by A. D. Smith
“Look, I don’t know what happened, okay?” I make sure to look him square in the eye. “But enough of this god business—you and Alicia. All I know is, I just got my daughter back and I’m not letting her go.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Myers if I’ve upset you. That has never been my intention.” Guess he finally realizes this is not the time to engage in useless debate. “I’m glad you’ve got your daughter back,” he says while heading for the door. “Good day.”
“Chappy,” yells Christina. Never stopping, his hand briefly forms a wave.
“Zeek,” says Alicia, her tone telling me everything she wants to say. What a weird day.
“Wait,” I sigh while walking towards the preacher man. My hand drops from my head to the back of my neck in the time it takes me to gather my words. “Look, my daughter’s taken a liking to you and you’ve definitely seemed to help out my sis when I couldn’t be here …”
I pause. I have to. Not used to this. “… and uhh, for that … I’m grateful.”
Preacher man’s face transforms. I quickly look up and catch a glimpse of the overly stated smile. Can’t have that going on for too long. “But right now, all I wanna do is be with my daughter. Okay?”
He nods. “Understood, Mr. Myers. Understood.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving back to the bed.
“Mr. Myers. Could we talk for just one moment more?”
Did I miss something? Did we not just talk? “Wow. Really?” I say, now sitting.
“Please. It’ll only take a minute.”
I throw a wink to Christina before rising from my seat … again. My smile quickly leaves as I head back towards the chaplain. He watches. Almost intently.
“Yeah, what is it now, Bryant?”
The chaplain chuckles while shaking his head.
“What’s so funny?”
“Looks like you caught a 2-for-1 sale.”
“Say what?” My defenses rise on impulse.
“Your limp, Mr. Myers.”
“Yeah, what about it?” I mutter, staring him down. That stupid smile never leaves his face. “That’s just it. It’s gone. You folks have a good day … If it can get any better.”
What’s he talking about? I look to Alicia but she just shrugs before twirling her index finger. With preacher man gone, I walk five paces before turning in the other direction. My walk … it’s normal. I mean it’s four years ago, normal. I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. There’s no curve in my stride, no altered motion. Not one sign exists of my former impairment. Not-a-one. My knee bends regularly as I perform a squat all the way down to the floor. Alicia snickers as I stroll around the room. She says my movements mimic a dancing flamingo, if there’s such a thing. But what do I care—my leg—it’s back!
“Well it truly is unbelievable,” laughs Alicia. “You know what this means, right?”
“Don’t start, Alicia.”
I know what she’s thinking and trust me, I’m nowhere near sold. Before I can declare anything else, Christina lets loose a high-pitched shriek as she laughs at my prancing around the bed.
“What?” I smile. “Not you, too?”
Chapter 11
Almost a week has passed since the night that changed my life. Eerily enough, things are mostly the same. My hair still sits in its normal ponytail. I’m back to fixing A’ma’s breakfast before heading to work. She still growls here and there, although not nearly as much as she used to. Guess she doesn’t want to take a chance on me translating. I’m not sure if I could even do it again. It hasn’t happened since the infamous morning after the even more infamous night before.
As a matter of fact, nothing has happened since then. No adrenaline, no super-strength, no high-jumps, nothing. I’m back to my average, run of the mill schedule. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. Something that has changed is my presence at St. Peters. Haven’t been back since ‘the night’, and frankly I’m not sure if I’ll ever return. Some parishioners have left voicemails inquiring about the free art classes I taught, but I can’t go back there as if nothing happened. For all I know, there could be dozens who already know of my mother and father’s dirty little secret. It’s enough I have to take care of one parent. Although she’s a handful, I’ll continue to fulfill that commitment. Besides, that’s all I’ve ever known. But Nichols? I’m fine if I never see him again, let alone return his countless phone calls. What can he possibly say? After 19 years of lies? Nothing he can say can ever justify his sins.
