SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL (Something Like Normal #1)

Two

I awake, totally aware I’m drooling out of the side of my mouth, but I don’t have the energy to move. Only when my neck creaks in protest as I attempt to shift do I wipe the spittle off my chin with the back of my sleeve.

My eyes drift over the boring landscape. It’s not much to look at, but the farther we drive, the farther away I am from my past. I could be riding into hell, and that would be better than the alternative of staying in LA.

Rolling my eyes, I tell myself to harden the f**k up because, yes, my life sucked. And yes, my father made every villain look like Santa Claus. But I won’t let that fucker dictate how I live my new life. I won’t give him the satisfaction of being in control of me ever again.

Leaning my head back on the headrest, I close my eyes. Being alone with these thoughts should be daunting, but funnily enough, they aren’t. They’re simply a reminder of what I went through to get here.

Do I feel guilty for shooting my dad in cold blood? No.

Do I feel guilty for leaving his body to bleed out on the floor? No.

Do I feel guilty at all? No.

No, no, and no.

Did my dad feel guilty when he came home high or drunk and beat me every day with the belt I got him for Father’s Day? No.

Did my dad feel guilty the first time he traded me to his drug dealer, Big Phil, to pay for his drugs? No.

Did my dad feel guilty the day he decided he could use me to pay off his drug debt in ways no nineteen-year-old girl ever should? No.

That day was only two days ago, and that was the day I’d had enough.

That was the last day of my old life.

So the fact I have no remorse for what I did to my father doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me a survivor. And in my world, where it’s survival of the fittest, I had no choice. It was either him or me.

And for once, I chose me.

“Okay, folks, we’re here. Thank you for choosing Greyhound to get you safely to your destination. We hope to see you again real soon.”

I don’t know how many hours have passed. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what day it is since I’ve slept like the dead. But none of that matters because I’ve done it. I’m away from him, and I can start afresh.

It’s dark outside, and storm clouds pass over the murky sky.

Grabbing my backpack and eagerly making my way toward the front of the empty bus, elated to start my new life, I’m stopped by the driver on the way out.

“You got someone to pick you up, miss?” he asks, head bowed while writing in his logbook.

Why does this stranger want to know my life story? Back home, no one asked me anything unless they wanted something.

“Yup,” I reply dismissively and descend the steps as quickly as possible.

Sinking into my hood, which is a habit of mine, I arrange it to cover my face and blend into the darkened night. I look around at the unfamiliar sights and take it all in.

“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to scare you earlier,” someone says from behind me.

Jumping back, I’m startled when I feel a strange hand rest on my shoulder. I swallow the bile in my throat as I hate being touched by people I don’t know.

“Back off,” I snarl, spinning around quickly, ready to wage war.

The man, who I recognize as the bus driver, raises his hands in surrender, looking a little pale.

“Sorry, I mean no harm. I just thought you looked like you needed a place to stay, that’s all. There’s a motel not too far up the road. I know the owner, Hank. We go way back. You tell him Bertie sent ya, and he’ll fix you up a room till you find your feet.”

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “What makes you think I haven’t found my feet already?”

Bertie shuffles uncomfortably and chooses his words carefully.

“I’ve been doing this job a long time, miss, and well, you get to know people.”

“No offense, Bertie,” I sneer. “But you know f**k all about me. So I’d appreciate it if you just mind your own f*****g business.”

Bertie’s face drops, and damn, I feel a pang of regret for being so rude to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss.” He averts his eyes, and suddenly, a profound sadness overtakes him.

I know that feeling all too well.

“You just remind me of my daughter,” he clarifies, clearing his throat.

As much as I hate to blow him off, I’m not here to make friends or owe anyone favors. And I certainly don’t want to be reminding anyone of their daughter.

“Well, in that case, go bother her,” I bark angrily, about to leave this awkward scene behind me.

I never used to be this way. But growing up among drug dealers and users hardens you up fast.

Watching Bertie’s face drop further, I tell myself to walk away because I don’t have time for this s**t.

“I would, but she passed about a year ago.”

The look on his face touches something inside me that I thought was long dead.

I feel guilt.

“I’m…sorry…about your daughter,” I offer when Bertie meets my uncomfortable gaze.

Bertie nods and wipes his teary eyes.

“Thank you. Anyway, if you change your mind, the motel is about a mile up the road. You can’t miss it. It’s a big, ugly building with a red flashing cat. It’s called Night Cats.”

When I can see the tacky, buzzing cat sign, I stumble toward it, thankful the rain has held off.

Looking around the parking lot, I search for Norman Bates because this motel is a dead ringer for the Bates Motel.

The wraparound walkways are weather-worn and in desperate need of a good coat of paint. I think the original color was yellow, but it’s hard to tell due to the heavy rot. A sad-looking basketball hoop is tucked away toward the back of the motel, and it’s fair to say it’s seen better days.

