In the distance, I can see the massive live oak that sits next to the pile of limestone rocks by the road. It is the sign we’re driving past Ol’ Jack’s cow pastures. My stomach drops. Shifting in my seat, I try to distract myself from the panic that is rising.
Henri’s cell phone rings, jarring me from my thoughts. He releases the wheel, his hand digging in his pocket to locate the phone. The sight of him carelessly driving, his eyes darting from the road to the rear-view, floods me with fear. I want to scream for him to concentrate, to keep both hands on the wheel and focus on the road, to slow down and drive the speed limit.
A thickness in my throat starts to choke me. Hard hands reach up and wrap themselves around my neck, crushing my windpipe. A small choking sound escapes my lips and my arms begin to tingle, my breaths coming in bursts, trying to keep the anxiety at bay. My eyes become unfocused; the edges blur, and the tingling moves down my arms into my hands, clawing at my cheeks. I lean forward to put my head between my legs, gasping for air.
The SUV jerks to the right and bumps over the edge of the road and stops. Henri is talking, but the thumping in my ears is too loud. Fear laces up, the flood gates open and panic takes hold, eating me alive.
I pull the door open and fall to the coarse grass on the shoulder of the road. Henri has stopped talking, and his hand rubs my back in circular motions, attempting to soothe me.
It takes a few minutes before my body calms, leaving me numb. Henri sits with me on the side of the road, his hand still on the small of my back. I loathe being so weak and have managed to avoid situations that bring about these attacks.
Embarrassment forces me to my feet. Henri stands, brushing the dry grass from the seat of his shorts. Avoiding eye contact, I walk toward the front of the SUV and look further down the road. A small white object sits in the ditch, toward the line of trees recognizable by its shape. I have always wondered who put the small signs cautioning passerby to “Drive Safely”. Where do you even buy them? I’d never seen them in stores. Maybe the DOT puts them there, marking the spots where accidents occurred.
The warning signs never made sense to me. Why mark the location where tragedy had caught up with families and ripped their lives apart? Surely parents driving their children to distant relative’s homes or off on vacation don't need a reminder that death strikes at any moment. That regardless of how careful you spend your life, anything can jump out and tear your loved one’s away, mercilessly.
Henri comes up to stand next to me, watching me carefully. He reaches out and takes my hand tightly in his. I squeeze back. He knows the devastation. We walk further up the road until we reach what I know is the right spot. Someone placed the sign marker a bit further, missing the exact location.
I am glad. It doesn’t need to be marked.
I stop at the tree line. It seems like there should still be signs. With the memories of that night so fresh, the road should still bear the marks of tires. The tall pines and spindly laurel oaks should stand broken and scorched. But there is nothing. Like nothing ever happened here. The air is perfectly still, and birds chirp quietly from the dense woods. The subtle beauty of the scene is welcoming. It is peaceful here.
The sun is high, bathing the dark asphalt in bright hot light. Ripples of heat come off it, warming my skin, making me sweat. It is amazing how life continues on. New leaves grow, fresh grass covers the shoulder of the road, water hyacinths stand in the moist ditch. Dense layers of air potato vines blanket the smaller trees. It is a fresh mask covering up what happened that night. Nature repairs itself, allowing life to return to the Earth. It is only humans who hold on. We post little signs, hang flowers, we mourn. All these little things that refuse to let wounds heal. People hold on to memories. It doesn’t matter if they should be swallowed up and forgotten, allowing nature reclaim them, leaving us in peace.
I stand in front of the woods where Daddy’s little vintage car had crashed. Emily isn’t here. Her ghost doesn’t walk the road lost and angry. She doesn’t search me out, fists shaking, her mouth open in silent screams. It is just a span of trees and an empty road.
My sister is dead, and this spot doesn’t bind her to the Earth.
Chapter Eight
Dr. Gregory said it was common after a traumatic experience to lose all memories of the incident. He assured me that it was normal. One day, when I was ready and emotionally able to handle it, I would remember. The one thing Dr. Gregory doesn't know is, I lied. I remember everything, in bright horrific detail. Just like it happened yesterday.
