Before I could say amen, the preacher put his hand over mine and tilted me backward for the dunk. I pinched my fingers around my nose, held my breath behind tight lips, closed my eyes, and let my weight fall beneath the water.
In an instant I reentered the world of air and light, with my pigtails wringing wet and my mother standing in tears, waiting to wrap me in the warm, dry terry cloth. I hadn’t expected to feel changed. But I had done it. I had proven I was no longer a little girl.
Standing there, I had an epiphany of sorts, if you can call it that at such a young age. With every Bible study and Sunday school lesson, every youth group meeting and choir rehearsal—it had all come down to this. I was loved. Not just by God but by these people, this community, this church. As they sang the hymn, they were telling me I mattered, that my soul was worthy of being saved, that I had a place to call home.
When I wiped water from my eyes and walked with wet feet toward my mother’s open arms, the congregation’s voices rose in tune. Music swelled around me, and I promised myself I would never let them down.
But somehow I have done just that. I lost Sarah. I failed to keep my family together. I buried my child. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix these broken parts of my life.
Now I remember that eight-year-old little girl, the one in pigtails whose faith could not be shaken. I want to keep believing. You know I do. Please, God, show me how.
I move to the small collection of ruby-red prayer candles. I open the cardboard matchbox. “Please hear the prayers of all the people who have come here to pray. Mine too.” I strike a match.
First I light a candle for Ellie. I repeat the process for Sarah, taking time to focus my intentions. Then a third flame, lifting to heaven all the children across the world who are suffering. And another for the millions of adults who have somehow lost hold of their own souls, who prowl like predators, stalking every vulnerable heart.
As I place another burnt matchstick into the narrow chamber of sand, a sprawling shadow spans the chapel, and I turn to find a man in the doorway. Just shy of six feet, he stands against the cypress frame, a weathered camouflage cap in his hands. “You out here all by yourself?”
His accent is heavy Cajun-French, the clipped cadence that sounds like song. He doesn’t threaten, but I’ve learned from years with my clients that eyes are the best way to get a true sense of someone’s soul. With the sun behind his back and his eyeglasses blocking my view, I step forward to get a better look. Dark brown. Soft. Honest. I exhale.
“I was just about to leave,” I announce, trying not to show any fear. He steps away from the door, allowing me free exit.
“Don’t let me run you off.” He sends a smile. Gray rubber boots reach his knees, with worn blue jeans tucked down deep into them. “I’m just doing my mornin’ check. Where’re you headed?”
I assume this must be one of the Deroche relatives. In these parts, it’d be rude to let on I don’t know who he is.
“Just out lookin’ around a bit.” I offer a vague answer and switch to a more informal code.
“You got the sheriff’s boat?” He eyes the craft.
I tuck the scapular and rosary into my pocket for safekeeping. “Yeah, I’m staying down at Jay’s place. I’m Amanda.”
He hums to acknowledge me as one of his own. As he shakes my hand, his suspicions seem to ease.
“My aunt and uncle built this place. My aunt Martha, she’s got her a real deep faith. Talks about the Blessed Virgin nonstop.”
I smile. “You think she really had a vision?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say it’s smart to believe whatever my aunt tells me.” Nothing sarcastic here. “She’s got this unique way of thinking about it all.”
“Really? What’s that?” I rest against the wooden frame. It holds the heavy bell.
“You know how people say Mary was a virgin, or whatever.”
I nod.
“Well, Aunt Martha, she likes to say God knew what he was doing putting that story in the Bible. Because it means a lot more than we think. God knew, if he really wanted to save the world, he’d have to rely on a woman. And he chose Mary because he wanted to make a point.”
“Interesting.” I chuckle a bit. “What point?”
“My aunt thinks God was trying to say that men had let him down too many times. So he turned to a woman. A virgin, who was not under the control of any man. And he made her a mother for a reason. And he gave her a son for a reason too.”
I arch my brows, waiting for the moral to be revealed.
“It’s so she could bring a new kind of man into the world, one who could teach men how to love again. We had forgotten.”
