Forgiveness Road

by Mandy Mikulencak

  She ran straight out the front door into the yard. The oldest magnolia had toppled, its giant roots exposed to the gentle rain that came down. If the wind had shifted direction to the east a bit, the tree would have smashed into the front porch, entry, and parlor. It would have wiped out the bedrooms on the second floor, including Cissy’s.

  She started to cry and her daddy told her to hush because the damage wasn’t that bad and they’d have things fixed in no time. Cissy couldn’t tell him she cried about the lack of damage.

  Back in the pantry, she mumbled a prayer to a God she didn’t know existed to allow Camille to continue her rampage. She begged the winds to uproot all of them like it had the old magnolia so they’d have to start fresh in some form or fashion.

  Soon, Cissy fell into a deep sleep and dreamt she was walking through a pile of rubble—wood and glass mixed with bits of broken furniture, dishes, books, even clothing. She smiled at the destruction and twirled round and round in a circle, her eyes closed and her face turned up toward the blistering midday sun.

  Her mama had shaken Cissy’s shoulder to wake her. “We’re all safe and our home is still standing, thank the Lord.”

  She resented being awakened from a good dream because she rarely had them, and she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—thank the Lord. He hadn’t answered her prayers. Electricity was restored, broken shutters and windows were repaired, trees were replanted, life continued as if Camille had never visited the Gulf Coast. If the house had been destroyed, maybe they could have gone to live with her grandparents. She couldn’t imagine either of them letting her daddy continue to get away with the things he did.

  Some years later, Cissy became obsessed with Camille. In her notebook, she’d recorded facts about the storm instead of her feelings of disappointment over its inability to save her.

  • Total area of destruction in Harrison County: 68 square miles

  • Number of direct deaths: 143

  • Number of related deaths: 153

  • Number of injured: 8,931

  • Number of homes destroyed: 5,662

  • Number of homes damaged: 13,915

  • Estimated damage: $1.42 billion

  On her dark days, Cissy couldn’t look back over those numbers because they filled her with a hot fury that her home wasn’t one of the 5,662 destroyed and that her daddy wasn’t one of the 296 killed.

  She decided not to talk to Dr. Guttman about Hurricane Camille earlier because she was afraid of bringing up things that made her angry. Cissy could almost always handle sadness, but anger was a different story. Anger was on her List of Very Bad Things, and besides, what was the use of being angry at a dead father anyway?

  Chapter 8

  From time to time, Dr. Guttman asked what types of things Cissy wrote in her notebooks, but never prodded her for specifics. She figured he knew she needed something of her own. Patients in mental hospitals weren’t allowed to keep many things private, so she appreciated having that one special privilege.

  “What’s been on your mind?” he asked.

  She’d been at the hospital two weeks and hadn’t had a visitor, so naturally, she wondered what her sisters were doing and if they were okay. Most days, Cissy tried not to think about her mama, though, because their relationship became complicated after the shooting. She wanted to believe in the deepest part of her heart that her mama knew nothing about the visits to Cissy’s bedroom. If she had, Cissy didn’t know what she’d do with that information. Just thinking about it made her sad to the bone. The good thing was that she was too afraid to ask outright; she’d never have to know her mama’s truth.

  When Cissy first arrived at the hospital, Dr. Guttman had suggested she write letters to her family. They could be about anything, he’d said. Cissy decided to write about what it was like to live in a mental hospital—what her room looked like, what she ate, the friends she’d made, like Martha and Lucien. Dr. Guttman had mailed the letters, but she had no way of knowing if they were read. He’d said the act of writing them was the important part and she agreed. Whether someone read those words was just gravy.

  “I’ve been thinking about my grandma Mimi and whether I should write her, too,” Cissy said.

  “Why would you want to do that?” Dr. Guttman asked.

  “I feel a little sorry for her. She told the judge that Daddy’s actions were not so bad because I wasn’t a blood relative. She must have been a little bit out of her mind to say that. Or she needed a way to make a terrible thing not so terrible. After all, her son is dead.”

