The Damned of Lost Creek

by Danae Ayusso

  That’s refreshing; construction is a completely acceptable and honorable profession.

  Not a pimp or dealer. That’s good and a surprise with Mom’s taste in men.

  “No... Well, I guess you can say that,” Ellie said. “Price has Masters Degrees in Architecture and Environmental Sciences. Your father is one of the premier architects in the world who focuses entirely on green building and green restoration. The fountain,” she started, kneeling down next to the pond then pointed, “is his little homage to the family. Each member is memorialized in the stone.”

  I stood next to her and looked at the retaining wall carefully; each brick has a name carved into it.

  “Nice, like a family tree of sorts,” I mumbled under my breath.

  That’s a lot of family.

  I nodded; there were many people listed, and apparently, family names are used repeatedly because there is no way there are that many Simians or Gregorys in a single generation.

  “Exactly!” Ellie beamed, causing me to jump, startled. “And there’s yours.”

  “What?” I looked closer to where she was pointing and sure enough, carved into the stone under Price Justice Simoeau was Father of Mikhail Ryan Justice Simoeau. “Holy shit!” I choked, my hand covering my mouth.

  Huh, that’s pleasantly awkward.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” Price sheepishly admitted from behind me.

  Again, I jumped, startled, and lost my footing on the slick embankment and landed in the pond.

  Ellie roared with laughter, nearly falling in herself.

  Price sighed and offered me a hand, but I declined.

  The water isn’t deep, so I sat up and stayed like that, pouting.

  “Nothing is going to eat me in here, right?” I asked.

  “No,” he assured me. “The horses drink from it. The water is from an underground spring on the property and flows down through the acreage.”

  That’s more than I needed to know, but knowing is half the battle according to G.I. Joe.

  “Horses don’t have anything nasty I can catch, right?” I pressed, ignoring his second offer for help. I attempted to climb out, slipping three times in the process, ripping a hole in not only my jeans, but my knee as well. “Damn it,” I mumbled under my breath, finally getting to dry ground. I looked at my jeans and that was when it registered.

  I started patting my back pockets.

  Damn it!

  I screamed in frustration, spewing every possible combination, and a few that I just made up, of words utilizing the versatility of the word fuck as I jumped up and down.

  “What’s wrong?” they demanded, looking as if they were debating on calling Cinder Dick to tase me after all.

  “Damn it!” I slumped down to the ground and fought back the tears. “It’s gone,” I sniveled, pulling my hands through my hair, pushing it back. “That’s all I had...” I wrapped my arms over my head and started rocking, my view of the pond blurring more and more from the tears flooding my eyes.

  It’s been longer than I cared to admit since I had reverted to rocking.

  All that now remained of my mother was the red string bookmark I had wrapped around my wrist while reading, waiting for Cinder Dick to cut his shit.

  “Mikhail,” Price started, squatting down in front of me, “what are you talking about?”

  I shook my head because he wouldn’t understand.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s gone,” I whispered.

  That was all I had left of my mother, the mother that wasn’t a drug addicted, drunken whore that hooked up with every dude that gave her a second glance. It was all I had left of the woman that would read to me at night and tucked me into bed, because we actually had a roof over our heads! That was all I had left of my mother before my mother wasn’t a mother anymore and became all about her.

  “Ellie, why don’t you go get a towel for Mikhail, and I’ll stay out here with her,” Price suggested, but it was more of a subtle order than an arguable suggestion. When we were alone, he sat down next to me and looked out over the landscape. “Mikhail, I don’t know what has happened to you nor do I know of the life that you have led. I don’t expect you to call me Dad or Father or any other term of endearment that I haven’t earned, and I will do the same until you want me to, or feel that I deserve to, call you Daughter. I swear to you I didn’t know that Noeline was pregnant. I swear I didn’t know, and if I had known, I would have searched come hell or high water for you. I thought that she couldn’t handle it... Couldn’t handle me, or life here, and that’s why she left. I prayed that she would eventually come home and give me another chance even though I didn’t know what I did wrong. If I... I never thought it was possible. A child was always something that I wanted, but didn’t think was possible. I guess I got that, but I missed everything and I couldn’t protect you from what you went through.

  “Mikhail, I want to know all about you: the good, the bad and the questionable. But only if you want me to know. I won’t force you to tell me. Just give me a chance. That’s all I ask for, a chance to know you, to know my daughter. Can I have that?”

  I sat there digesting what he said. I’m not sure what to say. He’s asking for something that I’ve never given to anyone: trust. But I... I don’t know how to give what he’s asking for.

  Price sighed. “Mikhail, it isn’t fair that I got to miss all of your firsts: steps, word, school, kiss, boyfriend, date. I didn’t get to teach you to ride a bike, drive a car or throw a ball-”

  “I’m a girl,” I interrupted.

  “You don’t like sports?” he asked.

  I smirked. “That isn’t the point. I was just reminding you that I’m a girl.”

  He nodded with a soft chuckle. “Do you see my point though?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not a completely idiotic bitch!” I accidentally snapped at him. “Price, I don’t know how to give what you’re asking for. Will I eventually to trust you? Yeah, I’m sure I will. But it’ll take time because I don’t know how to truth you. You... You really don’t want to know what you’re asking to know.”

