by A L Crouch
“Sounds great. Seriously, don’t worry about me.” I waved. “Thanks again for everything.”
Sulley started the truck and pulled back down the driveway.
“Family, remember?” He called out his window. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watched him pull onto the street and waited until I could no longer hear the roar of the massive engine before I accepted with a sudden ache in my chest that I was alone. I didn’t want to go back inside. I didn’t want to face the onslaught of emotion waiting for me at every glance around each room. Then I remembered the wine, let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and formed a more acceptable plan for the evening.
Back in the kitchen I filled my glass half way and shakily threw back the entire glass in one swallow, though I meant to take only a sip. It went down smooth.
“Eh, why bother . . .” I said, setting my glass in the sink.
Taking a swig from the bottle, I savored the cool liquid as it slid down my throat. The first waves of numbness hit while I was preparing the box of mac and cheese with a pot and spoon I found in one of the cupboards. The wine-induced fog was welcomed with open arms and I let it carry away some of the tension to ease the awkward nostalgia that I was trying to ignore. This was a much better plan, I told myself, making a mental note to pick up some more wine in town tomorrow.
As I waited for the noodles to cook, I fiddled with the radio. I craved music, any kind, but all I could find within the static were news broadcasts and fuzz. Sulley had been right, nothing on the radio but stories from Fort Bragg. I hated all things violent. Hell, I hated the news. It served as nothing but a constant reminder of how broken and decayed the world around me was becoming. I knew well enough from my own experience. The last thing I wanted to do was hear about the world’s downward spiral one overly embellished story at a time.
However, I did enjoy the company that the voices coming across the station presented, so I let it play while I finished making my supper and ate. More wine made it into my mouth than food, and soon the fuzzy radio words ran together in my mind.
“ . . . was early in the morning Thursday, when the alleged shooter opened fire on his own regiment as they gathered for morning PT at the stadium field,” the newscaster said, “killing one officer and two soldiers and wounding dozens more. Many more would have been wounded or killed were it not for the heroic efforts of one of the regiment’s soldiers, whose name has yet to be released. The soldier threw himself at the shooter and pinned him to the ground with his body. Though severely wounded, he held the shooter until Special Forces arrived to disarm the suspect. Due to the seriousness of the soldier’s injuries, it is doubtful that he . . .”
I switched the radio off. Even in my inebriated state, I didn’t want to hear anything more about meaningless death and tragic endings. The sudden silence was oppressive. Taking another swig, I wandered into the living room and caught the last rays of sunlight fighting against the darkness that steadily consumed the room. I closed the blinds one by one, forcing the remaining light to seep through the cracks between them. My eyes landed on my mother’s piano and as I stared at it numbly, reality melted away to reverie.
Time was again suspended, my home movie resumed in slow, inaudible motion in front of me. My mom sat at the piano, bathed in morning sunlight. A younger me sat beside her smiling and singing along with the tune. As I watched, I wished more than anything that I could hear the cheerful song that we both sang and laughed along to. With my eyes closed, it was almost possible to hear our voices joined as one, intertwined into the same melody. When I opened my eyes again though, we were gone.
My heart tore open and a stifled sob escaped my throat. Forcing myself behind the piano, my wavering knees rested on the bench and desperate, lost to the wine, I raised the lid and exposed the keys. I positioned my trembling fingers above the keys, though I hadn’t played in years. Not since the night of the accident. The recital we were driving home from had been my last.
Picturing the sunny scene with my mother at the piano, my fingers began the familiar tune and I smiled as the notes reverberated throughout the room. I could hear the music this time. In my delirium I could again see myself beside my mother as her fingers danced over the keys with an unequalled grace. She taught me everything I knew. My mother’s rich brown eyes shone with the music and her golden hair flowed with the breeze from the open window.
I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and missed her. I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to be with them, wherever she and Gary were. Why did they leave me behind? I wanted to tell her how much I wanted her back, more than anything, I just wanted her back.
Aching to hear our voices together at last, I sang the melody, needing to hear my mother’s soft honeyed voice joined with mine just one more time. My heart withered into dust as I realized that my voice was the only one I could hear, my mother’s lost to me forever. I opened my eyes to an empty room, to the reality of a decade and a half passed by. My fingers persisted on the keys as the last bit of restraint broke away inside me and I began to weep.
The piano keys cried a cacophony of bitter chords with my trembling collapse as I wept uncontrollably in accompaniment. All the emotions awakened in my soul by coming back to this place came screaming to the surface with violent vindication. At any moment I would be swept away by the waves of anguish that slammed into me now that the emotions had been unleashed.
Images of happy, sunlit memories tarnished under the dark memories of blood stained hair and closed caskets. The longing and hopelessness, pushed away for too long, swirled and ebbed in my head.
Then, as if calling to me from the shores of my rational mind, I heard a faint strumming, like that of a muted drum, or of feathered wings beating together in a steady rhythm. The noise was calming, and I focused on it as the storm of my released emotion raged on. Clinging desperately to the sound – it became louder, closer – I followed it through the bitter torrent as my body relaxed and the heaving in my chest slowed to shaky breaths. I could feel the strumming then, vibrating against me in a blanket of comforting warmth. My weeping stopped, and the debilitating desolation withered like smoke from an ember.
