Lithia Park

        You try to teach them right.
         When kids grow up, at least some small part of you expects, if not demands, that they should honor you in some small sort of way.  They start walking, and speaking, and you think, "Well, so far, so good."
         Then.  Then, they learn that special little word.  Two insignificant letters, that have already been put together in the order of the alphabet.  They learn the word "NO."
         And by age three, the path had to be changed.  Your way is not the one taken.  Another one is found called compromise.  And there are winding pitches on this road, going far to the left, and veering right back around to the right. 
         But this. 
         This could be too much.
         On the coffee table, a slip of paper had been lying there waiting for Debra to come home.  She had opened the door, and immediately, the air didn't seem right.  It was like opening a door to an empty home.  You knew that nobody was there.  When the air hasn't been disturbed for awhile, it turns into a smell recognizable.
         And this was the same feeling.  Because the "nobody's home" smell was there.  There was something else though.
         Her eyes had been directed toward the coffee table.  The small glass top, that almost ran the length of the couch behind it, and rested on the floor, between the couch and the TV set.
         A piece of paper, slightly not perfect, with few wrinkles from handling had been left folded in half.  On the half facing the ceiling, had been written the name "Debra" in her daughter's unmistakable penmanship.          
         Debra crossed the floor, closing the door behind her.  She slipped off the purse on her shoulder and let it drop to the living room floor.  It made a subdued thud as she sat down in the middle of the couch.
         Her hands reached for the note timidly.  They unfolded the paper, and her eyes continued the journey of the unknown note.
         
         Mom,
         
         I can't live with you anymore.  I've tried, and for the most part it's good.  But,  if you can't accept Pete, then you leave me with the decision in what I believe in more. I believe in Pete.  He isn't wrong for what he believes.
         I'll come by and pick up my stuff when you're not around.  I don't need another fight with you.  We're getting married.  I'll send the invitation when I can.
         
                                                                               Love,
                                                                                         Lindsay

         Debra's hands began to shake.  Her eyes were glistening.  An anger began to grow inside of her.  She took the paper with Lindsay's words on them and began to tear it into smaller and smaller pieces.  They floated down in quick fashion to land on the coffee table and the living room floor.
         How could she do this?  Debra had known things weren't going as smoothly as most, but this was her daughter.  She hadn't even felt a tremor of this in the weeks prior.  Now, a note crying sanctuary" in the arms of Baptist?
         And her anger grew at the thought of his name.  Peter, the one taking her daughter away.  Peter, the man who despite all her efforts to tell Lindsay the truth, was now shoving ridiculous theories down her throat. 
         Something tugged at her.  Some form of guilt.  She couldn't figure it out.  Things were not making sense anymore. 
         She got up from the living room couch and headed into the kitchen.  Searching one of the cupboards near the refrigerator she found the small prescription bottle she was looking for and immediately downed two Paxils without water.
         That boy.  Trying to take her daughter away and boast her to God. "Look what I've changed!" He'd say.  "Born into a house of non-believers, I have changed her for the better of you!"
          Just a different sort of trophy.  That's all she was to him.  He was hiding behind a religious front, and he didn't even know it.  Something had to be done.
         
         Days passed.
         Talk between Lindsay and Debra had become sparse.  Everytime Debra came home from work, she would find another part of Lindsay's belongings had been taken.  They came when she wasn't there.  Debra would call, but even after a few times of unanswered ringing, she even gave up on that.  Changing tactics, she waited for her daughter to strike up the courage to call. 
         Debra stared at her constantly shifting house of belongings. By this point, almost all of Lindsay's room had been vacated.  The metal bed frame had been left, and a couple of dresses had been left in the closet hanging up.  The TV stand held no television, and it was only a matter of time before they came by to pick that up as well.
         Debra sat down on the bed frame in the empty room, listening to the sound of one person in a house. Her eyes welled up and she began to cry. 
         From the other room, the sound of her cell phone startled her.  She looked up with wet blinking eyes, and wiped them away as she walked from the room to the kitchen counter.  The small electronic display showed "Linz" in the middle of screen.
         "What," she said.  Through the other end of the receiver, Lindsay could hear her mother's breathing trying to catch itself and slow down. 
         "Hey, Mom."
         "Don't give me that 'hey shit' Lizzie."
         "Well, I see you're in a good mood." Lindsay said.
         Debras crying and sobbing had stopped.  Slow anger had started to take place.
         "Why are you even doing it, Liz?  It doesn't make sense," Debra was trying to stop herself from talking, but couldn't. "Make it make sense to me."
         Look, it's not like I'm not any different, I just..."
         "Not yet," Debra interrupted.
         "I just," Lizzie continued after a pause. "started believing."
         Debra had went silent.
         "Mom?"
         Nothing came from the other line.  Debra was sitting on the couch, staring off into space. 
         "Come on, mom. I can hear you breathing."
         "It just isn't right," She said, and hung the phone up on her daughter.
         
