Day 33 Page 5

  “Heavenly Father, we thank You for the lovely food prepared by hands created to first serve The Lord, thy husband, and Thy community”, Evita and Brennan gave each other another look of confusion, “we thank You for bringing together such a God-fearing and respectable group of people, who live to serve the purpose You have given each and every one of us. We thank You, Father for the food we are to receive for the nourishment of our bodies, Amen”. The room repeated the closing remark loud and clear, and Clarice walked around the table and began serving the food.

  Clarice was like a kind waitress or a maid who was just content with having a job. She ran around the room and into the kitchen to hurry for the guests’ requests, be it a spoon or a glass of lemonade with extra ice. Evita was so shocked at how Clarice acted she could barely touch her plate.

  When Sunday dinners happened in her mother’s home, Vivian wouldn’t even be present after the food was placed on the table. She would go into the kitchen, clean the dishes, and go out into her garden to do only Lord knew what. Evita always missed her mom at Sunday dinner; she’d be forced to sit next Georgia. Her dad would play this role that was even more annoying than the one he played in church. After he was done preaching, it was time to brag and boast about potential business ventures and new real estate purchases throughout the east coast.

  No other children were allowed at dinner because it was a time for adults to come together. Evita sat there for appearances. The Reverend knew trying to get Vivian to attend dinner would show the true dynamic the two of them shared. Once the clock struck six, whether Evita was done eating or not, she was told to go to her room and read until her mother returned for bath and bed time at eight. What happened during those 2 hours? Maybe Evita would get a chance to find out, or maybe she didn’t really want to know.

  The Reverend sat at the head of the table and gave a head nod to Brennan’s presence, making it clear Brennan had nothing much to offer him past an arbitrary greeting. Clarice reached over The Reverend’s shoulder to fix his plate while he placed his napkin in his lap and rolled up his sleeves. He wore a blue and white plaid button up with black slacks with a crease so stiff down the middle he could barely bend his knees. His hair was thick and black with light speckles of gray near the front of his headline. His goatee had been freshly lined and accompanied by a thickened mustache.

  “So, what brings you back here, Evita?” His facial expression was more of confusion than excitement or curiosity, as he cut through his slab of pork.

  “Well I obviously haven’t been back for a while.” The use of “obviously” brought a frown back to The Reverend’s face, “I just thought it’d be nice to come back home for a couple of days so we could catch up.” Evita tried to hold a gentle smirk, but it wasn’t working. It dawned on her how most people don’t realize the dysfunctional relationship they’ve always had with their parents until they become adults with malfunctioning social skills.

  “Well, welcome back. Clarice cleaned the bedroom downstairs for Brennan, and you can sleep in your old room of course.” Reverend Thomas took a spoonful of yams and began to talk to his clergy members. It was as if he has seen his daughter last week, as opposed to eight years ago. Evita continued her meal in silence and Brennan counted on his phone to be a coping mechanism for the blatant awkwardness. After everyone finished eating, Clarice, who never grabbed a plate for herself, began clearing the table, utensils and all. All of the guests slowly made their way to the front yard.

  “Make some coffee for everyone and bring it to the patio”, The Reverend instructed his wife, without a single please or thank you. He dabbed the corners of his mouth and scooted out from under his fancy table and walked right past his daughter to entertain his guests. Brennan asked if he could sit in his room and call a friend. Evita felt equally relieved to let him go. It was as if she carried the burden of both of their agony.

  “Evita, come with me into the kitchen, let us catch up”, Clarice gave an uneven grin that spanned just far enough across her cheeks to be noticeable. As Evita crossed the kitchen’s threshold, she was in another unrecognizable room. Over a deep blue marble aisle, made from the same material as the railing on the front porch, hung a golden encrusted pots and pans. The walls used to be a cream color with green moldings around the top and bottom. Now they were a bright glistening white that was almost blinding to the naked eye, reflecting fluorescent bulbs from two more crystal chandeliers. Evita’s eyes missed the earthy colors and skillets. Clarice rinsed the coffee pot and filled it with cold tap water, placing it on the coffee maker with Cuban coffee beans in the top portion.

