by Naomi Canale
Amy’s a tough chick and it seems weird that she’s asking me that question. “I’m okay, really, what happened to you guys?”
Lucky has already piled our stuff into the truck and tosses me the keys with trembling hands. “Wait, maybe you shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’m fine, really.”
I grab Red by the collar so I don’t lose him again and get inside. The engine growls to a start and I peer back up toward the room. Am I losing my mind? Red rests his head on my lap and from the corner of my eye the girls can’t take their eyes off me, staring has never been a problem for the both of them. They’re starting to freak me out like they’re possessed or something. “What, you guys? Seriously, what’s wrong?”
Amy pushes a couple of bundled up napkins against my face. “You’re bleeding, a lot. You don’t feel that?”
“Damn, really?” I try to liven up the mood. “How does my complexion look? I decided to try out a new floor board technique.”
Clearly, I’m not very funny. Amy just sits there putting pressure on my face with a blood stained napkin and has a difficult time talking. “Seriously, I’m so freaked out right now you guys. We could’ve died in there.”
The thought dangles a moment in my mind, but after seeing Daniel, I’m questioning everything. “Honestly, death doesn’t scare me.” Secretly, I’m lying. It scares me now, especially for them; they are my family in a way. I love them like sisters. But I’m trying to help take down everyone’s blood pressure.
The napkin is peeled from my face and the air coming out of Amy’s mouth brushing over it makes it burn. “I used to feel the same way, until tonight.” She tucks her hands away in between her thighs. Both of their faces have grown long and still.
“Come on, it’s not like the two of you saw Lucifer himself.”
Lucky picks up His Dark Ways off the floor, starts flipping through the pages, and pauses on a picture toward the end. “That’s what we saw, Savanna, maybe that opening doors shit is real.”
I try to catch a glimpse—it’s too dark. A car passes and headlights illuminate the page, definitely not Satan, but close. One carved horn hammered through a skull and a skinless body on its knees yelling at the blackened sky. “You guys saw that? Come on, he looks like a unicorn gone wrong.”
There’s silence. It’s like I can hear the both of them thinking out loud or maybe it’s just me filling in the blanks of what I think is going on in their heads. The reality of a spiritual world sinks in. Should I tell them about Daniel? How I touched him, how he was beautiful—real, and the very opposite of everything we’ve read of ghosts or have seen on printed paper or on computer screens. Lucky loops her arm around Amy’s and rests her head on her shoulder. The peace feels right for this moment so I keep quiet about the things I saw until the girls grow curious.
Chapter 3
One Touch
I clutch my chest with the tips of my fingers, pull myself up off my pillow, and breathe in as if I’ve been only seconds away from drowning in a deep sea filled with monsters. The beat of my heart is off, like a major artery’s been torn out making it weak, heavy, and bleeding out into all the places it shouldn’t be. For a moment I’m disoriented, until I gain steady breaths—I can’t believe it’s already morning.
The light from the window stings my eyes and I lay back down pulling white sheets over my head. I want to be back where I was last night, reaching my hand out to Daniel, touching his face, feeling our energy radiating through each other making him real. The pain of not knowing what he is or who he is, is killing me.
I close my eyes again and try to take myself back to that moment under the window ledge, but Dad’s hollering my name from the back room. “Savanna? Sweetie, are you up? We’ve got to go in early. Mrs. Bullard has another casserole to drop off for us before service begins.”
Early? Oh fuck, I really don’t want to sing hymns this morning. I’ve always envied people who get to sleep in on the weekends. With only two hours of rest, my body’s running on fumes. My throat aches as I holler out. “Sure, Dad, be there in a sec.”
