PATH
TO OLD TALBOT
A
Young Adult Fantasy
Thirteen-year-old Charity can escape
her unpleasant reality by stepping through the parlor closet of her mother’s
new home, a mansion built in the 1800’s.
In her hometown of Talbot, New York, in the year 1880, she doesn’t have to
worry about her depressed father skipping his medications or her mother
flirting with her coworker. Instead, she gets to know the hatter’s son, who
shows her a lifestyle of manners and pride. Few have ever accepted Charity’s
old-fashioned ways…until now.
However, old Talbot can’t banish the present. Charity can stay in the mansion,
with access to the hatter’s son in the past, and the prospect of a steady
family unit with her mother and the new man in her mother’s life, or she can go
back to her father, who has been given the option to straighten out his life
and join them in their new home. Instead, his world unravels, and he spirals
into violence and self-harm.
Torn between two worlds, Charity knows that if she doesn’t help him, she may
lose him forever if he follows through on his threats of self-destruction.
PATH TO OLD TALBOT is on Amazon from CHBB.
Check out Chapter 1:
Sunlight reflects off the pavement and
bakes my bare legs. Shadows play across Daddy while he cries on the stoop,
slumped forward, his shoulders shaking. How many times will he play this game?
If he got it together, Mom and I wouldn’t be packing the car to move to a
different house.
I shade my eyes and look away from him.
Think about the steps. Don’t think about him. It’s a lovely stoop, with only a
few chips, and it has a wrought iron railing that curls at the end.
“Why does life keep throwing crap at
me?” Daddy’s yell makes a crow fly from the old oak tree in our front yard.
Leaves rustle in its wake as the bird
shoots over the house like a black ball, and it caws, a hoarse screech like
Daddy’s voice when he’s upset.
Mom carries her last box of books from
inside the garage and sets it in the trunk of her Subaru. The huge box catches
on an edge and she grunts as she shoves it. Her biceps flex— surprising how
strong she is, since she never works out. I swear Mom can lift anything. She
wipes her palms on her shorts, smearing dust across the black denim.
“Why does this always happen?” Daddy
slams his fist into the cement stoop.
I wince. I could cover my ears against
the sound, but I’m not a little kid anymore; no more hiding for me.
His hand bleeds. It will add a new scar
to the skinny white lines that crisscross his knuckles.
When I was younger, I pretended they
were lines from elf hoes, and miniature vegetables would grow among the whorls
of dark curls. Now, seeing the scars makes my stomach clench.
Mom won’t bandage him up. She stopped
years ago. This time, I won’t either, even though my fingers itch to fetch the
Band-Aids and Neosporin. I didn’t make Daddy punch anything. He needs to patch
himself. It isn’t our fault he won’t take his medication.
I pick at my glittered purple polish,
catching a hangnail. The red stain mixes with the polish as if I intended for a
gruesome pattern.
Daddy staggers off the stoop and paces.
“I need a gun,” he rants. “I’m gonna put
a bullet in my head.”
Mom clears her throat. “Come on,
Charity. We’re leaving.” She presses her lips into a thin line and slams the
trunk door, making her Impreza vibrate. She walks along the path of flat rocks,
trampling some of the grass that has grown too tall, and pauses next to him.
Daddy grunts, dropping back down onto
the stone, and he tips his head up, his fingers dragging across his cheeks.
Blood trickles down the back of his hand into the sleeve of his button-up
shirt. His blue eyes are wide and bloodshot, tear-filled. Sometimes when he
cries, Mom kisses the tears away.
Even though I’m thirteen, I should be
the one crying. Heck, I’m still a child. His therapist said so. Daddy should
hold me and promise everything will be fine. He’ll take his meds and we’ll all
be okay.
I’m too delusional for all that, but the
thoughts slip in anyways.
I shouldn’t have to avoid Daddy when
he’s in a mood. I shouldn’t have to worry about my words making him emotional,
or my attitude setting him off, or whether I’m going to find him dead when I
come home.
Mom kneels to clasp his wrists. “I love
you, Max. I will always love you.” Her voice squeaks, but her body remains
steady. She doesn’t look away from his stare.
“You can’t go!” He yanks his arms free
and stands on the stoop, but he teeters. His bare feet poke from the ragged hem
of his jeans. The lack of shoes makes him look like a teenager. When has Daddy
ever been an adult for me?
Has he ever been an adult for himself?
According to my grandparents, his depression started in high school. Why hasn’t
he learned how to cope yet?
“I’ll kill myself!”
I wince at the threat, but Mom rises,
shaking her head. Why can’t he see how much we love him? Why aren’t we enough
to stop his pain?
“You know where we are. When you’re
ready, come find us.” She kisses his mouth, fast, as if afraid he’ll push her
away. His blood smears her palm, but she doesn’t look down when she wipes it on
her thigh. It leaves a crimson streak, as if she’s the one bleeding.
“Charity!” Daddy stumbles toward me.
“You won’t leave me. Come back, honey. I need you.”
I quicken my pace to open the car door
and slip into the passenger’s seat. My fingers shake as I fasten my seatbelt.
He doesn’t need me. He needs to help himself. I play with my hemp bracelet to
avoid looking at him. My stomach heaves as I fight back tears.
“Isadora,” he yells.
I glance back, a final glimpse in case
he does kill himself.
It won’t be my fault, or Mom’s. We don’t
make Daddy do things. Mom tells me that every day. It is never your fault.
Sometimes it hurts to think that. If it was my fault, maybe I could fix it.
His brown hair is in that buzz cut Mom
hates. He’s gotten blood on his cheek. If only he took care of the things about
the house the way he cuts his hair, the place wouldn't look so run
down. After we leave, he’ll break things, but we took the things we cherished—
everything except for Daddy, and seeing the tears in Mom’s eyes, I know we
cherish him most of all.
That’s why we have to leave.
Mom sits beside me and slams her door.
She slips the key into the ignition and turns it without taking her gaze from
the road. I stare forward too, because it only hurts to think about the past.
Tall grasses wave in the breeze next to the garage as if saying goodbye.
I’ll really miss this place.
“He needs to get help,” Mom whispers.
“He can’t do that with us. We’re just his crutch now.”
A chipmunk darts across the driveway and
from somewhere down the street, music plays through an open window. I almost
forget how hot the day is until sweat gathers behind my knees.
We need to grow up, too, but I don’t
talk in case Mom needs solitude. What will the neighbors think?
It’s about time Isadora and Charity
left.
How dare they leave that poor man? Mrs.
Ames next door has always seen him as someone to coddle, like an oversized
infant. No doubt she’ll go with that train of thought.
Mom drives forward and heads down the
road, past all the neighbors with their happy, safe families, as peaceful as
the fluffy clouds dancing over the blue sky.
“Isadora! Charity!” Daddy’s wails fade
and I bite my lower lip.
Mom told him to come home once he becomes
well. Our new house. Her dream house.
Our home.
I want to squeeze Daddy’s hand, to feel
secure, but my fingers close on false hope.
Jordan Elizabeth is known for her odd sense of humor and her
outrageous outfits. Surrounded by
bookshelves, she can often be found pounding away at her keyboard – she’s known
for breaking keyboards, too. Jordan’s
young adult novels include ESCAPE FROM WITCHWOOD HOLLOW, COGLING, TREASURE
DARKLY, GOAT CHILDREN, and VICTORIAN.
PATH TO OLD TALBOT is her third novel with CHBB. Check out her website for bonus
scenes and contests.
Books can be our
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