Remember Me? (Book 1) COMPLETED

Alabama

KATHERINE

"Yes, Mom," I chuckled, holding the phone in the crook of my neck while I folded my clothes in my suitcase. "I have my pepper spray. I'm all packed and ready to go."

I was readying myself for a trip to redneck country. My nose curled at the thought. I hated the South, but when funds have gotten as low as they have, you have to take any job you can get. And Mom had insisted on this one.

Just last week she'd exclaimed, "You'll love working there, Kat. It's a wonderful publishing house," she said. "Even though it's in Alabama," she added reprovingly, noting the red flush in my cheeks as I opened my mouth to chew her out.

Of course, Mom was over it by now. Five years had been enough separation from her almost-son-in-law to heal, with plenty of "meditation" and "prayer" in between. Meanwhile, my raw heart ached with every mention Mom made of Alabama, a husband, or even grandchildren.

Her voice on the phone shocked me out of my reverie. "Katherine? Are you still there, sweetie?"

I cleared my throat, trying to keep track of the days. It had been getting harder and harder to keep Wednesday from Saturday. I kept my fingers busy by pulling my suitcase closed. "Yes?"

"Did you double check your flight itinerary?"

"I've got the papers on the counter. I should get to Alabama by 4pm this afternoon." I gestured half-heartedly to the cramped kitchen in the other room. Then something occurred to me. "Are you going to be okay getting back from Gramps' place? It's a long drive." I moved into the kitchen with my half-packed bag in tow and shifted the phone to my other ear.

Mom's voice hitched a moment before she said, "I'll be fine, dear. Erland's going with me." She chuckled breathlessly. "And you know how your brother likes to blast his music. I won't be going to sleep on the road now, I promise."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Have you heard what he's into these days? I can't understand a word of what they're saying, but I love the beat." A knock on the door interrupted me. "Hold on, Mom, I'll call you back. Someone's at the door."

"Good luck, sweetie! I love—"

The door slammed open. The phone nearly slipped from my grasp. In my haste to not drop it, I'd ended the call. I turned to the interloper with a frown.

My intruder of a friend, however, was more preoccupied in clearing the crap off my counter.

"Your house is a mess, Kat!" Betsy exclaimed, piling up dishes as she flounced about the kitchen in a choreographed flurry. She dumped the plates in the sink, and I winced at the sound. Steam rose up from the faucet as she started work cleaning them off. "There's at least a week's worth of baked potatoes on here, Kat," she said with thinly veiled disgust. "If it weren't for me, I wonder how you'd fare."

It was actually kind of funny, really. Betsy, dressed in what was probably a hand-tailored Ralph Lauren dress, was up to her elbows in soap, lips pursed as she scrubbed in avid determination.

A poignant feeling came over me, coming up the back of my throat and tasting like bile. I recognized it at once, a common demon during my battle with the bottle. Shame.

Shame at how I couldn't go one week with a good habit. Frustration with my shame inhibited my ability to actually do the thing I was ashamed I hadn't done—like wash the dishes. I watched her, silently, as she cleaned the muck from the dinner plates and the syrupy crusts from the glasses of evaporated Coke.

"Don't bother cleaning, Betsy," I said. "It's not your mess." I tried to make my voice strong and authoritative, but it only came out apathetic, like lukewarm oatmeal.