As I sit on the edge of my bed, I clench the raw area of my throat and have a flashback of being dragged across the floor. I pull my wrist up toward the morning light and examine the damage—bloodied, bruised, and raw like my throat. Figures. It looks how it feels. Dad’s footsteps pace back to his room and I rush to the bathroom to clean up before he suspects I snuck out last night. I feel stupid for not washing my wounds when I got home, but I didn’t want to wake him. As I take my shirt off, a large area of my hair feels like there’s glue on it, I glance into the mirror. It’s a large patch of dried blood. I flip on the shower without bothering to look at my face and drench myself in cool water to quickly expose any damage I didn’t think I had. Carefully, I inch my hand toward the bloodied area on my scalp. It’s weird because the only pain I’m experiencing is in my wrist and right cheek bone. Flakes of old blood flow down my chest inside delicate streams of red water and I don’t find any cuts. My face must have bled into my hair through the night. Dad knocks. “Can you be ready in ten?”
“Yep,” I say as I grab the soap, slather it on, and attempt to clean parts of me that look like rust.
Of course the water finally gets warm when I have to turn it off. I start brushing my mangled black auburn locks and as the fog clears from the mirror, I notice my face is covered in splinters. No wonder I feel like a stitched up Frankenstein. I grab some nearby tweezers and bite my lip firm as I remove two large pieces of wood that feel like planks.
As I start to cover my face in Band-Aids, I notice my eyes. The dark circle lining my blue irises is thicker. I pull my eyelid open and stare. “Why, hello, crack head. Geez, I really did hit my head hard.”
Dad’s waiting for me out in the car and seems irritated. When I get in, I frame my face with long strands of hair and pull my sweater down past my palm to cover up any evidence of last night—it doesn’t work. Brown Band-Aids rat me out. “What happened to your face? Let me see.”
With one hand on the wheel he holds onto my chin and observes me like I’m still his five-year-old little girl who’s fallen off her blue bike. It’s sweet really, but I smile and lie. “I fell off Amy’s horse yesterday.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s weird; I didn’t see it there yesterday.”
“That’s because you were already asleep when I got home from Amy’s.”
His face gets long as he rubs his beard. “I’m sorry,” he says with curled lip and long sigh. “I’ve been working too much. It’s just hard trying to play catch up with your mom gone. It’s like days are starting to blend together in to one.”
I nod and feel bad for lying, but with the same token, feel lucky that I’m getting away with last night.
Stern eyes scan my face. “Promise me you’ll be more careful.”
“I promise.”
“Gosh, it looks awful. You’re really bruised up.”
I try to divert our conversation. “So what’s your sermon about today?”
“Love.” He takes in a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about your mom a lot. I miss her. You know she called last night, I wish you’d been home to talk with her.”
In a way I feel like an ass for not being home because she hasn’t been able to call a lot during this trip. I guess being secluded to a small village surrounded with rebels who want to kill has made it tough to get any phone time. “Me too, Dad, I’m worried about her.”
“Just keep praying honey.”
He knows I don’t pray, but I don’t want to bring up my lack of faith for the umpteenth time. It would just make him depressed. The last time we “talked” about it, he moped around the house for days and gained five pounds from eating too many frozen meatballs.
We pull into one of the few parking spaces at the church and before Dad and I part ways, he hugs me. “Your singing always cheers me up, good luck in choir.”
This is the only reason I continue to sing about a God I don’t believe
in—it cheers Dad up. “Thanks, and hey, good luck on your talk.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead. “Thanks, baby.”
As I sit in a front pew waiting for service to begin, I look up at Jesus. The plaster under his blue robe is slowly becoming floor dust, and the once red blood that used to encircle his crown made of thorns is now a faded brown. His head hangs low while tears trickle down his face as he stares down at the nail piercing his feet together. It’s the saddest statue I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen many, but still. Why would a God so great and powerful make himself a mortal man? All the years I’ve sat here listening to Dad talk about God—the trinity, I was positive it was all a pile of crap, but after last night, I’m starting to wonder. Maybe I’m wrong. Under my breath, I look up and whisper. “Am I wrong?” Air channels through one ear and out the other. Silence is the only thing that feels real.
From behind I hear the faint squeak of low-priced leather shoes. There’s only one person in this entire church who drives all the way to Vegas during Easter for the Kmart shoe sale, Vivi. She takes a seat at the piano and quickly jumps when she notices me. “Oh honey, you scared the devil out of me.”
