Jay steers the craft out through the canal as the rest of us huddle together in our seats. Even in the dark, the grand estates with their screened-in pools and outdoor kitchens loom heavy over the water, their lanterns blurring through the rain. On the opposite bank are quaint cottages. If it weren’t pouring, we’d find people on both sides equally happy to sit on their swings enjoying the moonlight. No one here bothers to waste concern over haves and have-nots. They are as content as I have always been. As I wanted to believe my husband to be. What does he mean it was all pretend?
By the time we exit the smooth canal and reach the more rugged route of Blind River, I am cowering beneath the sky fall. I hold our ponchos tight against the wind, trying to shield Ellie from the rain, but the flimsy wraps flap like crazy. When I try to lean over her, to shelter her from the storm, she pulls away.
Jay navigates the river without a map, and despite having been here with him countless times, I become disoriented. I am soaked and shivering.
“Told you we should have waited it out in the van,” Raelynn grumps, raising her voice to be heard over the growl of the motor.
Deep in the dark, the Golight catches the yellow glow of eyes scattered across the swampland. Alligators, nutria, opossums, and coons monitor our movements, reminding me that the whole wide world is one dark and dangerous place.
In contrast to the newer, more expensive homes back on the canal, we now pass river camps with no electricity, no running water. Some serve as permanent residences, but most consist of barely more than a wooden frame and a mismatch of salvaged materials. With the land accessible only by boat, getting construction items out here is no easy task, so rubber tires serve as stepping-stones, scrap wood and duct tape work as doors, and plastic tarps wrap rooflines—especially on the camps that have suffered storm damage.
This is a world on water, but I understand why people choose to come here, leaving behind the outside world, opting for the hazards of nature over the malice of man.
As we make the final turn, blasts of air whip against my face, thrashing my hair into a wet, matted mess not so different from the Spanish moss that drapes the cypress boughs around us. By the time we reach Jay’s camp, we all look as if we’ve fought the devil. And lost.
As Jay pulls the blue-and-white Bass Tracker into a slot next to his bateau, Raelynn jumps out to tie the bowline to the cleat.
Once settled, Jay guides us with the Golight. We step beyond the pier to a set of mud-soaked rafters. They stretch end-to-end to form a shoddy walkway through the low-lying land. At his front door we remove our ponchos and shake water from our clothes before entering. We also leave our shoes on the covered porch, a practice that could attract all sorts of critters in search of dry quarters.
Inside, Jay hurries to connect the generator. It roars to life, and I flip a lamp switch while Ellie turns on the kitchen light. Raelynn plugs in a space heater, and we all crowd around the warm, orange glow. I offer my daughter another hug. “We made it.” The dark rainy night, the rustic fish camp, the hard-knocked crew of survivors—our lives may not be a fairy tale, but here we are, all together, out of the rain.
Jay gets to work and hands us a stash of towels. After we pat ourselves dry, I brush dust from the sofa and offer Ellie a seat. Boudreaux lies at her feet, and she gives him plenty of attention. Then I pull a blanket from the closet and cover my child. She wraps herself into it and falls back against the couch, looking up at me the way she did as a little girl when she would catch a cold and ask for popsicles or milk shakes to soothe her sore throat.
“This was a good idea,” I tell my friends. “Just what we needed.”
“I’ll bring the cooler in once the rain dies down.” Jay looks out the window. “Your luggage should stay dry in the bin.”
We settle in as Raelynn entertains us with stories about wild adventures at her brother’s camp. Outside the rain begins to slow and the sky starts to fill with stars again. After about an hour, Jay flips the switches to dim the cabin. With the curtains open, he points outside and says, “And then there was light,” urging us to watch the transformation taking place beyond the panes. Over the river, the moon shines white and the world is renewed.
Now, as the stars burn across distances too far to fathom, aging billions of years beyond belief, I am reminded of an old Sunday school lesson. The simple one from Genesis that taught us as children that God created the entire universe in the span of one week.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I say to the group. “We tend to get so caught up arguing over details such as days and hours and monkeys and rib bones, we miss the whole point of the story.”
“Which is what?” Raelynn challenges.
“That in the beginning, God made light. It was waiting on us when we arrived.”
Then I turn to Ellie. “We weren’t brought into a world of darkness. Left to stumble around on our own. We were given flame. One that would outlast us all.”
She huffs, but she hears.
“Sometimes we start to lose sight of it, don’t we? Times like tonight, it felt as if we were lost in the dark. Not a spark to be seen. But that’s how this great big world is designed, Ellie. It was made this way for a reason. Again and again we spin into darkness, but the sun is always there, waiting to rise again. It never leaves us. And if we can manage to hold on long enough to make it through the night, then we’ll be given a brand-new day.”
I pull her still-damp curls from her face and begin to braid them, as I did when she was young. “That’s what we have to remember. Light defeats darkness. Never the other way around.”
Chapter 19
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Hello Sparrow,
It’s been way more than a year since I was taken. Most people would give up by now. But not me.
Do you know about Daniel? In the lions’ den? Daniel was a good guy, and some bad guys locked him in a room with lions. They wanted to prove God wouldn’t save him. That God did not exist. They wanted Daniel to turn mean and his heart to turn hard—like them. They wanted him to die.
