by Dyan Brown
Steps come up the drive. “Ms. Mal said you left your garage door open again!” he shouts. “You need to pick up your phone!” His feet come to the door, open it enough for him to duck underneath, and close the door with a clang behind him. He doesn’t look at the car but heads straight for the steps that lead into the house, coughing on his way.
“Grandpa! You all right?” Barrie opens the door and disappears into the house for a moment or two, his cries and pleas growing louder and more desperate. “Grandpa? Grandpa Phil, please! You’re freaking me out a little bit. Where are you? This is a bad time for one of your jokes, ol’ man! It’s late!”
More tears water my vision. I don’t want to be here for this. It’s too much. Please God, take me home. Please! I sink down onto the floor, tucking my knees into my chest and hugging them.
The overhead light flicks on inside the garage, and Barrie’s outcry is immediate—a painful roar, feral. “No! Grandpa, no!”
The car door is flung open; I see the car shift as Barrie moves Grandpa Phil, pulling him out onto the hard, cold garage floor.
“Why? Why? Why…?” Barrie cries over and over between sobs. “You can’t do this to me! You can’t leave me all alone! You’re the only one I have left! It’s not fair!”
At his last words, the pull on my core tells me to stand and move to them. This is why I’m here—to show him why. He’d never have found the note.
I could have left it somewhere easy to find… I think bitterly to myself. Then I immediately want to take it back; what a horrible thought.
I stand and walk into Barrie’s sight with the note held in both my hands in front of me. He’s sobbing too hard to notice me. I walk to his side and put my hand on his shoulder blade. Both of us jump at the contact. Barrie screeches and his arm comes up defensively. I back away a few steps just in case he decides to swing at me.
He looks so much like the old man it’s shocking. Same face, just without age, light brown hair instead of gray, and the same eyes I recently saw close for the last time.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Did you do this to him?”
The questions and accusations spill out too quickly for me to form a reply. I hold up my hands defensively and take one step toward him again. When I think that went well, I take another, and then sit beside him so I’m eye-level with Barrie beside the body of his grandfather.
“He wanted you to have this,” I say gently and hand him the stationary.
I wait while he reads the last message his grandfather left for him. I then wipe a tear from my own cheek as he lays his hand on Phil’s chest. I don’t know what to say, so I lay my hand on his back, comforting him through his grief, while my other hand reaches for an absent locket.
“Why is everyone taken away from me?” he asks between sobs. “What did I do to deserve this? What did he do to deserve this?” He sits back up, propping his knee to hold up his elbow.
“I wish I had the answer to that. Even for myself. My sister…” My hand feels stuck in its most comforting place as I remember her, still brushing the skin where my locket should be. It reminds me I’m only here in part—not in whole. I shake away my personal grief.
“Barrie, we don’t always know why cancer comes, why cars run off the road, or why accidents happen. It’s not for us to know. We have to trust that there are bigger things in store for us. Things we may have to do without that person, or things that perhaps were never possible with them here.” I look down at Philip. “And sometimes, this”—I touch Phil’s hand as it grows colder— “is just mercy from something no one could stop.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” There is no tone to his voice. He breathes a heavy sigh and pulls his hand away from mine. “I need to call… the police, I guess? I don’t know. I just need a minute. Stay with him, will you…?”
“Sam. And yes, of course I will.”
Barrie kisses his grandfather on the forehead, whispers goodbye, and stands. The sadness and grief on his face is so set in stone; his skin looks gray. When he turns to go back into the house, I take Phil’s hand, proving to Barrie I’ll stay with him. Glancing at us before closing the door, he gives me a curt nod and disappears.
I feel a pull from my stomach toward the house. No, he needs a moment. Give him time. The pull gets stronger.
“What?” I whisper harshly to whatever forces me one way or another.
There’s a second pull at my core in another direction, toward Barrie’s car. I look over at the dark blue Buick—the door is open wide, the light is on, and there’s a soft dinging from the key, which is still in the ignition.
