Runaway Saint

by Lisa Samson

  “I don’t know. Let’s go stump Mr. Literature.”

  Over at the Iron Maiden, which we’ve moved to a place of pride near the front window, Huey is pulling prints of the new line of trash-talk greeting cards, which Dora and Ethan are anxious to release alongside the unveiling of the portraits. He pauses to examine the lines from the poem, drawing out the suspense because he doesn’t like being tested.

  “If you don’t know, just say so,” I tell him.

  “For real? You gotta try harder before it even feels like a challenge.”

  “Prove it.”

  “That’s a famous French poem. ‘Invitation to the Voyage.’ ”

  “Obviously. Even I could figure that out.”

  “Charles Baudelaire,” he says. “You want me to translate? Here goes. It’s something like this: ‘My child, my sister, think of the sweetness, to go down there, to live together, to love until we lose, to love and to die, in a country that looks like you.’ That’s more or less what it’s saying.”

  “Huey, you’re amazing.”

  “Please,” he says.

  Aunt Bel and I go back to the table, back to the journey that could be. She seems thoughtful, at least, meditative. Maybe she’s trying to convince herself to come along. Since my midnight drive to retrieve her from my dad’s house two months ago, I’ve tried to turn over a new leaf with Aunt Bel, not to pressure her or judge her, not to let her strangeness get under my skin, but instead to befriend her as I should have done from the start. Let her be who she is, not expecting more. The trip would be good for us, I think, and her presence would reassure me. I can’t take Finn—the shop can’t run without both of us for that length of time—and I don’t relish the thought of going alone. Let’s just say I need the company to keep me sane. Two weeks on my own is not my idea of fun.

  “Come on,” I say. “Think of the sweetness.”

  She laughs. “You don’t need me to do this, Sara. You can do it on your own.”

  “I know I can do it alone. But I don’t want to. Besides, it’s not such a big inconvenience, is it? You can stand two weeks with me. It’ll be fun. We’ll meet a lot of interesting people too, see some places we’ve never been before. Looks like Ethan has managed to locate every eccentric, out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast along the route. A road trip, Bel! And the client is picking up the tab. You can’t say no to that.”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Listen, Aunt Bel.” I lean closer so I can whisper. “I want to start over, okay? We have a lot to talk about. There are things you’ve never told me, you know.”

  “What things?”

  “Sergei had a name for you. Novikova. He called you Belinda Novikova. What’s that all about?”

  “Oh, that.” She dismisses the name with a wave of her hand. “Just a man I married once. Novikov. Nothing to tell.”

  “You married him and there’s nothing to tell?”

  She shrugs. “It’s hard to be always alone.”

  “I’d like to know a little bit more about him than that.”

  “It was foolish of me. I make bad choices when it comes to men. Novikov was a bad man. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “Did you divorce him?” I ask.

  She gives me a funny look. “Divorce him? I didn’t need to, Sara. Remember, I died.”

  “Aunt Bel,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You have a way of dropping bombs into a conversation.”

  “Two weeks of that,” she says. “How could you stand it?”

  “There are things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  She takes this in, nodding slowly. I remember the first time I saw her, unlatching her seat belt in my mother’s car, looking at the thing in wonder like she’d never observed a seat belt in operation before. There’s something similar to the look she’s giving me now. Like she’s standing outside our relationship as the buckle clicks shut, realizing belatedly how the whole contraption is meant to work.

  “You don’t have to talk to me about anything,” she says.

  “I don’t have to. I want to.”

  “Maybe,” she says, pausing before she continues. “Maybe it would be better not to. Knowing people is good, but knowing their histories and secrets, sometimes that’s not so good. You ask me so many questions. I wouldn’t know what to ask you.”

  “It’s okay, Aunt Bel. You wouldn’t have to ask. When people trust each other, the rest just flows. And we trust each other, don’t we?”

  “Trust is hard,” she says.

  I head back to the studio kitchen and pour another cup of coffee. Once more, I dial Happy Hideaway. “J. D.,” I say when he answers. “Is Mom with you by any chance?” It’s been a week since we’ve talked.

  “Oh, hey, Sara. Naw, naw. She’s on a staycation right now.”

  I almost spit out the coffee I just took into my mouth. J. D. and “staycation” should never, ever mix. It’s the equivalent of Brian Williams saying “you know” at the end of every line in his nightly news report.

  “Is she okay, though?”

  “To shoot straight, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been over to the back fields in a couple of days.”

  “But she’d come over if she was sick or something, right?”

  “Oh, sure. She’s done this before.”

  “Will you just check for me sometime in the next couple of days to make sure she’s okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m not sure what to do about Aunt Bel,” I say to Finn the next morning.

  Finn rolls over, propping his head up on his hand. “Why do you have to do anything?”

  “Because I want her to come with me.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  I reach over and run my fingertips along the stubble on his jaw. His hair is curled and tousled from sleep, the whites of his eyes looking milky and rested. Most mornings he’s up and out of bed before I wake, but this time I’ve caught him before he can slip away to make breakfast. He regards me with an amused smile, the same way he would a child speaking in complete sentences or anyone else acting charmingly out of character. Good for you, sleepyhead, that curl of the lip says. Up and at ’em.

