Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1)

by Lowe, T. I.

  As he is reaching the rooftop once again, the car wobbles in response to an uneven groove in the field and Bradley loses his balance and nearly sails off the side completely. John Paul instinctively decelerates without hitting the brakes to slow the speed. The crowd gasps as Bradley safely recovers his balance. Thankfully, his foot landed on top of the passenger side rearview mirror, and so he is able to use it to help climb back on top. A spasm of panic shoots through my stomach and I have to remind myself to breathe. Within seconds, Bradley is standing straight up on the roof and waving his arms in the air with victory. Everyone joins in with their own victorious roar. John Paul, wrapped up in all the excitement of the moment, isn’t paying attention to where he is going and drives through another uneven area of the field.

  With the car shaking from the bumpiness, Bradley loses his balance once again. Only this time he is unable to catch himself and he soars over the hood of the old car as it plows into a deep rut on the far edge of the field. Everything flashes in slow motion at a hastened speed in a confused instant. Bradley lands right in the path of the car and before he can roll out the way, it pins him up against the earth. John Paul immediately puts the car into reverse, but the rut is just too steep to get it out. The car only whines and sputters with smoke bellowing out from all directions before it abruptly chokes off. I watch hopelessly as the wheels sink in the soft soil even more. The earth begins to whirl around us before we can will ourselves to move forward. As the crowd erupts in horror, John Paul jumps from the driver’s seat screaming. My cool, laidback brother is gone and a madman wailing at the top of his lungs has taken his place.

  “I’m sorry! I couldn’t get it to stop! I’m so sorry!” John Paul screams. He just repeats this over and over again, as he tries to lift and pull the solid piece of death trap that’s on Bradley. Several guys from the crowd try to help but it still won’t budge. John Paul tries to dig Bradley out, but the soft dry dirt quickly fills back in every time. He digs until he is black from dust and his fingertips trickle blood. Everyone is running around crazed. Everything is chaotic. We are frightened and in shock over seeing the awful accident happening right before us. I can taste the bitterness, and the field begins to spin out of control. I try swallowing it back down, but my throat refuses until I relent and vomit. I vomit until dry heaves seize me and render me destitute. I just stand here by the two boys in disbelief as John Paul keeps pulling on Bradley—one wild in pain and one still in death.

  “Please, bro. Please move. Please, please, please!” John Paul cries. “Please God. Please!” He has Bradley under his arms and is yanking with all his might, still screaming.

  I vaguely notice the put-put puttering sound of the tractor echoing through the field. The farm machine is hooked to the bumper of the car in an instant, and it only takes minutes for the tractor to wrench the heavy car off Bradley. But it is already too late. We gather around his broken body in shock. His shirt has been torn and exposes deep bruises and cuts on his abdomen. His left arm hangs in an unnatural angle. My cousin’s long legs, which have always seemed so nimble, are now oddly still—broken and bleeding. Bradley’s green lifeless eyes stare past us as we stand trembling in confusion and shock. Sweat, tears, and overwhelming grief cast their own effects in our features.

  Time feels as though it stands still for hours, and I don’t think the horrifying scene will ever end. No one leaves us. They all stay until adults arrive and demand them to go home. Dad shows up. He collapses beside John Paul and tries unsuccessfully to grip his shoulders. My brother’s body is shaking uncontrollably, and he is still screaming. His movements are jerky and chaotic.

  Suddenly—but not really—the sun seems to abandon us. The world turns an eerie dark. The field is only lit up with sporadic flashes of blue and red lights as police and rescue vehicles file in and out. In the midst of all the commotion, John Paul sits beside Bradley, rocking back and forth. His painful screams linger repeatedly but with no voice. He can only squeak at this point, grief and pain having stolen his voice. Even the cicadas finally fall silent. I find the night’s quietness peculiar, and this is the point where I find my voice and begin to scream for us all—John Paul, Bradley, Daddy, and me.