  “Cissy, no one should hurt a child in the way you were hurt. Whether or not you are his biological daughter is not a pertinent fact in your case.”

  The judge had said the same thing in response to Mimi’s outburst. Cissy wrote the word pertinent in her spiral notebook because she liked how powerful it sounded. Her notebooks came in handy because her head couldn’t hold all the lists and everything else she wanted to remember.

  As much as Cissy liked to think she controlled her thoughts, she didn’t. Every day she was grateful her brain had shut-off parts, but she wondered how long they’d remain that way. For example, as much as she missed her sisters, she was worried what she could even say to them if they visited. Cissy figured it would be hard for Lily and Jessie to forgive her unless they knew the whole story. And since love was so complicated, they might not forgive her even if they did know.

  “I have some good news.” Dr. Guttman said. “Your grandmother is visiting soon. I mean your other grandmother, Mrs. Clayton.”

  The news was so huge, it barely sank in. People who won the lottery probably felt the same way.

  “That’s the best present you could have given me.” She couldn’t stop the tears that now ran down her chin. Cissy rarely cried during her sessions. That was on purpose to protect herself when the questions got too hard.

  “She’s special to you,” he said.

  “Very.”

  Grandmother was a formal sort of person, which was why the grandkids weren’t allowed to call her Meemaw, Grammy, Mo-Mo, or any other nickname for grandmas. She was also one of the few people who still wore white gloves and thick tan hosiery all year-round, even in the hottest parts of summer.

  She used to say Cissy was on the rude side of genteel, which was her way of commenting on her granddaughter’s sarcastic nature. Cissy’s grandmother grew up in a time when people didn’t question their existence or what elders told them as fact. She also had old-fashioned ideas of what it meant to be a lady and tried her best to pass on this important knowledge to Cissy so she was prepared to live in the grown-up world.

  Although her grandmother could be stern, Cissy liked how orderly the woman’s life was, down to the proper way they ate dinner and only watched educational television programs that could enrich their minds. After one holiday dinner, when Cissy was thirteen, she had refused to sit on her daddy’s lap for a group photo in front of Grandmother’s Christmas tree. When her mama scolded her, she’d burst into tears and hid in the tiny room next to Ruth’s that had been her mama’s nursery when she was a baby. Only Grandmother and Ruth had come to check on her. It was the one time that Cissy considered telling her secret aloud. Recalling her daddy’s threats, though, shut down that fleeting impulse. She said it was her monthly cycle that made her so emotional. The lie was something she considered adding to her List of Very Sad Things.

  “I know I embarrass her sometimes,” Cissy shared. “But she’s never withheld her love.”

  Whenever she visited her grandmother, she’d try her best to keep her smart comments to a minimum because Grandmother’s good opinion mattered so much. Others called her snobby, but Cissy just thought she had excellent boundaries and didn’t want to share pieces of herself with people who didn’t matter—meaning just about everybody outside family.

  Cissy reminisced about the times she was allowed to stand in front of her grandmother’s armoire and look at the clothes. They were mostly the color of Easter—yellows, green
s, pinks—but that wasn’t to say she didn’t have excellent taste. Most of her purchases came from Lord & Taylor. She wore a lot of pale suits with matching hats and handbags, but always said a smart sweater or blazer could turn dungarees into an ensemble.

  “My own wardrobe seemed drab and rumpled in comparison.” Cissy looked down at the gray and lavender striped dress she had on, and smiled at the memories bubbling up. “Grandmother often remarked that my clothes and an ironing board weren’t on a first-name basis.”

  “She seems like a very interesting woman,” he said. “It will be nice to meet her in person.”

  “I wish you could meet Mama, too. She’s not a bad person. I think her upbringing had a lot to do with her inability to show love in an outward way.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Well, Grandmother rarely showed any emotion, and I suspected she didn’t show her love for Mama either and that made it even harder for Mama to show her love to us,” Cissy said.