  Since Aunt Bel’s return, we’ve had a run of glorious mornings, which has made the revival of our back porch breakfasts all the more welcome. Hot coffee and bacon, street sounds carrying in the air—I’d even missed the smell of her cigarettes, something I never expected.

  “Are you coming down,” Finn asks, “or are you going to wait for the breakfast gong?”

  “I’ll come down.”

  As I slide my feet to the floor, he comes around the bed to inspect the state of my once-favorite T-shirt. Between the hole and the paint stains and the corroded letters, GOOD TASTE is on its last legs.

  “I can get you a replacement,” he says. “I know where to find them.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll keep this one.”

  “You won’t be able to for much longer. You’re not going to turn into one of those people who wears their old clothes until they fall apart.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Not on my watch,” he says, putting his arms around me. His bare skin is warm to the touch, a nice balance to my habitual coldness, which he’ll only be able to endure a few seconds. Three, two, one … he pulls away. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I don’t want a replacement because the shirt doesn’t mean to me what it used to. It’s a good reminder now of what really matters.

  Aunt Bel comes downstairs just as we’re taking the plates outside. She’s wearing an oversized set of men’s pajamas that make her look like an emaciated child, albeit a child with a nicotine habit since her soft pack sticks out of the chest pocket.

  “Morning,” she says.

  We eat outside to the accompaniment of public radio, which Finn streams from his phone when he’s in a fancy mood. He even gets testy when we attempt to carry on a conversation over t
he announcer, who is sharing biographical nuggets about the composer Mahler. “I’m trying to listen,” he says, and I’m tempted to repeat the words back to him in a high-pitched whine, letting him know just how he sounds. But Aunt Bel catches my attention. We share a knowing smile: Let’s indulge him. She leans back in her chair, half closing her eyes, absorbing the Mahler life story as if it’s the profoundest thing she’s ever heard. I play along too, then start to wonder if Aunt Bel is actually playing. Maybe this interests her. Maybe she sees more in the gesture than eccentricity on Finn’s part. Maybe there’s some depth to him she appreciates that I don’t.

  I lean back too, closing my eyes, letting the announcer’s baritone wash over me like a tide. Finn starts clearing the table. “Time for work. Time to trudge back to the salt mines and put in a twelve-hour shift.”

  “I don’t think I’ll go in today,” I say.

  He pauses. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “It’s not that. I thought maybe Aunt Bel and I could spend the day together doing girl stuff.”

  “While I’m in the harness. Nice.”

  “Take all this away,” I tell him, sweeping an imperious hand over the dirty dishes. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

  He makes an especially tall tower of plates, balancing them on his forearm, almost stumbling over the threshold as he staggers inside, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t mind me.”

  “You want to do it?” I ask Aunt Bel. “Spend the day together.”

  “Sure,” she says. “I want to talk. I was thinking … I want to talk to Rita too.”

  “Mom? I don’t think she’d be up for a girls’ day out.”

  “Maybe lunch.”

  “Are you sure? I was kind of wanting to have you all to myself.”

  “I think it would be good,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”

  Is it time to talk about the accident?

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Daddy shows up just after I get out of the shower. My hair still up in a towel, my bathrobe cinching my waist with its cord, I show him back to the kitchen and offer him some coffee. Truthfully, I could use another cup myself.

  “Who’s here?” he asks.

  “Just me and Aunt Bel.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “I don’t know. Getting ready for the day, I’d guess.”

  “Can we take this outside, doll?”

  I tilt my head. “Okay, what’s up, Daddy?”

  “There’s something I think you’re strong enough to finally know. I know something haunts you and you don’t know why. But the truth is, there is something. I thought you’d be too young to ever remember.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Something inside you does.”

  After I pour water in the French press, he grabs two mugs. “Have you heard from Mom lately?” I ask.

  “Not for a little while. Why?”

  “She’s just not calling me back.”

  “Not completely unheard of,” he says.

  “J. D. said he’d check, but I haven’t heard from him either.”

  “It probably means he checked, saw she was okay, and got so caught up in all his organic machinations, he didn’t think to pick up the phone to reassure you.”

  Oh. “So it’s that way. Got it.”

  Dad shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. It’s just that him letting your mother stay there hasn’t been good for her in the long run.”

  We head out to the deck. I feel nervous, my insides coated with anxiety. This is it, I realize. This will change everything. I’ll know the truth.

  “So you know about Jason.”

  “Mom told you about our conversation?”

  “Yep. Just after it happened.”

  His pain of silent years flashes like the reflection of the sun on a mirror and disappears just as quickly.

  “Rita doesn’t know the whole story,” he says.

  “You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Oh no. It was an accident all right.”

  “And so she’s still unable to forgive Aunt Bel, right? I mean—”

  “Sara.”

  “What happened, then?”

  He reaches across the table, gathers my hand in both of his, and squeezes gently. He looks into my eyes as tears form in his own. And I know. It wasn’t Aunt Bel’s recklessness that killed my baby brother. It was mine.