  My screaming angers the night, and the ground begins to move and dissolve around my feet. I still don’t relent. I scream repeatedly in yelping cries. I want it known that this is not right. This is not fair. The night warns again as I feel my body sinking and slipping dangerously close to the edge of the guilty car. As the soil moves, it tugs me closer to Bradley’s torn body and John Paul. We are being swallowed up by the earth. I blink the abrasive dirt out of my eyes, only to discover we are imprisoned in a grave and the bloody soil is seeping slowly in on us. I continue to scream until my mouth fills with dirt, which finally mutes me.

  ~ ~ ~

  I nearly jump out of the bed as the dreadful dream finally releases me. My hands bat at my mouth, searching for invasive dirt, but find none. A shiver skirts me, bringing awareness of the cold sweat dampening me. Gasping and moaning, I let my anger out on the bed and begin punching the mattress repeatedly. This nightmare has plagued me for years, along with my others. I punch some more, wanting those images to leave me the heck alone. I’m so sick of this night routine.

  I can’t take it anymore, so I climb out of bed and pace the expanse of my room for a while. I want the anxiety to taper down without having to take a pill. I’m sick of those dang things too. My shaky hands fumble with the window latch for a few aggressive moments before I can open the window up, causing the glass panes to rattle in protest. I lean way out to take several deep breaths of the humid air and demand my body to calm down.

  The panic finally subsides, so I slip out of my room and ease to John Paul’s door. It’s open, so I glance in and am disappointed at finding it empty. I look back down the hall and find it empty as well. I don’t want to go back to my haunting room, so I walk in his and am amazed at what I find. The bedroom walls are covered in hundreds of photographs. I know instantly that my brother has taken each one of these spectacular images. There are many vivid ocean shoreline scenes and a few of surfers on the waves. The intense action captured in the images is awe-inspiring. The waves whirl around the surfer or the sun’s rays are filtering through the scene in such an artistic way. These are not amateur photos, for sure.

  I find one to be exquisite amongst the grouping. It’s of the beach during an intense storm. The sky is painted just as I had seen it only the other day. The waves are crashing the shore harshly, and rain is pelting the sea with big splashes. The camera catches the water being raised from the splash, midair, and I’m astounded by the clarity. It’s breathtaking, and I’m wondering if I can sneak it home with me. The scene looks as though John Paul hit a pause button to capture the perfection of Mother Nature raging against the sea. Oh yes, this baby will be mine.

  I glance over at the opposite wall with the intention of heading back to my room, when my eyes get a good look at the photos. My stomach seizes as I take in the repeated image of the grassy field where Bradley lost his life. My brother has made a memorial in his room to our cousin, and it sends a deep ache through me. Reining in the emotions as best I can, I shuffle in the direction of the wall to learn a bit more about my older brother.

  I ease closer and study the unnerving collage of photos. Some are black and white while others are in striking color or aged antiqued. Some are in the daylight and some at night. No matter, they are all eerie and laced with grief. My skin pricks with goose bumps rising all over my body. My eyes focus in one spot, and I start to decipher the images before me in a slow, meticulous fashion. I don’t want to miss anything. A long time passes as I take in scene after scene of the floor to ceiling collage. One night shot has a huge, glowing moon hovering over the field. Another one captures a rare ice storm with the secrets of the haunted field hidden under a thick sheet of ice. I take in the photo beside this one. It was taken during a severe-looking thunderstorm. The field is drenched and mournful in t
he gloomy illumination as lightning cuts through the sky ruthlessly. You can feel the animosity in the storm’s fury. I scan another that has been tinted in a russet red. It reminds me of dried blood, and I know that was John Paul’s intention. This gallery here in my brother’s bedroom is unnerving and mesmerizing all at once. There are hundreds, and I can see my brother’s pain in each one.

  I stand in astonishment for a long spell, studying each photo in reverence and sorrow at the same time. My brother is an artist. An absolute genius with a camera, and I’ve missed seeing him develop this. I’m just beginning to realize how costly my disappearing act has been.

  After taking a few shaky breaths, I head back to my room and think back over my regrets. Miss May had warned me of needing to abandon my disappearing acts. Did I listen? Of course not.

