Leap

  Leap

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016 by M.R. Joseph

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  Cover Design by

  Redkar Design

  Interior Design & Formatting by

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Editing by

  Kathy Krick and Holly Malgieri

  Table of Contents

  Leap

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  For Chrissy

  For battling your war with bravery and perseverance. For accepting the things you cannot change. For being my family, which you are and always will be, whether you like it or not. For not only being a friend to me for thirty years, but being a sister. Thank you for being an inspiration, a realist, and a dreamer. This is for you, Henrietta.

  Love, Bertha

  CORRINE

  I don’t really know much these days. My brain isn’t where it should be. Each new day brings hope but I can’t bank on that. What I am sure of, is that I don’t remember a time when Mack Cooper wasn’t in my life. I don’t know a world without him. I felt his presence even when I didn’t know he was near. Maybe that’s why I feel the way I do. I felt safe and secure knowing our bedroom windows faced each other. I knew just beyond the thick glass of the windowpanes, Mack was lying in his bed reading one of his silly comics or writing an article for the school newspaper. As our teen years approached, I’d think about other things he was doing in that bed. Who was he thinking about, and were they worthy of his thoughts and his feelings, or were they solely a face without a name? Just another thing on my list of things I should have asked Mack Cooper.

  I think about our young parents both starting their new families. They moved into a brand new neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses in Long Beach, on Long Island’s South Shore. It was a beach town full of shops and restaurants, surfers, and families. The perfect place to make a new start. They didn’t know each other then, but as soon as moving trucks pulled in front of their homes, which happened to be next to each other—the stories began. We met in utero that day. Our mothers were pregnant at the same time—Jocelyn Cooper was eight months along with Mack, and my mom, Mae, almost six months pregnant with me. Our moms told us the tale of how they stepped out of their respective cars and waddled to their new front doors, turned and noticed each other rubbing their bellies in sync, then smiled and waved.

  The rest they tell us—is history.

  They would tell Mack and me stories of vacations we took together. Holidays spent together. Birthday parties. Summer nights spent walking the boardwalk of Long Beach and how Mack and I were inseparable. How I wish those days weren’t behind us. I long for them. I wish I could go back in time and relive every one of them. The stories Mack’s mom, Jocelyn, and my mom tell me are the ones I’m holding on to.

  I’ve been praying, but I’m losing my faith and feel all hope is lost.

  I haven’t heard his voice in one hundred seventy days. The minutes and days since he’s been gone tick by so slowly and so painfully, sometimes I can’t breathe. The brightness of the morning restarts the countdown till the pink clouds of dusk come and end the day. I stare at the phone all day. I jump when I hear the mailman or the newspaper hitting the front step when it’s delivered. When there’s no ringing of the telephone or just find the paper at my door.

  When I close my eyes, the only thing I see is Mack’s face. I see his chestnut colored hair and the warmth of his sparkling amber eyes. The sight of the strong angle of his jaw and the slight slope of his nose would make anyone stop in their tracks and gaze at him. Mack’s devastatingly, aristocratic looks never fooled me though. I always knew there was so much more behind the looks.

  I see the small scar above his right eye from when we were ten, and I threw a rock at him for telling the boys in the neighborhood that I stuffed my bra. Ten stitches for Mack, and for me, no TV for a month. I can still feel the smooth and shiny skin of the scar under the pad of my thumb. It would become red when he was upset. I used to run my thumb across it when we fought. It was my way of saying I’m sorry to him. Then slowly, with a smile, he’d lean into my touch and all would be right again between us. I’m not good at sorry, so when this act took place Mack just knew. I was always sorry for hurting him with that rock, and while growing up this was my sorry go-to.

  What I wouldn’t give right now to touch him—to say to him, “Please, Mack, stay.” Instead, my stubbornness took hold of me and he didn’t stay. The way he left was my fault. I shouldn’t have let him walk out that door. I should have demanded he stay.

  When I close my eyes, I can hear his voice. I can hear him calling to me.

  Rinny.

  His nickname for me since we were toddlers. Since he stuttered so badly the Cor in my name couldn’t be pronounced, so Rinny it became. No one else could call me that. No other boy in my whole life could ever mutter it—not even my dad. It belonged to him. My name and my heart belonged to MacIntyre Cooper.

  I miss hearing it. I miss the smoothness of the way he called me Corrine when we were a little older and he was serious. Growing up he was my protector. The role of older brother is what he played. If I close my eyes, I can hear him saying, “Corrine, you need to swing that bat evenly. Stop chopping wood,” or “Corrine, stop fighting with Mae and just do your chores so we can take the metal detectors down to the beach and search for treasure,” or “Corrine, that guy is an asshole. Don’t date him.” Then there was “Corrine, you look beautiful today.”

