Day 33 Page 6

  She envisioned snatching the fork from his hands and stabbing him in the chest. Or maybe just poison his eggs with Windex or add a piece of glass for him to choke on. After all, he was to blame for all of this, the dreams, the night sweats, the paranoia, and worst of all, her mother’s death. Evita could see Vivian’s pain all through this house.

  “Is something wrong?” The Reverend asked, not because he was concerned, but because he found Evita’s behavior extremely disrespectful. Not only wasn’t she eating, but Evita’s scowl was burning a hole through his face.

  “Who is Michelle?” Evita snapped out of her trance and began interrogating. Clarice immediately slammed her mug onto the table while still holding her blank stare. The Reverend’s fork fell and made a loud clink against the good china. Brennan paused his chewing in confusion.

  “What the hell did you just say to me?” The Reverend stood from his chair with his palms pressed on top of the table.

  Evita looked upward with an expression mixed with determination and fear. “You need to pack your things and get out, now.”

  Brennan stood to act as a mediator. The Reverend shouted at him, telling him to sit down. Clarice started to cry, her body was fervently shaking and redness filled her cheeks and eyeballs. The Reverend pounded on the table with his fists in between each angry declaration.

  “You’re still just as disrespectful as you were when you were a little brat. You will burn in hell for the disrespect you show this household!”

  “I’ll see you there”, Evita was standing brow to brow with her father. He flipped the table and all its contents, grunting at the top of his weary lungs. “Get out!” The loud volume shocked Clarice from her seat and she ran to the guest rooms to collect Evita and Brennan’s things, still weeping uncontrollably. Evita backed into Brennan’s unsure arms as juices and food particles splashed all over them.

  “You, you are a poison just like your mother! You will burn!” The Reverend couldn’t stop himself from screaming. Sweat formed all over his face, his eyes turned deep yellow and were filled with tears of rage. Veins popped viciously from his forehead, neck, and hands as he continued to scream and bang on the side edge of the table. Evita knew he’d wished the table was her. This triggered her to start yelling back.

  “You killed her! You killed her!” Brennan was controlling Evita’s body by interlocking his arms, trying to whisper in her ear to calm her down, but nothing worked.

  Clarice scurried into the dining room with their suitcases. Brennan’s was packed in a rush and clothes were spilling out of the sides. He let go of Evita and immediately grabbed both the suitcases, but noticed Evita would not calm down. He dropped the bags, picked Evita up in their place and dragged her to the car as she kicked and screamed incomprehensible mumbo jumbo.

  Her screams turned to cries and Brennan gently placed her in the passenger seat. They could still hear The Reverend from inside the dining room, screaming and slamming things around. Then, Clarice let out a loud shriek. Brennan buckled Evita, abruptly closed the car door and ran to get their bags.

  Evita sat in the car, sobbing and panting for oxygen.

  Brennan ran into the dining room to see a bloody-faced Clarice lying on the floor crying and The Reverend had stormed upstairs. Clarice looked at Brennan and shook her head “no”, to indicate she didn’t want his help. She didn’t want him to tell anyone, or to pick her up from the floor. Brennan whispered “okay”, grabbed the bags, and left.

  Brennan and Evita drove down the thin gravel path to the highway in silence. The wind whispered through a crack in the car window when Evita’s phone rang. The caller ID read “Diana”. Evita pressed the Low Volume button to silence the ringing.

  “Maybe you should tell your doctor what happened?” Brennan suggested.

  “I don’t feel like talking right now”, Evita stared out the window, inhaling and exhaling short breaths.

  “What was that all about? Who is Michelle?” Brennan became concerned now. He could actually see the root of Evita’s issues, the same issues he was making light of prior to the trip.

  “A woman my dad had an affair with right before he told me my mother killed herself”, Evita turned back to the window. The rest of the car ride remained silent.

