Sadie's Mountain

by Shelby Rebecca

  As I sit here, feeling the warmth of the clay earth under the sun’s reaching tendrils, each flower shrivels and curls up into itself. But I don’t give up. I will not succumb to the failure that threatens to consume. I try it over and over. Adding the flowers, watching them die.

  There has to be something wrong with the dirt. So I begin ripping up the dead flowers. I can feel my hands in the earth looking like cringing claws as I dig deeper. Searching for what lies beneath. What’s killing my flowers, my chance at happiness?

  That’s when I find the bone. I pick it up and know. This is a human bone. Someone has been buried under my flowerbed, tainting it. Poisoning everything that will ever grow above it. Guilt takes over then. I feel guilty even though I did not kill this person. I did not bury them or hide them there.

  The guilt comes because I bury them again and tell no one they are there. The crime is not mine, but it feels like it is. I take ownership of the crime. The heaviness of the guilt. The death of the flowers. It weighs on me until I cannot go on. I want to tear my eyes open at this point. It’s a lucid dream. I know I’m sleeping and I want out.

  Over the years, I begin to find more than one human bone in the dirt upon unearthing it. I find a full skeleton, and bury it again. Tell no one. Live with the guilt. Live with the dead flowers. Soon, I’m not only unearthing the bones but then I’m moving them to another location. Digging up another spot, and burying them again. Telling no one. The guilt festers. Still the flowers do not grow. They wilt and die.

  Tonight’s dream starts out the same as all the others. Except this time, I am planting lilies. Sometimes I wonder why I keep trying. I lie in wait; I know they will die. When they do, I’m forced to dig up the dirt. Pull it up in heaping piles of musty deadness. I can feel the soil in my hair, under my nails. That’s when I grasp hold of the cloth. It’s moist and cold, marinated in muck. The compulsion to see who’s buried here has me by the throat. I feel the stiff body under my fingertips. I swipe the dirt from the face.

  The body is me. The old me. She’s wearing the pretty little flower-dotted dress. The brown boots that used to be Missy’s but she’d given to me when my feet grew into them. Her hair is long, and thin. Messy and windblown.

  She takes a deep breath into her chest, comes to life. I hold out my hand and she takes it. I help her up and we stand here examining each other. I touch her neck. A neck that’s not yet been sliced open by a fishy knife. I take up the hem of the dress. It’s white. Pristine, as all of the filth she’d been covered in has disappeared. I push the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. It feels like innocence, not yet tainted.

  I take her hand in mine. I’m asking her to come inside. I wave inward. “Come with me,” I call to her. She shakes her head no. She’s saying something but it’s as if she’s behind a glass wall and I cannot hear her. She’s getting angry. Her words are coming out of a yelling mouth, all wide and frantic. Then she points and her eyes grow wide. She’s pointing behind me.

  I bristle.

  When I turn around I’m in the shed again. Donnie is blocking the door. When I look to my right, I see the old me. She’s negotiating with him. But he’s looking at me. He’s not interested in the girl in the little flower-dotted dress. He wants the woman. The one covered in guilty dirt.

  I kick at the walls inside the shed and one of the slats breaks away from the frame. I push my way through but I can feel his grasp as he holds tight on my legs. He always catches me in my dreams. It never fails.

  I’m pulling but I cannot go anywhere. I feel too heavy. I’m leaving her again. I’m leaving her alone with him in the shed. He’s going to kill her again.

  Wake up!

  Wake up!

  As my eyes open, I can hardly catch my breath. Dillon’s arm is over me. He’s still asleep. I rub my eyes and slide out of bed. I need some water.

  I walk softly out of his room and into the empty house that’s just waiting for a family to grow up in it. I walk through the dining room, listening as my steps echo around in waves. I find the kitchen. The old one he’s remodeling. It’s huge. I can just imagine how beautiful it’ll be once we build it back up. I want a country sink and a big island in the middle. White cabinets. Reclaimed wood. Butcher block counters.

