Chapter 5 #3
Mama had tried to make excuses for him. In the dark, after the utility company had shut off our electricity, she’d tell us stories of when they met, before the voices started.
Crouched together in the winter for warmth or bent over a bowl of cold chicken broth, we heard how clean and sharp he’d looked in his navy sport coat and khaki slacks, his fresh barbershop cut, when he picked her up for the first time, and how he stood up to her mother.
“My mama was jealous of me,” she told us.
“Jealous that I was prettier than her and that my daddy loved me more.” He’d saved her, and that was worth her loyalty.
Believing he was more hero than villain worked for a time, but looking back, it worked only because we wanted it to, not because it was true.
You could convince yourself of anything if you believed it hard enough.
And we refused to admit that he had such darkness inside him.
Lila loved these stories, to hear about Mama and Daddy in love, the fairy tale of it all.
She loved love in all its forms. Mama did too, believed that love transcends all, and I think that was why Mama let him be.
Why she allowed his abuse and absences—and the gambling, that salt in the wound—to continue for so long.
Something in me, something fortune had given me before I was even born, made it so I didn’t understand this type of love: toxic, uneven, and unsure.
And then Lila helped me trust that. We loved each other unconditionally.
Even when it stung, when we fought as kids do, afterward, we still loved each other. The pain wasn’t constant.
Daddy was the first and only person to break my heart.
By the beginning of the second week, I dreaded Beth’s eventual return.
No, that wasn’t it, exactly. I didn’t want to stay—I couldn’t risk staying—so I didn’t want her job.
But I did recognize this was a beautiful setup, even though I had no intention of forming bonds that would tether me to this place, and I knew that the longer I stayed, the harder it would be to avoid that.
I had grown accustomed to the solitude of the cabin, yet I refused to let myself feel at home.
Every spare moment had to be dedicated to the next thing, the next place I would go.
A place I envisioned far away from Camden.
I went into town only a handful of times, my trips deliberate and cautious, aimed at either buying for Walt or replenishing my supplies.
Camden, with its modest population of 1,800 residents, felt too intimate, too small for my comfort, and I had no desire to become a familiar face among the locals, so I shopped at different times, navigating between the shifts of the morning and evening cashiers.
Yet even as I moved along the narrow aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, a persistent tension threaded through my thoughts.
The bus had not yet been found, and I had difficulty finding regular updates on the news here.
South Carolina news barely reached the ears of Alabama.
It was as if the bus crash had never happened.
But the reality of it hung over me like heavy fog, and I found myself caught in a strange duality between a world that seemed oblivious and my own deepening sense of isolation.
Until one Saturday, on my way to Piggly Wiggly, I stumbled upon a farmers market in the parking lot.
The market buzzed with life, the air humming with conversation and laughter.
Families and friends navigated the maze of stalls, touching, smelling, and sampling.
I moved through, looking and admiring but not making any stall a full stop, just glancing by to appreciate the vendors, their faces glowing with pride as they showcased their harvest.
I continued walking until my footsteps were interrupted by a burst of color ahead.
An old blue truck sat at the end of the market, its bed overflowing with bouquets of flowers in silver buckets, each a bold cascade of reds, yellows, blues, and purples.
The zinnias caught my eye first, followed by clusters of delicate daises, roses, and dahlias standing tall.
The blossoms seemed to dance in the wind, their colors alive and radiant, each flower more exquisite than the last. I paused, captivated, as the scent of the fresh petals drifted toward me.
I stared, blinking, making sure I wasn’t dreaming.
Because otherworldly visions like this only happened in dreams. Or after serving five years in prison.
I had noticed a few wildflowers on my walk into Ninety Six and to Anderson.
But I hadn’t seen them—not really. These flowers before me didn’t demand attention; beautiful things never do.
I knew this to be true, because I knew Lila.
Like her, they stood tall, allowing you to appreciate them.
I hadn’t seen that much color in one place in years. It was jarring, the difference between being blind and suddenly being allowed to see. And I hadn’t realized how much I missed it, how much I loved it, how much I’d taken it for granted until now.
As I approached, I could see the delicate details, the soft ruffles of the petals.
I imagined the soil that grew them, the hands that had nurtured them, and the joy they would bring to someone’s day.
Lila taught me to do this, to consider and appreciate the journey of the flower, to see beyond its petals, to cherish the little wonders that brighten our lives.
A rush of nostalgia swept through me, each bloom a fragment of my sister’s laughter, echoing from our childhood.
For a moment, I could almost hear her voice, teasing me about my clumsiness as I stumbled to keep up with her.
I reached out to touch the edges of a dahlia and felt a pang of longing, a bittersweet ache that swelled within me.
“Excuse me,” a voice said, breaking my reverie. “How much for a bouquet?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my mind still lost in memory. “I…I don’t—”
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the big one and twenty each for the three smaller ones,” the woman insisted.
Without waiting for my response, she thrust the bills into my hand and grabbed the flowers.
Then another woman stepped forward, pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my palm, and snatched a bouquet.
“I think they overpaid, if you ask me,” a deep voice chimed in from behind me.
Startled, I stumbled back, colliding with a solid figure.
I turned and found myself face-to-face with a bear of a man.
He stood tall and broad, his navy T-shirt stretching across his chest taut like a canvas, his olive-green carpenter pants held up with black suspenders, lending him an air of ruggedness.
The sun cast shadows across his polished mahogany skin and muscular arms, and my eyes traveled from his bulging biceps to several tattoos, including one that ran the length of his forearm and said To Whom Much Is Given Much Is Required.
He was achingly handsome, but he didn’t carry himself as if he cared.
From the scars on his hands, the dirt under his nails, and the tiny hole in his shirt, I could tell that his focus was anywhere but on his looks. I had never seen anyone like him.
“Sorry,” I said, shifting awkwardly and craning my neck to look up at him. “Excuse me.”
“No, excuse me,” he said, gravelly, gaze steady. Above his right eye, a fresh cut marred his bearded face; the dried blood suggested a recent tussle with something, or someone, that had left its mark.
“But I do think you overcharged that woman,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling in amusement. He crossed his arms, and I saw in their flex the power to build or dismantle entire worlds as necessary.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t work here. She just pushed the money in my hands.”
He leaned toward me as he covered one side of his mouth with his hand. “They can be a little pushy sometimes,” he whispered.
We recognized each other immediately, though we had never met.
Perhaps it was the ease with which he leaned into me, the comfortability of it, as if he had always been a part of my world, that enhanced the familiarity.
Through this simple gesture, something had awakened in me.
His face, his eyes all carried a sense of knowing.
I knew him, this man, this stranger, as if we had crossed paths before, in some time or place.
But I knew that was impossible, that our lives had never intersected, never touched before this moment.
I had spent my life being invisible, on paper and through the eyes of others.
And yet, I couldn’t shake this feeling that he saw me.
As he straightened back up, he studied me for a moment, then grabbed the back of his neck and rubbed it. “I’m sorry, but…do we know each other?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, and meant my uncertainty. The familiarity I felt, he felt it too.
“Yeah…I didn’t think so…”
We stood there, in the connection that linked us and gripped us both, having lived two separate lives in two separate states, completely unaware of the other’s presence.
“You seem to really like flowers,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah…but not as much as my sister.” My eyes drifted back to the flowers in the truck.
“What do you see when you look at them?” he asked, watching me.
The weight of his question settled in. Another memory of Lila presented itself in my mind, then another. All the memories I had worked hard to forget. “Everything.” My mind jolted back to the present, and I looked at the man, a smile quickly plastered on.