  After unpacking her bags, Evita sat in her bedroom, flipping through the infamous envelopes, wondering what she’d find. Brennan went to visit a friend for drinks since Evita politely asked to have some space. After all, how much help could he be? Diana filled Evita’s voicemail box with tons of messages laced with blatant worry. She hadn’t heard from Evita in days and didn’t want her dreams to drive her to self-destruction. Evita was hurt, but she could never do anything to harm herself. She was determined to figure out these dreams and what really happened between her parents.

  Evita finally decided to open the first envelope after getting over the initial guilt of stealing her father’s mail. As the envelope fell apart, she could instantly tell the contents were old Polaroid pictures. The first photo was of her mom, smiling in a grass field with a pretty white, lace dress. The photo caption was sloppily written in sharpie and stated “You can never replace her.”

  The next photo was of a woman whose face was not depicted, but Evita could sense it was a censored naked photo of her own mother, with her bare legs spread open on a bed with terrible lighting. This one had no caption, but stood alone as cringe-worthy. The next photo was the same naked body, but this time it was tied in chains, the arms were pinned to a dusty radiator. The caption read “You’re next”.

  Evita dropped all of the envelopes and pictures and began sobbing. Is this what was happening to her mother as she slept in her room in the distance of a huge home, which was ironically funded by God-fearing Christians? Vivian was an angel in Evita’s eyes, and while Evita was biased against whoever Michelle was, she knew, as a woman, Michelle did not deserve these threats. She slowly picked up cell phone and trembled as she dialed Diana’s number. Although it was night fall by now, the doctor insisted she come to the office immediately.

  “Do you feel comfortable addressing your father?” Diana scribbled tirelessly on her notepad, which rested upon her navy blue, silk pajama pants.

  “No”, Evita’s hands were tucked between her thighs and swayed back and forth.

  “I’m far from a detective, but is it safe to say this theory of your mother’s suicide is questionable?” Diana peaked over her expensive frames.

  “I think that’s why I’m having these dreams; I think she wants me to know what really happened to her.” The two of them sat silently, as if they were telepathically devising a plan to catch The Reverend.

  “Does your mother have any living relatives that may be able to provide more insight into your parents’ relationship?”

  “Maybe my grandmother. But I haven’t heard from her since…”

  The doctor ordered Evita to find more information about her maternal grandmother, and to try reaching out to her. Evita had no idea where to start. On her way home, Evita called Kasha to give her the latest updates.

  “What’s the lady’s address?” Kasha inquired as she filed her acrylic nails into a sharp point.

  “She’s from North Carolina apparently. I mean, I can only remember a few times my father travelled, but he’d always be gone for months. My mom would always just say ‘he’s down south on business’, and that was that.” Evita had her eyes on the road, but she was busy envisioning years and years of lies handed down from her father to her mother and then down to her.

  “Where you headed now?”

  “Girl, on my way to the liquor store, I need a drink. Maybe it will suppress these dreams for the night”, Evita explained as she swerved down a dark back road. As she navigated a sharp turn, Evita dropped her cell phone under the driver’s seat. She tried to quickly scramble for it.

  When Evita came back from below the steering wheel, a woman in a white dress stood in the middle of the street. Long gray braids swayed
against the sides of her body. Evita screamed and slammed on the brakes. She didn’t hit anything or see anything. She gasped for air and could hear Kasha screaming with concern through her speaker.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay”, Evita shouted into the fallen phone, as she got her bearings. “I saw a… I saw a woman.”

  “A woman? Did you hurt someone?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. She’s gone.” Evita took a deep breath and shouted to Kasha down below, that she’d call her later. She looked around to see if she could the woman, but there was nothing at all.

  Evita trudged into her kitchen and took her vodka out of the brown paper bag, poured it about a fourth of the way up a mason jar. As Evita drank what seemed to be her only salvation, she could see through the bottom of the jar onto the counter, where an envelope was placed flat and perfectly adjusted to align with the edge. There was a “Return to Sender” stamp in the center of it, and nothing else.

