by Yessi Smith
I look around, careful not to touch anything, and just take in the sight of my home. The ceilings are high with different chandeliers adorning each room. I follow the hallway to the dining room, which is far bigger than necessary, with a china cabinet that holds more plates and silverware than we probably need. Beside the dining room is the living room, which is obviously the focal point of the house. The couches scream comfort while the coffee tables demand respect for their exquisiteness. A small gasp fills my lungs when I see the fireplace, and I can’t help but picture myself on the couch, reading a book, while a fire burns.
“There’s a fireplace in your room, too,” Poppa tells me.
My eyes grow wild in excitement, and my breath rushes out in quick demands to know where my room is.
Poppa leads me upstairs to my bedroom, and he’s right. A beautiful fireplace crowns my room, a little joy that cloaks the ever-present grief. It’s so perfect that I actually start to weep, big tears sliding down my cheeks in tangled succession.
“She’s loved them fireplaces since she was a little girl,” Poppa explains to Derrick.
I smile pathetically at him because I really am sorry for my outburst, but I don’t have enough of a handle on my emotions to rein them in. Derrick companionably pats me on the shoulder, letting me know he’s okay with me being a train wreck. I’m just grateful I don’t balk at his touch like I do whenever someone touches me. I guess the best time for me to have unexpected human contact is when I am otherwise emotionally occupied.
I turn away from him and scan my room, hoping for some sort of recollection. Happy, sad—it doesn’t matter. This desire to know my past remains a secret locked up inside me. The strain this whole situation has had on Poppa is evident on his face and I want to shield him from my own hurtful desires. Because the truth is, even though I’ve only known Poppa for less than a month, I love him. So, I keep my secrets to myself, but I still place my faith on the intangible and hope I will remember—not my abduction, but everything else. I want to remember this man—this wonderful, kind, gentle man—whose patience and love for me have no end and whose eyes cannot disguise a sorrow so deep that I’m afraid he’ll never stop hurting.
Trying to ignore the two pairs of eyes watching me, I assess my room and sit on the floor in front of a large music collection. I pick up my albums one at a time, examining the music and trying to remember listening to it, and then I put it back in its place where I have separated albums by genre. I long to be alone with my music, so I can listen to each song on my bed, as I imagine I have done countless times in the past.
Even though I don’t want to leave my room and the treasures I have found, I follow Poppa and Derrick down the stairs, so we can eat an already-prepared dinner together. I wonder if Poppa has someone cook and clean for him. I couldn’t imagine having a house this size and actually cleaning it. The horror of it makes my eyes grow wide.
“Poppa,” I say, “have I ever cleaned this house?”
Though small and fragile-looking, Poppa roars with a laughter so strong that it sends his head back. His eyes light up as he holds the side of his stomach. “Oh, Holl, you haven’t changed one bit.”
I smile at the pleasure I see in his eyes and lips that are still smiling at me.
“You’ve made me clean this monster of a house?” I egg him on, not wanting to see the first sign of real joy in my grandfather disappear.
“Your mama did.” He chuckles. “You were still in high school, maybe sixteen or seventeen. You broke your curfew and came home so drunk that you couldn’t walk up them front steps.”
“So, she made me clean as punishment?” I ask, amused by a story I can’t re-create.
“Yes, ma’am, she did. She gave the housekeepers the day off.” He winks at me, putting an affectionate arm around my shoulder while his lips press a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Then, she let your dog roll in the mud before letting her loose in the house.”
“She didn’t!” I shout, appreciating my mom’s sense of humor, immediately knowing we must have gotten along.
My heart aches for her, realization of her death finally hitting me, seeping into my soul, but I don’t let my shoulders droop, so Poppa’s happiness won’t fade. I wish I could remember her—her scent, her voice, her face, the warmth from her hands consoling me. I need something, anything that would make her real.
“You deserved it. But she wound up helping you after you quit complaining.”
“I bet it took you a while to quit complaining,” Derrick teases.