After our mother left with Henri, Emily and I barely spoke. I became obsessed with him, replaying everything he ever said to me, trying to figure out what I had done to make him turn to Emily. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the root of my problems. I had serious abandonment issues. Even I knew that. My mother left me. She took the boy I thought I was madly in love with and moved to France.
I was heartbroken and knew even through my anger that Emily held as much pain as myself. It didn’t matter. In my resentment, I refused to try to mend our relationship. Instead, I used every ounce of energy to stay angry at Emily. I fed my anger toward Henri, not allowing myself to feel the pain he had caused. But with her, I bathed in it, embracing every lick of sorrow; letting it fuel my hatred.
There were times staying mad wasn’t so easy. Emily was charming, vibrant, and demanded attention. After a few months, my anger cooled, and the pain faded. Henri became the focus. Emily was my sister. My blood. I couldn’t escape her, but Henri had left me. It’s easier to hate a person you used to love when you didn’t have to see them all the time.
Nanny stepped in and tried to fill the space my mother and Henri left. Abigail’s absence was acute in every room in the house. Before our days were filled with laughter and joy. Enduring the countless introductions and dinner parties were tolerable with our mother and Henri. Him making faces behind stranger’s backs, or Abigail encouraging me to make up stories about them to keep us entertained.
Once we graduated, I continued on to the University of Florida, and I went wild. Our lives had been so sheltered, we were escorted where ever we went; to school, friends houses. Sleek black cars parked outside day and night. Suddenly I was free, and I took advantage of every single moment.
I was drunk more times that I was sober. My innocence was left on the dirty floor of a frat house bedroom, taken by the up-and-coming football quarterback. Later, I slept with his friend, not something I'm proud of, but a trend started. I went full steam ahead like a linebacker through most of the team. Soon, I tired of the sweaty hands and overzealous antics to get my attention, and moved on to bigger, better, and much older things. Like my professor and a the random men that eyed me in the bars. I had issues. Serious issues.
Somehow, I managed to get through school, left after only two years and moved back home. My love of the arts had drawn me into photography and digital arts and sciences. My big plans were to find a job after college in advertising. But my real love was holding a camera. Capturing moments in life, seeing the world through the lens, a filtered and safe distance.
To my surprise, Daddy agreed to let Emily go to school in Savannah. She studied drama and theater for two years, before returning home. We settled on a quiet truce, even sharing a few laughs. Daddy was pleased we were patching our relationship, at least on the outside.
That day sits vividly in my memories. It was our twenty-fifth birthday, and we were both living back at home. I was recovering from the rather disastrous ending to the affair with my boss at the travel magazine I had managed to land after school. Emily was picking up odd jobs at the town theater. We were sitting by the pool, a new addition to the backyard garden, soaking up the sun.
“We should celebrate,” Emily said, sipping her iced tea. Her hair was piled on her head in a loose knot. Thin strands clung to her temples, beads of sweat covered her upper lip. Emily’s thin fingers played with the string of her baby blue bikini.
We looked almost exactly alike. T
here were only a few differences that separated us. My cheekbones looked slightly wider, her eyes closer together. I had more freckles and even a few darker moles that she didn’t have. And her strange fire highlights that shone like embers in the sun.
“It is, after all, our birthday,” she said.
I glanced over at her through my sunglasses, surprised at her words. We hadn't celebrated a single one together since that terrible eighteenth birthday. The absence of our mother and Henri left our home empty. The party was a disaster. Even Emily had been quiet.
“Like what?” I asked. I lay next to her on my stomach in my chair.
Emily took off her over-sized sunglasses and sat up, a devious grin on her face. She was so vibrant and beautiful. The years in college and a few small stage plays she landed had given her a maturity she had never held. Her eyes lit; she knew she had spiked my interest. “Anything, let’s find something.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” I laughed at her mischievous look. It could be fun, like old times.
