I move my hand in front of my face but the darkness has eaten it up. My head pounds and I wonder if I hit something on the way to the ground. I think I’ve fainted but I can’t be sure and when I sit up and gaze around to find TB or Wanda, the darkness envelopes me like a blanket.
“Hello?” I call out but even my voice sounds hollow and dim.
Suddenly, Dad appears, an oasis of light in black. He, too, looks around as if trying to figure out where he is and why there’s so much darkness. When he spots me, a smile erupts.
“Sweetpea.”
“Dad.”
It’s then I remember the shoes and start to cry.
“What is it, honey?”
I try to regain control of my emotions. “What have you done?”
He reaches for me but the darkness acts like a barrier; we’re two beings on different planes of existence, a ghost and the living. “I’m worried about you, Vi. Are you sleeping enough?”
“Dad, were you involved in some kind of drug thing?”
He acts like he doesn’t hear me. “I’ve been thinking a lot and I hope you and your husband are able to move on. The death of a child is life-altering. When my brother died, I thought my world had ended.”
Not what I was expecting. “My world did end.”
He inches closer. “No, sweetie. Don’t let it. One thing I’ve learned here….”
“Where?”
“…is that you cannot hold on to pain. It will eat you up inside.”
“But Dad, we need to know….”
“I should have gotten counseling about Sean. I shouldn’t have let it turn into problems that affected all of you.”
“You weren’t to blame for your brother’s death.”
“I know that now. But it didn’t just ruin my life.”
“We’re all fine, Dad. We need to know why you were in….”
“Portia.” He doesn’t say more, pauses and turns sullen.
“What about Portia?”
John looks away, lost in thought.
“Dad?”
“There’s no manual to parenthood. You think you know what you’re doing, that you’ve got this. Then you realize you screwed up but it’s not a lesson plan or a thesis that’s riddled with errors. It’s a human being.”
Is he talking about leaving us?
“Why didn’t you come home, Dad? What made you stay in Texas?”
“I failed her. I failed you all,” he says quietly and then disappears into the darkness.
It’s then I smell something truly awful and open my eyes to find Spiderman hovering over me with smelling salts.
“Peter Parker?” I scream at the ENT and he laughs. Behind him I spot TB looking at me as if something shifted in my brain on my trip to the ground and now I’m completely insane.
I sit up on the tailgate of the ambulance — this is becoming a habit, I’m thinking — and rub my neck which feels sore. “We know each other,” I quickly tell my husband.
I met Peter when I fainted inside a cave outside Eureka Springs, my first press trip and my initiation with ghosts of water. You’d have fainted too if you had found a bloody girl screaming at you in the cavern depths — and she wasn’t alive!
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Strange how in all the places in all the world I meet the one ENT I’ve met before. We share our personal stories, how I’m searching for information about my father and he had followed a love interest to the Texas Coast, one that didn’t pan out.
“The woman is crazy,” I whisper with a seductive grin and realize I’m flirting. Did I mention he’s cute as hell?
TB clears his throat behind us and it’s then I remember why I’m here. The vision of my father and that awful darkness come back in a rush. Peter notices my discomfort and begins asking a dozen questions that I faithfully answer but truth be told, I have no idea why I fainted.
While I’m being interrogated, I hear shouting. I look over and spot Wanda sitting on a wooden box next to the warehouse, her elbows resting on her knees while an enormous man towers over her. As Peter Parker — and yes, that’s his real name; the universe loves to throw me people with name alliterations and double meanings — takes my blood pressure, TB sits by my side on the tailgate.
“Apparently, Wanda took it upon herself to meet with Jack,” he tells me. “She planned backup with the local PD but didn’t clear it with the McAllen office. In fact, the McAllen police were pretty upset about it and her boss was on his way over here while we were sneaking in the back.”
That tall man is still yelling at Wanda, whose head is now hidden beneath her hands.
“Is she in trouble?”
“Think so.”
“Poor Wanda.”
“Yeah.”
