Finding Amy Archer: Finding Yourself, #1

Finding Amy Archer

© 2017 by Catherine Mede

Publisher: Flying Kiwi Press

Cover Design: Copyright 2017 © Dwell Design and Press/ Kate Strawbridge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disc, or by any other informational storage and retrieval system without express permission in writing from the author and publisher. This work is protected under the statutes of the copyright act.

Disclaimer: The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. If you think this is about you, then you really are an egotistical bastard, aren’t you?

Businesses, towns and places are used as settings and have no relation to any event or actual happening outside the author’s imagination.

Amazon ISBN  978-0-473-40929-6

ePub ISBN 978-0-473-40928-9  

pdf ISBN  978-0-473-40930-2

Paperback ISBN 978-0-473-40927-2

​Dedication

To all the women who

have suffered

and struggled

but found a way through. 

Text - Jules

Hey Aims, wanna catch

up on Wednesday?

Hey Jules. 

Sounds great.

What time? Where?

My place?

After 10?

Sounds good.

How’ve you been?

I’ve been better.

You okay?

Now I’m worried.

It’s all good. 

See you Wednesday.

:) <3 x x x

Right back atcha.

Leaving Home

I leaned on the door frame to my son’s room and, looked at the carnage that lay beyond.

Images of a massive train system of his childhood years that wound around and under the various bits of furniture flitted through my head.  Battery operated trains moving around at various places and varying speeds.

Another vision, of a dark damp room of his early teenage years that held living organisms, of half mouldy cups containing what used to be a liquid, but now held lifeforms unknown to mankind, of odd socks that smelled so bad even the cats refused to enter the room.

Currently the room was full of boxes—half packed—while two large black rubbish bags sat propped in the middle of the room.

I sighed, thinking of all the memories this room held. All the times I’d rubbed Robbie’s back to get him to sleep, read him stories, helped disassemble train tracks and reassemble them—except I didn’t do it in the right order, so I’d always have to leave him to do it.

I hope you’re not turning my room into a study. The voice came from behind the rubbish bags. A dark blond head poked around the barrier, two bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

I’ll miss his face. His olive-skinned complexion was inherited from Roger’s side of the family, but he had my eyes, nose and ears. Actually, he had Grandad’s ears. As a little boy, we knew whenever he was having a growth spurt because suddenly his ears would look too big for his head then, a few months later, he would have grown into them. His six-foot-five frame also came from my side of the family, mostly all six footers plus. That was fortunate because Roger’s family were all shorties.

No, I said.

It’s not a total lie.

I was planning on making his room into a library, with a desk by the window for my work, rather than having to spread it over the kitchen table. The walls would be lined with shelves of various shapes and sizes to hold my substantial craft bits and pieces.

Where will I sleep when I come back?  Robbie asked.  He knows me too well.

I walked into the room, artfully dodging a couple of precariously balanced boxes.

You do realise when you leave there is a no-returns policy—you can’t come back.

Aww, Mum, that’s not fair!

I laughed. There is always a bed for you. You know that.

I smiled down into his adult face, trying to see the baby I had once held in my arms, oh so long ago. I ruffled his hair.

Mum, cut it out. He batted my hands away, and I let him. We’ve always had an amazing relationship, one that lasted us through his tumultuous teenage years. I guess I was lucky compared to Gayle and her teenage daughter. They still scrap and Gayle’s daughter is twenty-one now. My boy, Robbie, or Rob as he now liked to be called, was nineteen and heading off to university after a year off spent deciding what he wanted to do and making money to go towards his fees.

He’d done alright too. He'd felt pressured to make a decision before he left school—after making dux—to attend Varsity that year, but he didn’t want to. I told him he didn’t have to decide right away. ‘Take a year off, work, earn money, find something that interests you,’ I’d said.

As a child, he’d loved so many different things. He’d promised to provide me with free electricity, free plane rides, then train rides. I’d thought he would become a town planner, but no. He wanted to be a dentist.

Wonder if that meant I’ll get free dental treatment. Goodness knows, I needed it.

In three weeks, Rob would be off to Otago Dental School. And I couldn’t say I wasn’t worried. I knew what the scarfies got up to down there. Drunken bums who ended up being our doctors and lawyers. But Rob wasn’t like that...at least I didn’t think he was.

The last time he’d got drunk—that I know about—was his eighteenth birthday. His friends threw him a keg party and, oh my goodness, I have never seen so much mess. Fortunately they’d done it away from our house, but I still had to pick up Rob the next day...and he’d stunk of alcohol, cigarette smoke and vomit. Urgh.

