Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

Kristina sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Yeah.” She grabbed her snack bag from the counter, walked a straight path to her suitcase, then took a final sweep of the room. She was struck with the sudden realization that her life would be changed when she returned to her apartment. For a moment she couldn’t move.

Then she felt the soft fur of Minnie’s coat rubbing against her bare leg, heard the gentle, reassuring purr. She bent and gave her cat a gentle pat. Then straightening, Kristina took her first step.

* * *

Kristina counted the miles as knots of tension formed in her shoulders. The past three hours felt like thirty and there were two more hours to go. She shifted her weight in the seat of the cheap rental car and reached for her water bottle. This journey had turned out to be a test of her endurance. The highway was one long stretch of cement road bordered by acres of sunburned grass, scrubby trees, and countless billboards. The August sun was relentless and no matter how cold she set the air conditioner, the car couldn’t stay cool. She’d tried listening to one of the many audiobooks she’d downloaded, but the onslaught of memories was so unrelenting she couldn’t follow the storylines. She gave up and turned on the radio. Why did Ann have to bring up her childhood? It was like opening Pandora’s box. She couldn’t keep the memories away.

She drove past one of several small Southern towns in the middle of nowhere down on its luck. A few red-bricked buildings sat boarded up, a derelict train station with no passengers. A water tower with chipping paint.

The sight brought to mind the water tower that was visible from her bedroom window in the Gwinnett house she grew up in. She used to sit and stare out at it and wonder what kind of courage it would take to climb up to the very top and holler at the top of her lungs. What would that kind of freedom feel like?

Kristina was near thirteen when new neighbors moved in next door. That summer her attention had shifted from the water tower to the new kid who shot baskets in the hoop set over the garage door. He was thin, like her. His bony knees were prominent under his khaki shorts. He usually wore a ball cap with the Georgia Bulldogs logo on it, but he’d take if off from time to time to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing dark brown hair cut so short he looked like one of those Holocaust survivors she’d read about. But he sure had energy. He practiced for hours on end, shooting one basket after another. Her mother complained that the constant thumping of the ball was driving her crazy. Kristina grew to love the sound. Whenever she heard it, she’d smile, knowing the boy was just outside. She’d go to the window, set her chin in her palm, and watch and wonder why he didn’t have friends play the game with him. Wondered, too, if he was as lonely as she.

The Hurst backyard was a postcard-size patch of mowed weeds surrounded by a rusting chain-link fence. Not a single tree or bush prettied up the plot. Neighbors had complained about how Mrs. Hurst didn’t paint the chipping house trim or fix up the yard a bit to make it more respectable. They declared the Hurst house was an eyesore in the neighborhood. When a group from the neighborhood Woman’s Club came calling to discuss the matter with Mrs. Hurst, her mother had gone on a cleaning frenzy with Kristina. They scrubbed the living room and her mother made a fresh pot of coffee. After the women arrived, Deborah rolled Kristina out into the living room in her wheelchair.

Kristina laughed to herself at the memory. Boy did their tunes change. Once they saw the “poor, crippled adopted girl,” all thin and pale with that pitiful Buster Brown haircut, they crooned their apologies and praised Deborah Hurst for being a saint, taking care of an invalid child all on her own. From that day forward they showered them with Christian kindness by sending casseroles, boxes of homemade cookies, holiday gifts, and their husbands with paintbrushes and mowers in tow.

Except, Kristina could walk. Her mother told her she needed to stay in her wheelchair to save her strength on account she might collapse. She’d insisted Kristina use the wheelchair whenever she was in public. One never knew when one of her “bouts” might strike. And Kristina did feel poorly much of the time.

She’d grown up believing she had the best mother in the world. What other mother would selflessly dote on her, fix her special diets, take her to endless doctor appointments, and carefully dole out the many medicines she was given daily? Her mother told her that because she had an immune disease, she couldn’t go to school, or have friends, or even go out in public often. Germs were everywhere and they could kill her. Kristina believed her implicitly and stayed indoors.

The summer she turned thirteen, watching the boy next door play basketball sent her thoughts spinning. If she had been four years old when she spied the neighbor boy, or even eight, Kristina might’ve stayed at that window and kept wondering about him. But Kristina was thirteen and her hormones were coursing through her body, giving her the courage to brush her hair, put on her best dress, and walk out to the backyard to say hello.

His name was Joe. He was so thin she could see the veins protruding in his arms. And bruises. He said any bump caused one. She liked the way his dark brown hair had a cowlick where he parted it, and the dreamy way he blinked his eyes. At first, Joe was as shy as she was. But being neighbors somehow removed the veil of unfamiliarity and they struck up a conversation. He