  “What really brings you back home?” Clarice asked in a tone that Evita had never heard leave her lips.

  “Excuse me?” She was taken aback.

  “What brings you back home”, Clarice turned toward Evita and the grin was long gone, “you don’t like your father, you don’t like me. You haven’t been here in years. So why now?” Clarice’s arms were folded, yet still welcoming an immediate response.

  “Well, I just… I don’t know”, Evita didn’t feel comfortable enough to open up for obvious reasons. Clarice seemed distant from The Reverend, but a wife is a wife, and pillow talk is not off limits to step-children.

  “Oh, you know, I think I know too”. Clarice turned back to check the coffee’s process, “you’re pregnant aren’t you. Your father will kill you”.

  Evita sighed with huge relief that Clarice could be so stupid. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m pos—… I’m sure.” In one swift motion, Clarice grabbed the hot coffee pot in her right hand, and the back of Evita’s neck with her left. Evita’s face was strained with shocked, she couldn’t believe this woman had the nerve to put her old, Stepford-Wife-ass hand on her.

  “I’m keeping my eye on you”, Clarice whispered in her ear, released her neck and walked out of the kitchen to grab coffee cups from the dining room.

  Evita gasped for air as if she was choking. She had never seen Clarice do anything but grin and bear her father’s orders and verbal torment, and to act like this after over a decade of tolerating it? There had to be more bubbling under the surface. Evita ran downstairs and into Brennan’s room to tell him what had just happened.

  “You sure we’ll make it through a week here?” Brennan quickly diverted attention to his phone.

  “How can I stop these dreams if we don’t? Yeah, I’m uncomfortable here now, but imagine what I’ll feel like if we go back home and nothing is solved? Things are weird, but I have to figure out why. My father barely spoke to me. Clarice, grabbing my neck that way?” Evita paced back and forth, “thinking I’m pregnant? By you?” The last part caught Brennan’s attention. “I don’t mean it that way.”

  “Yeah well it’s like the Twilight Zone here. I don’t think this is going to help your dreams at all. Her grabbing your neck is crossing the line”, Brennan rarely showed much concern at all, but when it came to physical harm, he was too lazy to ever fight for Evita’s safety, so it needed to be nipped in the bud.

  “It is crossing the line! But I don’t know what else to do, B.” Evita turned her back towards Brennan and took a deep sigh. Brennan comforted her the only way he could, with a brief hug filled with fear of offending her any further. He plugged his phone into the charger, and Evita walked back upstairs, completely unfulfilled.

  Evita lie wide awake, staring at the bare ceiling. She could hear the bed in her father’s room banging against the wall in a rhythmic motion, but nothing else. She wondered how terribly bland that experience was. The banging stopped after a few minutes, fortunately for Clarice and Evita. Evita slowly got up and slid to the edge of the bed. After a long stretch of her arms and calf muscles, she made a last-minute decision to head to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Her neck was sore from her tussle earlier, so she vigorously rubbed her neck the entire way to the stove.

  As she slowly stirred raw honey into her piping hot drink,
Evita heard footsteps in the distance. In an effort to avoid any more human contact than necessary, Evita scuffled her feet swiftly across the floor, from the kitchen into the dining room. A fallen broom obstructed her getaway path, and Evita tripped and spilled half the contents of her cup in a large splatter. She ran back to the kitchen to get paper towels off the counter, while whispering expletives to herself and her tea.

  As Evita bent over to wipe the shallow puddle, she could feel someone approach her from behind. She quickly turned to see who it was—nobody was there. She turned back toward the spill, which was now accompanied by two strange, bare, wrinkled feet standing in the spill. The toenails were painted blackened red with dried blood and were attached to ankles dripping the same bodily fluid. The blood trickled down the ankles, on top of the feet and into the tea, toward Evita’s fingertips. She couldn’t help but to scream at the top of her lungs. When she opened her eyes and ejected her body from the fetal position under her comforter, Evita realized she was in her old bedroom. A full teacup was on the nightstand, still steaming hot.

