by Nessa Morgan
However, while I’m in the air, I try not to curse the Wright Brothers for fear their spirits may send my aircraft flying right to the ground, and I try not to think about how something so large and heavy can soar through the air effortlessly. I mean, has anyone noticed that humans were not meant to fly. If we were meant to soar through the air, we would’ve evolved from something with wings, growing our own wings as we go.
As I walk through the terminal, I pray and thank God for my safe flight, I thank him for the safe arrival. Hilary laughs at me because I’m not quiet about it. I’m almost screaming it with gusto at random passersby because I’m still astonished by it, surprised with flight.
“There are my beautiful girls!”
I hear his voice before I can see him. The crowd splits and I can see Grandpa standing with Grammy, both grinning from ear to ear, holding a sign that reads ARCHEMBAULT. It was cool to do when I was under the age of thirteen, now it’s cheesy, but I still love it.
I run toward them, selfishly leaving my suitcase behind with my aunt, and throw my arms around my grandfather’s neck, knocking the sign from his hands to the floor. The scent of tobacco wafting from his shirt mixes with the scent of fresh air, which never happens back home, and calms my nervous stomach. I finally relax, feeling the tension leave my shoulders as they slump to my sides.
“Popsicle!” I loudly cheer into his shirt as his arms wrap around me, patting me on the back.
I then hug Grammy, smelling her floral perfume as it floats from the fabric of her cotton t-shirt, and wait for Hilary to catch up, taking my suitcase back from her. I didn’t exactly mean to leave it behind, I was just caught up in the moment of a family reunion.
My aunt hugs her parents, having to jump up just to hug her father around the shoulder.
“I thought we’d see Patrick for Christmas?” Grandpa asks my aunt when all the hugging ends and we’re standing awkwardly in the airport, watching people pass by in cowboy hats. Grandpa makes a show of looking around for anyone else that we may be traveling with.
As cool as it would be, he can stop the charade; there’s only the two of us.
“It’s a little too soon for Christmas trips together, Dad,” Hilary tells him as he grabs her bag to wheel out to the car. He reaches and tries to take my bag from me, but I swat his hand away and trail behind, walking next to Grammy. We’re eavesdropping on the conversation happening in front of us, silently waiting to include our own two cents. “But he says hello.”
We arrive at the car, an SUV similar to Hilary’s back in Washington, only in red, and I help Grandpa load the bags into the trunk.
“I don’t think I told you this before,” Grandpa begins, directing the comment to my aunt as she leans against the side of the car, her attention on her father. He slams the door to the back closed and I walk to the other side of the car, aiming for the door, the seat, behind the passenger side, and slide in, buckling up quickly. “But I like that boy,” Grandpa finishes once he’s behind the wheel.
Soon, we’re on the road, heading toward the farm that my aunt grew up on.
My grandparents, I once learned, met in school back in Scotland. They both bonded over their similar goal of one day living on a farm in the United States—an awkward and random goal but they’re awkward and random people. My grandmother would then get a full ride scholarship to Harvard, leaving my grandfather back in their hometown before he could join her, proposing to her on the day of her graduation.
It wasn’t too long before they could officially move to Texas, and not long before they became naturalized citizens.
“He’s a cool dude,” I tell Grandpa, leaning forward to look into the front seat, smiling to him as he drives. Hilary tugs me back by my jacket—safety first.
“Dude?” Grandpa questions, humor clear in his voice. “None of that teenage slang, you hear?” I laugh, as does my aunt. With the Scottish accent, it’s only funnier.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell them from the backseat.
I’m so happy to be back in Texas, so happy to be surrounded by my family again. This is how life should be—filled with the people you love, the people who won’t judge your decision to booze it up on a long flight, the people who won’t whine when you can’t stop complaining about random things. I only wish that Zephyr could be here with me.
Grandpa turns off the highway, still speeding down the thin, deserted private road that only leads to four different houses. We’re all quiet in the car, thinking separate thoughts as Grandpa continues to drive down the long, winding road while I concentrate my gaze on the brown-and-green blur blowing past my window. He takes the first right, which is two miles away from the highway, and follows that until it turns to a thinner dirt road, one only used by family and the people he hires in the summer to help with the land and horses.