These thoughts flood my head as the bus approaches my stop. The worthless piece of metal I own stopped running two weeks ago. Deacon Nichols was supposed to come by and take a look at it later this week …
***
I pull my baseball cap tight around my head as I enter the doors of WREG. No one even seems to notice as I walk through the news station. And they sure don’t know any of the things I’ve experienced, supernatural or natural for that matter. Some may not even know I’m a girl, seeing I’ve been called ‘sir’ on several occasions when my hair is stuffed in the back of a cap. But that’s fine, I like it that way. Other than the occasional pick-up game out back, I’m a nobody at this station. Just an ant delivering debris back and forth.
As I near my desk, the stench of overly sprayed perfume saturates the air. It could only mean one thing … Sandy. Now that woman can talk. She says we’re friends, but oddly enough she knows nothing about me, although I somehow know everything about her. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in even if I wanted to tell her about all that’s happened.
Sandy is an up-and-coming producer—though some disagree as to how the 24 year-old college dropout got promoted so fast. I’m an assistant cameraperson—translation: lackey to the great and almighty Arnie. Sandy is into boys, fashion, tanning, and Electronica—literally all the things that I abhor. So why does she continue to talk to me endlessly? I guess it boils down to the simple fact that I’m the only person who listens to, rather endures her tall tales of weekend exploits. She starts as soon as I reach my station.
“Can you belieeeeeve Julie got that exclusive with Jason Bale?” she asks. No reply is really necessary. “I would looooovvve to have an exclusive with that man—know what I mean?” she giggles. A faint smile flashes as I check today’s assignments.
Sandy’s hot pink business suit is in stark contrast with my University of Memphis sweater. The talkative woman’s eyes never seem to blink. A byproduct of too much mascara. “You know, they said her and her fiancé are breaking up,” she whispers.
“Who’s breaking up?” I ask, already forgetting the topic of our one-sided conversation.
“Why Julie, dodo bird. I bet it has something to do with Jason—well he says ‘call me Bale’, but that’s just some Hollywood lunacy. I call ‘em Jason—but did you notice how she was just throoooowing herself on him? It’s a shame if you ask me—say … you alright?”
Wait. What did Supersize Sandy just say? People call her this—albeit behind her back—not because of her size, in fact she’s very petite. But because she takes any small tidbit of information she hears and blows it up or supersizes it. Nevertheless, I can’t believe she just asked about my well-being. That’s the closest indication of concern I’ve witnessed in six months. Should I tell her about my life’s recent events? I don’t even have to start with the out-of-this-world-events. Just the ins and outs of taking care of a sickly parent are a conversation full.
Sandy’s overly drawn-on eyes wait for a response. What the heck. “Well it’s interesting you asked. I had the wors—”
“Oh my god! It’s Scott Richmond!” Sandy interrupts, her annoying Electronica ringtone repeating itself over and over. “That hhhhhhot anchorman from WPTY! I’ve been waiting on this call for days! You know he has a friend. He’s even hhhhhhotter. We should double or somethin.”
I smile as I pretend to listen. Yep, things are back to normal.
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Six days ago my life was changed forever.
That’s the only thought that runs through my mind as I peer behind tinted sunglasses at the collection of guests gathered at my brother’s burial. The cheap liquor I ingested before the ceremony seems to fuel my pain rather than quench it. In some strange way, maybe that’s what I want.
People have reached out from all across the country, but I could give a damn about their half-hearted condolences. They don’t know me, not really, past my accomplishments on the field. And they sure as hell don’t know Martin, the brother who was never the better athlete, the brother not nearly as popular, the brother who acted out.
Damn, it’s my fault in so many ways. My parents will never look at me the same. I don’t blame them. That’s why, even with the million and a half sitting in six different accounts, I choose to drink that cheap liver killer. Maybe this slow death will serve as payment to my deceased brother.
Catching the bastard who helped destroy my family will also serve as payment. A correlation between Bree, Martin, and the tattoo proved to be a dead end with her phone now mysteriously disconnected. Convenient.