         The next few weeks came and went.  Debra went to to work, didn't talk to other employees and kept to herself.  It wasn't much of a switch, and the other employees didn't pay notice.  She went home, and stayed in her room.  Sometimes, she'd switch the TV on, but wouldn't pay it any attention.  She stared at the ceiling.  She didn't eat.  When her stomach hurt, she would get up and find something in the kitchen.  After a few weeks, there was nothing left to eat in the house other than condiments.  Debra couldn't bring herself to go out.           
         The next day in the morning, Debra didn't get out of bed.  Work called in, and she told them she didn't feel good.  In a week, work was wondering whether or not Debra was planning on coming back. They called her repeatedly, and for awhile Debra said the same thing.  But in a few days, she didn't answer the phone.
         Lindsay and Peter came over one day to pick up the rest of her belongings.  She locked herself in the bedroom.  Lindsay tried for a couple of minutes to get her to come out and talk to her.  No sound came out of her mother's room.
         "You want me to just start grabbing everything?" Peter said.
         From the room, a small grunt was heard at the sound of Peter's voice.
         From the hallway, Lindsay locked eyes with the locked door.
         "Yeah, go ahead.  I'll be there in a minute."
         Peter walked off and started loading things into his hands as he walked around in the living room. Every once in a while, he would look questioningly at Lindsay unsure of which items were hers.  He was about to ask a question, but by then Lindsay was already talking to the door.
         "Mom, he isn't a bad person.  You know that.  Come on, just come out and talk to me.
         The door opened up a small crack.  Lindsay looked at the face of her mother.  Her lips were cracked, and her face a bit more bony, as if a bit of life had been drained from it.  Her hair was a complete mess with split ends everywhere.
         Debra locked eyes with her daughter. 
         "It's not that he's taking you away from what I believe in.  It's...he's taking you away from me."
         "Mom, that's not at all what he's..."
         Her mother had stopped listening, and closed the door on them both.  From  inside, the creak of the mattress was heard, and the TV switched on, the volume turning up loud enough that Peter could hear it from the living room.
         From inside the room, the sound was near deafening.  As the two moved through the house, picking up everything else they had missed on the first few trips here, Debra remained focused on the TV, and the people on the screen.  It was about an hour later she finally heard the front door close shut a little louder than usual.
         She turned down off the TV, and waited a few seconds.  The car rumbled to life in the driveway.  She walked from her room, and peered from the living room windows out to the front lawn as the car sped away.
         Debra turned from the window to the sparse living room.  Not much had been taken.  A few magazines. A couple of knick knacks lying on the fireplace mantle.  Her eyes scanned helplessly around the room. Her eyes stopped on an open space on the wall where a picture had been hanging.
         And she knew the picture.  She knew exactly which one it was. 
         She went inside her bedroom and closed the door.  She lay down on the bed, and placed her face between the bed and the pillow. 
         A long, muffled scream came out and echoed softly in the bedroom.

         More than a mile away, Lindsey was staring at the picture of her and her mother.  They had  taken it in Ashland, outside of some gift shop.  Lindsey had always loved it because she could see Lithia Park right in the background of the shot.
         "You think she's going to be alright with you taking that?"
         "It's the only way I'm gonna get to see her now.  It's not my fault she's so damn stubborn."
         "Like mother, like daughter, right?" Peter said with a smirk as his eyes stayed on the road.
         "Shutup." She said.

