Something in the Water, Page 2

  His mouth turned up with a smile, grateful for the subject change. “I got some boudin I could cook up.”

  I smiled, nodding my head. I hated anything spicy or with questionable content, but I couldn’t be picky. I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d choked down one of those prepackaged, artificial cherry pies at sunrise from a gas station a few states away. It wasn’t a Hubig’s, but I couldn’t afford to be picky.

  “Anything would be good.”

  “Unpack ya’ grip, and ‘den put up ‘da clothes and come join me.” He grinned when my face twisted in confusion at his words before disappearing back down the hall, leaving me feeling slightly more relaxed about our arrangement. Even though we didn’t know each other well, I could tell Daven was a cool guy who also had endured a lot of suffering he was trying to put behind him.

  Removing my clothing from my bag, I tucked my belongings away in the top drawer of the dresser before tossing the bag into the closet and closing the door. If this became a long-term thing, I’d slide the crib in there as well, but it didn’t seem like Daven was quite ready for that yet.

  I groaned, my body aching as I laid myself out on the mattress to get a few minutes of rest before dinner was ready. The trip had drained me of any energy.

  September 10, 2007

  My father’s fingers tightened in my mother’s long, auburn hair. “Qu'il aille se faire foutre! I want you out ‘ma house!” His other hand still gripped his bottle of rum, and it sloshed onto her clothing as she struggled to keep him from using it as a weapon, covering her face with shaky hands.

  “Please,” she pleaded as sobs ripped from her throat. My father’s gaze met mine, and I pulled my skinned knees tighter against my thudding chest, terrified that I didn’t have the blanket that made me invisible. I’d left it at the babysitters for naptime. “He’s just a boy. He shouldn’t see this.”

  The sound of the half-filled bottle hitting her cheekbone made an odd thumping noise, barely audible under the grunt that escaped my mother’s lips when he struck. It sounded inhuman, the guttural moan that followed. My fingers flexed as I longed to reach out to her.

  “No,” I cried out, and my mom groaned again, this time slurring my name. She was disappointed with me. I wasn’t supposed to interfere. I was meant to be invisible.

  “You want some of this too, you little craute?” My father’s fingers left my mother’s hair, her head banging on the wood floor at his release and he trudged toward me, hand extended as his heavy boots scraped against the ground, drawing closer. My body stiffened as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, preparing for the inevitable blow.

  May 24, 2018

  A kicking at my foot jolted me awake, causing me to flip on my back as I let my eyes adjust to the darkened room. The sun was no longer filtering through the blinds, and it took a moment for me to recognize my surroundings.

  “Stop being so gallou. Dinner is ready. Allons manger,” Daven’s voice cut through my panicked thoughts, but he pretended not to notice I’d been startled.

  “Jesus. You scared the hell out of me.” Rubbing my palms against my face, I pushed myself up, twisting my back until it popped my spine, easing some of the tension that had collected there from the trip.

  "Speak softly, and carry a big stick, ya’?" He grabbed at the crotch of his pants in a crude gesture that would have made me laugh had I not been mentally battling my past.

  “Okay, Yoda,” I grumbled as I stood, my stomach growling as I caught a whiff of the food in his hand.

  “Have yourself a little gout. Tell me whatcha’ think.”

  “I don’t know if my stomach can handle creole anymore,” I warned, knowing it would get a rise out of him.

  “Shut yo’ mouth. This here Cajun, not ‘dat city food. You have been gone too long, brah. But don’t worry, ya’ because home is a state of mind. You think all those sent runnin’ after Katrina forgot ‘day roots? You just need to water ‘dem. Lache pas la patate.”

  “I have no freaking clue what the hell that means, but I’ll try your food if it will get you to stop talking.” I took the plate with thanks and followed him back to the large open room to sit on the couch. I would never admit it out loud, but as he spoke the haze that enveloped his words began to lift, and slowly, I was starting to remember what it all meant. Picking up the remote, he clicked on the television before shoveling a spoonful of gratin into his mouth. His eyes went unfocused as the announcer rattled off the upcoming game schedule for the Saints that would begin playing in September.

