by Billie Dale
After seven days Joey reluctantly informs me of Creeden’s funeral. Pops never returned to my medically induced sleep, but my stalker monster plagues me. I won’t fill my lungs fully until I know he’s worm food.
Peace and sorrow war in my heart. While morbid, I insist on seeing his cold, still body in the coffin. I hate the heartache pouring from his mom. The disgust and shock marring the faces of our small town. But I can’t deny the serenity of him being stone dead.
∞∞∞
A week later the doctors offer me a conditional release. Orders of business include talking to a therapist and not setting up camp in my brother’s room. I’m facing months of healing and sleeping in a chair next to Hendrix isn’t conducive or acceptable.
Joey escorts me home. Not Carmichael Plantation, his home. Cash stands outside the modest single-level ranch style house holding a neon yellow ‘Welcome Home, Elvis’ sign scribbled in green crayon, covered in Sponge Bob stickers. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. I refused for him to see me hooked up to machines, swollen with bruises. He called me every night to send me zerbert bedtime kisses and sing me the new Johnny Cash song he learned that day. After “Ring of Fire,” he informed me Elvis and Johnny needed a duet.
I agreed so long as the crew from Bikini Bottom could be our band and backup. His high-pitched laughter through our cellular connection warmed my heart, stamping it with his name.
Thanks to my spectacular brokenness Joey lifts me from the car, seating me in my wheelchair before pushing me up a shiny new ramp covering his front steps. Cash attacks my side, ignoring Joey’s warning to be easy as his small arms grip me tight. I breathe in his bubblegum-scented floppy locks, running my working hand down his back.
Inside, my family and friends gather yelling cheers when I bump over the threshold. Beige carpet, gray walls with pictures of Cash on every one, Joey’s home screams single dad. The smell of locker room hints beneath warm vanilla drifting out of various candles. If I had to guess I’d say Amanda spent a good chunk of time trying to erase the remnants of Joey and Cash’s stinking man-ness.
Sammy Lee stays at my side, arguing with Joey over who helps me. She wins when I need to pee, flipping Joey the bird while shoving me down the hall. He installed handicap bars around the toilet and in the shower but until my casts come off, I’m stuck with sponge baths, which he is very much on board helping with.
We eat, drink, and talk over each other, but somberness hangs on the fringes because one important person is missing. I hurt, itch, and the tightness in my chest makes holding my fake happy mask in place too exhausting. Joey reads me like a well-worn novel, seeing the weariness in my eyes. He understands I’m minutes from shattering. After an hour he ushers people out the door, using my need for rest as an excuse.
The last to leave are my parents. Mom’s torn between her belief in my need and the status of Hendrix. Nona and Aunt Vivianne ease her worries with assurances of sticking around until I kick them out. Amanda, Joey’s mom, offers to keep a reluctant Cash. Some karaoke machine-buying bribery garners me a sticky kiss on the cheek and, “See ya later.” He jabbers a mile minute on the way out the door about how great Johnny and Elvis will be.
God, I love this kid.
Dad’s phone rings as he’s helping Mom collect her purse and jacket. His face blanches ghost white when he sees who is calling. After a century long minute, the worry lines on his raised forehead soften. His ‘yes’ and ‘sure’ responses set me further on edge. After a series of ‘thank-yous’ he disconnects.
“Hendrix is awake. We’re needed at the hospital,” he says, lacking the enthusiasm this news should provide.
“Joey, grab my meds. Let’s go,” I shout, trying to wheel myself with one hand.
“No,” Dad and Joey snap. It isn’t an argument I will win. Dad promises to update me as soon as he has news. With Mom tucked under his arm, they rush to their rental car.
The house falls silent, save for the creaking of my wheels as Joey pushes me down the hall. I refuse to let him pull his stitches lifting me, a fact I forgot when he swept me out of the car. His mom cursing his stupidity while she changed his bandages reminded me how hurt he is too.