But Daniel prayed, and God saved him.
Maybe that’s what this is, Sparrow. Maybe I’m in the lions’ den. Maybe the bad guys don’t just want my body. They are trying to take my heart too.
Pop always says if my heart belongs to God, then love wins. So here’s what I’m going to do.
1. Pray.
2. Trust God.
3. Be strong.
And then one day, he will get me out of here. Just watch.
“I can’t get enough of this weather,” I say, looking up at the beautiful blue sky as I walk with Vivienne toward the Tammany Trace. It’s an old railroad route that has been renovated to guide hikers and bikers through five quaint Northshore communities. Each month we schedule one planning day, during which Viv and I tackle the logistics of the business and take time for some much-needed “self-care.” Today we’re determined to soak up some sunshine and make the most of these warm temps. “We’ll hit the eighties. Can you believe it?”
“I’m so glad we don’t live up north. All that snow? I’ll take bugs and hurricanes any day, thank you very much.” Then she switches subjects, diving straight for the one topic I’d rather avoid. “So how are things at home?”
As we hit the trail, I reply with an embarrassed grin. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Really?” Viv calls my bluff. “What am I going to say?”
“That it’s time for me to face facts. That the man who vowed to love, cherish, and honor me never really cared about me at all.” I don’t play victim. I’m determined to get past denial.
She makes a buzzer noise. “Not even close. I was going to say, with almost sixteen years of marriage, you’ve made it longer than most.”
I step to the edge of the path, allowing room for a cyclist to zoom past me.
Viv continues. “Amanda, I need you to hear what I have to say.”
I look up, my eyes still red and swollen
from another sunrise. It’s been almost four months since Carl packed his bags for greener pastures, and I have cried every single day. In that time, he’s moved back home three times, only to leave again. And again. Just when I start to let go, he comes back, asking me to give it another try.
“You have been living in an abusive relationship. Do you realize that?”
I stop walking. It’s the first time someone has put this label on my marriage. Abusive. She said it out loud.
“You do know that, don’t you?” Viv seems surprised by my reaction.
I shake my head. Now I understand how my clients feel when I say this to them.
“Come on, Amanda. You aren’t blind to this stuff. You’ve been a clinical social worker for years. How many women have you helped work their way out of unhealthy situations? You’re one of the best, teaching people to set healthy boundaries for themselves. Coaching couples on how to behave respectfully, how to communicate, how to rebuild trust.”
When I stay silent, she prods again. “You have to see the patterns in your own home.” Her pitch lifts a bit. “Don’t you?”
We start to walk again, but it takes me longer to answer. “I don’t equate my own marriage to abuse, Viv. It’s nothing like the stories I hear in my office.”
“Then why did the truth hit you like a stone to the chest?” She looks at me as she says this, hurling a hard and heavy thought my way. “Forgive me, but I’m going to get real for a minute. From what I can tell, Carl has shown a complete lack of empathy throughout the entire search for Sarah. He has been cold. All those controlling acts, complete disregard for your feelings or needs. He thought he owned you, Amanda. The minute you started stepping outside of the box, he couldn’t handle it.”
I argue, defending Carl’s character. Telling her how it’s not as bad as she makes it sound. She’s only heard my side of the story, and I haven’t represented him fairly. “I never should have told you those things, Viv. It’s wrong to let someone into my marriage like that. You’re not getting the big picture.”
“Stop, Amanda. Please. Listen to yourself. I’m no fool. He puts on a good show, but I hear how he treats you behind your office door. I’ve bitten my tongue for too long. Every time you tried to be his equal, he pushed you down. I’ve watched the slide. It’s clear what he’s been doing to you. For years.”
I can’t look at her. I keep my eyes on my shoes as they hit the paved trail. Slow steps.
“He’s done whatever it takes to keep you beneath him so he could feel better about himself. It’s classic abuse. You know this. And when he could no longer keep you down by yelling or calling you names, belittling you or criticizing you, manipulating and gaslighting you, he started getting violent. He had to scare you back into place.”
“It’s not like you think, Viv. It’s what he was taught. That’s all. Carl’s got a short fuse at home, but he’s harmless. It’s just a safe place to let off steam, and I let him. We all need to vent sometimes.”
“Violence is not the same as venting, Amanda. You’re not seeing clearly.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Do you?” My argument draws a deep sigh from her. “You know how many people sit in my office and say these things? You’ve heard them too. I know you have. ‘He loves me. He just doesn’t know how to show it.’ Or ‘He doesn’t mean to hurt me. He can’t help it.’ You’re smarter than this, Amanda.”
I look up, out, through the trees. Anywhere but at Viv. She’s right. I do sound like our clients. I try again. “You know Carl’s background. He went straight from a rough home to working the rigs. And now the plant. He’s in a hard world. He thinks this is how to be a man. Deep down, he cares.”
“But that’s not your problem, Amanda. He has to do better than that. At least in how he treats you. Sure, it started with a broken bowl, a slammed door, a few holes in the walls. But when that didn’t stop you from looking for Sarah, or helping your clients when a crisis came up, or going on calls with Jay, he got meaner. He had to make sure you were there, serving his dinner the way he wanted it, ironing his clothes without a flaw.”