The familiar white house glides into view as we move through the trees and I notice that nothing has changed in the few months since I last saw it. That was during the summer when I get put to work, squealing like the pigs because it all scares me.
I’m kind of weak on the farm.
“You’ll be a natural by the end of the summer, Joey,” Grandpa told me the first time I cowered away from a horse I was attempting to ride. I wasn’t, in fact that very afternoon, I fell off the horse. Her name was Honey and she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, I just psyched myself out and fell. Honey didn’t move, I swear, which makes it all worse, I just somehow tilted and met the ground very quickly.
Needless to say, that was the end of my horse riding dreams, if I ever had any. I spent the rest of the summer brushing out the horses and mucking out the stalls, which wasn’t very pleasant, but ride them, I did not.
The car parks in the garage attached to the house, and we all scramble out, stretching our arms and legs out. We grab the bags from the back and make our way inside the large house.
Immediately entering the house, the overwhelming scent of banana chocolate chip muffins floats through the air and my mouth instantly waters.
We leave the bags by the stairs and gather in the kitchen, Grammy and Hilary standing in the kitchen, Grandpa and me sitting on the stools next to the island. The plate of muffins sits on the island next to a bowl of flowers, and I sneak two before Grammy can see, passing one to Grandpa, who winks at me. I start peeling back the polka-dotted paper cup.
“So what do you want to do now that you’re here?” Grammy looks at me, eyeing the muffin my hand as it slowly inches toward my mouth, stopping in mid-air as her gaze traps me. I sneak a glance at my grandfather, but his muffin has surprisingly disappeared, his cheeks puffed out—presumably filled with food. He reminds me of a squirrel.
I smile sheepishly, flushing, as she laughs at me, grabbing a glass from the cupboard above the sink, and the gallon of milk from the fridge. Grammy sets the glass of milk in front of me and I take a bite of the delicious, melts-in-your-mouth, sweet baby Jesus, it’s still warm dessert before I answer her question.
“Well…” I trail off, thinking of the only thing that I have wanted to do since I boarded the plane at Sea-Tac.
“Ah,” Aunt Hil interrupts me before I can finish my thought aloud. “I know what that means, Mom.” All eyes turn to me, the muffin completely devoured. I start drinking the milk. “She wants to go to the cemetery.
“Can we?” I ask after swallowing. I set the empty glass on the counter before I can hop down from the stool and take it to the sink, rinsing out the glass. I leave the glass in the sink out of habit. Grammy doesn’t bat an eye.
Hilary doesn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”
“Let me grab my keys, lovelies,” Grammy walks toward the door that leads to the stairs. “We can all go.”
The cemetery is as empty as I remember, and still creepy, but welcoming. I’ve been here many times before, I try for at least four times a year; the start of the summer, the end of the summer, the start of winter break, and the end of winter break. Sometimes I’m here more than four times, so
me I only make it twice. I always feel horrible when I leave.
Every time I look at those graves, I read those names, and I hate myself for being here. I shouldn’t be here, I don’t deserve it like them. They sacrificed themselves for me. And I’m still here, I’m still living and breathing, and I get to walk out of there.
In my hand is a bouquet of flowers I picked out for my mom’s grave. My aunt is holding another bouquet for Noah, and Grammy is holding one for Ivy. Grandpa is still in the car, waiting for our return. He can’t handle the cemetery like I can, but then again, I’d spend more time here if I lived anywhere near it. Standing anywhere near here, although creepy, makes me feel closer to them.
Hilary and Grammy wait in the car, giving me a little alone time, like they usually do. I turn to the corner and spot an elderly woman standing at the graves, staring down at Ivy and Noah’s headstones.
She doesn’t hear me walk up and that gives me time to look at her, because I don’t recognize her, and the only people that visit these graves are people I know. Her hair is short and white, curled and poofy. She’s wearing a dark blue dress and a grey sweater. Wrinkles cover her face, hiding what was probably beautiful once.
