Chapter 4 #2
We had spent years poring over religious texts, folklore, myths—anything that would help bring light to my first life in the Wastelands.
We had agreed I must have lived some time in the future based on my descriptions, we just didn’t know how far ahead.
But the common thing we had agreed after our research was what Charlie mumbled, “In every religion, mortals bleed for gods.”
I nodded. “Yes, it does seem to be their favorite pastime. . . a morose legacy of fucking with us or killing us.”
He flinched at that.“You’re sure about all this?”
I let out a long, exhausted breath, growing frustrated at how many times I had rattled off my reasons to only be met by their constant disbelief.
“Charlie,” I muttered, “Of course, I am not sure. All I have are fragments. . . stories carved into stone, names whispered in alleys, rumors you do not repeat unless you want your throat slit. Hearsay. That is all I have.”
“But you believe it.”
I glanced over to him before returning my gaze to the rope hanging slack between my fingers. “I believe in what I saw, what I lived through, what I experienced, and what I learned,” I said. “Mostly, I learned how to survive.”
Charlie studied me with those storm-blue eyes, brows pinched. He was afraid, I realized, but I could not say if it was for me or for Violet or for the whole of humanity. He was a righteous man, lost on his journey, and always eager to carry the burdens of others.
Finally, he asked, “Think we’re overreacting?”
I shrugged. “What is that saying? Hope for the best, prepare for the worst? Allow me to survey the school first. It may not be as I fear. I could be paranoid over nothing.” I paused, then added, “Assuming Levi does not bury me in the back yard like he did old Rufus.”
Charlie gave a humorless laugh. “No promises. At least you’ll be in a good spot. They loved that dog.” His tired eyes turned to me. “For now, let us enjoy the barbecue tomorrow and see how things go. I’m looking forward to Sloane’s cooking.”
I scoffed, throwing a teasing jab at the woman Charlie pinned for, “You may want Sloane’s, but it is Dawn’s cooking I salivate for.”
Sloane’s sister Dawn moved through the kitchen like fire given form, like a spirit of the hearth if ever there was one.
Each dish she prepared was infused with something I could not put into words.
South American heritage ran through her blood like molten gold, and she wielded it like the weapon it was.
Every dish paraded spices across my tongue in a myriad of wondrous flavors.
It was as if she conjured magic from rice and beans, and from banana leaves tied tight around mysteries that made my mouth water.
I especially enjoyed it when she made tamales. Watching her tie those leaves with practiced ease, binding something precious so it could transform. Just like my rope work, just like the knots that kept my sanity tethered.
Charlie stood as he said, “Her tamales really are the best, but I will always prefer Sloane’s.” He reached out and—in a fatherly gesture—put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going for my run. Want to join?”
No, I do not. I always did my run in the morning, compared to Charlie, who preferred the evening. Getting in shape is a psychological process disguised as a physical one, he’d often say. I did not share the same sentiment of enjoying running in darkened woods.
“Nyet,” I said.
“No?” Charlie asked in confirmation. He had started studying Russian once he realized how much the language meant to me—a way for him to get closer to me, for us to share something in common—but he was still unsure of himself.
He constantly asked for validation and clarification, even over the simplest words and terms.
“Not tonight. But thank you for asking.”
As Charlie left, I relooped my rope and shaped the pattern again beneath my hands. The rhythm steadied my pulse, a metronome against the uncertainty clawing at my throat. It was a long time before I fell into a fitful sleep that night.
The Shaws sure do enjoy their family barbecues, I thought as Charlie and I arrived at their house.
Though I suppose it made sense, as they had to cook for a family with dietary restraints.
Both Sloane and Violet had Celiac disease, so whenever food was made, it was done in large quantities. Such as this barbecue ritual of excess.
The very concept of a barbecue always felt strange to me.
In my first life, celebrations had been scarce.
American barbecues, I’d come to find, were about abundance spread out over red checkered cloth.
Food was piled high enough to feed a small army, and there was a level of waste that would have gotten you killed in the Wasteland.
And I had fallen in love with it all.
When the family gathered—plates groaning under the weight of plenty, voices weaving through the evening air—I sat alone and absorbed it all. For them, this was a mundane occurrence. For me, it was proof that beauty could exist without blood payment.
