Let Love In Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  My parents are dead. Don’t get me wrong — I am affected by it. I’m trying to get over it, but in all honesty, there’s no way I’ll ever be completely healed. They died when I was ten years old — eight years ago. I’ll never forget the day I lost them, because when I lost them, I lost everything. It was a car accident that killed them — jackknifed tractor-trailer, to be more specific. Since I was only ten, I didn’t need many more details than that. They were gone, and that was that. I have no siblings, and my grandparents on both sides were long gone. I had never known them — they died before I was born. It seemed like my life was plagued by death, and I was only in fourth grade.

  But life has a funny way of going on. You don’t have a choice, really. You wake up, force yourself into some clothes, drag your ass to school, smile and nod as if on cue, do enough work to keep your head above water so as not to raise concern — in short, you deal. You deal with the fact that at ten you are uprooted from the only life you’ve ever known, the only sources of love and warmth horrifyingly ripped away from you in the middle of the night. They were only supposed to be going on a date — dinner and a movie. A funeral and burial weren’t supposed to be part of the package deal.

  But this was my package deal — dead parents and relocation. I was taken away from my quaint little suburban home on Long Island and transplanted to the middle of nowhere. That’s what I like to call it, but it’s really just a few hours outside Manhattan. There isn’t much in upstate New York; I learned that my first winter here. There’s snow and cows — and plenty of both. My dad’s aunt — his mother’s sister, my Aunt Maggie — adopted me. She is sweet and caring, but let’s face it, a sixty-six-year-old spinster taking care of a ten-year-old is not ideal for either party.

  But, like I said, I was — maybe still am — in survival mode. I don’t remember much from the first few years with her. I was in a fog. There was no proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and I was certain that I was doomed to live a gray life. The snow and the cows just helped to support that color scheme.

  My first glimpse of color came in the form of a bubbly redhead. She sat next to me in seventh grade homeroom — we were arranged alphabetically, and Melanie Crane came right after me, Madeleine Becker. Her face was covered in freckles and split impossibly wide with a huge smile pretty much all the time. It was difficult not to notice her — not to be nice to her, not to open up to her. I still remember our first conversation.

  “What’s your favorite color? Mine’s purple. Not the real dark kind, but lavender or lilac. It’s just so pretty. Lilacs are my favorite flower, too — they smell so pretty. My whole room is covered in purple. It’s so me!”

  Okay, so it wasn’t so much of a conversation as a monologue, but when she spoke to me, something inside cracked open just a tiny bit. The part inside that remembered I was just a little girl and that forever was a long time to wade through the sea of gray loneliness engulfing me, weighing me down.

  My lips curled up into the tiniest of smiles, and that was all she needed to know that I was in there somewhere. Maybe she had some kind of ESP to know I was sad. I wasn’t really sure at the time; however, when I look back on it, she definitely did. Melanie is the kindest, most caring and gentle person I have ever met. She is the quintessential “not a mean bone in her body” kind of girl, and because of that, because of my need for kindness and love and warmth, we’ve been best friends ever since. After her praises of the color purple, she invited me to her house the next day. When I told Aunt Maggie about my “playdate,” she was excited, saying that “it would be good for me” to finally make some friends.

  Walking into Melanie’s house the next afternoon was like walking into my past. The house was the definition of warm and cozy — a sofa and love seat anchored the living room with their rich chocolate color, but the rest of the room was airy and light, in varying shades of pale blues and sea greens. It was home, someone else’s home, but a home nonetheless. The bookshelves were jam-packed with kids’ books and overflowing with family pictures — A stark contrast from the doily-covered coffee table overloaded with old lady tchotchkes that characterized Aunt Maggie’s living room.

  I know it’s cliché, but what really made it home was the smell. It was a mixture of some kind of spring meadow air freshener and fresh-baked cookies. No one has ever made me cookies except my mom. I missed her instantly, but I couldn’t dwell on those feelings for long because Melanie grabbed my hand and led me toward the kitchen, where her mom was piling the chocolate chip cookies on a plate for us.

  “Hey, sweetie, how was your day?” Mrs. Crane’s voice reverberated through me, but all I heard was my mom’s voice — crooning sweet comforts in my ear when I was sick, rousing me from sleep when I was drowsy, singing me lullabies when I had a nightmare. “This must be Madeleine. I’ve heard so much about you from Melanie. She just can’t keep shut now, can she?”

  I managed to squeak out a whispered “hi,” but that would never do with Momma Crane. She insisted I call her that. And since everything about her was motherly — slightly graying hair, bright blue eyes set in a warm round face that, just like Melanie’s, was never without a smile — agreeing to call her Momma Crane didn’t even get a second thought in my head.

  I later learned that Momma’s husband, James, was the one true love in her life. He was an architect, and there was some kind of freak accident at work. In an instant, he was pulled from her life. They had been married less than a year, and she was six months pregnant with Melanie when he died. When I found all of this out, I knew that I wanted to be just like Momma. Not that I wanted to lose the love of my life or anything like that, but I wanted to learn how to deal with such life-altering loss in a graceful and strong way. I wanted to survive, just like she had.