Aunt Vivianne speed walks next to me, shoving him to the side. She orders him to grab my painkillers and some water. Brakes locked in place, I use my good leg and arm to stand, twist and plop. She helps situate me under the covers. I’m thankful the stretchy shorts and tee keep me from needing to change my clothes. Also, thanks to the rib damage I gave up on wearing a bra. She props a pillow under my leg and arm, elevating them to alleviate swelling before fluffing the ones under my head.
Joey returns with my meds in his palm. I swallow them down; setting the glass on the bedside table I pat the spot next to me. He insists Viv and Nona go home, claiming he’s got me covered through the night. Nona threatens hiring a private nurse if he pops a single stitch helping me. Kisses to my forehead, they leave.
I stare at the ceiling with my phone plugged in to the charger lying on my chest. Joey curls as close as he can without hurting me, and reruns of Friends play on the television hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed.
Waiting sucks. A blissful narcotic fog chomps away my aches and pains but doesn’t stop the manic worry circling my brain. Joey’s former gauze mittens are now bandage strips around his palms and scabby fingers.
We hold each other, wondering when the phone will ring.
We filled in all the blank spots in each other’s stories between my naps in the hospital. Seth visited several times before announcing his reassignment to ‘someone who needs him’—his words. I thanked him for saving my life. He sliced the rope, caught its frayed end, and suspended me long enough for another member of their team to help drag me to safety. He claims it was his job, but more shows in his eyes. I’ll miss his and Miguel’s hovering.
I tell Joey about my visits from Pops to fill the silence. I play it off as needed hallucinations.
Up on his elbow he suspends above me, feathering away strands of hair off my forehead with the lightest touch. “Guess all your paranoia at the plantation when we were teens has merit.” He laughs, fanning minty breath across my lips. “When you’re up to it, we’ll do a séance.” His eyebrows waggle. “Think of all the ways to screw with your nona.”
My lips pull in a full smile, the tear on my lip tugs and I fight the bubbling giggle. It grows until I can’t hold it. My ribs protest, but damn it’s freeing. His hand cups my cheek with his thumb, sweeping back and forth. Love shines watery in his eyes. Slow and hesitant, he presses his mouth to mine in the lightest of kiss. “From the second I realized you were gone, nothing would stop me from bringing you back, even if it meant turning the earth upside down, shaking it until you fell out. But believing doesn’t dampen the fear. Thank you for keeping my son safe, for willingly offering yourself to return him to me. With you both gone, I couldn’t breathe. I never want to go there again. Jesus, Preslee, when you fell over the edge, I felt my soul rip in half.” Kisses punctuate his words, lending love to each formed letter. “We let time slip away. Wasted years on pettiness. Life is chaotic. We don’t know the future or what your brother will need, but I refuse to waste one more exhale. Marry me. Not today or tomorrow… or hell yes… tomorrow. You’re mine no matter what. Say yes, wear my ring.” He dangles the tiny studded engagement ring hanging on the necklace where I kept it over my heart. After he threw it and stormed from the house, I collected it, slipped it on a long gold chain, and wore it around my neck most days. Since we’ve been together, I stopped.
My working hand stops its sway. I rest it on my palm, noticing it’s heavier, I run a finger over the delicate band and see the middle stone replaced with a larger one, but the tiny chip sits butted against it. “How?” I ask on a hiccup, choking on the sting of the past and the promise of the future.
“Vivianne slipped it in your palm after the surgery to fix your internal bleeding. She thought it’d bring you back to us sooner, since I couldn’t b
e there to hold your hand. You dropped it when you woke up. I found it and tasked Gayle with adding the new stone. Why didn’t you tell me you kept it?”
“When I needed to remember how it felt for someone to love me, I wore it. Somehow having it nestled against my chest gave me hope.”
“Say yes and I’ll stay nestled between your glorious tits until my last breath, which I hope comes many years from now and is caused by suffocation by tits. I’d be happy to demonstrate but neither of us is up to that challenge.”
My body shakes with laughter. “Oh, now there is pure romance for you. Every woman’s dream proposal,” I quip.
He opens the clasp, dumping the ring on his damaged palm. “My sweet, sweet, Preslee Marie Carmichael. My Sunflower, best friend, and heart. Will you please be my wife? Cash and I can’t imagine another day without you.”