  I find the other kitchen. The small one he’s been using in lieu of the magnificent one that doesn’t exist yet. It’s simple. I wonder what we could do with it once the other one is finished.

  All of these thoughts are merely a distraction. The truth is, this dream proves what I already know. Donnie still has a hold on me. Recording or not, I’m going to live my life in fear as long as he’s free. My inaction is allowing him to hurt me. To hurt Renae. I have to tell.

  I realize that my asking Jenny to transcribe the recording was a way for me to test the waters. I can tell her, or rather let her find out, because she’s not allowed to tell anyone. Her judgment won’t hurt me. She’s far away. But she’s the only other person in the world who knows who did this to me.

  There’s one person I want to talk to. Renae.

  As I sit behind a huge stack of pancakes slathered in fluffy white butter and doused with syrup, I’m preoccupied with how to tell Renae what happened to me. How will I ask her if she’s being abused? The guilt is killing me. Her abuse is, in essence, my fault. I cannot let it go on. Not in good conscience.

  “Please, darlin’ take a bite,” Dillon coaxes.

  I cut into the thick stack and stick it in my mouth allowing the syrup to drizzle down my chin. He leans across and wipes my face.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, frowning. “I can wipe my own face.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and then looks out the window tucked into the wall at Tudor’s Biscuit World, the restaurant we always visited after church on Sundays.

  I should apologize. But I don’t. I’m so edgy. I feel so many things at once. Momma is gone, dead. It’s my fault Renae is being abused. Until I deal with this, my flowers won’t grow. I feel like a flower that’s ready to wither and die.

  I watch as Dillon doesn’t eat his ‘Big Tater’ breakfast. It looks like too much food slathered in too much gravy. He’s just watching the cars as they drive by. He’s anywhere but here. I knew it. He’d get sick of me soon enough.

  “I’ve got to call Aunt Lotty!” I state, as it dawns on me.

  “Sure. After breakfast, okay,” he says, off-hand.

  “You don’t have to stay, Dillon. I can see you’ve had enough of me.”

  “Sadie, I wasn’t expecting you to snap at me,” he says.

  “I just wanted to wipe my own face.”

  “No. You’re right. I’m smothering you,” he says. “I’m going to take you to your momma’s house and then I’m going to go to work for a few hours.”

  I want to say I’m sorry. I’ve hurt him and he’s been nothing but good to me. He’s still got bruises on his face because of me. He’s helped me through my momma’s death. He’s dealt with me being completely neurotic for days. He needs a break.

  “I’m sorry, Dillon.” He doesn’t say anything. He’s on the verge of tears as he takes a sip of his coffee.

  As we crunch up the driveway, I can’t help feeling anxious about him leaving me. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want him to go.

  “I’m so sorry, Dillon,” I say, as he stops the car in front of the now Momma-less house. “I’m a jerk.”

  “Sadie, please, don’t take this personally. I really do need to go to work. It’ll just be a few hours.”

  “But I hurt your feelings. Just admit it.”

  “Yes. You did. But I’m also emotionally and physically exhausted. I’m not angry with you. I promise.”

  “You’ll be back for lunch then?”

  “I’m going to get my laptop and pick up a few things so I can work from home.”

  I lean in to kiss him. He defrosts a bit when our lips touch. “Thank you,” I say, looking into his eyes before I jump out and prepare to deal with a house laden with deat
h. A house full of memories that will tug at me from every angle. On the bright side, I’m not numb. I hadn’t even realized that until this moment. Dr. Amy would be so proud of me, I think as I climb the steps.

  Missy is sitting on the couch. The boys are in the kitchen. Dale is playing with the kids on the floor. They all look my way as I walk in the door.

  “We need to get you some more clothes,” Missy says.

  “I’m going to have my assistant send me some,” I say. I need to text her on time today. I’ve worn these jeans three times now. “This is a different shirt, though,” I say, grasping the deep green collar of my shirt and sticking out my bottom lip. She always knows how to put me in my place. “Has anyone called Aunt Lotty?”

