Reclaiming the Sand

by A. Meredith Walters

  “What?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly.

  “The fire at my house. He died in it. He used to sleep in the basement and Mom couldn’t get to him.”

  Air left my lungs and my head began to buzz.

  Flynn slowly came back to my side of the room. With shaking hands, he bent down and started cleaning up the shattered remains of the clay dog.

  I felt sick. I felt horrified. I wanted to run screaming from the awful truth I had just been given. I hastily tried to shove the guilt into a more manageable space inside of me before I choked on it. But it was too late.

  Marty, the beautiful Border Collie was dead. The dog I had cuddled and kissed and who Flynn had loved was gone.

  Because of me.

  I felt it deep in my soul. The unjust futility of his lost life. The tragedy of it threatened to undo me.

  I started the brutal and violent process of smothering the shame in the pit of my stomach. Shove, push, cut it up into tiny compact pieces so that it was easier to get rid of.

  Once I had packed it away I was finally able to face him again and express the words that were expected in this kind of situation.

  “I’m so sorry, Flynn” I began but he interrupted me.

  “Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill him. The fire killed him. He couldn’t get out.”

  The door to my emotions flew wide open again and I was left speechless.

  What?

  My throat closed up and my mouth went dry.

  Flynn didn’t know.

  Somehow he had been shielded from the reality of that horrific night.

  I had lived the last six years thinking all my cards had been on the table. That Flynn knew what had happened.

  But for some reason he hadn’t been given that particular painful piece of knowledge. And I was jealous of his blissful ignorance. He didn’t have to carry around the knowledge of what I had done to him. He was oblivious and a hateful part of me despised him for it.

  My head hurt. My chest felt too tight.

  I needed to leave.

  Without another word, I grabbed my bag and left the art studio. Flynn didn’t call after me. He didn’t follow me. I didn’t expect him to.

  But some tiny, annoying part of me that hadn’t been beaten down by emotional numbness was sad that he didn’t.

  -Ellie-

  Spending time with Flynn had been a mistake. And it wasn’t one I wanted repeated.

  Our brief encounter had been as explosive as a land mine. It had blown open doors that I had kept resolutely shut for a very long time. But in the end it had also fortified me in the way only self-destruction can.

  Days faded into one another and I didn’t see him. My feet were itching to walk across campus once or twice, heading in the direction where I knew I’d find him, but my rational mind reigned supreme over traitorous desires.

  I hated myself for the weakness. I hated him for bringing it out in me. I was in a thick quagmire of all around loathing.

  But it wasn’t all bad. Even as I struggled with Flynn’s presence in my world, I was finding dreams perhaps weren’t so unattainable.

  Professor Smith had called my name before I left class one Friday afternoon. I startled at the sound of his bland, non-descript tone. I immediately began to catalog the million and one ways I could have possibly gotten into trouble.

  It was instinct. I couldn’t help it. Rarely was my name called for a good reason.

  So I was shocked to the tips of my toes when he pulled out the essay I had handed in several weeks ago on Young Goodman Brown with a red A blazoned on the top.

  I took the paper and stared at it. Was this a joke? I don’t think I’d ever gotten an A in my life.

  Professor Smith had written a few comments along the margins. Excellently explained! And wonderful analysis! Well done!

  Professor Smith pointed at my essay. “This is excellent work, Ellie. It was one of the better essays I’ve read in a long time. Your arguments were solid and well thought out. There was a level of deduction that is highly complex and in my opinion more in line for a graduate level class. I have to say I’m extremely impressed by your work in this class. I would urge you to take some more challenging English classes next semester. Your writing is effortless and fluid. It’s clear you have a natural gift. It would be a shame for you not to pursue it.”

  My mouth gaped open and I closed it quickly. I didn’t know what to say. I had taken the class on a whim. And here I was being told I was actually doing well.

  I couldn’t think of a time in my life when I was told I was good at something. In school, I had barely coasted by and the people at juvie had been anything but encouraging.

