Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection

by Cody Luff

Words are all I have. Words, and time.

  Now, now I am introspective. You’ve noted my big words, haven’t you?

  Letters to Maddy return unopened. She’s moved on, married, had a child. I saw her last at the trial, when I heard all of the story from different perspectives.

  I do not write to Aidan, but I keep up with him when I can use computers. I look at him in online photos and wonder if I can see residual terror in his eyes. I look at Rudy too, and wonder if I see something haunted in his eyes.

  I wonder what forever is. I am taught daily.

  And I try to envision Aislinn as he saw her, looking like angel or goddess.

  I’ve learned oils in the class the priest supervises.

  Sometimes I paint her as real.

  Sometimes in triplicate, as each of the Fates, those incarnations of destiny randomly twisting and snipping their tangled skeins.

  Sometimes I paint her as Blessed Angela of Foligno with glowing halo, hands beseeching an upright Christ. Not a perfect fit, but appropriate.

  She is the patron saint of shame and confusion.

  DEBORAH GRACE STALEY

  That Girl

  SHE LIVED ALONE, That Girl. Not by herself, but in herself.

  I don’t want another kid.

  You don’t have to have another kid. I’ll take care of her and you won’t have to worry yourself about it. She’ll be mine.

  On the way to the Christmas parade, the drunk smashed into the side of the car and That Girl was born early; too small, blue, fragile. Her mother was not conscious of her birth; that was her first experience of alone. Cold hands moving her here and there in the sterile delivery room. She didn’t cry. Didn’t belong.

  Sick, always sick, she required a lot of care. Breathing from the first breath was difficult and remained a challenge. Asthma, pneumonia, needles, doctors, nurses, colorless rooms, confining walls, a sister’s jealousy, a father’s indifference, a brother she called “daddy,” That Girl. No play, but all seriousness in life-threatening circumstance. No escape for That Girl. Her mother gave her sheltering smothering care, but four others needed mother, too. Maternal lifeline dependence and co-dependence cords formed.

  Mommy? Are you asleep? Mommy?

  The exhausted woman lay stretched out on the couch, pale as a corpse, while That Girl sat as close as she could in her miniature rocking chair, afraid. If Mommy were dead, she would die, too. She had no one else. No one to take her to the doctor that kept her alive.

  Mommy?

  I’m just resting my eyes.

  So That Girl stayed close and rocked—the motion soothed while Captain Kangaroo talked to Mr. Green Jeans and Mr. Rogers took her to visit his make-believe neighborhood where owls talked and trains tooted. She glanced at Mommy often to make sure she was still breathing.

  Her earliest memory was of the second hospital stay. That Girl was eighteen months old. The bed was draped in plastic. Mommy next to the bed, her face distorted by the clearish plastic wrinkles separating them. Mommy worked the zipper to feed That Girl breakfast, but breathing was painful and more important than bacon.

  The next hospital stay was a little more than a year later. This time to fix That Girl’s other big problem. She peed all wrong; in bed, in her pants, in the car and never when she should. Infections of kidneys and bladder made it harder to go, so she tried not to go, That Girl. There’d be surgery to fix it so she could feel the pee process like a normal girl. She felt nothing, just the wetness on her legs when it came out.

  The nurses dressed all in white wanted blood, but That Girl’s veins hid, not wanting to give. Needles punctured, prodded and probed, but she wouldn’t bleed. That Girl cried. They hurt her and she screamed. Why did they want to hurt her? They stabbed and she screamed, That Girl.

  I’ll get it a man in a white coat said. Sit on her he instructed to one of the nurses.

  And she did.

  He grabbed That Girl’s leg and wrenched it, vice-gripped it between his arm and his chest.

  That Girl’s screams quieted, hoarse and rasping now, hysterical elemental fear.

  No you won’t.

  The angel standing in the corner of the room intervened. She brushed the medical “care” staff out of her way and swept That Girl up into her arms. Coos and gentle hands soothed and dried tears. That Girl clung to her Mommy, her lifeline. The pain in her punctured legs, unbearable. Mommy sang a nameless tune until That Girl slept.