All the funny fades as he takes my hand, poising the gold band at the tip of my ring finger. Hope, love, destiny, and a bit of insecurity keeps his eyes unblinking. “Well, I’d hate to break Johnny’s heart. So yes.” I shrug one shoulder feigning nonchalance, but tears overflow my lower lids.
He slips my ring in place. “The minute we’re capable, I’ll let my dick prove my worth and garner your favor over my son.”
“So savage, Mr. Holmes.”
“You don’t call me Josiah Fucking Holmes for nothing, baby.”
I laugh as my phone blares from where it fell in the blankets between us.
Fifty
Preslee
Three Months Later
Get out! His scrunched snarl and universal shooing wave expresses all he refuses to say.
Not happening, brother dear. I sign, but he won’t understand because he refuses to learn. Each day his sign language teacher, Barton, arrives and my stubborn-ass brother refuses to learn. Between his cell phone, whiteboard, and ability to still use his voice, Hendrix believes he doesn’t need it.
Fear of him never hearing again keeps me showing up daily.
When he woke up his prognosis was good, or at least we thought so because he was alive. The cave-in damaged his nervous system, hindering his ability to walk, while the blast of the gun next to his ear and the blow the head stole his hearing.
Doctors can’t say for sure what’s permanent. Physical therapy is slowly working its magic to put him back on his feet, but Hendrix life is music. He lives it in vivid Technicolor, but if he can’t hear it, he can’t see it. The studio Nona built for him in the basement sits idle. Private nurses and therapists work his muscles and Barton Poe expands his communication, but he’s an insufferable patient who refuses to get out of bed most days.
Migraines plague him and he hates the world around him. Pops’s words about his struggles ring in my ears every time my hand itches to slap some sense into him.
Joey awaits a decision from the town board on whether or not they’ll appoint him to permanent Chief.
Creeden’s parents closed Jonesy’s, unable to deal with all the whispers and gossip while handling the loss of their only son. I hated seeing them go but couldn’t bring myself to eat in the diner any longer. They weren’t to blame for his insanity, though my heart couldn’t differentiate fact from fear. I go to therapy once a week, using meditation and breathing to handle the moments my mind yanks me back to cave and all the years he tormented me. Cash attended a few sessions. The joys of his youth had the sociologist proclaiming him perfect and possibly ADHD.
He tries to help Hendrix in the only way a now seven-year-old can. Pure annoyance. He’s determined to record a duet as Johnny and Elvis, but not until Hendrix will help us. Some days his persistence is the only thing to bring a slight tilt to my brother’s lips.
Joey and I decided we’d waited long enough to become official. I thought I wanted the glitz and fanfare of a huge wedding, but really, I just want the marriage to him. When Hendrix was able, and before Mom and Dad departed for another third-world country, we visited the courthouse.
I wore the same navy dress from the day we bought Cash’s bike. Joey wore his uniform; looking just as hot as he did the day he stopped me on my way into town.
Whew, ladies, let me tell you this man of mine is entirely too yummy. Applause, applause to tight-fitting, short sleeves and butt-hugging pants. Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm. Lip-smacking temptation.
Cash wore nice jeans, a polo, and insisted on cowboy boots and a child-size hat. Boy will break some hearts one day with all his dad’s hotness and some of his mother’s sleek lines.
Because Paris is Cash’s mother, Joey worked with the legal system in Bermuda requesting leniency and relocation back to the States. All with my approval, of course. The judge agreed to suspend her sentence under the condition she agreed to an in-treatment facility for drug addiction. Mazric volunteered to pay the bill for a center across the country. If she falters or uses when she’s released, she’ll serve ten years in jail for her part in our kidnapping.
Two weeks ago, a handwritten letter arrived. She apologized for being a shitty mom, for wanting to drag Joey back into the pit of addiction, and for helping Creeden. A bunch of rambling words, but the clarity rang true. Possibly the first time she’s had a clear mind in years. Joey predicts its part of her making amends and dealing with the consequences of the mayhem she allowed drugs to play in her life. She claims to want what is best for Cash, deeming herself farthest from ideal. While pollution and madness kept her blitzed, she remembers how loving and sweet he is. ‘You’ve done an amazing job raising a stellar human being,’ she praised, refusing to tarnish one ounce of him with her darkness. She regretted signing over her rights all those years ago but accepted it and wished for me to adopt Cash. Her only request was when he’s old enough, we take him to Asia DeMarco for stories of a time when Paris wasn’t such a monster and explain who she was.