  But here was a college professor telling me I sort of rocked in his own boring, uninspiring way. Pride was nice to feel.

  I rolled my essay up and gripped it tightly in my hand, scared to accept what he was telling me, but unwilling to dismiss it altogether.

  “Have you signed up for classes for the spring yet?” Professor Smith asked me.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to say that I was suffering from a severe case of chicken shit. Not knowing how to believe in yourself was hard on the whole planning for a possible future thing.

  Professor Smith wrote something down on a sticky note and handed it to me. I looked down and saw that he had listed three other classes. British Literature, Creative Writing, and the Development of the Short Story.

  “These are just some ideas when you’re putting your schedule together. They are good pre-requisites for transferring to a four-year school.”

  I almost swallowed on my tongue. Four-year school? It was the carrot dangling in front of my face. The cheese at the end of the maze. Tantalizing but still so out of reach.

  “I don’t think” I began, ready to give voice to the idiocy of these pipe dreams.

  Professor Smith interrupted me. “Just think about it. No need to make a decision about it now.”

  Think about it.

  Yeah I could do that.

  I tapped my essay with my finger. “Will do, Professor. Thank you,” I said and I meant it.

  Maybe Professor Smith wasn’t so bad after all.

  I left the Dunlop building in good spirits.

  And then my phone rang.

  Damn that phone!

  “Miss McCallum?” a voice said on the other end.

  “Hi Mr. Cox,” I said, trying not to snicker. It was my probation officer. Mr. James Cox. Mr. Cox to me. I couldn’t say his name without wanting to bust a gut. I was pretty sure his dickish demeanor had a direct correlation to the amount of teasing he received as a kid bearing the brunt of that unfortunate name.

  He wasn’t the worst as far as probation officer go but he was still a jerk. I for one didn’t like having someone look over your shoulder every time I sneezed. I had to account for all of my X,Ys and Zs. I may have mentioned that I didn’t care for authority and Mr. Cox embodied everything I hated about people with power.

  “I’m going to need you to head over to the Straight Lab office to submit some urine for a drug screening,” he informed me.

  “I’m supposed to be at work in twenty minutes, Mr. Cox,” I argued.

  “And this is mandatory as per your probation. Or perhaps you like the view inside a jail cell,” Mr. Cox said shortly.

  I thought about giving him a sarcastic response but Mr. Cox was not a person who appreciated my dry sense of humor. Mostly because he had no sense of humor himself. His wife must hate him.

  “Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I muttered, despising the man who jerked me on a string.

  “Good. I’ll call you in a few days with the results. I hope for your sake they’re clean,” he warned. He didn’t need to tell me what would happen if they weren’t.

  “I know, sir,” I snapped. I couldn’t help it. He was pushing the asshole thing a little too far today.

  “We all need a reminder now and then. Goodbye.” Mr. Cox had hung up.

  I grumbl
ed a few choice obscenities under my breath as I made my way to my car. I shouldn’t be so pissy about having to go take an impromptu piss test. It was my own stupidity for getting myself in this situation to begin with.

  But it still sucked being tugged around like that.

  I drove over to Straight Labs and went inside. I gave a humorless laugh to find Shane and Stu sat in the waiting room.

  “The crew’s all here,” Shane grinned when he saw me. Stu didn’t look up from his phone but raised his hand in a lazy wave.

  I checked in with the receptionist and went to have a seat across from my friends.

  “So what were you doing when you were told to drop everything and come piss in a cup?” Shane asked.

  I picked at my cuticles. “Uh, I was at home, no biggie,” I lied.

  “Well, I was getting some seriously fantastic head. Nothing destroys a hard on like a call from your PO,” Shane grumbled.

  “Nice,” I replied dryly.

  “Oh, baby, don’t be jealous. You know I’ll always have a spot in my heart for that pretty mouth of yours,” Shane leered and I rolled my eyes.

  “You coming to the party tonight?” Stu asked, still not looking up from his phone.