I look at TB and notice tears in his eyes. “What?”
He swipes his eyes and looks away. “You fainting and her losing the love of her life.”
“What?”
TB sniffs and Peter slips him a tissue so I send Peter a grateful smile. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. What insane woman let this great guy go, but then I’m married to a man who has no problem showing emotions. Sometimes there are good men in the world.
“While you passed out, Wanda lost it,” TB continues after blowing his nose. “She fell on her knees at the grave and started crying, talking about how much she loved Elena.”
I knew there was something more between them.
“But it’s not Elena.”
The words come out of my mouth before I have time to think. I could easily blame my ADHD for this statement but I fear there’s more at work here. Maybe Mimi’s right, when we relax and let down our guard — I’m in an ethereal state right now — messages arrive from the other side. Both Peter and TB frown as they look my way.
“How would you know that?” Peter asks.
How indeed? I’ve no clue. Elena had to have died by water but could have been buried here after the fact. Dad’s shoes were at the gravesite but Elena could have taken them at some point.
“But, wait,” I say, as if talking to myself. And I really am. “Dad’s shoes were a size ten. I doubt Elena would have been wearing shoes that big. She was a small woman.”
Dad’s shoes. It all comes back to me, spotting those rare Nikes that he loved so much, talking to him in the intense darkness, Dad mentioning Portia.
“What does Portia have to do with all this?”
Peter and TB exchange looks as if maybe taking me to the hospital might be a good idea. That or the mental ward.
“I’m fine,” I tell them. “Just processing some information.”
TB exhales and relaxes. “She tends to do that.”
Before Peter can put in his two cents, that enormous man saunters over.
“Is she okay?” he asks Peter, who looks at me with the unspoken question.
“I’m fine.”
Peter packs up his bag and heads off, while Officer Weston — it’s on his nametag —towers over us like he did Wanda. It’s unnerving as hell. He’s about to start our interrogation but I beat him to it.
“It’s not Elena, is it?”
He pauses, mouth open, staring at me as if he’s five and I said there’s no Santa Claus. “What makes you say that?”
Any ordinary person would have said, “How do you know that?” but not a cop. Keep the questions on their end, keep the perps spilling their beans. They really are infuriating. Maybe I did hit my head on the way down because I feel cocky with this man. Or maybe I don’t like people yelling at my friends. But when I go to speak, give him a piece of my mind, I realize I have no idea why I think like I do.
“It’s the shoes,” TB says. “The person was wearing men’s shoes.”
My father’s shoes. All that bravado leaks out of me.
“What size were they?” I ask.
“What?” Weston is starting to get irritated. He wants to ask the questions.
“The shoes?”
“Why is that of your concern?”
My bravado’s starting to return. I look him straight in the eyes. “Because they were my father’s shoes.”
We spend the next twenty minutes discussing our ghost trip through Texas, from finding my father at my grandmother’s homestead to discovering bodies in McAllen and now a palm nursery on Padre Island. Thinking of Jack, I look around the busy crime scene to locate the former Texas Ranger but he’s nowhere to be found.
Finally, after another officer takes my statement and Weston threatens to charge us with trespassing, Peter Parker, bless his little Spiderman heart, arrives and tells all that I need to rest, that I may have a concussion, and the interviews are over. Weston acquiesces and lets us go.
I give my old ENT friend a big hug and TB and I head toward the van, ready to get back to that Airbnb and hit the sack. I look for Wanda in all the activity but she’s disappeared as well.
I suddenly halt and TB nearly runs into my back.
“Where’s Stinky?”
TB grabs my hand and leads me on but I protest, pull back, and demand that we look for him. “TB,” I exclaim. “We can’t leave him here.” But TB keeps walking.
Finally, when we hit the church parking lot, my heart about to burst from my chest, TB stops to let me reach his side. He nods in the direction of the van and there’s our sweet feline, lounged out by the trash, enjoying the remnants of a pork chop. I scoop up our child and hug him tight.