I chewed my lip as I surveyed his room, trying not to let the nostalgia overwhelm me and leak out of my eyes.

Where are you planning on storing this stuff? I asked, pointing to the boxes already packed in the corner, carefully labelled with ‘Lego’ or ‘Train Set’; reminders of his youth he couldn’t let go of.

In this room. It’s still mine until I leave, Mum.

I looked at the detritus and the remainder of items still on the shelves, unpacked, uncleaned, un-put-away-able.

And when do you leave?

He gazed up at me, his blue eyes no longer sparkling, darker, as if it has dawned on him he won’t be around for much longer. He frowned ever so slightly, a notch forming between his eyes. How like Roger he is. 

You know how long, Mum.

I smiled sweetly, causing him to roll his eyes. How like me he is.

Three weeks.

That is how long I’ll have my fully-grown baby for.

Three more weeks.

Oh, how I’m cherishing each single moment.

Text - Roger

Hey babe, what time you

coming home?

Why? Who’s there?

Lol – No one. 

Just want to get tea

sorted, so it’s ready

when you get home.

Just cook it, and I

can reheat it if I have to.

Oh, okay.

Good day at work?

Busy. Can’t talk. Bye

Okay ... bye then.

Heartbreak Hotel

Roger came in the door heaving a loud sigh. He put his keys on the hook, placed his lunch box on the bench, grabbed a beer from the fridge and disappeared into the lounge.

How was your day, dear? Oh, not too bad. A little busy, the usual, I mumbled as I leaned against the bench in the kitchen.

This was how every work day ended. Never a ‘Hi hon, I’m home, love you.' Just a grunt, if I was lucky, then straight to the fridge for a beer and disappeared, I heard him flop onto the couch to mellow out.

I pushed off the bench and followed him.

And how was your day? I asked. He turned to glare at me. The dark blue eyes that used to sparkle with humour were now flat. I couldn’t remember when he’d stopped looking at me as his equal and started treating me like a glorified housemaid.

Hell, I wasn’t even glorified. More like house help. I kept the house clean, cooked the meals, and smiled when his friends turned up, treating them like royalty, running around after them.

It was a long day, he replied.

I nodded. Every day was a long day, even for me. He went back to his laptop, his phone buzzing beside him.

I got invited to a barbeque this weekend, in fact Gayle invited the whole family—

Roger interrupted. Can’t, I’ve got something else on.

What?

Helping Terry shift house.

Who’s Terry?

A guy at work.

Oh.  I hadn’t expected him to say yes, he never does. If it was one of his friends, he would accept and then tell me about it the day before we were due to go. Okay, well I’ll tell Gayle it’s just me and Rob coming.

I kissed his forehead before I walked away, but he’d already returned to his laptop and cell phone. I went back into the kitchen and started preparing the evening meal.

Once more I had been given the brush off.

It happened every night. He’d sit with his face stuck in his laptop or cell phone and then watch the news, followed by anything else he wanted to view. Roger ruled the remote. Rob and I were not given any choice. The only time we could see the programmes we liked was on-demand. 

And if I sat on my laptop in the evening, I was ignoring him, or not spending quality time with him. I'd forgotten what quality time looked like. We hadn't had any in such a long time. However, watching the same TV show as he did certainly didn't qualify as 'quality time' in my book.

Rob came in and kissed my cheek.

Hey Mum, what’s for tea?

Pork chops with mash potato, broccoli, mixed vegetables and pumpkin.

Hmm, smells good. Thanks Mum. At least someone appreciated my cooking.

I dished the food up and put the plates on the table. While Roger grabbed his plate and cutlery, and slouched back into the lounge, Rob and I sat at the table and chatted about our day.

Can you two keep it down please? Roger grumbled after turning the volume up on the television for the fourth time. We turned and looked at him. He seemed a lot grumpier than usual. Something at work had him stressed, but he didn’t talk to me about that stuff. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he’d say.

Rob and I lowered our voices, our whispers interspersed with the occasional giggle because of something which had happened that day at Rob’s work. Rob had learned to tune his father out, but I wasn’t quite so lucky.

I’ve loved Roger for so long. But lately it’s been hard to even like him. I couldn’t understand why he had changed so much in recent weeks. I was used to him being moody and grumpy, but he’d become more so, and the weekends weren’t helping him to recover either. In fact, he’d seemed more tense than usual during the holidays. The only time he’d appeared relaxed and happy was after he’d been away for a big motorbike ride with the boys.

