Avoiding the Memory of You

One

Two years earlier

Ransom

Driving the Beemer nearly cross country may not have been my smartest idea. But after telling numerous family members to, I quote, "Eat shit," I packed a bag, tossed it into my small, vintage car and drove away from my grandfather's estate. Leaving Massachusetts in the rear view mirror never felt so freeing.

Did I have any real clue where I was headed?

Not even a little bit, just knew I had to get away.

Sick and tired of being looked at as nothing more than a trust fund prick, I bit the bullet and spoke up in the midst of a family meal. Made it known to aunts, uncles, my parents and my grandfather that I had finally decided to do something with my life. Something more than just hanging out at the country club, wondering what flavor of the week I could blow my money on whether that be of the female persuasion or moderately illegal substances.

I'd grown up listening to my grandfather discuss the family legacy with our publishing company. He himself was an author, world renowned and respected everywhere he went. Everyone in my family had a hand in something connected to the business even if it was the fact that they'd taken a handout from Harlan to get their dreams started.

Leave it to me to be the laughing stock of a family gathering when I announced my plan. My hope. My dream.

"You can't be serious," my father bellowed, his shot of whiskey swirling amidst the glass as he laughs arrogantly.

"Ran," my mother speaks with all the authority within our family as she wears the pants in her marriage. "Get real, son."

My uncle Walt might've been the worst of all of them. He piggy backed on my grandfather's wealth, working directly from the top of Blood Like Wine, spouting orders to everyone but never actually lifting his own finger except to point it at me, yelling how I'd never get a 'red cent' from anyone in our family tree.

"I don't remember asking." My jaw is tight, fingers curling in a fist by my side.

"Good, save your breath for when you're begging a good woman to finally take pity on you."

And that's when all hell broke lose and I let my mouth run just as freely as usual, except this time I found a more colorful way of saying it.

I didn't feel an ounce of regret. Why would I? They practically made me who I am, and now they're pissed with the way I behave. If given one ounce of actual parenting or family mentoring, I probably would've come to my senses earlier than the age of twenty-eight. I'd have been well on my way to living a healthier life, physically and mentally.

At least it all starts today.

Yeah, putting as many miles between me and my family is exactly what I need in order to begin making my dream a reality.

I had zero clue which direction I was going to head in when I woke up in a roadside motel off a beaten path in North Carolina.

Scooting myself up to the headboard of the most uncomfortable bed I've ever slept on in my life, I grab up my wallet from the bedside table. My thumb grazes over the well worn circle. Most of my buddies think it's a permanent ring where I've kept condoms over the years. Everyone in my life would be surprised it's actually a fifty cent piece that my grandmother gave me when I was twelve years old.

Grandma Eleanor had slowly been losing the mind that we'd always known her to have. Dementia is everyone's worst nightmare and it claimed her quicker than any one of us could've imagined. I watched as the family became greedier, pushing her to make decisions that she wasn't capable of anymore.

"Heads I go west, tails I go south," I announce to the empty room. With a flick of my thumb, the coin lands in the middle of the ghastly floral comforter. The tail side of the coin stares back at me, waiting for me to make a choice exactly where down south.

After a shower, I leave the No Tell Motel but don't go too far. A stop at the gas station by the interstate leads me to purchase an entire map of the United States. I unfold it onto a table at the adjoining restaurant after ordering a cup of coffee and a couple scrambled eggs.

With my grandmother's coin in hand again, I spin it hard and watch as it travels around the table, covering various areas of the map before it slows and drops.

"Where ya headed?" the older woman asks as she sets my coffee and eggs down in front of me.

I scoop the coin up, taking note of where it landed. "Looks like I'm headed to Alabama," I fight back the urge to gag at the idea of what I'd envision as Hillbilly Hell. "Other than the state itself, I've got no idea." I take a sip of the tar they're attempting to pass off as coffee. "Any suggestions?"

"You want busy or quiet?"

The question only takes a moment for me to ponder, deciding one choice is certainly more conducive to my plan of making my family eat their words. "Quiet."

"Then there's just one spot for you, son." She smiles, making me take note of the nearly blackened tooth on her lower jaw. "Dauphin Island."

"Dolphin Island?" I repeat, watching her walk back behind the counter where the register sits.

"No L, kid," a man chimes in, strolling right up to the woman before laying a kiss against her cheek. "Dauphin."

I just nod, grabbing my fork to spear the eggs that look like they've been seasoned with a lot of love of pepper and take a bite. I nearly choke on the spice of them, coughing aggressively before I try to swallow down the coffee again.

"You were heavy handed on the pep again, Melvin," the woman smacks the guy against his chest.

He grabs where she popped him, an act of sputtering as though her frail hand actually caused him harm. "Not my fault, Peg. Old city boy can't handle a bit of seasoning. He's in the south now." He eyes me with a cocky smirk. "Time to make some changes if you're headed to Bama."

If he only knew exactly how many changes I was prepared to make. Ready and willing to leave my cushy lifestyle behind until I could make a point of shoving my new found identity in anything without the use of my family's name or connections.

"About how far is it to Dauphin Island?" I ask, shoving the eggs away from me.

Peg ambles over, a piece of paper in her hand that I suspect is my bill. "About eleven hours if you don't hit rush hour going through Atlanta."

I tuck the coin back into my wallet, pulling a twenty out for what should be a five dollar meal, ready to just let the couple keep the change when I pass it off to her. She shoves it back into my hand. "You're not paying for something you didn't enjoy," she tells me. "Now, this here is my son's number. He owns some houses on the Island, rents them out and what not. You call him and see if he can get you in somewhere. You hear me?" She sounds exactly how I'd imagine someone's sweet grandmother telling them to follow her directions to a treasured family recipe.

"Yes, ma'am." I take the paper and stuff it into my wallet but keep the cash in my palm. As I pass the register I drop it on top of the counter, using the sea turtle paper weight to hold it flat.

Did I really just use the word ma'am?

Where the hell did that come from?

Maybe all I needed was to get a few hundred miles away from the toxicity of the Thrombey clan.