  “Didn’t know there was one,” I said. I had no plans to go out tonight. I was exhausted and had a lot of reading before Thursday’s class.

  “I’m wounded, Ells! It’s my birthday! How could you forget?” Shane pouted.

  “Sorry, Shane. I forgot,” I apologized though it wasn’t surprising I forgot his birthday. Stu and Shane weren’t the remember-their-birthdays kind of friends.

  “You haven’t gone out with us in ages. What’s up with that?” Stu asked, looking up finally. I didn’t want to look at him. There was something about his eyes that always made my blood run cold.

  “I’ve just been busy,” I responded lamely.

  Before Stu could say anything else he was called back to give his urine sample.

  “This better not take too long. I need to get back to my apartment. I’ve got things to take care of,” Shane said, grabbing his crotch.

  I made a gagging noise. “God, Shane. Enough with the visuals. So who’s the lucky girl?” I teased.

  I wasn’t expecting him to flush red and refuse to meet my eyes.

  Huh.

  “Shane…come on, tell me!” I goaded.

  “Uh…” Shane stuttered.

  I had never known Shane to be so secretive about his conquests. He was the type of guy to kiss and tell everyone. Including some grandmothers and a priest or two.

  I raised an eyebrow, instantly suspicious.

  “Shane…” I said, giving him my best tell-me-or-I’ll-twist-your-junk look.

  “Dania, okay. But don’t say anything to Stu. He’s been talking about hooking up with her again.”

  I groaned. What the hell was wrong with my friends? They jumped in each other’s pants faster than a case of crabs. It was gross.

  “You jealous, baby?” Shane asked, looking entirely too hopeful.

  I threw a magazine that had been sitting on the chair beside me at his face. “No, I’m not jealous you moron! But my god, can’t you find someone to fuck that isn’t in our immediate group of friends? And I thought Dania was hooking up with that guy from the river party.” I realized it had been a while since I had bothered to find out the latest goings on in Dania’s personal life. I wasn’t sure if that made me a bad friend or a protecting my brain from the images.

  “I don’t know if she is or not. It was just a random thing. She came by to pick up a movie she left at my place last week and you know how she is,” Shane smirked and I threw another magazine at him.

  “And you’re saying Stu wants her back? Seriously?” Well there went my Stu is gay theory.

  “Yeah. Maybe. He’s been sort of nostalgic about her lately,” Shane said, rubbing the cheek that was hit the magazine.

  My mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re kidding me! Nostalgic about what? The time she broke his window? Or the time he called her a slut in front of the entire cafeteria?”

  Shane shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t really care what they do. I was just getting my rocks off and I don’t need Stu up in my ass about it. So just don’t say anything.”

  I curled my lip in disgust.

  “Yeah, whatever. I’ll let you keep that lovely tidbit all to yourself,” I said, looking away. Dania and I were definitely having a talk later about this one. What the hell was she thinking?

  You would think after getting knocked up, she’d learn her lesson. Spreading your legs to randoms, even if the random was Shane Nolan, was a stupid idea.

  But obviously she needed to be beaten around the head a few more times before she saw it. And I was happy to do the beating.

  Shane was called back a few minutes later and then it was my turn.

  After I was finished, I went outside and found Stu waiting for me.

  “You wanna go get a drink at Woolly’s?” Stu asked. My mouth fell open for the second time in less than twenty minutes. Stu Wooten was actually asking me to hang out?

  Stu and I weren’t close. I could pretend at a relationship with Reggie and Shane but never with Stu. He wasn’t a talker. And it was no secret he was a bit homicidal. The truth was he freaked me out. He was the type to shank you as much as look at you.

  “Uh, no thanks. I’ve got stuff to do,” I mumbled, unable to come up with a better excuse.

  Stu lit up a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I saw you talking to that freak,” he said, surprising me.

  “Flynn?” I asked.

  “Is that his name?” Stu countered.