In spite of the pull urging me to get up and run into the house, I look at the object lying on the cold cement just outside the open car door. Lying in plain view is Barrie’s cell phone, and the realization hits me like a punch to the face. As I scramble to my feet, the pull on my core disappears, but I move as quickly as I can anyway, bare feet pounding up the three steps to the door. As I reach for the handle, I feel the wave pulling me back to my body.
“No!”
I scream long against being pulled home as a single gunshot echoes through my ears.
27
I’m sobbing, body and soul, when I come back to my room. There’s no undoing that. Ever. He died because I ignored my direction. I killed him.
Heavy, strong arms lift me higher onto the bed and fold me up within them. The instant, mellow peace that washes over me lets me know who it is. “How could I fail, Cedrick? Why did God let me fail?”
Soft as silk, the deep tone of his voice is as comforting as warm milk. “Sam, God wants for you, guides you, and shows you; but he never makes you. Free will is always yours, just as it always has been.”
“Will he punish me?” The thought occurs and springs forth before I can stop it.
Cedrick chuckles. “It’ll be okay.” He rubs up and down on my arm. “This happens. It’s not the end of the world.” His other hand pulls my body in tighter to his chest. “You did everything you needed to. You gave Phil a last touch, so he knew he wasn’t alone.”
“And Barrie?”
“He had a choice, Sam. If you hadn’t given him the note, he wouldn’t have had all the information to make his choice. You gave him that. He is the one who pulled the trigger. Not you.”
“This is too much right now. I should have drugged myself. Someone else should have gone. Why weren’t you there?” My mind is fighting with the thoughts of everything that has swept over me in the last forty-eight hours, against the insta-drug that is Cedrick’s touch. “Where have you been the last two days? Why weren’t you there helping with Carl? Where were you tonight with Grayson and Barrie?”
“Shhh…” He hugs me more firmly. “I didn’t abandon you, Sam.” He reaches around me and pulls my hair off the side of my face, gently twisting it behind my neck to keep it at bay. I look up at him. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he says.
“But why weren’t you there?” I repeat softly, the words wrapped in hurt.
“Only man has free will,” he whispers.
His multicolored eyes show an angst that I sense he’s not allowed to talk about. I suddenly feel a sorrow for Cedrick that I hadn’t thought about before. No free will. No ability to choose your own path or direction. That arbitrary ability to say yes or no to whatever may come along. A servant wouldn’t have that ability. While we’re both servants of God, he is shackled and I am not.
“Are you ever angry at Him?”
A deep frown sets into his forehead as he ponders my question. He looks away, lost in a memory. “Hasn’t everyone been at one point or another? Even if it’s just a second?”
“I’m sorry, Cedrick.”
His eyes shoot back to me, and he pulls his head back an inch. “For what, hon?”
“For you having to look after me.” He chuckles again, but I continue. “No, I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to deal with. My sister would have been better. She was stronger, more levelheaded. Always kn
ew what was right.” My head drops back down to snuggle into the crook of his neck. “She wouldn’t have let Barrie go.” I choke on the words, letting loose more tears.
“Hey, no. You will let that go; you will learn from it; and you will move on. You know now what it means to ignore your feelings when you’re in a drift.” He lifts my chin and makes me look at him again. “Everything else we can deal with. You and me, all right?” He brushes his fingertips up my jaw, making me break out in goose bumps.
My lips part, but I can’t form words any longer. A lock of Cedrick’s blond hair has fallen onto his cheekbone, and my hand moves of its own volition to push it aside. I tuck it back into the waves of his hair and run the back of my fingers down the satin of his temple to the abrasive scruff of his angled jaw line.
The rise and fall of his torso grows rapid with my touch. His gaze drifts to my lips, and his mouth parts just a breath. Looking all at once wanting, confused, and battling with some unseen emotion, he reaches a hand up to mine and folds it within his, setting both of our hands on the base of his diaphragm and stopping my… whatever I thought I was doing, I guess.
