Dark Clouds, Silver Linings

By Jennifer Slater

Sixteen year old Samantha Leighton’s forearm has become the diary of her woes. The once bubbly, energetic teenager has resorted to self-mutilation to cope with the pain stemming from a multitude of hardships that have befallen her.

When Sam ends up in the hospital after a cutting incident that leaves her emotionally and physically weak, she meets twenty-six year old Angela D’Abrue whose idyllic life is turned upside down when her boyfriend abandons her to seek fame on the road with his band. The two women form an unlikely friendship that neither one of them expects to last beyond their short stay in the hospital.

While Samantha works on regaining her confidence and her enjoyment of life, Angie finds love again with the one man she least expected to, but faces her biggest challenge when her ex-boyfriend returns. As both friends reach important crossroads in their lives, they learn that kindness can come from the most unexpected places and that no matter how dismal their lives may get, the promise of sunshine is just behind every dark cloud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Slater
• Release date: Apr 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301355822

Jennifer Slater

I'm an avid reader whose love of books led me to try my hand at writing my own novels. I graduated from Hofstra University in 1989 where I had the privilege of taking a creative writing course taught by Oscar Hijuelos, the Pulitzer Winning Author of "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love". One of my proudest college moments occurred when I earned the much coveted, but rarely given, "A" for my final grade from Mr. Hijuelos. I have written 3 self-published romance novels so far with a 4th novel to be released soon. I enjoy writing romantic stories that feature a strong female lead, friendships and an uplifting message.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The last time Samantha Leighton saw her father alive, he was running down the driveway dressed in a blue warm up suit, the neon green soles of his running shoes glinting in the early morning sunlight.

"Enjoy your run, Daddy," she called out to him from her bedroom window.

"Thanks, honey. He looked up and gave her a brief wave. I’ll be back in thirty minutes."

She watched as he sprinted across the street, dodging the spray from the sprinklers as he ran past the wet lawn of a neighboring house. When a clump of trees obscured him from view, she closed the window and headed downstairs to the kitchen where her mother, Lydia, was pouring pancake batter onto a griddle and singing along to a pop song playing on the radio. Sam smiled at the sight of her 44-year-old mother, bopping her head and swaying her hips in time to the music as she flipped the pancakes over. The rich aromatic smell of coffee brewing filled the air, adding to the many other enticing smells in the warm kitchen.

"Good Morning, sunshine, her mother greeted her with a bright smile. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

"Morning, Mom. I’ll get the table ready."

She took her father’s favorite mug down from the cupboard. It was an oversized one with the slogan # 1 Dad emblazoned on the side in big, blue letters. She’d given it to him on Father’s Day when she was six years old and he’d promised to use it every morning. Ten years had passed and he was still keeping that promise.

When she and mother sat down to eat, her father’s bowl of oatmeal was already waiting for him, along with two slices of lightly buttered toast. An hour later, his breakfast remained untouched. His oatmeal was cold, the toast soggy and his coffee mug still empty. Her mother had barely touched her own breakfast and was anxiously dialing his cell phone, only to have it go straight to voice mail.

"Maybe Dad decided to run a little farther this time, Sam said, trying to keep the worry from creeping into her voice. Or maybe old Mr. Miller down the street stopped him on the way home and they’re having a nice chat right now. You know how that man loves to talk."

But when another fifteen minutes passed with still no sign of her father, Sam could think of no other convincing reasons for his absence.

"He’s never been this late before. Lydia’s voice was filled with apprehension as she poured her cold coffee down the drain. Something’s wrong, I can feel it. She turned a worried face in Sam’s direction. I’m going to go look for him."

"I’ll come with you, Mom."

A knot began to form in Sam’s stomach as she scanned the road ahead, hoping to spot her father as they traced the path that he jogged every morning. The knot grew bigger and a fissure of alarm raced up her spine when the flashing lights of two patrol cars caught her attention. Both cars were blocking the traffic in one lane and a policeman was directing the stream of cars into the other lanes, away from what appeared to be a serious accident. The line of cars headed the other way slowed to a crawl as drivers gazed out of their windows with the usual morbid curiosity reserved for moments like these.

Sam heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath as they pulled alongside the first patrol car and she reached for her mother’s hand instinctively. Her heart hammered in her chest as she surveyed the scene ahead of them. A black sports car was pulled over to the side of the road. The windshield of the car was smashed in and a chunk of glass was missing from its center. Her frantic gaze darted from the dented hood of the car to the young man sitting hunched over on the curb with a couple of policemen hovering over him.