  When That Girl woke, the room was dark, the movable bed too big for That Girl in the colorless room. Prayers spilled from Mommy’s lips and angels appeared. So beautiful as they floated and stood guard at the door. She slept again, That Girl, finally at peace.

  When she woke, That Girl felt something unusual. Something she’d never felt before. Mommy! Mommy! I need to pee. I feel it! I need to pee!!!

  Later, a man in a white coat spoke quietly, earnestly to Mommy. He didn’t understand. The deformity to be surgically repaired so That Girl could pee properly had already been fixed.

  Mommy smiled and clapped, so happy. Tears wet her cheeks. A miracle! I prayed all night. A miracle . . .

  That Girl knew that the pretty angels had performed that painless repair while she slept. Now she’d finally be able to pee right.

  After that, there were no more hospital stays for a long time, and that suited That Girl just fine. Still, she was sick with asthma, colds, infections, tonsillitis, mumps and chicken pox. That Girl was allergic to everything and when she got near everything, she had terrible asthma attacks. Mommy would sit by her bed and watch her breathe in the menthol scented vaporized air, afraid in the dark of night that she’d take her last breath. The doctor said a dryer climate might be best, but moving would be hard for the family. Money was scarce because daddy didn’t make much driving the truck.

  So Mommy kept That Girl inside. Everything outside made her sick—grass, trees, flowers. Inside, foods had to be chosen carefully—no milk, no chocolate, no nuts, no eggs. The list was very, very, very long. That Girl was tiny and so thin. Halloween came, but it was cold and Mommy wouldn’t let her trick-or-treat with her brothers and sister. That Girl cried. She wanted to wear the costume she’d chosen, the one with the clown mask. Wearing the mask, she could be another girl, one who didn’t breathe funny, one who could go out and play like other little girls.

  You can dress up, but you have to stay in the car. Brother will carry your bag and collect your treats.

  So she rode in the backseat of the long blue Chevrolet daddy drove to work, but Mommy drove this night. Brothers and sister went from door to door. They looked funny in their costumes.

  They knocked on doors and cried Trick or Treat!

  Ladies put candy in their bags and smiled.

  This one’s for my sister. She’s sick and has to stay in the car.

  The ladies would look at That Girl and wave. Oh, poor thing. Here . . . And then they’d drop extra treats in her bag.

  That Girl’s bag became very heavy and brother complained. She gets more treats than we do because she’s sick. She’s always sick. It’s not fair!

  Mommy chided her son while That Girl bounced in the backseat, excited to see what was inside the bulging bag.

  Back at home, the two boys and two girls sat on the four corners of Mommy and daddy’s big bed as Mommy upended That Girl’s bag of treats. Then the sorting began. That Girl started to cry because she knew. All the things That Girl was allergic to were placed in a very large pile and divided between the brothers and sister.

  But you took all the good stuff away! That Girl whimpered.

  I’m sorry, but you can’t have those things. They’ll make you sick, Mommy explained.

  Mommy, make her stop crying, Sister said. She’s always crying!

  Leave her alone, was all Mommy said.

  So That Girl found her rocking chair and she rocked and cried, rocked and cried, rocked and cried.

  Then the snows came. Brothers and sister bundled in two pairs of pants and extra shirts, big
coats, gloves and caps. Daddy got the sleds out of the crawl space and rubbed something on the blades to make them go fast. That Girl put on two pairs of pants and three shirts, too. When she asked Mommy where her coat was, she heard Where do you think you’re going?

  I’m going out to sled, everybody is. I’m going, too.

  No, honey. You can’t go.

  Why not? That Girl cried.

  You’ll catch pneumonia! It’s too cold for you.

  But—

  I said no. Now come on. We’ll make some hot chocolate.

  As if That Girl cared. She wouldn’t be able to drink it. She pressed her face to the cold window and watched as they squealed with delight, rocketing down the steep hill behind the house time and time again. And That Girl cried, she always cried. Never able to play, inside or out. No sister or brother close enough in age, no friends or cousins or visits. Just church where she always had to behave. No time to be a kid. No time, so she turned in a little more, day by day, in.