I raised my head and forced myself to open my heavy eyes, the room swaying when I tried. As the room around me focused I thought I heard a soft, soothing voice call to me.
“Alexandra.”
A glimpse of something reflected in the glossy finish of the piano caught my eye. A man was standing behind me at the foot of the stairs, dressed in black, his hand outstretched toward me. His ebony hair fell slightly over piercing blue eyes that beckoned to me.
My first reaction was to scream, but I didn’t. I didn’t know if it was the wine or the strumming that caused me to hesitate, to stare transfixed on the reflection before me. Those eyes, that voice, were both so familiar.
I heard my name whispered again.
“Alexandra.”
It was then that reality took hold of me. I gasped and whipped around to face the figure. But there was no one there. The room lay quiet and empty. I turned back to the piano, fatigue taking a swift hold of me, and saw nothing.
I must be losing it, I thought. Too much wine, too many memories. I laid my head in my crossed arms atop my mother’s piano and let exhaustion take me over.
“I miss you,” I whispered and then let the wine carry me off to sleep.
Chapter 3
The assault of the morning’s daylight on my eyes woke me up with a start and the throbbing in my temples made it hard to focus. I didn’t know where I was, though the muted yellow paint and high ceiling looked familiar. The events of the previous night came rushing back to me and I sat up cautiously from under the soft flannel linens of a freshly made bed in the master bedroom. My mother’s room. I was still fully dressed except for my shoes, which I noticed were laying beside the bed next to my suitcase. I couldn’t remember how I had gotten there. I certainly didn’t remember lugging my bag up the s
tairs.
Searching my bruised memory, it was clear I had consumed too much wine. My playing the piano and the bitter emptiness that had consumed me was a fuzzy memory at best. The strumming sound and the figure that I saw in the piano’s reflection seemed real enough, but after that, the night was a blur. I attempted to stand only to be knocked back down by the heaving in my stomach. Staying down, I waited for it to pass and tried to put the pieces of the previous night together to where they made sense.
How had I gotten upstairs and into bed? I vaguely remembered someone helping me up the stairs, coaxing me into bed with a gentle word, but that was impossible. Unless . . . maybe Sulley came back to check on me? Could be. I decided to blame the wine for any and all mysteries from the night before. Never having been much of a drinker, I had obviously over done it. Less next time.
The fog of sleep started to wane as I succeeded in standing and staggered toward the bathroom, shielding my eyes from the sunlight spilling in through the open blinds. I was stunned to come face to face with my own image reflected from an old mirror which hung from the wall as it had all those years ago. I thought that the antique mirror that my mother and I found once at an antique shop in downtown Asheville was ugly at the time we discovered it, the then dull brown frame and scratched, cloudy glass had not impressed me in the least. Mom saw only its possibilities. She had always been able to see the potential in even the ugliest things. It was one of the things I admired about her most.
Sure enough though, after Mom had wiped, polished, and buffed it for about an hour, the mirror was a beautiful sight. The wear on the glass in some spots showed its age, but gave it a rustic appeal when set against the gleaming yellow brass. I was glad that the tenants throughout the years had left it hanging. I gave it one more admiring glance before heading into the bathroom.
Eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and a hot shower later, I felt like myself again. I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel while a trail of steam billowed into the room behind me. Nothing beat a steamy shower, nothing, and I was guilty of using every bit of hot water in the house on more than one occasion. I took a deep, relaxing breath and noted how cheerful the room looked now that the explosives in my head had been disarmed. Funny how things feel so much more positive in the light of day, when he darkness of night has been vanquished.
Once dressed, I stopped to peek into my old room. It was completely barren; the once plum-purple walls now painted a standard eggshell white. The only remnants of my juvenile decorating abilities were the dozen or so glow-in-the-dark stars adhered to the ceiling. I was glad that Sulley had chosen to put me up in Mom’s room. It felt more familiar.
When I paused at the piano to lower the lid back over the keys, I glanced in its glossy finish as I had last night and when I saw nothing, chided myself for being such a pathetic drunk. I opened all of the blinds downstairs and let a flood of golden rays permeate the shadows. Yes, everything felt better in the light of a new day I decided and continued into the kitchen.
While forcing a scrambled egg and some toast into my queasy stomach, I remembered that I had forgotten to call Aunt Maggie last night. She would begin to worry if I didn’t call soon. When I excavated my phone from my less than organized purse I scowled at the lack of battery and even worse, lack of reception. No bars whatsoever. Great.
It was half past ten and Sulley wouldn’t be here for over an hour so I decided to save him a trip and walk to the station. I could use the phone there. It looked like a nice day for a walk and it would be good to get some fresh air, to get a feel for the neighborhood, and more importantly, put some emotional distance between me and the house.
