Chasing Sophea: A Novel

by Gabrielle Pina

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, suddenly selfconscious.

  “I’m here for you, Prettybaby. I’ve always been here for you.” He caressed her face with such tenderness that she began to tremble.

  “Get a room,” Phoebe said, rubbing her temple, but neither seemed to hear her. Baby kissed Percival’s hand, and she knew then that he knew there was nothing more to say. The healer recognized her soul mate, and in that moment, she knew everything would be as right as rain. They drove toward home in silence with an irritated Phoebe in the backseat, and Baby spoke for the first time since they’d left the airport.

  “Percival, I think it best that we make an unscheduled stop on the way. It’s time now.”

  Percival saw the pain in Baby’s eyes, and he didn’t have to ask her any questions to know exactly where she wanted him to go. He placed his large white hand on top of hers and changed course. He headed downtown to Elm and Corinth, to the place where Dahlia had originally lost her mother, her family, and her mind.

  “Mercy, I think we should talk. We can’t keep pretending that nothing ever happened between us.”

  Mercy ignored Dante’s pleas and tried desperately to control the spastic muscles wreaking havoc with her face. From the moment she learned Aunt Baby and Dahlia were coming home, her entire body had transformed into a virtual war zone. She had been tic-free while Aunt Baby was away, and now she was a twitching mess. By the time they arrived, she would most likely explode into a thousand pieces. She prayed for an aneurysm to strike her dead the way it had struck her mama, because dying right here, right now would be easier than facing Dahlia Culpepper. She felt Dante grip her shoulders.

  “Talk to me, dammit,” he said urgently, but he couldn’t comprehend what was working its way out of her stomach and into her throat. She began to hyperventilate, as the lie was now throbbing on her tongue, making it difficult for her to breathe. She saw the concern on his face and wept all over again.

  “Mercy, I do love you,” he said, in an attempt to calm her down.

  “You won’t after today,” she choked, and ran toward the attic. Her suitcases were stored there, and she was certain that she would need them before the day was over.

  Mercy Blue was a sophomore in high school when she began working for the Culpeppers. Her friends didn’t understand her bizarre fascination with mortuary arts, but she didn’t care. She was beyond them and couldn’t be bothered with childish distractions. She’d learn how to embalm dead people herself if it meant that she could be close to Lucius Culpepper. Everyone in Dallas knew about the Culpeppers. People in her neighborhood talked about them in the market, at the beauty parlor, or anywhere there were grown-folk conversations. At first, she didn’t think much of all the chatter, but women consistently described Lucius Culpepper with the same unbridled passion. “Lawd take mercy on my heathen soul,” her cousin Marie Ann used to say. “I’ll kill my husband today and drive his body over there myself if I thought I could get next to Lucius Culpepper.” And of course, that would be followed with “I heard that. Cuz, you know, they don’t grow ‘em like that anymore.” Or “The Lord ought not to make a man that fine. It just ain’t right.” And “Girl, the Lord didn’t have nothing to do with that. That’s the work of the devil himself trying to tempt us all out of our drawers.” And on and on it went until Mercy had to see what all the fuss was about.

  It wasn’t long before she got her wish. Somebody her mama knew died, and she found herself staring into the eyes of the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She decided right then in the middle of Kenny Harper’s service, God rest his soul, that she was going to marry that man. And it didn’t matter to her that he was already married with three children. He was her destiny, and that’s all there was to it. Obsession had become her way of life. After considerable coaxing, her mama, Lucille, was able to get her a job at the mortuary after school when she was fifteen, and she learned how to apply makeup to the nonliving from an old woman named Miss Flossy. Of course, she spent as much time there as she could and waited for the right moments to get his attention and win his heart. That crazy wife of his pretty much stayed in her room, but those children were always around raising hell and keeping him away from her. Mercy didn’t like kids, and she could tell that kids didn’t really like her all that much either.

  On that day, the day of the tornado, she was frustrated and annoyed that the object of her affection hadn’t given her the time of day. All she needed was a few hours of uninterrupted time to convince him that she could be everything that he needed—the wife that a man like him deserved. He wasn’t happy with Reva Culpepper, and everybody knew it. It was a wonder that none of those children was as funny-acting as she was. Mercy was in the foyer trying to figure out a way to ask Lucius to take her to lunch when Dahlia came flying down the stairs talking loud again about her nutcase mama.

  “Mercy,” she’d said, all excited and out of breath, “my mama is taking me and Jazz and Livia out for ice cream. We’re going to Swensons!”

  Mercy remembered looking at the girl like she’d lost her natural mind. Everyone at the funeral parlor knew damn well that Reva Culpepper wasn’t supposed to leave the house by herself ever, let alone drive anywhere with those children.

  “Are you sure you ought to be doing that?” Mercy had asked her. And then she heard Reva calling, and Dahlia ran happily toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Tell my daddy that we went for a ride with Mama, okay, Mercy?” Mercy had nodded while Dahlia continued.

