The Unremembered Girl: A Novel

by Eliza Maxwell

  Darkness finally overtook her, and she’d surrendered to it willingly.

  The girl didn’t know how much time passed, how many days she spent in and out of the darkness.

  She thought maybe that was the first time she’d met Death, there, in the black. Met Death, and begged him to take her away.

  He’d denied her, making her choices for her, like everyone else.

  With Henry, here in this place, her choices were finally her own, yet she continued to make the wrong ones.

  And now there was no way to fix it.

  She’d gathered together the pieces of the broken things she’d ruined in the shed. With tears in her eyes, she’d tried to salvage what she could, but in the end, the best she could do was to sweep away the glass and stack the remnants together. It could never be enough.

  Henry was gone. He’d run, once he’d seen the monster she truly was.

  Eve had showered, leaning her head against the tile and letting the hot water run down her body in rivulets, washing the blood from her hands, hanging limp by her sides. But no amount of water could cleanse her of who she was.

  That she would take with her.

  She’d leave this house in the morning, walk away from the only place she’d ever felt real and the only person who’d ever loved her.

  Crying herself to sleep, she could feel the distance between her and Henry growing. She clutched her arms to her body and held herself tightly together, trying to block out the bright and pulsing sensation of her heart being ripped in half.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Henry made it as far as Lafayette before he swung the truck onto an exit from the interstate. The Texas–Louisiana border was an hour and a half gone, but it had passed by without distinction.

  He couldn’t make himself turn the wheel around, but moving farther down the highway, knowing he’d eventually be forced to keep going straight and end up in the Atlantic or hang a right to Disney World, had lost any appeal.

  It was late. Most of the service stations were closed, but he made out a truck stop in the distance, the neon lights advertising cigarettes and hot showers.

  He turned into the parking lot, but once he was done filling the tank, he found it hard to get behind the wheel again.

  There was a diner attached to the station, and Henry followed the lights.

  He’d been running on autopilot since he’d left Blackwater behind. The fuzz in his head was starting to clear, but the voices he heard calling to him he wasn’t ready to listen to.

  As the bells on the door jingled above his head, Henry walked in and found a seat at the counter. There were plenty to choose from, with only a gnarled gnome of a man sitting at the opposite end, nursing a cup of something hot and staring at the television screen, where an impeccably groomed woman spoke in precise language about the latest rounds of bombs falling in the Middle East.

  “What can I get for you?” asked a gray-haired man in a stained apron.

  Henry started to answer, but before he could, the man held up a hand.

  “Before you answer that, I should tell ya, the line cook got thrown in jail today, so it’s just me tonight. I’d steer clear of the eggs. Never been able to get the hang of ’em.”

  “Take his advice, son,” said the man from the other end of the bar, who spoke without taking his eyes from the icy blonde on the screen. “His eggs turn out like an old, old woman. Tough where they oughtn’t be, and flabby where they ought to be firm.”

  “Ah, shut the hell up, Dutch,” the man behind the counter called, then said to Henry, “I was you, I’d go for the club sandwich.”

  Henry nodded. “And some coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  Within minutes, the man, who had a patch on his shirt that read “Apollo,” set a plate in front of him. Good as his word, the club was impressive, open-faced to show off the craftsmanship that had gone into it.

  Henry put the top side of the buttered bread on the mountains of meat and had to use both hands to raise the thing to his mouth.

  Apollo watched him until Henry let out that first groan of satisfaction. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout,” Apollo said with a nod, pulling out a rag to wipe down the counter. “It’s the avocado that does it, and the Frenchy bread with a name nobody can pronounce right. I do make a mighty fine sandwich, even if I gotta say so myself.”

  “And you only say it about two dozen times a night, dontcha,” Dutch said.

  “Dutch, you’re trying my patience tonight. Every man’s got a skill. Can’t help it if the gods have blessed these old hands with a natural and innate talent.”

  “Talent, my ass. Being able to fry an egg, now that’s a talent. You slap some shit on some bread and act like we’re supposed to call you Emeril Lagasse.”

  “You’ll have to excuse that old cuss, my friend. Known him for thirty-five years, and he ain’t never had no manners to speak of at all.”

  “I got manners plenty, ’Pollo. I just save ’em for the ladies,” Dutch said with a little wiggle of his head.

  Apollo let out a big belly laugh. “Last woman that came within a mile of him was a leathery old trick looking for change for the pay phone,” he said to Henry. “He grinned so big his dentures fell out, and she run the other way.”

  Dutch turned his head toward Henry, and a smile broke across his wrinkled, hairy face, then his teeth started moving up and down in his mouth, showing off a dexterity that you just can’t get with real teeth.

  “Put that mess away,” Apollo told him with a shake of his head. “Man’s trying to eat here.”

  Dutch sent Henry a sly wink, then turned his attention back to the newscaster.

  “Where you headed to?” Apollo asked as he grabbed a broom.

  Henry didn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t really know. Nowhere, I guess.”

  The other man raised a brow at him. “Nowhere, huh? A man going nowhere’s usually intent on leaving somewhere behind, in my experience. Where you from?”