Once inside the van, I place my cat — who’s beginning to smell like eau de dumpster — back in my lap and lean my pounding head once again on TB’s shoulder. TB kisses my forehead while Lean on Me by Bill Withers plays on the radio. I start to think how apropos that song is when it concludes and Undercover Angel by Alan O’Day comes on. I’ve never liked this song but the timing makes me laugh. At first, it’s a snort that’s becoming way too common these days, then a rash of giggles until I finally break out in full laughter mode.
I sit up and look at my husband but he’s not enjoying this.
“Oh, come on, you have to admit it’s pretty funny.”
“I’ll laugh if Witchy Woman by the Eagles comes on.”
And that makes me laugh even harder.
I’m thankful for the synchronistic music to lighten our emotions and the weird night we’ve had, but walking into our Airbnb takes our strange mood a few notches higher. Aunt Mimi stands on the patio, arms outstretched toward the moon, reciting incantations.
And she’s butt naked.
TB takes one look at her and moves toward our bedroom with lightning speed. I slide the glass doors open and join her.
“You know, Aunt Mimi, the owner lives upstairs.”
Her eyes are closed and her recitations never cease. I stand there watching her for a few seconds until I realize that I’m both interrupting her and that moon spell will not end soon. I move to leave but she opens her eyes and grabs my sleeve.
“Where have you two been?”
“Long story best told over breakfast.” And when said witch has clothes on.
“I want to hear everything.”
“You will. But maybe it’s time to get dressed before the owner sees you.”
Mimi smiles and it’s then I notice the moon reflected in her eyes. Weird. Didn’t the Eagles sing that?
Woo hoo, witchy woman
She got the moon in her eye
I shake my head and grab her elbow. “Let’s get you inside.”
Mimi pulls back. “Do you know what I was doing?”
I shake my head, but her irises still contain that almost full moon image. “Communing with nature?”
She shakes her head, more than likely at my inability to grasp the Craft. “It’s called ‘Drawing down the moon,’ a ritual we practice at the full moon.” She nods to the glowing orb in the sky. “We’re not quite there yet but it’s growing, a waxing gibbous, so the power’s still strong.”
I stare at her wondering what the hell she’s talking about it and she shakes her head again. This time I know it’s due to my cluelessness.
“Don’t you know anything about the phases of the moon?”
I wrap my arms about my chest because it’s getting frickin’ cold out here. But what I’m really thinking is my middle-aged aunt has no clothes on.
She appears to get the message and pulls on her robe.
“I take it you studied something about the moon in your science classes,” she says.
“Yes, Aunt Mimi. The moon goes through phases every twenty-eight days as it revolves around the earth.” And to show that I studied science and not paganism, I add, “And it appears to be growing each month, then fading because of the earth’s position in between the moon and the sun.”
Mimi smiles because she catches what I’m saying. “And the tides are higher when the moon apparently grows larger.”
“Because of the earth’s gravitational pull.”
Mimi tightens her belt around her generous middle and gazes up at the moon. “The full moon has the largest tide, and since we’re made up of mostly water, the moon affects us all.”
I’ve heard this from many people, including ENTs and nurses who swear the hospitals and mental wards surge with patients during full moons. Whether that’s scientifically true or not, I can’t say.
“You plant when the moon is waxing,” Mimi continues. “You weed when it’s waning. My mother swore by that theory. And likewise, you ask the universe to bring you a new job or prosperity when it’s waxing and ask for things that need to go during a waning moon. Call it science or my own crazy thinking but it’s worked for me as well.”
I had a friend in New Orleans who made gris gris bags, little bags of intentions containing herbs, roots and stones. Like me, she hated her job at the New Orleans Post so she made this little green bag and placed it next to her computer. Every day she would touch this sack smelling of basil and other earthy things and say, “Good things are coming.” Sure enough, within a week she had another job.
“It’s like a prayer in a bag,” she told me. “Even though gris gris is a voodoo word, I look at this as me setting forth a goal and the wonderful elements of nature helping me to focus and reach it.”