  Melanie and I spent the rest of that afternoon — and pretty much every free minute of our teenage existence — in her room singing songs from our favorite boy bands, watching chick flicks, experimenting with our hair and makeup, and occasionally doing some homework. But in between all of those insignificant moments of singing and dancing and daydreaming, something miraculous happened. I came to life. I was happy. Being a part of Melanie’s family made me whole again, and when Aunt Maggie passed away from a sudden heart attack at age seventy-four in the spring of our senior year in high school, it was only natural that I would move in with Melanie and Momma. I practically lived there anyway, so aside from the sadness of having to say goodbye to the only family I had left, the move had been easy.

  • • •

  It is now late August, and Melanie and I are getting ready to move into our dorm at Ithaca College in a few days. We spent hours flipping through old pictures — the whole walk down memory lane thing, but in all honesty I am not interested in reviewing the past. Even though my time here with the Cranes has been nothing but loving, I miss my own family. Having to move out of the Cranes’ house makes me realize that I am truly alone.

  I find a picture from middle school, and I am shocked by the sadness that pervades my features. My whole body sags under the weight of my life. The tears spilling down my cheeks as I look at who I used to b
e just can’t be stopped. I want a do-over. I want to be happy for once. I want so badly to love myself and to love my life — to know that someone really and truly loves me. I want my family back, and seeing this picture just makes me want all of that even more.

  “Do you think I should bring these Uggs? I don’t want to ruin them in the snow, but they are just so comfortable. I’m not sure I can leave them behind. Mad? Maddy? Hello, earth to Ms. Madeleine? You in there somewhere?”

  Seriously, take a breath every now and then, Mels.

  When I turn to her, my tear-streaked face is pretty much a dead giveaway to my emotional state. She sinks next to me on her ruffled lilac bed and wraps her arms around me.

  “What’s the matter, Maddy? Why the tears? This is a happy time. We’re out of here and on our own in just a few days.”

  “That’s just it, Melanie. I’m going to miss this place. It’s the only real home I’ve ever had. I have nowhere else, no one else.” Somehow all of that manages to come out past the lump in my throat.

  “What do you mean ‘miss this place’?” Her face is etched with genuine confusion.

  “I just mean — I — well, what I …” Stammering through my words, I just can’t find the right ones to express my fears. “Melanie, the last few months being here, living with you and your mom, have been the best.”

  She opens her mouth to agree, but I stop her mid-breath so I can finish.

  “They have been the absolute happiest days of my life, and you know exactly how sad my life has been and how it’s not so easy for me to say that I’ve been truly happy. But we’re moving out — well, I’m moving out, I mean. Your mom was kind enough to take me in for a few months, but I’ll be on my own in a few weeks, and as exciting as it is that I’ll be rooming with you, I’m just sad that I don’t have a real home anymore.”

  The tears come on in earnest at this point, and my frustration mounts. I throw my hands up in the air and try to play off my emotional outburst in a flippant sarcastic burst.

  “Who am I kidding, Melanie? I haven’t had a home in the last eight years!” I flop back on the bed and huff in frustration.

  “That is absolutely the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Madeleine Renee Becker.” Momma Crane’s voice rings through from the doorway. She moves swiftly, sitting on the other side of me, sandwiching me between her and Melanie. “This has been your home since Melanie first brought you here. Now you just get your mail here, too!”

  That gets a snicker out of me. “Momma C, it’s okay. You don’t have to keep taking care of me anymore. I’ve been enough of a burden these last few months, and I couldn’t imagine you having to…”

  “Now, shut that pretty mouth of yours with all this ‘have’ to. You live here because we want you to. We love you, not because you’re like my own daughter, but because you are. It’s just that, plain and simple. You may have lived with your Aunt Maggie, but I was the one who had the privilege of watching you grow up — of seeing you transform into the beautiful woman you are today.”

  Damn tears. They just will. Not. Stop. When I finally get some air back into my lungs, I tell her that I love her, too, but I just can’t shake the uncertainty that, once I leave here, I won’t have a home of my own.

  “Are you sure, Momma C? I don’t want to be a bother. I’m sure when Melanie is home for vacations and holidays, it’ll be stressful enough without having to worry about me.”

  “Maddy, don’t you get it? It’ll be more stressful if you aren’t here. I’ll be up day and night wondering where you are and who is taking care of you. This is your home. Got it?” The finality in her tone makes me smile and sigh in relief. “Now, clean up that pretty face and get downstairs for dinner in twenty minutes.”

  “Your mom’s the best, Mel. I’m pretty sure that I’d be living out of Aunt Maggie’s old beat-up car if it wasn’t for her.”

  “Yeah, when I grow up I want to be just like her. Maybe less gray hair, though.” Mel’s teasing gets a laugh out of me, and just like that my little outburst is over. We get the last few things packed away and cleaned up before dinner. The sadness is still there beneath the surface, but for once life is starting to feel good — really good.