As I motor away from the chapel, I eye a small wooden cross. It has been nailed to a cypress tree, right here, in the middle of the swamp. I pull Jay’s boat closer and kill the switch. Despite the fact that it is shadowed by thick gray beards of moss and banked by the bald knees of the trees, someone has indeed taken the time to attach a cross to this weathered trunk.
The Blind River is a dangerous place. Many have died here. So I suspect the cross serves as a memorial. A tribute to a life lost too soon. As I sit in Jay’s boat, the sun leans long across the river bend and casts a warm glow atop the wooden marker.
Here, in one of the most misunderstood places on earth, where predators prey and perils pervade, where a loved one’s life was stolen, this grieving survivor chose hope. I imagine a woman, pulling her boat through the murky waters. She reaches out over the thickest depths and nails a cross to this tree, reminding us all that even in the deepest, darkest pits of despair, there is light. We are loved.
I return to find Jay at his outdoor sink, cleaning a fresh batch of fish.
“Where else can people live off the land like this?” He leans against the porch and looks down at his own mud-caked boots.
Boudreaux runs to greet me. I give Jay’s devoted Lab a pet, and he responds with a hearty tail wag, nearly knocking me from the deck. As I reach to grab a post, it shifts, barely holding. “You ever going to fix this place up, Jay?” I laugh.
“What’s the point?” He shoves the post back into place. “Good enough for my grandfather; good enough for me.”
I can’t hide my smile. “A man who doesn’t want to toss the old, familiar parts of his life. Shows a sense of loyalty, stability. I like that.”
Jay blushes a bit, nailing the post back into position. Then he says, “I wanna show you something. Come with me.”
In less than a minute the two of us are paddling through prickly palmettos using strong, quiet strokes. It’s a bit difficult to steer the pirogue along the shallow backwaters, especially with Boudreaux between us. I switch my oar from one side to the other, trying to maintain momentum. With each sway I fear we’ll tip right over, and I am surprised by my own desire to stay afloat. I no longer want to sink to my death in the swamps. I want to paddle. I want to live.
I watch the low-hanging limbs for wasps and snakes while Jay clears branches from our path. The channel narrows and becomes more difficult to navigate. A few feet from the hull of the boat, an alligator slips beneath the murky surface. Swallows swoop from tree to tree, narrowly missing the tangles of Spanish moss that hang suspended in thick twists above us. Back here, the bayou is coated with green growth. Clear water laces behind us.
Every square millimeter of this place is teeming with life, all designed to fool the less observant. Nothing is what it seems. The ground itself breathes and moves. What looks like a twig is actually a living walking stick. A rock sprouts arms, becoming a turtle. That lily pad? The head of a gator. That mess of leaves, a snake.
But suddenly, between the muted, camouflaging hues of the swamp, a flash of pink sparks a few feet in front of us. I follow the splendor as a roseate spoonbill takes flight from behind the bulrushes. I point toward the sky and whisper to Jay who, like me, has turned to watch the bird lift. “Did you see that?”
He nods. He sees.
The bright,
rosy feathers remind me of Sarah, who always declared pink her favorite color. I smile to myself, thinking again that some things were made for the light.
Every bark of a squirrel, every trill of birdsong, every breeze through the leaves seems to bring a smile to Jay’s face. Through his eyes I take fresh notice of the marvels around me. The pulse of the paddle helps me relax, and I begin seeing the world with the wonder of a small child, each discovery a gift. How long has it been since I’ve really appreciated a flower? A river? A tree?
Geese, egrets, and herons dot the backdrop, calling out warnings to their feathered friends. Two nutria splash across soggy soil before climbing their mountainous dam of sticks. If they could lose those hairless tails, they’d be cute as beavers. Above us the blue sky is broken by an eagle in flight, one of the many who make their treetop nests in this wildlife management area.
As Jay and I loop our oars through dark waters, I lean over the edge of the pirogue and dip my hand into the lazy flow. Thick, green duckweed coats my fingers, and I almost laugh as I struggle to wash it off. Above us a redheaded woodpecker taps notes into a towering tupelo, a rhythmic baseline to the roaring hum of insects that still swarm nearly every inch of space around us.