  Evita looked around and shouted for Brennan’s attention, but silence rung throughout the house; he was still gone. She decided to take one last gulp of her drink before opening this mystery mail. Evita took a deep breath and broke the seal. More Polaroid shots. These were scenic views, mountains, trees, blue skies and prairies. There was a total of four photos. And then behind the pictures, was a sonogram with Michelle G. Johansson at the top, listed as the patient’s name. On the back was written “Made from Lust” in thick red ink that could’ve almost been mistaken for more blood.

  Evita quickly stuffed the pictures and sonogram back into the envelope and tossed it in the trash can. She used her foot to stuff the contents far down into the bottom. She then went back to the jar and filled it halfway with more vodka. Her mind ran back to the letters from her grandmother. Maybe if Evita could find this woman, she’d find the key to the rest of… well, everything.

  It was clear The Reverend had an affair, which resulted in the pictured fetus, and with this being the case, Evita just added to her investigative load. Obviously Reverend Thomas would have not only had to hide an affair, but now a child had to be sealed from the church records as well. How did he do it?

  A million tactics ran through Evita’s head. She contemplated calling Clarice, searching online, calling Diana and verbally pouring out all of her vodka. Instead, Evita slept. On this evening, the long haired old woman with the floor length night gown would visit her again, but instead of innate darkness and terror, she would appear amidst sun rays and blue skies.

  “Evita?” The old lady’s voice sounded weary from decades of exchanges, but still had a soothing undertone that made Evita feel safe to turn around. She sat on a grass-covered hill that overlooked a stream lined with willow trees. Birds sang in the near distance and the wind blew music with its breeze. As Evita turned to face the old gray-haired lady, she whispered “B6” in Evita’s ear.

  Evita reached her hand toward the lady’s shoulder, squinting her eyes as if it would make the statement clearer. “B6…B6”, she calmly repeated.

  “B6?” Evita grew even more and more confused. The wind picked up some power and blew the old woman’s gray braids all throughout the air. Winds whipped hard enough to smack Evita across her face. The blue skies turned gray and droplets of water started to plant themselves on her skin. The gray hair continued to fly, the lady’s kind expression slowly turned into a scowl.

  “B6! B6!” she screamed. The old lady started to tremble, raising her arms toward the now black skies, screaming “B6!” over and over and over again. Evita sat upward, sweat dripping down to her upper lip. She wasn’t panting for air this time, almost as if the dreams were now to be expected, regardless of its intensity. The clock read 6:00, on the dot.

  DAY 20

  EVITA had a couple of days off remaining from the trip to her dad’s house, so at least she got to rest in between the madness for a little bit. The other side of the bed showed evidence that Brennan was there briefly, but Evita slept so deeply after the dream, he never disturbed her. She slowly glided down the stairs to make a hot green tea, to settle her stomach from last night’s binge drinking. The buzz of the boiling water provided a solace, gave grounding to a situation out of this world. As Evita turned to face the counter, a white envelope plagued the peripheral of her left eye.

  “Return to Sender” stabbed at her pupils. Evita squeezed her eyelids together, hoping the pressure would make the envelope disappear. It did, the envelope was gone. The pot began to roar, Evita snapped out of her trance and grabbed a porcelain mug from the cabinet above the stove. She continued to rub her eyes. The front door jolted open, slamming into the wall behind it. Evita screamed, for the sound startled her. It was just Brennan with the groceries.

  “I’m so sorry, V! I’m so, so, sorry!” Brennan gave Evita a hug. I guess the recent events tugged at the little bit of compassion he had inside.

  “Who busts through doors like that? Like you’re the fucking police?” Evita pushed herself off and the expletive caught Brennan completely off guard.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing! Nothing, just… I’ll be back.” Evita grabbed her coat, purse, and shoes and jolted out to her car. She slammed the car door and stuffed her feet into her boots. Tangled in her coat’s sleeves, she broke down and started crying, screaming into the air, wondering when all this would be over.

  Kasha walked into her living room, holding a warm mug of black tea with lemon and ginger. She fluffed the curtains behind the couch before handing Evita her drink. Evita wrapped herself in a quilt hand sewn by Kasha’s paternal grandmother and stared blankly down at the faux fur carpet in front of her.