I scowl at him even though he’s probably right. Poppa laughs in agreement.
“I still got something for you,” Derrick reminds him.
When Poppa nods his head at him, Derrick goes to his truck to get it.
I don’t want to ask, but I’m compelled to know. It’s a part of me, so I should know. “What happened, Poppa?” I ask him too bluntly. “To my mom and dad.”
Poppa sighs, the weight of his agony hitting me full force, and I wish I could take back my words. I follow him to the couch where he takes his time to sit down. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I want to know. Hell, I should know.
Pressing a kiss to his tear soaked cheek, I sit down next to him and let him take my hand in his, hoping this gesture will provide him with a bit of comfort.
“It happened four months before you disappeared,” he begins.
My heart momentarily stops beating, only to start on the painful understanding of what Poppa has lost in such a short amount of time. I squeeze his hand, wanting but unable to tell him not to go on.
“Your mom loved spending alone time with your dad, and once a month, she’d make him take her out on a date. So, they went out that night.” His face contorts, and he turns his tormented eyes away from me while I lose him to the haunted memories of my parents. “I don’t know what happened,” he says on a broken whisper, his lips trembling as he tries to regain his composure. “Maybe something jumped out in front of the car, but your dad ended up on the wrong side of the road, and they hit another car.” He shakes his head, willing it to be untrue.
Anguish thrusts a hard blow to my gut, and I do the only thing I can think of. I sit on his lap, as if I were still his little Holly, and I hug him, quietly offering him the same support he’s given me. After a second’s hesitation, he hugs me back and begins to cry on my shoulder. I hold him, letting his body convulse against mine, his tears fall on me.
I don’t see Derrick again that night, but he left what Poppa had asked for by the front door. Grateful for his discretion, I send him a smiley face text in acknowledgment.
Poppa hands me multiple bags, and I’m overwhelmed when I see its contents. Derrick, or rather Poppa, bought me everything any aspiring artist could hope for.
I hug the small canvas to my chest and start to run upstairs with my bags, only to remember Poppa, so I put the bags on the floor and hug him.
“Thank you, Poppa,” I whisper in his ear.
He kisses me and then brushes his arthritic hands across my cheeks. “I’m glad you’re drawing again.”
With one poignant question running circles in my mind, I raise my eyebrows at him. Did I stop?
“You haven’t drawn since your parents’ accident.”
Jerking my head up, I face Poppa with vulnerable eyes, my heart quickening its pace, and hug him again before I go upstairs.
In my room, I methodically put my canvas, paint and brushes on a bare table and turn to my CD player where I put Nirvana on. Poppa gave me my iPod, which stores all my albums, but I prefer using my outdated CDs.
With my head bowed and shoulders slouched, I begin to draw. I draw without preamble or forethought, just let my hands do what they seem to have been destined to do.
Without realizing it, I painted for hours. Only stopping after changing my CD player for the fourth time, and the sun began to peek its early morning rays through the blinds.
Restless, I take a quick shower and massage the kinks out of my neck, promising
myself I will practice better posture the next time I paint. Although the canvas, the allure of swirling colors, calls to me, I force myself into bed, reminding myself how important sleep is.
I work on our garden as my Erica watches me from the shade, listening to an audio book I put on for her, while our son sits quietly beside her. The garden was her thing, her hobby, and because it still brings so much joy to her, I keep it alive. It’s as vibrant in color as Erica was the day she started planting our vegetables and fruits.
She loved her garden the same way she loves our son. While she was pregnant with him, she began calling him her little bumblebee, which eventually became shortened to Bub. After he was born, Erica’s life lit up with purpose. She nurtured him, and countless times, I’d find her singing and dancing, barefoot, with Bub in her arms, both of them surrounded among her most prized possessions.
I miss the way her body once swayed to the music that lived in her mind. And I miss her voice, the way it once spoke with tenderness or determination, depending on the tone needed. I miss the way she used to hold my face with her hands before placing a soft kiss on my lips. I miss, I miss, I miss… my girl. Even though I see her every day, I miss her and what we used to be.