An area of open water reveals a slim blue heron. Standing in the shallows, he fans his wings around his bowed head like an umbrella, blocking the sun so he can have a better view of the fish below the surface. His long bill takes a quick, silent dive and he snatches breakfast. As soon as he swallows, he cups his wings around to bend and begin again.
With each pull through the water, my burden lightens. I am reminded of the Bohemian fortune-teller in Jackson Square, years ago. The one who placed a tiny brown feather in Sarah’s hand and told her she had been blessed with the ability to fly. In moments like this, surrounded by such beauty, I am half inclined to believe in miracles again, to believe my bones hold stems to feathers and that I, too, can fly free.
Thirty minutes in the backwaters, and I am at peace. We spin our craft around, but we don’t yet begin to paddle back toward camp. Neither of us is in a hurry to leave this space. Without having to say it out loud, Jay and I take our own sweet time with the rowing. Sometimes life is a river; sometimes it’s a swamp. But even with the heartbreak and the hurt, Jay has reminded me—this life is one worth living.
Chapter 28
Monday, November 3, 2008
I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF WINN DIXIE, STARING AT AN ENDLESS ROW OF potato chips and fighting another anxiety attack. Two years ago I packed Ellie’s lunch on a Monday morning, dropped her off at school, and had no idea it would be the last time. No idea, as I flipped her pancakes that morning, I would never again share breakfast with my daughter. Just when I think I’m past the crying stage, something draws water from the well again.
“Amanda?” Raelynn breaks my daze. I’ve drifted away, completely forgetting I’m standing in the most public space in all of LP. “Mambi!” From the seat of Raelynn’s shopping cart, her tot-sized niece, Kayla, struggles with my name. She lifts both arms above her head. “Up, Mambi. Up!”
I unbuckle the buggy’s restraints and pull her close against my chest, breathing in the sweet smell of No More Tears shampoo, giving in to the dose of life only a small child can offer.
“Hanging in there?” Raelynn asks.
“Just got back from Jay’s camp.” I don’t have to explain to Raelynn that this time of year is always the hardest. That I want to hide away and stay silent in my grief until the anniversary and the holidays pass me by. “I’m staying busy.”
I pull a pack of Goldfish down for Kayla and let her eager giggle heal my heart.
From around the end of the display, a woman turns down our aisle and offers a smile. “Amanda? Amanda Salassi? Is that really you?” She’s moving closer at such a speed, I’m unable to process who she is. I should have gone to Carter’s, the locally owned store run by a lifelong friend. A safer space.
Raelynn cocks her hip and whispers behind her teeth, “No way. I haven’t seen Tina in fifteen years. At least.”
“Tina?” Thank goodness Raelynn recognized her. I never would’ve placed our old classmate. Tina tugs me into a hug and then pulls back to give me a head-to-toe. “You haven’t aged a bit!”
Just being nice. Anyone who has ever buried her child knows a body carries the scars as much as a heart does. My hair has grown thin, my face falls in lines around my eyes, and the gray is too much to cover these days. I look twenty years older than Tina, despite the fact we shared high school graduation.
“You still living out west?” I ask. “Last I heard, you were working in sales or something. In California?”
She leans on one high heel and carries a vibe that is as Barbie as it gets—short pink skirt, legs tanned and toned, blond highlights down the full length of wavy hair. She’s always been beautiful, but now she looks like a beauty-queen-turned-pharmaceutical-sales-rep, with her bright smile and bleached teeth. The kind of woman who could sashay through a doctor’s waiting room with bribes for the staff and then walk back out with a hefty commission in her account.
“Yeah. I’m just in town for a few days. Daddy’s selling off the last of the land, and he needed me to come take care of some paperwork. Can you believe we’ve all left LP? He was the last of the Mohicans.” She finally acknowledges Raelynn, who is playing with her niece and pretending to ignore Tina—an impossible feat.