  I cannot speak; maybe I’m wrong. Right? Maybe I’m just jumping to the worst of conclusions.

  “It was me, wasn’t it?” I whisper.

  He nods. “Yes, boo, it was.” He hasn’t used that term of endearment since I was a child.

  “What happened?” I can barely hear the words myself.

  He keeps hold of my hand and I place the other inside his grip. “You were three years old,” he begins.

  Looking up at the back door, he makes sure Aunt Bel isn’t in the kitchen.

  “Well, your mother had just finished bathing Jason. You and your aunt were playing in your room. She was always drawing things for you, or you’d put blocks together. Only you wouldn’t build them, you would arrange them flat, in a composition.”

  I nodded. “Yes! I remember those!” The hysteria inside me threatens to bubble over.

  “Your aunt helped shape your ability to compose a picture, scene, poster, what have you.”

  So many of my interactions with Aunt Bel start flipping through my mind.

  “So, that day you were playing dress-up and she had you looking like the prettiest fairy princess. With the baby still dripping a little, your mother exited the bathroom and was walking by the top of the stairs when you came running out of your room to show her your costume. You slipped on some water and slid into her.”

  “Oh no …”

  “She wasn’t braced for such a collision. She pitched forward, headfirst down the steps. Jason flew out of her arms and landed at the bottom of the steps. His neck broke. They say he died on impact.”

  “So it really was an accident?” I feel a little girl inside me looking out of my eyes. “Daddy, please?”

  “Yes, honey.” He squeezes my hands. “It truly, truly was.”

  How can someone truly forget something like that? How does such a tragedy not etch itself into the heart of the one who caused it, no matter how young?

  “Your mother was knocked out, so she never remembered what actually happened. But when she came to, and our faces were hovering over her in the hospital, your Aunt Bel took the blame.”

  My heart fills with even fresher grief. And I realize the way she looked at me when she first arrived, with such wonder and pride, and hope, was evidence of her thinking, It was worth it. Every hate-filled thought directed at me. Every casting of blame upon my shoulders. Sara, you were worth it.

  “How do you know about it, Daddy?”

  “I saw it happen.”

  “And you let Aunt Bel take the blame?”

  “It happened so fast. I was looking at your mother and I thought, How much more could one person bear right now? So. Yes. I agreed. Bel said she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister having to look upon her own child as the killer of her baby. And I agreed, honey. I still do.”

  21.

  Travels with My Aunt

  I was going to try to have a good day with Aunt Bel anyway. But once Daddy leaves, I go to my bedroom, climb in between the sheets, stuff an extra pillow between my legs, and assume the fetal position. What do I do now? Where do I go from here? I ask my baby brother. He doesn’t seem to know.

  Aunt Bel taps softly on the door. “Sara? Who was that?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer.

  Ten seconds lapse. Twenty.

  She taps again. “If you’re in there and you’re all right, make a noise.”

  I knock on the nightstand.

  I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway and the door to her room click shut behind her.
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br />   Does she know?

  Maybe a little, although she probably doesn’t realize it. Aunt Bel and I are connected in a way two human beings rarely are. She made sure of that years ago. I’m just now realizing how much.

  Oh, who makes that sort of sacrifice for a little child?

  Someone who sacrifices her life in Kazakhstan, that’s who. She may perceive herself a missionary by default, but she’s been a missionary, a person of sacrifice … no … she simply is a person of sacrifice.

  She makes sense now. My mom makes sense. My dad makes sense.

  And I make sense.

  About an hour later, my eyes glazed from staring at the doll on my nightstand but not really seeing her (a good thing), Aunt Bel emerges from her room and walks down the hall, the flapping sound of sandals on wood stopping in front of my door, hesitating for a few seconds, then moving on.

  But I know this now. Even if she kept going, walked her way back to Kazakhstan, she wouldn’t really be gone. She’s always been with me. Like Jason. I couldn’t see it then. But I can see it now. And I’m grateful.

  Despite my shock, despite the sadness I feel for my family, my brother, for a little child who was forced to wander in an unvoiced guilt and shame, transferring it onto everyone around her, not knowing to look inward, I feel lighter. I wasn’t looking for happiness, because happiness isn’t a matter of getting what you want. It’s knowing what you need, realizing you have it, and being thankful.

  At 3:16, according to my bedside clock, Finn comes home.

  I’m still in bed, sitting cross-legged in the very middle, smoking one of Aunt Bel’s cigarettes.

  He bounds up the steps two at a time, clearly composes himself, then gingerly opens the bedroom door, whispering, “Sara?”

  “Come on in.”

  He takes one look at me. “Sara? What are you doing?”

  “Just smoking a cigarette.” I tap the ash into my morning coffee mug, long emptied.

  “Have you ever smoked before?” If confusion could be written over a person’s entire body, it would be written on Finn’s right now.

  I nod. “Middle school.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.” I inhale on the half-smoked cigarette, willing myself not to cough. Middle school was awhile ago.