Forgiving Fate
Illusion or imagination…?
It is true what is said about time being a healer.
It wasn’t easy, but eventually fear eased its grip on our lives, and we soon came to find a humble routine.
Once Noma could breathe without me constantly being by her side, Johnny Watts was enrolled in school.
During the year and a half I was homeschooled, I fell behind.
Noma was definitely educated enough to teach me school subjects, but was far more preoccupied with keeping me safe and alive.
Hence why I failed an admissions test and was held back a year when returning to the public school system.
In attempts to keep me disguised, Noma insisted I grow my hair out and even forced some ‘highlights’ so that I looked different as could be.
She wouldn’t speak of my hand but knew my missing finger was in hospital records.
Anyone searching for us had a huge, unmissable telltale sign that they had found the correct grandma and grandson.
But no one came. Grandpa’s cloud sheltered us well.
Noma also dyed some blonde streaks in her hair. Not letting her medical degree go to waste, she took an online job recording medical data for a small hospital. She didn’t want to touch much of the ‘emergency’ money we had brought with us.
Off the school bus, I’d kick at pebbles, wishing I had a friend who lived closer.
The ones I’d made at school were pretty cool for the most part.
They didn’t understand why my grandma and I never took family vacations like they did, but stopped asking questions when I was always vague with answers.
Noma said it was best the less they knew.
Being an eighth grader had me a top dog in middle school.
My voice had dropped, and my balls had grown.
Girls were very interested in me, even with a deformed hand.
My hormones were interested in them, but my heart wanted no part of any normal girl.
I couldn’t get past the memory of the magical one.
Even if, at times, I was close to that memory fading—or my mind becoming convinced she simply didn’t exist, I would do something as routine as wash my hands and see my missing finger.
Or shower. Or it would rain. Like now, as I was walking home, a girl from school’s number in my back pocket, all I had to do was look at the water falling from the sky and see the stars, calling to me like a siren, making sure a certain set of green eyes never left my mind for too long.
“Dammit,” I swore to myself, grabbing the papered digits from my pocket. I crumbled them in my left fist and threw ’em to the side of the road, letting the mud seep and become quicksand to a future—a normal childhood—I doubted I would ever have.
Under incredibly thick and rich green tall trees, there was a glow coming from our light pink home.
Music was floating through white lace curtains and out the open windows.
I sighed, still grateful we had survived the heartbreak of all that had transpired.
Losing Dad changed who we were. To add to the tragedy, one of Noma’s friends had a ‘mysterious’ death.
Noma never told me any details, but I had watched her suffer raw guilt.
At times, her mounting sadness made the whole house ache.
I couldn’t help her. I was too young and drowning in sorrow myself.
Noma loved Van Morrison, and I believe that music helped save us.
One day, she wiped off the dust on the records and played them.
Music crackling through old speakers, her eyes closed.
Tears formed, but a slight smile did, too.
Hand to her chest, she slowly began to sway, as if dancing with Grandpa.
I believe he was there, pulling her from the darkness, like my magical friend had for me.
For the last two years, she swayed her skinny hips to the beat, not caring if or who saw her. In fact, most of the time she’d make me dance with her, swearing someday I’d be happy she taught me so I could impress a ‘lady friend’.
After opening the front door, I stepped inside, water dripping from my now longer brown hair. My upper lip snarled as I accused, “It’s raining. A ride would’ve been nice.”
We no longer owned the sedan. Now we had a four-wheel-drive hunter-green Jeep.
Noma had taught me to drive the stick-shift vehicle by the time I was eleven.
Even in rough terrain. If something happened to her, I was to get in and drive to a different hidden location she had paid for in cash.
Like I would ever have left her behind. Crazy woman.
Noma swiveled her jeaned hips while her hands danced in the air.
“Today is another day you don’t love water?
” Behind her, spread around the room, were potted trees and hanging plants because they ‘brighten up any space’.
Or, ‘secrets of life need water’. Or, ‘in the leaves are hidden treasures’.
I swear, sometimes I was sure she was losing her wits.
Plopping on a couch, a palm leaf attacking me, I kicked my sneakers up on a rickety old coffee table. “Yup. Water is annoying.”
Dancing coming to a halt, Noma swiped my feet from the table. “So is mud on my furniture. Have you lost your mind?”
Not getting up, and with a bit of ‘unappreciated attitude’, as Noma always put it, I toed each shoe off, letting them plop on the floor in protest.
Her nostrils flared.
Oh shit. I got up from the couch and quickly put my shoes by the door. Staying out of swatting distance, I came back to the living room and waited for what I had coming.
She pointed a silver-ringed finger at me. “I know deep down you don’t want to be a bratty asshole. It’s just part of your age and growing anger toward the world.”
Per usual, this woman was correct. The urge for revenge for my dad’s murder had not faded. Deep inside, that part of my spirit was getting louder as each year passed.
She kept on. “Now, you wanna stay safe?” Her glare struck deep. “Or teeeeest me.”
“Safe.” I grinned at the firecracker, who I had already outgrown, and who could still beat my ass. “I choose safe.”
Van Morrison still playing in the background, she lifted her chin. “That’s my baby boy.” She walked to her bedroom. “Now, go shower. I’m starving.”
Like a spoiled teenager, I dragged my wet socked feet toward a bathroom that was nauseating with pink floral wallpaper. “Are you going to feed me a stuffed cat that, whoever lived here before us left behind?”
Noma’s laughter was beautiful. It sang through the air like a happy song you couldn’t help but smile to. “Do you want that cat dinner with or without fur?”
Chuckling while shutting the bathroom door, I mumbled, “Jesus, woman.” Her wit and humor were my saving grace.