  “No,” Missy says. “I thought you’d want to tell her.” I nod. She’s right. It should come from me. Aunt Lotty is Daddy’s sister. She had been very close to my momma, though. When Daddy died, she came back. I’m sure she’s going to want to come back this time, too.

  “When’s the wake so I can invite her?”

  “It’s Thursday. We’re havin’ the viewing in the mornin’, the burial at noon, and then the wake’ll be all evenin’,” she says.

  Aunt Lotty cries through the whole conversation. Once again. Knowing someone is dying is completely different than having it happen for real. She agrees through sniffles and tears to come to town for the burial and the wake.

  I spend the rest of the morning trying to be busy. I can’t really think about Momma without crying. I help Missy pick out a dress to bury her in. It’s a white dress covered in pretty flowers and has little pearl-like buttons all the way up the front. It’s the one I’d imagined her in. I knew she had a dress like this.

  I find it nearly impossible to be in her closet. It smells of her and makes me feel lonely. It makes my chest feel tight like it’s about to break open. The medicine smell is still in the bedroom but hasn’t infiltrated the closet. I find myself on the floor examining her shoes.

  There’s a pair near the back wall that I remember well. They were her everyday shoes. She cleaned the house in them, went to the store in them, made dinner in them. I stare at the soles and examine the way she wore them down. Each sole is worn differently. She favored her right leg. I realize these shoes represent life. A life lived well, so I smile.

  I stand up and lean into the clothes with my arms outstretched as if I’m hugging them. I try to pretend she’s here with me. I grab some jewelry to put with her in the casket and close up the closet like a tomb. I can’t bear the thought of losing the scent in here. It’s a scent that won’t exist in this world again. I need to contain it.

  Around noon, I wonder where my gun is. Oh, yes. It’s on the mantle in the living room at Dillon’s house. I want to go talk to Renae but not without my gun. I swallow some food. I don’t care what it is. I think some kind of potato. At noon, I text Jenny. She follows back with some weird code that I’m sure means she’s scared to death that I’m still here with my rapist running free. I ask her to send me some clothes.

  I help Missy plan the funeral. I make calls to invite people. They all seem surprised to hear from me. I apologize to the boys for leaving them last night. They pretend like they don’t care. I make a mental note to stop being so selfish and integrate them into my life.

  As the day wears on, I wonder if Dillon is coming back at all. I want to call him, but I don’t even have his number. There hasn’t been a need to call him until now. This is what scares me about being in love. How vulnerable it makes me feel. How much I need him now. When I hear his tires crumble up the driveway, I actually run out the front door. My stomach coils up and I wait for him to come to me so I can hold him, so he can hold me.

  “What shed was it, Sadie?” he asks, urgently. His hands are grasping me just at the top of my arms.

  Stunned, I stand here, my palms facing up. He remembers me saying that up on the mountain. I shake my head no, trying to back away from him. He’s scaring me. The intensity of his grasp, the wild look in his eyes. He’s pieced something together. What he knows, I’m unsure. But he’s one step closer at least.

  “It was my shed, wasn’t it?” I can’t move. Then he takes off. He’s running toward his momma’s house. What’s he doing? Is he going to the shed?

  For seconds, I can’t will myself to move. But I have to know what he’s doing. I take off after him. Feel the shock of my legs as they run along the wild path between our houses. Hear him throwing things around inside of the shed. The door is wide open as I approach apprehensively as if the shed itself is what hurt me, not the man who met me inside. Changed my fate forever. The man I know I have to tell on.

  I close my eyes. Take one deep breath before I take a step toward the entrance. There are ghosts inside this place. Someone died in here. This is true. Maybe if I can calm her spirit, she’ll stop haunting me in my dreams. Maybe my flowers will bloom again.

  But when I see him inside, I know something has changed. I see them in his hands. Light pink, stiff with old blood. My light pink panties. The ones he’d seen when he kissed me for the first time.

  “Where were those?” I cry.

  “Wrapped in this cloth and tucked into this spot right here,” he says, pointing to a spot in the corner. “These are yours,” he decides. Part of me wants to break to pieces. But I’m worried about Dillon. I’m not ready for him to know. “This is where you were. I was running around looking for you. And this is where you were. Right here. Right on my property.”

