Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “Bye, Scarlet.”

  “Good-bye, Hank.”

  I hit End, and a loud voice inside me says, Start with the house.

  10

  Cash

  Present Day 2020

  The plane ride home was a son of a bitch. My chest ached, my ribs hurt, my head throbbed. Casey wasn’t much better, but we’d both spent the better part of a week in a hospital, being watched, poked, and prodded. Out of all the shit, the catheter sucked the most. I’ll do anything than do that shit over.

  But it’s been almost two weeks since the accident, and I’ve got to get out of this house. I’m going crazy.

  “Hey, you moving the rest of the cattle today?” I ask Calder and Dad as I limp my way into the kitchen.

  Jones—my black tri Australian shepherd, my ride or die—is at my heels. He hasn’t left my side since I got home from the hospital.

  Dad and Calder are sitting at Dad’s small table by the window. His winter light on and television noise in the background.

  “Well, good morning to you, Bandit,” Dad says, setting down his coffee. “Yeah, running the last of them before the rain starts. Behind too. Got to repair the barn up there on Lost Hill.”

  “What about the barn on the Broken Branch landing?” I ask, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  Calder chimes in, “Rattlesnake made its way in there, and we haven’t been able to find the son of a bitch.”

  I ask what needs fixing.

  “The whole damn thing.” Calder sets down his coffee.

  I look at my brother and swallow every last bit of ego I have before I ask, “Can you take me up there?”

  There’s no way they’ll let me take my own horse or the four-wheeler. And my truck is out of the question until the doctor releases me to drive with the brain shit I had—contusion or whatever.

  My dad looks at my brother. My brother looks at me.

  “Your mother won’t allow this.”

  “Well, I sure as hell can’t stay locked in this house for another day with work that needs to be done.”

  Dad picks at his nails when he’s deep in thought. “We could use the help,” he sighs. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “At least take me up there, so I can look at what needs to be done,” I say more as a statement than a question.

  Calder shrugs. “Load up.”

  And with the mention of those two simple words, a scurry of dog nails careens against the wood floor to the back door. Whining and whimpering, dogs wait for the door to open, so they can race to the back of the truck.

  I haven’t been up here in years, and I forgot how much I love this ranch. Guess I tried to forget. Tried to push all the good memories away when Conroy died, too hard to relive them.

  “Forgot how pretty it is here,” I say, resting my arm out the window and taking in the cool, crisp morning air.

  Scarlet and I used to take the four-wheeler up here as kids, before we knew what love really meant, chasing the full moon. Lost Hill, the highest point on our property, and it overlooks the town of Scotia, Rio Dell, Fortuna, the redwoods, and the Eel River that snakes down the middle of the valley.

  “Nothing like home,” Calder says, turning slightly to the right, pulling up to the barn on Lost Hill.

  “The barn doesn’t look so bad,” I say, slowly getting out of the truck, coffee in hand, still feeling the aftereffects of the broken ribs and trying my best to avoid the stabbing pain, if at all possible.

  Calder smiles and grabs his coffee as he gets out of the truck. “You haven’t seen the inside.”

  Calder slides the door open, and we’re met with the scent of sweaty leather, old pine shavings, and slight mildew. Its main floor is as long as it is wide with a loft for hay up top.

  I go to turn on the light.

  “Pack rats ate through the wiring.”

  “Shit.” I remember, when I was just a kid, I helped Dad wire the barn so that we could use at least two overhead lights in the winter.

  “Dad and I just haven’t been able to keep up with all the work with the cattle and the upkeep of the other three barns. And with Mom’s wedding venue shit, it’s been a full-time job.”

  Above the concrete floor, I see where the wood is rotting away. I walk over, carefully lean down, and push on the boards. My fingers are met with a give, which means they’re waterlogged. Which means they’ll need to be switched out with new boards. I push further down on other boards, and they get drier as I move to the right.

  “Wind damage, leakage, you name it. I’d say you need to start with the roof before the rain really starts.”