  DAY 18

  THE NEXT morning, Clarice stood in the kitchen cooking a morning time feast, equipped with waffles, bacon, pancakes, sausage, omelets, and fried hash browns. Brennan sat on the front porch, still in his black and white striped pajama pants and black tank top. The door was cracked behind him as he sat barefoot, reading Slam.

  Evita peaked into the kitchen. Clarice quickly glanced over and shot a piercing grin into Evita’s line of view. It tingled Evita’s stomach and had a burning after taste. Evita awkwardly waved, with the arm length of a t-rex, and scurried out onto the porch. Brennan leaned back and pouted for a kiss. Evita arbitrarily agreed.

  “How’d you sleep?” Brennan asked, completely ignoring Evita’s recent mental breakdowns.

  “Not good”, she admitted.

  Reverend Thomas pulled up to the house in his luxury vehicle. He almost jumped out of the driver’s seat with his brief case and a scowl. His stride was filled with power as he made his way through the dewy grass and onto the freshly painted deck. Without so much as a hello, he ordered Evita to follow him because he had a favor to ask. Evita tapped Brennan on the shoulder and signaled him to follow her in the house. The

  Reverend dropped his bag in the foyer and forged on to pour himself a cup of coffee. He and Clarice didn’t even address one another.

  “You’ll be helping Georgia organize the church filing this afternoon”, The Reverend made it clear he wasn’t asking and turned towards Clarice, “you’re still cooking?”

  Clarice flashed that same ugly grin and apologized for being tardy with his meal.

  “Umm, but me and Brennan were going to—” her father couldn’t care less what Evita had planned.

  “Being back in town means I need you to make a good impression on my behalf with those who look up to me as an authority figure. You clearly need to be reminded who your authority is as well.” The Reverend walked into his office in the back of the house. Clarice whispered, in a monotone voice,

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  Georgia stayed in an apartment, about fifteen minutes into the city. It was a gray brick building with white hallways, covered in scuff marks, with damaged hardwood floors covered in lose leaf paper balls. It seemed the salary of a choir director, or lack thereof, didn’t quite match that of the notable Reverend’s position. Evita stepped over a gray cat and lightly knocked on the door, subconsciously hoping Georgia wouldn’t answer. Evita could hear the locks shifting from the other side of the dingy doorway.

  “Hi there! Welcome to my humble abode!” Georgia said cheerfully. She wore the stereotypical Grandma-floral, floor-length night gown with not-so-pink, deteriorated, slip-on fuzzy slippers.

  “Now this is where I’ll have you fixing things up.” It was a small metal desk against the right side of her living room, with piles of paper taller than its tabletop. Boxes with the flaps missing barely enclosed the thousands of precious church files. Coffee stains were the décor and cigarette ashes fragranced the air. The smaller pieces of paper flapped continuously as a dusty fan blew in the opposite corner of the studio space.

  “I’m glad you came back into town. Do you remember all the fun we used to have?” Evita didn’t remember. She vaguely recalled sitting next to Georgia during church services that her mother wouldn’t attend, or when she sat in her non-air-conditioned bible study classes in the evenings. She remembered Georgia smacking her hands with rulers and encouraging her father to punish Evita for her inquiries during class.

  Evita recalled being loudly reprimanded at her mother’s funeral for wanting to sit in the second row with Kasha instead of the first. Georgia was a strict, God-fearing disciplinarian, and her idea of good memories differed much from that of Evita’s. Georgia became the other leg of the law after Vivian passed and was yet another firm memory of why Evita hadn’t been home in so long.