A flashing red arrow zaps loudly, pointing in the direction of the office, which offers twenty-four-hour check-in.

As the digital clock sitting under the fluorescent crimson motel sign ticks over to one twenty-four a.m., I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Only then do I realize how dog-tired I am, regardless of how much I slept on the bus.

I can’t wait to crash, so I quickly make my way through the deserted parking lot, the gravel crunching loudly under my Chucks. My heart begins to beat faster when I hear a loud howling echoing in the distance.

Quickening my step, as I do not want to meet the owner of that ominous yowl, I charge into the tiny reception area, which smells of stale cigarettes and coffee. A TV with its volume close to being mute is humming from behind the maroon curtain, and I can’t help but think it’s just background noise for whoever sits in front of the screen.

A silver bell sits on the long, wooden counter, which I ding twice.

As I wait for someone to come out, I look around the room and its minimal offerings. The reception desk takes up most of the space, and behind the counter, I eye the keys lined up neatly, attached to the back wall.

Leaning to the left in an attempt to peer through the gap in the curtain to see if anyone is back there proves to be futile because I can’t see anything. Just as I’m contemplating whether to ring the bell again, an older gentleman comes strolling out, wiping the sleep from his tired eyes.

“What can I get for you, miss?” he asks kindly, giving me a crooked smile.

If I had a grandfather, I would want him to look like this old man. With his thinning gray hair and weathered skin, I automatically like him.

“How many days can I stay here with this?” I ask, reaching into my backpack and sliding my minimal offerings across the counter.

Grandpa, as I’ve dubbed him, counts my money and scrunches up his brow.

“Probably four, five days,” he says, separating the bills from the coins. “Is this all you have?”

“Yes,” I answer, wiping a hand down my exhausted face.

I know it’s not much, but I’ll be out job hunting as soon as first light breaks.

“Are you staying or passing through?” Grandpa questions kindly.

For some reason, I don’t find his questions to be invasive. That might be because there’s only kindness behind his crinkled eyes.

“Just passing through. Once I get a job and save enough money, I’ll be out of here and looking for my mom,” I confess openly, which surprises me.

This is the first time I’m sharing my plans with another living soul. Saying them aloud makes what I am doing, and more importantly, what I have done, all the more real.

“Oh.” Grandpa’s mouth dips, and I see it. I see pity in his aged, wise eyes.

I hate that look, and I instantly regret the overshare.

“So can I get a room or not?” I ask, attempting to steer Grandpa away from asking any more personal questions.

“Of course,” he says quickly, and the pity look fades.

His shaky fingers tremble as they reach for my room key, and I wonder if he has someone here to help him out. Someone younger and less frail.

Grandpa should be in bed or on some seniors’ cruise, sailing the Bahamas, not manning this reception desk at this ungodly hour.

I watch with interest as he pulls out a leather-bound logbook from where he keeps it tucked away under the counter. He’s in no real hurry as he reaches for his silver-rimmed glasses, which are hanging loosely from a linked chain around his neck. And as he perches them on the tip of his narrow nose, I can’t help but examine the wrinkles on the back of his hand.

I look down at my hands, which are youthful and wrinkle-free, and it’s hard to believe that Grandpa’s hands once resembled mine. How age can change one’s appearance baffles me. Will my hands look like Grandpa’s when I get to his age? Or the better question would be if I ever get to his age.

He slides the key across the counter, snapping me out of my haze. As I look up at him, there is that damn kind-hearted look in his eyes again. I quickly snatch the key so I can get the hell away from his compassionate gaze.

Before I can flee, Grandpa asks, “Is there anything particular you’re looking for?”

I raise my eyebrow at him, not following.

“I mean, job-wise,” he explains with a smile.

“Anything that pays and is relatively legal.”

Grandpa looks at me and lets out a loud, hearty laugh. He wipes the tear that has escaped from the corner of his crinkled eye.

My mouth tips up into a small smile, but it’s gone before I can second-guess it.

“Well, if you’re interested,” Grandpa says, leaning forward onto the counter casually, “I have a job available here.”

“You do?”

“Now before you get too excited, it’s working in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the guests and then cleaning out the rooms once they check out. I can offer you cheap accommodation in one of the rooms, and the pay, well, it’s nothing flashy, but—”

“It’s perfect,” I interrupt. “Can I start tomorrow?”

Grandpa smiles broadly, revealing a few missing back teeth.

“Is that a yes?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers and not bothering to amend his comment.

Grandpa smiles, and his kind, gray eyes give me all the confirmation I need.

“I’m Hank, by the way,” he says, extending his hand.

Internally thanking Bertie for sending me this way, I look down at his weathered, wrinkled hand, and shake it firmly.

“I’m Paige. Paige Cassidy.”

The pseudonym rolls off my tongue easily.

But that’s who I am now.

Mia Lee was a victim.

But Paige Cassidy is a survivor.