  “Yeah. That’s his name. And when the hell did you see me talking to him?” I asked. And why did I feel like I was being interrogated?

  “At Darla’s. You guys seemed pretty cozy.” Stu blew out another puff of smoke, this time in my face.

  I coughed and waved a hand in front of me.

  “What’s it to you, Stu?” I was getting annoyed by this whole conversation.

  Stu dropped his cigarette and stomped it out.

  “It’s nothing to me. Just thought it strange that you were hanging out all friendly like with the tard. Seems to me you should be a little more selective in who you hang out with,” Stu remarked.

  I was going to blow my top. Stu Wooten was the last person I needed shit from.

  “Look, Stu, I don’t hang out with Flynn. And if I did, that wouldn’t be any of your business! And he’s not a tard. He has a name. So freaking use it!” I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down. I was getting strangely worked up.

  Stu didn’t say anything about my outburst. And that made me feel even more foolish. What had possessed me to defend Flynn like that? But it infuriated me to hear Stu disparage him like that.

  “Whatever. Later, Ellie,” Stu said, climbing up into his truck and I was left standing there feeling completely unsettled.

  -Ellie-

  “This one is adorable! It even has a little balcony!” Dania squealed. The realtor, who had introduced herself as Barbara, stood just inside the door with a fake smile plastered across her smug and judgmental face. She had been irritatingly condescending since Dania and I had arrived at the apartment complex on the north side of Wellsburg.

  She had taken one look at Dania with her protruding belly and instantly made up her mind about the two of us. The sad thing she wasn’t entirely wrong. Her preconceived notions were entirely too accurate.

  Yes, Dania was the flaky unwed mother who continued to smoke like a chimney and drink like a sailor. And I was the brash and aggressive friend with little education and even less class.

  We were a white trash duo from the wrong side of the tracks.

  “Now this one is $450 a month and that includes utilities. The landlord is strict with rent payments and they are expected on the first of every month. If you are more than three days late more than once, you will be evicted,” Barbara, the realtor explained, her eyes darting
toward Dania, who was still freaking out over the awesome cabinets.

  I narrowed my eyes while crossing my arms over my chest. “I understood when you explained it the last two times, ma’am,” I said coldly. Yeah, I get it. We weren’t the ideal renters. But she didn’t have to be rude about it.

  Dania came over and pulled me by the hand down the short hallway. My friend was thrilled because this was the last three-bedroom available in our price range. Low-income housing wasn’t exactly hard to come by in Wellsburg but given the space Dania insisted we needed, it didn’t give us a lot of options. It was amazing how picky she was when right now she was living in a studio apartment with a broken toilet.

  This apartment was situated in a rundown part of town. I wasn’t entirely sure how Miss Realtor Lady could look down her nose at us when our potential neighbors would include a known meth dealer and a woman rumored to turn tricks at the truck stop off the highway.

  Apparently, unwed mother and her bitchy friend were near the bottom of Barbara’s list of shitty people.

  I wasn’t impressed with the interior. It wasn’t horrible but it wasn’t that great either. However, it would be a decisive step up from the place where I currently lived. There didn’t appear to be a mold problem and the locks seemed to be working. Health and security were both pluses.

  “You’d get the smaller room of course. I’ll need the big one and the baby will need the other larger one for all of his stuff,” Dania was prattling on. I tried not to get pissed about the fact that I was helping her out and she was shafting me with the box room.

  She had been insistent that we needed enough space for the baby, even though still refused to commit to raising it. More proof that Dania’s thought process wasn’t rooted in reality.

  I took a deep breath and counted backwards from twenty. Blowing up would end up in a nasty scene that I didn’t want to have in front of the asshole realtor.

  “Sure, whatever,” I muttered, heading back out into the living room.

  Barbara was texting on her phone and looking extremely put out. Her cheap polyester suit had to be sweltering in the late September heat. West Virginia was experiencing an extended summer, with temperatures soaring into the nineties for over three weeks now.