  “Who dat,” He called out to no one in particular in support of his team. I’d never understood the fascination with watching other people play sports on TV.

  Cutting into my sausage, I took a big bite of the rice and meat concoction, wondering if this is where I will be when I hit thirty years old, alone and living vicariously through someone else's joy. “This is good. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, you right.”

  I watched him intently, the ghost of Cajun Christmas future, lonely and broken as he went through the motions of life. This was what I’d had to look forward to. Daven had let life beat him down, and now he just played dead, waiting for the inevitable.

  Every day was like this. He was stuck in a loop, and now I’d been sucked into his orbit. Every single hour painfully crept by without a sense of urgency. It made me anxious, the nothingness, like I was missing out on life as this place froze in time, at least twenty years behind the rest of the country.

  2

  EMERY

  August 5, 2018

  My face broke the surface of the water, and I gasped as it cascaded off my skin and into the tub below. I wished I could hold my breath longer, drowning out all of the sounds around me. In the distance, I could hear the muffled voices of the television, barely covering the clipped tone of my mother as she rattled off the laundry list of things that bothered her already this morning. My stepfather, Sutton, grunted and agreed as his heavy footsteps trudged across the second floor of our home as he prepared for work. He couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, and his nights had been later and later.

  My fingers danced over the thin, raised scars along my inner thigh, my nails pressing into the healed flesh until the memory of the pain I’d caused myself came rushing back.

  The warmth of the blade as it skimmed across my skin easier than I’d anticipated.

  The searing pain that rushed in afterward, the water clouding with swirls of crimson as my flesh lay splayed and gaping.

  The nothingness. The complete calm that enveloped me like a fog.

  In hindsight, the wounds I caused were shallow, paling in comparison to the ones no one could see.

  My fingers dipped between the apex of my thighs. I lowered my head, so my ears were covered by the water, blocking out the sounds around me. It was only me; me and the water, as my fingers rubbed against the sensitive bundle of nerves, causing my back to arch. It was a sickness inside of me, clawing its way out. I rubbed harder, my body struggling to find its way over the edge. I knew what would get me there, and my stomach revolted at that thought, but I gave in anyway. I always gave in. There was no other cure. My face dipped below the water, enveloping me as I let out everything inside of my lungs. Fat bubbles floated their way to the surface, ripping open as I did the same, legs splayed and trembling. This is what self-hate feels like, forcing myself to relieve the torment of the single most painful moment in my existence, hidden away in plain sight. I was the sadist and the masochist. The victim and the perpetrator.

  I’d spent my morning in an Adderall-induced tunnel vision Googling the muscle car that still sat across the street in the neighbor’s driveway, unmoved since yesterday afternoon. It had shown up three months ago. Three long months of me watching this boy out of my window as he starred in my own personal reality show. My momma called boys like that heathens. He looked like freedom to me. I didn’t care if he was a bad seed.

  My daddy owned one similar, blue with flecks of sparkle, and he could tell you anythin
g you ever wanted to know about it. Its name was Elenor. Guys loved to name cars and boats after women, and for the life me, I still had no idea why.

  Taunt Magazine says that if you want to get a guy’s attention, you have to show interest in the things they like. It seemed a little ridiculous that I’d have to go out of my way to get his attention, but what did I know?

  I pulled the plug from the bottom of the porcelain claw foot tub and stood as water sloshed out onto the fuzzy gray rug just outside. Ringing my long, dark hair in my fists, I stepped onto the mat, curling my toes into the softness as my grass green eyes danced over my thin frame in the mirror. My body had changed a lot over the last year, but I still looked younger than I liked. My chest was small and asymmetrical, my belly had a pooch that jutted out between my widened hips, from all of the processed food I’d eaten during the summer when I chose to stay inside and read instead of being active and social. My skin was translucent from the lack of sunshine causing dark circles to mark the underside of my eyes.

