I rode a used bike that a neighbor in the next-door trailer gave me. She had been in jail for ten years for a robbery she committed with an ex-boyfriend. Glenda was a very nice woman who told me she had been “as crazy as a cat in heat, and I made some crazy mistakes.”
That bike was crucial to me. I had to ride that bike to school and to the grocery store. I rode it when I could no longer stand another minute with my dad or when I thought of my mother. I rode hundreds of miles on that old bike, and when kids made fun of it, I literally tried to run them down. They shut up after that.
When that bike finally broke when I was a teenager, it made my life truly hard, until the teachers at my high school gave me another one. I loved it because it took me to school, then to my job.
Because I had a job, that meant I had money, which meant I could buy food.
Because I had a job, that meant I could save money and leave home at sixteen as an emancipated minor.
When I got my job after college, I saved every penny so I could buy my condo and feel like I had my own, safe home with a doorlock, something that was mine that he couldn’t enter and ruin. After I had a savings account, which brought peace to my mind, I bought my first cool bike.
The racing bike I have now reminds me of who I was and who I am now. It reminds me that now I bike by choice, not because I’m desperate. The sleekness of my cool bike reminds me that when I bike to the store, it’s to buy blackberries or ice cream, not to buy noodles and sauce that will take all the money I have in my pocket, even with carefully saved coupons.
When I ride in the country, I ride because I love to see the leaves change, or flowers in spring, or geese flying overhead, or a sparkling lake. I’m not riding because I’m trying to escape my dad’s triggered temper.
My bike is an accomplishment to me. It lets me outride my pain until it’s behind me. My bike lets me be me—the new me, not the scared, trembling, deeply saddened, lonely girl I used to be.
Two days after I left the hospital and Jace, I drove to the store. In the curve of the road there was a huge steel goat that made me smile every time I passed it. It was an awesome piece of art. I’d heard that an artist lived in the house behind it.
A little way farther I saw a sign outside a red barn. It said BARN DANCE and gave the date and time.
That was sweet.
But I don’t dance anymore.
And who would I dance with anyhow?
My phone rang at ten o’clock the next morning. “Allie.”
I knew that voice so well. It rumbled through me—warm, soft, and strong.
“Hello, Jace.” I didn’t need to ask how he got my phone number. It was in my medical records.
I had been up for three hours. The horses on the farm, Leroy and Spunky Joy, did not seem to think that I needed rest. They liked their food on time, and they liked their servant, me, to bring it to them, no matter how mottled her thigh was from the menopausal horse’s attack. The rooster, Mr. Jezebel Rooster, cock-a-doodled appallingly early. I thought it was strange he had a witchly, female name. If I could I would eat him.
“How are you doing?” Jace asked.
“Fine. I’m doing well.” That was a lie. My heart felt like it had been stepped on by a gang of stampeding horses. I sank into a dusty blue chair in the corner. I didn’t like the chair. It reminded me of my dad. Old, uncomfortable, hard. I didn’t like the inside of his house, either. It was crowded with stuff; it was dreary and depressing. I simply hadn’t had the emotional energy to take care of it yet.
“Really?”
“Yes.” Bob jumped up and sat on me. Margaret squished in, too. I was covered by dog. I heard a long pause, and I knew Jace didn’t believe me.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What are you, psychic?”
He chuckled, and that chuckle zipped all around and through me.
“Not psychic, but I do know how much your leg must be hurting right now, Allie. Make sure you’re taking that medicine I prescribed. No sign of infection? Red lines? Good. I’m sorry it happened, but it was . . .”—he paused, and I heard a quick intake of breath—“I really liked seeing you.”
I closed my eyes, a flood of utter anguish seeping into every inch of my body. “It was good to see you, too.”
