Wild Child

Life, or what feels like the reasonable facsimile of it, has slowed.  At first, it was a series of light bulb- flashes of time and sounds, of people and places.

There were the various rooms of my house.  Then there were the empty windows of the rooms upstairs.  There was Rusty’s face in the rain.  Then there was the dashboard of an unfamiliar car.

I woke some time later, in a dark room, to the faint sight of Rusty hovering over me.  We watched each other for an eternity. Or for a few seconds.  I’m not sure which.  I stayed perfectly still while the mattress beside me sank and stretched out beside me, drawing me into his arms.

There was more time after that.  Hours or days, I don’t know, but I woke again in the same dark room.  Beneath my ear was a beating heart and deep, even breathing.  I lifted my head to confirm what I already knew.  It was Rusty. Rusty had fallen asleep holding me.

Still, there was more time.  Still, I don’t know how much. I woke, startled by a girl’s screams.  It took Rusty stroking my hair, soothing me with his calming words to make me realize that the girl was me.  And that her screams were mine.

I remember daylight after that.  And Rusty.  Still.  Always, it seemed.

There was worry on his face and in his eyes. But there was something else, too.  Something I refused to think about.  So I slept.

There were vague impressions, too.  Fingers on my cheek, lips against mine, words whispered in my ear.  Something that made my heart sing and cry, all in the space of a heartbeat.  So I dove back into sleep, into escape.

When I could hide no more, I woke to the sight of Cami sitting in the rocking chair in the corner.  I watched her for a few seconds before I moved.  She looked tired as she swayed gently back and forth, her head resting against the cushion, her eyes closed. I wondered briefly what was weighing so heavily on her.

Her head straightened and her eyes opened, locking on mine immediately.  I knew then what was worrying her.  It was me.

She came to the bed, curled up beside me, threaded her fingers through mine and we cried.  Together. I don’t know how long we did that before I fell asleep again.  When I woke she was in different clothes, standing in the doorway.

“Where’s Rusty?” I’d asked.

“He said he’d asked you for one day, and that you’d given it to him.  And that he would come back if you wanted him to.”

My heart broke a little more. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it was already in a million tiny pieces and happiness hurt just as much as sadness.  Or maybe because I couldn’t tell them apart.  Maybe they are one and the same. Or maybe there can’t be one without the other.

After that moment, time sped up into a blur, a rapid succession of images and places, of fuzzy emotions and decisions, all set against the backdrop of an unimaginable pain and sense of loss.  They ran together, beyond my control, like water colors in a cold, hard rain.

There were arrangements to make, morticians to speak to, songs to choose and gravestones to select.  There were thoughts of telephone calls, but none to make, except to my brother, Jake.  Although he’s always been as far away emotionally as he has been geographically, he promised he would come.  That moment stood out among the rest.

And now, somehow, I’m here.  In a cemetery. In the sunlight.  In a dress I don’t remember buying, in front of a casket I can’t remember picking out.

My brother stands beside me, looking like a brooding, bitter version of my father, with his black hair, dark skin and amber eyes, and we address the dozens of people who have come to pay their last respects to my father.  He nods politely and I say things I really don’t mean to people I really don’t know as they drift by in single file.  I watch them come and I watch them go, and all I feel is…empty.  And alone.

Even my mother’s jealous, vindictive sister, Ellie’s presence doesn’t shake me from my stupor.  I recognize her trailer-trash hair and her trailer-trash dress when she steps up in line.  I recognize the smell of vodka on her breath and the way she curls her lip in disgust.  But still, I don’t feel like I’m present.  Not fully.

I listen as she speaks, but I don’t really understand what it is she’s trying to say.  And some part of me thinks that I don’t really want to.  At least not today.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your daddy,” I hear her slur.  “Have you already read the will and taken care of all the arrangements?”

I don’t answer. I simply watch her, wishing she’d disappear.  Or that I would.

“Well,” she continues, “just let me know when to be there.  I’m sure he’s made some provisions for you two, like a good father would, but that orchard should come to me.  Rightfully.  And since you kids don’t have an interest in living there like me and Turkey do…”

Some part of me, a part that I see and feel as if I’m observing it from a great distance, is getting angry.  It threatens to penetrate my numb cocoon.  But I resist.

“What’s this about, Ellie?” Jake asks, protectively stepping closer to me.

“Jake, honey, you know as well as I do that you two don’t want the orchard.  And it should’ve come to me next anyway, so why don’t we just talk to the lawyers and have them sign it over to me and Turkey.  You’ll feel better without having to worry about the home place.”

“The hell I will,” Jake bites.  “My mother would roll over in her grave if she thought I turned the place she loved so much over to you.”

Even from deep inside my fuzzy reality, I see Ellie’s saccharine sweet demeanor dissolve into one of contempt.  “We’ll just see what the lawyers have to say about that then. I tried to do this the kind way, but you’re making it awful hard to be nice, son.”

“I’m not your son,” Jake growls.  “And we’ll see just who ends up with what.  Now, take your raggedy ass on home before you really make me mad.”

I know I should feel angry. I can see it in the way Jake glances at me, as if waiting for me to speak up.  Only I don’t.  Because I can’t. I can’t feel anything right now. I simply watch, like I’m watching a game from the sidelines, as Ellie glares at Jake and takes her husband, Turkey, by the arm and drags him away.  “Come on. I knew this would be a waste of time.”

The line begins to dwindle.  As it does, one random thought chases itself through my head, over and over and over.

What do I do after this? 

No answer comes to me.  I shake hand after hand, and accept hug after hug until there’s no one left in line, and it’s just me and Jake standing in the cemetery, all alone.

It’s as I’m glancing at the gravestones that surround me, all glistening in the sun like so many black diamonds, that I see him.

Rusty.

Standing in the shade of a tree, he’s wearing a black suit, the jacket draped over one shoulder.  His right arm is free, covered only in a white, unbuttoned shirt sleeve that fits over his cast.

I have no idea how long he’s been there, but some part of me says he’s been there all along.

Across the distance, we stare at each other.  Then, little by little, like dawn breaking through the darkness of the night, feeling begins to penetrate—the breeze on my skin, the sun on my face, the pain in my soul, the certainty in my heart.

Everything in my vision, in my world, in my life, comes into crystal clear focus as I stand, holding my breath, staring at Rusty.  Waiting.  Finally, with clarity that only great tragedy can bring, I see Rusty.  Really see him.  I see the fear he’s lived with, and I see the insecurity he grew up with. I see the guy I fell in love with, and I see the man he’s become since fate stepped in and brought us together.

I take one step forward and I stop.  And I wait.  Unmoving, he watches me, so I take another.  And another.  And another still, walking until I’m close enough to smell the scent of his soap, swirling around me like a comforting fog.

“I know I shouldn’t have come,” he begins.

“Then why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away. I had to know you were okay.”