  “Texas,” Henry said.

  Apollo nodded, like that was the answer he’d expected.

  “You got a Texas look about you. See lots of Texans come through here. Usually headed down to New Orleans, looking to get up to some trouble.”

  “Not looking for any trouble,” Henry said with a shake of his head.

  “Yeah, you got that look on you too. Like trouble done got your number down by heart.”

  Henry sighed and pushed the half-empty plate away from him. The food was sitting like a ball of lead in his belly.

  “Trouble of the female persuasion?” Apollo asked.

  “There any other kind?” Dutch threw in.

  Henry didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

  “Sometimes, when you’re young, you know, it’s not always easy to recognize the value of a good, steady woman. They’re like fine wine. Need to be savored. Appreciated. She a good woman?”

  Henry had been trying to hide from thoughts of Eve for hours, but the question brought her to his mind, fresh and clear as if she were standing in front of him.

  “Not exactly,” Henry said.

  Apollo gave a low whistle, leaning on his broom.

  “Well, then. That’s a whole other story, ain’t it. I had me a ‘not exactly’ good woman once too.”

  Henry saw the two men exchange a look that said more to him about their friendship than their insults ever could.

  “Long time ago now. I love my wife, brother. I do,” Apollo said with a shake of his head. “Best thing that ever happened to me, no doubt about it.”

  “You got that right, man,” Dutch said.

  “But I gotta tell you, friend. You’ll never appreciate the daylight till you’ve walked on the dark side of the night, without even the stars to show you the way.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Apollo.” Dutch didn’t sound like he was joking this time.

  “No,” the man said, shaking his head. “No, I ain’t. You say what you want, Dutch. Probably all true anyway, but
damn . . .” He had a far-off look in his eyes, and Henry could see he was a long way away from this Louisiana diner, with his dirty apron and a broom in his hand.

  “That woman was lightning. Nothing on God’s green earth can make a man feel as alive as the love of a bad woman.”

  “Did you hit your head on something back in that kitchen? One of those iron skillets fall on top of you?”

  Apollo ignored his friend. He looked at Henry out of old eyes that showed a spark of the young man he must have been once.

  “I tell you, it got bad, son. Real bad, in the end. But I never regretted it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want it back. My Linda and me, we got a good thing going. Been going for a lot of years now, and I wouldn’t trade it for nothing in the world. But I still remember the smell of lightning. Yes, sir, I do. That’s a smell you don’t ever forget.”

  Dutch swiveled his stool to face Henry.

  “Take a piece of advice, boy. Don’t listen to that shit. That woman nearly put him in the ground.” The old man fished in his pocket, pulled out some wrinkled bills, and slapped them on the counter. “You got a woman like that at home, a crazy one? There’s only one thing to do, and that’s get in your car and get as far gone as the road’ll take you.”

  Apollo shook his head. “Dutch, you never did get it. There’s no shaking loose of that. Doesn’t matter where you go, once she’s in you, that’s where she’s gonna stay. It’s like a virus. Nothing to do about it but hope you’re still kicking once it runs its course.”

  Dutch shook his head. “You’re a dumbass, ’Pollo. Don’t listen to him, Texas. You saddle up your ride, and you ride like hell in the other direction.”

  Dutch looked at Apollo with a face on him like an old schoolteacher’s, almost prim in its disapproval. “Give Linda my best, will you,” he said.

  “Your best? What the hell she want with your best? She’s got my best, fool,” Apollo said to his friend’s retreating back, but Dutch just lifted a middle finger over his shoulder as the bells over the door signaled his exit.

  “He’s right, you know,” the older man said. “Probably, you should keep on keeping on. Smart thing to do. You a smart one, boy?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” Henry muttered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The moon hung low and fat in the sky as Henry pulled the truck into the drive.

  He’d made his decision, and he’d stand by it.

  He’d stand by Eve. For better or worse . . . if she’d have him.

  Letting himself into the quiet house, he saw that only the grandfather clock marked the passage of time. Everything else was as he’d left it. The only thing changed was him.

  On light feet, Henry made his way down the hallway. He pushed slightly on the door to Eve’s room, as Henry had come to think of it, and it swung silently on its well-worn hinges.

  She was lying on the bed, facing away from him. She was on top of the quilt, like she’d fallen there and couldn’t bring herself to go any farther.

  Henry had spent the hours of the long drive home debating the best course forward. Because they would move forward. And they would do it together. He’d chosen his path. He only hoped he could convince her to travel it with him.

  Gently, not wishing to disturb her, he took a throw from the back of a chair in the corner and shook it out. He pulled it across her slight frame, which somehow seemed more fragile in sleep.

  Eve turned her head and looked at him with eyes that were clouded. Not with sleep, but with sadness and with worry.

  “You came back,” she whispered.

  “I’m so sorry, Eve,” he whispered back, his heart in his words. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone, and then I ran. I can’t take it back, but I hope you’ll believe me when I say it won’t happen again.”

  Eve sat up in the bed, then put a hand on Henry’s cheek.

  “I’m not good for you.”