What happened next was a memory that would haunt the young girl for the rest of her life. Lydia brought the car to an abrupt stop and jumped out, leaving the engine running and the door open. Fear kept Sam frozen in her seat, afraid to move, her lungs closing up on her as she struggled to catch her breath. She knew without having to be told that something terrible had happened to her father right there at that spot.

She watched helplessly as a female cop brought her now hysterical mother back to the car. Lydia was clutching a black sneaker in her hands, the neon green sole pressed against her chest. The cop asked Sam some questions about her and her mother and wrote down their names in a small, black notepad. The woman’s unpainted lips kept on moving and Sam saw her mouth open and close several times, but she was no longer listening. All she could hear was her mother’s screams and a loud buzzing in her own head. She didn’t remember passing out, but she must have, because her next memory was of sitting up in her bed at home and staring into the concerned face of the same young police officer who’d spoken to her earlier.

It was then that Sam learned the details of her father’s tragic death – the young man she’d seen being questioned by the police had been driving to work when he’d distracted by something or the other. He’d lost control of his car, skidded across two lanes and mowed her father down as he jogged along the side of the road. Her father was transported to the hospital by ambulance but was pronounced dead upon arrival. The kind cop told all this to Sam as gently as possible and held her hand patiently as she alternated between sobbing and screaming.

PART ONE - THE MEETING

CHAPTER ONE

***

One Year Later

The cry for help came in the form of a pale forearm covered in cuts - some fresh, some scabbed over, and some reduced to ugly red scars - but the young girl standing in front of the mirror didn’t even realize that she needed help. All she knew was that her arm had become her diary with each cut representing a secret, a hurt, a fear, or a moment like today when she felt like she was losing control.

Samantha stared at the blood trickling down her elbow and into the sink. The drops spread quickly across the bottom of the porcelain basin, staining it a bright red. Like every other time, she felt no pain. It was as if she was having an out of body experience, like she was hovering high up above the sink looking down at the blonde girl staring at the jagged cuts on her arm.

Samantha?

The sound of Dorothy’s voice pulled her back into her body. She forced herself to look into the mirror – at the wide eyes with the dilated pupils staring back at her, and at the bloodless lips that almost seem to disappear into her pale face. The sobs that were buried deep in her throat bubbled up, threatening to choke her as she fought to stifle them. A thin wail escaped her lips, the plaintive sound filling the tiny bathroom. She dropped the bloodied knife into the sink, her body trembling with the effort that it took to not press the sharp tip into her flesh again.

Samantha, are you in there?

The handle on the bathroom door jiggled and she swiped impatiently at the tears that were now clouding her vision.

I-I’ll be out in a sec, she shouted through the closed door as she grabbed the wadded-up toilet paper that she’d unrolled just a few minutes ago and quickly blotted the cuts. When the thin paper proved ineffective, she pulled out the roll of bandage buried under the binder in her backpack and wrapped it around the still bleeding cuts. She used the knife again to saw at the end of the bandage before securing it tightly with an elastic ponytail holder.

Her fingers shook as she tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, pulling it down over her forearm before hastily wiping the splattered droplets from around the sink. She flushed the toilet for effect, not wanting Dottie to become suspicious, and rinsed the small pocketknife that she’d used to carve the shallow grooves in her arm. The hot water turned her blood pink before it disappeared down the drain and she took a deep breath, feeling as if a heavy weight had shifted from her shoulders and down to her arm. The bouts of guilt and shame would come later, but for now she had enough renewed strength to get her through the rest of the evening.

Dorothy Crawford, or Dottie, as she preferred to be called, was the proud owner of the small, second-hand bookstore where Sam worked after school. She was standing in the hallway, her cowboy boots tapping a light beat on the linoleum floor when Sam emerged from the bathroom. She gave the young girl a searching look, taking in the strained expression on the teenager’s face and the sad look in her eyes.

You okay, honey? she asked. You were in there an awfully long time. I thought I heard you moaning.

My tummy was upset. Samantha faked a grimace as she rubbed her stomach. It must’ve been the burger that I ate for lunch today. Maybe the meat was bad or something.

You want me to get you some ginger ale? Dottie’s smile was sympathetic. I can run to the café next door and get you some.

No thanks. Sam forced a smile to her face, feeling comforted by Dottie’s warm and compassionate nature.

You sure? the older woman asked gently. You don’t have to stay and help sort if you’re not feeling up to it. You can leave early tonight. I’ve already closed out the till and pulled the cart in from outside.

I’m sorry Dottie, Samantha smiled wanly. I was supposed to help you with that.

No worries. It was a slow evening anyways. Why don’t you run along home now?

No, Sam said quickly. She already felt guilty about the amount of time that she’d spent locked in the bathroom and didn’t want to leave her boss with more work to do by herself. I’ll stay. I’m starting to feel better already.

