Sadie's Mountain

by Shelby Rebecca

  You did nothing wrong. I remember—everything. I do. I do love you. The missing piece, why we cannot be together cannot bring me back to you. Her voice gets louder, and he starts to sing along. Yes, of course I remember why I loved, love you. That’s what the song is asking. I’m pinned to the seat. This hurts. The hole in my chest pinches from the inside out. Knowing how confused he is about why we can’t be together the way he wants, especially after today.

  I’ve given him so many mixed signals. I’ve climbed onto his lap. I’ve kissed him. My body has betrayed me so many times. After that kiss today there’s no doubt that we have a chemistry I’ve never experienced—not since I was fourteen.

  We’re drawn together like perfectly matched atoms. For that brief moment, his lips made me forget all of my fears, my hang ups. This is the first time in my adult life that I’ve had a glimmer of hope for a full, and yes, fulfilling life with a man. This is what they call cohesion. The Law of Attraction in full swing.

  With him life would have been perfect—in a perfect world, not the world we live in. It would have been untainted and real. I wouldn’t even have to think. It would be as easy as breathing pure, clean air into my lungs on a warm evening.

  But there’s more—always more. How do I explain the aspect of danger to him? How do I show him that I’m protecting him, too, without telling him and getting him hurt? This is such a shadow over my life—a heavy burden. These are my thoughts as I listen to his feelings played out through another’s soulful—mournful voice. This is what I need to say as I watch the trees until they become blurs...

  I’m not sure how long we’ve been driving. I must have dozed off in the car. He’s holding my hand. I haven’t opened my eyes yet, but his warm hand in mine feels just right. The car is filled with his scent. It’s warm in here. Perfect. I don’t want to move.

  “Wine always makes me sleepy,” I say, as I open my creaky eyes. He chuckles.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You talk in your sleep.

  “Huh?”

  “I didn’t know that. Last time we slept together I think you were five and I was eight,” he says.

  “What’d I say?”

  “You mumbled, mostly,” he says, but smiles too wide to be telling me everything.

  “What else did I say,” I demand, my tone impatient.

  “Ah, we’re here,” he says, as he looks for a parking space. The dimly lit parking lot is packed. He’s not going to tell me what I said. What was I thinking about when I fell asleep? I’ll worry about that later. I’m looking for a police car. Scanning for a demon behind the wheel.

  “Who are you expecting to be here?” I ask, obviously nervous.

  “Well, everyone who cares about Gauley Mountain is probably going to be here and everyone that wants to blow the top off the mountain, too.”

  As I get out of the car I feel unsafe like I want to hide under something so I grab Dillon’s arm as I look around like deer-meat in an open field. He stops and tucks my hand into his arm like men and women used to do in times gone by. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

  Who will? He’s going to be here. My own private boogie-man. I’ve had nightmares about him for almost half my life and it feels like I’m about to walk into one right now.

  Chapter Eleven—The Hell Mouth

  Walking up to the door of the auditorium tucked under Dillon’s arm like a baby bird, I think about a guest professor who gave a lecture in Dr. Sander’s Women’s Lit course my third year at Berkley. He was talking about the Hell Mouth—an image that became popular in old Europe during the Anglo-Saxon time.

  From a sinner’s point of view, the hell mouth was a monster that would devour one’s body as they entered. “Christians believe that their bodies will rise again during the coming of Christ. Only then will they be granted entrance to heaven.” I’d heard this many times. But, as the guest professor explained, if the person went into the hell mouth there would be no body to rise when Christ came back for them.

  It was an excellent fear tactic. If you aren’t good and do as you’re told, your body will be devoured and you will never reach eternity. The idea of the lack of anything in the afterlife is almost worse than the idea of burning in hell for all eternity, which is what I’d been taught.

  Something comparable to the hell mouth was promised to me, I realize. I’m not allowed to have a relationship with Dillon or my body, in pieces—no less, is promised to be buried in Donnie’s yard. All these years, the image of me in pieces, in a location unknown to anyone, always made me feel vacant, desolate, and embittered, just as, I’m sure, the Christians in old Europe felt when they were threatened similarly.

