by Tara Goedjen
She winced. Her granddad didn’t stand a chance against Sonny. He took a sip of his drink and looked at her. “I found the back door open today.”
“Oh.” Her heart dropped; the milk was just a trap. He’d only sat her down for another lecture. Why had she thought this was somehow different? “I’ll make sure it’s locked next time.” It shouldn’t have been open; both she and Elle were so careful.
Sonny let out a sigh, scratched at his hair. “You girls think I’m too hard on you.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Didn’t know how she tiptoed around the house, waiting for him to turn like when the sky darkens with a sudden storm.
“I only want to keep you safe,” he said.
“I know.” She tilted the mug to drink so she wouldn’t have to say anything more. Elle knew how to push until he snapped, and sometimes she knew right where to stop, but Mae didn’t like that in-between ground where anything she said could be taken the wrong way. Instead, whenever she felt like yelling at him, she shoved all her anger through the bright red door in her mind and slammed it shut.
“I think he might come back one of these days,” Sonny went on, “and when he does, I’ll be ready.”
Mae coughed, choking on the milk. She knew exactly who he was talking about. She set her mug down hard, but her dad didn’t seem to notice. “How do you…” She cleared her throat. “Why do you think he did it?”
Sonny shrugged, his eyes going dark. “He was always dwelling on her.”
She straightened in her seat, grasped her mug tighter. Arguing with him wouldn’t help, and neither would talking about Ro. Every time she said Ro’s name it was like she’d hit him, and Sonny didn’t like getting hit.
“Dad…” She forced herself to speak. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”
It’s not anyone’s fault, she wanted to add, but she didn’t know that for sure. No one did. Not yet. She shoved her hands into her pockets, felt the edge of the book she’d taken.
“You’re a good kid, Mae,” he said, but he didn’t look at her, just swirled his glass of whiskey. “You know, with fishing, there’s a lot of time to think, sometimes too much. It can pull you down in the bad thoughts, if you’re not careful.”
That must be why he’d quit. Why he hadn’t worked since Ro died. She took a sip of the milk, held it on her tongue. She didn’t know how to make him feel better, so she said what she’d been wanting to hear. “It’s going to be okay.”
He shook his head, his shoulders tight. “I just don’t know, Mae.” She caught the sharp scent of his drink as he lifted the glass. “Maybe one day you’ll understand what it’s like to be a father.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it’s like to be a father.”
Sonny looked at her and for a moment it seemed he might smile again, like she’d said the right thing. Instead he sighed. “You should be asleep.” He stood, drained his whiskey. “I’m headed that way myself.”
At the doorway he stopped, and she saw that his pistol was tucked into the back of his jeans—he’d been carrying it around since it happened. Her stomach twisted.
“I count myself lucky to be your dad, Mae Eliza.” He was turned from her, already walking off, so she could hardly hear him. “Must have done something right, huh?”
Her eyes watered and she felt a knot in her throat. She didn’t know whether she was happy he’d said it or sad because she’d never live up to Ro. Ro had been his favorite and with her gone, he was just going through the motions.
Mae stayed at the table, listening to the floorboards creak as he went upstairs. She was tired of worrying about him, tired of not being able to say her sister’s name aloud, and she didn’t know how much longer they could last without answers.
She waited until she heard his door close and then pulled the book from her pocket. In the light of the empty kitchen its leather looked greenish and old. It was small, the size of her hands held together side to side, but it was thick and tied shut with a ribbon. The back cover was missing, torn off completely, but the front cover was etched with two dark coffins.
It was her sister’s green book. The one Ro had found in the house and swore was a secret, the first and only time she’d shown Mae.
And here it was again.
Mae weighed it in her palms. It felt heavy, its leather almost warm. A gritty resolve settled in her stomach, and for the first time in nearly a year she didn’t feel so aimless—she knew what she had to do. When she stood to turn off the light, she could feel Ro beside her, whispering with her red velvet breath, Open it, Mae, open it.
