A/N: Ana's point of view. Again.
Trying to clear my metaphorical decks a little before a midnight word sprint. So guess what? You get a bonus chapter!
FSOGFanFictionAddiction (Vvn_Noel): You guessed it. Jesse is Elena's ex. Is he a good guy? I'll leave that for you to decide. Ana is mature for her age. Valedictory is the least of what Ana will lose before this is done.
Joangoldman9: Ana getting a job to help Ray isn't strange at all. Though she understands that it will help Carla, she can't stand to watch her father suffer alone. Self-sacrifice is an integral part of her character. Guilt just owns her. Especially the misplaced variety. I frequently consider that no-one in the world is important enough for every bad thing to be his or her fault. It takes a special degree of vanity to claim the credit. Jesse's huge timber frame mansion is no surprise. He grew up wealthy and it's his dream home. And there are a lot of reasons to build a house in the middle of nowhere.
Inspiration Song(s): David Bowie - Cat People (Putting Out Fire)
APoV
When I finally left for the interview, I thought back o Mr. Lincoln. He was a handsome older man, and it was nice to be noticed by someone who could look me in the eye, but I didn't have time for any type of relationship, even an imaginary one. I'd hoped to meet someone after college. God knew I barely had any time for myself between classes, Clayton's, and car trouble. Even when I thought I'd have an extra moment, Kate or José would pop up to drag me away somewhere.
Mr. Lincoln's low-key appreciation bolstered my self-confidence and added a bounce to my step as I left. I'd been working my fingers to the bone around the house doing almost anything I could to avoid Carla.
Just an hour ago, Carla had finally grown the balls to confront me asking, "How long do you plan to avoid me? We're living in the same damn house for goodness sake! Can't you see how much stress your discontent is putting on Ray?"
Oh, this bitch!
"How dare you bring Dad into this!" I retorted. "You and I both know I have nothing to say to you and why. I'm not going to play happy families to alleviate your guilt. If it wasn't for the fact that Ray was breaking his back to help you, I wouldn't even be here. I'm only here to make sure that you don't take advantage of him to the point you ruin him for good on your way out."
It was slightly cold and callous for me to allude to Carla's affliction, but I couldn't help it. It was ridiculous that she cared so little about what was going on around her (even to her own damn body) that she didn't notice her declining health. When the shit hit the fan, she'd thrown herself on the mercy of the one man she knew would never say no. My already abysmal opinion of Carla plummeted further.
Following on the heels of my conversations with Kate and José, Carla's verbal attack was the final straw. I knew I had to get a job outside this house or else. Or else I'd be tempted to drag her up the stairs before tossing her down to hasten her demise. If ever there were two people who shouldn't ever share a roof again, it was Carla and me.
Kate was slightly miffed but she understood. She just found out that her father had secured an apartment for both of us in Pike Place Market. But now I wouldn't even be able to swing my half of the rent. Besides, it might be a long time before I saw Seattle for a visit, let alone a job and an apartment.
When I started earning an income, most of my money would be going to Ray, if only to keep him from going bankrupt. And someone needed to watch him to ensure he didn't drive himself into an early grave. Goodness knows that Carla can't be depended on to save him. She's the kind of person who you try to save while she's drowning, who pulls you down to your doom only to survive like a cockroach. She left his life like a rat on a sinking ship. The fact that she returned didn't make her any less of a rat.
My interview with Becca, the manager, went quite well, so well that I left with a nametag and an apron, the uniform of their servers. This was one time when who you knew was very important. Ray was a long-time customer of the place, and we'd shared more than a meal or two in his favorite booth.
The first thing Becca said before I could sit down was "You Ray's girl?"
At my yes, only three questions were asked. Can you make it on time? Do you have any experience? And would you be willing to work in the kitchen in a pinch? When all those answers were yes, the job was mine for the taking.
I returned home in an upbeat mood that quickly fizzled when I saw the condition of the living room. Carla was bent over curled up, holding her stomach and the cocktail table was covered in bloody tissues. Slightly overcome with disgust, but determination to hurry up and clean the area before it left a permanent stain, I went to the kitchen to grab a pair of gloves, a garbage bag, and a bucket of hot, soapy water. I took everything off the table, threw away the tissues, and wiped down the table, looking for more detritus.
Finding none, I returned with some cleaner to wipe down the table before polishing it again. I even went to get Carla a glass of water. It wouldn't do for her to die on my watch. Ray would be pissed beyond recognition.
I made a small meal for myself which I quickly ate, then cleaned my dish before going upstairs. I wanted to take a nap before stopping at Ray's carpentry shop. I thought it would be a great idea to check any of his outstanding job orders to see if I could help him with the setups and do the books. That would save him at least a couple tasks.
Thankfully before college, I had usually helped out in the shop by laying out the tools or the wood or any of the equipment that Dad may have needed. It made for a much faster transition which he appreciated. This know-how helped tremendously when it came to obtaining the job at Clayton's. They like having a woman who knew the difference between hammers and chisels and could actually explain the difference.
