BRIGHT SIDE
By
Kim Holden
Published by Do Epic, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locale is entirely coincidental.
Bright Side Copyright © 2014 by Kim Holden
ISBN 978-0-9911402-2-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages for review purposes only.
Cover design by Brandon Hando
Editing by Monica Parpal
For:
B., Debbie, and Robin
Thank you for loving these characters as much as I do.
Table of Contents
Monday, August 22
Tuesday, August 23
Wednesday, August 24
Thursday, August 25
Friday, August 26
Saturday, August 27
Sunday, August 28
Monday, August 29
Tuesday, August 30
Wednesday, August 31
Thursday, September 1
Friday, September 2
Sunday, September 4
Monday, September 5
Tuesday, September 6
Wednesday, September 7
Thursday, September 8
Friday, September 9
Saturday, September 10
Sunday, September 11
Monday, September 12
Tuesday, September 13
Wednesday, September 14
Thursday, September 15
Friday, September 16
Saturday, September 17
Sunday, September 18
Monday, September 19
Tuesday, September 20
Wednesday, September 21
Sunday, September 25
Friday, October 7
Saturday, October 8
Sunday, October 9
Wednesday, October 12
Thursday, October 13
Monday, October 17
Tuesday, October 18
Friday, October 21
Monday, October 24
Friday, October 28
Saturday, October 29
Sunday, October 30
Monday, October 31
Tuesday, November 1 - Wednesday, November 2
Friday, November 4
Sunday, November 6
Tuesday, November 8
Thursday, November 10
Friday, November 11
Saturday, November 12
Sunday, November 13
Monday, November 14
Tuesday, November 15
Wednesday, November 16
Friday, November 18
Saturday, November 19
Monday, November 21
Thursday, November 24
Sunday, November 27
Wednesday, November 30
Friday, December 2
Thursday, December 8
Saturday, December 10
Sunday, December 11
Monday, December 12
Thursday, December 15
Sunday, December 18
Monday, December 19
Tuesday, December 20
Thursday, December 22
Sunday, December 25
Wednesday, December 28
Friday, December 30
Saturday, December 31
Friday, January 13
Sunday, January 15
Monday, January 16
Tuesday, January 17
Wednesday, January 18
Thursday, January 19
Friday, January 20
Sunday, January 22
Wednesday, January 25
Friday, January 27
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Monday, August 22
(Kate)
“What’s up turkey butt?”
“Aw, you know, just drove thirty hours straight or something like that, I honestly lost track. I haven’t slept in what, two, three days? I downed like two dozen Red Bulls and fifteen gallons of coffee. So, the usual I guess.”
He laughs. “Dude, I think you might have a little trucker blood in you.”
“That’s Mother Trucker to you.”
He laughs again. “That’s awesome! I may have to retire Bright Side and start using Mother Trucker instead.”
The conversation is good so far, natural, which is what I was hoping for. After the way Gus and I parted ways in San Diego a few days ago I didn’t know what to expect from this call.
Then comes the awkward silence.
We’ve never had awkward silence. Not in the nineteen years I’ve known him.
“So. Minnesota, huh?”
“Yup.”
“You at Maddie’s then?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that going?” Gus asks.
“It’s going.” God this isn’t getting any better. He sounds almost bored, but I can hear that he’s nervous as hell. I wonder why I haven’t heard him light up a cigarette yet. And just like that I hear his lighter click and the familiar sound of that first long drag. “You should—"
He cuts me off. “I probably better let you go, Bright Side. I just got to Robbie’s and it looks like everyone’s already here for a band meeting and I’m late as usual. They’re waiting on me.”
I’m disappointed, but I know other people’s lives can’t stop or be put on hold just because Kate wants it to be so. So I put on my best smile and I answer, “Yeah. Sure. Will you be around tomorrow night? I’ll call you then.”
“I’m planning on going surfing tomorrow after work, but I’ll be around.” His breathing has evened out, but I know it’s because he’s concentrating so damn hard on that cigarette, sucking the calm back into his body with the smoke and nicotine.
“Okay. I love you, Gus.” We always tell each other I love you. Always have. He grew up hearing it from his mom every five minutes, because she meant it. It was natural. I grew up never hearing it from my mother. Never, just the way she meant it. It was natural for her. She meant the indifference. I felt it every day. In my bones. I guess that’s why I’ve always loved hearing it from Gus and his mom, Audrey. It would be weird to end a conversation with them and not say it.
