Chapter 2 #3
“I like candy,” Lila said, the pink of her dress reflected in her wide eyes. She reached out eagerly to take it. She didn’t question his presence the way I did, didn’t hear the same alarm bells that rang within my ears.
He crouched down, fixating on Lila for too long, studying her with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
“My, my, my. You look just like your mama. How old are you?” He reached into his front pocket, pulled out a money clip, and ripped off a crisp twenty from the fat wad.
As Lila’s hand darted out to claim it, he watched, his gold pinkie ring glistening in the sunlight.
I stepped in between them, shielding Lila from his gaze, and snatched the bill from his fingers.
How pathetic my defenses were then; it was all I could think to do.
The length of his stare and the pause in his words made my insides hurt.
I didn’t know why—not then. But I did immediately sense the importance of listening to your gut.
That was a fateful moment, in retrospect.
If only I had known.
Now his scrutiny turned to me. His eyes roved, taking in every detail.
Surely he noticed my tattered dress, bare feet caked with dirt, and untamed curly hair in need of a wash, but he said nothing, his observations tucked away and saved for later.
Shame flooded me, heavy like a blanket. But he almost seemed appreciative of my wild appearance and defiant stance, and I hated him even more for it.
I forced myself to meet his gaze head-on, determined to etch every aspect of him into my memory.
High cheekbones that pushed his deep-set eyes into a squint.
Blackened skin that glistened with a sheen of sweat.
He looked his age, with his black hair losing against the strands of gray hair at his temples.
I memorized every detail of his face, and ten years later I recognized each one when I shoveled dirt over it.
“Now…” he said to me, his grin tinged with amusement, his teeth clenched. “I’m just trying to be nice.” His voice dropped when he said this, his expression darkening. Even then, I could hear the insincerity beneath his words, a lie swathed in charm.
“Y’all be nice to Mr. Ridley. He came all the way out here to see us.”
All three of us broke eye contact and looked at the front door.
Mama stood there in her red dress that hugged her hips, the one she wore on special occasions with Daddy when he’d hit a good streak and took her out to celebrate.
Mr. Ridley stood and straightened his lapels, the gray stripes of his suit reflecting the seriousness that belied his casual demeanor just moments ago.
I couldn’t reconcile my impression of Mr. Ridley with this version Mama presented. Not when he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a hand that palmed and gripped her butt.
Mama and Daddy never spoke to us about the love between a man and a woman.
Not that they would know how to anyway. They were babysitters, placeholders, silent instructors on the art of love, and our lessons unfolded as life dictated, pieced together on a need-to-know basis.
Their marriage played out before us raw and uncut, a jagged mirror reflecting both beauty and brutality.
We witnessed their affection in bursts of laughter and moments of heated exchange.
We learned early that for them, love was a game, a tumultuous dance of joy and sorrow that left us guessing.
But as time wore on, the edges sharpened, and we saw more than playfulness. The fists came later.
“Is Mama playing with someone else?” Lila asked a few minutes later, as the moans and bangs seeped out from underneath the closed bedroom door.
She didn’t stop bouncing her dolls along the scuffed floor.
Mama and Daddy didn’t mute their sexual activities for our benefit, and to our young ears, it sounded like playing—Mama’s laughter, the rocking of the bed.
Though sex was not hidden from us, I did know it was private.
Something always done behind closed doors, at least, and something, I thought, exclusively between Mama and Daddy.
Why was she playing with Mr. Ridley? Even at a young age, I knew this was not normal, and I wanted nothing more than to get away from the noise.
“I’ll race you to the river!” I yelled to Lila.
It was the first time Mr. Ridley had come to visit, but it wouldn’t be the last. You stop counting when it becomes as regular as a habit.
Each time, we knew what to do. We took to the water, where the day surrendered to the sun’s movement across the sky.
We lingered there, suspended, as if the world beyond the water’s edge ceased to exist.
Mr. Ridley’s car was always gone before the smell of sex—though I didn’t know at the time that’s what it was—metallic and musty, slithered from the bedroom into the living room, followed by the musk of cigarette smoke. Mama only smoked after sex.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said to me that first time when we returned.
Lila darted past her, but I lingered, watching.
She leaned against the front door, her arm bent at her waist, fingers gripping a cigarette.
The face she had painted on had vanished, and her once-red lips were bare. “What would you have me do?”
Tears welled up in my eyes, quick and heavy, and Mama’s response did nothing to soften the blow.