  I can’t respond. I want to take the panties. Hide them. Bury them. Bury someone else’s crime.

  “I came here. Called to you,” he says.

  “He had a knife. It was up to my throat. He’d already cut me. When we heard you, he threatened to kill me, then kill you.”

  “Oh, God!” he says. The look on his face will never leave me. I want to crawl away. Hide. I fall to my knees. Bury my head in my lap.

  When I look up, I see the gas can. It’s in a haze that I watch Dillon douse this shed in the sharp scented liquid. I want to yell stop. But no words come. Nothing seems to make sense.

  I see the flames. Feel the strong arms taking me away from them. But I have to watch. It really is hell. Flames lick upward like tongues as I take it in, watch it become an inferno. I smile at the crackling sound of the boards being robbed of their hold on me. My own personal hell. It’s gone!

  Chapter Twenty-Three—The Link

  The hell mouth. That’s what the shed reminds me of. The place where sinners’ bodies are devoured, consumed. But not this one. I can imagine the spirit rising above the flames. The spirit of me at fourteen. The one that wanders around in that shed in her dreams pleading for her life, for her virtue, for the last ten and a half years. She doesn’t have to do that anymore.

  For her, this feels like justice. I realize I’m on the ground when the wet grass leaks through the fabric of my jeans. I look around for the first time as the flames consume both the shed and my senses.

  “Dillon!” I scream, and then cough. I can’t see him through the smoke. He’s pulled me all the way toward the property line where the trees grow untamed and rough. That’s when I hear him. He’s behind me in the trees. He’s pulling branches. Throwing things from the ground into the leaves and needles. I stand up, walk toward him.

  “Dillon,” I say, reaching out to touch his back ever so carefully. I see my hand shaking uncontrollably as it makes contact with his white shirt.

  He flips around, wild-eyed, nostrils flared, his mouth in a knotted scowl. His hands are in fists. His arms and neck look like they might burst. He’s breathing so heavily it makes quicken mine, too. He starts pacing.

  He’s angry with me. That’s what this feels like.

  He’s blaming me for not yelling for him when he called my name.

  The guilt comes back to me again, and I turn away from him. I feel so ashamed of myself. So dirty. So unworthy.

  Just like Daddy blamed me. Just like Donnie blamed me. Not Dillon, too
.

  That’s when I see them. The pink panties are lying on the grass near the shed. He must have dropped them in his ferocity to destroy it. They’re going to burn up.

  It’s evidence. DNA, both mine and Donnie’s. I’ve got to get them. I run as fast as I can toward the shed. Then they are in my hands. They feel like a combination of softness and death. Blood and silk. I feel like a lucky thief as Dillon pulls me up and away from the flames.

  “What are you doing?” he screams. “Trying to get yourself killed?” I shake my head no. I hide the panties in my hands and clasp them to my chest as he pulls me toward him. He’s shaking, breathing fast and quick in my ear. “I’m...I’m so...,” he tries to say, between the rumble of adrenaline and the quick breaths.

  “It’s not my fault!” I scream, and pull away from him. “How can you blame me for what he did to me?” I’m pointing at his house. I put my hand down quickly.

  “No,” he says. His eyes are wide again like under the windowsill. He’s reaching out to me. “Baby, no. Not. Your. Fault!” he pants. “Mine. I let you get hurt. Me.” He’s pointing at his chest. Pounds his breast with is fist.

  I’m petrified as he comes toward me. He must know I’m scared because he forces his fists to become hands again. Taking a cleansing breath he comes toward me—warily this time like I’m a wounded animal. “I’m sorry,” he croons. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says, wrapping his arms around me and rubbing my back. He smells like gasoline, smoke, and evergreen trees.

  I look up at the house. Dot and Renae are on the wrap-around porch. Dot’s holding a phone up to her ear. I look at the driveway. Donnie’s white cruiser isn’t parked there. He must be out on his shift. I slide the panties into the right front pocket of my jeans