Chapter 10 #2
I sighed, trying once more to close my eyes.
Just as I had a few days ago, I reached for Lila, brushing the edges of a fading memory, hoping to coax her to the front, for the scene to play out.
But it was not her who took my hand—it was Deacon Ridley, his fingers wrapping around mine with a chilling certainty, cold and unyielding.
His grin stretched wide, smug, but it wasn’t the grin of the man I’d seen that night with orange fire in his eyes.
No, this was the version of the first time I had met him, the one with that eerie calm and mask of politeness hiding the predator beneath.
And then I heard the scream. Lila’s scream—a sharp, strangled cry that tore from her throat. The air grew thick with smoke, curling around me. The heat of flames slammed into my face, singeing the hairs on my arms and searing my lungs. My eyes popped open and my breath came in ragged gasps.
“Leigh.” Tibb’s voice cut through the fog of my disorientation, a beacon guiding me through the haze of memories. His hands pressed on my shoulders.
I jerked away, my hands scrambling across my skin, patting my arms and chest, each touch more frantic than the last, searching for warmth, any sign of fire.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Tibb said.
I shook my head, my gaze unfocused as I wrestled with the memory pressing on my chest. “This is stupid,” I said, my voice lashing out in a harsh bark.
His face held its shape, unmoved by my outburst. “What’s got you so rattled?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to do this,” I said, standing abruptly. It wasn’t his fault, wasn’t fair to direct my frustration at him.
“The stretching or the meditation?”
“Both. I didn’t sign up for this when I agreed to come work here.”
“Sign up for what?”
“All of this extra work. This has nothing to do with the job.”
A soft chuckle escaped him. “Oh, but it does. I didn’t think it did either, when I first got here, but you’ll see that it’s all connected. This extra work comes along with it.”
“Along with what?”
“A mirror.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to leave. “Are we done? I just want to go.”
“Leigh,” he began as he, too, rose to his feet. “It’s okay to feel this way. Meditation can bring up a lot of things we’re not ready to face, especially things from our past. This can help you.”
“Did it help you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“It did.”
“Did Jackson make you do this?”
Tibb shook his head. “He said I needed to find an outlet.”
“The pile of wood behind the barn?”
“Not that outlet. That’s his and Luke’s, and that works for them, but I needed something different. I found yoga and meditation.”
“I don’t need an outlet.” The words left my mouth too quickly and the lie settled deep inside me.
Tibb rolled up our mats and tucked them under his arms, not believing me any more than I did. “What did you see when you closed your eyes?”
The words I wanted to say were tight in my throat, caught like a hook. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered. It was the first admission of many that would eventually come. And this first one felt so, so much better once it was on the outside.
“I didn’t like what I saw either,” Tibb said, his tone imbued with compassion.
“It’s not easy, but meditation helps us identify and face the pain.
It helps us to heal and uncover things about ourselves that we never knew.
We can’t always control what we find when we meditate, but we have to make peace with what and who we may find there. ”
“How do I do that? Make peace?”
“It’s not something you do; it’s a place where you arrive—it’s an understanding. And when you get there, you will know it.” His words enveloped me. “I promise you, it will get better. Give it a try.”
I nodded, feeling his encouragement as we walked back to the main house.
“See you at breakfast in about an hour,” Tibb said, his tone lightening as he ascended the steps of the main house.
I watched him go, pondering his words. And this time, the invitation felt impossible to ignore.
I pushed the back door open and stepped into the kitchen; a haze of smoke filled my lungs.
Pots and pans clattered against the counter, while the hiss of something frying sputtered from the stove.
A heavy scent clung to the air—something burnt.
Jackson and Tibb sat huddled around a small round table, their heads lowered over plates.
Luke stood by the stove, wiping his brow, his face flushed by the heat.
Their conversation stopped when they saw me, all movement ceased.
Their mouths hung open, frozen in place as if time itself had stopped.
Jackson moved first, standing quickly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Did you need something?”
I squirmed. “I came for breakfast.” I looked around the table. “Where should I sit?”
Jackson shot a quick look at Tibb, then to Luke, before pulling a chair next to him and guiding me into it. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better,” I said, sitting. “I’m a little hungry, though.”
The three of them shifted their seats and their plates to make space for me. “What are we having?” I asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.