  Showing up with him means I’m breaking that rule and there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  I shudder as I cross the threshold of this brick building with the too large AMS on the façade. The auditorium smells of bouncy balls, old rubber shoes, and cheap coffee. It’s like being in a dream standing here inside the busy room. Dillon looks down at me as if he’s unsure of what I’m thinking. I know he feels me trembling next to him.

  “Are you okay?” I nod yes, but I’m not really breathing.

  “I’m just nervous.”

  “Why, baby?” He tips up my chin to examine my eyes. It’s always been his way of trying to read me. I purse my lips so they won’t tremble.

  “I’m not good with crowds,” I lie. He doesn’t believe me. I can see his disbelief as he scans the crowd inside the room with us. He’s seen my blogs; fans, readers, or parents and children boxing me in behind a table during a signing, or surrounding me during a book reading. “Is there someone here you don’t want to see?”

  “No,” I say, unconvincingly. I know what he’s asking me is: “Is your rapist here?”

  I’m afraid to look around but when I do, that’s when I see him. The embodiment of all my ills is standing near the podium ready to make an announcement. He looks different—thinner, cleaner, more authoritative in his uniform. His dark hair, no longer messy and untamed, is combed backward like a black slide. His face is more rugged, but if he wasn’t a monster underneath, I would say he’s bad-boy attractive—like Ted Bundy was. His arms are stout, muscular and his stomach is now flat and narrow in comparison to his heavy broad shoulders. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s looking down at something on the podium.

  “Sadie, do you want to go say hi?” Dillon says, as I stare at his brother.

  “No,” I say, almost a whisper. “Don’t you have to go get ready?” I ask, because I just want to be away from him before Donnie sees us and realizes we’re together.

  “They already have my PowerPoint. That’s what I was doing today when I left.” He looks confounded. I’m looking around, eyes darting all over the place for somewhere to hide.

  Okay. He’s not going to let me hide somewhere in the back row.

  I move a bit to position him between Donnie and me thinking that he can block me from view. “I don’t want anyone to see me.” I lean over and put my hands on my knees. “I’m having a panic attack.” That’s true. I am.

  “Do you need me to take you home?” he says, leaning down and taking me under his arm again.

  “Yeah, I think this was a mistake.” Just as I say that, I bristle. I feel him before I see him. Donnie stands next to Dillon leering over me as if I’ve just broken the law—his law.

  “Dillon, what’cha got here?” Donnie says—his voice like poison wrapped in a sugar coating. I have no idea what is holding me together at this moment. I guess it’s fear. I know that if I’m not calm, Dillon will notice my reaction and he might piece it together.

  “Donnie, you surely recognize our old neighbor, Sadie,” Dillon says, proudly letting go of me to shake his brother’s hand. I’m dizzy and put my arms out slightly to gain my equilibrium.

  “Of course. How could I ever forget Sadie?” Donnie says, mockingly. I’m so conscious of how I look right now, trying to keep a straight face, i.e. not looking like
I’m being raped all over again. “Come ‘ere, girl, and give your old friend a hug,” he says, reaching his bear paws toward me. He smells of too strong, almost sour, cologne. I gasp and nearly trip over myself to get to Dillon.

  Protect me, please.

  “Donnie,” Dillon says, putting his arm in front of me protectively, “Sadie doesn’t really like to be touched.”

  “Sure does look like yur touchin’ her to me,” he says, his tone stern—jealous.

  “I think the difference is, she was my best friend all our lives. She’s a little more comfortable with me. Just back off,” Dillon says. He looks shocked.

  “You know, ‘Ol Len over at the Gravity Tunnel gave me a call today,” he says, widening his stance and wrapping his chest in a fist clenched, crossed-arm sweater. “Said you had some woman pushed against the wall in a compromising position—if he hadn’t come in when he did, he said, you two would a’ been naked in a minute or so. Sound familiar?”

