Mom grappled with the enormity and the tragedy of the situation. She had taken to sitting in her huge walk-in closet, the thing that brought her so much silly joy just weeks ago. It was the only room in the house without a view of the convoy of official vehicles and press trucks. From there, she also couldn't see the lights and grisly activity taking place in the backyard. She was mourning a child who died thirty-six years ago, one she had never met, and the loss the child's own mother was learning the certainty of just now.
As a mother, she could understand at least some of the devastation. She knew the fear every mother feels when she opens her mind to the horrors the world holds, and the harsh reality of how fragile the thread of fate is that keeps those horrors at bay. That thin thread had snapped in a horrible way, right outside her door. She wasn't sure she could stay after all they had been through, but knew there were heavy consequences if they moved again. It kept her up at night and kept her hiding in her closet, her only refuge from it all.
Holden hid away in his online world, closely connected with his friends who were miles away. At times, he would try to tell them bits and pieces of the story—the parts that could be explained, anyway—but none of them could ever grasp the immensity.
Holden was doing his best to block it all out and pretend it had never happened. He could do that when he was completely immersed in a game of Among Us or Minecraft. It was at night, when he struggled to sleep, that he was back in the pool, the red water gaining on him, the fear pulsing through him as if it were just happening. He had taken to keeping his room stocked with water bottles and snacks and went through his nighttime routine before the sun went down, still fearing he would see the girl in the hallway. He wondered how long these visions would haunt him.
Hazel found freedom even while still confined to the interior of the house. The nightmares ceased, and though her painting supplies had been delayed by the mail hold, the words on her wall faded to the point one would never have known they had been there.
She FaceTimed Miren daily without fear. Most of their conversations now focused on the impending start of a new school year and what that might look like as the virus was showing no mercy. The girls were maturing even as time slowed and the world stood still. They found themselves talking more about civil unrest, the environment, political ideology, and the need for change on so many fronts. Idle chatter of boys and back-to-school wardrobes tethered them to the normal they would likely never know again.
Everyone was dealing with their own immense change. The world was foreign to all in ways no one would have ever believed just months ago. The fear was as palpable as hope. The hope was as desperately needed as change. The Weizaks could never fault anyone with not understanding that what they had experienced was a bit more of an unusual summer of 2020 than many others had endured. Everyone would have a story of that extraordinary year. Who was to say their stories were more incredible than the next person’s?
Twenty-Five
Then
Laura and Momma were a team.
"It's the two of us against the world, baby girl," Momma always said.
While they didn't have much, they had each other. It was more than Momma ever had growing up. When Momma was abandoned by her own parents as an infant, an aunt had taken her in, but that didn't last long. Her aunt wanted to get married and start a family of her own. She didn't need her brother's mistake trailing her through life, making things more complicated. Momma was too young to remember being handed back over to the state. By that time, she was at the age most considered too old to be adopted, even though she hadn't started school yet. It seemed no one wanted a kid born to abusive drug addicts. Momma was shuffled around from one home to another and began a fruitless search for a family who would love her like she was their own.
Laura's imagination was a force. Maybe that's what helped the quiet thirteen-year-old ignore the isolation of living too far from the Stillwater neighborhoods where a walk outside your door meant a day filled with endless possibilities in the company of a friend. They lived outside of town, on the back acre of the Dark Horse Ranch in an old, but clean, trailer. Dark Horse Ranch was owned by the Childers, a loving couple who took Momma and Laura in. They were the closest thing to family either had ever known.
Considered by most to be quite a loner, Laura was more than content with her life in Stillwater. The town was perfect as far as she was concerned. Of course, it was all she had ever known. She loved all its traditions: the fanfare of the homecoming Walkaround at the university to the excitement of downtown's annual Crazy Days, Fall Festival, and tree lighting traditions.
Stillwater thrived on football, and while Laura wasn't a big fan, she would tag along to the high school games with Mr. Childers and his son. One of her favorite town traditions was Senior Circle, which took place every year at Hamilton Field when the clock ran out on the last high school home game.
She loved to watch the graduating class fulfill their rite of passage as Pioneers. There was something magical about the sea of tiny flames from hundreds of lighters that mirrored the night's sky when the stadium lights were dimmed. The soon-to-be graduating class would sway in the dark to the music, songs of their days gone past. Each tune was thoughtfully selected and full of nostalgia and optimism. Her chin would quiver as she fought back tears while the seniors hugged and shared tearful sentiments, mascara running down the girls' faces as tattoos of sadness.
Momma could never go to the football games with them on account of work, but she had been in that circle herself, not that long ago. She didn’t know at the time what the world would bring her, nor did she cry like the rest of her classmates. Her sights were set on something bigger than Senior Circle, prom, or even graduation. She turned eighteen before she got her diploma from what was then known as C.E. Donart High School, and aged out of foster care. The day came when she was no longer a stranger in other's homes by the spring of 1970, when she walked across the stage in the school's gymnasium to accept her diploma. She didn’t know it yet, but Laura was already growing inside her belly. Laura's daddy couldn't attend the ceremony, so there was no one to cheer for her when she crossed the stage in the royal blue gown with the paper mortar pinned into her feathered hair.
