by S. L. Hebert
As for his sister Mary Broussard, she didn’t believe the vile shit her dad was spewing all those years ago, and from what I’ve gathered, she counted the days till she could run far away and never look back. She wanted out, but deep down I know when she hatched her plan to leave, it never occurred to her that her own brother would be the one to try and stop her, ultimately killing her for trying to escape from the only life she’d ever known and despised.
Sitting here now on the second-floor balcony at the Arlington Plantation, where Michael and I have been staying since we were released from the hospital, I quietly sip my warm, soothing cup of coffee. I desperately try to relax, watching as the leaves on the trees begin to grow back, signaling spring is in the air. Next to the fall, spring is my second favorite time of the year. Here in the south, it’s the not-so-gentle, short break we get in before the heat index hits over a hundred and the humidity becomes almost suffocating.
For some strange reason, I’m finding it hard to ease my mind this morning, mainly because deep down I know we’ll end up back at John and Michael’s property in Winnsboro at some point today. We head out there every chance we get, looking and searching for any clues as to whether there are any bodies possibly located in the overgrown woods. For a little over a month now, we have been looking with the help of a few local law enforcement officers, but we haven’t turned up anything other than what remains were left of William Broussard.
I keep reminding myself that when you’re dealing with lots of acres of property, it’s almost impossible to cover it all in a short amount of time. The only time we missed was when we had doctors’ appointments and left Franklin to attend Bria’s funeral. I’m just thankful we don’t have to worry about work right now because Michael and I took medical and personal leaves of absence. The sheriff was more than willing to give us as much time as we needed, and I know full well he never gives anything for free. He’s a master at having you look at the right hand while the left one is taking money out of your pockets. I have a feeling he wants us out of the way, so he can spin the story to the press, making sure it benefits him. This thought alone makes me silently chuckle on the inside, because little does he know, it’s fine with me. He can say whatever he likes as long as I don’t have to sit and listen to it.
Michael and my stay here has passed by rather quickly. We only have a few more days until we return to Houma. Our time here has been filled with an extreme mixture of emotions for everyone involved. Michael and his mother have managed to bond. She sat us down a few days after we were released from the hospital, making sure we were up to it, and told us all about her past. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to sit and listen to, hearing her talk about her childhood and growing up in Italy. Her family was poor, and her mother worked as a prostitute to save the money to send her to America. What surprised the shit out of me was that her husband allowed it. They were so desperate to get her over here and have a better chance at life. By the time she was finished, the story had washed away a little bit of my heart. She truly tried her best to make it sound as if it was okay with her, stating that prostitution was legal overseas. But I could see the thought of it was still unsettling for her to think about, realizing in that moment she will forever carry around the feeling of guilt.
Then to hear about the torture she willingly received at the hands of William Broussard, just to save Michael. It was one of the bravest things I’d ever heard of a woman doing for her unborn child. She found the courage, allowing him to put a set of reins attached to the metal head gear and mouth guard on her head. Then as commanded, she knelt on all fours, naked. Somehow, she took the entire beating, never once moving, for fear of him hitting her stomach. She claims when he was finished with the lashings, her body was dripping with blood, from the top of her neck all the way down to her ankles.
At one point, she explained to us that her exhausted, mutilated body kept trying to collapse to the floor, but with God’s help, she held herself up. He had answered her silent prayers.
According to Miss. Messana, the beating lasted so long, he had stopped counting and started ranting to God, asking for his guidance. When he stopped praying and whipping her, it made her think the nightmare was over…that is until he took out a lighter and lit some candles he had in his suitcase. She said she couldn’t really see everything he was doing from behind her, so it was a complete shock when she suddenly felt the surge of pain sear through her core and the aroma of burning flesh filled the room. Feeling the brutal sensation of her flesh being set on fire, over and over, was described to us as if she had walked through the flames of hell.
While she was telling us her story, I made myself sit and not head for the closest bathroom. My stomach was turning, and all I wanted to do was start bawling, tossing up the lunch I’d eaten earlier.
I managed to find a way to sit through it, telling myself if she was strong enough to reveal her horrible past, then I would be strong enough to listen. It appeared that according to William, God had sent him a sign to mark her, although she said he never told her what the sign was. He claimed it was, so she couldn’t wear inappropriate clothes, like short shorts or a bathing suit. The scars of burnt crosses on her back will forever be seen every time she looks in a mirror.
Clearly, in my mind I know he did this for purely selfish reasons, branding her. He figured if he couldn’t continue to be with her, no one else would want to either, leaving her to walk around forever bearing the scars of her shame. They are a constant reminder to her of him and what he was capable of.
He really was a sick bastard, but what happened to Miss Messana was only the tip of the iceberg. The tools and contraptions we found out at the farm and in the house and barn were shocking, to say the least.
Located in one of the little bedrooms on one of the walls were two long rectangle boards screwed in. One board was approximately five feet high, and the other about one foot off the ground, both having cuffs fastened to them. They were the same types of cuffs found at the crime scene where Mary had taken her last breaths. Mr. Broussard must have either had several of them made or made them himself. If I had to guess, he basically made whoever sinned hang on the wall. I marked a mental note to find out from our serial killer later how exactly he managed to do that and see if my theory was right.
