Chapter One

Chapter One

 

Quickly, she steered the car to the right, out of traffic and onto the shoulder of the road; braked hard and slammed the gear shift into the park position. Gasping, she clutched the wheel with both hands, squeezing hard enough to whiten her knuckles. For a few moments, the only sound in the car was her hard, quick breaths; then, as the first sob fought its way from her chest and spilled into the car’s interior, so also did the tears begin their trek down her face and into her open mouth.

 

Would this ever stop--these brief but sudden and physically-wrenching moments of grief that threatened to tear her heart from her chest? It had been two years since her sister’s death, and while the surface-grieving had run its course, these infrequent but violent outbursts continued to plague her with little more than a song or a brief memory as catalysts. How long since the last episode? A couple of months?

 

Abating as quickly as it had started, and breathing easier now, she searched her console for the wet towelettes she had learned to keep in the car for these episodes. Episodes. As if they were epileptic attacks, or sneezing fits, or black-outs. She reviewed the damage in the rearview mirror and cleaned the streaked mascara from under puffy eyes. She took a deep breath, too much oxygen!, and pulled a cigarette from the ever-near pack. Whew! This one, like the others, was brief, but no less painful. She sat still, smoking and watching the passing traffic. No hurry, her days were her own, now, and only the occasional grocery-run or odd errand prompted her to leave the confines of her home. But whatever she had planned to do today, she now resolved to return home as quickly as possible and begin this day again. She turned on her left blinker and waited for a break in the heavy, early morning traffic.

 

After re-entering the flow of traffic, her mind wandered more than twenty years back, when C. made her first visit home two years after she’d moved to Louisiana, and remembered that it was, for the most part, tense and uncomfortable. Her departure, not just from her home, but from her home state, seemed an adventure to her younger brothers, but not to her sister, who remained unimpressed by her older sibling’s activities, especially her decision to become a bartender. In the mid-70’s, Houma, Louisiana was a gold mine if you were reasonably attractive, and could attend a busy bar without losing money, customers or your mind. Tips were especially good; most of the clientele were oil field hands, who worked off-shore for two and three weeks at a time, and came ashore with a large paycheck and only one week to spend it.

 

L. did little to hide her disapproval of this career choice, and would sniff suspiciously when C. adamantly denied any illegal or immoral activities. She sighed remembering the long week of visiting with curious relatives, shopping with her mother, listening to stories at the supper table of the misadventures that always seemed to accompany new livestock and of course, the latest gossip of cousins and their crime sprees, fatherless babies, and just general heathen behavior. The last day of her visit, C. mouthed regrets for the obligations that compelled her departure, hugged everyone and watched them disappear into the house in her rear view mirror as she sped down the long, gravel driveway to the main road.

It was an eight-hour drive back to Houma, and she spent the first half of the trip brooding about her sister’s straight-laced, somewhat prudish attitude. She didn’t remember her being so prim and proper when she left two years earlier. L. had been fifteen, closer to sixteen, then, and though they shared a bedroom for all of their lives, they shared very little of their lives with each other. C. tried to remember what, if any, vices her sister had back then, and failing that, tried to remember her interests. She was briefly disturbed to find that she could not think of anything that her sister had been passionate about, but the closer she got to Louisiana, the more her thoughts returned to her own life, and she soon forgot those uneasy moments when her sister seemed a stranger.

 

This memory now seemed to have some meaning, some hidden clue about L. that might help her understand if she could only figure it out. She was relaxed, now, behind the wheel, and with the radio tuned to a classic rock station, she decided to drive north on Old Highway 67, a scenic and winding state highway that was a favorite route in the summer months. This year, the spring rains had been heavier than usual, and grass, trees, and flowering shrubbery appeared greener, and more lush.

 

C. tried to keep her mind still and clear and when she turned onto the old highway, she concentrated instead on trying to remember anything that might help her understand her sister’s last months.  She struggled to remember conversations with her mother, and letters, but there seemed to be nothing that pertained to her sister’s life that would reveal a reason, real or imagined, for the contempt L. never missed an opportunity to express for them all in the end days.  If she really did hate her whole family, was that a contributing factor for her alcoholism?  C. could not fathom how her sister could hate all of them; each had gone their separate ways upon reaching adulthood, even her parents had divorced shortly after L. married J. It was still unclear as to whether L. hated them as a group or individually. Had L. even known this herself at the end? Had everything just converged into one, big, swirling mass of insult and injury and death was her way of getting the last word in, the last punch?

 

C. suddenly remembered when L. had fallen, tripping while being chased by C. and broken her collar bone. She had been six years old and never failed to remind C. of her part in the accident. Even within a few weeks of her death, L. referred to the time "when you broke my collar bone, remember?" She shook her head and lit another cigarette. That girl did not give up a grudge, ever. Past sins were filed away and resurrected when logical argument failed. Near the end, she seemed to be consumed with the wrongs she had suffered at the hands of everyone and her memories of these wrongs seemed to fuel her hatred and contempt. Daily, she stoked her fires of hostility and loathing by recounting all transgressions and betrayals. It became a litany that eventually lost its sting upon repetition and barely raised a response in the end. But now, C. thought that, maybe, beneath the hateful accusations there might be some kernels of truth, maybe some clue to the twists and turns that had brought L. to the awful place and time of her death. C. was determined to find the truth; it had become the last and final option to pursue in order to relieve her own guilt for sins as yet unknown.

 

 

C. glanced at her watch, realized that she’d been driving aimlessly in circles for several hours and that she was hungry. She’d not really had an appetite for several months, now, only eating when discomfort overcame her revulsion to food, and it was a pleasant surprise to experience real hunger.  She debated the contents of her pantry over a burger and fries, but, anxious to return home, she looked for old and familiar shortcuts along the old highway. She approached a side road that looked familiar and on impulse, decided to follow it to the next familiar route.

