Because of You

  Because of You

  a novel by

  Laura Ward

  Because of You

  Copyright © 2018 by Laura Ward

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the struggle.

  The struggle to follow your dreams. To write the book, sing the song, apply for the job, make the change, fix the wrong, and mend the wounded heart.

  We struggle to parent, to love, to find the ever elusive balance in our lives.

  The struggle lives in all of us and each day we battle it out. Some days we lose, but the hope remains that we will prevail.

  And in the end, no matter what we choose to fight for each day, we are stronger for trying.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Not Yet Series Short Stories

  Cockblocked

  Turkey Day and an Asshole Dog

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Ricky

  WHEN I WAS a child, I realized a monster lived inside me. At first, I thought he was my friend. By the ages of two and three, I was blaming him for my temper tantrums, milk spillage, ravenous appetite or lost naps.

  “Mama, the monster woke up. He needs another song.”

  Or, “Papa, the monster is so hungry. Another cookie, por favor, or he will growl and wake up baby Marcela.”

  At the ripe old age of four, I got to know my monster well. Our relationship grew stronger because I got scared, more terrified than I had ever felt in my life. And that monster did nothing to calm me. He didn’t comfort me or offer me hope. No, that monster grew bigger and louder. He roared with anger and rage. He spread that venom through my bones and blood, how I imagined a superhero’s power spread, changing a mere mortal into something otherworldly.

  For the rest of my life, I would struggle to contain the monster inside me. At times, he was dormant. But when I was scared or angry, he erupted.

  I steeled myself: clenched jaw, shuttered eyes, flattened lips, fists formed, feet planted. To everyone else, I probably looked ready to kill, but in reality, I was controlling the burning fury.

  An appearance of feral ferocity was much better than the alternative.

  Because to give in, meant that I lost. That the beast inside won. And if that happened, people would be hurt. Possibly even me. Most certainly people that didn’t deserve the beast’s wrath.

  That was the goal. I had to tame the monster inside.

  I did that for most of my life.

  But at the age of twenty-two years old, I finally failed.

  And when I did, I lost it all.

  Chapter One

  Ricky

  “I’M TURNING DOWN the scholarship. Like Ricky did.” My sister, Marcela, stood next to the battered refrigerator. As I walked further into the kitchen, her lips pressed into a hard line. She was adamant. Taking the top of the packet of scholarship paperwork in each hand, she pulled in opposite directions, ripping it down the middle.

  Tears formed in my mother’s brown eyes as she pressed the frayed red plaid dish towel to her chest. “No! Marcela, you can’t do this. Please, mija. You must go to college.”

  “Marcela, you’re going to school. I’ll get another job. Postpone my classes.” My voice came out steady, but inside my heart raged, fueled by the caged beast trapped inside. The thought of my younger sister missing out on college, not to mention a full ride, made my head throb. There had to be a better way. A different option.

  She wouldn’t be forced to follow the same road I had taken. Turning down a full scholarship to college was a necessity, but I had managed to attend classes part-time at community college while working one full-time job and a part-time job at night. Most of my friends graduated last spring with their bachelor’s, completing college in the expected four years. I was looking at ten plus to complete my degree. Once I dug up the pot of gold at the end of the motherfucking rainbow, I could attend a four-year college and finish my studies.

  Teresa, my youngest sister, stepped into the tiny kitchen, her brown eyes wide with apprehension. As a family unit, we kept our voices down and our tones calm for the sake of my father’s health. This level of emotion was rare. Teresa opened the fridge, taking out a carton of milk and placing it on the chipped Formica countertop.

  The three of us watched her open the cabinet where Mama stored dry goods. She pulled out a box of generic cereal, emptying the meager contents that were left into a bowl before throwing the box into the trash. She added only a few drops of milk, saving the rest for us I was sure, and placed it back in the fridge.

  At seventeen, Teresa was tall and slender, her long black hair thick and straight. As we all did, she wore clothes that were faded, her jeans ripped from use and not fashion. Her red sweater was pilled, but clothes couldn’t take away from her beauty. No lack of money could make my sisters anything but beautiful. I often imagined the difference if they could afford the luxuries many other girls their age had.

  “There’s not enough food, Ricardo. Look at Teresa’s bowl,” Marcela snapped, yanking the sleeves of her blue sweater to
her elbows. Teresa’s face fell from the scrutiny. She spooned a small scoop of flakes and slowly lifted it to her mouth.

