Page 72 of Broken Bayou
“Willa, what are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing. Children, especially those who may need extra care, capture my attention, and I can’t let go.”
He sets his mug down, turns to face me. “She wasn’t sick in that way. Inyourway. She was unhealthy. It happened before your last summer here.”
I reach for his hand again, and this time, he lets me touch it. “Travis. Why didn’t we ever talk about her?”
“My mother forbid us from talking about her. My father was drinking too much by then and went along with it. Then my mother refused to let the coroner take her. Got my dad’s gun and said she’d kill anyone who came for her girl.”
“That must have been terrifying for everyone else in the house.”
“It was.” Travis continues, “My mother petitioned the Louisiana Cemetery Board for a family plot on our land. The local registrar issued a permit. And my sister was buried. And we all went on about our lives, without saying a word. Just how my mother wanted it. Then a few weeks later, she started in about Emily again and insisted she ran away. Kept saying Emily was coming back. It was really messed up.”
“I’m so sorry.” I pause, then ask, “What about your father? Is he buried there too?”
Travis barks a laugh. “No. My mother said the ground where Emily is is sacred. No drunks allowed.”
“Oh, Travis.”
Travis’s face is a blank canvas, but he can’t fool me. Underneath, he’s hiding an immense sadness, and I wonder how he keeps it hidden. Then again, of course, I know how he does it. I’ve done it my entire adult life. Years of practice.
“Maybe we can talk about your brothers for a minute.” I keep my voice low, nonconfrontational. “Specifically, Doyle. Do you think there’s any way he could have followed us that night? When I dumped the car? I’ve got good instincts. It’s part of my job, my career. I think Doyle is hiding something.”
“What?” He laughs. “Are you kidding me? Doyle has nothing to do with this, Willa. That’s out of line.”
He’s right. I am out of line, but something Rita said is nagging at me. “Why did your mother start to talk about Emily like she ran away?”
Travis looks around the kitchen, then back to me. “Because Emily did run away. Many times.” He rubs his face. “But I always brought her back.” He looks away from me and sighs. “Except the last time.”
“The last time Doyle found her,” I say.
“Who’ve you been talking to?” he says.
“What was her cause of death?”
His jaw moves side to side as he studies me. “Look, I know the rumors, okay? About my mother. But they’re just rumors. And now you want to start rumors about my brother.”
“Travis, we need to talk about this.”
“No, we don’t.” He pushes away from the counter, and I follow him to the front door. I stop on the porch as he runs down the steps into the rain. He stops, looks back at me. “Please, Willa. Leave my family alone.”
I park alongside River Road and kill the engine. It’s dark. The rain has stopped. I told myself not to come here. It isn’t safe. Yet here I am, ignoring my own common sense, sneaking into the night to finish something, purge myself while I have the momentum to do so. And this is the best place. Not to mention the best time. No witnesses.
I check my tote. My gun is tucked inside along with two other objects. I scan the levee as I climb out of the car. It’s as empty as I hoped. No news vans. No people scouring the banks. Seems everyone is listening to Chief Wilson’s orders to stay away. Everyone but me.
I find a grassy spot to sit on. The murky bayou slugs by below. So many secrets buried in there, now exhumed.
My head throbs. A gust of wind blows through my hair, and a stray raindrop falls on my face. It runs with the tears that started again at some point as my thoughts of Mabry and our mother tangle and twist into a knot with Emily and her mother. Two young girls with two troubled mothers who died too soon.
The memory of Mabry’s memorial slams into me like a fist to my stomach. I see her large photograph and the pink and white flowers. I see Mama throwing herself onto the floor of the funeral home, wailing. I watched, numb. Mama insisted Mabry would never want to be buried, so she had her cremated. I was glad. I wasn’t ready to give Mabry up either. In a sad way, I understand what Liv Arceneaux might have felt. Letting go is brutally hard.
I look down at the thermos in my lap. I wonder what Amy would say if she could see me right now, sitting on this levee in the dark, losingmy grip on whatever it is I had my grip on in the first place. But I know what she’d say. She said it to me so many times. “Set Mabry free.”
Something snaps on the levee behind me. A twig. I jump and turn around. No one’s there. But the sound’s got me edgy, reminding me I don’t need to be alone out here long. I need to get this over with.
I pull my cell from my pocket and punch in a twenty-four-hour 800 number I memorized years ago. A recording answers and asks what I need help with. I answer with the words I’ve needed to say for so long: cancel mobile account.
The woman who finally helps me does everything in her power to keep me from canceling Mabry’s account. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. She just wants to keep a customer. Finally, I say, “She’s dead.”