“Oh my goodness, Raelynn? I just realized who you were.” She offers a hug, which Raelynn accepts reluctantly.
“It’s me.” A bit of a bite. Raelynn never did care for Tina. Thought she was uppity, driving her brand-new convertible Mustang to high school.
“So fill me in,” Tina says, turning back to me. “How’s Carl? Y’all have a daughter. Am I remembering right? Just one?”
This catches me off guard, as it always does when people ask if I have children or want to know about my family, just general questions that never mean any harm. Sometimes I tell the truth. Sometimes I don’t. In this moment, I can’t bear to tell Tina that my daughter is dead. I can’t stand here in the middle of Winn Dixie and say my teenage daughter put a gun to her head. I can’t try to explain that Ellie’s life was worth so much more than what the word suicide brings to it. So I look Tina right in the eye and I say, “Ellie, yes. She’s great. We all stay busy. You know how it is.”
After a quick conversation, Tina has caught us up on her success stories before easing her way down the aisle. Almost at the end, she turns back to me and says, “Oh, Amanda. I meant to ask. You still friends with Jay?”
Raelynn rolls her eyes and mumbles under her breath. “Watch out for this one.”
“Sure,” I say. “He’s sheriff now, you know?”
“I heard. And he’s single, right?”
“I could’ve seen that one coming from a mile away,” Raelynn says, turning her back to Tina.
I nod.
Tina smiles and rounds the corner before Raelynn has a chance to pounce.
“People are idiots. Stick with me.” Raelynn pushes her buggy in the opposite direction of Tina. I put baby Kayla in my own cart and trail my friend through the store. As we reach the freezer section, Raelynn offers a dose of normal. “How was work?”
I give her the small talk she’s after and return the question. “You still like being in school?” When I pretend to take Kayla’s Goldfish for myself, the happy toddler giggles, reaching for the bag.
“Beats being in sales.” Raelynn glances back toward Tina, who is turning heads at the cash register. Raelynn says sales as if she questions what service Tina is paid to provide. Then she gets serious. “Maybe you need something new to focus on.” Her mind is racing. “Did you ever look into your adoption records?”
“No.”
“Why not?” She’s genuinely perplexed. “What if we can find your birth parents? Maybe it’s time.”
“Raelynn, I love you for trying. But those reunions don’t usually go well. I’d be setting myself up for anoth
er blow.”
She tosses a gallon of Blue Bell ice cream into her buggy. In contrast, my cart is nearly empty, a meager snag of fruits and veggies to get me through the week. It’s clear I’m not shopping to feed a family. Don’t go there, Amanda. Breathe.
Raelynn gives me the look, the one that says I pity you. And I give her the other look. The one that says Don’t you dare.
Pulling Kayla from my arms, she says, “Bunco. Saturday. My place. You coming?” She doesn’t pause long enough for me to give it any thought. Instead, she wraps me in a squeeze-tight hug with Kayla giggling in between and insists, “You’re coming.” Then she takes her niece and bounces away, full of life and confidence and joy. The way I used to be.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
“Y’all playing with us tonight?” I arrange Bunco supplies—dice, cups, pencils, and score pads—across the three card tables we’ve crowded into Raelynn’s small home. Nate grins with boyish charm, revealing the remains of a left dimple. Then he opens a bottle of lavender lotion and gives it a smell. It’s one of the prizes Raelynn has purchased for tonight’s competition.
“Up the stakes and we’re game,” he says.
His friends chime in, naming things they’d be willing to Bunco for. A date with Jennifer Aydell makes the list; Nate claims, “She can tug on my line anytime!” The boys erupt in laughter, bumping fists while making crude comments.
“Catch and release, if you know what I mean.”
“Jennifer Aydell makes you wanna kiss and tell.”
Raelynn swats her son’s shoulder. “Enough!” But the boys can’t stop laughing. As they cut up, my mind slips away again. Ellie never had a boyfriend. Never had a first kiss. Will I ever be able to handle this void? There’s nothing you can do to change the fact that Ellie is gone. You have to find a way to let her go.
The Feathered Bone Page 27