I nod.
“I know I’m not in your home, but I’ve watched from the outside for years. Tell me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that Carl has a skewed belief system. He honestly thinks it’s your duty to give him 100 percent, all the time. So if you give any of your time or energy or focus to anything other than him, he sees it as his job to teach you a lesson and make it sink in. No matter what it takes. You walk the line, or you pay.”
I listen. But I feel as if she’s talking about other people. Not Carl and me.
“So when his bullying tactics stopped working,” she continues, “he became a terrorist in his own home. Terrorizing you so you would be too afraid to stand up for yourself, to stand up to him, to stand up for what is right. You quit going out on calls with Jay, didn’t you?”
I nod again. “Yeah, but that’s because Sarah went missing. I was using all my spare time to look for her.”
“Well, what about Sarah? You still help with the searches?”
“Yes.”
“Only now that Carl’s not home. Am I right? He wouldn’t let you go anymore. Would he?”
I look down, embarrassed.
“Same with seeing your friends? Why did you always wait to return my calls when he wasn’t around?”
How can I admit the truth? Carl didn’t like me to use my phone. Or see my friends. Or volunteer. Or do anything outside of family when he was off work. Viv is right. I never even realized it was happening. I just kept trying to keep him calm. Trying to keep him happy. Trying to love enough. Be enough.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to admit it. I know. The bottom line is this: Your husband wanted to be your god. Bow to no other gods before him. Period.”
“Viv, please.” I roll my eyes. “You’re acting as if I’m on the run for my life. That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
She follows behind me, getting worked up. “Throwing things at you? Shoving you? Beating down doors while you cower on the other side, shaking in fear because you know he might hurt you?” Now she gives my arm a gentle tug, insisting I look at her. “That’s not love, Amanda. That’s abuse.”
No matter how much sense she’s making, I can’t bring myself to say she is right. To admit my husband does not value me.
But Viv isn’t backing down. “It’s clear you love him. I know you do. But right now he’s not capable of giving that kind of love in return. You have to stop thinking he has the ability to care about you the way you care about him. He’s not like you. The truth is your husband used you. He abused you. He lied to you, and now he’s betrayed you. He hurt you and he hurt Ellie. At a time when y’all needed him most. Unless he manages to go through some significant personal growth, I’m willing to bet he’ll do the same with this new girlfriend of his. He’s got real struggles, Amanda. But there’s nothing you can do to change him. That’s up to him. You can only change what you are willing to accept from him. You can only change yourself.”
I have been pacing for nearly an hour, phone in hand, trying to will myself to dial Carl’s number. I’ve talked myself into a frenzy by this point, circling around the pros and cons of returning his call. I listen to his voicemail one more time.
“Hey. Call me.”
That’s it. Three words. They have hooked into the bruised and broken pieces of myself, the parts that were just beginning to heal.
So here I am, sitting on my bed, staring at my phone, trying to find a rational reason to call Carl, a man who could be, as Viv insists, completely incapable of caring about me—the woman who wore his ring, who birthed his child, who loved him. I’m still trying to absorb the truth—Carl doesn’t care about me and maybe he never did. Now I have to pay the price for my poor decision. For choosing, as Raelynn says, to care for a snake.
The problem is, I still don’t think of Carl as a snake. Not at all. I see him as a man, flawed and struggling, but sti
ll a man. With love tucked deep inside him. I’ve seen glimpses of it. And I still have hope he will see himself as I see him—as a good person, a hurting person, a person who was never really taught how to love and be loved, but a man who deserves to be loved, no matter how hard he makes it at times.
I press my keypad, and the phone begins to ring. Carl answers immediately. “Amanda?” He says my name like it’s a life preserver and he’s clinging to me for dear life. My mother speaks again: You need to help him through whatever crazy stuff he’s fighting through.
“Carl? What’s wrong?” Stay strong, Amanda. Steady your voice. I stand and straighten a framed photo on the wall. It covers the place where he sent the hot iron through the Sheetrock. It’s a trick I learned from Raelynn. Hang a few pictures and mirrors, and just like magic the scars disappear.
As he talks, I remove the photo. It shows a picture of Ellie hiking a wooded trail during our Rocky Mountain vacation. But just behind the fantasy, the gaping hole remains. I hear Viv’s voice: He was aiming for your head. That’s not love, Amanda. That’s abuse.
We’re barely into the conversation when his tone shifts to hints of frustration, then anger. “I haven’t seen Ellie in weeks. She won’t return my calls. I don’t know what you’ve been telling her, but it’s not fair to turn my daughter against me.”
“That’s absurd, Carl.” I almost laugh, but I know better. “I haven’t told her anything negative about you. Not one word.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Of course I do. In fact, I’ve been trying my best to keep y’all connected. She needs a father, Carl. She needs you.”
“Sure, Amanda. Tell yourself that. You know as well as I do, you have always wanted to be a single mom, just like your mother. No clue how to take care of a man. This is what you always wanted. Total control.”
The Feathered Bone Page 18