The walk to the police station wasn’t a long one. The air was brisk but refreshing. I didn’t have a key to the house which almost stopped me, but then I remembered how rarely the people of Saluda locked their doors and decided to risk it. I couldn’t help but to stop at the mailbox on my way to the street and run my fingers over the hand-painted roses. Following the same compulsion, I placed my palm against the handprint I had left as a child. My hand now dwarfed the purple print. I felt a strange connection to my childhood self, and an intense longing to protect that child from a future she couldn’t see coming. I ran my fingers over my mother’s handprint and sighed.
The sound of a gunning engine brought my head up with a start just in time to see a white Chevy pickup truck speed away, screeching tires wailing into the distance. I barely had time to note the rental plate before it disappeared down the street.
“Someone must be late for work,” I mumbled and continued on my way.
The vividly leaves swirled about my ankles as I walked and the air smelled of sweet cedar and chimney smoke. I occupied my mind with thoughts of the house and what I might do with it. It had been my intention to sell it to the first taker, but now I wasn’t so sure. There was a stirring inside me that I couldn’t settle. I longed for the cool indifference that I had felt less than twenty-four hours ago.
My mother would want me to keep the house. She would also want me to be happy. How could I be happy here without her? I knew what she would say. She would tell me to pray about it. That had been her answer to everything. Should I take up the flute or aspire to be as brilliant on the piano as she was? Pray about it. Getting picked on at school? Pray about it. Princess pajamas or butterflies? Pray about it. And we did. It always seemed to help back then.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed. Well, aside from the occasional, “Please God don’t let me fail this exam” or “Thank you God” when the light stayed green when I was late for work. But an actual sit down, tell Him what’s on your mind, conversational prayer? I hadn’t prayed like that since I was a kid kneeling beside my bed at night. Truth was, after Mom and Gary died, I no longer saw the use in it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, I did. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around how He could let such evil things happen to good people. My mother had taken me to church every Sunday. She would make sure I said my prayers before I went to sleep each night and I couldn’t count the number of times I snuck into bed with her during a storm to find her propped up reading from her Bible.
Gary had been a believer as well, and a good man. He had loved me like his own daughter the little time we had together as a family. Why then did God allow them to be murdered, butchered on the side of that road? What did Mom or Gary do to deserve that? Where was God then? How could He let their killer go free for all of these years? Why leave me alive to suffer their loss?
I never understood any of it. It’s not that I didn’t want to pray. Sometimes I did. I just couldn’t think of anything to say to a God that I had once thought of as loving and kind, but who turned out to be cold and cruel.
By the time I made it to Main Street the wind had died down and the air had grown warmer. I looked at my watch, pleased. It had only taken about a half an hour to walk to town. Not bad. I crossed the railroad tracks towards the station and was glad to see that Sulley’s truck was parked in the side lot.
The smell of stale coffee and yesterday’s cigarettes assaulted me when I opened the flimsy, glass door. I had never been inside the station before, I realized. It was less impressive than I had imagined. The main room, the color of a dirty dishrag, was open and scattered with a few wooden desks, which were littered with papers and disposable coffee cups. In the corner of the room sat a small office with one lonely window.
Sulley exited the office and began to rummage through a pile of hand-written messages on a nearby desk before he caught sight of me. He smiled and gave a wave as I removed my coat and tossed it over the nearest chair.
“Well there’s a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “Thought I was picking you up here shortly. Have a rough night?”
“I got through it well enough thanks to your generous gift.” I shrugged. “Just felt like taking a walk. Clear my head a little.”
I took another glance around the room.
“Where is everyone?�
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Sulley shrugged. “Eh well, there aren’t many of us to begin with. Just me, my deputy, and a few officers. Oh, and Evelyn. Today should be pretty slow, so I sent everyone on home except for Will.”
“It isn’t just today that’s slow around here,” an officer said as he exited the office behind Sulley.
“Ah, speak of the devil and the devil appears,” Sulley scoffed.
The officer was a handsome man, older than me but not by much, with sandy brown hair and commanding dark eyes. He gave me the once over as he approached. I countered with a smile and a nod, which he did not return. So this is the jerk from the window yesterday, I thought. Apparently he was not big on returning friendly gestures.
“This is my deputy, Will Galia. Will, this is my niece of sorts, Alex Nolan,” Sulley said.
“Nice to meet you.” I caught myself glaring into his intimidating gaze, wondering why I felt nervous.
Will just glared back as if he were studying me, scrutinizing my every feature. He made me uncomfortable, and yet there was something very familiar in that sullen expression. And that name . . .
“Galia. That name sounds familiar,” I pondered. “Wait, I think I know you. Billy Galia, right? You used to take piano lessons with my mom.”
When his expression didn’t change I knew that he had already made the connection. He nodded and looked away. I remembered him vividly now. Billy, now Will evidently, had been the high school bad boy when I was still in grade school. He was never pleasant to me when he came over to the house for lessons, always making fun of the pigtails I had insisted on wearing on a daily basis. I remembered retreating to my room when he was over. He didn’t smile much back then either, but he had been extremely popular as the “too cool for school” types usually are.
“That’s right. I was real sorry to hear about what happened to her. I hated piano lessons, but I did really like your mom. She usually made it suck less,” he said.
