Girl By Any Other Name

by MK Schiller

  I squeezed Sylvie’s hand so tight it probably hurt her, but she didn’t say anything. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Oh, Cal,” Momma said in a choked wail I never heard before. One I never wanted to hear again.

  Deputy Smalley approached me. His usual jovial face was pale and humorless. “I need to talk to you, son.” He turned to Sylvie. “You should run along home. This is family business.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked again.

  “Cal, this is family business,” he repeated.

  Sylvie tried to release my hand, but I gripped it too hard for her to let go. Whatever was happening, I wanted her here. I needed her.

  “She is family,” I said. I didn’t recognize my own voice. It sounded too calm and didn’t match the chaos happening inside of me.

  He sighed, but nodded. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “What I want is for you to tell me what’s happening.” I didn’t need him to, though. Not really. I already knew.

  He placed his hand on my shoulder, lowering his voice. “Caleb, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your father was out patrolling. We think he pulled a car over. A routine traffic stop.” The deputy’s voice thickened with each word. “He... It was a hit and run.”

  The blood rushed into my head. My legs were about to give out. “No,” I said to make him stop talking. He didn’t.

  “We don’t have a suspect yet, but we have leads.”

  “So, my dads at the hospital?” I asked, the question blanketed with desperate hope, even though I already had the answer.

  “He never made it to the hospital.”

  Deputy Smalley said some more stuff about how they weren’t going to stop until they found the man responsible and how it might be drug-related. Meth had found its way into our little world, “poisoning the well” as some said. I only listened to every other word of Deputy Smalley’s speech. I wanted to believe this was a cruel joke, but it wasn’t. I felt the truth of his words in my gut. Dad was dead. The man who taught me how to throw a football, ride a bike, swing a bat, and treat a lady was gone forever.

  “Caleb, you have to be strong for your sister and mother. You’re the man of the house now,” Deputy Smalley said.

  I nodded, willing myself not to cry. My mother and Mandy were bawling their eyes out, and the last thing I wanted to do was add to it. At some point, I must have released Sylvie’s hand because I picked up Mandy and sat with her on the couch.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” I said, although I didn’t believe my own words. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  “It’s not okay, Cal!” she screamed, beating my chest. I let her. She needed to.

  “Calm down, Mandy.”

  “I don’t want you. I want my daddy. I want my daddy. Stop trying to act like my daddy. Daddy!”

  Sylvie pulled her off me. My mother was crying so much she didn’t notice. Sylvie bent down and whispered into Mandy’s ear. I had no idea what she said, but it seemed to calm her. She carried my sister to her room. It was better that way. Mandy didn’t need to hear the gruesome details or see our momma like this.

  I lost track of time after that. I sat next to Momma on the old plaid couch as people passed in and out of our house as if they owned it. They hugged us, kissed us, and brought over casseroles by the truckload. They talked about how my father was a hero and the legacy he left. He gave details on the state-wide manhunt for the driver, who had killed him.

  Why didn’t my dad have a normal job like a garbage man or plumber? I didn’t give a fuck about legacies or honor. I just wanted my dad back.

  Nate and a slew of my other friends came and went. They were nervous and had no idea what to say. Kids our age didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing. The world would kind of suck if they did.

  Some of the parents brought Mandy’s friends with them, which annoyed the crap out of me. The last thing I needed was a house full of screaming kids. Mandy refused to see them—she clung to Sylvie like the girl was a life vest. When I checked on her, she’d fallen asleep in Sylvie’s arms.

  Most of the adults, especially the men, repeated Deputy Smalley’s words, making sure I understood I needed to be strong for my mother and sister. I was the man of the house now. It became a clear theme throughout the evening.

  The funeral director, Mr. Paul, came that night. In a small town, the funeral director came to your house. You didn’t even have to call him, at least not when you were the sheriff’s family. I helped my mother choose flower arrangements, caskets, and all sorts of other shit I wanted nothing to do with. I did it though because my usually vocal mother couldn’t form a sentence without choking up again.