  “But I do,” he pleaded. “I want to know everything, Mikhail.”

  Poor man. His life must be boring.

  Leave him alone.

  “Eight years old,” I said with a sigh.

  “What?”

  “My first kiss was when I was eight years old,” I said. “I pushed Malcolm Warner against the wall and kissed him. Three days later, the girl that was telling everyone they were dating, which I didn’t know about, beat the living hell out of me with her little hoodrat friends. They broke my jaw in three places, fractured my cheekbone and orbital socket, and knocked out six teeth. I was in a coma for two weeks. Mom was in la-la land trying to steal medication from the nurses’ cart, and when I woke up, the State took custody of me for my stay in the hospital. Afterward, I went to a halfway house. Four days later Mom kidnapped me from the playground. Trust me, Price,” I turned and looked at him, his eyes were closed and tears were streaming down his cheeks, “when I say you don’t want to know, you really don’t want to know.”

  Chapter Three

  Family Dinner

  I thought there was no way it could get any more awkward and uncomfortable even if I tried.

  I so very was wrong.

  After I cleaned up, which consisted of a quick shower in the small house that I couldn’t relax through, and changed into an ill-fitting pair of jeans that I pilfered from the halfway house and a fitted black undershirt, I joined Ellie and Price in the dining room. A homemade dinner at a nice—tree that someone cut in half and threw a bunch of shellac on and gave it some legs—dining room table would have been a first for me...

  That I can remember.

  Sadly, just dinner wasn’t exactly what it entailed.

  More people filled the dining room and each was looking at me: men, women, people my age, and some smaller kids that were sneaking bites of cookies when their mothers weren’t looking. Everyone was dresse
d nice in simple cotton dresses and dress shirts and slacks as if they just got out of church. And of course, I stood out like a broke bitch at NYE in Philadelphia.

  I nervously cracked my knuckles and chewed on my bottom lip.

  Fuck this, I’m going back to Philly.

  “This isn’t awkward at all,” I grumbled under my breath, awkwardly standing in the doorway, not entirely sure what to do or where to sit.

  “You ain’t telling us anything we don’t already know,” one of the dudes halfway down the table, that looked to be my age, agreed then threw a dinner roll at me.

  Not sure what to do, I caught it with one hand then took a bite. “Thanks,” I mumbled with a mouth full of food.

  “Heck yeah, we finally have a second baseman!” he said, winking at me.

  I’m assuming I just signed up for a softball team without knowing it.

  “Or third, I can play either,” I said. “First base as well, but only with a pitcher that has their head out of their ass.”

  He nodded. “That can be arranged. I’m Shep.”

  “Mikhail… Or Justice when I’m being a raging bitch.”

  Shep gave me a look. “Okay. We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you. But, I have to ask, why the dude’s name?” he teased with a smirk.

  I shrugged. “It’s better than being called Cinder Dick. Isn’t that right, Cinder Dick?” I asked, looking over at him, and he glared at me.

  “I think it’s a delightful name,” a woman smiled, and I sat in the seat Ellie motioned to at the end of the table between her and Price. “I’m Marianne, and I’m married to your Uncle Cinder Dick.”

  That was it, the entire table roared with laughter.

  Obviously, everyone knows what I did to him and found amusement in it, so that leads me to believe that Cinder Dick is just that, a dick.

  Conversations flowed around the table.

  Anytime someone would say something, they introduced them self. It appears that they were warned against asking me questions about my past, Mom, and all that, which was nice. I just wanted to eat and hide out wherever I was being put up for the night.

  From the conversations that didn’t involve me, not that any of them did, I was able to figure out a few things, not that any of it was important, but it helped to pass the time. None of the women are biologically related; they all married into the family. The same with the two little girls eating cookies; they’re stepchildren. The little boys and people that are biologically related are all males. The smaller house that I thought was the house is actually where the ranch manager, Nick, lives, and his son, Shep, lives in the larger house because he can’t stand his dad’s girlfriend. No one straight out said it, but I’m good at reading people.

  Price said nothing and didn’t eat anything. He simply sat there and stirred his cup of tea, but never took a drink. On occasion, his eyes would flicker to whoever was talking and they automatically changed the direction of the conversation. There’s a silent level of communication going on that no one seems to notice, maybe because they’re used to it, but to me it’s like a damn neon sign in the dark, and I don’t know if I like it or not. I can’t deny that Price has a presence about him, what little bit I’ve seen and heard from him, and that there’s something else there, but I have to respect both on some level.

  He’s a quiet authoritarian that obviously leads the family.

  “Sweetheart,” Ellie said, waving her hand in front of my face to get my attention.

  “Huh?”

  She smiled. “On Sundays we have the family together after church and have either brunch or dinner, you missed dinner so I threw some sandwiches together,” she said, and I made a face. “Yes, I know, I stated the obvious,” she said, making a face in return. “Anyhoo, usually we play games as a family. I know it sounds… What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Setup? Family Channel’esque? Disney moment? After school special in the making?” I offered, and Ellie rolled her eyes.