Momma and Daddy had a shotgun wedding and settled in a tiny apartment, waiting for the birth of their child. He filled her head with promises: a piece of land, a house, and a barn where they'd make their living boarding horses and giving riding lessons. The vision of that future flashed before her clenched eyes as she let out a scream and pushed their daughter into the world. She finally felt whole as she held Laura, a wiggling, rooting infant who had a raspy cry. At long last she was a member of a family.
For some time, that wholeness allowed her to overlook her husband's many vices. It came as a shock to her when he left.
"I’m running up to Tiger Drug for some smokes. Need anything?” he said casually one afternoon.
The last thing she ever said to him was, "Nothing I can think of."
When he hadn't returned two hours later, she noticed all his belongings had been cleared out. She'd always wonder if he would've come home had she said she needed some milk or a loaf of bread and kicked herself for not needing anything that day.
He'd spent all their savings and sold off everything of value before that day to pay off his gambling debts. His truck was in her name, as were a couple of ill-gotten charge cards he had maxed out. She was a single mother of a three-year-old, in debt over her head, so broke she couldn't make the next month's rent.
Mr. Childers took pity on her and gave her a full-time job at The Roadside Motel where she'd been working part-time cleaning the guest rooms. He also let her move into the empty trailer sitting on his ranch.
Laura and Momma never talked about Daddy and because of that, Laura's memory of him had become more faded than the few snapshots of the man that were kept in a worn and cracked photo album. Laura didn't ask about him much because she knew Momma didn't like talking about him. She
learned at a young age that the mention of Daddy could bring tears to Momma's eyes. Laura never wanted to see Momma cry, so she kept quiet. The hazy tatters of memories of her daddy were woven with musings from her imagination, leaving her with a skewed vision of the man and unable to reconcile her recall with the reality of his abandonment.
While Laura didn't talk about Daddy, she did think about him often. She made up stories in her head about where he was, what he was doing, when he'd come back. When thoughts of Daddy touched her mind, her hand would make its way to the small of her back. She and Daddy had matching birthmarks in the same spot—left side, too low for most to see. While she liked the idea of sharing something with him, it served as a reminder that he was gone. She couldn't escape the fact that she hadn't been good enough for him. Why had he left her? It wasn't long before those unanswered questions soured her feelings about him. He grew farther and farther from her heart as idolization eroded into resentment.
Aside from the birthmark that no one really ever saw, Laura and her Momma were the spitting image of each other. They had the same long, dirty brown hair that held a hint of curl, more frizz than curl on days when the humidity hit 80%, which in Oklahoma was most days. They looked at the world with the same piercing green eyes and their crooked-toothed smiles were punctuated by matching dimples on their right cheek.
Laura never knew how much these similarities meant to Momma; to have someone who shared her looks and her mannerisms. A career foster child with no known siblings, she had always felt alone in the world. That void was filled the moment Laura had taken her first breath.
Momma worked two jobs, and that meant Laura was left on her own much of the time. She didn't mind because she wasn't really alone. The Childers' Border Collie, Rex, was always by her side.
Mr. Childers would laugh and say, “Seems Rex here wasn’t cut out for shepherding cattle. He’d much rather trek around these woods with you than work for me.”
He was right—Rex was usually right beside Laura whether she was lost in a book, daydreaming in the tire swing, or exploring the red dirt trails that branched in every direction from the Dark Horse Ranch.
She didn't have any close friends. There were kids at school she ate lunch with and hung out with at recess, but most of them lived in town and most had a momma and a daddy.
Laura liked school and was a good student who always got good grades. Her report cards bore remarks such as Courteous, Hardworking, and A pleasure to have in class. School work didn't always come easy to her, especially math, but she tried hard. Her favorite teacher was Mrs. Spencer, because she suggested books to her during library block and wrote nice things at the top of her work, like Lovely imagery! and Beautiful prose! Laura had to look up the word prose; she liked looking words up. Her cheeks flushed with pride when Mrs. Spencer wrote, Keep this up and you will be a writer someday! on one of her essays.
Laura loved animals and took care of the barn cats that didn't really need taking care of. She named them all, even the ones too skittish to allow her to approach. She made sure she knew which cat was expecting a litter, so she could keep a close eye out and make sure the kittens were birthed in a safe place. But she also knew the ranch could be a harsh world for the little barn kittens and sometimes the runt or even a whole litter didn't survive. Laura dug resting places for all that didn't make it and placed small stone markers on the top of each grave. She picked wildflowers and lay them at each site as well.
The ranch hands would let her know if they found an injured barn cat. She would track the cat down and sit with it, petting and whispering comforting words while it went through the process of passing. She never wanted them to be alone in their final hours. Her soft heart left her saddened by every loss, even if she just discovered a quitter while candling eggs in the chicken coop.
Her favorite thing on the ranch was watching calvings. Emotion filled her while she quietly cheered for each new life as it rose on shaky legs and took its first steps.
Dark Horse Ranch was a Cow-Calf farm. She tried not to think of what happened to the calves when they left the ranch. Once she asked Mr. Childers why he named a cattle farm Dark Horse Ranch. There were a few horses on the ranch—every ranch had at least a few horses—but she thought it was funny that a cattle ranch was named after horses.