Maybe that’s what Mimi’s doing. I look over and she’s nodding her head.
“Can you read minds?” I impulsively ask.
“What?” She looks surprised. “Of course not.”
I’m still doubtful but I ask about bringing the moon down.
“Drawing down the moon,” she corrects. “And it’s best done naked and with a coven.”
Did she just say coven and did I snort again?
“Are you taking this seriously?”
I clear my throat and nod. Mimi slips behind me and takes my hands.
“The moon holds the Goddess energy and at the full moon her power is the strongest.” She raises my arms toward the moon as if I’m at a Mardi Gras parade and the Krewe du Luna is throwing me beads. Then, with her hands covering mine, she shapes my palms like a cup and places them where the moon rests in our makeshift chalice.
“We ask for the Goddess to send down her energy and pour her wonders of light into our own,” Mimi calls out, closing her eyes. “Oh Goddess, fill us with your power.”
Mimi then starts reciting Wiccan talk and I don’t know if it’s the hokey chant or the fact that I’m asking Earth’s only natural satellite for guidance, but I don’t feel it. All I fathom is a moon burning bright with the light of the sun behind our wonderful planet. My logical brain can’t get past the science.
I close my eyes, hoping that might help, but again, nothing. But I remain quiet while Mimi does her thing, her words like a lullaby in my ears.
And then, suddenly, images appear. They come at me fast and furious but I try to grasp what I’m seeing. The word Stewart. Spanish blue tile. A pirate with a rifle resting lazily over his shoulder. An old wooden chest.
I feel myself shaking because the last image is Dwayne Garrett, standing over me menacingly before he tried to slit my throat in Natchez.
I gasp and open my eyes but there’s nothing but soft moonlight bathing us both with our hands shaped around the moon like a chalice. Now that I think about it, I can’t help but wonder if the chalice symbol mimics a woman’s womb. For the first time in years, I think about having another child.
Mimi stops chanting, drops our arms, and gazes into my eyes. She senses that something’s amiss but I don’t feel like explaining that I failed to commune with the moon, or mention the other weird — and frightening — images.
“I’m sorry, Mimi. It’s been a tough night so maybe all that negative energy is working against me.”
That or I don’t believe I can draw down the moon.
I expect her to be disappointed or upset that I’m not trying hard enough, but she smiles, pulls a curl behind my ear. “It’s all about love, Vi. Letting go of all that negative energy and fear and want and letting the love come in. Nature is nothing but God’s love so when we’re attune to it, everything falls into place.”
I want to ask how nature failed me on so many instances but I hold my tongue. I nod and give her a big hug, then head off to bed.
Speaking of love, I’m hoping TB might be up and we can wallow in some moon glow. When I open the door, however, he’s asleep on his side of the bed, Stinky curled up in the bend of his knees. I sigh and, although disappointed again, realize I’m deadly tired so I pull on my pajamas and join them.
As I rest my head on the pillow I notice a soft stream of light cascading across the room from the window over my head. It’s a strong beam of moonlight.
I hear Portia and Wanda in the kitchen talking over a cacophony of kitchen noise. I reach over to pat my husband’s body but the bed’s empty. Even Stinky is nowhere to be found. I jump in the shower and throw on some clothes, run my fingers threw my crazy curly hair and head out, expecting the worst.
Sure enough, Portia’s standing by the kitchen table with hands on her hips, her gaze like laser beams cutting through me.
“I guess you’ve heard what happened last night,” I say as I pour myself a cup of coffee and send my husband a smile of gratitude for the caffeine.
“You had to do something stupid and go out there,” Portia begins. “You had to be the center of attention and screw things up.”
This diatribe is getting on my last nerve. I’m about to say as much when Mimi starts interjecting peace talks and Wanda comes to my rescue, insisting that although we were trespassing, we came to her aid and found important evidence on a decades-long drug case. But nothing’s keeping Portia from sending me icicles from her eyes.
