by T. K. Chapin
“Who? What?” I had no idea what Janice was talking about. Was Paul cheating on her? What was he thinking if he was? That didn’t make any sense or seem like the Paul I had just gone fishing with a week ago. “There must be a misunderstanding.”
Janice had a leg crossed over her other leg, and it was shaking as she shook her head. “Sure, Clay. A misunderstanding. Maybe if the misunderstanding was his tongue being in another girl’s throat.”
Glancing at her hand, I saw that the ring wasn’t there. I shook my head. “I don’t understand . . . I’m so sorry. This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Should have been a warning flag when he didn’t want to marry me for the past five years. I guess I’m just stupid.” She set her coffee down and looked out to the field.
Coming over to her, I put my hand on her shoulder, and she immediately began crying. Bending over, I hugged her and kissed the side of her head. “At least it was before you got married, not after.”
She sniffed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to help.”
She stood up and wiped her eyes before heading inside.
I went over to the porch railing and gripped the wood. Looking out to the field and then over to the pine trees to the side of the property, I dipped my chin. What purpose is this for? I asked in a silent prayer. I know I don’t pray often, but seriously. She’s helping me out, Lord. Why isn’t there any good for the good people? The screen door creaked open behind me.
Looking, I saw Cindy fully dressed and standing in the doorway.
“Wow. Ate and dressed already?”
She nodded as she grinned and ran across the porch to me. She smacked me so hard with a hug, it about made me topple over.
“I’m ready to go!” she insisted, looking up at me with eager eyes.
I smiled and smoothed her hair back with my hand. “Just a bit longer, dear.”
At ten, I finally had enough waiting on Gail, and I decided to call her. The phone rang until it hit voicemail. Whatever. Hanging up, I slipped my cellphone into my pocket.
“Time to go?” Cindy asked from the couch. Her eyes were wide, and she could barely contain her excitement to leave. She had been fully dressed and ready to leave for hours now. “Pleaaaassse?” she said in a long, drawn out, borderline whine.
“Just go,” Janice insisted from the kitchen as she came into the living room. Shooing Cindy off the couch and toward the door with me, she said, “I’ll take care of Gail if she shows up.”
I breathed in her face and said, “Let her know . . .”
She half-smiled. “Don’t do that. Just leave! You’ll miss the guy that walks around on stilts! He leaves around eleven.” She handed me my cane and practically shoved us out the front door.
As we walked out to my truck in the driveway, Cindy asked, “Why do you need that?” Then proceeded to point straight at my cane as I carried it beside me.
“To cast spells, of course.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a magical staff.”
She began skipping as she walked sideways, her eyes fixed on my cane. “What kind of spells?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret. The magic will be gone if I tell you.”
She nodded and proceeded to walk beside me. “I bet you can shoot fire from it.”
I kept quiet but smiled.
“You can? Can’t you?” she asked.
Making a zipping motion across my lips, I put the pretend key into my jean pocket. She began giggling.
Cindy walked a few paces in front of me as we looked at the booths that lined the parking lot of the boardwalk. She dashed over to a jewelry stand which had tables full of necklaces and rings. Coming over to the booth, I immediately noticed the Indian man behind the table.
Tipping a nod to him as we made eye contact, I placed my hand on Cindy’s shoulder. She looked up at me over her shoulder, but not without her eye catching the dream catchers that hung off the edge of the tent that sat over the booth.
“What is that, Daddy?”
The man behind the table stood up and looked at me. I could tell he wanted to explain to Cindy about the dream catchers, so I gave him a nod.
“That’s a dream catcher, little girl.”
She turned to the man and asked, “It catches dreams?”
The man nodded.
“How?”
The old man licked his bottom lip as he paused a moment and looked at the dream catcher in a way like it was part of who he was. Then he spoke. “The dream catcher serves my people as a way to capture good and bad dreams.” He reached a hand out and pointed to the stretched leather inside the circle. “Here bad dreams get stuck.” He pointed to the feathers that dangled off the circle. “The good dreams come down this feather and drop into your mind so you have good dreams all night.”
