Page 10 of Broken Bayou
“Willa.” Amy clears her throat. “They said they had a scheduling conflict. That’s it. We’ll reschedule.”
I exhale, finish my second glass of warm wine. “I’m sorry for all of this. I feel like an idiot.”
“You’re human, Willa. That’s all. And don’t apologize.”
I nod. Even though she can’t see me, Amy understands. “It’s gonna be okay,” she says, echoing my own words.
All the energy drains from my body. I tell her good night. That I love her. And hang up.
Back on the upstairs landing, I grab my duffel and peek into the remaining three rooms. They are empty except for the last one. The one Mabry and I once shared. The twin beds are bare except for a set of folded sheets on one. Did the lawyer know this was the room I once stayed in? How could he? More than likely, this room was chosen based on the size of the sheets they had.
Just like in the foyer, this room holds Mama’s voice as well. Our last summer here, she waltzed in with her cheeks glowing. “Isn’t it just great here? We’re all going to have the best summer ever. Who knows what will happen?” She twirled around the room with her arms out wide and danced over to Mabry and scooped her up. Mama dipped her and blew raspberries on her neck, and Mabry squealed with laughter. Then Mama started into a raucous rendition of “All My Ex’s Live in Texas,” stomping her feet and shaking her hips and sashaying Mabry with her. I watched and hoped Mama’s mood would make it to the end of summer, but hope was dangerous in the Watters’ house. And Mama never made it on a high three solid months in a row before. Still, though, what if? I was almost seventeen and knew better. Mabry was twelve and did not. But Mama’s laughter and bright eyes and wild hoots of joy were contagious, and soon I was tapping my foot and jumping into the fray right along with them, swinging around the room and laughing as if everything would be okay.
Exhaustion floods over me. I slip off my heels, study my duffel. I could unpack, but how long do I plan on being here? Unpacking maybe too much of a commitment. What I do is make the bed, change, and crawl under the sheets.
My mind runs through my conversation with Amy. Christopher. If I could take back that relationship, I would. The problem with it, with me, was a basic one and somewhat insulting in its simplicity. Daddy issues. Christopher, the men I dated after Christopher, the guy I brought home the night before my interview all fit that mold. Emotionally unavailable. It happens when the only thing you remember about your father is he smelled like spearmint gum and chewing tobacco the day he left. I was five. Mabry a newborn. Mama yelled after him from the front yard, holding Mabry, who was wailing. “You’re gonna be sorry you left me!” I wondered for years if he was sorry. In my twenties, I tracked him down. He lived in a nearby town. I drove to his house, ready to confront him. His new wife opened the door. Two young boys stood behind her. I told her who I was, and she asked me to come in. She made me tea I didn’t drink and told me my father died of a heart attack six months earlier. I’d just missed him.
I force myself to clear my mind, breathe away my thoughts.
This house, the boxes, that letter have been applying their weight for too long. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t get into the attic tonight. Maybe it’s a sign I’m moving too fast for what’s in there. I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight I’ll let sleeping dogs lie.
June 2015
Destiny Smith didn’t like the music at this festival anymore. It was fun at first, but now the acid rock music in Louis Armstrong Park was grating on her last nerve. Her fix was gone. Her buzz wearing thin. And it was so crowded she could barely move. People moshed around her in a wild, rhythmic dance. An elbow landed in her cheek, and Destiny screamed and shoved back. She enjoyed New Orleans when she first arrived. The people were nice, and the drugs were even nicer. Everyone seemed to want to share. This park was good too. Safe. Safer than her house in Birmingham. And she found a job. A shit job dancing on Bourbon, thanks to her fake ID, but the tips were good. Soon, she’d have enough saved to get to California. She’d clean up there. Live next to the ocean. Meet a sweet boy who wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe she’d let her mom visit her one day. Maybe. If she cleaned up too.
Destiny pushed her way through the drunken crowd, with no idea of where she was going.
“Excuse me,” a voice in the crowd said. “Hey, you.”
Destiny turned. A flash went off in her face. She held her hands up. “What the fuck!”
“Say cheese.”
“Cheese, motherfucker.” And Destiny punched him.
He stumbled, but he didn’t fall. He smiled. Every warning bell in Destiny’s tiny body sounded. She knew this type of man. She saw it in his eyes. He was trouble. She turned to run, but he was quick and grabbed her ponytail. Destiny yelled, but her voice was lost in the loud music of the festival. Then something stung her neck, and she couldn’t scream anymore. All she could do was fall into his shoulder and whimper for her mom to please come get her.
Chapter Four
Someone is touching my arm as I sleep. My skin registers it, but my brain is still tangled in dreams and memories. For a moment I think Mabry is next to me in the twin bed, tickling my arm.
My eyes fly open. I leap from the bed, swatting at my arm and scanning for my handgun, only to find the intruder is a daddy longlegs, now scampering across the wood floor. Shit.
My breath is shallow as I rub my arms and settle my heart rate. It’s a strange feeling waking up in this house again. In one way, it’s too familiar. In another, too foreign. A purgatory of sorts.
In the bathroom, I find fresh towels and a bar of soap to wash my face. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look tired but not as bad as I expected, considering I tossed and turned all night. I smooth my hair back into a neat bun. One strand breaks loose, but I tuck it behind my ear. I’m wearing the XXXL black T-shirt that readsFort Worth Liveacross the front. Seems appropriate. It’s what my handlers at the show gave me to leave the studio in. I have no idea what happened to the silk blouse. Maybe some intern has fished it out of the trash by now and sold it on eBay. Hashtag honestly stupid. I shouldn’t have brought this T-shirt. A reminder of what I’ve put at risk. But that’s what I do, keep things I shouldn’t.
I dig through my hanging cosmetic bag for my moisturizer. Something shiny glints through one of the clear plastic pockets, but I ignore it. I shouldn’t have brought it either.
I rub moisturizer on my face, then dig a short silk robe from my duffel. The robe’s inappropriateness is on trend with everything else in my bag. Too formal. Completely unnecessary here. I tie it tight around my waist, glance at the bedroom door. Time to wake up sleeping dogs.
I climb the attic steps again and fold my hand around the knob and pull. Come on, I silently encourage. It still only rattles in place. I study the landing in the dusty light coming from the window at the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t miss anything last night. No key. I try the knob again, pulling harder. The door gives slightly. And with that small give, my sense of urgency to get inside grows. I pull and pull and pull, then yank the door as hard as I can. Something cracks on the doorframe, but instead of the door opening, my hand slips off the knob. I sway backward, balancing on the top step and somehow catching myself before I fall and become a heap of broken bones at the base of the stairs. I exhale, slow my breathing, regroup. I need a different plan.
The kitchen is warm and humid and filled with the sounds of birds, almost as if they’re in the room with me. I search the drawers but don’t find any options to accommodate a breaking and entering. Only a few paper plates and plasticware. I do, however, spy the coffee maker and a bag of chicory coffee.
I pour water into the coffee maker, as well as a generous amount of grounds. I find a coffee cup and set it on the butcher-block countertop my decorator would approve of. Unlike the marble ones I chose for my kitchen at home. “Scars too easily,” she said. “That’s okay,” I told her. “I like scars.”
A throbbing starts in a vein on the inside of my arm, high up next to the crease in my elbow. Next to the small tattoo I thought was a great idea five years ago. Amy got one too. A spur-of-the-moment decision as we walked past a tattoo parlor in Deep Ellum after a concert. We chose hearts. A symbol of the love we felt for our family members who are sometimes hard to love. I rub the spot. Amy didn’t know what was under that tattoo. The scars from when I didn’t love myself.