I don’t often dwell on the past or the future that was stripped away from us one fateful night. But today, I do. I try to calm my anger as I wave at my wife, the bile building up inside of me when I look at the shed that once housed that girl.
Consumed with a fiery need, I have to get her back, so she can pay for the crimes of her father.
Erica and I went out on a date. She wore a pretty white-and-blue dress that went just below her knees along with flats. Her hair had been picked up in a tidy bun. She had fussed over her makeup, regardless of how many times I’d told her how beautiful she was without it. But she’d tried to hide the wrinkles that life had granted her.
We didn’t dance or walk along a shore as night fell. We just ate in communal silence, our hands always touching as time passed. It wasn’t anything special, but it was special to me. Every moment spent with her was always special. She owned my heart, my soul, my body.
Had I known that would be her last night, I’d have taken her dancing. I’d have sung karaoke until her cheeks were stained with happy tears. I’d have driven us to Hill Country to spend the night beneath the stars with her in my arms.
But I hadn’t known.
With content ignorance, I drove us home. The night sky spanned endlessly along our desolate road. Without any streetlights, my headlights lit our way. But I didn’t see the truck in our lane until I was at the top of the hill. Too late to react, I didn’t have time to veer off to the shoulder. The truck hit us head-on seconds after Erica had taken off her seat belt to look for her cell phone that had fallen on the car floor.
Metal to metal, we hit each other hard.
Darkness clung to the inside of the car as I awoke slowly. So slowly, I don’t know how much time passed between the accident and me waking up, but I can recall every moment after my eyes opened. My injuries didn’t matter to me then, nor do they matter now. My heart has only ever cared about Erica. My Erica. I touched her face and wept over her shattered body as I watched her chest rise and fall with each shallow breath she took.
Adrenaline rushed me. Believing Erica wouldn’t make it, I went to the other vehicle and in a frantic frenzy, I pulled out the driver and passenger—a young couple. When they held each other’s hands, I knew they were in love. Shattered, I strove to blot out their love the same way they’d ruined my only happiness.
My emotions running rampant, I pulled the woman away from the man, and she wailed in pain. The man tried to get up to help his wife, but there was nothing he could do.
“Sit,” I demanded, my vile temper bleeding out the words.
Believing it would save his wife, he sat.
“Watch,” I said.
With his round and horrified eyes on us, I kicked her in her stomach over and over and over again. Even when he jumped on my back, I continued kicking her. Blood spilled out of her mouth and nose, but it wasn’t enough. I turned on the man and stomped on his leg, and after hearing a satisfying crack, I went back to his wife and suffocated her with my hands as her husband watched. After I was done with her, the coward tried to crawl away, only thinking of himself instead of his wife.
A man should always think of his wife first.
Once I reached him, I put my hands around his neck and twisted it until his body lay lifeless beneath me. Fueled with rage and unsatisfactory redemption, I dragged both bodies closer to their car. When the police arrived, all they found was a distraught old man who, to no avail, had tried to save the passengers of the other vehicle.
It was a night of tragedy. At the hospital, my tears mixed with those of the daughter the man and woman had left behind while the doctors worked tirelessly to save Erica.
It doesn’t matter that Erica survived because the spark that made her my everything is gone. She is a prisoner in her own body. Unlike the girl, Holly, my wife can’t escape her prison. Erica’s prison is as much a part of who she is as the limbs hanging from her body.
While the time isn’t right to take Holly again, I can still remind her that I’m never far away. She’s still my prisoner.
Wanting to do just that, I’d taken a lock of her hair to keep for myself, and I tacked it on her front door with the head of an arrow and the words, I’m coming for you, written in squirrel’s blood. I hid in her grandfather’s woods for two hours, long enough to make my knees protest and my heart grow weary. I hated leaving Erica alone for long periods of time, so I lifted myself off the ground, brushing the leaves and dirt off my achy knees, and annoyed I walked back home, careful not to leave any traces of my whereabouts.