  “Look, that’s none of your business,” Dillon says, his voice like steel.

  “Everything that happens in this town is my business.” He looks at me like I’m a delinquent child. “Everything you do comes back on me, Dillon, and I got a reputation to uphold.” Oh, so he’s making this about Dillon doing something wrong to hide the fact that he’s jealous. He’s good at this turning tables crap.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, and walk on wobbly legs to the restroom sign. When I turn back, the two of them look like they’re in a standoff. Donnie, obviously the bigger of the two, isn’t being too smart right now. Dillon is in his face. Donnie’s pointing a finger like a weapon. His temper is getting him in trouble. If he doesn’t want his secret out, he needs to get a hold of himself, quickly.

  I push the bathroom door open and turn on the sink. I splash my face with water, and rub it on my steaming neck when the door opens. A pretty blonde is standing for a bit too long in the mirror behind me. It’s like she’s trying to place who I am. I don’t recognize her.

  “Sadie Sparks?” she says, in a too sweet voice.

  “Yes,” I say, as I turn around and pump out a paper towel to dab my face with. She’s a tall, leggy blonde in beige pants, a pink striped top, and pink high heeled shoes. Very pretty. Older than me—probably around Missy’s age. “Can I help you?” I ask, unsure if I’m supposed to remember her on my own.

  “I’m Claire. Claire Robbins,” she says, stretching out her arm tipped with pink polished nails on the end of slender fingers.

  Oh, god! Dillon’s girlfriend.

  I try to feign a smile, but I’m sure it looks faker than usual. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” I say, grasping her soft hand before dropping it quickly. I don’t look her in the eyes. That’s a mistake. It makes me look guilty.

  “Have you?” she says. “From who?” Her voice is sharp, like a teacher catching me in a lie.

  “Oh, uh, Dillon and I ran into each other on the mountain yesterday. And my brother Jake told me you’re his English teacher,” I say, obviously nervous. Why am I so nervous? I don’t owe her an explanation.

  “Yes, Jake’s a good kid...when he comes to class.”

  I shake my head. What do you say to your whatever-Dillon-is-to-me’s girlfriend?

  “How long are you in town?” she asks, as she moves her weight from one foot to the other making her hip stick out like girls did back in my California high school before a bitch-slap.

  “Just until...well, my mom’s sick. Cancer. She has cancer. It won’t be long now,” I say looking around the bathroom. “I’m leaving after the wake.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. I’m unsure what she’s sorry about. My mom being sick or me being here that long.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you.” I want out of here. Is there no escape route for jealousy around here?

  “So, Dillon. He knows you’re here?” she asks before I take my second step.

  “Yes, he brought me to the meeting,” I say, turning back around. Let’s just get that out on the table. I’m sick of hiding. Secrets have been my life. It’s like I’ve been hauling someone else’s crime around with me in a crusty duffle bag for ten and half years.

  She burns holes through me with her eyes. “Do you think it’s fair,” she fumes, “leading him on like this?”

  “I’m not leading anyone on. Dillon and I are just friends. He knows that.”

  “Does he?” she challenges.

  “We talked about it yesterday, and this morning. That’s all we’ve ever been is friends, Claire.”

  “Not to him! To him, you are his ideal woman. No one will ever compare.” Her hand is on that hip now and she’s leaning forward, getting in my face.

  “I know you’re upset, but this isn’t about me. This is about the fact that you’ve fallen for him and he doesn’t feel the same way about you. That’s between you and him. So if you’ll excuse me,” I say as I turn around. Before I take another step, she grabs my arm. I try to yank it away but she holds tight, her pink nails dig into my flesh.

  “Did he tell you that?” She’s yelling now. Her face is bright pink like her nails.

  “Not in so many words but he’s explained your...arrangement. I think he’s been honest with you about his feelings—or at least that’s the way he explained it to me. This is a conversation you two need to have together. Now let go of my fucking arm!” Wow! where did that come from? I don’t like to be held captive. Old wounds like that just never heal.