“Wow,” Cindy replied, peering up at where he pointed.
The man then pointed to the circle and said, “This represents the hoop of life.”
“What’s it made of?” I asked.
“Wood. Everything you see on the dream catcher comes from mother earth. The hoop of life, for instance comes from trees which stay green all year round and are considered holy by my people.”
Nodding respectfully, I pulled at Cindy’s shoulder slightly to get her away from the booth. She shrugged out of my tug and stepped closer to the booth as her eyes stayed fixed on the dream catcher.
“So you’re like an Indian?” she asked, wanting to know more.
He nodded slowly. “My people are the Nez Perce Indians. I live in Lewiston, Idaho where we have a small reservation. I’m here helping a fellow tribe with some matters.”
“Is it cool where you live?” she asked.
He smiled and nodded. “It is cool.”
Looking away for a moment, I spotted the marshmallow shooters that Cindy was asking about last night. Leaning down into her ear, I asked, “Want that marshmallow shooter?”
She turned to me and nodded. “Yeah, Daddy! Let’s go!”
Scooping my arm around her, I told the man, “Thank you.” Then we headed down the path toward the tent with the shooters. Stopping on the path, I lowered my eyes down to her and said, “When I indicate it’s time to move away from a booth . . . we need to move on.”
She dipped her chin as she felt the weight of my seriousness. “Sorry, Dad.”
Lifting her chin with a finger, I looked her in the eyes and wiped a stray tear. “It’s okay. You just need to listen.”
“Can we get a marshmallow shooter now?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Hold on. This is serious.”
“Okay.”
“We don’t believe in Mother Earth and all that weird stuff.”
“Well, duh, Dad. I know God created everything. There was no Mom in the Bible.” Her eyes shifted over to the tent only a few feet away, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I knew she was burning to get over there.
“Okay, good.” We continued over to the tent with the marshmallow shooters, and she began to look inside each one. Each wall inside the tent was covered in marshmallow shooters. There had to be at least thirty different designs that sat on collapsible shelves lining the tent.
There was a teenage girl in a black tank top sitting on the stool behind a table near the middle of the tent, running the entire stand. She looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place her. She looked up from her cellphone for a second as we meandered around the tent. She looked up again. “Mr. Roberts!”
Tilting my head, I shook it as Cindy kept browsing in pursuit of the perfect shooter. “I’m sorry. I can’t place you.”
She shooed a hand out, “It’s okay. I was one of your bus helpers.”
Seeing the mark on her shoulder just to the right of her collar bone made me realize it was Ezma, one of the bus helpers who was struck by a stray bullet that day in the trailer park. “Ezma . . .”
“
Yeah. You do remember?”
Looking over at Cindy as she tinkered with the shooters on the wall, I nodded. “You look so different. Wasn’t your hair blonde?”
She nodded and looked away. “Yeah, I dyed it. Went kind of gothic.”
“Oh . . .” I raised my chin.
“I’m not depressed or anything. I went to therapy for like a year afterward and came out better than ever. I love life and I’m doing great. How are you?” She looked over toward Cindy. “That’s your little girl, right?”
I nodded.
“Wow.” She looked back at me. “That’s insane how she’s grown up so much!”
She began to tell me all about how high school was going and how she managed to find a progressive church in Spokane, but it was hard to pay attention as memories pelted my mind from years ago. The children’s ministry, the bus . . . it was all coming back. Then that day in the trailer park.
The painful memories began to surface.
The screams.
Suddenly, I felt the overwhelming desire for a drink.
“Cindy,” I called out to her.
“What?” she asked as she held a pink zebra-striped marshmallow shooter.
Waving her over, I said, “You want that one? We have to go.”
