If I'm Good For Anything - K.B.F. (popular e readers .txt) 📗

her soul mate, and joined the military. They moved seven hundred miles away. One year later she gave birth to a baby girl. It wasn’t twins like she had prayed, but she was satisfied, or so it seemed.
Life away from her small hometown proved to be less than a fairytale. Money was always tight, and she dreamed of a life she felt she had been cheated of. A mother at nineteen was not exactly her girlhood ambitions. At the age of twenty, something life changing happened.
It was a hot day in Fort Worth, Texas. The bills were piling up, and there were things she needed. It was getting late and she knew her husband, Ray, would be home any minute. It broke her heart to think of how hard he was working for such little pay. Her stomach let out another rumble. There, in the cabinet, sat one can of beans. Twenty-one days left until the next pay check, and one can of beans. The baby was crying, sweat was dripping down her temples, and there was one can of beans.
She could have cried, she could have ran. All these things went through her mind, but something inside of her begged to do otherwise. It came to her in the voice of her grandmother, the most intelligent woman she had ever known.
So she prayed.
It was five o’ clock and Ray was late. There was a knock at the door. It was her neighbor.
“I noticed there was a young man that lives here” the old lady said.
“My husband?” Lura was a little puzzled.
“I suppose. Well, I was wondering if I could ask a favor.” She continued without any acknowledgment, “I have lived alone for many years now, there are a few things around my place I could use a hand with. I don’t have much money, but I can cook a good meal, and if you ever need a babysitter for the little one I’m always home.”
Lura smiled.
Over the course of the next eleven years, God would continue to take care of Lura and her family. However, life was far from perfect.
She had fulfilled the promise to herself to go to college, and finish. She moved her family back to Tennessee. She lived in a nice house, drove a nice car, had two beautiful children. But at night, when she laid her head down to sleep, she still cried.
Her mother was sick. So she packed her things, kissed her children goodbye, and went to do what she felt was her duty.
Four years passed, she was the only sibling left, and her mother had far exceeded the doctors calculations. She could no longer make the three hour commute back and forth, and she was beginning to miss her family immensely. She could have put her mother in a home. She could have relinquished all responsibility. She could have remembered the hurt, the violence, the anguish. Instead, her family picked up their lives, and moved once again.
I believe it was at that point I began to realize a change in my mother’s eyes. A weakness in her behavior. She was tired. She was drained. She had watched her mother’s wellbeing diminish, and her son suffer severe health problems as well. She had fought long and hard for her belongings. She wanted her children, like most parents, to have the life she never did. This is what God allowed her, she believed.
One year later, Lura gave up. She could no longer sacrifice her families happiness. So they moved yet again.
Another year passed, and spring had sprung. The house was silent. The living room was crowded and Lura needed a moment to herself.
Her old bedroom was at the end of the hallway. She smiled at the pink shag carpet, remembering how hard she had worked to buy it. The walls looked the same, decorated in cream and adorned with the occasional floral painting. Her furniture was long gone. In its’ place stood several bolts of fabric, tables filled with pins, and sewing machines. A shelf was crammed with stuffed animals, and dolls covered the only window. She wasn’t going to let herself hurt anymore. This room, this house, she saw was a thing of the past.
When her mother died, Lura forgave her. It was the best thing she had ever done for herself. She thanked God.
Watching my mother exemplify forgiveness was one of the most important lessons I would ever learn. I too began to live in a more merciful manner. However, with pardoning came weakness.


Chapter Four
Death became a harsh reality to me. It wasn’t the actual departing that rattled me, but the idea that someone you loved could leave you forever. I contemplated this as I watched a couple walking towards me up the shoreline. They were older, the woman’s hand draped across the man’s arm. They were each prepared for the other’s bereavement, and had been for years. I didn’t know them, but I saw the rings. Until death do they part, they had promised. I look down at my ring finger, and sigh. There is sand under my nails, my hands are tan and weathered. I am startled by a noise. It was my own whimper.
When Clay left, a part of me died. I hated myself for letting him go. I had the choice to change, the ability even. I told myself it was pride, or fear that kept me from going back to that church. All along I knew it was anger. Anger towards God, and towards my grandmother for leaving me here. In the end, I had no one to blame but myself.
Weeks had passed since that night on my front lawn. Getting out of bed in the morning was still quite a challenge. Clay was in Arizona, I was in Georgia. When I told him it was over, he went away to school. There was nothing left for him here he had said. At the age of 17, love is life.
I dreamed of catching a plane, telling him everything. Even if I did trek the two-thousand miles, I wondered what was the everything I would say. In the end I knew he and I would never work. There were things about me that would never change.
As always, I began to search for something to make me feel whole again. Summer was nearing, school would be over soon. I decided to get a job. This time I was determined to make my passion a productive one.
An acquaintance told me about a little seafood restaurant right outside the city limits. They had been looking for a waitress for quite some time. I didn’t have much experience but it was a job. I put in an application.
Two days before school let out I got a call. The job was mine. My first Friday night of that summer was spent juggling tea pitchers, and sweating over mixed up orders. It was hell.
I’d been working only a few days when he came into the restaurant. I didn’t know his name, didn’t care to. Everyone else did. They called him Mr. Richard. He saw me in the corner, busing what I thought to be my last table.
Mr. Richard was a tall man. His face was a memorable one. He must have been well into his thirties. A few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and piercing blue eyes were the first things I noticed. A few sprigs of grey hair framed his face. He appeared as though he was a man who had seen it all. His voice was deep, his stance was a proud one.
“Who’s the new girl?” He asked to no one in particular.
So no one answered. He was intrigued. Grabbing a menu he headed to my section and seated himself. I looked at the owner, I just knew she would tell him I was off. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Welcome to Crayfish Lodge. What can I get you to Drink?” I droned.
“Sweet tea. I already know what I want.” He smiled. “I’ll have the Freshwater platter.”
Saying nothing I scribbled down the order and walked away. I wanted this to be my last night.
I had another waitress take the man his food as I counted my tips. He ate in silence. I had seen others eating alone before. Most brought a book, or newspaper, and sometimes chatted with another lonely customer. Mr. Richard just sat and ate. When his plate was clean he emptied his glass, and I took him the check.
“The meal was wonderful.” He looked me in the eyes.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, please come again.” The strength of his gaze caught me off guard, and I was embarrassed.
When he had gone, the eldest waitress told me he was the owner‘s son. I smiled, and pretended to be interested. I wondered if I should feel special. I didn’t.
That night, after the restaurant had closed, I finished my part of the chores and began to gather my things.
“Where are you going?” Asked Mandy, our kitchen manager.
“Home?” I wasn’t sure what to say.
“You stole those shrimp tonight. Don’t think your going to get away with it.” She blurted.
“What are you talking about?” I raised my voice.
I had taken the last table of the night, and spilled tea all down the front of my shirt. My feet were aching, and my back hurt. I smelled like fish, and now I was being accused of thieving. I had taken all I could handle.
I could feel my ears burning, my cheeks caught on fire. My heart was pounding behind my eyeballs. I wanted to punch her. I wanted to cry. Mostly, I wanted to run.
“Next time there is left over food,” She smirked. “I expect you to put it in the fridge.”
“Next time there is left over food,” I mocked. “Shove it.” Luckily my voice was barely audible. I guess I wanted the job after all.
I got a speeding ticket that night on the way home. I picked up the phone to call Clay. I cried. Clay was gone, and I was exhausted. I wondered what Nolan was doing.