He laughed for a good long time and said, "Because no one expected a jackass like me to become a success."
Laura laughed too, even though she didn't get the joke and still didn't understand why a cattle ranch was called Dark Horse Ranch.
Twenty-Six
Momma carved out time every Saturday for Laura. They would go to town for errands and a little fun. Laura would turn the radio up, and they would sing along to the songs on K105 during their drive, laughing the whole time. Momma loved their Saturday outings as much as Laura did, and while she had fun treating her daughter as a youngster, she came to enjoy that time even more as Laura grew from a curious child into a creative teenager. She marveled at her fortune and felt pride and contentment with every moment she spent with her daughter. Momma wished she could give Laura more, but knew the value of her time and love. Laura never complained; the young girl seemed to treasure the very same things she did.
Their first stop was always the library, where Laura would check out ten books every week, the maximum number allowed. They took turns choosing where they would go for lunch. Laura's favorites were Pop's Root Beer and Bobo's Cantina, but Momma preferred Eskimo Joe's and Mr. Burger. Then they would window-shop at Katz's Department Store, catch a matinee at The Leachman or grab a frozen treat at Whirla-Whip before doing their grocery shopping at Consumers IGA. They both loved their Saturdays together.
One Saturday while Laura sat in the trailer’s tiny kitchen eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes, waiting for Momma to get ready for their outing, Momma said, "I got you something." She slid a watch and two cassette tapes across the green Formica tabletop. "Someone left this stuff at The Roadside. Mr. Childers said we could keep it. I called all the guests who stayed there last weekend, but no one claimed any of it. Thought you might like them. Tears for Fears and Duran Duran. I think you're responsible enough to have your own watch now. It's a nice one, but not my style."
Momma eyeballed the tiny letters stamped on the tapes. "Never heard of either one of them, but thought you might have. Whoever left them behind didn't have the courtesy to leave the cases," she said with a wink.
Momma was always bringing home forgotten items from The Roadside, but the Swatch watch quickly became Laura's favorite. You could only find them in town at The Wooden Nickel, and she was the first of her classmates to have one. Obsessed with the alarm function, she set alarms for everything. It had a bright blue band and a face encircled with flags. Just looking at the watch took her thoughts to setting sail across an ocean to a country she'd only known in books.
While Momma's work at The Roadside Motel was backbreaking—she did everything there from keeping guests happy to keeping the rooms clean—she insisted her second job was the hardest. Every day she clocked out at four in the afternoon and went straight to the ranch house to help with Mrs. Betty Mae Childers.
Miss B, as everyone called her, was Mr. Childers' wife and suffered from a most severe case of Alzheimer's. Although Miss B spent her days and nights in the care of nurses, no one but Momma could tend to her during what everyone called her sundowners time.
Laura asked how sitting with the kind Miss B could be harder than taking care of a whole motel.
"It's not just a job, sweetie. It's a labor of love," Momma replied.
Miss B always had fondness for Momma. The Childers had lost a baby girl, the infant only breathed life for one hour before passing on in Miss B's arms. They named their baby girl Becca Jean and had she lived, she would be the same age as Momma. Laura thought it was sad that while the Childers mourned the loss of their daughter, Momma's own parents let her slip away from them, unloved and forgotten.
The Childers had planted a tree a year after
Becca Jean passed. That tree, a Mossycup White Oak, was giant now. The tire swing, hung by the ranch hands, was Laura's favorite reading spot, Rex's favorite napping spot, and the tree shaded the ranch hands on their breaks.
Most days, taking care of Miss B was a pleasure. Momma would relieve the day nurse and start her shift by trying to coax Miss B into eating a few bites of supper. Miss B didn't eat much anymore and was wasting away to but a slip of her old self. Momma would get her into her night coat and brush her long, silver hair while she sang to her. Miss B was partial to old country songs and church hymns. Then Momma would get Miss B settled into bed and read to her as she fell asleep, not knowing where Miss B's mind might find her when she woke.
On good nights, Momma could catch a few winks in the Laz-E-Boy that sat beside Miss B's hospital bed in the converted sunroom. But other nights, sleep didn't find Miss B and Momma would spend her time trying to comfort her and chase away the ghosts that only existed in Miss B's afflicted mind.
At 11:00 p.m. the night nurse came on, and she and Momma would share a cup of tea while Momma filled her in on how the evening had gone. Both did their best not to wake Miss B, because if they did, she would cry and plead with Momma to stay. On those occasions, it wasn't uncommon for Miss B to call Momma Becca Jean and ask her not to leave again.
If all went well, just before midnight Momma would drag her tired self to her barely running Chevy Nova and make the quarter mile drive over the dirt trail and cattle guard to the trailer. She would open the squeaky door as quietly as possible, tiptoe to the bathroom, brush her teeth, get undressed, and silently slip into bed to catch a few hours of desperately needed sleep before the alarm woke her at 5:30 a.m. and she made her way back to The Roadside Motel.
Red Water, Shadows of Camelot Crossing Page 12