  It wasn’t all sadness and tears. There were people besides Mommy who made life a little less sad. The doctor she saw weekly who let her ride the horsie by crossing his legs and seating her on his foot as he kicked; his kind hands that she held tight were the reins. He had a huge glass jar with Dum Dum suckers inside and she’d always get one. Root beer was her favorite flavor, but she’d plead, I want a big sucker, Doctor. You should have those big, round pretty suckers. And he promised that one day, maybe she’d get one. And she did. It was huge to her little girl eyes, its bright colors so pretty. It didn’t taste as good as the Dum Dum, but it sure was pretty . . .

  And there was the next-door neighbor; a kind older man whose birthday was on the same day as hers. He’d come by on occasion to say, Ma’am, can That Girl come out today? Walk to the store with me?

  That Girl would jump up and down. Please, Mommy, please!

  She’d smile her sweet Mommy smile and say, Okay, then she’d bundle That Girl up to pad and protect her from harm. The neighbor had big hands that carried soda bottles to trade for candy money. In the other, he held her tiny hand. All the way, That Girl imagined the big store at the end of the road. Inside, there stood a tall wooden case with curved glass in the front. Behind that shiny, clear glass was every kind of candy a little girl could hope to find. All the candy in the world was inside that curved box. The storekeeper would stand behind it and reach inside to place That Girl’s choices in a small, brown bag she believed was made just for treats.

  What would you like? he’d say.

  That Girl would look up at the kind neighbor, unsure. She did not want to ask for too much.

  Tell him what you want, dear, he’d say and never limit her choices.

  That Girl would choose bubble gum, and Now or Laters, and suckers, and licorice. No chocolate for That Girl. The storekeeper would fill the bag and hand over the treasure. She’d hold it close. Looking inside, she’d inhale the magical, sugary scent. Smiles wreathed her tiny face and the kind neighbor smiled too. They’d say their goodbyes to the shopkeeper and hand-in-hand, retrace their steps to her house.

  That man died a few years later. His big heart gave out on top of the big hill behind the house. More tears flowed as That Girl pressed her face once again to the window.

  And then there was Aunt, Mommy’s sister. They looked exactly alike, except Mommy was a little taller and Aunt a little more carefree. She had no children and treated Mommy’s children like they were her own. Since That Girl looked like Mommy, when Aunt took That Girl out, people assumed she was Mommy. That Girl liked that. That Girl loved Aunt so much.

  Aunt was crazy. Crazy fun. She always came to visit on Saturday. When American Bandstand came on, she’d dance and make funny faces and everyone laughed while Mommy shook her head. Aunt was her little sister. That Girl figured that’s what big sister’s did—were embarrassed by little sisters. It was always a treat when Aunt came to visit. She knew how to play and make life a little lighter for a little while once a week.

  The third hospital stay was to remove That Girl’s tonsils. Doctor said they were poisoning her system, so they had to come out. That Girl remembered the last time she’d been to the big hospital with white rooms and white coats and white dresses. She did not want to go. Mommy promised this time would be different. She would be there to make sure. They promised all the ice cream she could eat after, so That Girl agreed, but she was scared.

  They put That Girl on a bed with wheels and took her down long hallways, making turn after turn after turn. Finally, they parked her in a white empty room, alone. Where was Mommy? She’d promised to be with That Girl. What if they started stabbing her with needles again? But a woman in a white dress had given her a shot that made her feel funny, and she didn’t ask where Mommy was. Another woman draped in blue came and took her into another room. She put a mask on That Girl’s face and told her to breathe deep.

  Does it smell nice?

  That Girl nodded and went to sleep.

  When she woke, That Girl’s throat hurt really, really, really bad. She whimpered then threw up dark red blood into a silver kidney-shaped dish.

  Do you want some ice cream?

  That Girl moaned and shook her head. She tried some the next day, but it hurt too bad. So, she decided not to eat again.

  At home, she got to lay in Mommy and Daddy’s big bed. Mommy was worried because That Girl wouldn’t eat. When she woke on Saturday, she said, Mommy, I’m hungry. Can I have some bacon?

  I don’t know. Mommy worried that might be hard to eat, but that’s what That Girl wanted, and that’s what she got. It tasted so good.