In a way I feel half dead, probably look like it too. Sleep deprivation doesn’t suit me “Sorry, Vivi. How are you?”
She pops up from the bench all sprightly. Her cheeks are heavily rose colored with cheap blush making her appear all the more perky. “You know, I’m glad you’re here early since you weren’t able to make it into practice on Wednesday.” She quickly shuffles through the papers in her yellow folder that reads Choir Leader and hands them to me. “Here are our songs for this morning and you still have the small solo we all agreed on a while back, if you don’t mind?”
“That’s fine.”
Her expression changes and she leans in close while twirling her index finger around the right side of her cheek. “Sweetheart, you okay?”
“Yeah, I just fell off a horse.”
“Well, I’ll be prayin’ for those wounds to heal and that it doesn’t happen again. You poor thing.”
She pats me on the knee and gets back into position on the piano bench. I give her a nod and glance over my solo. Shout to the Lord should be easy seeing how Mom and Dad have sang that very song to me since I was in the womb.
Church is surprisingly full this morning. Even Lucky and Amy are here and practically spooning each other toward the back. They both wave, and Amy brings attention to my dress with a “what the fuck are you wearing look”. I peer down at all the fluorescent colors. I’m even shocked that I’ve got this thing on, but Mom sent it to me from Uganda and I couldn’t resist. Maybe I put it on today of all days because I knew I was going to be telling more lies and wearing something that has helped the children where Mom is, will help balance out “my sins” for the day. I fiddle with the end of the dress and tug it down more. After age eight, dresses were no longer part of my wardrobe because Katie Baker made fun of my big white legs in the fourth grade. It’s stupid really, I shouldn’t care what people say, but it gave me a complex.
Music lifts up into the rafters and all eyes are on me and the five others standing on stage singing. Shout to the Lord doesn’t make it out of my mouth. God, I’m tired. In my head I can hear those lyrics, but I’m having a hard time singing them out loud.
My solo’s up. “My J-j-j-j, my S-s-s, L-l-l-l there is none like You—”
I stumble and try to say the lyrics over again—nothing. Then I attempt, God, Jesus, Yahweh—nothing. None of them escape my lips. I feel mute. Vivi bends her eyebrows firmly at me and continues. The girls start to giggle. Everyone’s probably thinking this is my way of a rebellious practical joke, but it’s kind of scaring me, like I did hit my head too hard and the damage to my brain is slowly settling in. The tune for the next song begins. Again I hit every word perfectly—anything that doesn’t include God’s name.
As I walk off stage Dad gives me a confused smirk. “Thank you, ladies. That was a wonderful way to open our morning.”
By the time I make it over to the girls, the congregation has already stopped clapping and people keep turning around to catch a glimpse of the pastor’s daughter. Lucky elbows me in the arm. “That was classic.”
“But I seriously can’t say, G-g-g-g, see?”
She snorts out loud and quickly buries her face into her sweater with her eyes still on me. “Yeah, whatever.”
Dad opens his sermon and I just face forward feeling dazed—confused. Is the universe mocking me? Have I finally woken up from a religious daydream? Is the reality of what exists trying to reveal itself to me?
With three fingers I grasp onto the telescope that’s been permanently chained around my neck since Grandpa died three years ago. I hold firmly onto the charm and move it up and down until the rustling of the chain is all I can hear. He told me that if I ever want to see him to simply look up at the stars. He was a well known scientist, everything I want to be.
Sadly he wasn’t a big part of my life.
I can still hear Mom, Dad, and Grandpa bickering over science verses creationism. It was what our holidays were made of. The only thing I ever questioned about his beliefs was how anything could come out of chaos, an explosion. Now I’m beginning to question everything and the feeling is unsettling.
Chapter 4
Perfect Chemistry
The soft feathers inside my daisy patterned pillow never felt better.