 

For several miles, she gazed with interest at the well-manicured lawns and large, newer homes that had sprung up in the area over the last several years. She turned up the radio to drown out further introspection for a while and was barely conscious of singing aloud to an old Eagles song. Without warning, she felt the familiar clawing at her chest, her breath already shallow and quick. Too late, she remembered that the Eagles was the only band that her sister would listen to, and would play all their albums over and over, all day.  She slowed the car down, pulling over when she found a wide enough expanse of shoulder.  She turned the engine off, and with both hands gripping the steering wheel, hung her head low between her outstretched arms and waited for the now familiar explosion of grief. This time, this episode seemed to squeeze the air from her lungs, and after several moments, the sound that she was only now becoming conscious of grew louder and it was several more moments before she recognized her own voice as that awful primal howl filling the car.  Gulping in air as if nearly drowned, she clung to the steering wheel, her lifeline, as she sobbed convulsively. Like a kaleidoscope, images filled her head in such rapid succession that she no longer knew if she cried for the memories of the child she’d known or the recent, appalling scenes of her sister’s death that continued to haunt her, two years later.

 

Whether due to the remote location with no traffic or people to censor her grief, or her inability to check or stem the outpouring any longer, she could not have said, but she finally gave herself up to it, in this place, at this time, and cried with the abandon of a small child for nearly an hour. As if coming out of a trance, and as her sobs began to ebb, she became conscious of a soup of tears and mucus dripping from her chin, and only slightly disgusted, reached for the towelettes she’d used earlier. She took deep breaths in an effort to bring herself under control, and began to clean her face, wiping her chin and nose vigorously, and scrubbed her eyes without benefit of the mirror. When the third towelette showed no more mascara nor the faint beige coloring of her foundation, she sat back in the seat until her breathing returned to normal.

 

Why had this not happened before now? Why had two years elapsed before she gave full vent to her grief? C. was aware that maintaining some form of dignity at all times in public was ingrained in her from early childhood. It was part of her mother’s creed and had become hers through the years. But two years seemed an impossible length of time to hold back that much emotion, and she was immediately ashamed of what she now considered cowardice. She had certainly been alone, and in the privacy of her own home more hours than could be counted, so the dignity-in-public defense was not valid. When and how did she become so afraid of raw emotion? Or was it the emotions evoked by her sister’s death that frightened her? And how could she not be aware of either? This last thought brought with it a spark of anger, mostly directed at herself for the deception. She prided herself on her self-awareness and self-honesty, but in the wake of the violent and painful collapse of the walls of the stoic dignity she’d spent years shoring up, she now felt raw, tender, and somewhat bruised by the force of this recent flood of emotion. Suddenly, and to her surprise, she became aware of  her hunger and laughed shakily, turned over the engine and resumed her journey home.

 

Driving slower on the narrow rural road, she thought of her exasperation with her sister over small and inconsequential disagreements.  L. could hold onto an idea with the perseverance of a pit bull. Had she always been that stubborn, immovable? She was tempted to pursue this line of thought, but still felt weak, vulnerable, and gave herself up to the road and anticipation of the lunch waiting for her at home.

 

She arrived home, checked the mailbox, and entered her house surrounded by the dog and two of her cats. Wading through the furry throng to the kitchen and without putting down her purse, cigarettes, or keys, began to scrutinize the contents of her refrigerator for the quickest but most satisfying combination of leftovers for her lunch. Settling on cold chicken and a small salad, she quickly tossed everything on a tray and moved into the living room. When she returned to the kitchen for a glass of strong, sweet iced tea, she noticed the light on the answering machine blinking its notice of a call missed.

 

She sighed, and continued to stare at the blinking red light for several seconds in debate as to whether to listen now or after she’d eaten. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but she suddenly realized that she was slightly alarmed, and afraid to hear the message, a strange and irrational fear that it was very bad news or a warning of impending doom.

 

She tried to laugh at herself, blame it on the recent emotional upheaval, but could not shake the feeling of dread that now grew with every second she hesitated. Finally, she stabbed at the button in a childish rush of false bravado. For a few moments, there was a crackling silence, then a faint noise, unrecognizable, that was quickly squelched as the dial tone blared unchecked. She swallowed hard, and with a more sedate show of bravery, she deliberately pushed the Play Messages button again, this time moving in closer so as to hear it better. Again, the crackling silence, but this time, the faint noise became a hoarse whisper, still unintelligible, but somehow all too familiar. Her heart froze in mid-beat, and her throat closed in sudden fear.  She stepped back quickly from the machine and stared at it as if it were a venomous snake, coiled on the kitchen counter.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I am currently using my initial C. and my sister's initial L. as I cannot decide the character's names. I hope it doesn't confuse the reader.

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

The writing is good. The development of the protagonist character seems strong. The story of two sisters might possibly have greater appeal to a feminine than masculine audience but overall I found the story interesting. I'm wondering in what direction the tale will unfold from here so that's a big plus as well. So far, so good.

[Carol Cashes]

I'm sorry it took so long to respond: I have too much on my plate, but I've 'bout cleared my calendar this weekend and hope to catch up.

First, thanks for reading this. It's been in the works for some time and I decided to post it as it needs the Cafe's help. Didn't think about the feminine/masculine tone, I've always thought it more a "horror" theme than anything else. I will re-read and see if that can be cleared up, or just hope the reader's interest takes them to the next chapter. I hope you read the 2nd chapter, and will be posting (I hope) 2 more chapters this weekend.

Again, I appreciate your reading and your strong review. I feel like I'm on the right track with this, and I think I needed that validation.