CAGE WOKE WITH A LOUD gasp like he was drowning. Whiteness was everywhere—sea foam. He blinked. It was a ceiling, the old kind with those white popcorn bubbles. He tried to sit up, but his arm snagged on something and his head felt like it’d been hit with a tire iron.
He got a flash of memory, saw his motorcycle upside down in a steep ravine with thick kudzu at the bottom. He’d been stuck in it—tangled in green leaves, their vines pulling at him, and…nothing else came to him. Except a fight with Ro. As soon as the thought snaked through his mind it left, like a sheet pulled over his memory. And now he was in a bed, but not his own.
Another sharp stab at his arm, and he looked down to find a needle in his vein. His eyes followed the tube up to a bag of fluids hanging from a silver hook. He turned his head and nearly pitched to the side with dizziness as a searing light tore through his vision. Beside the window was a curtain, splitting the room in half, and she was standing at the door.
Thank the good Lord. Maybe she could fill him in, tell him what the hell he was doing in a hospital.
“Ro?”
She stepped toward him. “You’re awake.”
The voice was all wrong. It was tinny, shrill. His stomach tensed like he might get sick, and he blinked and saw an older woman, wearing white and holding a clipboard.
“We were hoping you’d wake.”
Cage yanked the IV out to sit up and get a good look at her.
“Gentle,” the woman said, pushing a button. The cot whirred to an upright position, and she eased the IV needle from his grasp.
“What happened?” His throat was scratchy, like he hadn’t used it in a while.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The woman sure did a lot of hoping. She handed him a paper cup full of water and he gulped it down.
“Thanks,” he said, but his mouth still felt dry. It reminded him of what his mother used to say when he asked for candy in the store and they didn’t have any money. People in hell want ice water, but they don’t get it, do they? He could remember his mother—clear as day, even when he wanted to forget her—but the motorcycle accident…He was drawing a blank. The not-knowing of it scared him, and the water churned in his empty stomach. He clenched his jaw so it wouldn’t come up.
“Your head, how does it feel?”
“Like it’s still attached.” Actually, it hurt everywhere, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “What happened?” he asked again.
The nurse or the doctor or whoever she was got him another cup of water. “Well, you stumbled into the hospital yelling and screaming, fit to wake the dead.” She shook her head and a strand of blond hair fell from her bun. “No wallet, no phone, and nothing you said was making any sense. We sedated you and then you were out like a light.”
“I—I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay, we’ll get you all fixed up.” The professional tone was back in her voice, but she couldn’t hide the worry on her face from him. He and worry were old friends.
“What’s your name?” the nurse-doctor asked. “Let’s start with that.”
His heart went fast in his chest like it was fighting to get out. If he’d crashed the bike, if he’d hit another car and damaged something…He couldn’t afford to be in trouble again.
“I don’t remember.” A lie, but until he knew what he’d done he was keeping quiet.
&nbs
p; “You don’t remember,” she repeated, suspicion on her face now. He shook his head, and she scribbled something on her clipboard. “How old are you?”
Probably didn’t matter if he told her. “Seventeen,” he said.
“And where are you from?”
He shrugged. “I move around a lot.” He could tell her about Ohio, where he was born, or New Orleans, where his mom had moved him when he was a kid, or Gulf Shores, where he’d gone to live with his uncle last year, or Blue Gate, that decaying pile of bricks on Mobile Bay, where he’d spent all his time with Ro this summer.
“Do you have a history of drug use?”
Of course she’d ask. “Nothing to write home about.”
“Tell me this,” she said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I don’t know,” he said, feeling a pang of frustration. He needed to get out of here, figure out what he’d done. Call Blue Gate, meet up with Ro. Her father would let them borrow the truck to find his motorcycle. Sonny didn’t like him, but the man never said no to his daughter.