  “You’re only going to a few classes a semester and already working two jobs. What more can you do?” Marcela held her arms out, palms up.

  Marcela’s long black hair was braided, but otherwise, she matched Teresa in her school attire of jeans and a sweater.

  “Mama,” Marcela continued. “The bills keep piling up.” She gestured to the corner where a basket overflowed with mail. “Insurance covers less and less each year. There is no other option. I need to pitch in.”

  “Marcela, please. You’ll pitch in after you graduate from medical school like you’ve planned for the last eighteen years. You have straight A’s. You’ll have many college credits stored up from your advanced classes when you graduate. What a waste to throw that away! All that time and energy. No. I won’t allow it.” Mama’s voice increased in volume.

  She stilled, hearing the shrill alarm coming from the adjoining room. Mama ran to the family room, her words hushed and soothing as the alarm stopped.

  Stepping out of the kitchen, I took in my father. Strapped into a wheelchair, his breathing ragged, the ventilator he required for oxygen old and well used. He needed a new one, but the most advanced devices weren’t covered by our insurance. My muscles quivered, the loss of control too much for me to handle. My heart pounded, and chest tightened.

  “Ricky,” Marcela quietly hissed from beside me. Her attention, like mine, was laser focused on our father. “I’ve been studying the latest journals with my biology teacher. There’s a chance that with the advances they’ve made in electrical brain stimulation that Papa could even find a way to communicate with us again. But the only way to get that for him is with money that we don’t have.” Her body shook as she spoke.

  My sister’s intensity filled me with panic. A need to solve this problem, to make everyone’s lives better. I cracked my knuckles to release some tension.

  “Papa is the priority, not me. I need to be here for him.” Marcela’s voice broke, her words choked.

  I pulled her into my arms. “Listen to me. I’ll figure this out. I know how bad things are around here right now. Give me some time. I’ll handle it. Keep going to school. Don’t turn down the scholarship. Think how much you’ll help Mama and Papa with an MD after your name. We need you to stay strong and focused, Marcela.” I kissed the top of her head and hugged her to my side.

  I pointed a finger at my youngest sister, who had left her cereal untouched the last few minutes. She stared at us with that damn worried expression. All the result of a shitty situation a junior in high school shouldn’t have to bear. “You too, Teresa. Focus on school. Be a good girl, don’t change anything. Let me worry about the money and Papa.” I tightened my grip on Marcela’s shoulder when she tried to pull away.

  Teresa stood, placing the last small spoonful into her mouth, then dropped her bowl in the sink with a loud clatter. “This isn’t fair, Ricky. Why does all the responsibility have to fall on you? You’re missing out on life. I hate this. I hate that Papa got hurt and I hate that we all have to suffer for it.” Teresa ran out of the kitchen, hands pressed to her mouth.

  Marcela met my eyes with an expression that mirrored the anguish all of us felt. None of this was fair. None of this was right.

  I’d been trying to fix these issues for years. I’d given up on my dreams to help Papa. While my best friends partied their way through college, I worked. My life wasn’t one of a normal twenty-two-year-old.

  And for what? No matter the sacrifice, it wasn’t enough. Time to help Papa was clearly running out. If something didn’t change, he would die.

  At the thought, the monster inside me howled in despair.

  Chapter Two

  Ricky

  FORMING A FIST, I punched the door to Psych 201 open, pleased to hear it bang against the wall. Psychology was my last required core class before getting my associate’s degree from Indianapolis Community College.

  I walked into the crowded lecture hall toward the rows of seats, avoiding eye contact with my fellow students. I didn’t give a fuck what they thought of me.

  Immediately, I felt eyes tracking me. I didn’t look the part of a typical college student. I’d give them that. Like my sisters, I had thick, straight black hair that I also wore long, gathered at the back of my skull into a low ponytail. Colorful and bold tattoos were prevalent on my arms, neck, and hands. Money spent on tattoos was a luxury I didn’t allow myself. Bartering my mechanical skills in exchange for tats at my buddy’s shop, was an ideal arrangement. The permanent expression on my skin and the pain involved getting it, a hedonistic pleasure.

  I wore a faded leather jacket, distressed, holey jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a t-shirt—all within the color range of white, grey, or black. Not because I was trying to make a statement. Promoting a look or dressing for status was comical. I wore the same outfits repeatedly because it was all I owned. Over the years, I’d watched rich, pretty boys try and copy my biker look, hoping their attitude would be reflected by their clothing. My friends, the guys I’d trust with my life—Landon, Dean, and Jon—would howl with laughter at the irony.