After my nap, I felt refreshed. I walked downstairs, passing my mother without saying a word. I knew it was rude and an awful thing to do, but I couldn't help it. Everything about Carla's presence was an anathema. She was such a frustrating person. You never knew quite where you stood with her unless you made the assumption that you were expendable. Because if you ever depended on her to help you or be there for you in a pinch, you'd be doomed to disappointment. And I was tired of waiting for any other shoes to drop. If it wasn't one thing it was another, and Carla always had someone or something to blame for it. My husband died. He left me alone. I'm so lonely. We don't have enough money. This place is so boring. She never learned how to be satisfied with what she had. And I didn't have time for it. Ray might have raised me to be respectful, but he also taught me to be resourceful, and I had absolutely no room in my life for people who refuse to pull their own weight.
My foray into Ray's shop was quite productive. It looked like he had many new projects which would earn him a lot of money. More than he usually earned. Too bad the dollars are just shooting out of the door to pay for Carla's exhaustive medical costs. It hurt me to see her benefiting from his hard-earned charity. He barely had enough for new equipment or materials. I wondered how he was ever going to break even.
Ray's retirement fund was tanking. The hits just kept coming. And they were all on Carla's account. It wasn't enough that she has stolen her college fund, she was stealing Ray's future, too.
For a few weeks, the pattern of my days continued. Helping out at the shop, working at the restaurant, and making Ray's meals. I wasn't sure how Carla got around, but she ate and took care of her basic needs, so at least I didn't need to directly interact with her on a regular basis.
Ray's long, arduous hours also continued. I could see the strain in his forehead and the tenseness of his jaw. My once tall, proud father who always held himself erect was beginning to develop a slight hunch. Even the money I contributed to the household didn't make much of a dent, especially as the bills mounted and her treatment plan was altered.
I found Dad in the kitchen perusing his account books. It looked like a shell game where he robbed Peter to pay Paul just to maintain the basic necessities of life. He had given up his sports package on cable, and certain knickknacks around the house, a couple objects collectors had been begging him to sell for years, that he had stubbornly refused to relinquish, were gone. Objects which had been owned by his great-grandparents. I felt like crying; no matter what I did, it just wasn't enough.
Due to my frenetic pace, I was able to finish all of my coursework in record time. I practically lived in the library during my downtime, to pass the hours so I wouldn't have to go home. I was also taking as much overtime as I could get. How long could we maintain this dizzying pattern? One day as I left the library, I saw Ray coming out of the post office and waved at him. But his attention was caught by an older woman coming from the opposite direction. She tentatively approached him. He looked at her with such longing in his eyes, and the woman reached out to touch his face. I witnessed her very sweet, romantic gesture before she pulled away with a whimper, shaking her head, before walking away. Ray's features collapsed upon themselves as his face crumpled in anguish. I could have sworn, as he turned towards his truck, he wiped away a tear.
Carla's timing was once again impeccable. She turned up like a bad penny just in time to ruin everyone else's lives.
Better remember to be careful what I wish for. I had hoped Ray would find someone that he could love again, and it looked as if he had, only to lose her in the most tragic circumstances. Thank goodness my reading lent itself to tragedy. Because ordinary love stories simply couldn't stand the test of time.
I made my way home to drop off my books, wash up, and change clothes, before going downstairs to start dinner. Unfortunately, Carla had beaten me to it, attempting to cook again. The kitchen was a fucking disaster area. And she had wasted a lot of the food that I had just purchased yesterday.
"I thought I would surprise you with a hot meal," she laughed. I was not amused. Dad and I were working hard to take care of her and give her what she needed and she was simply pissing our money away. If ever there was someone who should never be in the kitchen it was Carla. Because she had never bothered to learn how to do anything properly and she always tries to rush, depending on me to fix her mistakes. Instead of the relaxation I expected, I was forced to clean the scorched stove, discard the burnt remains, and air out the kitchen before cooking dinner with limited supplies.
It didn't help that Carla was basically looking over my shoulder, pretending like she was absorbing what I was doing. What a crock of bullshit. It's not like Carla would ever bother to emulate me. Apparently, Carla was desperate for company.
Despite working at Clayton's for four years, my hands had remained soft. A couple of months at home and they were already slightly calloused. I was always either scrubbing, wiping, serving, and sometimes even cooking in the diner.
I wasn't vain, but I noticed that my nails needed a manicure and that my hair had split ends. I was never going to be a cover model, but even I usually cared more for my appearance than this. I felt as if I had really let myself go. Not to mention all the weight I had lost from all the stress and constant overwork. Everyone was working and striving except Carla who didn't seem to care.
Later that evening at work, I saw a familiar face. It was Mr. Lincoln. In all the time I'd been here, I had never seen him away from his house and our town was small. In my whimsical moments, I had likened him to a spirit who haunted his lonely house on the hill.
As I passed his table after taking another order, he nodded at me and then said, "Hey, when you take your break, why don't you just take a seat? My treat."
