Page 45 of Broken Bayou
My throat constricts, and my voice becomes a raspy whisper. “No comment.”
I hang up before she can spit out another question. My cell immediately rings again. I send the call to voicemail, then block the number. I drain the rest of my wine and set the glass down hard. What the hell? This is not uncomplicating things, as Amy requested. I don’t need a reporter stirring more up. I’ve stirred up plenty on my own. I want to handle that car quietly, with Travis and with the chief. Not splash it all over the news.
I tell myself it’s okay. Rita’s just hoping for an added spin on her story, and I don’t plan to give it to her. I fumble through the unmarked tapes and grab another one. It’s so badly decomposed I can’t tell what’s on it. I set it in the maybe pile.
The windows are dark now. I pick out a few more unlabeled tapes and set them aside. I grab the next tape and put it in. Another soap. Tape after tape, sip after sip, I wait, my anxiety reshaping itself into doubt. What if that tape had somehow been separated from the rest and thrown out? What if this is a fool’s errand?
I let the next tape play. The scene on the television switches to a hospital. I should eject it, but the wine is pulling at my eyelids. Heels are clipping. Someone is arguing. Or is that in my head? I yawn. Shut my eyes for a minute. Just a minute.
I jerk awake with a screaming crick in my neck. The television screen has gone dark. I rub my neck, check my phone. It’s four o’clock in the morning. I shift on the floor and knock over the empty wine bottle next to me. Shit. I get up, trudge down to the kitchen, and make a pot of coffee, then resettle in front of the television.
The coffee kicks in a few tapes later as I’m waiting to see more actors, but the screen shows something new. My heart bangs in my chest. Something flashes on the screen. No glowing globe. No preprogrammed ’80s music. Instead, a scratchy, filmy black-and-white image appears. I inhale, lean in. Despite the grainy image, I can tell it’s a parking lot, and long shadows extend behind the cars parked there.
Holy shit.
I touch the screen with my finger. I almost expect it to shock me or me it. The adrenaline in my veins is electric. I stay glued to the television as, one by one, the cars on the screen drive away. Day slips into night. The image I’m watching is dark now, but the back lot is lit by giant sodium-vapor lamps illuminating the parking spots. Mama’s car may be in one of those spots soon enough.
I chew my fingernails. Minutes tick into an hour, but I refuse to fast-forward. I don’t want to miss anything or risk ruining the old tape. Then I see movement on the edge of the grainy footage. A car whips into the lot. I scoot even closer.
The image may be in black and white, but the color of that candy apple red convertible is seared in my memory. A woman exits the driver’s side, and a man in a cowboy hat climbs out the passenger’s side. My breathing halts for a moment, then picks back up double time. The couple walks around the building toward the front. Even though I can’t make out faces, I recognize Mama’s swaying swagger immediately. And the cowboy hat tells me all I need to know about the man. Her boss. I watch the car as it sits askew in the parking space, knowing Mabry is in its cramped back seat.
I wish I could reach through the screen, through time, and pluck her free.
Several more minutes pass, and I wait. Then Mama trips around the corner of the building, the man close behind her. Her clothes are hanging at odd angles. Her hair wild. I can see her screaming at the car. A shadow in the car moves from the back seat to the front seat. Mama steps in front of the hood, and the man follows. They are arguing. Body language doesn’t lie. Then he hits her.
I flinch and gasp.
On the screen, Mama falls to the ground and disappears from view; then the car’s headlights switch on. Mabry.
The man starts kicking something. Oh Jesus, Krystal Lynn. I wait, but Mama doesn’t get up.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
The man takes a step back, and Mama claws her way up the front of the car. She bangs her hand on the hood, yells something at the windshield, then runs sideways. The next thing happens so quickly that I would have missed it if I’d blinked. The man tries to run, but Mama’s car lurches forward, straight at him, pinning him to the wall.
I smash my finger onto the pause button. A deep, guttural moan escapes my mouth.
Mabry.Twelve-year-old, innocent Mabry.
I want to turn off the television and be done, but my fingers have already pressed play again.
On screen, Mama runs to the driver’s side and climbs in. The car backs up, and the man falls like a rag doll to the ground. Mama jumps from the driver’s seat, and this time, Mabry exits the car as well. She looks so small. I pet the screen with my fingers. Mama grabs the man’s feet and drags him to the back of the car and, with uncanny strength, tugs and pushes and hauls his body into a fireman’s carry before dumping him into the trunk.
Mabry stumbles backward, away from the car, until she is no longer on camera. Mama slams the trunk closed and walks over to the discarded cowboy hat on the ground. She picks it up and props it on herhead, then walks away from the car as if she’s only out for a midnight stroll.
I stop the tape.
My head is swimming. My stomach knotted into a tight ball of sickness, wanting to be released.I’m talking about the trunk of your mother’s car.
The house is quiet except for whispering cracks and snaps as if its old wood is settling under the weight of this macabre revelation. I stand. My legs feel stronger than I expected. I walk to the bathroom. My toiletry bag hangs next to the sink. I don’t pause or contemplate my next move. I just act. Muscle memory. I slip my hand inside and extract the shiny object I had no business packing. A clean straight-edged blade.
The heart tattoo on the inside of my left arm, the pale skin around it, the scars underneath it mock me. I want to cut it from my arm. Dispose of it and all the memories locked inside. Instead, I nick the tattoo with one small precise movement. The cut releases a scream I’d been bottling for longer than I care to admit. Blood drips onto the white tiled floor. I stand still, my arm hanging by my side. I may have cut too deep. It’s been a long time. Some people travel with one Xanax, like a security blanket, just in case they have a panic attack. Just knowing it’s there can keep anxiety at bay. I travel with something much more toxic.
I put the sheath back on the blade, grab a towel, and apply pressure.
Then I return to the television.
I’m not ready to keep watching, not ready to see myself come into the picture and get behind the wheel. I need to absorb what I’ve seen before I acknowledge my role in it. I can’t go there yet. I pinch the towel in the crook of my arm and use my other hand to press rewind. While the tape whines in the player, I struggle to breathe, as if a rogue wave has slammed into me, knocking me off balance and holding me underwater. I have to get my feet back under me, press play again. And brace for another impact.