And we hadn’t been out as a couple for a long time. Twenty-five years together—well almost. We’d hooked up when we were in our mid-twenties. Now we were in our late forties. A quarter of a century together. A lot of people would be celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

We'd been late to the wedding game, but we’d been so in love back then. He’d held my hand and stroked it all through the service, his dark blue eyes tearing up as we repeated our vows to each other.  His hair had been cut short for the occasion. Once dark brown , it was now more salt and pepper coloured.

He didn’t leave my side all day, his arm around my waist, keeping me close. I guess, twenty-five years can change the dynamics of a relationship. It's a long time. But we knew each other.  We had been together for so long.  I couldn’t imagine life without Roger in it.

The sex was great. Well I thought it was. He knew how to push my buttons and make me excited in all the right ways when it mattered. But I couldn’t talk to him like I used to. Our conversation was surface chit chat. Not deep and meaningful like the exchanges we used to have lying in bed together, naked, talking into the middle of the night. Now, I was lucky to get a response. Life changes people in so many ways. I guess a marriage changes too, becoming something like a pair of comfy slippers, a little threadbare with a hole in the sole, but ones you don’t want to throw away. You try and mend them the best you can and keep using them.

Roger came to bed and sat on the edge, motionless and quiet, staring at the wall. I continued reading, even though I was aware something wasn't right. My heart hammered into my ribcage.

After some time, he broke the silence. Amy? There’s something I need to tell you.

My heart thrilled. Finally, a heart to heart. We hadn’t had one in a while.

Yes, Roger. I put down my Kindle to show him I was listening. He hadn’t moved, so he didn’t see he had my full attention.

He remained quiet.

Too quiet.

The thrill in my heart turned to panic, and a rush of adrenalin hit my senses.

Something isn’t right.

I reached out to touch him, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.

I’ve met someone else. His voice sounded so different. Not the man I knew, but belonging to someone completely foreign. Each syllable drove a knife deeper into my heart. I put my arms around my knees as my brain slowly comprehended the words, my ears ringing, trying to drive out the sound of his voice. My face felt numb, and my eyes welled up.

'Someone else' echoed around in my mind, banging into memories of Roger and I together, and of the recent times when he’d been distant or distracted.

Someone else.

Someone who wasn’t me.

What did she have that I didn’t?

Was it a ‘she’?

Babe, look at me! His words filtered through, but I didn’t want to look at him.

What did he want me to do?

Did he want me to say ‘that’s okay, we can live with that?’

Or ‘oh, really? And how are we going to fix this?’

This was beyond fixing.

It was unfixable.

My comfy slippers were falling to pieces at the very seams.

I remember movement on the bed, and then his hands grasped my shoulders, shaking me. I looked up at him through tears.

What ...? How ...? What ...? A multitude of questions pommelled my head like shrapnel. I couldn’t form a single simple sentence.  I opened my mouth and closed it. But I didn’t want to talk. Or ask any questions. I wanted him out. 

Then go to her, I said.

Don’t be like that, he muttered, trying to pull me into an embrace.

What the hell?

Don’t touch me. I brushed his arms off me. What do you want me to say?

He shook his head. There is nothing to say. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.

My mind was striving to work out what happened two months ago. Nothing spectacular, no specific argument, but that was when he had first become more vague about where he had been.

Oh, was all I could respond with in my present state. My body and mind were numb. My emotions were numb. Nothing hurt, except for that initial stabbing pain I’d felt when he first told me.

He started to get undressed.

What are you doing?

Getting ready for bed.

I laughed, and it sounded harsh even to my ears. You’re not sl-sl-sleeping in here. Or in this house. P-p-pack your things and go, I stuttered, my mouth replicating the staccato beat of my breaking heart.

But I want to talk about this.

In bed? Like hell! You haven’t t-t-talked to me in ages. What is there to t-t-talk about now? Tears flowed down my cheeks and I started to hiccup as I sobbed. You have another woman, and you’ve probably f-f-fucked her too. I d-d-don’t want you in MY bed, and I certainly don’t want you under my r-r-roof.

This is our house.

Then I’ll move out. I got up from the bed and started pulling things out of my drawers, not really caring what they were or where they’d go.

I heard Roger sigh behind me. I’ll go and sleep in the trailer.

"Take the trailer and go and sl-sl-sleep in her