by C. P. Smith
“Bon Dieu, remind me not to piss you off,” Henri chuckled, watching the new woman with interest.
“Mebbe’ you shouldn’t hound around so much if you don’t want your balls cursed,” Maman Rose laughed.
She turned towards the bar and her eyes moved over her regulars. Frank, the auto repairman, who couldn’t keep a wife due to the fact he couldn’t stay away from bars, was seated in his regular spot enjoying a plate of Big Daddy’s crawfish. As the headlights of a car passed by the window, it illuminated the end of the bar, and her eyes caught on the sight of Nic Beuve. Talk about another lost soul. His pain came from another place entirely, a place that only God and time could heal. No man should bury a child before him, but Nic had buried his only daughter a little over a year ago, and as time passed, he seemed no closer to forgiving himself for not being able to save her. No, no man or woman should bury a child; it’s not the natural order of things. It breaks a person, traps them in a state of loss so deep they sometimes can’t break free.
Watching Nic as he took another drink of whatever poison he needed to sleep at night, Maman Rose’s lips began to curl in a smile that any wise man could see she was up to something. Fortunately, for Nic, when he raised his eyes and found her smiling, he wasn’t in the mood to decipher the inner workings of a conniving old woman. If he had, he would have downed his drink, left the bar and never come back.
“I know that look,” Henri announced as he watched his boss grin the grin of a woman who had a plan. Henri looked behind him at what he figured was her latest victim, and saw Nic Beuve looking puzzled as they stared at each other.
“What you got running through that evil mind of yours?”
“Maman is gonna kill two birds she is.”
“Mebbe’ you should leave well enough alone,” Henri advised.
“And mebbe’ you should get back to work and leave da’ fixin’ to me.”
“You da’ boss.”
“Till da’ day I die, and don’t you forget,” Maman Rose laughed and slapped Henri on the back.
Moving down the bar, feeling pretty darn good about her plan, Rose tossed a menu in front of Nic. His eyes dropped to the menu, and then looked back at the old woman. He didn’t want to eat; it would kill a perfectly good buzz.
“Not hungry.”
“Cher, you need to eat.”
“Rosie, I need to drink.”
Rose’s eyes softened as she leaned into the bar, her big bosoms lying across the glossy wood. “What you need to do is forgive you,” she replied in her Cajun accent, rich with French flair yet Americanized over time. Lifting the glass to his lips and swallowing more of the smoky whisky that burned his throat, but took the edge of his anger and guilt, he placed the glass down as he rose from the stool.
“C’est pas de ton affaire,” Nic replied.
“Mon ami, you been comin’ here for years, and mebbe’ it’s not my b’nez how you deal wit’ your pain, but as your friend, no, I won’t sit by and watch you drink till you die.”
“I’m not gonna drink until I die, I’ve got Nicky to think about, but even if I didn’t, It’s my choice.”
“Cher, you did what you had to do, and it was right what you did for Chelsea. Forgive you and move past dis’ guilt.”
“I’m not gonna talk about this, Rosie. I’ll see you Thursday for crawfish,” Nic sighed as he threw bills on the bar and turned for the door.
Picking up the menu she’d thrown on the bar and grabbing the empty glass that Nic had left, her eyes followed him as he shoved through the door. “We shall see, mon ami,” Maman Rose whispered as she watched Nic pass the window, “We shall see.”
***
A man has a lot of time to think when he doesn’t sleep, but sleep would be a relief from the constant thoughts that plagued Nic’s mind. The overwhelming guilt he felt for his only daughter’s death meant he didn’t deserve those few hours of peace. No, he didn’t deserve peace with his baby gone from this world; he deserved far worse.
A parent is supposed to protect their child, keep them safe, battle their demons real or imagined until they spread their wings and fly from the nest. But, Chelsea had tried to fly too soon, and nothing he did stopped her from using drugs.
Nic lay there thinking as he did every night, wondering where he went wrong. He thought about how at fifteen, she became despondent, pulled away from him, fought with her mother and snuck out at night to meet friends. By sixteen, it was obvious she had problems that were far from normal teenage angst—then he’d found her stash of drugs and knew.
Nic stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan blades spinning like a carousel as he lay there thinking. They gave him something to look at while he tried for the millionth time to figure out what had gone wrong. What had he missed? Why couldn’t he save his little girl?
The only person who had those answers he’d buried over a year ago along with a piece of his heart. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt your heart, Chelsea was daddy’s little girl—his heart and soul. Rolling to his side, her picture on his bedside table, Nic reached out and touched the frame.
“Ma petite fille est gone,” Nic whispered to his daughter’s picture. Chelsea stared back at him with smiling eyes as she laughed at the camera. He’d taken that picture on her fourteenth birthday, and by her fifteenth, she was moody and had no need for what was left of their family. He and his wife had divorced two years prior, and Chelsea and his son Nicholas spent their time between two homes. In his heart, he knew the divorce had been the catalyst for her behavior. If he could do it all again, he would have suffered through his wife’s midlife crisis, and the men she brought into their bed if it would bring his daughter back. He’d worked long hours to provide what his wife needed to keep her happy, but in the end, Kat had sought attention elsewhere. No house big enough, no wardrobe large enough had kept her faithful, and he’d walked away.
“Mon Dieu.” Nic bit out, “Look what my pride has caused.”
Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last time he’d seen his daughter alive. Thin, broken, angry that he had put her into a rehab clinic for a month—she’d spat at him for leaving her there. He’d had no idea how bad her addiction was until he found her passed out in her room; a needle stuck in her arm. She’d spent three days in the hospital from that almost overdose, and then he packed her off to rehab, kicking and screaming the whole way. The last words out of her mouth had been “I hate you, Papa.” He knew she didn’t mean it; they’d always been close, but at that moment, he figured she did. He’d given her that and told her “I know you do ‘tit ange, but papa loves you even if you do.” Then he’d kissed her forehead and tried not to look back at her anguished face, but he had, and it killed him to see her that way. “It was for the best,” the doctors had said. “Private facility, one of the best in the country,” they’d told him, but his angel was smart, so smart. She’d found a way out, called a friend who had drugs and then she’d taken too much. After one week at the clinic, they’d called to say she’d escaped. Six hours of searching had ended with a knock at his door from the parish police, confirming his worst fears. His baby was gone.
Breathing hard at the memories of that day, his baby’s ashen face relaxed in death was forever etched in his mind. It drove a pain like a hot, sharp knife in his chest with the faintest memory. He could see her lying on that cold metal table, and he’d wanted to fold her into a blanket and wrap her in his arms like he did when she was just a babe. Nic brought his fists to his eyes and tried to rub the vision away. “Jesus, how did this happen? How the fuck did I let this happen?” he asked the room. But, just like every night he laid in the dark since his daughter’s death, the only answer he ever had was the same. He’d been working when he should have been watching.
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