  Georgia fell asleep in her La-Z-Boy with the remote resting on her stomach and the Game Show Channel buzzing in the background. As Evita shuffled through papers, she found a few letters with the addresses written in pink ink, with lipstick kisses in the corners and perfume arising from the paper. This clearly was not a church file. Evita looked over to make sure the warden was still snoring peacefully in her recliner. She slowly lifted to flap sure to not make a sound. “Dear Reverend, I envy your wife. Does she understand what she possesses?” Evita’s heart started to race; she didn’t know if she could stomach the next sentence. Her cell phone rang and startled her out of the desk chair. Georgia slept peacefully through the ruckus, Evita answered Diana’s call.

  “Evita?” Diana sounded confused by the shuffling in the background.

  “Yes ma’am”, Evita whispered. Georgia let out a snort and turned her large body to the other side, “I’ll have to call you back.” Evita hung up and continued looking for more evidence of her father’s not-so-secret admirer. Evita put down the first letter and continued to flip through the stack of more than 30 envelopes. She finally reached the second to last letter, which was dated three days before Vivian’s death. Evita assumed it’d be from Clarice, due to the timing of its delivery, but the name read Michelle.

  Who was Michelle? Whoever she was, spent the last three months of Vivian’s life confessing her love for The Reverend. Some letters were sexually explicit and accompanied by black and white nude photos, signed on the back as “For your eyes only, my love”. Evita wanted to throw up.

  The mystery woman wrote how she couldn’t wait to spend her life with The Reverend, as he so willfully promised. She wrote of memories of walks in the park and glasses of cheap champagne resting on a faux bear rug, in a rundown hotel. She recalled soft kisses on her lower back and fingers wrapped around her thighs. She reminisced over the feeling of their lips touching and his toes rubbing against her calf muscles while the fall air flowed through the dingy hotel windows.

  She remembered every forbidden touch extremely vividly, providing crude images for Evita to have nightmares about later. One memory conveniently omitted from their love affair, was Vivian. She tossed it to the side and picked up the final envelope. This one was different. There was no lipstick and the edges were darkened, almost as if they had been burned. The handwriting was sloppy and quickly applied. It was a thousand times shorter than the other letters.

  “Dear Reverend, you shall reap what you sow. May the Lord

  have mercy on your perishing soul.”

  Underneath this last letter, lie five unopened envelopes, addressed to Michelle Johansson, stamped with “RETURN TO SENDER” on the fronts and backs. Evita lifted the sealed flap on the back of the first envelope with her thumb. Just as she began to break the seal, she felt a deep breath on the back of her neck. Evita slowly turned around and there stood Georgia, with her jaw stretched wide open, screaming so loudly her uvula vibrated from side to side. Evita screamed back at her, and Georgia reached her arms toward Evita’s body, still screaming. Then, Evita
woke up.

  She sat upright in her old childhood bed, sweat dripping down the side of her temples, splashing onto the polka dot fitted sheet. The moon was glowing through the curtains. This time, Evita couldn’t catch her breath, but could feel her heart beating a mile a minute. She jolted into the bathroom. Evita stared in the mirror, but someone different stared back at her. It was a torn woman, someone who thought certain feelings had been erased, but in reality, they had just been submerged, only to return again.

  Evita splashed water on her face and returned to the bedroom. As she stepped closer to the bed, she felt a loose, gooey substance between her toes and the pink Italian area rug.

  She looked down and blood covered the bottoms and sides of her feet. She let out another cry for help, but only she could hear. Evita woke up, back atop the polka dot fitted sheets once more. With eyes wide open, Evita found the sun shining through the windows. The envelopes addressed to Michelle, along with the two other letters she read, were laying under the comforter with her, next to her stomach. She contemplated whether she’d seen Georgia at all. Evita rushed around the bedroom to pack her bags, placing the envelopes and opened letters on top.

  DAY 19

  THE SECOND morning in the nightmarish home,

  Reverend Thomas sat at the breakfast table, loudly chomping through his steak and eggs. Clarice sipped coffee next her husband and stared at the wall, Brennan enjoyed his food, across from the estranged couple, in the awkward silence. Evita sat next to Brennan, staring at her father with every bite of his steak.