  Later that day, something amazing happened. She was told to get up out of bed. Daddy had something for That Girl in the living room. Because she’d been good and gone to the big white hospital to have her tonsils out, he’d gotten her a bicycle. It was so beautiful—shiny and dark green with a white banana seat and tall handlebars. That Girl didn’t know what to say. Daddy helped her sit on it while Mommy took pictures with the instamatic camera, but brother looked sad. It was his birthday, but Mommy and Daddy forgot. Mommy went to the hardware store and bought him a radio, but he was still sad because it wasn’t as nice as That Girl’s bicycle and they forgot.

  Things got better after the poison tonsils came out. That Girl didn’t have any more asthma, and the allergies just caused hives now. She started school, but That Girl would rather have stayed home with Mommy. Still Mommy said she had to go. Had to go.

  Teacher was a little, dark-haired mean woman who never smiled. She told Mommy That Girl wasn’t right, that she had something wrong with her. She treated That Girl like she was slow. She made That Girl cry.

  Every morning, getting That Girl to go to school was an ordeal. She’d cry and beg and cry and beg. Please don’t make me go. Please don’t make me go. But she had to go. After she got to school, That Girl threw up every morning in the floor of her classroom because she was so scared, and the mean Teacher would paddle her. That Girl hid in the bathroom, but the mean Teacher would come drag her out. Her first grade picture was of a girl with messy hair, red eyes and a sad smile.

  The mean Teacher had a system in her classroom. Those who made A’s sat in the A row. There was a B row, a C row, a D row, and a Dummy row. Teacher moved That Girl down a row every day. When she got to the back of the C row, she knew by the end of the next day, she’d be in the D row. She so did not want to be a dummy in the Dummy row.

  When she told her Mommy this, Mommy got very, very angry. The next day, Mommy went into the classroom and spoke with that mean Teacher. Mommy was still mad when she shared her words with the Teacher, but like a miracle, by the end of that day, That Girl got moved from the D row to the B row. Thank heavens she wasn’t going to be a dummy. Maybe she wasn’t Mongoloid either, like mean Teacher had said.

  That Girl didn’t make a lot of friends because Mommy still protected her. Even though she was so much better and finally gaining weight, she still couldn’t go do things other kids did,
like play outside because of the allergies. Sometimes, she could spend the night, but not very often. So That Girl turned in more and more. She’d play with her Barbie and make up stories for her, worlds for her to live in with adventures and fun like That Girl dreamed of having. Make believe was escape from no playtime with others.

  No television at night because daddy watched what he wanted. He watched police and murder and bad guys doing bad things to people that scared. Daddy smoked, too, and That Girl was allergic, so That Girl spent more time alone in her room. She could only go to church and to school, so she had to make space for happy somehow in those places.

  When she was old enough, she asserted a small bit of her independence by choosing to be in band, but Mommy and daddy could not afford to buy an instrument. So That Girl played the drums because Brother had a drum, but she didn’t like that, so she played a French Horn the band lent her, but she didn’t like that either. Then That Girl found a flute in a cabinet at school. It was in bad shape. All the keys didn’t work, but she learned to play it anyway. She’d play it in her room. That Girl loved how it sounded. So sweet and happy. She loved music and sang, too. Not as good as Brother, but not even the angels sang as well as him. Still, she was pretty good at playing the broken flute.

  When high school came, she joined the marching band. Mommy wasn’t too sure about these choices, but That Girl went on ahead. Daddy surprised her by taking her to the music store and buying her a brand new shiny flute. All the keys worked and she found she could play all the notes. It was a big sacrifice and Daddy made payments on it for months. That Girl was so careful with her prize. She was sure the angels in heaven couldn’t make near as beautiful music as her when they played. She marched and played and wore an ugly, itchy uniform, but mostly That Girl just liked to play.

  The first performance on the football field, the circle was off and she was too close to that guy playing the trumpet when the horn flash came where they turned from inside to out. The bell of his trumpet clipped the top of her flute, and when she brought it down in front of her face, she saw the dent. Her dark eyes widened and she cried. What would daddy say? What would he say? Would he be mad? Would he make her quit?