  I knew it was normal to feel insecure, but I’d never actually spent time assessing my faults before today, and I already didn’t like these side effects of having a crush.

  Popping open the medicine cabinet, I grabbed one of the orange bottles labeled with my mother’s name and removed the cap, dumping a Diazepam into my palm. I avoided taking these on most occasions even though my mom used them as a cure-all. They wore me down, made my limbs feel heavy. But just the thought of trying to make small talk with the mystery boy had my stomach twisted in knots and nowadays, that was cause to medicate, sedate, and take away any feeling. I repeated the process with my Zoloft, a prescription I’d been taking since the beginning of last summer. I’m not sure if it actually did anything, but I certainly noticed if I missed a dose because it caused my brain to zap itself in self-imposed shock therapy. None of these little miracle cures solved any of my problems just muted them like a dull grey mist that lingered in the back of my mind.

  I popped the pills into my mouth and swallowed them down dry before my eyes met my own reflection again. I ran my palm over my pale cheek before my gaze dipped to the large brown, ornately carved box that held my mother’s face paint and spackle. I’d always cringed at smearing dirt on my skin, but I wanted to look older, more mature. Boys certainly didn’t pay attention to me like that unless you counted the time Lloyd Schumer tripped me in the hall after lunch in the third grade. I had to wear a brace on my wrist for three weeks, and the school nurse told me he must have thought I was cute. I was cuter without the stupid wrist guard.

  Flipping open the lid, I rifled through it, finding her mascara that made her eyes look like spider legs. I’d seen her apply her makeup a million times and as I began to apply it to my own face, I realized it wasn’t all that hard. It was kind of fun once the Valium kicked in, and I was able to steady my hand long enough to draw a straight line.

  Twenty minutes and a few swear words later, my face had been recreated, and it didn’t look half bad. It would take some time to get used to myself looking more grown up, but it was a change I could learn to like.

  Tightening my towel around my chest, I hurried into my bedroom, avoiding my mother so I wouldn’t have to listen to a lecture about using her things or worse, praising me for finally becoming just like her. I dropped the swath of fabric as I pulled open my closet, my eyes dancing over the contents as I tried to find something that didn’t make me look like a life-sized doll. My mom was big on dresses and matching short and shirt combos. Flipping open the magazine I’d left on my nightstand, I turned a few pages before my eyes narrowed on an equestrian-inspired ensemble. The knee-high, brown leather boots looked a lot like the ones I’d gotten from our trip to Baton Rouge two years ago. I grabbed them from the floor of my closet and tossed them on the bed. Next, I pulled a lacy, white knee-length dress I’d gotten for picture day last year. Paired with a light gray cardigan, I almost looked like I wasn’t an overgrown toddler. Almost.

  I hurried up and pulled on my outfit, sneaking a few glances out of the window to ensure the vehicle was still parked in its place.

  Tucking my still damp hair behind my ear, I took a deep breath, swaying as the medication pumped its way through my veins, lulling me into a false sense of calm.

  “He’s just a guy,” I whispered aloud before hurrying out of my room and down the stairs to the front door before I lost my nerve. But that was a lie.

  He wasn’t just a guy.

  He was every guy. He’d taken the lead role in every book I’d read. The hero and the villain. I’d watch him, starry-eyed and drifting off into my own imagination. He was the thief and the rebel. He was the jock and the soldier just home from war. But mostly, he was just mine. He was there to replace the images of the ones that made me sick. So his face became the face of my tormentor. My fingers became his. And my past became just a little more distant.

  The sun was even more oppressive today than it had been all week, but I was used to the weather after all of these years.

  DeRidder, Louisiana was a small town, and like all small towns, it harbored a lot of secrets. From the outside, this place looked idyllic. Everything moved a little slower, and there wasn’t a person around who didn’t know your name.