  I grimace as I stand when the sharp stab returns, though it’s sure as shit not as bad as it was a week ago.

  “Do we have the old lights Mom used to use for weddings?” I ask.

  “Surprised you remember those,” Calder says.

  “I didn’t die, Cal. I just didn’t come home for a long time.”

  “Didn’t come home? Cash, you just left.” Calder leans against the door and sips his coffee. “Come on. You owe me an explanation. You didn’t even call. Not on Mom’s birthday. Not on Dad’s. Not even Conroy’s. At one time, asshole, you were good at that. Before Conroy died.”

  I ignore my brother and move deeper into the barn, pushing away the feelings of inadequacy, my black-sheep status, all the shit that I couldn’t manage to show up for all these years. Too drunk. Too removed from my own feelings. Lost in women, lost in bulls. Chasing my next adrenaline rush, trying to get lost and not feel all the baggage.

  “What are you going to do with the doc’s recommendation about not going back to bullfighting?”

  “Go back to bullfighting.”

  Calder sighs. Drops his head. “Are you asking for a death sentence?”

  I want to tell him it’s the only fucking thing I know how to do, and until I can get back to it and until Bullfighters One lets me back on the circuit, I’ll fix this old barn.

  “Why’d they ask you to leave?”

  “Who?”

  “Bullfighters One.”

  I shrug. “Said I needed some time off to get my head straight.”

  “How’s that working for you?” Calder barks. “Seems to me, it’s just as screwed up as it was months ago.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t allow him to get under my skin. “Brother, I’ve accepted my role in this family. The black sheep. The brother who can’t keep his shit together. You do you, and I’ll do me.”

  “Just finish this project, would you? Finish this barn and then do what you need to do. Don’t leave Dad hanging again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Dad’s never relied on me for any goddamn thing.”

  Calder places his hands on his hips, his empty coffee mug stuck between his fingers. “Oh, no? What about Nate Stevens? The kid who loved bullfighting’? Dad asked you if you could show up and give him some pointers before you fell off the face of the planet. Remember that? You know that kid waited for three hours for you?”

  The name doesn’t ring a bell, but the situation sounds familiar.

  “Maybe that’s why Dad doesn’t ask you for a goddamn thing—because he’s afraid he’ll be let down.”

  My heart starts to pound. “Fuck off, Calder. Don’t come at me with your high and mighty bullshit. Everyone knows you were sweet on Camilla way before Joe died.”

  Calder chuckles, keeping his chin close to his chest, and he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “How would you know? You weren’t around to see anything.” And then he turns and walks out of the barn. “Find your own way home, asshole.”

  It takes thirty minutes to get home on foot. My ribs ache, and my head is pounding. When I reach the bottom of the hill and can see the house, Mom’s truck comes down the road toward me. She’s pissed when she reaches me.

  “I cannot believe your brother left you up there. Are you all right?”

  “I’m good, Mom. I’m going to walk the rest of the way home.”

  “Cash Atwood, over my dead bo
dy.”

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  “You have a head injury.”

  “I’ve walked this far, and I haven’t got shit for brains yet. Well, maybe I do, but I didn’t die.” I laugh, holding my middle.

  Mom doesn’t think it’s funny and gives me her side-eye. “Sorry, not funny.”

  It’s quiet for a minute.

  “Mom, really, it gives me some time to think. Something I haven’t done in a long time.” I tap on the window frame and step away from the truck, so she can turn around.

  “You’re sure?” she asks.

  I nod. Besides the occasional stabbing sensation, I think I’m doing pretty all right.

  “I have your pain pills laid out on the counter. I’m going to run to town real quick.”

  The thought of the pain pills makes my stomach grow uneasy. Not because I don’t want to take them, but because I do—and sometimes not for the pain.

  My mom flips around and drives the road home, and I walk, making a mental checklist of the things I’ll need from Nelson’s Feed. Also, I can’t help but think about my mom and what she’s lost and the unconditional love she gives to me and my brothers. What I’ve done to hurt her, just by not being present and my out-of-control lifestyle, and how it caused her to worry.

