Love Rewards The Brave by Anya Monroe Page A

to
    me.
    I wish she’d let me be.
    Suddenly everything she does makes me mad.
    The caring and sharing
    suddenly feels overbearing.
    I don’t need her sympathy.
    God it has been such a week.
    I haven’t given a second look to the note
    Benji wanted to leave for me
    because when I think about it
    my soul bleeds.
    I don’t need that.
    Not when I need to be strong.
    Strong so Mom will work
    to get me back
    even though Benji is making me pick
    up his slack.
    I can be everything my
    mother needs
    and I am going to prove that
    when we celebrate Christmas
    together.
     

99.
     
    I do my best to remain hopeful
    over the fact that Christmas Eve happiness
    is dependent
    on a woman I shouldn’t count on
    yet still long
    for.
    I’m in Ms. Francine’s car.
    I feel like half my life is spent
    sitting in this vehicle
    as she takes me from one place to the next
    meetingstherapyschool.
    Now
    on the eve of Christmas
    I’m sitting here like a fool
    waiting for Mom to show.
     
    “Louisa, it’s been fifteen minutes since you were supposed to meet, would you like to use my phone to call her?” Ms. F asks.
     
    “No, just give her a few more minutes. She’ll be here.”
     
    Come on
    don’t forget now, after this week.
    I’m on a losing streak.
    Come on
    I don’t want it to happen this way.
    I somehow want Ms. F to be proven wrong.
    Not like she’s told me she wants my mom to fail
    to not follow through,
    but somehow it’s like I think she thinks
    she wouldn’t.
    Come on
    I never need much
    ask for much
    tell too much
    but right now I want to prove to Ms. F-
    the one who is always a show
    never lets go
    or forgets or misses a beat
    that my mom
    remembers
    me.
     
    “It’s been thirty minutes, Louisa. What are you thinking you’d like to do?”
     
    “I don’t care,” I say in the exact way I spoke to her a year ago.
     
    The difference was, then
    I really didn’t
    care.
    And now
    I do.
    But what does that say about
    Mom
    Dad
    Benji
    Ms. Francine
    Margot
    Me
    if I admit that?
     
    We sit in silence another thirty minutes.
    I can’t bear to look at her
    or say a word.
    I want her to say what I’m thinking
    so I can be mad at her for saying
    the things I think.
    Things like:
    “Where the fuck is she?”
    “What the hell is more important than me?”
    “Why am I all alone again,
    like every shitty day of my life?”
     
    “Let’s go. She’s not coming,” I whisper.
     
    Ms. Francine reaches over to take my hand
    her olive branch to let me know
    she understands.
    I pull away
    fast.
    As much I hate my mom and all that
    she’s done to me
    as she sat by and
    watched as my dad destroyed me,
    she’s still my mom.
     
    And I keep holding out hope
    that one-day
    she’ll find a way to pay me back
    for the past.
     
    I was hoping she’d start tonight.
     
    Instead
    I’m driving to Ms. F’s
    cousin’s house, on our way
    to pick up Margot.
    A happy family dinner where everyone
    can celebrate the fact
    they all have more
    than I’ve got.
     

100.
     
    The cousin is KiKi and
    she’s loud and in charge
    and talking my ear off
    the moment I enter her house.
    I head to the bathroom
    as fast as I can.
    Avoiding the toddler tantrum
    happening in the hallway
    and the adults laughing as they
    pour champagne.
    I turn on the fan and I turn on the water.
    And I just want to scream.
    The noise is killing me.
    I take off my coat.
    I take off my gloves.
    I sit on the floor.
    Wanting to pinch myself
    squeeze myself
    illicit some sort
    of pain
    so that I can feel something besides
    the throbbing feeling in my chest that
    Will. Not. Go. Away.
    There’s a knock on the door.
    Another knock.
     
    “Louisa, is that you?”
     
    Shit.
    Margot’s asking to come in and my option is
    let her
    or stand up and go out
    and I can’t do that.
    Not when I am in mini-crisis mode.
    No, bigger-than-that
    I’m in an about-to-explode
    near-heart-attack-condition.
     
    I lift my hand to the doorknob and turn it
    just enough,
    so it can crack