“I’m still looking, Dad.” She placed it back onto the shelf and continued down the wall.
“Excuse me, Ezma.” Walking around the corner of the table, I went over to Cindy and said, “Come on. Pick one and let’s go.”
“Why?” she asked, looking up at me.
Gulping, I lied. “Daddy’s leg is hurting.”
She looked down at my leg and then back over to the wall. “Okay . . .” she grabbed the pink zebra striped one and came over with me to pay for it.
“Did you hear about Jillian?” Ezma asked as she rang up the shooter. Jill was one of the other bus ministry helpers that was actively involved with the children. She was there on that day too.
“What?”
“She offed herself.”
I cringed as I covered Cindy’s ears. “My daughter is right here! Have a little decency, would you?”
“Sorry. Thought it’d go over her head. Twelve dollars.”
I quickly pulled out my wallet with a trembling hand and dropped a twenty on the table. “Keep it.” Turning Cindy around, I hurried her through the crowds of people in pursuit of my truck parked on the opposite end near the grocery store.
“Clay!” a familiar voice called out from the crowd. Glancing over my shoulder as I kept moving toward my truck with Cindy’s hand in mine, I saw it was Colleen, the nurse from Dr. Behr’s office. Ugh.
Ignoring her, I continued to my truck. My rusted truck never looked so good. I went around to the passenger side and helped Cindy get in. Not letting her buckle her own seat belt brought worry to her face. “What’s going on, Dad? Why are you acting like this?”
“I just need to get home.” My hands shook as I latched her belt.
Making sure not to slam the door for fear of worrying my angel anymore, I closed it and started around the front of my truck.
“Clay.”
Looking up, I saw it was Gail.
“You look like you’re in a hurry.” She crossed her arms. “What are you doing, Clay?”
Forcing myself to mentally slow down to not alarm Gail more than she was, I leaned my palm against the hood and shrugged. “I’m all right.”
She glared. “I asked what are you doing.”
“Oh. We were just about to leave. Checked out all the booths and had some fun.”
Gail leaned past my shoulder to look at Cindy in the cab of the truck. She glared again at me with a suspicious look on her face. “Your sister said you were going to come see the man on stilts, but it looks like he’s over there just getting up on them.”
Glancing over at the guy, I shrugged. “Oh. We didn’t want to wait.”
“We?” Gail began walking around the truck to the side Cindy was on, and I tried to stop her, but she opened the passenger side door. “Cindy.”
“Yeah?” she responded.
“Did you want to leave the farmer’s market?”
Her eyes shifted over to me and then back at her mother. She shrugged a little and then looked down at her marshmallow shooter without a response.
Gail closed the passenger door and turned around to face me. “I’m watching you, Clay. You better not do anything to jeopardize my little girl. I will kill you.”
She walked past me. I watched as she headed through the parking lot over to her car. I hollered at her, “Way to come off as a psycho. And she’s my girl, too!” I didn’t think she heard me as she didn’t turn or anything to acknowledge my words. Irritated, I went back around the front of my truck and got in to leave.
CHAPTER 14
After stopping at a drive-through for some ice cream to perk Cindy up, I arrived back to my sister’s house to see that Gail’s car was already parked out front and she wasn’t in it. Not seeing Janice’s car, I shook my head in disbelief. Who does she think she is? She just let herself in?
“Mommy’s here!” Cindy said excited as we rolled to a stop out in the driveway.
“Yep . . . she sure is.”
We got out and went inside. Gail wasn’t in the living room. “Gail?” I called out, letting my voice carry through the house.
There was no response.
Hearing faint crying coming from down the hallway, I motioned over to the couch for Cindy to sit down. Picking up the remote off the coffee table, I turned on cartoons.
“Is that Mommy crying?” she asked.
“Just watch the cartoons, dear.” Setting the remote back down on the coffee table, I headed down the hallway toward the bathroom. The crying grew louder the closer I came to the door in the hallway.