She followed Dottie down the hallway to the storage room in the back where they still had to go through their nightly ritual of sorting through the piles of books that were donated each day.

Dottie pointed to a pile on a table by the window. Here you start with that stack, she said. And I’ll take this one.

Samantha took the first book off of the pile, checking its condition and keeping an eye out for any signatures that could turn the book from a standard $3.00 sale to a potential collector’s item. She leafed through the pages, turning each book upside down and shaking it gently. She knew from experience that people used the oddest things for bookmarks – she’d found a peacock’s feather, an old ticket for a Fleetwood Mac concert from 1979 and even a twenty-dollar bill once. She didn’t know who Fleetwood Mac was, but the fact that the ticket was over 30 years old had amazed her and she’d taped the faded piece of paper to the inside of her binder as a souvenir. She was halfway through her pile of books when her injured arm started to ache. She pushed the sleeve of her sweater up above her elbow, intending to rub her arm, when a loud gasp from behind stopped her.

Sam, what’s wrong with your arm?

Startled, Samantha looked down. Too late – she’d forgotten to keep the sleeve of her sweater pulled down and Dottie’s eagle eyes had spotted the blood-soaked bandage. She racked her brain for a plausible explanation but could think of nothing.

Her boss was at her side in a matter of seconds. Dottie took Samantha’s bandaged arm by the elbow and turned it over gently. She looked at Sam, but the young girl would not meet her eyes. The older woman peeled the thin layer of bandage off and stared in shock at the rows of jagged cuts crisscrossing the inside of Sam’s thin forearm.

My goodness, Sam! she exclaimed. These cuts look nasty. Some of them are deep enough that they may require stitches.

Tears filled Sam’s eyes again and she blinked them back rapidly. She wanted to snatch her arm away and run out of the store, but she knew that Dottie was only trying to help. She tried to speak, but the lump forming in her throat made speaking impossible.

Is this what you were doing in the bathroom? Dottie asked softly. Oh Sam …

Samantha stared at the cuts on her arm. She suddenly felt lightheaded and the blood oozing from the open wounds filled her with fear. What if she’d cut too deeply this time? Her dizziness increased and the room tilted. Back dots appeared in front of her eyes, growing larger, until all she saw was blackness. She felt the floor rushing up to meet her as she fainted.

Dottie caught the falling girl just as she was about to hit the floor. Her former training as a registered nurse kicked into gear and she laid Samantha on her back on the floor. She put her ear close to the teenager’s mouth and was relieved to hear her still breathing. She quickly pulled an armful of books from the piles on the table and placed a small stack under each of Sam’s legs to elevate them. Jumping to her feet, Dottie rushed to the bathroom where she quickly moistened a hand towel with cold water. She hurried back to the prone figure lying on the floor and gently applied the damp towel to Samantha’s face.

The young girl moaned softly and opened her eyes. What happened? she asked weakly.

You fainted, Dottie replied, helping her to her feet and leading her to a chair.

I’m sorry. Samantha’s face was pallid and her eyes were bright with the threat of tears. I didn’t mean to be so much trouble today.

You don’t have to apologize to me honey, Dottie said kindly. You’re obviously going through some kind of crisis right now. I do have to take you to the ER though. You need to have those cuts looked at.

No, Samantha said weakly. I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ll just rub some stuff on my arm when I get home. I’ll be alright.

Dottie looked at the petite girl sitting in front of her. Sam was sixteen years old, but with her tiny frame, her small, heart-shaped face and enormous blue eyes, she was often mistaken for much younger. She could tell that the girl was trying hard not to cry.

You may think you’re okay, she said, placing the moistened towel around Samantha’s neck. But I’m not going to allow you to risk those cuts getting infected. I’m taking you right now … and that’s that.

Samantha opened her mouth to protest but closed it when she saw the steely-eyed look of determination that her boss was giving her.

Okay, she said in a low voice. Just as long as they don’t try to keep me overnight.

That, my dear, is entirely up to the doctor. Here… she handed Sam her jacket and helped the teenager to put her injured arm through the soft, fleece sleeve. Let me just grab my purse and we’ll be on our way.

Two hours later, Samantha’s cuts were being examined by the ER doctor who had introduced herself as Dr. Westfield while Dottie thumbed through a magazine in the waiting room. Her wounds were cleaned thoroughly and the ones that were deep enough to require stitches were being neatly sutured by the efficient doctor whose face gave nothing away as she tended to her young charge.