I step on a stick, cracking it beneath my feet, which catches her attention. Cloudy blue eyes look to me, pale and deep, and familiar.
“Who are you?” I blurt out when I notice her turning around to face me. I can’t think of anything else to say as her eyes laser in on me, freezing me where I stand. There’s something cold in her stare, and it’s familiar.
“Who’re you?” the elderly woman snaps back, anger and annoyance in her thick southern accented voice. “These here are my grandchildren.”
“What?” I bark loudly in surprise, shocking the woman standing in front of me. That may have been a bad idea, I mean, we are in Texas, everyone is packing some sort of weapon to protect themselves from nutcases. Well, everyone except me. “I-I mean…” I stutter out, trying to save my outburst. Is this the paternal grandmother I lived with, the woman I can’t remember? Would it be wrong if I asked her why she lost custody of me. As she stands in front of me, it becomes more obvious.
“Little Ivy and Noah,” she points out, turning around, her gaze dropping to the headstones in front of her. I walk up next to her, making sure to keep at least two feet of space between us, staring at the names and dates I’ve stared at and memorized throughout the years. “What kind of name is Nevaeh, anyway? It’s a good thing it was her middle name.” As this woman rambles, I can understand more why she lost custody of me. “Someone killed them many years ago.” From that statement, how it left her lips as casually, as if she were talking about the weather, I don’t like her. I don’t want to look at her, I don’t even want to listen to her as she tries to explain to me what happened many years ago, so I stare at the headstones, reading the names etched into the thick stone. Ivy Nevaeh Archembault. Noah Jonathan Archembault. “They locked up my son for it; stupid people, those police are. Who could possibly think that my son—my beloved, good baby—would murder his own family?” I hear her stifle a sob. Is this woman actually crying? I shake my head, facing forward to hide to roll of my eyes, but I feel her gaze zero in on me. “You look familiar. Have I seen you around town, dear?”
Don’t call me Dear, I want to snap at her.
Instead, I play it cool, pretending to be… anyone else in the world, and saying, “Maybe.” I know, clever, right? It’s a possibility with how much I visit my grandparents’ farm over the years that she could have seen me in town, at the little diner where everyone remembers your face. Or at any of the stores in town where the owners call you when they receive more of your favorite type of candy, even when you don’t ask them to call you. “I’ve just come to pay my respects.” It’s my family. I want to stake my claim, this is my territory.
“Well, pay that one there no mind. She deserves no respect.” She points to my mother’s grave. “She ruined this family.” I have to close my eyes and count to ten to prevent myself from hitting this woman, yet again. “It’s her fault that this happened to such wonderful—”
“What the hell do you know about it, lady?” I snap, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. Crap! I shouldn’t have said that, I know that, but I was just so caught up in the moment and tired of listening to her badmouth my mother. This woman, whoever she is, doesn’t know who I am and I don’t even know her name. It’s probably better to just pretend that I don’t know who they are, that I’m just some random local that heard of the tragedy and wanted to pay my respects. So I shake my head to calm myself down. “I mean, what do you know about what happened to them.” That’s better.
She barks out a laugh. “Well, their mother was a whore, that one.” Those words are like a heated knife in my heart, slicing through me. How can anyone speak of anyone else, dead or alive, in such manner? Hasn’t she ever heard Don’t speak ill of the dead, well, she’s speaking ill, over here. “She was seeing some man on the side, cheatin’ on my Benji. Only, the other man didn’t know.” Can I punch my grandmother in the face, please? “When he did find out, which didn’t take long, he killed them; broke into their house and everything. The Bitch”—I might beat this woman with the flowers in my hand. I think my mother would like that—“had kicked out my Benji, askin’ him for a divorce so she could be with the other man. Well, the second man, like I said, he wasn’t too happy with bein’ the second choice, so he killed her and two of her kids. My poor grandbabies.” She feigns wiping away a tear from beneath her left eye. “But one survived the attack. Little Josie survived. Poor girl, she wouldn’t speak. Not to me, not to the special doctors I took her to. That’s how the cops could manipulate her to convince everyone that my Benji did it. She wouldn’t even talk to her father when I took her to visit him.”