“Oh, Char, this is going to be fun!”
And like that, years of hurt and anger melted away. We spent hours trying on clothes, doing our hair, giggling like silly teenagers over the trouble we would cause. The air was charged with our excitement. Nanny kept coming into Emily’s room making tsking sounds, telling us we were nothing but a pair of trouble makers. We laughed even louder, poking at her middle, making her squeal as she batted our hands away, secretly happy we had made peace.
We ganged up on Daddy, just as we had as children. Making sweet promises to be safe, and covering his face in kisses as we coerced him into handing us the keys to his favorite car, a cherry red 64 Thunderbird convertible; his dark brown eyes had been so surprised, he would have agreed to send us to the moon if we’d asked. There are times I think back and wonder if he regrets that decision. But I can’t dwell on these thoughts.
Just like when we were teens, we stole a bottle of spiced rum from Daddy’s study and cans of Coke from the kitchen, as we ran from the house. By the time, we drove into town we were giddy with excitement and a few drinks already under our belts. Emily was behind the wheel, sipping from her can, telling me a story about poor Joe Fallon and an unfortunate incident our senior year, getting caught in the girl’s locker room.
Emily was lit with the late afternoon sun, her hair whipping around her face as we raced down the empty country roads. I was laughing so hard, tears were forming. I hadn't laughed so much in years. It was pure joy, seeing my beautiful sister, hearing her voice ring in laughter, filling the emptiness inside me.
The town we lived on the outskirts of had a few bars were the local girls went dancing and the young men went eager for a date. We reached the small town by dark, wearing slinky dresses and high heels, showing off our legs. Our hair hung down, cascading in waves over our backs. I was proud of my thick golden locks, Emily of her strange fire highlights. Emily had chosen her dress because of it’s deep red color, showing off her hair. I chose mine because it showed off my back, all the way down to my waist.
We hit the bars, taking shots and dancing, stirring up the crowd wherever we went. I knew we caught the eye of every man we passed and were the envy of every woman. I let the men dance close, giving them hope that I may, just may, be interested. Teasing, flirting, touching them lightly. I had reverted back to my college days, when I would take home any man that looked at me with dangerous eyes.
I felt glorious and powerful. With Emily next to me, I was stronger, whole. She filled the void that was created when our mother walked out the door. I hadn't been this happy since I was seventeen, stealing kisses from Henri, our futures overflowing with possibility.
It was two in the morning when we finally settled down. My eyes were bleary, my head swimming, craving a pillow. The night had turned cool, so we opted to put the top up for the drive. We settled into a quiet, comfortable silence, thinking about the night. A calm washing over us after hours of frenzied laughter, reflecting on what could have been.
I remember the drive distinctly: I flicked through the radio stations, trying to find something other than country music. The long County Road was pitch black, only the glow of the moon and diamond shine of stars lending light. The vintage car’s headlights broke through the darkness as Emily sped, the speedometer hovering near ninety. We drove almost wildly down the flat winding road. Tall pine stands lined it on either side; an occasional double wide breaking the endless dark woods, its porch light a beacon in the ink black night.
After giving up on the radio, I settled back into the seat, kicking my shoes off. Henri's teenage face flashed into my mind. We never talked of the day he left with our mother.
“Did he tell you he loved you, Em?” I don't know why I asked. I didn't want an answer. Years ago, I came up with the notion he had used us both. Telling lies to gain our trust, luring Emily into betraying me. It no longer mattered, seven years later and as an adult, I liked to think I had grown past the hurt.
“Who?”
“Henri. Did he say he loved you?”
“Of course he loved us!” Emily laughed, dismissing my question as silly.
“No. Emily, when he took you to the sugar mill.” I pressed on, suddenly needing to know. “Did he tell you he loved you?”
She remained quiet for a long time, her silence edging into the darker parts of my mind filling me with dread. “No,” she said, finally.