“Did you find out who that was?” I ask Wanda, to move the subject away from me.
“You were right. It wasn’t Elena.”
TB turns around, spatula in hand, sporting an apron. I snort again at the sight and the look my sweet husband sends me makes my heart drop into my knees. I want to add that he’s adorable in that apron but I suddenly feel like my big sister, mean-spirited and biting. It reminds me all too well the years I may have been unkind to this man, always wishing he was smarter, more interesting.
Wanda’s explaining to TB that the body found was Manuel Ruiz, the sidekick to the one of the biggest cartel bosses on both sides of the border. But I’m remembering the years living with TB and how, at the time, all he cared about was football, hanging with his boring friends drinking beer and talking about everything under the sun but what mattered to me. We married for Lillye so I could justify why we didn’t make the perfect couple, but now, I can’t imagine living a life without him.
Portia’s still sending me a stink eye, but I’m thinking it’s weird how perception comes at odd times. I often wonder if TB and I had talked all those years ago — really talked — and I was more patient and understanding and he reading books, if….
I shake my head recalling my conversation with Dad the night before. Enough of the what ifs and regrets. I grab Portia’s sleeve and drag her through the sliding glass doors on to the patio. She actually walks out, but you get the vernacular.
“Vi,” she says retrieving her arm, “what the hell are you doing?”
I close the door and move us away since everyone’s staring at us through the glass. “We have to talk.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
She’s about to walk back inside but I grab her arm again. “I’m not spending another moment of my life having you hate me….”
She whips her head around. “I don’t hate you.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing that.”
“You sure have a funny way of getting us into trouble.”
I rub my eyes because she’s right. Still, this goes back years. “You’ve been mean to me my whole life.”
She throws her hands up. “Oh, so it’s pity time again for Vi, is it?”
I shake my head because I can’t believe she can be so cruel. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “You know, I can’t fight this anymore. Anytime you want to change places, let me know.”
I move to head inside, have my hand on the sliding glass doors, when I hear her utter in a little more than a whisper, “You wouldn’t say that if you had my childhood.”
I’m still bristling about her last comment, that losing a child brought me more pity that she apparently thinks she deserves, but something in that last sentence makes me pause. There’s a catch in her throat, pain through her words. I look back and my steel-spine, badass lawyer sister has tears in her eyes.
I let out the anger I’ve been repressing in a long exhale and grab her sleeve again, pull her toward two lawn chairs. Portia, of course, complains the whole way but I’m not letting this moment turn into thirty more resentful, argumentative years.
Once we’re seated, I look her in the eye. “What happened, Portia? Does this have to do with Dad?”
That haughtiness returns and she straightens, wipes her nose with the back of her fingers. “It’s nothing. Go back to your breakfast.”
“I’m not leaving here until you tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” she says with more force and venom, which takes me back.
“What’s nothing?”
“I’m not supposed to tell,” she says in a sarcastic tone. When she looks at me, there’s hatred in that gaze. “You and Sebastian don’t have to know a thing.”
I’m so confused. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes cloud up again. “You see? We did such a good job, y’all never suspected anything.”
I want to grab her shoulders and shake her until she opens up, but once again, I’m afraid she might bite. “Damn it, Portia, what happened?”
She stands abruptly and begins pacing. “He was a drunk. And a lousy father. Forgot me at school more times than I care to remember, left me hungry when mom worked late. Once Dad left me at home alone when mom was out of town, scared me so much I ran to the neighbor’s house and spent the night there.”
“Wow, seriously?”
“He never asked me to go on nature walks, let me tell you.”
“I always thought you hated being outdoors.”
“He could have asked.”
Now, she’s almost shouting, so I reach for her hand and squeeze. Amazingly enough, she lets me. “I don’t think this is about the birding hikes Dad and I used to take.”
She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms about her chest, looks off at the owner’s poor excuse of a vegetable garden. My ADHD brain thinks Mimi needs to have a talk with him.
“Dad had to watch me one Sunday because mom had this thing at Tulane.”