  My stepfather was the sheriff. He married Momma seven days after we arrived. It felt like a lifetime ago. Most of that week, he wasn’t even around. He was working a case about a man who publicly beat his wife to death for flirting with another man. He must have really loved her. Lloyd Schumer could only muster up enough energy to trip me in the hall. We would have never made it, I thought idly. The case had made national news. But just for a moment before another school shooting wiped it from the headlines.

  My tongue ran over my dry lips as I focused on my walk toward the mailbox. It felt like my hips swayed a little too far, and I was sure I looked like I was waddling like a duck.

  “You’re not even going to say hi to me?”

  I glanced to my right, my eyes dancing over Marcus Salt, who looked like he’d grown a foot since the last time I’d seen him.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I replied as we met next to my mailbox, my throat tightened like a hand was circling it, strangling the words from me. I swallowed against the lump, digging my nails into my palms until they bit the flesh.

  “I could say the same for you.” His eyes traveled down my body, and he smiled a wide, toothy grin. He was your typical boy next door with deep chocolate eyes that matched his hair and an IQ that made girls trip over their tongue whenever he spoke. He used to be Eli’s best friend before Eli started getting starry-eyed over anything that could get him high. When you live in a place like this, you become willing to do almost anything to escape, even if it’s just a head-trip.

  “Yeah, I start high school next week. I thought I’d try to look the part.” I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously.

  “What a shame.”

  “Does it look that bad?”

  He lifted his hand...

  don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it

  ...and ran the pad of his thumb down the length of my nose so softly my skin began to crawl. I flinched, feeling his touch pulse in the scars I kept hidden. I hated to be touched. No one knew that because it wouldn’t be polite to tell them. So instead, I bit into my lower lip until the skin tore like an overripe peach.

  The smattering of blood smeared across my inner thigh.

  Fingers gripped me there, kneading at my flesh, cooing in my ear about how perfect I was. His voice was barely a whisper, and I finally understood why my momma always said that it was the quiet ones you gotta watch out for.

  He spoke softly, but every word felt like it was ripping me open, gutting me.

  “It’ll be over soon,” was the only comfort he offered. It was already over...

  my childhood

  my innocence

  “You can’t see your freckles anymore.” His finger moved delicately along my jaw. I wanted my flesh to burst open aga
in so the tingling beneath it would be masked by physical pain, something to show the aching I carried around was real, and I hadn’t just imagined it all. “You had some here that looked just like the Aries constellation.” His hand fell to his side, and he smiled. “I gotta get going. Promise me you’ll let me take you to school on your first day.” He took a few steps backward as he waited for my reply.

  “I’ll ask my momma,” I croaked as he turned and walked back up the sidewalk toward his house.

  I grabbed the mail, flipping through it as I slowed my pace back to my home, my eyes dancing over the return addresses to see if I’d gotten anything, but everything was for Sheriff Woodrow.

  “It’s a hot one today, Cher,” a voice called out, startling me and sending the mail fluttering to the sidewalk below.

  “Shoot,” I muttered, bending down but keeping my knees pressed together as I tried to gather the envelopes in my short dress. I could hear footsteps on the gravel of the street, thudding in time with my racing heart.

  “A little jumpy today, ya?” Daven was at my side, gathering up the mail for me. I stood, thanking him as he handed it over and trying to avoid looking at his bare chest. He was muscular but not like the kind of guy who spent hours in the gym. His physique came from manual labor; hard hours in the sun that had left his flesh a permanent red-brown like the clay in our soil.

  His face was freshly shaven for the first time in weeks. I didn’t miss the way his eyes skimmed over me, but he quickly looked away toward Marcus, guilt marring his smooth skin. I didn’t know much about men or the way they thought, but I knew the older they were, the more they seemed to appreciate the fact that my mother kept me looking like I was a little doll baby.

  But that wasn’t the expression Daven wore. His face screamed, ‘I know something.’ It caused my stomach to lurch.