  Sylvie was there somewhere, a passive but needed presence, bringing people coffee, rubbing my mother’s shoulders, holding my hand, or rushing back to Mandy’s bedroom to check on her. At some point, a plate of food appeared in front of me.

  “You have to eat, Cal,” she said against my ear.

  She said the same thing to Momma. Hell, I think she might have even fed her. Momma was grieving something serious. My parents had had this crazy, magical romance. I’d always made fun of them, but even at fourteen, I knew it wasn’t a common marriage. They were always singing, dancing, or kissing. He was a great husband, a loving father…he was the best man there was. What were we going to do? What was I going to do?

  People asked to stay over, but Momma sent them away. She wanted to rest, and she sure as hell didn’t want a bunch of people hovering over us. I walked into the kitchen and noticed all the dishes were done. Sylvie must have cleaned up.

  “Momma, you should go to bed,” I said, taking her hand.

  “Cal, I loved him so much.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  “He was so proud of you. He was just telling me this morning he couldn’t believe you were the starting quarterback.”

  A few hours earlier it was all I could talk about, but now that she said it, I wanted nothing to do with the team. I put her to bed and tucked her in, kissing her cheek. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d kissed her cheek.

  I should have hugged my father more. I should have told him how much I loved him, respected him, and how hard I tried to emulate him. Now I’d never get the chance.

  Feeling the full weight of exhaustion that always followed deep sorrow, I walked into Mandy’s room to check on her. She slept on her side, and Sylvie had laid next to her with her arms wrapped around my little sister. Even in the dim hallway light, I could see their red, puffy faces streaked with dry tears. I hadn’t noticed Sylvie crying. I’d ignored her for the better part of the day.

  I crawled in next to Sylvie, too tired to go to my own room. I still wore my shoes and day clothes, but I didn’t care. I needed sleep. The three of us shouldn’t have fit so comfortably on Mandy’s twin bed, but we did.

  “Cal,” Sylvie whispered. I must have woken her.

  “Yes?” My voice was raspy, but I’d managed not to shed a single tear. I’d stay strong, even if it killed me.

  “You can talk to me. I’ve been where you are now.”

  “I’m fine, Sylvie.”

  “I don’t think you are.”

  We lay there in the quiet with only Mandy’s breathing breaking through the stillness. “Does it get any easier?” I asked.

  “Not easier, but the pain is like a bad cut. It heals, but there will always be a scar.”

  * * * *

  I went through the motions at the funeral. I greeted people, I murmured sentiments of gratitude, accepted embraces, and kissed cheeks. I wasn’t there, though. I was a zombie, or perhaps a ghost. The mortician had done a decent job patching my father together so we could have an open casket, but it didn’t look like him. My father, so pale and unnaturally still, laid out inside the shiny coffin in his Sunday suit almost did me in. Still, I didn’t cry. I had to be strong and give the eulogy. It seemed impossible. I wasn’t going to get through this.

  Sylvie held my hand and squee
zed it tightly. “You can do this. You loved him. Just pretend you’re speaking to him and tell him how you feel. This is your way of saying all the things you wanted to say.”

  I have no idea why her simple statement gave me the strength I needed, but I was able to walk to the podium and say all the wonderful things about my father. I didn’t even choke up. Not once.

  The wake was the worse, though. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors, cops, cops, and more cops flooded our house and yard. They came from every precinct in the Tri-county area to grieve with us. I hadn’t noticed them all at the church, but our house looked ready to burst open at the seams with the number of people crowding inside.

  I didn’t want any of them here. I just wanted to be alone. If one more person told me I had to be strong, I might puke. I hadn’t cried. I’d managed that. Why couldn’t they leave me alone? They expected me to be some kind of rock for Momma and Mandy to cling to through this miserable storm. My father was a boulder, but I was a fucking pebble. How could I replace him?