The nurse touched his shoulder, as if she’d been talking for a while and he’d missed it. “What hurts?” she asked, her face creased with worry again. He knew that look well—it was his mother’s look. She even had the same dyed-blond hair, the same wrinkles.
“My chest.” He skipped the part about how his skull felt like it’d been caught in a trap and then sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The hospital gown was stiff, cheap cotton, and he lifted it up. A large purple bruise had spread across his ribs. It was the worst he’d had yet, even counting the fight in New Orleans.
“You’ve probably been in an accident,” the nurse told him, as if he was too disoriented to have figured that out by now. “The doctor will want to run some more tests.”
He let his eyes close. “I don’t feel too good,” he said. If she thought he was sleeping, maybe she’d leave. He kept still while he heard her writing notes, bustling about the bed.
“Just sit tight,” she finally said. “I’ll be back in a minute with some forms.”
Cage waited until he heard the door click shut. Then he threw his legs over the side of the cot and stood, swaying. He poked his head around the curtain.
Another bed. The man in it was in a deep sleep or a coma, with wires and cords hooked to him. His cheekbones stuck out like he hadn’t eaten for years, and his eyelids were bruised, poor bastard. Fresh yellow flowers and get-well cards were next to his bed, and a suitcase was on the chair beside him.
Cage crossed the room and rummaged through the suitcase, found a T-shirt and some oversized jeans with change in the pockets, a pair of redneck boots. He pulled the thin gown off to trade it for the clothes. A bolt of pain ran through him, and he bit down on his lip to keep from yelling. Whatever he’d done to himself, he’d done it good, that was for sure. At least his mother could be proud of him for something.
At the bottom of the suitcase was a wallet. He paused and then checked the door and the cot. Guy didn’t look like he’d be waking anytime soon. Cage flicked it open and grabbed the cash.
“Sorry,” he whispered. He found the license, memorized the address to pay him back when he could, and then strode to the window. They were on the second floor, a pretty short drop to the lower-level awning. He tried to open the window, but it was stuck, painted shut, so he took a deep breath and pushed hard, lifting through the swell of pain in his ribs. With another shove it slid up.
Cage sucked in the warm outside air—that fresh, hot smell of freedom—then thrust his head through the opening. He couldn’t see anyone on the lawn below. A shred of luck.
He felt weak, but he managed to cling to the windowsill and lower himself down. He dropped onto the awning and it held steady. The nearby windows had their curtains closed, more luck. He jumped to the ground, his knees hitting the grass.
A sharp thudding was in his head—he could feel his heartbeat in his skull as he straightened. The paved walkway was empty, and the lettering on the building said LINCOLN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. He was east of where he’d expected to be, almost like he’d been going home. He wished he still had his phone; he wanted to look at a map.
Beyond the hospital parking lot was the highway. He started forward and then heard someone shout.
“Sir?”
He kept going.
“Sir!” Footsteps now, right behind him, and he whirled.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with—”
His fist collided with the man’s face. The security guard crumpled to the ground.
“Sorry,” Cage said, and then turned and ran toward the highway, caught his breath curbside. When there was an opening in the traffic, he shot across the road. His stolen boots pounded over the pavement and he almost slid, hopping up onto the sidewalk on the other side. The gas station had an old pay phone and he went for it.
He dialed the only number he knew by heart, but her cell phone just rang and rang. There was hardly ever reception at Blue Gate; it was too far out and he didn’t know the home line. He hung up, tried again, and then slammed the phone into the receiver a few times. An old woman pumping gas flinched like she was scared of him.
Cage looked at the rise of the hospital across the street. The day was hot as hell. He wiped his hand across his forehead and it came back wet. Just sweat—no blood. Another shred of luck. He’d never get a ride if it looked like he was bleeding to death.
He glanced at the line of semi trucks idling in the lot and knew what to do. Calm down, act casual. He strolled toward them as easily as he could with boots too small and pants too big. Probably a dead man’s clothes. But the clothes were clean, that was good. And fairly expensive, which was even better. These things counted when you needed a favor. People didn’t like to get too close to the poor. They’d donate money, maybe, but let a poor person into their car? You’d be dreaming.