         The few months leading up to the wedding passed by without Debra's attention.  She wondered her house aimlessly, searching sometimes for reminders of Lindsey, and always finding none.  Past due notices began piling up in the mailbox.  The letter carrier came by one day and knocked on the door, holding both hands full of unopened envelopes.
         "Miss, these were in your mailbox."
         "I'm not a miss, I'm married." she said.
         "Oh, I'm sorry."
         Debra stared at the mailman, and took her mail from him.  She closed before he could say anything else.
         She turned from the front door to the kitchen, and opened the door underneath the sink.  She took the letters and bills and gave them a final glance before throwing them all into the garbage beneath.
          
         Debra had moved her sleeping arrangement to the couch in the living room.  The TV stayed on consistently.  During the nights, the house was washed with a blue technicolor haze seen from the window outside.  A show with many cut shots in it, made it look like an erratic flash bomb had gone off.
         She had stopped taking Lindsey's calls.  After the fourth ring on the cell phone, she would wait for a voicemail beep to come.  But Lindsey would never leave one.  She had skipped meals entirely throughout the day.  It was nearing 10 o' clock, and her stomach was bothering her to fill it.
         She weakly and irately got up from the couch, and meandered into the kitchen.  She stumbled a bit as her feet hit the cold tiled vinyl floor.  Opening the fridge, she grabbed the milk, and set it down on the counter as she closed the door. 
         Her cell phone went off again from the next room.  Ignoring it, she went grabbed a box of cereal, not even looking at the brand.  Grabbing a bowl in the sink, she ran it through the kitchens sink's stream for a couple seconds. 
         The cell phone stopped ringing.  She began to pour the cereal into the still wet bowl, and continued with the milk after ward.
         A small beep came from her phone.
         Her eyes darted towards the glowing room.
         She set the milk on the counter again, forgetting to recap it.
         Walking back onto warm carpet again, she stepped closer to her phone, almost timidly.
         As she reached for it, it beeped again.  The screen showed two words:

New Voicemail!

         Her fingers fumbled for the phone, and it scattered to the ground.  She reached down between the couch and the coffee table and finally grasped it.  She pressed SEND, and let the phone go to her voicemail.
         A small electronic voice prompted her for her password. She entered and waited.
         
"Er...hi mom.  I wished you'd answer your phone.  I'd rather tell this to you.  Peter thinks that it would be best if I was baptized before we were married, and I wanted to invite you to the baptismal.  You're not answering, so this is the best I could do.  Please try and be there.  I love you. Ok. bye."   

         Debra's breathing had become quick by the end of the message.  Her eyes had become wide while listening, and now they were unblinking.  She still held the phone in her hand.
         This couldn't happen.
         This should be an impossibility.
         Her mind was working hard to try to rationalize this, but came up with no answers.

         A few hours later, she was driving.  She didn't even remember getting into the car, but she was driving.  She had a set destination.  She was driving the car with one hand, and still held on to the phone in a death clutch. 
         The early morning cars passed her by, as she drove through residential streets slightly faster than posted.  She made a left, and continued.  Driving straight through an empty intersection, she glanced at the stop sign and turned her head back to  straight ahead.
         From her right eye, she caught a glance of it.
         Turning the wheel right, her car rammed up the sidewalk and into the field beyond it.  Her  gas gauge began to slowly start going down.  She didn't know if she would have enough gas to make it.
         She accelerated.  The speedometer read 50 and still rising. 
         Her windows were open.  A smile spread across her face. 
         "Alright God, you never met me in my life.  Now it's my turn to pay a visit!"
          The car slammed into the left face of the Regent Baptist Evangelical church.  upon impact, the car was set into flames, as the gas ignited.  A large propane heater located on the wall exploded, and the left side of the church was detonated to the ground.  Debra, or what once was Debra, began to disintegrate to bone.  The cell phone finally dropped.