The police still have no leads and as I scan some of Martin’s past acquaintances standing off in the distance paying their respects, I know it’s quite possible anyone of them could have set him up.
As the minister gives his remarks, I notice a woman some fifty yards away. Too far to be considered a member of the burial party, yet she seems to be taking part in the ceremony. Her long silver-gray hair swirls in the steady wind. Even a ways off, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her before. My mind, scattered with grief and cheap wine, tries to piece together the memory of this woman. That’s it! The woman from the bar!
The same weird older lady now stands at my brother’s burial. But why is she here? Who does she know? WHAT does she know? Briefly, I think about leaving the burial party to approach her, but when I look up again, she’s gone.
My attention shifts to my folks. Solemnly they sit in the first wave of a sea of people. Mom uses a handkerchief to dab a tear from her eye. Dad, or shall I say, Pastor Turner, sits for the most part like a proud, strong father until the lowering of the casket. The finality of the moment proves too much as he wails for his baby boy. Relatives and church staff rush to his side. I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to go to my father, but what if he doesn’t receive me? I couldn’t live.
I watch as he cries out in pain. My mind—my body can’t take this. It’s too much. Everything. Few hardly notice as I bolt for the car and take off.
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With so much time spent at the hospital, I’ve nearly forgotten what my apartment looks like. Needless to say, the place is a mess when I bring Christina home for the first time in months.
“Daddy, eeet’s stinky!” yells the blunt five-year-old.
“I’m sorry, baby. Why don’t you go to your room for a minute while Daddy straightens up?”
Guess I hadn’t planned for this part. Over a year of off and on sickness, four months of complete hospitalization, and now in what seems like overnight, we’re back home.
As I run around the place throwing away molding food, my mind finally takes a moment to process the last few days. It was a job in itself just getting out of that ‘prison’. Nobody wanted to sign off on Christina’s discharge. They kept waiting day by day for the cancer, or whatever it was, to return. Nearly a week went by before they got tired of the healthy Christina making requests, running up and down the halls, eating up everything. Finally, the suits who run the place agreed it would be easier to just send her home. Guess children’s hospitals are not meant for healthy kids.
“Daddy, eeet’s stinky in here too!” Christina yells from her bedroom. I can’t help but laugh as I remove what I think is pizza from the crease of the couch. “Okay baby. Why don’t you—”
A sharp pain suddenly shoots through my head. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. As quickly as it comes, it goes away.
“Daddy, why you looking like that?”
“Hunh?” I hadn’t even noticed her standing there. “Oh, Daddy’s okay. Just a little—AWWWGGHHH!!!”
Nerve endings spark with pain while flashes of light run across my eyes. I clinch my head—it feels like it’s about to explode—and it just might if I let go. The light begins to shape itself into blurry images.
“Uggghhh, what’s happening to me?”
Vaguely I hear the screams of my daughter as I stumble around the room. The images become clearer by the second. My eyes are wide open, but all I can see is this picture, like it’s right there in front of me. There’s a vehicle of some kind. Truck? Van? White or light gray—the images are still a little hazy. My eyes flash to a rooftop, people fighting. Next a silver haired woman with burning eyes. Now to my deceased wife, Angel. Dizziness emerges as the images consume me. It’s too much.
“Stop it!” I shout. Immediately, the images disappear, as does the pain. “What in the world?” My apartment slowly comes back into focus. I call for Christina but she doesn’t answer.
“Chrissy, baby?
I sense motion to my left. There Christina hides, balled up in the corner.
“Christina!” I yell as I run to her. My daughter’s small body tenses up. She’s afraid … of me.
“Oh baby, I’m so sorry. Daddy’s sorry.”
“You scary, Daddy,” she says. The words nearly break my heart. I stretch out my hands, slowly approaching. “Daddy’s fine, see? Just had a little headache, that’s all. Everything’s okay now. I promise.”
