Denial - Stephanie Wilson (bts book recommendations TXT) 📗

There was no television. No photos. No little decorative ornaments.

“Your bedroom is up the stairs and to the left,” Mr Abbott told me, “you can go unpack…if you like.”

The ‘if you like’ was tacked onto the end of the sentence, but it was merely a formality – because it was evident by Mr Abbott’s tone that I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Lunch will be in ten minutes,” he added. I felt instinctively that it would be best not to be late.

“Ok. Thank you.”

I went up the stairs, the steps squeaking as I put pressure on them. At the landing I noticed three other doors, all closed. I turned to look at my door, and wasn’t entirely surprised to see that a cross stitched quote was hanging in a frame on the door too.

“Whoever believes in the Son has entrenal life; whoever does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God remains on him. John 3:36”

I turned to see Henderson climbing the stairs, my backpack on his shoulder.

“These people are a bundle of laughs aren’t they?” I said to him, gesturing with my eyes to the quote.

“Shhh,” he looked behind him awkwardly to see if the Abbott’s were in hearing shot, “…there are worse things than being serious.”

I sighed. He was using the ‘there are worse things’ line a lot. I opened the door and wasn’t overly surprised by what I saw: A bare room only big enough to contain a wardrobe- not a built in kind, but one of those old fashioned standalone ones. I had the brief thought of how it looked how I imagined the one to Narnia would look like when I was younger.

…just one more chapter…

I shook the thought away and turned my attention to the rest of the room. A single bed with a metal frame, a small old fashioned wooden desk and an equally old looking wooden seat.  The walls were a very awful floral wallpaper that looked faded in patches - especially where the sun hit the wall through the single tiny window.

 The pride and glory of the room hung above the bed, right over where my head would be resting when I sleep. It was a giant wooden cross with a desolate Jesus hanging off it. There was even red paint leaking from his hand and feet. Basically the replica of the one in the living room, except it somehow seemed more…grotesque.

 I put the violin case down on the bed and Henderson placed the backpack down next to it, scratching at his chin absently as he observed the cross.

 “At least you don’t have to share a room,” he offered.

I didn’t reply, but he was right. That was a major bonus. There was silence for a few moments, broken by the sound of cutlery being placed out downstairs.

“Anna.” Something in his tone made me turn to look at him. The lines on his face looked deeper than usual, the shadows under his eyes darker. Again I was struck by how shabby he looked compared to how I remembered him. “Please…give this a good go.”

I decided to throw him a bone and smiled.

“I will. You wait, when you next see me I’ll be a model Christian teen…without the teen pregnancy, obviously.”

He gave a half-hearted grin, thinking the conversation over I made a move to go back down the stairs but Henderson held out his hand for me to wait,

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, twisting his wedding ring round and round his finger, he averted his eyes towards his feet and I had the overwhelming urge to put my fingers in my ears like a child, “as it turns out, Madeline isn’t doing very well and it’s…possible that if things…” his voice broke and he cleared his throat nervously, “progress…then I might need to take time off. In which case, you will be passed on to someone else. I just wanted to let you know, in case...”

He let the sentence hang in the air, the unsaid words flashing between us like neon lights.

"I'm sorry to hear that your wife isn’t feeling well.”

My words sounded very mechanical – and they felt mechanical too. Though I meant them, though I cared…in my own way, I felt as if I was saying these words off a script. Memorized and rehearsed without any real sentiment. Though internally I began to panic as to what this could mean for me.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

 He nodded and looked down towards his feet, I saw his shoulders shake in what looked like a sob and my stomach turned nervously. But when he looked back up his face was composed, albeit his eyes looked a little watery.

“Breast cancer,” he said after a deep breath to recompose himself, “chemo is dragging her through the ringer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…well…these things happen, right?” his voice hitched and he cleared his throat again, “Come on, let’s go have some scones.”

It’s funny, but I had never really given much thought to Henderson’s personal life. I guess it hadn’t concerned me. But now seeing this small little man and the way his face crumbled, I felt like I could physically feel the worry and tension ooze off him in waves. It made me sad to think of it, it also made me impatient to see him leave so that I no longer had too.

                Out of sight and out of mind and all that.