“I should go.”
Crap! “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, kid, don’t worry about it. It was my fault.” He lifts himself off the pillow and steps onto the floor beside the bed. “Here.”
He holds out his hand with his fingers gathered at a point, ready to drop something into my palm. I reach out, and one of my sleeping pills is placed gently on it. “Now get some sleep. I’ll see you later, okay?”
Embarrassment rakes through me for the second time tonight. “Of course.” I look at the oblong white pill in my hand, the one I should have taken hours ago. When I look up to get my water, I’m alone again.
“Later,” I sigh into the empty shadows.
The light sneaking through the blinds of my room is a further assault on me. I pull the pillow from under my head and place it on top of my face. The coolness of the fabric feels like a blessing to my eyes. Without even looking in a mirror, I can tell my eyes are swollen from all the crying I’ve done.
I try to will myself back to sleep, but as the roll I’m on continues, I’m unsuccessful. Giving in, I push the pillow up my head and allow my eyes to adjust to the light. Something hard is poking my side, and I reach my hand down to move it. Plastic crunches in my grasp as I pull the mostly empty water bottle out from under the covers that have bunched around my hips in my sleep.
It takes significantly more effort than it should to pull myself from the bed and blindly make my way ten feet to the bathroom. I warn myself not to look in the mirror as I pass it on the way to the toilet. Peeing makes my head’s throbbing turn into pounding.
This is a new level of feeling-like-crap. Because I know I would just end up in tears again, I avoid my hairbrush and turn on the shower. Stripping off the once-lovely dress that’s now seen both rejection and death twice over, I let it fall to a corner of the floor. It may have a new home there. I’ll decide for sure later.
When I see steam curling out from the top of the shower, I open the curtain and step under the scorching water. Letting it spray on me for a few moments, I try not to think of Grayson. The water is running so hot my skin is turning lobster red as goose bumps break out on every inch of me not burned by the water. I pool a handful of shampoo into my palm. I can’t take too long or I’ll run out of hot water, and I’ve had enough discomfort to last a while.
I massage my scalp with the aroma of coconut and tea-tree oil from my shampoo that always makes me calm. Just add in my mother’s lemongrass soap, and it smells like home. Rinsing my hair free of suds, I begin scrubbing my body free of its loose skin cells. It feels like I’m scrubbing off and washing away part of yesterday, and that makes me happy.
I turn off the water as the temperature starts to decline and towel off. Thankfully, the steam has covered the mirror, and I don’t have to see how bad I look. I brush my teeth and brace for the chilly air of my bedroom to go find clothes. I start pulling on my underclothes, then exercise pants and an OU shirt, getting out my tennis shoes and sitting on the end of my bed to pull on socks when I pause.
“Where am I going?” I ask myself. I pause and look around my room. “Where’s my phone?” My head throbs in response.
Oh, God, I need some more aspirin. Okay, going to get my phone. Yeah, I can do that. I’m a big girl.
I finish pulling on my shoes, grab my zip-up hoodie from the back of my chair, and head for the red-and-white pills in the kitchen cabinet, only to find them still sitting on the counter. Whoops. I take a couple and refill the empty water bottle under the tap. Looking around the empty living room, I figure April is either already up and gone or still catching her beauty sleep.
On the coffee table are my phone and shoes, set carefully in front of where I always sit. I stare at them and what they mean. He was here. Only Grayson would have set them so carefully and directly in front of my spot. I walk over to be sure they are truly there and see a small white flower sitting between them.
The sight of it makes me slump onto the sofa. I reach out and press the small round button of my phone to wake it. My wallpaper appears, no notifications. Just as I thought it would be, my phone is fully charged.
It suddenly feels very stuffy in this room. I need air. Like, yesterday. I grab my earbuds off the bar and snatch my key card that’s been put back into its bowl. Putting my phone in my back pocket, I press the control button on the cord, and music fills my ears.