She slowly lets down her guard. Kneeling in front of her, I make her a deal. “I tell you what. How ‘bout we get out of this stinky house and get some ice cream?” Reluctantly, she nods her head.
“Can we ride the swings?” she asks.
“You wanna ride the swings too? Sure baby, we can ride the swings. Now can Daddy pick you up?” Christina nods again, this time a little faster. Carefully, I scoop her up just as I’ve done since she was a baby. I’m rough on bikes and tools and even apartments, but never her. Not Chrissy. “Daddy’s right here baby. I’m right here.”
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Still daylight, I drink from a silver flask. I have to. The funeral, burial, and then my Dad’s breakdown? Reality can’t die quick enough. The music in my truck is cranked all the way up. What do I care? I speed down a narrow boulevard breaking more and more traffic laws with each turn of the burly vehicle. I can’t tell how fast I’m going anyway.
A picture of my family sits on the dash. My mind can’t get past the look of Martin’s lifeless face. Tears flood my eyes as cars honk around my erratic driving. Part of me hopes I wreck. Maybe my self-destruction will count as something. Or maybe—just maybe, I can trade my life for my brother’s. Or, maybe the 90-proofed alcohol coursing through my blood stream is getting the better of me. I grab the picture—it won’t stop moving. It’s like I’ve got three families instead of one. Funny. “Three families,” I smile—oh god, look at Martin!
A beep from my phone signals a voice message. I haven’t checked it in days. Maybe it’s a hunny. I could use some company. Or maybe not. My temperament sways like the wind. Thoughts jump from the divine to the morbid. Tears erupt right behind fits of laughter. I decide to listen to the message before the alcohol gets the better of me. If it hasn’t already done so.
The message starts off garbled. Or is it just me? No, I think someone is … running? Now noise, like something’s being thrown. A commotion of some sort. The next voice I hear makes me wish I never listened.
“No, please. I’m sorry. Just leave me alone.”
I can hear Martin begging for his life. His words make me wish I could end it right now.
“PLEASE!”
That’s the same word, the same tone he used in pleading with me to come pick him up. And now he uses it to beg for his life! The severity of my actions truly hit home.
I am to blame for my brother’s death!
Before I throw the phone out the win
dow, I hear another voice emerge. I listen intently. The voice of his killer will be a voice I never forget.
“I … ask … question.”
The husky voice talks in disjointed sentences as Martin sobs uncontrollably.
“Wrong … answer. I … take back … mine.”
The last sound I hear is Martin’s scream. Only a scream like that could make the face I last laid eyes on.
“T-Mart, I’m sorry!” I scream.
My apology goes unanswered. I laugh. He better not answer. The world spins as my weighted foot rests on the gas pedal. It’s becoming increasingly harder to determine what lane to stay in. People blow their horns. Will they just …
“Leeeeaaave me alone!” I shout to the window. “Stop it! All of you!”
They’re no good. All of em! Except Martin—Martin was good. He was a good brother—he was. I shouldn’t have—
“LADY WATCH OUT!!!!!”
I awake. Not sure how long I was out, but …
I—I—can’t move.
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“So whada ya say, hunh? Scott Richmond? His frrrrriiiieeeend?” Sandy nags. Naturally, she doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Well it’s done! I just texted Scott that we’ll double next Friday! We can get you a pedi, a mani, heck—even a wax!”
It’s days like this that make me wonder why I even put up with Supersize Sandy. “We’ll talk about it later, Sandy,” I defer. “I think I’m leaving a little early today. I need some fresh air—”
“Hey, that sounds great! I was thinking the same thing! We could get a little shopping done—ooh I saw these grrreeeeaaat shoes at Melodies. They would go great with my tan jumper …”
My mind zones her out, a feat not hard to accomplish. It drifts to one of my favorite spots, Lincoln Memorial. The sprawling park never fails in clearing my mind. In fact, it seems like I’ve been getting by there nearly every other day lately. No A’ma. No Sandy. No Arnie. Nothing but me, my music, and the trail.