“Stop all that crying,” she hissed, leaning toward me with a finger pointed.
The scent of smoke and his cheap cologne billowed like a cape as she shifted, the smell slapping me.
“One day you’re gonna learn that this world hates you and you gotta fight to survive. What did your daddy tell you?”
“I’m a survivor,” I said, the words more of a whine.
“Say it like you mean it!” she snapped. “Make me believe it.”
“I’m a survivor,” I repeated, my voice steadier, my tears drying at the source.
She nodded, exhaling a long plume of smoke into the air above us. She smiled proudly, her head held high. “That’s right. And don’t you forget it.”
“But don’t you love Daddy?”
She took another long drag, then flicked the cigarette to the ground with a snap of her wrist, her smile unwavering. “Of course I do. Who do you think I’m doing this for?” She strode past me, her purse hooked on her arm.
“You’re too young to understand now, but one day you will,” she continued, her voice trailing behind her. “You sacrifice yourself for the one you love, and it will be the easiest decision you ever make.”
The electricity beat her back to the trailer.
The rusty refrigerator rattled back to life, and the wall-mounted air-conditioning hummed anew.
An hour later, Mama returned with bags of groceries and a new dress.
Her lips were stained with a fresh shade of crimson, a bold contrast against the weariness in her eyes.
“Leandra,” she said, “cook us sumthin’ to eat. Breakfast. Biscuits and gravy. And grits with lots of cheese.”
Mama, too, was a survivor.
Then I knew what I must do, the decision crystallizing within me before the words formed in my head. Under the bronze October afternoon, they came—the words, as if whispered by Mama herself, clear, like she stood there next to me. No one is coming to save you. You have to save yourself.
The truth then is the truth now, unyielding and stark. At some point you say to the wind, yourself, and whoever is listening, Enough.
I’m not sure if I made the decision to leave or if the choice was ever truly mine to make.
It felt as though my fate had been predetermined by some primal instinct.
I know what you’ve been told—that I ran.
Perhaps there’s a grain of truth in that.
I was following orders, saving myself, surviving. Beyond that, I knew nothing.
Except for gratitude. Finally, it flooded me.
So unexpected. So raw. A tiny smile pushed at the corners of my face, the act as foreign as poison.
I touched my fingers to my mouth, unprepared for its presence.
My world, once open and wide, had been shrinking, tightening around me like movable walls.
But now I had been given a second chance.
Life owed me that. I had taken all its punches and now this: an opportunity for something else.
Something I’ve never had, something I’ve never tasted: freedom.
The freedom to wander, to rest, to love.
To embrace a purpose. Even if I didn’t know what that meant.
I had not yet known myself.
I took one slow step forward, and another, and dove into the water, navigating its depths until I reached the bus.
Officer Downey hung suspended, his body floppy and pale, ensnared in his seat.
Careful not to disturb him, I pulled his wallet from his pants, wadded the cash into my hands, and returned it.
Nearby, Officer Manziel awaited my silent intrusion, and I repeated the process.
My movements underwater disturbed the wreckage, and upon my resurfacing, Officer Madison’s purse now floated alongside me.
Inside, her life unfolded before me: a wallet, a notebook, and makeup.
Her wallet held ninety-eight dollars; I curled my fingers around the money.
Retrieving her driver’s license, I noted our shared features—sun-kissed skin and unruly curls. A resemblance that could prove useful.
Another washing in the river cleaned the rest of my skin and removed much of the dried blood.
I separated my hair and wrapped it into two long braids.
Dressing in my damp clothes, white undershirt, undergarments, and ripped prison pants, I packed what I could carry in Officer Madison’s purse.
I poured boiled water into a water bottle and stuffed the fish into the McDonald’s cup.
I kicked out the fire and used a stick to erase evidence of my presence.
In the distance, the trees stood like sentinels, waiting.
What would you do if you were me? Would you have made the same decision?
You can’t answer that. You don’t know the full story yet.
Walking away, in that moment, seemed the only viable option.
There’s no hindsight in the moment. The future, beyond the immediate next thing, plays no part, has no role.
The past means even less. Crystal balls exist only in myth.
Except, even now, gifted with hindsight, I’d do it all over again.
So I turned my face to the wind, realizing there would be no going back. I whispered a silent goodbye to Loretta, to Officer Madison and the other guards. They weren’t the only ones. I said goodbye to myself as well. Because I was already gone.
I was a ghost now.
I died too.