by Laura Day
Angie loved her sister and was always defending her. He remembered one conversation in particular when he brought up Angie’s disregard for responsibility. Angie immediately had said, “She isn’t like that at all. She had gotten some bad breaks, that’s all.”
Derrick had tried to argue his point, “Angie, people made their own breaks, good or bad. Sarah has made some bad choices.”
He only made the mistake of making that argument once, and it had hurt Angie. She had cried for her sister and couldn’t believe that he couldn’t understand her better. In her mind, she was a good person, a loving person. So that had been the last time he had ever said anything contrary to his wife’s rose-colored view of her sister. It was what it was. There really wasn’t anything he could do about that.
So, the free spirit was coming to town. He couldn’t help but wonder what it might mean if she was, in fact, still there when he got home. Unless he was mistaken, she was probably one of those veggie freaks. He amused himself by thinking that if he got home and didn’t see any meat in the freezer, he’d probably butcher a pig right there in front of her. After all, if God didn’t want him to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made them out of meat. Perhaps he’d just slaughter a chicken. That would give him double the enjoyment. He’d freak her out and, as a bonus, get to see the damn thing running around without a head. Now, that would be a funny thing to behold.
He had to remind himself that it wasn’t about him, not even about his love for bacon, steaks, fish, and pretty much anything that you could throw on a barbecue pit. No, it was about Angie and the baby. If having her sister there put her at ease, then he was all for it.
In spite of Angie’s protests, he had convinced himself that Sarah hated him. He was sure that his whole warmongering career was an assault to her gentle spirit. He just knew it. But Angie, dear sweet Angie had tried to convince him otherwise. She even went so far once as to say her sister called him a hero. While he had trouble believing it, unless it had been laden with seven inches of sarcasm, it had lowered his defenses, if only a bit.
“Hell, sometimes, I think she has a crush on you,” Angie had told him.
“I doubt that very seriously,” he had responded. But Angie had insisted, claiming that every man her sister had known was an asshole. Since Sarah never heard a bad word about him, she had often remarked how lucky Angie was to have him.
“Shit, you’re a god, as far as she’s concerned.”
Derrick closed the laptop, actually happy his wife was going to have someone there with her. After all this was over, assuming her sister was as wonderful as his wife claimed her to be, maybe he could introduce her to one of the guys on his ship. A lot of them commented how lucky he was. Surely, any number of them would jump at the chance to meet Mrs. God’s sister. And hell, most of them were decent enough. They each had their own quirks, their shortcomings, but they weren’t the assholes Angie said her sister was accustomed to having around her.
Hell, maybe that was all Sarah really needed, someone to provide a little structure, an ever so gentle nudge in the right direction. Maybe. But he would definitely warn them, if he actually decided to go with that plan. You didn’t send a buddy to hell without at least warning him to take some holy water, right? He wasn’t an asshole after all. He was…
…a god?
Hell yeah, he was a god. He chuckled at the thought, knowing he probably wouldn’t make such a great deity in reality. He assumed a god wouldn’t think some of the shit he thought of at times; but, it wasn’t entirely his fault, he reasoned. If Angie didn’t want him thinking about her sister, she probably shouldn’t have told him she thought he was so great.
A god?
He’d show that tight-assed little hippie a god. Yeah, probably not a good idea to bring that one up, no matter how great an ass her sister had…especially how great an ass her sister had. No, probably not a great idea. Hell, truth be told, he felt like shit for even entertaining the idea, but he still couldn’t help it sometimes. Who knew, maybe he’d get them both a little too drunk some night, maybe… Shit.
He shook his head, a bit disappointed in himself. He was no god, he was a dick. Besides, they wouldn’t go for that no matter how drunk they got. No, his day never started with, “Dear Hustler, I never thought this would happen to me, but…” He had to admit that it sounded like a good letter just the same. He might just write that letter some day, not to send, and most definitely not in truth, but it might be fun to explore just a bit, even if it was nothing but fantasy.
CHAPTER SIX
The road to San Diego was a long one, made even longer by the Greyhound bus’ insistence on stopping in every little town along the way, whether or not anyone was getting on or off. Still the driver pulled into each of these stops, sometimes it seemed like it was stopping just so a passenger could drop off a package or even a letter.
Sarah could have flown and been there long ago, but there was something about riding the bus she had always enjoyed. There was a connection to some of the strangest, most genuine people she had ever met. No pretense, no need to impress, just simply lives being lived in a most humble fashion. Of course, in the old days, she could smoke on the bus, but that had long since gone by the way side. Now it was sunflower seeds and Wrigley’s gum, at least until the bus made one of its stops, then she could burn one down.