Dr. Westfield asked Samantha a litany of questions while she expertly sewed together the pieces of torn flesh on the girl’s arm. Sam answered tearfully, stammering often and choking up at intervals. The kind doctor listened intently, nodding her salt and pepper head every now and again, but offering no comment. When she was finished, Dr. Westfield escorted the teenager back out to the waiting room and pulled Dottie aside. Samantha watched with growing trepidation as the two women became engaged in what appeared to be a serious discussion, judging by the grave expression on Dottie’s face and the frown that had formed between her perfectly arched eyebrows.

As she waited for the two women to finish up, Sam looked around the crowded emergency room. It had been almost empty when she and Dottie first got there, but now almost every chair was occupied. She glanced curiously at the row of seats across from her, observing the other people who waited in various states of distress. A little girl lay curled in a tight ball, her face flushed with fever and her head resting on her nervous-looking mother’s lap. A middle-aged couple was seated next to the girl – the man was doubled over, holding his stomach, as the woman rubbed wide circles on his back. Her eyes continued down the row to where two elderly women sat side by side, their fingers simultaneously counting the beads on the rosaries that they held in their wrinkled hands. At the end of the row, a teenage boy sat sullenly in the corner, cradling an arm that was twisted at an abnormal angle while his mother lectured him loudly on the dangers of skate boarding. Sam reluctantly turned her attention back in the direction of the two women and she breathed a sigh of relief when the doctor shook Dottie’s hand and walked rapidly down the corridor. Her eyes remained locked on Dr. Westfield’s retreating back, the brightness of the physician’s white coat hypnotizing her, until she turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Sam, honey … Dottie walked back over and took the girl’s small hands in her own. Dr. Westfield would like to admit you tonight, she said softly. She’s very concerned about you and thinks that you should stay here for a couple of days. She says that she needs to have you evaluated by the resident psychiatrist before she can let you go home.

No! Sam exclaimed. I don’t want to stay here. She pulled her hands roughly from Dottie’s gentle grasp and winced when she felt the fresh stitches pull as a result. I knew I told her too much. What else did she tell you?

All she said was that you’re having some problems at home right now and that the cuts on your arm are your way of dealing with the emotional pain that you’re experiencing, Dottie replied gently. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the things that she’d just discovered about her young helper. Sam had never let on that things at home were not going well for her, but it was becoming clear to Dottie that the teenager had some very deep, personal issues. All she knew about Samantha’s home life was that her father had died about a year ago, her mother had fallen into a deep depression afterwards, and that they were now living with her uncle.

I have to go home. My mother’s probably wondering where I am, Sam said, springing to her feet.

I called your mother when you were getting your stitches. She didn’t answer her phone, but I left her a detailed message. I’ll call her again in a little bit to let her know that you’ll be staying here for a couple of days. The hospital will be calling too to notify her that you’re being admitted.

Samantha’s eyes widened. She grabbed Dottie’s arm and held on to it tightly. Please don’t tell my mother or my uncle about the cutting, she pleaded.

Dottie looked at the teenager’s ashen face. Samantha looked so worried that her heart went out to the young girl. Alright, I won’t say anything about it for now, but I can’t speak for the hospital staff. I’m not sure what they’ll tell your mother. She gave her an encouraging smile. Dr. Westfield was very clear that you need professional help, Sam, and she said that you can get that here, but you’ll need to sign yourself in. I won’t be able to do that for you … for legal purposes, of course.

Samantha’s shoulders sagged. She slouched back down on the cushioned chair and drew small circles on the wooden arm with the index finger of her unwrapped hand. The tears that she’d tried so bravely not to shed before were now running freely down her face.

Dottie dug into her purse, pulled out a packet of tissues and handed them to the distraught girl. She waited patiently as Sam struggled to make a decision.

Okay, I’ll stay, she finally whispered. She pulled a tissue from the small pack and blew her nose noisily. But promise me that you’ll come see me tomorrow.

Of course I will, Dottie reassured her. She pulled Sam into her arms and hugged her tightly. It’ll be good for you to stay here and get some rest.

B-but what about the store? Sam sniffled.

The store will be fine. I can handle it by myself in the afternoons. Don’t worry about a thing.

Then I guess it’s settled, Samantha said with a loud sigh. She stood up slowly and squared her shoulders. Let’s go sign those admission papers. I’ve heard that hospital food is pretty gross, but I guess I can put up with it for a couple of days.

CHAPTER TWO

***

The late afternoon sun was just starting to set when Angela pulled up to the townhouse that she shared with her boyfriend, Dylan. His black Chevy pick-up truck was not parked in its usual spot in the driveway and she wondered briefly where he was. She picked up the large pizza box from the passenger seat. The aromatic smell of garlic and Italian sausage drifted up from the box, causing her mouth to water instantly. Stepping out of her small SUV, she balanced the box deftly in one hand as