As my baby girl marched across the stage in her cap and gown, I knew I would never experience a moment prouder than this. My little Jenny wasn’t graduating with honors, but she was graduating. It was a hell of a lot further than I’d ever gotten in life.
“You go, baby! Woo! Mommy loves you!” I yelled over the stuck-up, snot-nosed crowd who looked at me like I was insane. Or trailer trash.
Well, to hell with them! I hadn’t survived twenty-four years of that no-good, shit-for-brains, cheatin’ husband for nothin’. Oh, no. I believed that the good Lord had a plan for us all, and if we were brave enough, we’d be rewarded.
My hand slipped into my pink suede Gucci purse and stroked the thick envelope inside. That’s right, baby! Meg’s goin’ to paradise! Papers had been served to my pathetic husband, Ron, who’d been caught cheating on me with not one, but four underage prostitutes by the private investigator I’d hired.
Best twenty Gs I’ve ever spent! I placed my fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly. “Go, you go, baby!” My little Jenny was all grown up now and with the settlement from Ron, I had more than enough to last us both a lifetime. Ron Perdue, bite me!
At least I’d done somethin’ right. I’d married well and raised one hell of a sassy daughter. She would never, ever take shit from no man and nothing made me prouder.
Jenny took her place in the crowd of graduates, glowing like a Chernobyl chicken egg. After this, she’d be spending a week in Spain with her friends and then starting a new job in New York City.
New York, I sighed with contentment. Who wudda thought that a poor, uneducated girl from the middle of nowhere Alabama, working at Waffle House, would have a daughter who’s going to be a big fancy fashion designer.
I took out my phone and snapped a selfie like Jenny had taught me. I then hit that little envelop thing and sent it to her with a message, So proud of you! Now gotta run and catch me a plane! See you in a week, baby. Take lots of pictures of Spain!
I’d already told Jenny I would have to run straight to the airport after she got her name called. Besides, Ron was taking her and a few friends out for dinner. I was doin’ everyone a favor by not sticking around and spitting in his face.
I made my way to the parking lot and got into my pink Mercedes. I had purchased two new LV suitcases for this trip, because I wasn’t about to throw fifty thousand dollars of new designer clothes into Ron’s old suitcases. Hell no!
I hit the freeway, heading for the private airstrip just south of Newark, and my mind started whirling and spittin’. You see, I wasn’t anything like Ron—dirty, rotten bastard. I’d been faithful for the first ten years of our marriage and then I’d refused to let him touch me for the rest. Hell, I might be uneducated, but I wasn’t stupid. That man was about as clean and faithful as a sewer cockroach, and I wasn’t about to get some sort of disease from one of his trashy women.
Still, it meant I hadn’t been with a man in a very, very long time.
My back and hands simmered like an Alabaman July. It’s like ridin’ a bike, Meg. A big ol’ bike. But I wasn’t that sexy little redheaded thing Ron had wooed and knocked up. Twenty-four years had passed. My youth, beautiful body, perky tits and tight little hula-hoop had been spent like a pair of brake pads on an old truck.
Shut up. You still got it, I told myself. But on the inside, I didn’t feel it. Not anymore. But this was the reason I needed to go to Mr. Rook’s island. My good friend Merna swore I would feel new again and come home ready to start a new life.
Dear God, please heal me. Please make me feel like a woman again. Because I sure as hell didn’t. Not after Ron.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Read on for Wilma Salinger)