  When I reach the house, I grab my truck keys and try to forget about the pain pills on the counter, try not to obsess about the way they make everything just a little lighter and make me care just a little less. Cal’s truck is gone too. It was advised that I shouldn’t drive for a month, but I’ve got shit to do and no time to waste.

  “Well, Cash Atwood, honey, it is so good to see you.” Nina, Dusty’s mom, is hanging a few bird feeders out front of Nelson’s. “And your poor head. We heard about you saving your brother’s life. No surprise there.”

  “It is good to see you, Mrs. Cole.”

  “It’s good to be seen any day at my age, honey,” she says, lightly touching my arm. “Well, come on in. I’m sure we have what you need.”

  I head to the lumber area and talk to Mark about some lumber to replace the rotten wood. Then, I head to the electrical aisle to grab new wiring.

  When I turn the corner next to the Welcome to Dillon Creek mugs, I stop dead in my tracks.

  I struggle for breath—and not because of my head or ribs or any of that. It’s because Scarlet is standing at the end of the aisle, talking to Dusty, the owner of Nelson’s. And all the feelings of the day she left come back.

  All the memories of us as kids.

  The letters she sent when she got to Chicago.

  I’ll never forget the day my mom called to tell me she was getting married. That day, that week, I got good and drunk and stayed that way for quite some time.

  I need to find air.

  It’s too late now because in mid-conversation, she turns and sees me, and it’s like she’s seeing a ghost.

  “Excuse me, Dusty,” she says to him as she walks over to me.

  I take my hand and run it through my hair, trying to collect my thoughts. I try to string a sentence together, but I can’t, so I just manage to say, “Hey.”

  “I think my eyes do deceive me, Cash Atwood.”

  “Could say the same for you. I’m really sorry to hear about Erla and Don.”

  Her eyes burrow into mine, and her lips grow into a thin line, as if she’s trying to put up her wall. The wall she had after she came back from Chicago. The wall I could never break through. The wall that separated us.

  “I’m just here to sell the house and get back to the East Coast.” Scarlet looks up at my head. “Still saving people’s lives, I hear. That’s good, Cash. That’s right where you belong.”

  She tries to walk past, but I gently reach out and touch her arm to keep her in front of me, just so I can look at her. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to touch her or make her feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help it.

  I want to say, Listen.

  I want to apologize.

  I want to tell her why I did what I did.

  But when I touch her skin, her body tenses, and I let go immediately.

  Her eyes meet mine, only for her to say, “It was good to see you, Bandit.”

  Her words leave me gutted, stammering, and I just want to explain myself. But some wounds go deeper than twelve years. Some memories, built on love and firsts and trust, are harder to forgive when betrayal sits in the shadows, lurking, waiting for the right time to make itself loud and known.

  I watch Scarlet walk down the aisle, just like I watched her walk away when she was seventeen—alone, dragging my heart along with her.

  11

  Scarlet: Age 5

  Chicago, Illinois

  “Mom?” I whispered quietly, meekly, into the black silence that surrounded me, alone. “Mom?” I turned on my bedside light and reached for September, but she was nowhere to be found.

  “Marmie?” My voice squeaked.

  On quiet tiptoes, Marmie peeked into my room. “Did you have a bad dream, Scarlet?” Her voice was soft. Softer than usual.

  “No, I just … I-I can’t find September.”

  Marmie walked to my bed and sat down next to me.

  “Is my mom home from work yet?”

  I see the sadness in Marmie’s eyes. She touched my cheek. I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me, but I was too scared to ask what it might be. So, instead, I rested my head on her lap, and she ran her fingers through my hair.

  “Did I ever tell you the story about the trip I took to Africa?” she asked.

  I closed my eyes, and her words slowly caressed me like silk as she told the story of a brazen man and a willful child who saved elephants from bad people.