  Sylvie clasped my hand and pulled me outside. I trampled the daisies. She dragged me toward the woods. I followed like an obedient child. I finally snapped out of my trance when she stopped a good distance from the house.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked her. I was relieved to experience irritation. I thought I would only feel grief for the rest of my life.

  “We’re going to the woods.”

  “I can’t leave.”

  “You can. Just for a little while. You need to.”

  I let her lead the way until we came to the familiar place where a majestic oak had once stood before a violent storm had ripped it out of the ground, leaving only a wide stump in its place. She pushed my shoulders down until I sat on the stump.

  “Are you crazy? I have to get back in there.”

  She bent so we were at eye level. She traced the silver chain around my neck until she reached the medallion hidden under my shirt. “It belonged to Dad,” I explained. “It was supposed to protect him, but he wasn’t wearing it that day. It’s the patron—”

  “St Michael, patron saint of protectors. I didn’t think Methodists believed in patron saints.”

  “My grandmother was Catholic before she converted. She gave it to Dad the day he entered the Police Academy. Momma gave it to me this morning. It’s pretty stupid.” I wasn’t too keen on wearing jewelry, even if it was religious, but Momma had smiled when I put it on, so I wore it.

  Sylvie slipped it back under my shirt. “It’s not stupid.”

  “No, I’m stupid because I’m sitting out here with you in the middle of the fucking woods while my father’s wake is going on.” I moved to get up, but she gripped my shoulder.

  “You haven’t cried, have you?”

  “I don’t need to cry.”

  “Yes, you do. You loved him very much. This pain inside of you? I remember this pain. It’s the worst thing a person can feel. If you don’t let it out, it will destroy you. Let it out.” She stood, but didn’t move away from me. She just stood there as if waiting for me to say something. I had nothing.

  “I told you, I’m fine. I need to be strong for Mandy and Momma. I’m not going to cry like some candy-ass pussy.” I kicked a few rocks.

  She placed both her hands on my chest. “It’s okay to cry. It doesn’t mean you’re not strong.”

  I’d held my temper at bay, but I was at that boiling point where I wanted to kick the world where it had kicked me. Fury ran through my veins, ripe and cold, and she was right in my path. “Get the fuck out of my way, Sylvie.”

  “I won’t. You need to do this.”

  I clenched my teeth and closed my fists. “What I need is to kill the fucking bastard who killed my father and left him to die.”

  “This anger you’re feeling will only kill you a little bit at a time. It won’t make you feel better. The crying will.”

  “Who the fuck are you? You think because your mom died you’re an expert? Is that what you think, freak?”

  She winced, but made no attempt to move away. What I’d said was beyond cruel, and I regretted it.

  “Maybe I am a freak, but I’m an expert when it comes to you, Caleb Tanner.” Her voice wavered. She’d done nothing but help me through the worst days of my life. Here I was yelling and calling her names. I was not my father in any way.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvie. I didn’t mean —”

  “We’re fine. I’m your huckleberry and you’re mine.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But you’re walking around here like cracked glass, and I’m scared you might shatter into a million pieces.”

  “Look, I need to be strong for Momma and Mandy and everyone else.”

  “Not for me, Caleb.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “You don’t have to be strong for me. Let me be strong for you right now. It’s just you and me. No one will hear you out here.”

  That did it. I felt the first hot tear slide down my cheek. The avalanche wasn’t far behind. I grasped her waist and pulled her toward me, burying my face in her stomach. My tears soaked through her dress, but she didn’t say anything. She just held me and let me hold her. She rubbed my shoulders and stroked my hair while I bawled like a baby. In fact, I hadn’t cried since I was a baby. Not even when Nate clocked me in the head with his fastball in Little League.

  I pulled her down so she was on my lap. I cried against the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. We clung to each other. I cried for a long time until I could barely breathe. Finally, I was too exhausted to cry anymore. She was right. It did make me feel better.