  She often wondered if her grandmother guarded her emotions even as a young girl. One day she asked Ruth. Cissy knew that the two of them grew up together, and friends know a lot about each other. Ruth seemed to grow sad at the question, but confided that Grandmother was quite different as a child, laughing so much that it brought on hiccups. She even peed her pants a few times. But Grandmother’s own mother was relentless in “reforming” her into a proper lady, and did so by viciously pinching her arm until bruises were a common sight and long sleeves were necessary even in summer.

  Cissy had asked Ruth if that’s why her mama and grandmother didn’t seem to get along, that perhaps Grandmother used the pinching technique herself. In response, Ruth had just asked if she wanted a slice of pie.

  There was no one to tell Cissy happy stories about her mama’s childhood, or that she, too, laughed until she got hiccups. In Cissy’s memory, her mama had always been the same way. She remembered being very little and pushing against her mama’s boundaries by trying to hug her every chance she got. And while her mama never pulled away, her body would get stiff as a fence post. It didn’t take long before Cissy stopped trying. Instead, she loved on her baby sisters to the point that they would shriek for her to stop kissing them good night. She would pretend she was offended and leave their room; then they’d shriek for her to come back and kiss them some more.

  “What are you smiling about?” Dr. Guttman asked.

  “You got me to talk about some very hard things, but at the same time, here I am remembering some of the happiest times of my life.”

  The memories of those girls assured Cissy she’d done the right thing in protecting them.

  Chapter 9

  Janelle’s husband used to say a name was worth something unless you got carried away and threw it around too much. She was sure she’d used “Do you know who you’re talking to?” more than Beau would have liked, but affluence spoke louder than a whole string of lesser words and went a long way toward rectifying incompetence or poor customer service. She didn’t think he’d mind that she intended to throw around the Clayton name with abandon when she reached the state hospital.

  Cissy had been gone just two weeks when Janelle could no longer stand her own speculation about how the patients spent their days at the hospital. In Janelle’s darkest moments she envisioned a madhouse, filthy and sinister, filled with neglected girls the world had forgotten. No matter how hard she tried, her imagination failed to conjure a Cissy who was safe, cared for, and unafraid. Even when Dr. Guttman assured her on the phone that Cissy was doing just fine.

  Ruth and Caroline both chastised her when she announced her trip to Meridian.

  “You’re acting like I’m ninety years old.” She had her sight and wits. Her reflexes were good. She couldn’t tell if they were more worried for her safety or the safety of others on the road.

  “Caroline, if you’re so worried, you can drive me,” Janelle said.

  “You know I can’t,” she whined.

  “You won’t. There’s a difference. In any case, I’m a grown woman and I can go where I please.”

  Once Janelle was behind the wheel, her stomach felt more settled than it had since before the shooting. Action can do that to a person when everything else feels beyond one’s control. She suspected that’s why Ruth had rearranged the kitchen cupboards twice that week and baked seven pies for the church bazaar.

  She wished she’d remembered to get gasoline on Saturday. Most stations were closed on Sunday except the Texaco station, which was in the opposite direction of where she was heading. Still, she needed gas and it wouldn’t hurt to visit a bit with Joe Beard, the owner, who insisted on pumping gas and checking the oil himself. Cissy had nicknamed him Texaco Joe when she was just four years old and the name stuck.

  When Janelle pulled up, the car’s tires triggered the chime inside the mechanic’s bay, which sent Joe running out to greet her. Only in his mid-sixties, Joe looked closer to ninety. The cancer had whittled away both meat and muscle, and he had to punch additional notches in his belt to cinch up his pants. He used to be a lightweight boxing champion, but illness seemed to be winning the fight now. Still, he was proud of the old days. Two cauliflower ears and a drooping eyelid were prized as much as his championship belt hanging over the station door.

  “Mrs. Clayton, so good to see you, ma’am.” He leaned against the Cadillac to open the gas cap. “Fill ’er up today?”