  “She feels good today, and we’ll be back in a little while,” Dahlia had called back over her shoulder, and then they were gone. Mercy knew that there was something wrong with an unstable woman driving her children to get ice cream in the middle of a tornado watch, but the only thing she could think about was seducing Lucius Culpepper. With his wife and children gone, he would finally notice her. Maybe, just maybe, Miss Sophea wouldn’t wreak any havoc anyway. She remembered how happy she felt then and how she prided herself on her ingenuity. Dante had passed her shortly thereafter in the hallway.

  “Hey, Mercy girl,” he said, with a goofy grin, “have you seen the kids anywhere?”

  “No,” she replied with a straight face. “Maybe they’re upstairs playing.” She walked away, nearly skipping with anticipation, and went to find the man of her dreams. At that moment, in that split second of deception, she sold her soul to the devil and changed the course of everyone’s lives around her forever. Dahlia was in a coma for weeks after the accident, and no one knew what Mercy had done. She held her breath then, hoping that the little girl had forgotten about their conversation earlier that day before the tragedy. She’d heard that that happened sometimes in cases like these when a person suffered severe head trauma. She had been lucky for years because the girl had never mentioned a thing. When Dahlia left for college right after high school, Mercy was relieved. But she always believed that she was on borrowed time with Lucius Culpepper after that, and that one day her luck would come to an end.

  On the third floor, in the middle of the attic, Mercy Blue gathered her Louis Vuitton luggage and buried her head in her hands. Aunt Baby was coming for her, and this time, she knew Dahlia would remember everything.

  It had come to this—sneaking away like a spineless coward. A part of her had always known that she’d most likely leave the Culpepper house the same way she came in. Her entrance was unexpected and duplicitous, and so would be her departure. Perhaps, in time, when she was stronger, she could come back here and make things right with the people she’d hurt. She hoped that Dahlia and Lucius could finally make peace with each other, and she prayed that Dante would forgive her.

  She had no idea where she was going, but the unknown intrigued her. She no longer liked who she was, and she intended to change that. Maybe she’d go back to school. Maybe she’d move to New York. And maybe in time she could look at herself again and not feel shame and regret. Whatever she did, she’d start over and cut a new path for herself. I
f she worked real hard, she’d find out where she belonged. Mercy packed what she needed and left her wedding ring on Lucius’s nightstand. She wasn’t afraid anymore of living a life without him. She had some money saved for a few rainy days. Lucille had made sure of that—always taught her to keep a little something for herself.

  Mercy Blue stood in the doorway and managed to smile. She knew two things for sure: (1) she never wanted to step foot in a funeral parlor again, and (2) she loathed anything red. She was so damn tired of the color red. She straightened her olive green skirt and closed the door for the last time.

  “Oh, my God,” Michael whispered. “Oh, my God. How could she not tell me this?”

  “Don’t blame Dahlia, Michael. I don’t think she even remembers what happened. It was as if Jazz and Livia didn’t exist at all. We all did what we could to make it easier for her—well, except for me. I forbade anyone in this house to speak about the accident or ever mention Reva’s name again. They were difficult times, and I dealt with them the best way I knew how. Unfortunately, what I did afterward didn’t make things any easier for Dahlia or for anyone.”

  “There’s more?” Michael asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah, son. There’s more.”

  One week after the funerals, Lucius threw himself into his work. Aunt Baby and Dante tried to convince him to take a few days off and go away somewhere, but he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. His baby doll was still in a coma; how could he possibly go anywhere? He worked tirelessly day and night until he fell down where he stood from exhaustion. He couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t slow down for even a moment or his mind would go back to the corner of Corinth and Elm and he’d die all over again. He barely spoke to anyone and lost weight from refusing to eat. His appetite disappeared along with his smile, so the rest of him didn’t matter.

  He traveled back and forth to Parkland Hospital for three months, praying constantly that his baby doll wouldn’t die. If she left him, too, there would be nothing else for him to live for, no reason for him to ever open his eyes again. It was a miracle, the doctors said, that she was alive at all. No one had heard of anyone surviving such a horrific collision. “Someone up there was looking out for her,” they’d repeated to him every damn day, like that made him feel any better at all. Aunt Baby slept in the hospital night after night on an old cot next to Dahlia’s bed and spent hours talking to her about everything and nothing. “You know, she can hear you, Lucius,” Aunt Baby told him all the time. But he couldn’t talk to her. He couldn’t confess that he was angry with her for disobeying him, and he couldn’t admit to his oldest child that he hated himself for not knowing what he should have known.

  He and Aunt Baby were with her the day she came out of her coma. Dahlia opened her eyes and looked right at him. “Say something to her,” Baby pleaded, when she saw his hesitation. Lucius held her hand, and she responded by squeezing his finger. He struggled to say the right words, but remnants of his own twisted guilt flew out of his mouth instead. “Why didn’t you come get me?” he yelled. “You were supposed to come get me!” Baby pushed him out of the room then and slapped him hard. “She’s lost enough already!” she hollered at him, in front of God and everybody. “My God, Lucius, she’s just a child.” He burned with anger and plunged his fists into the walls, screaming hysterically outside his daughter’s room. Lucius wailed for the family that had been stolen from him, and he cursed the wife he couldn’t punish for making him trust her. He screamed again and again for the first time since he’d had to identify a mangled Reva and embalm his own children. So complete was his breakdown that he didn’t grasp the gravity of his actions until it was too late. He receded inside himself, oblivious to the poison he’d just injected into the brain of the one he loved the most.