  I ran away shortly after Bradley’s funeral. Life had become unbearable with losing Julia and then him unexpectedly. John Paul took to hiding in his room with liquor bottles he snatched either from the house’s liquor cabinet or from the restaurant. He became a dark individual. My dad seemed to grow quieter after the accident, and his eyes always held a weariness that wasn’t there before. Jean showed her behind as only she could and had to be admitted to the hospital for a nervous breakdown. Whatever. It amazes me that someone who never had a kind word to spare for Bradley could be affected so greatly by his death. Whoever wails the loudest, right? Not. Our family’s relationship grew more and more distant after this tragedy.

  The nightmares of those images from the accident haunted me both day and night. The panic attacks started gradually during this time. I just couldn’t take it anymore one afternoon, so I ran away, straight to Miss May’s house. I remember her opening the front door with a discerning expression on her face, and I immediately began to shout at her.

  “Stop looking at me! You don’t see me!” I screamed. With understanding, she quickly closed her eyes. I took off, hid behind her couch, and cried myself to sleep. I awoke later that day to find a blanket draped over me and a pillow under my head. I had not slept that hard in forever, it felt. My nightmares had already begun to get the best of me. Insomnia had become a way of life for me early on. A sandwich and glass of tea were on the floor at the end of the couch. As I lay there debating whether I felt up to eating, there was a knock at the door. Of course, it was my dad.

  “Miss May, I’m here for Savannah,” he said in a tired voice.

  “I ain’t seen her, sir,” she said in her own tired tone.

  “Ma’am, I have put up with you and my daughter’s disappearing games for years. Do you think I’m really that stupid?” His frustration was undoubtedly strong.

  My dread began to fade away and be replaced with acute anger at precisely the same moment as Miss May’s. “You mean to tell me that you knew Savannah was back there in that kitchen with me all those times? You sir, had enough blame sense to know where yo’ daughter was hiding, but yo’ fool-self never manned up enough to figure out the why?” Miss May shouted. I had never seen her so upset in all my life. That woman never lost her cool. “Shame on you, you blind fool. You didn’t see the most important part… No, I guess I should say that you chose to not see the most important part, since you is so smart.” She was spitting the words out full of vinegar.

  It had gotten so quiet that I finally peeped around the edge of the couch to see if I was left alone. Still at the front door, my dad stood with his shoulders hunched over in defeat and eyes focused on the floor. Miss May just stood in front of him, intently staring up at him.

  After a while, she finally spoke, “When Miss Savannah is ready to reappear, I promise to send her straight home. Not until then. Do yo’ understand, Mr. John?”

  He must have realized this would probably be the only choice he would receive and nodded his head in agreement. Without another word, he was gone. Relief sunk in for just a brief moment before Miss May slammed the door and faced the couch.

  “Get yo’ white butt out from behind my couch right this minute!” she said. “This here game of yours is over. It’s time you quit actin’ like yo’ momma.”

  Then it was my turn to snap. I came charging out from behind the couch and began screaming at her with all my might. “Don’t say I’m like that witch! I hate her!” I screamed.

  “Then stop actin’ like her! What’s that ole witch do every time things get tough? Huh? Answer me right now!”

  “She runs away,” I reluctantly admitted.

  “And just what does yo’ stubborn self do when things get tough?”

  “I run away...”

  I couldn’t believe this mess. How did I end up being anything like Jean? I was so disgusted with myself that the realization caused me to sink to the floor in shock and shame. Miss May left me to my thoughts on that revelation for the rest of the night. The next day, I decided to go home. That moment in Miss May’s home was the last time I have been able to shed a tear. It’s as if I released all I could for Bradley before slamming up walls to guard my fragile heart.

  Chapter Ten

  As the first hints of sunlight begin peeking through my peach colored curtains, I decide sleep has eluded me, and it is pointless to try to get any now. I roll to my side and close my eyes to the new day for just a bit longer.