“Maddox?” I was surprised she was right outside the door, using my real name, and that her tone had changed. It was now kind and held a touch of wisdom. “Do your best to appreciate the gift Death gave you. Try to forgive fate. You’re still here, baby. For a reason.”
Glancing at the scars on my knuckles, a lump formed in my throat. The damaged skin stretched with my now larger hand. “Have you forgiven fate?”
There was a meaningful pause, then, “I try every single day.” The wooden floor creaked as she walked away.
Taking a deep breath, I turned from the door and approached the shower.
Without looking at my hand—missing finger—or behind the curtain, I turned a knob so it would spray out the shower nozzle.
I took off my wet clothes and left them on the floor behind me as I, with eyes closed, moved the curtain, then stepped under the spray.
All attempts to not sense the inevitable were in vain.
Instantly, I felt taunted with the liquid connection.
It kept me in a realm of insanity by hoping that what happened the day I died was true.
Of course, I wished the day never existed, and my father was still with me, but since that wasn’t a possibility, I did hope it wasn’t all for nothing.
Maybe that was the connection to the water. A prayer, from a little boy who desperately hoped fate hadn’t taken away Dad without a damn good reason.
A vision of Dad, sitting on his Harley, entered my mind.
His back was to me, but he peered over his shoulder and…
smiled. And wouldn’t ya know it? In the vision, that damn yellow skully appeared in midair and blew toward me, as if riding his smile like a feather in a breeze.
A breeze that reached me in a different manner than the water spoke to me, but there was a message still being delivered. I just couldn’t decode it.
That made the loneliness in the absence of my father erupt to the tune of ‘let’s pretend my life isn’t a pile of shit’.
Eyes still closed, my upper body leaned forward so the tiled wall could hold my exhausted heart. Fighting tears, I told my dad, “I miss you so damn bad.”
Warm water sprayed my developing back like a caress from someone who knew me well and wanted to comfort me. I was struggling to forgive fate, but maybe I could give in to my craziness and, for just a few seconds, let that someone in.
The lure was so enticing that my body, of its own accord, took a step back.
Okay, just for a moment, I’ll let it all in.
Welcoming the temporary escape, I lifted my head enough to keep the water from hitting my face, but to also give me the perfect view as I finally opened my eyes.
Surrendering can be mystic. It allowed space to see what others couldn’t.
Blue, silver, white, and green sparkles floated through the streams of water and greeted me as if excited to see me.
Excited for me to be willing to acknowledge their existence.
To remember that water can cleanse… and it can also… heal.
Relief rippled through my whole body as if this sensation were truly real.
Deep inhale…
That’s when it happened. She flowed through me. A warmth welcomed me—rewarded me—for allowing this surrender.
It was so otherworldly, so comforting, I no longer cared if I was crazy or not. As if she were in front of me, in an invisible ghost form, my arm lifted and my damaged hand reached for her. However, there was nothing to feel in the physical form. Only in a spiritual one.
The sound of the water spray, the landing of every drop, held me in a trance so I could feel the little girl was older now, just like me.
And she was longing… just like me.
The internal warmth from my shower had a hunger rising to the surface.
Once the water was turned off, the trance had been broken, and I reverted to mood swings stirring me back to life.
The rain had calmed to a slight drizzle while we drove into town for dinner.
However, I was already overboiling again.
I couldn’t help it. The raindrops that sparkled, for only me, slid down the passenger window, beseeching me to join them.
But with how my life had gone thus far, it dawned on me that I never would return to where my imagination had ignited.
Realizing that set a fire inside me. The deep ache and longing for my friend clawed away at my nerves like the devil plucking at guitar strings, composing a shrieking tune.
One guitar string snapped. “How much longer will we be living here?”
I’d given up on some of her answers. Up to this point, Noma seemed to refuse altogether to tell me who killed or was responsible for Dad’s murder, but maybe asking different questions would lead to new answers?
Eyes on the road, Noma mumbled, “I see you are back to a shitty mood.”
I rested my nine fingers on the dashboard and gripped, wanting to throttle anyone I didn’t love like I loved her. “Not my fault. If I were more informed, maybe I could stop being an asshole.”
“A librarian can only offer the books in her library.”
Blink. Blink. “What the fuck does that mean?”
It was lucky I had been gripping the dash, or I might have been bruised by my seat belt as Noma slammed on the brakes so damn hard.
Horns beeped, headlights beamed throughout the Jeep, and a couple of cars flipped us off as they drove by.
Noma didn’t give two fucks about them. Only me.
And she told me all about it. “Listen here, you hormonal sinner. If you fucking curse at me one more fucking time I will rip out your fucking tongue and serve it to you like a fucking Hannibal Lecter goddamn brain dinner. Got it?”
Gulp! Maybe this is why Dad never challenged her. I released my aggressive grip on the dash and sat back in my seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
She dipped her head in a ‘thank you for remembering to respect me before I had to scalp you in the middle of this road’ nod.
Pressing on the gas, looking out the windshield as if she hadn’t just lost her shit, she replied, “We will live here for as long as we remain undetected.”
As always, she delivered what appeared to be a simple answer that was truly limitlessly complicated.
Treading carefully, not to cause another Noma meltdown, I asked, “Do you think Grandpa bought the house here for the reasons someone was after Dad?”
A moment lingered before she cryptically answered, “Possibly yes and no.”
I blew out an exhausted breath while letting my head rest in my seat and peering back out to the raindrops, almost telling them goodbye since I’d most likely never swim in my magical friend’s waters again.
1 ? “Orange” — Delilah Montagu