The morning air hits me with an abnormally brisk gust of wind, greeting my need for fresh oxygen. It feels like the calm after a storm. I guess it is, really. It just forgot to rain.
Who am I kidding? It feels as though all it’s done for the past few days is rain on me, metaphorical cats and dogs slamming down on my head. Can’t a girl catch a break? I walk toward the front office. The bay window tells me that all the treadmills and elliptical machines are occupied. Guess I’m footing it.
Mentally, I feel like I’m hanging on by the strand of a spider’s web. If someone so much as tells me they stepped on a cricket, I may as well drive myself to the loony bin.
I can’t do this.
My eyes water at the thought, but it’s true. I can’t handle all this. I can’t even keep my own shit together, let alone take on, train, and lead an army to their own inevitable deaths.
How am I supposed to deal with knowingly killing people?
I squint my face as the memory of a gunshot reverberates through my head as loud as if the gun were beside me. Not even blaring Maroon Five drowns it out. That sound bleeding into my scream will haunt me for a long while to come. A shriek of failure on a skipping record player, set on the highest volume.
I can’t do any of this anymore. He wins. I’ll quit.
If I’m going to give up, then I can take something back. My heart quickens a pace as I make the choice of where to go and the man I really need right now. I get to the end of the street that dead ends into the apartment office and make a left.
An hour later, my legs are not even showing the first signs of fatigue, where they would have been throbbing three months ago. I look from the end of the walkway toward a light beige house with a red front door. Decorative black shutters frame each of the five windows across the front of the one-story ranch-style home.
I swallow hard at the thought that I may be turned away, but my need for consolation outweighs my fear of rejection at the moment. Especially if he’ll just let me talk. I walk up the bricked walkway, purposely wasting time stepping on acorns to hear them pop under my sneakers. But eventually, I make my way to the front porch step, ascend the seven inches toward my serving of humble pie, and knock.
28
There’s only a fraction of a heartbeat between my knock and the door opening. He must have been waiting behind it. His face is set so hard that the creases around his eyes and forehead could have been carved. The gray in his hair seems more predominate than only tw
o days ago.
“What happened?”
Two little words.
I cannot hold back any more tears, and I stand in front of my uncle and sob. I release all the anger and sadness from Grayson, from Cedrick, from Phil and Barrie, and especially from our fight.
At some point, I’m wrapped in arms that feel like my father’s, brought inside, and seated on the sofa. He cradles me as if I were once again the little girl who’d been outside playing in his backyard with her sister and had fallen and scraped her knee. Sahra would put on the Band-Aid and get me juice while my uncle told me jokes to make me forget the pain.
“I’m… so… sorry,” I stutter between ragged sobs. I try desperately to catch my breath but start to hyperventilate instead. I see my uncle leave the sofa and head toward the kitchen, only to return a few seconds later with a paper lunch bag.
He opens the bag with a shake, grabbing it in the middle, and folding the top over his grip. He hands the sack to me, “Breathe into this; it’ll help.” I lean, hunched forward, with my elbows on my knees and my face in the bag. Uncle Carl rubs my back gently, as though I were a feral cat that was trying to be domestic; it calms me, nonetheless. “I’ll get you some water.”
“Thank you,” I say when he returns with the glass. I almost sound normal, except for the bag still clenched to my mouth and nose. He gently pats my arm, telling me to lower the bag, and I nod, complying. We sit in the quiet a moment while I sip my water. I almost think to myself ‘why isn’t he talking?’ when I remember I’m the one who came to him.
“I’m sure you know I drifted last night,” I squeak. “I honestly didn’t mean to. I was so tired, and I was going to get back up and get a sleeping pill, but…” I take a few breaths to try and calm myself back down; panic is already trying to creep its way back up. “I wish I had gotten back up. I… I’m so sorry.”
“That happens. I believe you. I’m not going to hold anything against you while you make your choice—”