  Hurt…all I feel is hurt. I lay here and beg my memory to give me a reminder of a better day with my dad. I conjure up as clear of an image of him that I can. He is tall and lean in this memory. His clear grey eyes match mine, as well as his dark, wavy hair. His is dusted with some silver, though. The crow’s feet around his eyes and laugh lines only accentuate his handsome features.

  He is barking with laughter in this flash of memory, and I grab hold of it for dear life. This is a good one, and it feels like a treasure that I have just discovered again after a long forgotten season. Snuggling back into my quilt, I let the memory perform its soothing act…

  It’s a warm Sunday afternoon and both the restaurant and market are closed as we are preparing for the end of the season celebration. Dad always treats the employees with a bountiful feast and fat bonuses. I’m finally old enough to receive one, and I’m beside myself.

  The place is lively with beach music singing lazily in the background while we prepare for the festivities. A small group has paused in their tasks to dance the Carolina Shag. The couples hold one of their partner’s hands as they do the smooth steps. They are laughing as they spin around and go back to the dance steps. I can’t help but watch with a smile for a few moments before heading back outside.

  My job for the day is to set out crab traps and haul them in often for the crab boil. I’ve already hauled in one batch and am back to check the traps for a second round. Prepping the traps is gross. I have to stuff the bait basket with raw slimy chicken parts before casting the pods out into the inlet. And let’s not forget the trickiness of emptying those ornery suckers once caught. Blue crabs like to hold on for dear life, and you have to carefully pry them off. The odds of being pinched are ever in that favor. Yes. I was pinched earlier in the day. I look down at the red whelp on the top of my hand and scoff at it.

  I take my responsibilities from my dad seriously, so forging ahead with this unpleasant task is a must. I find the trap to one of the pods has come open, so I pull it onto the dock and replenish the bait. I lob the clunky trap over the water and lose my balance, casting myself in the inlet right along with the trap.

  I emerge from the murky water and try to stand, but my feet quickly sink into the sticky mud. I end up falling backwards. Roaring laughter echoes over the inlet as I reemerge for the second time. I find my dad standing on the dock in hysterics, holding his stomach as he laughs at the hilarity.

  “Daaadyyy!” I whine while trying to dislodge myself from the snares of the inlet mud. Trust me. This stuff is like gloppy glue and it has no incentive to let you go.

  “I told you to gather us some blue crabs and your behind goes swimming instead.” He’s still laughing.

  “It ain’t funny!” I b
egin to gripe but end up snickering over the situation too.

  “You might as well make yourself even more useful and gather us some fresh baby clams,” he says as he scoops up a mesh clam basket.

  I’m ‘bout to whine even more that he should just help me dislodge myself when he starts sliding off his Sperry Top-Siders. Then he hops right into that murky mess with me, still laughing. I’m floored that he just did this and I know Jean will surely scold him over the fact that he has just infused the pungent inlet water into his new collared shirt and shorts. But he seems to have no care in the world in this moment except to share a chuckle with me.

  We glide along the low tide surface to dig the little clam jewels out of the mud and place them in our basket. During this impromptu clam harvest, Dad tells me how proud he is of me for the hard work I put in during this summer. He also says that he will go with me to pick up the car soon. He talks car for a bit and I have no idea what any of it means, but I don’t mind. I focus on just simply enjoying the timbre of his voice. I memorize the late sun dancing along his grey eyes and watch as the water drips from his nearly black mane. He is my dad, and I have his undivided attention in the middle of this Atlantic creek. I feel important and loved.

  We glop along until the tide comes in enough to unstick us from the mud. If you can imagine trying to slosh through an enormous vat of foul-smelling chocolate pudding with a heaping amount of glue added, then you can just about get the idea of how one is in a mess if stuck in a creek bed.

  Later this evening, me and my dad laugh and chat through our share of garlic butter–soaked steamed clams on the back porch of the restaurant, where Jean exiled us. She said we were stinking up the place with the pungent odor of the inlet clinging to our skin and now dried clothes. I don’t mind one bit. It’s a very rare occasion for me to have my dad all to myself.