Earlier that morning, she had been a woman on a mission. She had been right in the fact that her job was out of her hands. When she arrived at the office, they already had her check waiting for her. That was cool by her. She was afraid she was going to have to ask for it or that she would get the runaround. She fully expected some shit about how it would be mailed in a week or so; but, they seemed as happy to get their business settled with her as she was to get it settled with them.
While it had been enough to buy a plane ticket, or better yet, supply plenty of travel money if she had decided to drive, she had other plans. She was leaving, and she had no intention of taking any of the negativity with her. So, after the law office, she had gone to a friend’s house.
Her friend had always been asking her if she would sell her the Volkswagen, but Sarah had needed it. Now, she didn’t. Hell, the more money she could take with her the better. She would eventually get a job in California and buy another car. Living with her sister for several months would be just as advantageous for her as it would be for Angie. It was a chance to start over, again. So, it was the bus for her. She thought of it as a long transitional trip out of the past and hopefully into a new future.
Much of her time was spent text messaging with Angie. The messages usually read something like, Where are you now? Then, the response would entail a descriptive account of some of the more pleasant views possible from a Greyhound’s window. There were plenty of other messages, as well, such as, I’m so excited. Me too, tell the driver to step on it, see you soon.
Occasional naps blotted out several hours of the trip, as well. The downtime allowed Sarah to recharge her batteries and her spirit. The closer she got to California, the more excited she became. She was starting to feel alive again, hopeful.
The miles rolled by, as Sarah leaned her head against the bus window. Hills turned into desert and then back to hills again before disappearing altogether in the darkness. As the darkness surrounded the world around her, Sarah allowed it to swallow everything behind her, the disappointments, the regrets. It wasn’t anything new, not to her. She had walked away from more than her share of mistakes and from countless memories which continually reminded her of her shortcomings.
Starting over had become more of a habit than smoking cigarettes. Walking away from everything was as easy for her as it was for most people to change underwear. But, it was never without emotion. No matter how it appeared or how many times it happened, it was still emotional for her. The realization that she had been on the wrong path was painful. The very fabric of time itself seemed to fade away, revealing the uncertainty of a world she no longer knew anything about. The fadin
g of the mirage was even more powerful than its initial appearance.
Every time she packed what she could carry and left the rest behind. The man, the job, the city, each finally revealed to be the most vicious succubus in its truest form, holding tight to whatever pieces of her heart and soul she had allowed it to acquire. Each time she ran away, she knew she would never regain that particular piece of her identity again. So it was, and so it seemed to continue for her. But, as tainted as it tried to make her, she always managed to find a glimmer of hope that this time might be the last. Although she always left damaged and fragmented, she also hoped that the crack in the sky opened just enough to light a new path, a pleasant one.
Around her, America’s outcasts, most commonly referred to as the great unwashed masses, followed that same streak of light. They were all searching for their own salvation, for refuge from the repeated and savage raping of their own souls. All still alive, mindless of how close they might be to the contrary, they chased that forever fading, but still glimmering spark of hope. She was content to be among them. She drew hope from their optimism and support from the camaraderie their mutual failures provided.
She finally allowed sleep to overtake her, as the highway sang under the tires of the large blue bus. Tomorrow was another day, in another state, far from the stench of her past. She found comforting acceptance into the only part of her past that she allowed herself to remember fondly, her family or at least what was left of it. She could be part of that again. It had been many years, but the innocence of her youth called to her in the dark night air, telling her it was time to come home.
“I’m coming,” she mumbled under her breath, as the last of conscious thought escaped from her wary mind, allowing her dreams to come. If the gods were watching, she would soon be dancing in her bedroom, her sister at her side, their parents calling them down to dinner. The two sisters would be torn between the urge to let the song finish – Nirvana, Motley Crue, Alice Cooper, or whoever – and finding the origin of the aroma seeping up through the floorboards. Peach cobbler, pot roast, it didn’t matter what she was cooking because she didn’t even know how to make a bad meal.
But this night, the dreams didn’t come as she had fully expected. Instead, the night slipped by quietly. Either way, the sun was in the sky when she awoke. She asked a fellow passenger who already had his eyes open and discovered that the bus had already crossed the state line into California.
The time on her phone had changed automatically when she turned it on. A little after eight in the morning. If she remembered correctly, they were supposed to be in San Diego before ten o’clock. The sunlit landscape, still fairly void of any vast display of the green she had become accustomed to, was a brighter shade of cheerfulness than she expected.
“I’m coming,” she repeated aloud, intending it for the state, her sister, as well as the hope of happiness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Under the Dome had sounded interesting to Derrick Baker from what he read about it online. It was the initial innocence in Lord of the Flies thrown into a chaotic modern world, complete with corrupted authority and attempts at seizure of any hint of power. He hadn’t been able to help himself and had started the monumental task of reading King’s opus after all. While he had not made a dent in the book, he had devoured more than 200 pages before he had been able to put it down. Suddenly, sleep found itself in an unusual place of importance behind his curiosity.