Luke’s face brightened, his eyes sparkling with pride. “I’m glad you asked. I made my specialty.” With a grand sweep of his spatula, he dropped a pile of vanilla-colored goop on my plate. It landed with a wet plop, a mix of beige batter and crumbs, both overcooked and runny.
I picked up my fork, the tines trembling slightly as I prepared to dig in. Luke stood proud beside me, his head held high, spatula in his hand.
“Go ahead,” he said, nudging the spatula in my direction. “Try it.”
Luke turned back to the stove, his back to me as Tibb leaned in and whispered, “You don’t have to eat it.”
“What is it?” I asked quietly.
Jackson stifled a chuckle behind his coffee cup.
“Pancakes,” Tibb said, his own attempt to contain his laughter failing.
I eyed the mass on my plate. “Pancakes are flat.”
Jackson’s laughter erupted, and Tibb joined him, their chuckles filling the kitchen. Luke turned around with another precarious pile of pancakes dripping off his spatula.
“Pay no attention to them, Leigh,” Luke said. “These are my scrambled pancakes.”
“I don’t…think I’ve ever had…scrambled pancakes before,” I said, poking the pile with my fork. “How do you scramble pancakes?”
“It happened by accident. I was trying to make regular pancakes, and I tried to flip one but it folded. So I decided to scramble them instead. They taste better than they look.”
I glanced at Jackson’s plate, where a small glob of pancake sat alongside a drop of syrup. “You actually ate it?” I asked him.
Jackson shrugged and whispered, “I’ve been eating this since we were kids. I’m used to it. I don’t even taste it anymore.”
“If he’s been making these for years, shouldn’t he be able to flip a pancake by now?” I asked.
“You would think,” Tibb said before taking a bite of his eggs.
Jackson leaned closer. “He doesn’t try anymore. He does it on purpose.”
I looked at Tibb’s plate and saw bacon and eggs only. “Why don’t you have to eat it?”
“I used to,” Tibb said. “But I’ve paid my dues. It’s your turn.”
I’ve eaten much worse, I thought as I looked at the pile settling into a puddle. Luke then dumped several slices of charred bacon and a pile of runny eggs on my plate.
“Eat up, Leigh,” Luke said. “It’s best when it’s warm.”
Jackson and Tibb busied themselves with their plates, and Luke turned toward the stove, but the kitchen hummed with the weight of their attention.
They weren’t watching me directly, yet their eyes were somehow always aware of my every move.
Though they didn’t openly acknowledge it, my presence at breakfast had turned into a significant event.
Little did they know that this step felt just as momentous for me.
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the syrup and poured a generous amount over the pancakes, a sticky river that pooled and trickled down the pile.
I scooped up a hearty portion and shoveled it in my mouth.
The sweetness hit first, followed by a warmth and unexpected chill as I rolled it around my mouth.
I held my breath as I chewed, swallowing slowly, feeling the mass slide down my throat.
When I finally looked up, three sets of eyes were fixed on me.
“Well?” Luke said, his tone eager.
“Not bad,” I said, swallowing the last bit. Jackson’s smile widened in approval and Tibb nodded.
“Do I smell coffee?” I asked.
They all stood, ready to assist. “I can get it,” I said, scraping back my chair and moving toward the counter. “Just show me where?”
Tibb pointed to the pot on the counter while Luke handed me a mug. I reached for the pot and began to pour the coffee, which flowed slowly, like thick motor oil. But I took a tiny sip anyway. The taste—harsh, bitter, unmistakably burnt—hit my tongue and I coughed.
“What are you doing?” Tibb asked, patting me on the back. “You can’t drink this black. You have to add cream and sugar.”
My eyes filled with tears through every cough, the taste still grasping to my tongue. “Yours is black,” I managed.
“I’ve built up a tolerance to it.”
“You make it like this on purpose?”
“We like strong coffee,” Tibb said.
“That’s not coffee,” I said.
They all laughed, the sound echoing around the kitchen.
“Damn it,” Luke yelled, sucking his finger. “I burned myself.” He inspected his finger. “That’s going to leave a mark. Add that one to the list.”
“Let me see,” Tibb said as Luke extended his finger. Tibb pushed it away just as quickly. “Get out of here. You’re reaching. That’s not going to leave a scar.”
“Yes, it will,” Luke said, showing Jackson and me. “It’s gotta scab over first. Tell him, Jack.”
Jackson sipped his coffee. “It’s too small,” he said, then looked at me. “They think scars are cool.”
“Why?” I asked.