As it is, I’m still trying to convince Michael that I need to meet with John. He doesn’t want to see the importance of me agreeing to sit in an interview room, across a table from his brother. The D.A. claims John is basically asking for me to sit in an interview room with him and expose the truths from my childhood, claiming he will only speak with me.
This whole idea of meeting John has me torn, even though deep down I knew I would agree to meet him. As for Michael, he isn't helping the situation either, being totally against me being anywhere near his brother. In truth, we need to find out where the other bodies were disposed of, and only John can tell us that information. Michael has to realize how vitally important it is to give the families closure; when losing a loved one, nothing is more important than knowing you’re able to lay their bodies to rest in peace. I’ve only wrestled with the idea of not wanting to play the game because it involves revealing my past, a past I’ve tried to keep hidden from everyone. In my mind, I figured if I would pretend like it didn’t happen, then over the years it would eventually go away. I guess that’s the one thing I learned from Mary Broussard: no matter how much you try to run from your past, you can never escape from it. The ugly truth will always find a way to rear its hideous head and bite you in the ass.
Finishing the last sip of my coffee, I take a long, deep breath and slowly raise myself up out of the chair, noticing it still takes me a few seconds to perform such a simple task. My back stiffens up and gets achy due to the wounds left behind from the lashes I’d endured. I only have myself to blame for the pain I’m in. The doctors prescribed me pain medication, but I refuse to take anything stronger than an over-the-counter medicine. I don’t trust myself not to get h
ooked on painkillers. Plus, in my line of work I’ve come across many addicts, and it’s not a pretty sight. Besides, alcohol is my drug of choice; always has been.
Taking one last look at the beautiful oak trees, I decide it’s time to make my way downstairs to find Michael and see what’s on the agenda for the day. I’m sure I’ll find him somewhere with his mother; he usually has coffee and breakfast with her in the mornings. Since I don’t eat breakfast, it gives them a chance to talk in private. Truthfully, I’m the type of person who likes my alone time. I encouraged him to take all the time he needs, and then some. They have a lifetime of memories to catch up on and things to learn about each other. I’m sure once we leave and go back to Houma, it won’t be the end of him and his birth mother; they’ll forever be in each other’s lives from now on. This means he’ll also have to break the news to his adopted parents when we return. I know they’ll welcome her with open arms, especially after they hear the story of how she saved us and only gave him up to save him after he was born.
As I check my appearance in the mirror, I decide to wait to get fully dressed, at least until I know what’s going on. Heading down the stairs, I try my best to be as quiet as possible, mainly because we are simply guests in this bed and breakfast. It’s easy to forget this when the person who manages most of it is Michael’s mother. She’s lived here for so long that she treats the place as if it’s her home, tending to the guest all day and night. Then on top of all her many duties, she manages to make sure the upkeep of the place is taken care of, inside and out. She claims the actual owners rarely make an appearance, due to being on vacation all the time. They seem to trust her immensely.
Once at the bottom of the stairwell, I glance into the parlor room. I see some of the guests sitting around and enjoying their coffee while reading the newspaper. Suddenly, I feel thankful all the news coverage has died down and no one recognizes me.
After checking in a few more places, I end up finding Michael and his mother outside on the patio area, located at the back of the plantation. I pause before fully walking outside, taking in the sight of the two of them together.
She’s wearing her starched, pressed black and white uniform. As I observe her appearance, I notice she looks very relaxed and content. Her long, dark hair is firmly pulled up into a nice bun, and her makeup is flawless. From looking at her, you’d never know the scars she carries. I find myself wondering, after all these years of being alone, does she ever get lonely? I swiftly remind myself it’s none of my business.
Turning my attention to Michael, I can see he’s wearing relaxed fitted blue jeans and a white polo shirt. He looks so handsome, it’s almost breathtaking. The smile he wears while talking to his mother is authentic and genuine. It’s a side of him I feel privileged to witness; so vulnerable and caring. He’s hanging on to her every word, watching her with adoring admiration.
Instantly, needing to break my thoughts about how attractive he is, I softly make some subtle noises to let them know I’m at the door.
Michael
I find my mother coming out of the kitchen looking beautiful, wearing her usual uniform; she seems to have a way of always looking refined and sharp. It amazes me, after all she’s endured over the years, she’s still managed not to let it show on the outside. Her ability to put on a brave face every day and act as if nothing ever happened is inspiring to me.
As she looks in my direction, I quickly say, “Morning, Mrs. Messana.”
“Oh Michael, please call me Abigaila. It has been over a month since we’ve been reunited, and ‘Mrs. Messana’ sounds so formal.”
A little taken aback, I hesitate for a moment, then softly reply, “Okay, Abigaila it is, then.”
“Much better, Michael. I also don’t think you should call me ‘Mom’ or ‘Mother’, mainly because I know you’ve been blessed with two loving parents you love and adore. I’m not trying to undo history by stepping on Thomas or Sara Grasso’s toes. Being able to finally meet you and spend this time with you is a blessing I’ll always be thankful for.”