  Now, at the core of her soul, Dahlia believed that she was the cause of her mother’s madness and that it was her fault that everyone in the car was dead. Her father blamed her, and this was more than her heart could bear and much more than her mind could hold. She would live, but she couldn’t face him the way she was. At eleven years old, she protected herself the only way she knew how. Her mind splintered into a million pieces, and when they came together again, Phoebe was born.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” Phoebe yelled. She was nervous, and her damn head was hurting again. It was that bitch hoping to get the jump on her. She could feel Dahlia trying to return, breathing down the back of her neck. Phoebe climbed on top of the railroad tracks and waved her hands in the air. “What are you trying to pull, Baby? Is this shit supposed to frighten me?”

  “No,” Baby answered. “I just wanted to know if you remembered what happened here.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I wasn’t here for the fireworks, but I heard it was quite a show. I mean, it was on the evening news and everything, made y’all famous,” she added sarcastically. “Jesus, Percival, can we leave now? I’m tired.” Phoebe looked around and paused. She wanted to keep walking but found that she was unable to move her feet.

  “I don’t need you anymore,” Dahlia screamed loud and clear, disorienting Phoebe, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Fuck!” Phoebe said, and sat down instead, unconsciously absorbing the moment. “The girl wants a fight.” She rubbed her temple in disgust and tried to hold on to a life that didn’t belong to her. “Not now,” she yelled. “Not yet!” She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand and blinked back tears. She couldn’t breathe, and her head felt like it was about to explode.

  Aunt Baby watched closely, with Percival not too far behind. She didn’t know if she had done the right thing by bringing her here, but it was a risk she took willingly. She waited with clasped hands for a sign from Dahlia. If she was still in there, coming here would either pull her out or seal her in. But the Culpepper women were strong of mind and courageous of heart. Dahlia was descended from a long line of formidable women, women who walked on water, women who could fly. Each one before her had survived some special kind of hell and thrived, so Baby Marseli knew at the core of all that she was that baby doll could survive even this.

  It was quiet where she was, peaceful and serene—almost eerily so. It was a kind of calm that she didn’t recognize at all, and that frightened her. No one spoke to her, no one came through doors that weren’t there, and there were no signs to guide the way. There was, though, a familiar feeling welling inside her that she could easily identify. Love. It coursed through her, and she welcomed the intensity of it, allowed it to fill her up and spill out into the space she occupied. A different reality began to ease its way next to her, and she threw her head back and tasted the possibilities. There were people waiting for her to love them. Somewhere there was a little girl who needed her mother and a husband who longed for his wife. Dahlia stood by herself with the knowledge that she was nearly there, nearly ready to open the last door. What existed beyond the door would be the absolute worst of it, and she knew that as surely as she knew that Phoebe wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  Dahlia placed her hand on the door and heard turbulence knocking from the other side. She snatched her hand away and wondered how long it would take her to see whatever it was that she’d spent a lifetime hiding from. She thought of Isabel and balled her fists like a child. She was somebody’s mother, and mothers were supposed to protect their children, keep them from harm’s way. She would fight for Izzy. She would fight for Milky, and finally she was ready to fight for herself. Her life was precious, and she wasn’t about to sign it over to anyone.

  She leaned against the door and pushed. “Give it up,” the voice said. “It’s over.” Dahlia pushed harder, ignoring the voice that told her she was going to die, until the door gave way. For a split second, she saw her entire life flash before her eyes, and then, without warning, Sophea took her and ripped her right out of the doorway. She was flying and then falling down, down, into outstretched arms. Reva held her close and caressed the side of her face. Her mother began to cry, and Dahlia rushed to wipe her tears. Reva
shook her head and backed away slowly. “It’s time now, baby doll,” she said. “Come take a ride with me. I can’t leave you. God help me, I can’t leave you.”

  Dahlia followed her to a burgundy Mercedes and watched as the younger version of herself slid into the car with Jazz and Livia. She tried to speak to them—tell them that a powerful storm was brewing—but they couldn’t hear her, and after Dahlia climbed in the backseat, neither could Reva. She was a reluctant spectator, a voyeur of her own life. She was suddenly overcome with trepidation, and she wanted to flee, but she couldn’t leave them, and this time, she refused to leave herself. Sophea raised hell outside, and Dahlia could only watch from the passenger-side window. It had begun to rain, and she tensed with worry. Reva spoke, and Dahlia felt the bile rise up in the back of her throat. She’d heard these words before.

  “Baby doll, tell your brother to be quiet while I’m driving. Livy, listen to your sister. Everybody come on now and settle down. We’ve got to get away from here.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of Miss Sophea, Mama?” Jazz asked. Reva rolled her eyes. “Boy, please. Do you think a little old tornado is going to scare me away? Umm-umm, the scary things are in the inside. You remember that, you hear?”

  “But, Mama—” Jazz continued, until Livy pinched him. “Ouch! Mama, Livy hit me!”