“Love you, too, Bright Side.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I’m staying at Maddie’s. Maddie is my aunt; my mother’s much younger half-sister. Her much younger half-sister that she never knew existed until they met at my grandfather’s (their mutual father’s) funeral three years ago. My grandfather was out of the picture for most of my mother’s life. He left when she was ten or something. Just disappeared and apparently had another family and everything, then came back into her life a few years before he died. I met him a few times and I liked him. I couldn’t judge him for what he’d done. I didn’t know what his life had been like. Anyway, Maddie shows up at the funeral and my mother has a conniption fit when Maddie announces she’s her half-sister. I mean my mother waited a long time to have my sister, Grace, and me. Maybe waited isn’t the correct word choice. Grace was an accident and I was a weak attempt to hold onto a man that didn’t want her or us. She was 39 when Grace was born and 40 when I came along. Maddie is only 27 now, eight years older than me, which means my mother was 37 years older than Maddie. Yeah, you do the math; my grandpa was a horny old man. But again, it’s not for me to judge.
So anyway, I have this aun
t I never knew existed and barely know except for the one visit she made to stay with us at my mother’s house in San Diego for a week. That was two years ago. So, when I heard that I was accepted (and awarded a scholarship) to Grant, a small college in a tiny town by the same name just outside of Minneapolis, I called Maddie and asked her if I could crash at her place for a week before I moved into the dorms and school started. She hesitated like I was asking her for a goddamn kidney, but finally agreed. And now I’m here in her spare bedroom and it’s only been an hour but I already feel like a guest who’s over stayed her welcome.
I unpack my suitcase and put my toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, and razor in the enormous guest bathroom. Maddie has a really nice apartment. I’m not sure about the cost of living here in Minneapolis, but it looks expensive. It’s way fancy. I know some people love fancy, whatever floats your boat, but to me it’s overrated. It makes me long for simple. Fancy hides a lot, while simple unapologetically puts it out there for everyone to see. It makes me think about the apartment I had in San Diego and how much I miss it. It was a converted one stall garage that I rented from my mother’s old gardener, Mr. Yamashita. Mr. Yamashita outfitted a small bathroom inside so he could rent the space out. The kitchen amounted to mini-refrigerator, a microwave, and a hot plate, but no sink. You washed your dishes in the bathroom. It was small and cramped and dark unless you had the garage door up, but I loved it. It was simple. It was home. My sister, Grace, and I moved in about a year ago. We were looking for a place to stay, and Mr. Yamashita, being the sweet old man he was, made us a ridiculously cheap rent offer that I couldn’t turn down. Grace and I shared a double bed and had a card table and two chairs that served as dining room, desk, and game table. We didn’t have much actual space, but it was cozy. It was one block from the ocean but on a corner lot that had a clear view of the water. Every night after we ate dinner and Grace had her bath we would put the garage door up and sit on the edge of our bed and watch the sun go down over the ocean. And just as the sun would begin to dip in the water and the orange spread across the horizon, Grace would take my hand and raise our interlocked fingers in the air and shout, “It’s showtime!” I would shout in agreement, “It’s showtime!” She would hold my hand tightly in both of hers resting in her lap until it was pitch dark. The darkness coaxed a joyous round of applause out of her. I’d join in. She’d tell me, “That was the best one, don’t you think?” I would agree, and somehow I always meant it. Then I’d shut the door, swing Grace’s legs up onto the bed and she’d lie down. I’d cover her up and kiss her on the forehead and tell her, “Night night, Gracie. I love you. Sleep tight.” To which she would answer, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Love you, too, Kate.” And she’d kiss me on the forehead. I miss that so much.
After everything’s put away for my very temporary stay, I wander out and try to talk to Maddie but she’s on the phone so I motion to the kitchen as if to get permission to eat something. She nods absently as she giggles coyly into the phone. It must be a guy on the other end. Women only giggle like that when they’re talking to someone they’re having sex with. Or trying to have sex with.
Her little dog, Princess, follows me wherever I go. I don’t know what breed she is, but if you blink you’ll miss her she’s so tiny. She’s friendly and I like her, but I have to keep reminding myself to watch where I walk so I don’t misstep and crush her like an ant.
I trudge into the kitchen, my feet sliding across the tile at this point because lifting them is just too much damn work. I open Maddie’s pantry and scavenge a box of mac and cheese, which is accompanied only by a can of vegetable beef soup and a protein bar that feels so hard I’m certain it expired before the turn of the last century.
I find a pot and start some water boiling to cook the mac and cheese, trying to drown out Maddie’s conversation in the adjoining room. I hum to myself, wishing I had my iPod, but it’s in the bedroom, which is like twenty steps away and I’m afraid if I commit to that kind of effort the sight of that splendid, beckoning bed will lure me in. And I really do need to eat. The last time I ate was several states ago, Nebraska I think.
Maddie’s off the phone just as I stir in the noodles and tear open the cheese packet. She wanders into the kitchen. “You hungry, Maddie?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I guess.”
We eat in silence except for her complaining about the amount of fat that’s in the mac and cheese, and how awful it tastes. Though I notice she polishes off her half of the box and practically licks the plate clean. I thought it was pretty amazing, myself; you can’t go wrong with mac and cheese.
I’ve waited until the end of the meal for her to do the hostess-y thing and engage in some real conversation, or even small talk, so when she doesn’t I take that as my cue. “So Maddie, have you lived here long? It’s a great apartment.”