“Hey, sir. Can I get a lift?”
The trucker didn’t even ask where he was going. Didn’t even glance his way. Cage was used to that, though. The downcast eyes, no one trusting him. This trucker was no different, because he walked right on by and heaved himself into his cab.
One, two, three, four. Cage walked down the lot, counting his steps so he wouldn’t get angry. The next trucker he saw was taking a piss, singing loudly while he splattered the pavement. Cage passed a woman trucker and kept going, not liking his chances. He wouldn’t pick him up if he were a woman.
He got near the end of the row. At the very last truck he heard the creak of hinges. Someone was climbing into the cab. The lettering on it had been painted over, but it had Alabama plates.
Cage walked around the grille to the driver’s side. “Excuse me?”
The creaking stopped. The trucker poked his head around the door. “Yeah?”
“Headed toward Gulf Shores, by chance?”
“Yeah,” the man said, his eyes narrowing under his hat like he could see where this was going and didn’t like it.
“Can I get a ride, sir?” Cage tried not to sound desperate. Desperate never got people anywhere.
“Asked for my fair share of rides when I was your age,” the man said. There came a long moment of silence and then: “Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes not.” He hauled himself into his seat and slammed the door shut.
Cage’s hands went to fists. He’d have to try the pay phone again or put his thumb out on the highway. With his luck he’d probably get arrested, and he’d made a promise to Ro about that.
The engine growled to life and he backed away. He heard a shout and turned.
“Gulf Shores’ll take you ages on foot,” the trucker called out the window. “You want a ride or not?”
Cage could have kissed him. He hustled over and swung open the door, the stench of oil and exhaust thick in the heat. “Thanks,” he said, and held out some of the cash.
The trucker waved it off. “One thing, I don’t talk much. I like the quiet.”
Cage nodded. That was good, because he had a l
ot to think about. “Fine by me.”
As they pulled onto the highway there was a new thudding against the inside of his head like something was trying to get out. He’d probably be all right with some painkillers, some water. He was thirsty in a bad way. Should’ve used the cash he’d lifted to buy a Gatorade.
He shut his eyes, and the faintest memory came of Ro. This is bigger than both of us, Cage. The nervousness was back in his gut. He didn’t like not knowing how bad they’d fought, not being able to remember. Like he’d gone and gotten blackout drunk. He leaned forward, put his head in his hands. The trucker switched on the radio.
After they crossed the Alabama border it started to pour. Cage stuck his head out the window and let the rain sting his face. When water began to splash inside, he rolled the window up, told himself Ro’d be fine. She was always fine, that was her magic. She’d forgive him for whatever had happened. He wiped the rain off his face and looked out at the highway—they weren’t too far now.
The air-conditioning ruffled the photographs tucked into the crevices around the truck’s dashboard. A picture fell to the floor and Cage leaned over to pick it up. It was a photo of a woman, and he set it back near the radio, careful as he could.
“She got sick,” the trucker said, taking off his hat.
Cage nodded, but he didn’t want to think about sick people. He stared out the window, the pain in his skull making him hot and dizzy. He rubbed at his eyes. The beat of the windshield wipers scraping the blur of water erased and re-formed the road ahead and he felt he was fading in and out with the movement of the blades.
“Been around here before?”
Cage jolted upright and realized he’d almost fallen asleep. “No, sir.” He didn’t know why he lied, but he did.
“Never liked these parts much,” the trucker said.
The woods hemmed in the road, and the rain slanted. They were getting into Blue Bay now, that small, secluded town just off the Gulf of Mexico. When the highway grew narrow, he knew the gravel road to the house was close. This is bigger than both of us, Cage. His heart started careening, and he counted to ten. “Just here,” he said, the timber gate in sight, those rows of trees hiding the house away.