It emerges quiet and soft, so unlike Portia. “Here it comes,” some unseen voice tells me. “Help her.”
“What happened?” I ask softly.
“He brought a friend over to watch the stupid Saints game and they got drunk.”
My breath catches because I have a feeling about what comes next. I’ve heard it all too often from my female friends. Although I can’t believe my father….
“Did Dad do something to you?”
Portia shakes her head and looks down at her feet. “He never did anything, that’s the problem.”
“The friend?”
She says nothing and a violent shiver runs through me. “Jesus, Portia.”
She shakes her head. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad?” I’ve heard this too often as well. Women are taught to keep these things to ourselves, downplay them, push them deep inside to spare the feelings of others because sexual assault isn’t something we should discuss.
“He slipped into my room and….” She shrugs. “It could have been worse.”
Now I stand and begin pacing. Could have been worse? After all these years women still feel guilty for being a victim, and it angers me.
“It wasn’t like he raped me or anything.”
I turn and stare at this woman, the toughest female I’ve known my entire life, the Lawyer of the Year by New Orleans magazine and a champion against corrupt insurance companies after Katrina. A man uses his position of authority and strength to hurt a child and even the strongest women must endure the pain for a lifetime.
“He sexually assaulted you! I don’t care if it could have been worse, you were assaulted. And how old were you?”
She closes her eyes. “Eight.”
Sebastian and I were born the following year.
“Did Mom know?”
The tears fall this time. “I think so. That was the first of Dad’s rehab treatments. She was pregnant, was having health issues because of carrying twins, and he disappeared the next day.”
“Did they ever bring it up?”
Portia laughs but it’s not a good one. “No one ever talks about these things.”
My heart sinks, but I must ask. “And they told you not to tell me and Sebastian about Dad’s drinking?”
“Mom always thought he would get better. You know Mom. You have a problem, you fix it. She never understood addiction, felt it was a weakness and all you had to do was toughen up.”
Yeah, that sounds like Mom. Also explains how Portia represents clients who have been charged with DUIs and other addiction-related crimes. No doubt she was trying to make sense of it all.
Portia’s old lawyer face returns, but the pain of a childhood transgression remains. Do they ever go away?
“I never wanted it to rule my life. I thought I conquered it but then this whole thing with Dad, him running away, doing drugs and God knows what, and being irresponsible yet again…it all came back.”
She plops down on the lawn chair, shoulders dropping. I hate to see my sister so defeated by some horrible man, even if she is talking friendly to me for the first time in ages. I take her hand. “I’m so sorry, Portia. I’m so very, very sorry.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s a weak smile of gratitude, a sign that finally someone acknowledges her pain. I reach over and pull a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then wipe her tears away. I can’t believe I’m doing this — and she’s letting me! Before we know it, we lean forward and tightly embrace. I feel her soft sobs into my shoulder and we stay in this position for a long time, until the old lawyer returns and we begin discussing other things, like Portia wanting another child and working less hours at the firm. I’m surprised to hear she hates her job. In fact, until TB opens the door and insists we enjoy his huevos rancheros before they get cold, we talk like sisters.
And friends.
Portia and I enter the kitchen. No one asks what transpired and we don’t offer. Wanda announces that we’re heading to Galveston and TB tells me he’ll explain all in the car, that we need to get going. I lean toward my husband’s ear and mention how sexy he looks in that apron and a shy smile emerges. Maybe tonight?
Portia and I wolf down our eggs since everyone’s ready to roll. I pack my bag in five minutes and after Mimi hits the bathroom not once but twice, we’re back on the road, TB driving, me in the passenger seat, and Wanda following behind in her patrol car. In the van’s back seat Mimi’s reading a book on angel communication — wonder where that idea came from — and Portia’s silent, gazing out the window at the Texas coast. I’m still reeling from her revelation and how she carried this secret alone her entire life. No wonder she’s been angry all this time.
I don’t know how, but I’m going to make this right.