Wait a damn minute, whack job Granny—you did what, now?
That sentence alone—She wouldn’t even talk to her father when I took her to visit him—stops my heart, mid-beat. It chills my bones; it freezes me in place, and I can’t breathe.
“You took her to visit her father?” I ask quietly, still processing that little information, what she just said, in my mind. How could she do that, especially to a little girl? I’m beyond the fact that it was me, I was the girl she tricked. It’s just the fact that she only cared about her son, only cared about what he wanted, what she thought he needed, not about the little girl. And she claims to be the little girl’s family?
That disgusts me about this woman the most that she doesn’t even care about that little girl.
“Tried,” she replies, shaking her head from side to side. “That little thing believed what the cops was sayin’ and was too scared to see him. She was shakin’ like a leaf every time I took her there.” And just when you think it couldn’t get any worse, the woman says something like that, something that makes you hate her more. “I had to be covert. She’d fall asleep in the back of the car on a trip to the store and I would just drop everything and take her to visit him. It’s what he wanted.”
My mouth drops open as I listen to her talk about this so casually, like she doesn’t see anything wrong. A little girl suffers a traumatic event and the paternal grandmother of the victim cares more about her son seeing his daughter and his happiness when he was the one who stabbed his daughter twelve fucking times in the chest and back.
My scars hurt when she speaks, they burn and sizzle with every word that leaves her mouth.
“What happened to her?” I ask quietly, trying to figure out how much she knows about me, the girl standing next to her today. “This Josie,” I ask, my hand gripping the flowers so tight, I can feel the stems snapping in my palm.
The woman shrugs her shoulders sadly, defeated. “State took her away from me a few years back. Said that my Benji couldn’t see her, but he needed his family then. He needs his family now.” She turns to me, looking directly at me, drilling me with her gaze. “He needs the support of his one remainin’ daughter.” She turns back
, facing forward again. “But they put her with her momma’s sister. Another bastard, just like her.” I close my eyes tight, fighting to urge the fight for my aunt, for my family. “I’m still tryin’ to place ya, dear. What’s your name?”
Like I’d ever willingly tell you!
“Harley,” I answer quietly, loosening my grip on the flowers. “Harley Davidson.” I could slap myself for using the name of a friend who was named after a fairly well known company but there isn’t any way in hell I’m telling this woman who I am. Although, I should have used Kennie’s name, if she knows anything about motorcycles, which I doubt she does, she’ll already know it’s a fake name.
She ponders it for a moment. “I don’t know any Harley,” she spits out, disgusted with the name. “What kind of name is that, anyway? It’s almost as bad as Nevaeh.” She shakes her head. “Benji wanted to name his oldest daughter Ivy Evangeline after his little sister.”
“That’s a pretty name,” I tell her, not sure what else to say right now other than You watch your fucking mouth, you crazy old hag! I’m afraid that’s a bit much at the moment.
“Yeah,” she answers quietly as her brain drifts somewhere else. “Too bad Evangeline committed the biggest sin. She killed herself when she was fourteen.” Holy shit. “I never admit that out loud; don’t want the folks around her to think I raised my kids wrong.”
Well, if that isn’t the understatement of the millennia. I should tell her that she’s never being nominated for Mother of the Year, nor Grandmother of the Year.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, confused about what to say next.
The woman turns to me, her blue eyes finally connecting with mine as she says, “I’m not.”
Light footsteps come up behind us and I know whom they belong to. I hear a loud, surprised gasp behind me.
“Hello, Kathryn,” Hilary mutters when she recognizes the elderly woman standing next to me. I turn around, facing my aunt and her mother. Hilary’s eyes dart to me and I subtly shake my head, letting her know that she hasn’t a clue as to who I am and I’d really appreciate it if we could keep it that way.