Writer's Digest Prompt: New Life

You've left town—ditching your old, miserable life—hoping to start a new life for yourself. You've given yourself a new name, fake background and style. Write about your first encounter in your new town.

I dropped my overstuffed duffel bag on the floor next to the barstool and took a seat at the counter.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the waitress asked, as she balanced four plates of the evening’s special on her way to a family sitting in the back corner of the diner.

“That’d be just fine Miss,” I replied. I had decided on the bus ride from Potsville to Merced City that in this new life of mine, I would try to be more respectful and courteous, more upstanding than the coward who had spent so long running away from his problems.

The waitress brought me the coffee, pushed a menu in front of me and smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile. An almost familiar smile. But in that instant I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered Mandy.

“Here you go. The special is fabulous tonight but whatever you do, make sure you save some room for dessert. The pecan pie here is the best you’ll ever have.”

“Thank you Miss,” I replied. Her crudely-fashioned nametag read “Pamela.” She reminded me of Mandy, but was a bit heavier and her hair was different.

And anyway, Mandy was dead.

“I’ll have the special,” I said, not even looking at the menu.

“Good choice,” she replied with wink.

I stirred two sugars into my coffee and thought about the last time I saw Mandy. It had been almost ten years. She had rushed to my parent’s house looking for me, frantic, not knowing what to do after her drug-dealing father had found the positive pregnancy test in her bathroom trash can.

“What are we going to do?” she cried. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I had no answers.

I should’ve been there for her. We should’ve been in it together. But instead I backed away and three days later, despite the pleas of her friends and cousins, Mandy took her life by jumping off the Potsville Bridge into the Grayson River feeding the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again. She left a note, but didn’t mention me.

I was sleeping in my cozy bed at the time.

Her death traumatized our tight-knit community and I could never seem to escape the hushed whispers or judging eyes of those around me. I was the reason she was dead.

Pamela set the meatloaf special in front of me.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No, I think I’m fine. Thank you Miss.”

It didn’t take long for Mandy’s father to put two and two together. And if it weren’t for the police raid of his drug operation prompted by the investigation of Mandy’s suicide, I’m sure he would’ve come after me with a vengeance.

He was sentenced to 12 years in prison on drug trafficking charges but only served a little over nine. I had known for a long time that as the day of his release neared, I would have to make some changes. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing for me in Potsville, where I had grown tired of the being labeled as the boy who forced a young girl to her death.

So I decided to leave. I got a one way bus ticket to wherever it would take me.

And I landed here, in Merced City.

“So,” Pamela asked. “Where are you from?”

“Umm…Swenson,” I replied.

“I love the autumns in Swenson,” she said.

“Yeah….yeah, I’ll miss those autumns,” I lied, having never actually been to Swenson.

“What brings you to Merced City?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how much I should say. After all, I was trying to establish a new identity, but at the same time felt an inexplicable, yet desperate need to confide in someone.

“I’m here for a fresh start,” I said. Pamela smiled, almost knowingly.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “Sometimes, you just have to turn the page and give yourself a new chance. I did the same thing, and now my son and I couldn’t be happier. I’m glad you picked Merced City.”

“I am too,” I replied.

I finished the rest of my meatloaf and ordered a slice of Pamela’s pecan pie, feeling hopeful in this new beginning.

“My name is Paul,” I said, extending my hand.

“Paul,” she repeated, taking my hand in hers. “Paul, from Swenson.”

“That’s right,” I replied.

“It’s funny,” she said. “You remind me of boy I used to know from Potsville.”