  “Yes, Joe, please. I’m headed to Meridian and don’t want to risk running out of gas,” she said.

  “Meridian? Isn’t that where they put your granddaughter?” he asked. “I hope she’s doing all right.”

  Good. A friend. Now that Janelle was out of the house again, she’d have to learn to face the awkward silence right before acquaintances or strangers offered their condolences, pity, or disgust. She’d perfected a visage of disdain that masked any hint at hopelessness or sorrow or panic. She longed for an iron gut to match. Maybe that would come with time and practice.

  “I’m going to check on her today.” Janelle handed over cash to pay for the gas. Beau never liked credit and she’d fallen into the same habit after he passed. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”

  “Please do, ma’am. She’s a good girl.”

  “Yes, she is.” He’d given Janelle a treasure in that simple assessment. She waved and pulled away.

  On the drive, Janelle drew in bottomless breaths until her lungs burned from overuse. With every breath she savored a freedom Cissy no longer enjoyed. She pondered the other freedoms Cissy gave up to be rid of her father. Her granddaughter would have learned to drive this summer, perhaps accepted an invitation to a boy-girl social. She’d have walked down Main Street, browsed shops, and purchased an ice-cream sundae with her allowance. Only Cissy could decide if the exchange was fair.

  The hospital seemed segregated from the city, its back to hayfields and low woods. Grateful to be done with the driving, Janelle still questioned whether it would be easier to turn and run. Cissy had no idea about her visit unless Dr. Guttman had mentioned it. Janelle could even rest a spell at a coffee shop. She idled for a minute at the oddly welcoming entrance, a stone wall covered with honeysuckle, before the guard in the gate house walked toward the car.

  “Ma’am? Are you lost?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m not. I’m here to see my granddaughter,” she said, and he waved her through the gate.

  Even though Janelle had sat lost in her thoughts for the three-hour drive, she didn’t feel collected, so she puttered down the drive as slowly as the car would go. The extensive grounds were verdant, even in the severest of droughts. Why waste taxpayer dollars watering a lawn so few people saw or walked on?

  In the bright sunlight, the hospital wasn’t sinister, and she felt somewhat embarrassed about the irrational fears that plagued her all week. The building looked more like a county courthouse with massive red granite bricks giving it a chiseled, stately air. The steps proved challenging given the stiffness of her musc
les, but the coolness of the hall revived her.

  The hallway led to a modest but tidy waiting area near a sweeping staircase. A nondescript nurse at the front desk greeted Janelle curtly as if she were an intruder.

  “I’m Mrs. Beauregard Clayton from Biloxi. I’m here for a tour of the hospital.” Beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip. She leaned across the nurse’s desk and grabbed a tissue to blot it dry.

  “I don’t see anything in the schedule. Did you call ahead to arrange the visit?”

  “No, I did not. But there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Well, ma’am, there is a problem. We have rules, and you can’t just walk right in and demand a tour.” The nurse picked up the phone.

  Janelle didn’t wait to hear who she was calling. Bravado fueled a second wind. With a straight back, she ascended the staircase anchoring the building and proceeded down a hall to the right. She needed to find someone who had more authority than the uncooperative woman behind the desk. At the first locked door, she removed a glove so her knock could be heard on the metal. When no one answered, she pushed a button on the wall next to the door, which sounded a buzzer. A man in a white uniform opened the door a few inches.

  “I’m here to see Cissy Pickering,” she said. “She’s in the women’s ward.”

  Before he could answer, the front desk nurse bounded up behind Janelle and grabbed her elbow.

  “Now, dear,” Janelle said through clenched teeth. “You don’t want to do that, I assure you.” The nurse released her arm and backed away, panting her indignation, but unable to hide her fear.

  Janelle walked down the opposite hallway, knocking on doors until someone had the good sense to call the head administrator. More astute than his subordinates, Mr. Carnell apologized for the nurse’s behavior and cleared his schedule to personally give her a tour of the facility.