  Henry met her eyes in the dim room, the moonlight through the window casting shadows across her face. “No, you’re not,” he said, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t make any difference. Eve, you are me. You’re the parts of me that matter.”

  “I should leave,” she said.

  “Then go,” he said, his voice stripped to the raw underbelly of truth. “But you’ll be taking the heart that beats inside of me. How long do you think I’ll last without it?”

  When she pulled him to her, he could feel the wet tears on her cheeks dampen his face.

  “Marry me, Eve,” he whispered in her ear.

  She tightened her hold, laying her head against his chest. Surely she could hear his blood pumping through his veins.

  “No,” she said.

  Then she kissed him.

  He lost himself in her touch, lost all sense of himself as a separate being. Surrendering to it, he knew, this was their truth. This was their world, in the dark, together, with only the moon as witness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The days that followed turned into weeks, then slowly slid into months. Henry spent the time doing what he’d always done. He fixed things as best he could.

  His mother’s loom was the first and easiest to repair. Eve resisted when he presented her with the finished contraption.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “You can,” he told her simply. “Mama meant for you to have it. Use it.”

  And after a time, she did. He found comfort in having her nearby, working the shuttle, weaving the colors neatly through and around one another, lost in her guarded thoughts.

  Turning his attention to his father’s pot still was a trickier business, but he’d learned the ins and outs of distilling a long time ago. He had his dad’s old journals for reference, but he’d been doing this since he was eleven and found he rarely needed the reference to get the setup running again.

  This was where Henry found the most intimate connection to a father he’d never had a chance to know. Times were different for Henry than they had been for Weston Martell. Henry didn’t have too many worries about the local law, given that the products he still provided were an open and well-established secret. Del and Brady certainly weren’t going to give him a hard time, and Sheriff McKinney himself was one of Henry’s best customers.

  But he found the pull of the alchemical, secretive process a throwback to the wilder days his father and grandfather before him would have lived. Thoughts of the men who’d come before, the men he’d never had the chance to know, floated through his head as he set up the thumper and the worm and applied the oatmeal paste to the seal.

  He wondered what his father would have thought about Eve. From the remnants of tattered memories the folks around him had offered up, Henry believed Weston had a more capricious streak than he ever would. He’d like to think his father would have understood the need to go his own way, in the face of rationality. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  Lord knew, his stepfather wasn’t as sanguine. The pressure was building by the day. They couldn’t keep Eve’s pregnancy hidden much longer. In spite of the fact that Livingston was gone more days than he was home and Eve was careful to steer clear of him when he was, he was bound to take notice eventually. Livingston had transformed into more of a Bible-pushing, gospel-shouting loony than ever before, wielding his religion and his judgment like a sledgehammer, but he wasn’t a fool, even now.

  Henry knew a confrontation was coming. A baby out of wedlock? In the man’s own backyard? It very well might be the impetus that pushed his stepfather over the edge. Henry knew his mother’s wishes when it came to Livingston, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to honor those if push came to shove. If—or when—things came to a head, there was a very good chance that Livingston would have to go.

  He’d made his decision, and he hadn’t wavered. He would stand by Eve, and the baby that was coming, whether Livingston liked it or not.

  But he still wished there was another way. One that didn’t include tossing his stepfather out of the home he
’d considered his own for nearly twenty years.

  And Henry’s worries didn’t end there. Eve still refused to see a doctor, much to Alice’s frustration. Alice had brought vitamins, insisting that Eve at least take care of herself, if she couldn’t be talked into seeing an obstetrician.

  “The heartbeat’s strong, at least,” Alice had said, putting her stethoscope away after her last visit. “But I can’t say it enough. You need to see a doctor, Eve. There are so many things that could go wrong.”

  But Eve remained firmly entrenched. She’d only allowed Alice to examine her after Henry had insisted, again and again. But she refused to entertain the idea of a physician.

  Her stubbornness left both Henry and Alice in a perpetual state of anxiety.

  And these concerns were heightened by the ever-looming threat of the people who owned the shack in the marsh. Henry wanted to believe they were done with them, their message sent and received, leaving everyone free to go their own way. But that kind of optimism stank of a naïveté that Henry had never been real comfortable with.

  With everything on his mind simmering like a stew in a pressure cooker, it was with a sense of resignation rather than surprise that he watched the stranger walk up the drive.

  He observed the man, unseen, from the shadows thrown by the doorway of the shed. Wiping his hands on a shop cloth, he steeled himself to meet whatever new issue the man’s boots were bringing to their door.

  “Hey there, mister,” Henry called, catching the stranger off guard.

  Glancing around, the man spotted Henry as he stepped out of the shadows.

  “Didn’t see you there,” he mumbled.

  “Can I help you with something?” Henry asked, straight to the point, as he walked toward the visitor.

  The man was grimy, looked like it’d been a while since he’d seen soap and water. But Henry didn’t exactly smell like a rose, so he didn’t hold that against him.

  “I sure do hope so, friend,” the man said. Something about his tone set Henry’s jaw on edge. It was as oily as his hair.

  “I’m not your friend, friend,” Henry said lightly, tucking the shop rag into his back pocket.