  There’s a knock on the door. “Sadie?”

  It’s Dillon.

  “Are you okay in there?”

  I yank my arm away and walk toward the door, but Pink Girl grabs the door first and opens it so fast the corner of the door smacks me in the face. I see Dillon, mouth gaping open, surrounded by little white sparks as I grasp my head in my hands.

  “What are you doing, Claire?” Dillon yells, as he takes me into his arms, tilts my chin up and checks my forehead for a cut with the tip of his gentle thumb.

  “I’m getting the hell out of here,” she screams at him.

  “Yes, I think you should. You’re making a fool of yourself,” he says, as he hugs me consolingly, protectively.

  “Ouch,” I whine.

  “I’m not going to sit here and watch her lead you on.”

  “She’s not leading me on. She’s been very honest with me about what kind of relationship she can handle.”

  “I’m the one who’s going to have to pick up the pieces when she leaves.” She’s pointing at me with that pointy pink nail.

  She’s right. I’m going to go home and Dillon will be devastated. What if I don’t leave?

  “No, you won’t. I think you’re confusing me with someone else,” he says, his eyes stinging into hers.

  “That’s a low blow,” she whispers, tears now streaming down her face. “Bringing up my dead husband...” She’s shaking her head.

  I do not want to be here. They should talk in private. Dillon is holding me up. I feel too dizzy to walk.

  “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. But I think you’ve read more into our arrangement than was actually there.”

  “So, you’re making your choice?” she fumes, tapping the tip her pink shoe on the floor.

  “There’s never been a choice to make. It’s her. It’s always been her. I’m sorry if you ever thought otherwise.” His voice is clear, concise.

  She turns to me, “Little girl. You’ll never be able to do the things to him in bed that I do.”

  She’s right. They are probably great together. She’s tall like him. Passionate. His equal in every way.

  I look up at Dillon. He’s not looking at her anymore. He’s just staring at me with concern written in the creases in his forehead.

  “He was with me three nights ago,” she says, like poison. He winces and his eyes shut. “So remember that the next time you kiss him—you’re probably tasting a little bit of me on his lips,” she says as she’s walking
backwards down the hall and then turns and clicks her heels, presumably, all the way out the auditorium door. Her words stick to me like goo. I want to shake them off but they’re all clingy and heavy.

  I’m not shaking anymore. I’m Numb Girl. Sometimes I’m thankful for her. Now’s one of those times. Dillon grasps me around my hips. “Sadie,” he says. He sounds like an echo. “Do you need a doctor?”

  I don’t speak. This it too much. I. Can’t. Take. It. I close my eyes and my knees feel weak.

  “Can you walk?” he asks. I can do that. I put one foot in front of the other. He escorts me, like a protective soon-to-be father would do, through the crowd and past a metal screen that must be blocking off the lunch counter into the kitchen.

  “I need some ice, please,” he says to the lady who’s putting little cookies on a large metal tray.

  “In the freezer,” she says, pointing to it with her chin.

  “And a towel, please,” he requests as he lifts me, effortlessly, and sets me on the counter. I cross my ankles. The lady huffs, walks over to a drawer and brings him a towel, walks slowly over to the freezer and pops a tray of ice next to me on the counter. He’s inspecting my forehead and checking my eyes for dilation.

  “She shouldn’t be up there, Dillon.” Oh my gosh, it’s the grumpy, already-old-back-then lunch lady.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Parks but she’s had a little accident. I need to take a look or she might need to go to the hospital.” She huffs and slowly walks the cookie tray out the door.

  “Can you speak, darlin’?” he asks me sympathetically while he’s inspecting my head.

  “Yes,” I say, finally.

  “You’ve got a big red bump right here,” he says, and kisses my forehead. The tenderness in his voice and his lips snaps me out of my numbness. I shudder, and my breathing takes on a more frenetic tempo.

  I watch as he uses those long fingers to retrieve ice cubes from the tray and place them on the towel. He stings my forehead with it. “Sheesh,” I say.