  Those words came later. The simplicity of the word beautiful impacted me so much, not because someone thought of me that way, but it was because it was Mack who thought of me that way. He was the only one who could speak those words and make them mean something to me. Mack was my first everything. My first friend. My first partner in crime, my first batting coach, my first kick to a set of balls, my first kiss, my first … love. My only love. The one man who could bring me to my knees just with the sheer masculinity of his voice. Words rolled off Mack’s tongue like sinful chocolate. Velvet and silky. His words were mesmerizing, intoxicating, and forceful at times, but no matter what—you hung onto each one. He commanded a room without being militant about it. People gravitated to him. It was the way he was … still is. I hope.

  If there is a God and he hears my prayers and the prayers of his mother and our families, I hope he answers them. I hope he’s safe. I hope he’s trying to come back to us. I pray he’s not with God but that He is watching over him.

  After hearing him almost every day of my life, I’m not used to not
hearing him. I play his last voicemail in the morning and before I fall asleep at night. Even though I’m hearing him—it’s not the same. The unfathomable truth sets in—I may never hear his voice speaking to me in the flesh again.

  I’ve seen his face. His body draped in soiled clothes. I’ve seen him with a black hood on. He was on his knees reading something the bad people told him to read. It wasn’t in English. His captors spoke in another language above Mack’s own voice. His were muffled. Words that haunt me.

  “Will kill me.”

  “I will never return.”

  “Demands need to be met.”

  Those words sliced at my heart like a scalpel and sounded like nails on a chalkboard in my mind.

  That was the last time we saw his beautiful face, even if it was covered in purplish bruises and cuts. That was the last time we heard anything else about his whereabouts.

  Mack always told me when things got tough and I no longer felt like I’m strong enough to get through difficulties in my life, I needed to take the leap. The leap of faith. He told me there were only some things we don’t have control over. Our fates are decided for us long before we were ever made up. As I said, my faith is failing me, and fate has brought us here. I don’t want us to be here. I just want Mack.

  I need to repeat the mantra Mack always told me. When the going gets tough—just leap.

  CORRINE ~ PRESENT DAY

  “Corrine? Sweetie? Did you take your medicine this morning?” I look over my shoulder at my mother as she dries her hands on her worn fruit pattern apron. I don’t answer. I continue to look out at the sea grass and water from the back porch of my parent’s house.

  She sighs, and I hear her footsteps on the wooden decking coming closer. She places her hand on my shoulder.

  “I could fix you something to eat in case you haven’t taken them yet. I know you’ve been having a reaction to them if there’s nothing in your stomach.”

  My hands twist in my lap. I don’t want anything to eat. I never want anything to eat. I know I need to because she’s right—the medicines I’m on do upset my stomach if it’s empty.

  “Maybe just some toast, thank you.” I don’t look at her when I ask. I feel like a robot when I speak. I feel so empty. I appreciate how she’s taking care of me, but words are so hard for me to get out. Each one takes effort.

  She taps my shoulder, and I hear her shoes trail off in the distance. I look out into the backyard again and close my eyes when the sea air blows my hair, the scent of it engulfing my nostrils. I hear the sounds of the seagulls in the distance, and feel the air changing. The crispness of the fall will be here soon. I can smell it.

  The months are going by so fast. The seasons are coming and going like the wind. My mom comes and places a small plate in my lap and a glass of juice beside me on a small table. And my pills. The medicine.

  The new bane of my existence.

  I count them.

  Five pills. I stare at them. All colorful and sized differently. They look like candy, but they’re not.

  “Corrine, please eat both pieces. I put peanut butter on them. I know how much you like it.” I look up at the beautiful woman beside me. She smiles without showing me her teeth. She can’t smile like she used to either since there’s not too much to smile about. I see her graying hair and the creases near the corners of her eyes, but she’s still youthful looking. Must be her Italian heritage. Good genes. Mediterranean skin.

  She pulls up a chair to sit next to me—no doubt she wants to make sure I eat everything and take all the prescribed medication resting next to the juice on the table.

  I take a bite of the toast. I chew without a lot of strength in my jaw.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He took Jocelyn over to Merrick to pick up Haven.” I nod.

  “It’s not her week.”

  “I know. Haven’s grandmother is going on one of those fifty-five and older cruises with her church friends. She asked if Joce could take her for the week.”

  Instantly annoyed, I shake my head in disgust as I attempt to take another bite of my toast.

  “Figures. I don’t know how she can be so carefree and just go off on a cruise and leave Haven. Not that I’m complaining about Haven being here but …” My voice trails off.

  “Corrine, people like Grace think that moving on from the past is best. She’s very spiritual and has found peace in her church, so I think that may have something to do with it.”