  Chapter 2

  After dinner, Melanie and I start getting ready for a little going-away party. It isn’t a party dedicated just to us; we’re all headed down to the lake with a group of friends for a last “hurrah,” if you will, before we all start leaving next week. Everyone is heading their own way, and even though we’ve vowed up and down to stay in touch, there is a part of me that just knows it won’t happen. Call me cynical, but it’s more that I know I can’t count on anyone in my life other than Melanie and Momma C. It’s just how it is.

  Jay will be there, too. We’ve been together for the last six months, and while it’s been going pretty well, I don’t think that I’m in love with him. Actually, I know I’m not in love with him, and the sad thing is that I want it that way. I know it’s foolish and cliché, but if I don’t love him, then he can’t hurt me. If I don’t get close, then there won’t be an aching void in my life when he’s gone from it. Self-preservation is a double-edged blade — it keeps you safe, but at a fairly large cost. I’m not sure that I’ll really ever let anyone in, and yet, on the other hand, letting someone in and sharing who I am and my entire existence with them is really all I’ve ever wanted. I’m the first to agree that I’m a bit young to have these feelings, but hell, losing both of your parents when you’re ten sure as fuck will make you grow up quickly.

  Jay is your typical all-American “good boy.” Stellar good looks — light blond hair and deep, rich brown eyes. He is pretty much six feet of muscle, but not in that “I’m at the gym ten hours a day” kind of build. He’s lean and just so damn gorgeous. Yup, gorgeous — that’s the best way to describe him.

  He wants more out of our relationship than I do; he’s told me that much. If it were up to him, we’d been “doin it like bunnies” — his words, not mine, and we’d only come up for air and food. I’m not there yet — not sure that I’ll ever be. I mean, we’ve done pretty much everything, but — well, you know. He’s sweet and kind and funny as hell, but I just can’t bring myself to love him. And if I don’t love him, I know for certain that I can’t give myself to him. I’m not super conservative or anything like that — I certainly don’t oppose premarital sex. That’s not why I won’t sleep with him. I just don’t love him, and I think if you’re going to give someone your body, you need to be in love with them. If that makes me too conservative, then oh, well.

  After Melanie is done styling her hair, she comes into the bedroom and lets out a long, loud wolf whistle.

  “Damn, girl! You look hot!” Her words prompt a heated blush to my cheeks. “Quit your blushing, Maddy. One day you will realize just how beautiful you are. I don’t mean to sound shallow, but do you think you could land a guy like Jay if you were anything less than beautiful?”

  “Yeah, I guess so, Mel. I just don’t see it, but find me any teenage girl who sees her own beauty. I’ll get there one day, maybe.” Even I can hear the lack of conviction in my own words. I know I’m not completely unfortunate-looking, but I just don’t feel beautiful. I never had that mother-daughter bonding time; she never had the chance to teach me how to put on makeup and dress to my advantage. So I had to figure it all out on my own. I’m still figuring it out.

  As Melanie steps out of the room to let Momma C know our plans for the evening, I steal a glimpse in the mirror to try to see what Melanie sees.

  Legs? Check. I am five foot seven, after all. They’re slender but not too skinny. I run every morning, so my legs have always been slightly muscled, but in a feminine way — at least I hope they look feminine; bulky is not a word I’d want someone to use. I think the not too short, but short enough to still be very stylish, pleated and thickly cuffed navy blue shorts show my legs off nicely. My cork and white wedges with a cute little bow at each ankle are the perfect finishing touch. A simpl
e dove-gray ribbed tank completes the outfit and hugs my curves. Maybe there is something to Mel’s theory after all.

  My golden-blonde hair is sun-kissed in the summer, and its soft waves cascade to the middle of my back. I usually have it up, but tonight Melanie insisted that I leave it down and wavy. I let her play Barbie, and I can’t say I hate it. The real show-stopper, though, is my eyes. They’re a bright, vibrant green. They look almost fake, but as I lean into the mirror to get a closer look, I catch small little flecks of gold around the outside that I know no contact lens could replicate. I have always loved my eyes. I have my mother’s eyes. I’ve seen them in the few pictures I have from my childhood. Even if my eyes were the murkiest, dingiest, dullest brown, I still would have loved them, as long as they were my mother’s. It’s really the only thing I have left of her.

  I gave in on the hair and let Melanie have a field day, but I insisted on keeping my makeup simple — a soft pale pink blush, clear lip gloss, and a light dusting of gold eye shadow is all I need. A quick swipe of some mascara, and the look is complete.

  Okay, so Melanie’s theory definitely has some merit. I do look hot. Maybe it was the emotionally cathartic cry before with Momma C and Mel that has me feeling a bit lighter, but I really feel great tonight. I know not everything is perfect in my life — God, do I know that better than anyone — but I feel a change coming on.

  • • •

  We park Aunt Maggie’s old beat-up Honda Civic and make our way down to the lake. The guys have already got the bonfire going, and the flames are licking toward the night sky. Everyone is lounging around the fire — they haven’t gotten their drink on yet. I’m not a big drinker, never have been. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought about it — numb the pain and all, but I just don’t see the point in it. The alcohol-induced haze will wear off eventually; unfortunately, the pain is forever.