I can’t wait for the day Cash will officially become what he already is, my son.
We spoke standard vows, sealed it with a kiss, and he added a band made of diamonds next to my engagement ring. The best part was him wearing the very manly, thick gold and cobalt diamond band, which seconds as my SOLD sign on his left hand.
Not gonna lie, I totally understand the whole Neanderthal possession thing. Mine, mine, mine. Screw the adult high road, I prefer the toddler not wanting to part with my toy route.
I gave notice to the Hollywood powers that be where I built my reputation. Sammy Lee, the bestest bestie in bestonia, offered me a work from home position branding my anti-aging cream, with plans in the works for entire cosmetics line.
When the dust settles… no, if the dust settles… Mazric wants in on my clothing line. The man is more than a hottie on the court. He wants to combine my crafting for special wicking material with his knowledge of what athletes need to create a new collection of sports gear. The money from mainstreaming will make my pro-bono efforts possible.
I’ve gotta drag Hendrix back to the land of the living first. His pain is mine. Our crazy twin connection flits my moods on a roller coaster. I hate how he’s hurting mentally and physically.
∞∞∞
Another Three Months and A Million More Arguments Later
His hair shags over his shoulders, hanging in greasy, gross stringing strands so icky he’s bringing new meaning to the term ‘dirty blond.’ The toned rocker body women swooned over is skeletal.
Hendrix can walk and talk. He refuses because he still can’t hear. We released the team of therapists because of his reluctance. Can’t expect the best in the field to sit on their asses begging for him to let them help.
His fledgling relationship with Anna Beth took a pause too. A person can only be ignored and told off via text message so many times. She’s not giving up, but for her sanity I suggested she spend some time with family in New York. Day after day with Hendrix broke the poor woman’s spirit.
I took a break today, leaving Hendrix to stew in his filth under the watchful eye of Aunt Viv, Nona, and Rosa. Those three coddle and let him wallow. I plop down in Asia DeMarco’s bea
utician’s chair ready for a few hours of pampering.
Mani, pedi, dye job, haircut. The works.
If you told me when I first moved to Seven Mile Forge and met bitch-face Asia I’d enjoy spending time with her, I’d laugh you out of the county. She was a snotty, bullying thorn in my side for the duration of my school sentence. While I was in California, Asia morphed into a not-so-terrible adult. As the mayor’s daughter she let her privilege go to her head. She left town for school, returned two years later, humbled. Attended a local cosmetology college and refused to allow Daddy to buy her a shop. Despite my misgivings, I’ve gotta give her props. She built herself from the ground up. After Sam’s daughter, Mazzy, was born she fell in love with the baby girl. No reason or rhyme why. Now, a lifetime later, she’s kind of a friend.
Zoned off in woe-is-me land, I don’t hear her come up behind me until her fingers pick at my hair. “Jesus, Preslee. You could double as Cousin Itt. Split ends, roots way beyond balayage fashionable, and you chewed your nails to nubs. What are you thinking you want done?”
“Whatever keeps me here long enough to expel an excessive level of stress. Started up the massage section yet?”
“Sadly, no. Those old biddies in town keep telling the board massage equals prostitution, happy endings, and a brothel. How the hell do they even know what ‘happy ending’ is? Dirty old wind bags.” She shakes her head in disbelief.
I laugh, feeling my shoulders lower away from my ears.
“Hendrix still not cooperating?” she asks.
Whoop, right back up they go. I meet her eyes in the mirror, responding with corkscrewed lips and a slight head twist. “He stopped living. Losing his synesthesia stole his joy. Music has been his life since he was old enough to climb on a piano bench. Some days I think he wishes the incident in the cave would’ve killed him. Won’t eat or bathe, refuses all forms of help. The more he fades away, the more my soul shreds.”