My once thick, wavy hair is matted with blood. My blood. Unable to stand the stench, I pull at my hair, ripping chunks off at a time. But the smell is everywhere, breathing on my skin and absorbed into the walls.
The skin on my forehead peels as I tug on my hair, but I don’t dare touch it. Air hitting the newly exposed burn wound hurts. Touching it would only make it worse.
I should rest. The man has left me, a reprieve, and I know I should rest before he returns to further batter my already damaged body. But it’s still night, and I can’t sleep at night. The darkness scares me, it’s when the demons come out to play. So, I continue to pull on my hair while I wait for sunrise when I’ll finally feel a sense of security and be able to rest.
On a violent scream, I wake up with someone shaking me, shouting at me. So I scream back, harder, louder, my tears falling as quickly as the beating of my heart. My breathing is ragged, but I still scream, trying to fight my way out of a nightmare I’ve already forgotten.
Hysteria increases when I try to move only to find my limbs being held down.
Not the shackles, I want to yell, my soul ripped away as the pieces of the dream fade into nonexistence.
But my fear leaves me paralyzed. I finally stop fighting and just wait. Pain doesn’t follow, so I open my eyes and find Poppa holding me down. He’s speaking words of comfort, words I don’t hear. Instead I try to listen to his breathing, but it’s as uneven as my own.
Turning away from him, I lie on my side and bring my knees to my chest, trying to comfort myself, as my tears bleed onto my sweaty pillow. With my eyes closed, my bed gives a little when Poppa lies down next to me. The heat from his body warms me so I lean on him, my body shrinking to the security I find when he is around.
He moves a trembling hand over my arm, and I clasp onto his hand. Sweat builds at the base of my neck as I recall the note my elusive captor left me.
I’m coming for you.
Exactly the reminder I needed. It’s just as well. Having a normal life is overrated anyway.
Time passes, and with each second that goes by, my tense muscles start to relax, the storm within me calms. My breathing normalizes, and I’m finally ready to open my eyes again. I sit up and look at Poppa, who is wa
tching me through eyes as wide as saucers, the pulse on his neck throbbing painfully.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him. “It was just a bad dream.”
Poppa sits up. “What was it about?”
I shake my head at him. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“How about some food?” he asks, determined to make me feel better. “We have chicken and wild rice soup.”
“For breakfast?” I wrinkle my nose at him, forgetting I fell asleep as the sun made her entrance.
Alone in my room, I paint for hours and for the past few nights since I left the rehab center, I can only fall asleep once the sun begins her ascent.
“It’s two p.m., Holl.”
“In that case, hell yeah.” I jump out of bed and kiss his cheek.
On shaky legs, I brush my teeth and soak in the shower, rubbing the grime from my earlier nightmare off my skin, ignoring the darkness that lingers no matter how hard I scrub. Without looking in the mirror, I go downstairs and meet Poppa in our kitchen where he introduces me to Heather—our housekeeper, cook, and everything wonder woman. Wanting me to settle into my surroundings first, Poppa asked Heather to take a few days off.
She steps forward, hugging me against her plump soft frame. She smells like cinnamon and home. I don’t remember the clear gray eyes staring at me or the wispy blond hair pulled away from her face with a tight bun, but I know her smell.
When Heather pulls away from me, breaking our embrace, an emptiness fills me, so I protectively cross my arms around my chest and do my best to smile at her.
“It’s nice to meet you, Heather.” I force myself to shake her hand because I need the familiarity of her touch. A long breath is exhaled when contact is made and then disconnected.
She leads me to a small nook where my soup awaits me. I sit on the wooden bench and lay my head on the table to rest my neck that is still stiff from last night.
“This is your favorite,” she lets me know, referring to the food in front of me, as she expectantly looks at me.