Leaning against the woodgrain door, I knocked lightly. “Gail? Are you okay?”
She replied in a broken voice. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Her words fell over one another as she tried to pull them together. “I’m just. I’m fine.”
My mind raced to what could be wrong. Her mother? While one part of my mind wanted to be careless about her emotional state, the other part couldn’t help but worry. Knowing that Gail was committed to a mental institution at the age of nineteen for attempted suicide didn’t help matters. While that might have happened decades and decades ago in her life, it was still in the back of my mind. “Want me to call your mother?”
She erupted in tears more so, and the door jerked open. Her eyes were red and swollen. “She died, Clay.”
“What? When? I just saw you.”
Her bottom lip trembled as she pulled her cellphone from the counter of the bathroom and showed me a text from her half-baked sister, Chloe. It read:
Mom just died. Choked on a piece of steak and suffocated. I’m going out. Called an ambulance. XOXO SIS
Her sister, Chloe, was a brain fried drug addict who smoked so much meth that she literally couldn’t process emotion. Cringing after reading the disturbing text message, I did the most natural thing that came to me. I pulled Gail into my chest and wrapped my arms around her.
She clung to my shirt collar and sobbed. Snot, tears and make-up smeared across my white V-neck. My heart broke for Gail and the loss of her mother.
Pushing her gently back off me, I dipped my chin to look her in the eyes. “Was she not doing well?”
She shook her head. “She had been struggling really hard. You know ever since she lost Cliff, she’d wanted to die. But . . . I thought she’d die from the illness, not choking.”
I nodded. “I remember her saying she wanted to go to heaven after Cliff passed.” I sighed and shook my head. “I’m so sorry, Gail.”
“I guess she got what she wanted.” Her tone was stiff and borderline agitated. “I think I’m just going to leave.”
“I’m sure you need time to process.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, I rubbed gently.
“No. I mean leave back to Ocean Shores.”
&nb
sp; Stepping back, I shook my head. “You just got here. Cindy just got here. Why? Your mom needs a funeral.”
Her tone grew calloused, much like the day in the hospital when she left me. “I don’t want to take care of her final arrangements. That’s not me. I’m not good with that kind of thing. You know that, Clay.”
Gulping down my pain, I tried to pull back my emotions and rein them in as I spoke. I couldn’t believe Gail could be so selfish about her mother’s death. I knew Gail needed time to think, so I put my heart on the line. “Please just leave Cindy with me for a while. I’ll even bring her back to Ocean Shores to you. I don’t want her to leave this soon.”
Gail laughed. “So I’m left alone?”
“You really are selfish.” It felt good to say it to her face. She began to look angry as she started to walk past me. I stretched out my hand and pushed against the wall to stop her. “Don’t do this. Let her stay.”
She shot a look over at me and said, “No.” Hurrying under my arm, she stormed out into the living room. I followed after her.
“Get your stuff. We’re leaving!” Gail grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.
“Why? We just got here. I miss Daddy!” Cindy shouted as tears started.
“Don’t you sass me!” Gail scolded. “Get your stuff.”
“Daddy, please! Don’t make me go! I want to see you!” Cindy cried out, running over to me and clutching onto my bad leg. Pain shot through my leg, but I ignored it.
“Your dad’s a drunk cripple, Cindy. He can’t take care of you. Come on. Get your stuff!” She came over to Cindy and me and reached a hand out to grab Cindy.
“Enough!” I shouted, grabbing Gail’s wrist. Pushing it back, I stepped in front of my daughter and said, “You’re not taking her anywhere.”
“You have no right!” she shouted back at me.
“I don’t care. You’re not mentally stable right now, Gail.”
She shook her head and said, “You are pathetic. My biggest mistake was waiting as long as I did to divorce you!” She hurried over to the door and left without saying another word. As the wheels spun outside the house and kicked gravel up, I bent down and comforted Cindy as she sobbed.