Tired, throbbing eyes, already start to feel at ease after only seconds of lying down. The sun is still high over the Sierras and I’m too tired to care that it’s only three hours past noon. Ever since I removed the remaining splinters from my face, it’s easier to curl up into the ball I love to sleep in. After choir today, I let my mind wander into a game of tug of war between science and creationism, and I allow the fight to continue until my thoughts carry me away and my body’s ready to function again.
I wake from a post-choir nap to the sound of dead weeds being crunched underfoot outside my window. When my feet touch the floor, chills race up my spine from the shock of the cold. Strange, my window’s slightly open. I don’t remember leaving it that way. Dad must have opened it when I passed out earlier. He’s never liked the smell of dogs. With one eye opened, I peer out into the dark. Our yard has no fence or even a yard for that matter. It’s just a long stretch of sage brush with a house sitting on top of it all. No one’s out there, except for the jack rabbits and coyotes playing cat and mouse. Softly I close it shut and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. On my way Dad’s snoring echoes through the hallway and I try saying anything that’s related to God’s name. “G-g-g-g-g, L-l-l-l-o-o-r-r, J-j-j-e-e. What the hell is wrong with me?”
I open the fridge to light up the room to keep from waking Dad, grab a glass from the cupboard, and fill it up with tap water. I can see myself at the doctor’s now…
Dr: So, what brings you in today?
Me: Oh, well, I hit my head the other night and now I can’t say, like, G-g-g-g-g. Here, let’s play charades since I can’t say it.
Dr: God? You can’t say, God? Jesus? Those are the only words you can’t say?
Me: Correct.
Dr: I’m going to refer you to a psychologist at the psyche ward.
With a refilled glass I head back to my room, still playing out the scenario in my mind, when the shadow of a man out in the field makes me press myself flat against the wall to avoid being seen. The nightlight inside the bathroom from behind gives off a dim glow, making it difficult to see past my reflection. As I stand closer to the window I see the color drain from my face. I bend down and peer through the empty space of my cupped hands.
His back is turned toward me walking away, and I notice a familiar uniform, Daniel. Cautiously I open the window. If it is a creep, and not Daniel, he’s far away enough that he wouldn’t be able to hurt me. I slip on a baggy sweater over my pajamas and pull on my old boots as fast as I can. The figure’s disappearing already. My right leg’s out first, then the le
ft, and my quiet descent from the ledge is a success.
Heavy boots have flattened a path of dead weeds toward an old structure made of bricks. I call out, my breath ascending like small pillars of smoke. “Daniel, is that you? Wait.”
For a moment he pauses—I stop. I’m close enough now to see the metal stars on his shoulders. “Daniel.” He continues—footsteps slow. I call out again, “It’s me, Savanna.”
As he turns around he fades out of sight and the chill air of approaching winter tries to crawl into all the tunnels of empty space throughout my clothes. On the outside of the old structure, I slowly brush my hands along its half crumbling bricks and keep a sharp eye out for him. How did he find me? Did he follow me home? Or have I really lost it?
After I make a full circle around a building that reminds of the three little pigs, I take a seat on a bench made of piled up stones. If a brick house was supposed to help keep the wolf out, it definitely didn’t work and I’m for sure that childhood fable is crap. Slight panic sets in as I watch a coyote move still through tall bits of grass as he hunts its prey. What if the thing that hurt me has come after me? Or what if I’ve really followed a stranger out into the night like a naïve little girl. I cross my arms together, scoot back against the stone walls, and look over both my shoulders—this was stupid, I’m far from home. Before I’m able to get up and walk back a warm touch encircles my wounded wrist. In terror, I quickly outstretch my arm hoping its Daniel. A hand holds onto my wrist as Daniel examines it with a shy smile. “I’m glad your wrist is healing well.” His other hand unfolds gently across my cheek. “And your face.”
Half of me is full of fear and the other relief. “What are you? Am I going crazy, are you real?”
Pillars of air similar to the ones that escaped my lips moments ago flow from his. “I was a soldier, and ended up dying here instead of the war. I guess I didn’t make it to Korea.”
