Knox
“’Munk?” A thin cry wafts over the din of the pre-eclipse revelers. “’Munk.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Dawn pointing, my mom at her side calling out, running toward me. My commitment to leaving my old life behind is not so great that I’m going to bolt across a crowded parking lot like a hunted rabbit with my mother in hot pursuit. I stop and turn.
Now it’s my turn to point at Dawn. “You don’t even remember her, do you.”
“Who?”
“That girl I was with at the store.”
“Should I?”
“You tried to rip her off. You hit her and pushed her down and hurt her.” My voice seethes.
“’Munk,” my mom says and moves to hug me.
I hold out my good hand to keep her at bay. “My name isn’t ’Munk. It’s Knox. Not that I want you knowing my real name.” I direct that last part to Dawn.
“What, is that chick your girlfriend?” Dawn’s lip curls in contempt.
“Oh, because that matters? It would be okay if she weren’t my girlfriend? See this cast?” I raise my arm. “She took me to get this after I hurt myself. She’s been helping me all week.”
“Whatever, man. Bleeding the Beast. You used to.”
“Yeah, I know that’s a thing we used to do and that’s the little euphemism we gave it.
It lets you dehumanize people when you group them into a faceless mass and then give them a scary name like ‘Beast.’ And then you get to do whatever you want to them.
Take from them. Hurt them. It’s all okay. Good, even.”
“You went off and lost your chill, dude,” Dawn says with a smirk.
“Knox, will you please talk—” my mom tries.
“I’m not talking to you until she leaves.” I nod at Dawn. “And by the way? I didn’t go off and lose my chill. I lost my chill a long time ago and stuck around until I couldn’t bear the way you live anymore.”
“Wow. Go be an accountant then,” Dawn says.
“Yeah, you know what? Maybe I will. It’s an honest job and I don’t go around preying on people.”
Dawn shakes her head sadly. “That’s all you’re doing when you participate in capitalism.”
I tell my mom, “Either she leaves or I do. Last chance. You know I’ll do it.”
My mom gives Dawn an entreating look.
Dawn snorts. “Can’t wait for you to get your cast off so your shackles will fit better.” She saunters away. Slithers, more like.
I raise my broken arm and extend my middle finger. “Oh hey, look what still works fine,” I call to her back. She turns, sees, and keeps on.
“Can I hug you now?” my mom says. She sounds on the verge of crying.
I don’t respond and she takes my silence for consent and hugs me hard. She smells like lavender, patchouli, eucalyptus, and warm hair.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she says, weeping.
I hug her but don’t say anything.
“You up and left all of the sudden and I was worried and—” She pulls back and touches my cast. “I was right to be.”
“Freak accident. It happened while I was helping Sylvie catch her dog at the campground after you all left. Don’t tell Dawn her name. I don’t want her knowing it.”
“And Sylvie is who’s been taking care of you?”
“She took me to the hospital for my arm. She’s been feeding me and introducing me to movies and music and all sorts of stuff I missed out on. She volunteered to drive me to—” I’m suddenly so overwhelmed by grief at Sylvie’s and my reaching the end of our road that I can’t continue.
“To? Where?”
“Mamaw’s.”
My mom looks as stunned as if I’d just descended slowly into full splits while maintaining eye contact. “Knox.”
“Whatever’s between you two has nothing to do with me. I love her. I’ve always loved her. You took me away so I didn’t get to see her anymore.”
My mom blinks away tears. “I don’t even know if she’s alive still. We talked a few years ago and she wasn’t doing well.”
What a day. “You talked with her and didn’t tell me?”
“What would have been the point?”
“What would have been the point? That she’s someone I love.”
“You don’t know her like I do. She hated me for leaving her son.”
“Fine. And I don’t care. Sometimes people don’t get along with people and get along with other people. You decided that for me. And I’m going to have another try at a relationship with her if it’s not too late.”
“What about a relationship with me? Will you please come back to us?”
“I—”
“Don’t you miss us?”
“Of course I miss you,” I tell her. “Of course I do.”