  I put down the toast and brush off a few crumbs that landed in my lap.

  “I guess that’s what you do when your daughter dies after choosing heroin over her own child.”

  “What is it you do?” my mother asks with confusion in her voice.

  “Find Jesus.” I look at her with a corner of my mouth curling upwards.

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes disapproving of the way I just went there. Yes, I went there because I’m angry. I will always be angry.

  “Seriously, Mae. Grace was always the one who turned the other cheek. Even when Haven was born and she had to go through detox as a newborn. Grace still didn’t believe her own daughter who was at fault.”

  I angrily take a few more bites of my toast and finish the first piece. Mae holds the glass of juice and two out of five pills inside the palm of her hand above my lap. I call her by her first name when she annoys me. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, and I mean no disrespect—especially at such a crucial time, but we’ve always had a sort of turbulent relationship. I’m the only child—a girl, and she has pretty much disapproved of everything I’ve ever done. Except when it came to Haven. My dad isn’t crazy about me using her first name in most instances, and for my mother—well most of the time she just lets it go.

  “These are the two you need to take with something in your stomach. Take them now, then finish the other piece of toast.”

  I look up at her, irritated. I don’t hold out my hand to accept them. She gives me a warning look and shakes her hand slightly, urging me to take them. I let out a puff of air and open up my closed fist, begrudgingly. She places them in my hand, and I look at them.

  “Which ones are these?” I ask, still not sure which is which.

  “Pink is Effexor. Seventy-five milligrams. The yellow is Clonazepam, one milligram.”

  I look at the pills in my hand. Thank God for the yellow. I know the yellow one. I’m familiar with the yellow one.

  “Ah, this one.” I hold it up to Mae and wink at her. “This one is my friend.”

  She grazes my cheek with her thumb. “I know, baby. I know.”

  I thank God and the good Dr. Arnie Fishburn for the yellow. Anti-anxiety meds are not for the weak. They are for the discouraged, the lonely, and the lost. I am all of the above. Dr. Arnie Fishburn, psychologist, tells me so.

  I glance down at my hand again, grab the juice glass from my mother’s hand, throw the pills in my mouth, and swallow. I feel them go down into my throat in a swan dive. Smooth sailing.

  I look up at her and grin—sarcastically of course. Mae points to the other piece of toast and demands I eat it.

  “That wasn’t so bad was it? Now finish that other piece before Haven gets here. You know she’s going to make a beeline for you as soon as her little butt gets out of the car.”

  I think about Haven and how much she looks like her dad. Same eyes, same color hair, same sloped little nose, and same silly laugh. It’s her, and only her, who can bring a smile to my face.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m glad I got washed and dressed before I came out here then. I don’t think I have the energy to get up right now and, knowing Haven, she’ll have me going till sundown.”

  Mae laughs. “Oh, that girl. So much like her father. Full of energy.”

  I swallow the lump that formed in my throat when she says that. Even though she doesn’t say his name, it doesn’t matter. Haven is like her father. Just like him.

  “Corrine, please finish that toast and take the other pills. She’ll be here
soon and you know you get tired in the afternoon. It takes a while for your body to adjust to all of them. It’s not going to be like this forever.”

  I could have said something else to her—something shitty, but I chose not to. She and my dad have been my rocks. They have been Jocelyn’s too. Thank God for my parents. I respond but only thinking it in my head.

  That’s what I fear, Mom. That it will be worse and everything will be forever.

  “Yes, I know. I just have to give it some time.”

  My mom bends down and kisses the top of my head as I take another bite of my toast.

  In the near distance, I can hear the sound of my dad’s car on the gravel and sand of our driveway. When I see the car curve around the back of the house and pull up, my mom grabs the other three pills and reenacts what she did a few minutes ago.

  “Corrine, please? Take the pills. She’s here.”

  I take them from her, throw them in the back of my throat, and drink the rest of the juice—chasing down the blue, green, and large red pill.

  “Good girl,” she whispers.

  The back door to my dad’s Jeep swings open and she runs out. Full sprinting across the grass towards the back porch and, my God, she is the spitting image of him at that age. Her bouncy brown hair and tanned skin come towards me along with a huge smile on her face.

  “Rinny!” she yells to me. I lied. Haven is the only other person allowed to call me that.

  I smile broadly at her and wave. She’s the only thing that allows me to smile.

  Haven.

  It’s almost as though it’s him running towards me, and with that image I’m transported to the past.

  MACK & CORRINE ~ 1996

  “What kind of name is TLC for a girls group?”

  Mack tosses me the ball and I catch it in my newly oil-rubbed glove my dad bought for me. I throw the ball back to him.