Chapter 2

If my first day in this town was what was typically expected, then Sunny Haven was in fact not that sunny. Rather, it was cloudy and desolate and that wind (which carried the aroma of pine along the streets) had a bite to it. It felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and preparing yourself for the gust of wind that would tip you over the edge; though I expect that was more to do with the Abbott’s than it was to do with Sunny Haven as a whole.

Despite the dreary condition, there were a few people out and about. I had already past two families at the park, walking their dogs. I had also received an odd look from a blond lady walking very fast whilst pushing a stroller. Though I had some of my less….shabby...clothes on (black jeans relatively unworn and a blue fitted blouse) I still felt the odd prickle that I was scruffy and unacceptable looking. Perhaps if I was wearing a matching pink tracksuit like her I would fit right in.

I had been pleased to get out of the house, especially after the awkward occasion that was lunch. Mrs Abbott had picked at her scones like a small uncertain bird. Straight backed, elbows tucked in and a single crumb at a time. Henderson’s feeble attempts to make conversation with Mr Abbott could only be described as ‘beating a dead horse’.

I, on the other hand, could handle awkward silences like a pro and resolutely stared down at my plate, imitating Mrs Abbott. I was taking the clues as to how I should behave off her, a habit I had picked up very early on. Every household has different rules and expectation; like taking off your shoes before going inside or saying grace (which we had done). Occasionally I would feel Henderson’s eyes on me, perhaps pleading for me to make some kind of bonding attempt. I knew that my attempts to converse would probably go as successfully as his did - less so, since my knowledge of any kind of conversation starters were far more limited.

     And so an awkward fifteen minutes had passed by until finally Henderson cleared his throat and pushed back his chair, exclaiming something about traffic.

     I couldn’t help to think that it was alright for him. He could leave the deadpan stares and clinking of cutlery in the rear-view mirror but I would be stuck in it for the foreseeable future. Then again, I can’t say that being in a family of few words was my idea of hell. With a slight gleam of optimism that was out of character for me, it had crossed my mind during that lunch time experience that perhaps this would work out after all.

Mr Abbott accompanied Henderson to the door, and I followed Henderson out to his car.

There was an awkward moment when he looked as if he was going to hug me. But he didn’t, because such behaviour would be unprofessional. But his eyes softened and he took off his glasses, giving his eyes a tired rub with his thumb.

‘Call me if anything goes wrong,’ he had said to  me, ‘otherwise I’ll call you every week to see how things are going, and I will come for a visit at the end of the month – which is only a week and a half away. Don’t hesitate to call, about anything.’

   I nodded, and couldn't help but think that his words sounded very automated. His mind was clearly already somewhere else – most likely with his ill wife he would no doubt be itching to get back to. Before he shut the door, I decided to give him something encouraging.

'‘Henderson,’ I said, ‘I will keep my shit together.’

He smiled, ‘Good girl.’

And so he left. One final wave out the window, around the corner and he was gone. I took my time walking back into the house, steeling myself to have the conversation that I needed to with Mr Abbott (it was long later where I realized I hadn’t even considered going to Mrs Abbott about it). He had been reading the bible at the table, I interrupted him with an awkward throat clear, and then told him that I wanted to go searching for a job at the local shops.

It had taken a bit of convincing, more than I would have thought necessary for something so proactive. In between the conversation he would have these unnaturally long pauses where he seemed to be analysing my very soul. He asked me questions like: “Why do you need a job”, “what kind of places will you be applying at?” and “what could you possibly need money for?”.

When I had finally answered his questions to his satisfaction, he told me where the shops were after a stern reminder that Sunday was a day of rest and as such I could not work it. I had asked if I could work after church in the afternoons, and he had simply stared at me, repeated the whole ‘seventh day is a day of rest’ speech. I had managed to step on his toes on the first day – must be some kind of personal record.

 That wasn’t the worst of it though, he had deemed it necessary to give me some parting words of advice. Just as my hand had touched the doorknob and I could almost taste the freedom, he cleared his throat from behind me. Startled, I turned to him and he looked at me with a very solemn expression for a moment:

 ‘I do not tolerate drugs of any kind in this house.’

At the time, I had thought about saying something in a mildly offended tone, but I couldn’t find the words. So I simply turned