“I’ve been here for a little over a year now. It’s all right.” She sounds bored, like talking is just too much work.
“All right? Christ, it’s great. High-rise on the outskirts of the city. The neighborhood looked pretty hip driving in, lots of restaurants and shops. Your building’s got underground parking and security and a gym and a pool. You’ve got it made, Maddie.”
She shrugs. “It’ll do for now. I’m looking at another place. Nicer neighborhood. More amenities. More square footage. But I just signed a six month lease that I don’t think I can get out of.” She’s pouting.
I nod. This will do for now? Jesus, I’m trying to reserve judgment here, but the longer I’m around her the more something feels off. I mean, it’s human nature to fill voids, and the list of filler is long, some good, some bad. I get the feeling that Maddie medicates herself with stuff, money, material things. She’s to the point where she’s always looking for more and missing the part where you’re just grateful for what you have. It’s sad. Greed’s like that children’s story about the spider and the fly. Greed, money, excess, that’s the spider. And Maddie seems to be one helluva fly. I try to steer her away from the negative. “So, how’s work? Lawyer, right?” It’s been so long since the one visit I had two years ago with her that I’m digging through my exhausted mind trying to turn up any memories.
“Yeah. Rosenstein & Barclay. Downtown Minneapolis.”
“Nice.” I guess it’s on me to carry this. “So, you must be really busy with work, but any hobbies? What do you like to do in your spare time?”
At this she brightens up like I’ve finally touched upon something that interests her. “I like to shop, get my nails done, hair done, I tan a few times a week.” She eyes me up and down as she rattles off her list. Clearly she’s figured out we have nothing in common as she takes in my hair arranged in a messy knot on top of head, nails bitten down to the quick, and my sweat pants and Manchester Orchestra T-shirt that’s worn thin from frequent wear and washings. I am tan, but that’s not from a tanning booth, it’s just from being outside and I’m sure she knows it. “Oh and I have to work out every morning.” The emphasis she puts on have to is a little disturbing.
“So, do you work out in the gym downstairs off the lobby? I peeked in on my way up. It looks nice. I might go for a run myself on one of the treadmills tomorrow.”
She gasps as if I’ve just asked her to take a bite of a shit sandwich. “Oh, God no. That place is vile. I work out at a private gym near the office: The Minneapolis Club.”
Of course you do, I want to say, but I nod until the urge passes. “Well, that sounds awesome, Maddie.” I push back my chair and grab my dishes. “I guess that’s me off to bed then. Thanks for the mac and cheese. I’ll buy some groceries tomorrow; I’m just beat right now.”
“Can you pick me up some nonfat blueberry yogurt?” she asks as I put my dishes and the pot in the dishwasher. A real live dishwasher.
I’m so enamored by the machine that I almost don’t hear her. I fight the urge to kneel down and kiss it, worship it. “Sure thing. Hey, do you have a coffee pot? Mine didn’t survive the move and I’m kind
of addicted.”
I can hear the “Humph!” from the other room and I get the distinct impression that I’ve somehow insulted her. As I pass her on my way to the bedroom, where I plan to get comatose for a good 17-18 hours, she’s shaking her head and looking at me like I have a third eye. “Why would I have a coffee pot? There’s a Starbucks right next door.”
“Oh, right, of course.” I guess that’s how lawyers roll. I nod my head and make a mental note to pick up a coffee pot tomorrow when I get the groceries. “Good night Maddie.”
“Good night? You’re not really going to bed, are you? It’s five o’clock.” Her hands are on her hips. “I thought we could go out for drinks tonight.”
“I’ll have to take a rain check on that, my dear. Tomorrow night would be great though. Because you see in my world, good night should have happened last night, but I skipped it because I was all hopped up on caffeine, so I’m going to have to exercise that good night and tonight’s good night simultaneously. Right now. See you tomorrow.”
Tuesday, August 23
(Kate)
I wake up at 10:37am and goddamn if I don’t feel continental this morning. Getting caught up on sleep is something I’ve only recently had the luxury of enjoying. The concept has been foreign to me for the past, oh I don’t know, all my life.
Maddie must be at work so I get out my laptop and search for a nearby grocery. There’s one within walking distance. I take the elevator down to the gym and run for thirty minutes and then I shower and grab my wallet and phone and head out for the grocery store. When I exit the building I find myself drawn to the Starbucks next door like a moth to a flame. I don’t like fancy-schmancy coffee shops. I like mom-and-pop, small local joints. But I’m already through the door and my veins are practically humming. I order a large black coffee, which I know pisses them off because I’m supposed to order in pretentious coffee-speak, but it’s been ages since I’ve been in a commercial coffee shop and I’m desperate for my coffee. I don’t have time to peruse the gigantic menu of froufrou drinks to get the jargon just the way they like it.
I get the standard litany of questions. “Milk, soy, non-dairy creamer?”