Levi’s oldest friend José had come with his family.
Both men stood by the grill that sizzled with carne asada and chicken, lazy grey smoke rising to greet the blue unbroken sky.
They sipped their beers as they watched José’s eight-year-old twins chase Amber, who is Levi and Sloane’s youngest. The three kids ran through the yard, kicking a half-deflated soccer ball between them with their boundless energy on full display.
Her sunhat bounced on her honey-brown hair as she darted away, shrieking when they gained on her.
Sloane was trying to speak Spanish with José’s wife, Isabella—a short and stout woman with a round face, dark eyes, and darker hair.
From the few interactions we’d had, I knew her to be a kind woman.
Whenever she spoke Spanish to the Shaw family, especially with Amber and Violet, she would take her time to speak slowly in an attempt to get them to reciprocate.
The few phrases I’d heard Violet struggle with reminded me of my own time adopting Russian.
Over at the picnic table, Sloane’s words were halting, and she gestured with her hands when her Spanish failed her.
Then, Sloan’s sister Dawn swooped in to translate. With bombastic hand gestures accompanying a rapid-fire staccato of Spanish, Dawn had Isabella doubled over with laughter. Dawn winked at her younger sister, then darted off to harangue Levi at the grill.
Sloane wears her heritage like a coat that is two sizes too big.
I knew it was a sore spot for her, given she was Latina in blood, but not in upbringing.
She’d had her sister Dawn help her learn Spanish, but I could tell she was frustrated that it didn’t come naturally to her.
. . the small pinch between her brows when she struggled for a word.
Dawn, on the other hand, had been raised by her mother’s side, and it showed.
The way she laughed at Spanish and English jokes alike, how she transitioned between the two seamlessly, how she turned what could have been awkward silence into shared warmth.
She was a bridge where Sloane felt like a gap.
And yet, she carries it like a burden. I’d heard comments once or twice about their parents and their upbringing. I’d heard enough to decide it had not been good for either of them.
I nursed my beer from a lawn chair, the bottle cold against my palm.
Despite Sloane’s reluctance, Charlie and Levi had vouched for my drinking privileges despite my apparent age.
They both understood the arithmetic of my actual age, and I would be damned if I would be denied a beer.
The taste still surprised me—bitter and bright. I savored it as if it were my first.
Levi handed his tongs to José, stepped away from the grill, and headed into the house.
Violet’s attention snapped to him, and she followed inside.
Curious, I thought as I closed my eyes and focused my hearing towards the house.
I managed to tune out most of the noise around me to catch the edge of their conversation.
“What do you mean you want access to your trust?” Levi asked. His voice resonated with paternal authority.
Money? Violet rarely asked for anything. She didn’t need to, since Levi already lavished her with endless indulgences. I had called her princess for good reason—she lived like one, comfortable in the knowledge that her father’s wealth would catch her if she fell.
“Daddy, I want to invest in some businesses, and I would like the flexibility to spend without needing your consent.”
Invest in some businesses? That didn’t sound anything like the Violet I knew. They said that college could change you, but I doubted that three weeks were enough to spark a sudden interest in her personal finances.
I heard Levi’s heartbeat quicken. He must have thought the request was just as odd as I did. He said, “If you want to send me the specifics on those investments, I would be happy to look them over together with you or—"
“But Daddy, I want to make the choices myself. Even if I lose money, I want it to be because I made a mistake.”
Water running. Glass clinking. Stalling tactics. My enhanced hearing painted the scene in sound: nervous father, determined daughter, money hanging between them.
“Violet, I cannot in good conscience give you access to that much money without hearing more detailed reasoning.” There was a pause. I nearly missed what Levi asked next because he had lowered his voice. “Baby girl, did someone approach you at the school?”
There it is. Good on you, Levi. That was the question that mattered. I had to admit, I was surprised he thought to ask her.
“What? No. . . not exactly.”
Another quickening of Levi’s pulse. “What does that mean? Not exactly?”
Her frustrated sigh was followed by receding footsteps. “Just forget it, Daddy.”
Running away when the questions get too pointed, princess? That’s very telling.