It was silly, horrible of me really, but there was a small victory in her answer. Henri had told me he loved me every time we went to the mill. He made me promises and showered me in affection. But, he had still taken my twin there.
“How long had you, you know, been together?”
“We weren’t together,” she spat, her voice, twisted.
“Then what were you doing at the mill?”
“You have always been so naive,” she said, sharply. Emily gripped the wheel with both hands. “You have no idea what was going on. You lived in some dream land with Henri at the center. He didn’t love you or me. He loved the idea.”
Her words stung. There was no pretending what Henri, and I shared. I could feel it, and I knew that Emily could, too.
“You were jealous, and it killed you that he didn’t feel the same way about you,” I said, nastily, my voice slicing through the thick quiet.
“Oh, Charlotte, I feel sorry for you. You believed he wanted to be with you. And maybe he did. But not for the reasons you thought.”
I looked over at her. Emily was watching me in the dark, her eyes darting from me to the road as she drove.
“You are unbelievable, Emily. You just can’t stand the idea that he didn’t want you. That he loved me over you.” Now I was the one being cruel, the one being petty.
“You dumb girl. He may have been sweet with you, because that was what he knew you wanted. You were innocent. But he wanted more. And when you wouldn’t give him what he wanted, I was there, offering.” She laughed again, her body shaking, her hands still gripping the steering wheel.
I wanted to and slap her. He told me he would wait for me. I knew she was lying. She had to be. Anger welled up, and noise roared in my head. I could no longer hear the rhythmic thump of the tires as we drove. Or the wind whipping at the canvas top of the vehicle. Only her words, cutting into my mind.
“Once he had a taste of what he was missing, he wanted more.” She smiled wickedly. I could hear the lie in her words. She couldn’t stand that I had beaten her at something.
“Wow, you are amazing,” I said the words with pity, but I felt like my head was going to explode. Part of me did pity her, but instead I was cruel. Her pain reached out to me, but I ignored it, reveling in the power I held. “But Henri would never have the likes of you. He must have felt sorry for you.”
Emily remained quiet. No nasty retort, no further digs. Just thick silence, filling the small car, leaving it taut with resentment.
“Fine. You’re right,” Emily said, finally. “He didn’t even try. I offered. I tried t
o make him love me the way he did you, but he never would. He told me so.”
Part of me was glad, the other just felt horrible.
“When he left, I should have told you that I had made a move on him that day. He didn’t push me away, it was worse. He allowed me to come on to him and then told me he could never love me the way he did you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. I wanted to take my words back, tell her I was sorry. That I had never wanted to hurt her. The sight of her in pain was just as physical as if it were my own. And it was. She was my other half. I reached my hand out and touched her arm.
Emily turned her face to mine. In the dark, the light from the moon gleam in her eyes. Mad and dangerous. Her smile twisted into a sneer. The streaks of tears glistened on her cheeks. “I hated you for it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I hated you. I still do.”
I pulled my hand back as if bitten.
“You think it was easy growing up with you? Hearing them whisper how great you were? How special?” Emily laughed again, but this time there was something in it that was false. It echoed and bounced in the car. No mirth, no emotion. Vacant. “You were always so good. So sweet.”
“It wasn’t easy to live with me?” I wasn’t sure what world she lived in, but it wasn’t one based in reality. “You were the one to get all the attention.”
Her laugh was high, verging on mad. She was still gripping the steering wheel as if hanging on for her life. “Henri told me he was going to marry you. I can’t let that happen.”
I was beginning to question her sobriety, maybe even her sanity.
“I love you, Char, I really do. But I can’t let you win. He was meant for me.” Emily seemed suddenly calm and focused. A tingle of fear spread in the pit of my stomach, cold vines lacing up, tangled in my gut.
Emily had always won, always gotten whatever she had wanted. I had envied how she had somehow gotten the extra DNA that made her more beautiful, more desirable to everyone around us. I had been jealous at first that even Henri had wanted her over me. But, in her eyes, I had been the one to receive the admiration.
In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 Page 6