  My attitude had nothing to do with wardrobe or the antiquated motorcycle I’d ridden since I’d scraped the money together to buy it.

  My attitude was learned from life. Loss. Loyalty. And family.

  Anything for my family.

  Walking up the steps, I passed rows of seats arranged theatre-style, elevated, so that everyone would get a view of the professor. An aisle seat, perfect for an easy exit, beckoned me. The middle rows of the lecture hall were always my choice. I wasn’t an ass-kissing fucker, like those in the first few rows, but I also paid attention and gave a shit, unlike the back-row fuckers.

  To say I hated having to take a class like Psychology would be an understatement. Who needed to analyze themselves or others? I despised the concept of therapy-speak. My version was more, “I hear what you’re saying, Señor numb nuts, but you’re a fool.” Or “Grow the fuck up. Move the hell on. Get over yourself.” Lips pursed, I held back a smile. I’d be a badass therapist.

  I slung my ratty backpack in front of my feet, pulling out a spiral bound notebook and pen. Unlike most of these privileged shitheads, there was no laptop on my desk. I had to use one of the college’s library computer rooms to type papers.

  As I turned to a new page, I glanced at my fingernails. Despite a long, hot shower, black grease remained caked under the nail beds. I had been out until four o’clock in the morning the night before. One of my jobs was steam cleaning restaurant vents after they closed for the night. It was disgusting work, but it paid great. That job alone covered household groceries for the next month. Not to mention the owner, Matteo, always had a six-pack waiting for me at the end of a long shift. I’d enjoy a couple of those cervezas tonight.

  “Hello?” A thin, rigid looking woman in a blue pantsuit stood in the front of the room, clapping her hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Alicia Redmond. Welcome to Psych 201, Psychology of Personality.”

  Dr. Redmond walked to the table next to her podium and picked up a large stack of papers. “This is your course syllabus. Required texts, assignments, and important dates are included here. I advise you to read this thoroughly and keep it handy.” She strolled up the center aisle, handing a stack of papers to each student seated at the end of the row, nodding for us to pass them down. When she came to me, I took the papers, grabbing one from the top, handing the rest of the pile to the next person without a glance.

  I scanned the document. Not much captured my interest these days. With my boys all off in different places, I hadn’t taken the time to make new friends. My focus was on helping my family and getting my degree.

  But after perusing the college’s course catalog, the description of this particular class struck me. While I thought therapy was utter bullshit, this class covered a topic I found fascinating—person
ality. Mine was fucked up, no denying that. I’d like to understand why.

  “Now that you’ve all had a chance to look at the syllabus, let’s get started. Psychology 201 is a popular course for both pre-Psych majors and those seeking interesting elective courses. Why? Because inherently, we all want to know why we are damaged. Am I right?”

  A spattering of awkward laughter filled the room. She was exactly right though, and I understood long ago that not many people wanted to admit they were fucked up.

  “In this class we will define personality and attempt to understand how individual personality evolved. You will take and administer several personality tests, as well as discuss personality disorders. The greats will heavily influence our discussions: Freud, Maslow, Piaget, and Erikson are integral parts of our discourse.” Dr. Redmond stopped pacing the stage and stood in front of her podium, elbows on top, and hands folded.

  “Spoiler alert. I’ll tell you the answers to our studies for this class right now. On the first day. Feel free to leave after I share this information if you are satisfied.” She paused, scanning the room.

  Students fidgeted, restless and uncomfortable with the quiet perhaps, but most likely the way she watched us. Her eyes were probing, but they didn’t bother me. She could look as closely as she wanted. No one got inside me.

  “Nature versus nurture,” she went on. “That’s what everyone wants to know. That’s why you’re here, right? You want to blame your baggage on your parents or your genetics. I know, I know. I do, as well.”

  She moved away from the microphone, facing us now with her hands on her slim hips. “If only life consisted of easy explanations for your questions, people. The answer is both. Neither weighs more heavily. The combination is complicated, fluid, and delicate. Your genes and your society equally affect the person you will become.”

  Fiddling with her laptop, she powered on the large whiteboard that displayed a replica of the class syllabus. “If you’re in with me for the tough journey… the one that will make you question everything you know about yourself, your family, your friends, society, and hell, your government… pull up your big girl or boy pants and open your minds.”