“I’m very thankful as well, Abigaila. Please don’t think otherwise. It’s just all so new for me, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything. Would you happen to have time for a cup of coffee this morning?”
“With you, always. Where would you like to sit today?”
“Our usual spot in the back would be fine, if that’s okay with you?”
She lifts her open hand in a motion towards the back door and with a smile says, “Lead the way, please.”
Once we take our seats on the back patio, I take a moment to look around at the scenery. Springtime is rolling in nicely. The oak trees are starting to fill with foliage, and the crepe myrtles are getting ready to bloom. Turning to look back at her, I realize she’s been staring at me, prompting me to ask, “Is everything okay today? How are you feeling?”
“Everything’s fine, Michael. I was wondering: would you like to know more about your biological family? I’m almost afraid to even have asked the question, but when I look at you, I see your grandfather in your eyes.”
“I would love to know more. I was scared to ask; worried it would upset you.”
“Not at all. I’ve told you before, I’ll answer any questions you have. It’s the least I can do after all these years.”
“Okay, do you know the history for the last name Messana? I only ask because it’s not a common name.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. In Italy, we take considerable pride in our last names and heritage. Even though my mother and father were poor, the last name Messana comes from great stock. We even have a family crest. I’ll show it to you before you leave to go back home. It’s important for you to know all your heritage, not just your father’s side. I feel the need to tell you this, son, so you realize there’s a lot of good blood running through your veins. Please, always try to remember and hold on to this fact.”
Now, listening closely to my mother, I find myself leaning in forward, like a child waiting to see a magic trick happen before my eyes. All I can say is, “Really? A family crest, huh?”
“Why, yes. The name has been around since 397 B.C. It’s dated back from a northeast Sicilian City along the Homonymous Straight. Anyone who carries the last name of Messana is given respect. Whether a person is rich, or poor doesn’t matter; when you’re Italian, respect is worth way more than money.”
“Is that why you always look so together, carrying your head high with confidence?”
“Partly. I was raised with little money and taught at a very young age that family is everything. It’s the reason I allowed William to do what he did to me. I was carrying my child, and even though you weren’t born yet, I was willing to die trying to save you.”
“I’ll always respect what you’ve done. Please, don’t feel guilty about giving me up. Now that I know why, it’s water under the bridge. No more looking back, okay?”
“Okay. Would you like to know what Abigaila means?”
Without answering her, I silently shake my head in a yes motion.
“Abigaila is from the Hebrew name Abigail, in the Old Testament. It’s written that King David’s third wife’s name was Abigail, and she was known for being good in discretion and beautiful in form. It means ‘father’s joy’, and according to my mother, I was the reason for my father’s happiness.”
“Well, Abigaila, I think you’re every bit of your name. You’re beautiful, and the discretion you’ve displayed so far shows you’re a good-natured person, always looking out for everyone else.”
After taking another sip of my coffee, I hear a noise from behind me and turn to see Logan standing in the doorway. She’s wearing jogging pants and a tee shirt with a hooded jacket. I consciously check under her eyes to see if she rested enough, and to my surprise, the dark circles aren’t there.
I half-turn to her and say, “Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you when I left the room?”
“No. After I fell back asleep last night, I slept
like a baby till morning.”
Before I can say anything, Abigaila chimes in saying, “Oh Logan, that’s great news. You look wonderful this morning. Please, come take a seat and join us.”
Logan swiftly looks to me, and I raise my hand towards the chair and say, “Yes, please have a seat. We have a little while before we have to go to the medical examiner’s office this morning.”
She gives me a look of questioning with her eyebrow raised, and I can literally see the wheels turning in her head with questions.
After taking her seat, she looks to me and asks, “So, who called this morning?”
“Jacob Tyler, the Lead Homicide Detective. He’s going to meet us at the lab in a little over an hour from now. He says the medical examiner, Kellon Miller, has found a few things we’re sure to find interesting about William Broussard’s autopsy.”
Looking from Logan to my mother, I can see the wonder in their eyes.
Logan takes a sip of her coffee, then says, “Good. We need to tie up as many loose ends as possible before we head back to Houma. I want to have all my ducks in a row before I meet with John. The more ammunition I have for the interview, the better.”
Leaning back in my chair, I can’t help running my fingers through my hair. It’s my way of trying to contain my frustration. She just ever so casually lets the cat out of the bag that she plans to do this sit-down deal with my half-brother, and I need to control my anger about this issue if I want to be able to have any influence in this ordeal at all. Quickly, I decide now is not the time to voice my opinion again on the subject, especially in the company of my birth mother.
Abigaila must be picking up on my uncomfortable demeanor because she pointedly says, “Logan, dear, would you like some breakfast this morning? I can have the cook whip you up anything you’d like.”
Logan quietly answers, “No, thank you. I don’t usually eat breakfast. It’s a bad habit I acquired years ago, but thanks for asking. I’m just going to finish my coffee and then head upstairs to get changed.”