  “Did you call your doctor?” Kasha plopped down on the couch beside her. Evita slowly shook her head from side to side. Kasha was taken aback by the melodramatic response. “You sure you don’t need one those jackets that makes you hug yourself?” This question was like a knife to Evita’s gut. It jolted her out of her slouched position.

  She immediately shouted, “I am not crazy!” Evita slammed the teacup on the coffee table. “Someone, something, is trying to send me messages”, she paced through the living room, “and I don’t know who or what is doing this, but it is not me, and I am not crazy.”

  Filled with regret, Kasha apologized. Her usual tactics of humor were insignificant and ineffective now, and Evita was very serious about solving this mystery about her parents. “The Reverend was always strict, I mean, he’s a reverend, but do you think he would really, physically, hurt your mother or any other woman for that matter?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? Who would stop him? Brennan told me he hit Clarice when we left. And these dreams they’re just so, vivid. I can’t separate them from reality anymore. When I try to recall memories of my father from my childhood, all I can remember is my mother, that’s it.”

  All Evita could recall were moments she and Vivian spent cooking in the pre-remodeled kitchen, frolicking through the backyard’s dandelions, skipping down the sidewalk to the market, folding laundry with the window open to shine sun through to the wood panel floors; all moments spent only with her mother. Had she blocked out memories of The Reverend or did they just not exist?

  “Maybe it’s time to find out about your grandmother. At this point, you really don’t have a choice.” Evita knew she was right, but had no clue where to start. Then she remembered, maybe she’d have her childhood journals or old letters somewhere. Kasha put fire under Evita’s feet and she trekked back to her house and charged down into the basement where she kept all of her pre-DC items.

  Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling and a lonely lightbulb dangled in the center of the underground room, providing just enough light to scare away any metaphysical demons. In the back-left corner of the square basement, was a stack of dusty cardboard boxes from when she moved out of her father’s house years ago. Evita always had these things packed away, partially hoping she’d forget her childhood, and the other part of her feared discarding something of importance. Evita
inhaled before taking slow steady steps toward the boxes. She wasn’t really ready to relive these memories, but she knew it was necessary.

  The first box wasn’t even taped shut. Evita slowly pulled it toward her, so that it would lean just enough to slide off the tower of boxes. It was a lot heavier than she remembered it to be. The first item was a burgundy photo album with gold trim around its hardcover. The label read “1997” in big black Times New Roman letters, from when Evita was 6 years old. She immediately had a flashback to the beginning of first grade in September of that year.

  Vivian put four pony tails in her hair and wrapped them in pink silk ribbons. She wore a cream-colored, long-sleeved, cotton dress with pink stockings and brown dress shoes. The night before, Evita was too excited to sleep. This would be the year she’d be a “big girl”, with no naptime, and the ability to buy her own lunch. Vivian still packed a brown bag of fruits, including an apple, blueberries, and cut kiwi with a small juice box, just in case.

  “Evita!” Vivian shouted. Even when she raised her voice, Evita’s mother still sounded so peaceful. Evita rushed down the wooden stairs and out the door with her mother. The two of them pranced and laughed all the way down the sidewalk. Vivian kissed her goodbye outside of the school, told her to have a wonderful day and that she’d be back to pick her up. Vivian didn’t come back. Georgia picked Evita up from school that day to spend the afternoon in her small apartment. Instead of her mother’s freshly pealed sweet potatoes and warm cod fish with steamed cabbage, Evita ate lukewarm chicken noodle soup, on a TV dinner table, with a spoon covered in water spots.

  Later that evening, the doorbell finally rang. The Reverend stood in a drenched overcoat, holding a broken umbrella, and displaying a well engraved frown. Georgia rushed around the small area to gather Evita’s things as Reverend Thomas stepped over the threshold and slammed the door behind him. “Why isn’t her stuff together?” He mumbled, scanning the room with his beady red eyes. Georgia buzzed from the couch, to the coffee table, to the dining table, picking up bits and pieces of Evita’s school supplies.