I considered it and nodded back in acceptance. My feet did hurt from the constant movement, and I would like to have a seat to take a breather. 15 minutes later, I found myself seated across from Mr. Lincoln, who had quickly insisted I call him Jesse or Linc.
Of course, being drilled in politeness, I asked about his day, though I couldn't imagine anything exciting happening around here. He brought me up to date with all his construction details and how fascinated and satisfied he was with Ray's work. I was gratified that he at least saw the value of Ray's work. He was a very experienced Master Craftsman, and it was always thrilling to hear Dad being praised. Then he asked about my day.
"So," he said, addressing the elephant in the room, "What brought you to Montesano?"
No-one else had asked me directly, though I knew everyone wanted to know why the little girl who made good came back with her tail tucked between her legs. It suddenly occurred to me that no-one except perhaps the woman I saw with Ray realized that Carla had come back home. Only a few people in my life actually knew what monumental changes had taken place, changes that necessitated my return.
I didn't want to complain, I had never spoken to Kate about the enormous anger and grief I felt at all the lost opportunities, having to leave college, and not being able to establish my own place or begin my career. My independence and identity had been stolen. Because no matter how you slice it, by returning home to your parents' house, you were always considered a child. I was trapped in a state of arrested development.
I didn't resent Ray, how could I? He was obviously doing the best he could. It wasn't his fault that Carla was a never-ending font of bad luck.
I found myself confiding in the strange, yet confident, man about how hard both Ray and I were working in order to help Carla fight against the debilitating disease that had struck her down in her prime. The struggle which changed all our lives. I still didn't know how permanently this had altered the trajectory of my life, but I knew that all it would take was a little push to signal the death knell to any hope I had of flourishing.
It seemed so selfish to say it aloud, but I felt curiously free, confiding in someone who I felt wouldn't judge me or be hurt by my ruminations. A bit of the stress I'd been carrying around left my body, and I felt so much lighter from the experience. When my break ended ten minutes later, I felt as if I had made a new friend.
From time to time, Jesse would drop in and we would chat for a while as I went about my day. Sometimes I would talk to Kate if she called. I didn't want to drive up the long-distance bill. I had retained my pay-as-you-go phone, though I didn't make many calls.
There was at least one silver lining to my departure: since I was no longer immediately available, José made far fewer demands on my time. I'd been in Montesano for weeks, but Jose had only called one time. Once he realized I didn't have any time to help him with his photography shoots or shoot the breeze with him at my apartment, any interest in me dwindled, thank goodness. The only friend that contacted me with any regularity was Kate, and she had her own very demanding life to lead. Plus, she'd met a guy on her trip to Barbados.
Having a confidante made all the difference. At least it made it easier to stomach seeing Carla's face every morning before I readied myself for work. Just having a friendly face and someone to talk to that wouldn't judge. I knew the sight of me and a much older man was causing talk in our small town. People were probably thinking I was just as greedy and immoral as Carla, but Jesse and I knew the truth. He'd long since insisted I call him by his first name.
I was shocked that so many people were running around using a shortened version of his last name. Even knowing his first name and being able to use it lent more credence to our friendship and made me feel more equal. Thankfully, he'd long since abandoned calling me Annie, which made me feel like a child. Ana was more in keeping with my adult identity. I hated when people called me Anastasia because it reminded me of my mother's pretentious, chiding behavior. I knew I was in severe danger of becoming deeply embittered, but I couldn't help the sting of betrayal every time I looked upon her.
But there was no doubt that Carla was in a severe decline. The medicines seemed no longer effective in the face of the virulent disease. A change would need to be made, but I flinched at the enormous expense. How would I ever pay for it? How would Ray pay for it?
Sadly, the answer to those questions came soon enough as I watched Ray seated at the kitchen table, bills in hand, studying them carefully. As opposed to the earlier robbing Peter to pay Paul, it seemed as if simple sacrifices would no longer suffice. As I came closer, I saw the envelopes the letters had arrived in. He held in his hands documents expressing interest in purchasing the house and the land that his family had dwelt for over a hundred years. I couldn't believe it. My heart dropped into my stomach as the bile climbed up my throat.
"No," I whispered, a heart-wrenching plea for him to deny it. How could it have come to this? It was an end of an era a complete change in the way that my father would live his life. I couldn't let him sacrifice himself like this. It would be the end of all she knew. But I had no solutions.
My tears flowed as I silently gazed at my father. I swiped them away angrily standing up, fully intent on doing Carla extreme bodily harm. She was the cause of this. Only Ray's restraining arm grabbing me stopped my forward momentum.
"No, Annie," he commanded. "This is not who you are. We have to do what we can with what we have."
"That's my point. This selfish person expects you to sacrifice everything that you've built, that your family built over generations. And she wouldn't piss on us if we were on fire. How can you defend her?"
"Because at the end of the day she's a person in need, and she brought me you."
Once again, I was engulfed in guilt. If I had never been born. If only Carla had never depended on Ray to take care of her, he wouldn't have to sacrifice up everything he had in order to keep the sorry bitch alive. Not after everything Carla had done.
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