Angie had told him it was really great. She had mentioned that it reminded her of why she had fallen in love with his books in the first place. So, as Derrick got lost in the magic of the wordsmith’s world. He had to agree that it really was good.
Now, as he flirted with the desire to get a little more sleep before they sounded the chow whistle, he found himself opening the book again instead. At the same time, he slightly admonished himself for not reading all the books she had sent with him, instead of simply saying he had.
Of the ones he had actually read, he hadn’t really found one that he had regretted reading. If the whole housewife and part-time writer thing didn’t work out for Angie, she sure could find a suitable career reviewing novels. She knew her stuff.
That was worst case scenario, the way he saw it. He had read some of Angie’s short stories, the ones she said she wrote just for her and had never sent off to get published. They really were incredible. Someday, she could probably make a name for herself with her writing. More than likely, she would do it after the kids were a bit older. That way she could allow herself more free time to devote to what she called her therapy. He could see it really taking off for her.
Her stories were dark in nature, undoubtedly influenced by the authors she generally read. Each had some connection to what she called the hidden world around them, a separate dimension where ghosts, demons and other assorted deviant specters searched for ways to connect in some manner. The connection– usually a bad one – took place with those unfortunate enough to draw their attention for one reason or another. Maybe it was some sort of inner exploration about death, a way of dealing with the separate but equally untimely loss of each of her parents.
She had actually only allowed him to read a few selections of her darker works, but he knew where she kept them. He found himself reading through them on occasion. The personal manner in which she wrote, the fact that it allowed him a better, although not always cheery insight into the part of her world she kept just for herself, had easily made her his favorite writer. He had to be careful with the compliments, since he did not want to reveal his breach of her trust by reading them. It was almost like reading her diary, if she had kept one. In a sense, it was her diary. It was where the thoughts and the beliefs she didn’t dare say out loud were all revealed.
He had tried to convince her to try a novel once; but, she had dismissed the idea easily, although several of her stories were close enough in length to qualify. None were the length of the current epic he was reading, but they were as long as many of the books on the market just the same. She had no idea what he would give to see one of the shelves in their bedroom lined with volumes of her work. Unfortunately, he couldn’t really tell her.
Maybe someday she would slip a couple of the ones he wasn’t supposed to know existed into his pack. Then, he could brag about how good some of them really were, maybe even dance on the edge of discussing the actual depth of their darkness. But for now, he would be content to tell her how much he liked the books she recommended, whether he had read them or not.
The funny thing was that Angie had always said her sister was the family’s writer. She said that Sarah’s a prose seemed to come from so deep inside her that even she had trouble understanding it at times.
He, of course, had laughed the notion off and told her she probably needed to be high in order to understand her sister’s writing. Still, she had insisted that Sarah was the writer of the family.
Angie truly was Sarah’s biggest fan, no matter what sort of mess she ended up creating for herself. He wondered from time to time what Sarah wrote about, and if her writing might even be darker than Angie’s. That would be something, if it were true; but, he couldn’t really let himself believe it could be. She would most likely need to be in a better command of her own life in order to be that talented.
Putting the novel aside, and getting ready for breakfast, Derrick found himself wondering if the two sisters had ever written anything together. That would be interesting. Of course, the thought of them working together immediately sent his mind sprinting back in the gutter.
He’d show them some Longfellow, alright. Yep, a first class dick, no disputing it. But at the same time, he allowed himself a bit of understanding. He was, in fact, just a red-blooded American male. His wife’s sister was most definitely off limits in reality, but in thought? Not so much. Maybe her moving in wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Fucking dick.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sarah grabbed her sister and hugged her tightly. She lif
ted her off the ground before remembering she was pregnant and then apologized profusely afterward. Angie just laughed and refused to let her back away. She pulled her back into an embrace, though this one a bit more intentional and gentler. It had been way too long since she had seen her and the bump on her sister’s midsection was protruding more than she had expected.
“So, when are you due again?” she asked, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and followed Angie to the waiting car.
“Four months.”
“Do you need me to drive?” she asked, as they approached the car, seriously not knowing if her sister needed to be driving at all.
“God no! I’ve seen you drive, remember?” she said, holding up her arm.
Of course, she remembered. Mostly because her sister would never let her forget it, bringing it up every chance she got. Sarah knew she had that one coming. She had almost killed them both once, not long after she had gotten her license. She had taken her younger sister with her on a trip to Sonic. On the way home, trying to change the radio station, she had veered over the line. They had collided with a parked car, sending them both to the hospital. Sarah had just been treated and released, but Angie had to spend the night, coming home the next day with a cast on her arm. Angie didn’t know it, but she had cried all that night, racked by the thought she could have killed her only sister. Now, it was more of a joke between them, but Sarah still found herself wincing a bit when the subject came up.
