Page 64 of Broken Bayou
“Lock your doors,” Tom says. “Call 9-1-1 if you need us.”
As I sit in my car with the engine running, I pull out my phone and text Travis to please call me, then see my mother has called, many times. I haven’t talked to her since watching the rest of the tape. She has no idea how that night ended.
Mama coughs in my ear when she answers.
“Hey, Mama.”
She coughs again, and this one sounds deeper and full of phlegm. She moans after the fit passes. “Are you home?”
“Not yet.” I glance at the police station. “We need to talk about someone. Zeke Johnson.”
“Who?”
“Don’t do that. We’re way past pretending.”
She clears her throat. “Well, what?”
“He’s alive. He’s serving time in a federal penitentiary.”
A long silence fills the line. I wait.
“This sounds like a conversation we need to have in person,” Mama says.
“That’s not an option at the moment, so we’re going to have it right now.”
“You know people listen in on cell phone calls.”
“The only person I need listening is you.” I lower my voice even though it’s just me in the car. “That night, and you know the one I’m talking about, your boss got out of the trunk. I watched the security tape. The whole tape. I saw it. I saw him get out of the car. And I saw who was driving, Mama. I know what happened. And I know youknowinglysent me there, as a child, to clean it up.” That familiar hard-edged anger starts to worm its way into my gut, but instead of choking it down, I let it burn. Maybe it’s time to feel that anger, set it free. Holding it inside may be good for my mother, but it’s eating away at my core. Consuming me. I think of what I’ve told so many parents: It’s okay to be angry.
“You sent me there to dispose of a body,” I say, each syllable coming out in bitter spurts. “Your daughter. Your child. You were supposed to protect me, not send me into harm’s way. What kind of mother does that?”
A deep, still silence follows. My breathing is ragged. I expect to feel slightly better, but I don’t. I feel the same. Except now a new emotion creeps in, anger’s twin, sadness. When Mama doesn’t answer, I forge on. “The police down here know that car was yours. I went to the station yesterday with a lawyer.”
“Good God, Willamena. Only guilty people hire lawyers.” The phone shuffles as she works to cough something up. After everything I just said to her, that’s all she can think to say back. I rub my face. Several seconds pass before she adds, “If what you told me is true abouthim, then sounds to me like there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, there’s plenty to talk about. Human remains were found in the car’s trunk when it was fished out of the bayou.”
I hear her wheezing across the miles. “But ... what? You’re confusing me. This doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I’m staying here.”
“Sweet girl, I’m tired. Whatever they found in that car has nothing to do with us. And the police are nothing but troublemakers, if you ask me. They’ve got a lot bigger fish to fry than you and me. I watch the news. I see what’s going on down there. It’s sick, and you need to leave that dirtbag town before you find yourself up in that bayou too. Who knows what other sickos are roaming around? It’s not safe there.”
Mama’s right. It’s not safe here. But here is where I have to stay. “I’ll be careful.”
“Willamena, this might be bigger than you.” Her voice has lost its luster, its energy.
“Mabry thought she killed a man, Mama.”
My mother gasps. “Shut your mouth. Don’t say things like that.”
“It’s true.” My chest tightens under the weight of that truth.
“I can’t do this anymore, Willamena. Come home. I’m tired.”
She sounds tired. She’s come down. The lows are hard, no fun. I’ll bet she’s having a hard time getting out of bed in the mornings. I’ve got to start thinking outside of this zip code. Life is going on back at home. And like it or not, children aren’t the only ones who need advocates. Sometimes parents do too.
“I’m going to call your doctor, Mama. Okay?”