  When my arsenal of tears stopped, she took out a lace handkerchief from the cuff of her dress and wiped my face. She didn’t say anything. I was grateful she didn’t. Words would have tarnished the moment. Instead, she kissed my forehead, stood, and held out her hand to me.

  We walked back to the house, her pinky hooked around mine. I felt better. I was able to be in my body. I even managed to make Mandy smile. Sylvie had done that for me. She let me cry. She became my shelter from the storm.

  It all went to shit, though, when Mona Simms brought up my parent's anniversary letting my mother know she’d heard a rumor Dad had planned a weekend surprise getaway for them. Momma broke out into fresh hysterics. What the hell was wrong with that bitch? Why couldn’t she have kept her fat ass on the piano bench and played some more of those god-awful hymns she’d been singing all day? I think she took up residence there just to make sure she’d have a place to sit.

  I tried to comfort my mother, telling her it would be okay, but I had no deep, profound words for her. My words were hollow at best, and they did nothing to alleviate her pain. It was Sylvie who did that. She walked over to the now-vacant piano bench and sat down. Mandy followed her as she always did. Sylvie smiled at her, and then she started playing.

  Don McLean’s “American Pie” was not the most appropriate song for a wake, but Dad would have loved it. The song was one of his favorites. He’d taught both Mandy and Sylvie to play it. Momma calmed down, the music providing some kind of medicinal value. It worked on me, too. I walked over and sat there on the bench with them. Mandy was in between us. Sylvie smiled at me. I knew this was hard for her. She never let anyone hear her sing. She barely even talked for that matter. Here she was belting out a tune for everyone on the damn island to hear her.

  Thing was, that particular song ran through the house like an infection. Mandy and Sylvie were singing, and I added my less than harmonious voice to theirs. Momma joined us next, squeezing Sylvie’s shoulder in appreciation. Then more people came, standing around the piano and lending their voices. Someone took my father’s guitar off the hook and started strumming along. We misquoted some of McLean’s poetic lyrics, and we were definitely no Justin Timberlake, but in that moment, I fully understood what my dad said about music having the ability to heal. I stared at the beautiful girl with the long cinnamon hair and eyes so deep you could fall right into them.

  She was more than my friend. S
he was my family.

  I admitted it to myself, even if I didn’t have the courage to tell her.

  I loved Sylvie Cranston with all my heart.

  Chapter 9

  Present day

  I scanned through the assignments, looking for Sophie Becker’s paper. Jessica and I usually split up the essays, but I insisted I’d grade all of them along with the unsent letters. After all, Jessica would become suspicious if I asked for one in particular.

  Jessica had asked me out before. I refused. Besides the fact it was against school policy to date your TA, it just felt wrong. Not that dating felt right with anyone. I was too busy, or some might say obsessed, with searching for my Lenore. My relationships were sexually satisfying but devoid of emotional investment.

  The paper on Sophie’s favorite book by Thomas Hardy gave me no insights. Thomas Hardy novels were so sad I wasn’t sure if Sylvie would have picked it, but then again, it had been ten years.

  The unsent letters proved much easier. I decided not to grade them, but gave credit to those who turned them in. They were, after all, emotional responses, and how could you judge something that came from the heart? I used a lined sheet of paper to cover the next sentence as I read. Maybe if I did this without any pretenses, I would be able to tell which one was hers. One, in particular, gave me great hope.

  Dear Professor,

  I watch you from my perch, a tall, beautiful man full of passion and grace. As you read from a book, I can see the flexing of your strong arms and the anguish in your lovely face. The sweet Southern twang of your voice drips with tantalizing tones of mischief. It makes me drip. The gorgeous golden locks of hair that fall just so across your brow in a perfect flip. The graceful walk hindered by the slightest limp. The sweet dimple that appears when you smile melts my heart with consuming desire. The smile is so rare, I wonder why that is. All I wish for, all I want, is for the charming professor to look my way just once.

  Was this Sylvie? I hesitated in revealing the last line, trying to get my heartbeat in check.