  “We’ll go with lame,” she informed me. “We play games, or a game, as a family, and we’d like to invite you to join us. We promise it won’t be anything embarrassing and there’ll be no getting to know you ambushes. Just friendly competition–”

  “Until someone loses, and then it turns into a trip to the pond,” Simian, another of my uncles, interrupted. “But considering you already took a header into the pond, I’m sure you won’t mind playing, right?” His eyebrows appeared to be waving at me, and I’m not entirely sure what to say to that.

  This isn’t at all embarrassing and not what I wanted to do or something that I thought families actually did. Are they putting on a front for me? It doesn’t appear that way, but this is really freaking me out. I grew up where stuff like this doesn’t happen. Families don’t sit down for Sunday brunch or dinner then play games and just hang out. I can’t even remember seeing a two-parent household back home. Usually Moms either worked two jobs since their babies’ daddies are locked up or missing in action, and they only saw their kids in the morning while they got ready for one job and again when they tucked them in after they got off of their second job, or they just didn’t give a damn. They didn’t do stuff like this.

  But what if they do or are supposed to?

  I know I’m going to regret this…

  “What game?” I reluctantly asked.

  Now everyone was smiling. Well, everyone but Price; he was still staring at his tea.

  There’s a faint pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach, something I’ve never felt before, and I don’t like that I’m feeling it now; Philly mindset Mikhail, Justice, whatever she wants to call herself, usually took care of this but she was strangely quiet at the moment, as if she’s resolving. The guilt, I’m sure, was because I hated him for not wanting me, when the whole time he did want me, if he knew I existed.

  Something touched my shoulder. I jumped, startled, and my knees slammed into the underside of the table, knocking over the water glasses around me. Instinctively I slipped out of my chair, then pushed it back from me, knocking who, or what, touched me back.

  Shep looked under the table, his blue eyes were warm, and a small smile was pulling at the corners of his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I was going to show you to the games while the women-folk,” he snorted softly and made a face, “clean up.”

  Oops.

  That isn’t embarrassing at all.

  “I’m a woman,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah but you don’t count,” Shep replied with a smirk. “All those of the female variety that can actually catch a ball and help our softball team in the fall are excluded from bitch labor,” he informed me.

  That’s a little rude. Someone wants his balls and nose to match Cinder Dick’s.

  “You’re an asshole, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Me?” he said, batting his lashes. “No,” he laughed, sitting on the floor in front of me, ignoring everyone else that has to think I’m, or we’re, completely insane. “Bitch labor is taking care of the dogs out back that take care of the leftovers. They’re all bitches so bitch labor, get it? Cinder Dick and Simian are the ones that take care of it, and Ellie will complain while the others fill her kitchen and clean up… You don’t want to be anywhere near her when she brings groceries home. Everything has a place and if it gets out of place she’ll whoop you good.”

  Ellie smacked him upside the back of the head and he yelped.

  I choked on the burst of amused relief that broke past my lips. “Nice. I didn’t... I mean... I’m sorry for spazzing out. I don’t like to be touched,” I tried to explain.

  Shep’s smile fell and he nodded. “It’s cool. At least you didn’t kick me in the balls. That would have sucked.”

  “Give it time,” I warned.

  He made a face then laughed. “Warning acknowledged and I’ll try to remember to wear my cup. Since it’s your first time at game night, and it is tradition, you get to pick the game. I’ll show you the options.” He g
ot to his feet and stepped away from the table.

  Great.

  I look like a complete spaz in front of these people, and now I have to make myself look like an even bigger spaz by playing some stupid board game. I hate board games. That’s what they make you play while you’re waiting to talk to your caseworker or sitting at the police station waiting to pick up personal belongings.

  Damn it.

  I crawled out from under the table. “Dropped a contact,” I said with a shrug and completely fabricated smile then followed Shep out of the dining room.

  The sound of something glass shattering against the wall made me jump.

  “So, what kind of games do you like to play?” Shep asked loudly, trying to pull my attention from the dining room behind us.

  I shrugged, not sure what to say and strangely concerned with what’s going on behind us.

  “I like to play drawing games like Pictionary,” he said.

  “Yeah, no. I don’t do Pictionary,” I said. Too many memories of ‘show me on the picture where he touched you’ is associated with that particular game.

  We continued through the gallery, and I quickly eyed each piece of art we passed, slightly irritated that I didn’t have a chance to properly look at them. I can later I suppose, since I live here now.

  The gallery opened up into a large family room that was made up of three walls of windows. The only break in them was the moldings and sills and a fireplace. Nine smaller contemporary, blown glass chandeliers hung from the soaring three-story ceiling, circling a massive chandelier that matched the others in style but hung slightly lower, painting the white area rug directly under it with little rainbows of dancing light. Many leather and steel couches, chaises and club chairs filled the area, all surrounding the large, floor to ceiling, tongue and groove plank accented fireplace where a fire was burning low in a bed of white crystals.

  This feels like Pretty Woman without the prostitution aspect. Show me to my room so I can jump up and down on the bed!

  You have so many issues.

  “Mikhail?” Shep asked.

  “Jeopardy?” I blurted out.