  “It’s Christmas Eve morning!” I shouted as I hopped out of bed.

  I bounced out of my room and down the hallway to the living room, where Marmie was drinking her coffee at the dining room table. It smelled like coffee and turkey and cookies.

  “Good morning, Marmie! Is Mother awake yet?”

  Marmie pulled me into her arms, where I felt safe. “Listen, honey,” she whispered into my hair. “Your mother had to leave for work, and she won’t be home until the first of January.”

  I jerked my head from her middle. “What?” She’s gone until January? But it’s our first Christmas away from Dillon Creek. I swallowed my tears. Don’t allow them to show, just as my mother taught me.

  I need September, I thought as my insides grew uneasy, unsteady.

  “Don’t worry, Scarlet; we’ll have the best Christmas yet,” Marmie reassured me, pulled me closer to her. “And,” she said, “look who I found.”

  Marmie took my hand, and we walked to the sofa. In a brand-new outfit was September.

  “You found her!” I squealed as I ran to her and took her in my arms. “I promise I’ll never lose her again, Marmie.”

  But she stopped me. Took me by the shoulders. “Listen here, Scarlet Jean. You did not lose her. I believe she was misplaced.”

  “Oh, okay.” Truly, I didn’t know the difference, but I was just glad she was back in my arms.

  “We are going to have a wonderful Christmas, Scarlet. I have cookies and turkey in the oven.”

  I thought it was odd to have turkey cookies, but I didn’t ask any questions because I trusted Marmie.

  “First, we’ll run to my apartment and then the store to pick up a few things, and then we’ll go get hot chocolate and go ice skating. Now, go get dressed, all right?”

  I squealed again and threw September in the air. I caught her and ran to my room to get dressed because I’d never seen Marmie’s house before.

  We took two buses to get to Marmie’s place.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Landsbury,” the doorman said, wearing a dated suit laced with red trim. “And who is this?” He bent at his waist and took my hand.

  “This, Chapman, is a fine young lady who will do great things in this world. Her name is Princess Brockmeyer.”

  “Oh, well, I didn�
��t think I’d be meeting royalty today.” Chapman bowed his head. “It is an absolute pleasure, Princess Brockmeyer.”

  I giggled and looked back to Marmie and then back to Chapman. “It’s nice to meet you, Chapman.”

  Marmie winked, Chapman winked, and he pulled open the big glass door.

  “Thank you, Chapman.” Marmie nodded.

  When we walked in to Marmie’s building, I was unprepared for what I saw.

  Everything was so beautiful. It was like the Christmas globe that Marmie had given me. From the sky-high Christmas tree that stood in the middle of the lobby to the presents that spilled out from under it.

  Someone is getting real lucky tomorrow, I thought to myself.

  Christmas flowers sat in pots while glass windows and marble flooring and big pillars added just enough magic to make it look like a Christmas wonderland.

  “You live here, Marmie?” I whispered in amazement. I tried to keep up, my hand in hers and September dangling from my other arm.

  “I do, and I have for the last number of years.”

  “Mrs. Landsbury.” Another man tipped his top hat by the elevator and touched the number fifteen.

  “Thank you, Bernard,” Marmie said graciously.

  I didn’t know why they kept calling Marmie Mrs. Landsbury.

  We entered the elevator and shot up into the sky.

  The fifteenth-floor light beeped, my hand still in Marmie’s. The elevator doors opened to a big, open floor. The massive rock fireplace was lit. A Christmas tree, probably twenty feet high, sat in the middle of the room. Glass windows lined the entire place.

  “This is where you live?” I stammered.

  “This is my home, Scarlet.”

  “If you live here, with all this stuff and people who call you Mrs. Landsbury, why do you take two buses to come watch me every day?”

  “I take two buses every morning because I love you.”

  “But-but how did my mom find you?”

  “She didn’t. You did.” She paused at my confused look. “Let’s call it intuition, okay?”

  “What does intuition mean?”