Chapter 3

            I didn’t sleep very well that night. In fact, I got no sleep at all. The punch of the bullets, the empty stare of my . . . no, wait . . . not my . . . he wasn’t my husband. He was her husband. Mara Levine’s husband.

            Moreover, the cries of that small child, that poor frightened boy, that gut-wrenching scream of terror, still echoed within the darkened halls of my mind, along with Mara’s dying plea for her son, Oh my God, Kyle, I have to get . . . Kyle, my God, Kyle. Leave him, leave him alone, you bastard. Leave him alone.

            The words still danced upon my lips. I had never felt so confused. In my mind, I had said the words, though in reality I knew I had not. What the fuck is happening to me? Was Kyle still alive? I didn’t want to know the answer, yet I knew I had to find it. Am I really his only hope? What if I don’t help and they find him dead?

            I wished that I remembered more of what I saw. I wished that the memory didn’t fade as dreams did. Maybe that was God’s way of protecting us, those of us given the Sight. I knew some had called it a curse. How in the hell could such a thing ever be a curse? There was no way to use it to do harm. No way to misuse it, although I’m sure some people made money with it, but Gram told me it would go away if I ever tried to use it like that. Really, there was no way to turn it against anyone. In essence, it was pure good. It was true Blind Sight, seeing what the physical eyes could not.

            “It’s God’s way of showing you he has a purpose,” Gram said to me one day. “And, baby girl, don’t you ever think this makes you special. You are no more special than that son-of-a-bitch storeowner that stares at you so. Don’t you look surprised. I seen him. ’Bout knocked him up the side of his fat-assed head, too. If’n I thought it would’ve done any good, I would have. Man his age staring at my baby girl so—damned immoral, it is. But folks just don’t change by a knock up side the head. Takes a bigger force than my old bones can muster. But as bad as he is, he’s a soul, and all souls are equal in the eyes of God. You see?

            “Now, now, baby girl, don’t you go tearing up on me. I didn’t say you weren’t special to me. You’re my favorite out of all ten of my grandkids, and you know that, and I ain’t never tried to hide it from no one. I want you to take this to remember how special you are to me.”

            She placed a necklace around my neck and clasped it for me. I recognized it right away; it was her gold cross, which she had worn for as long as I could remember. She never took it off; at least, I had never seen her without it. I didn’t feel right wearing it, as it was a sacred part of her. I always wondered if she would’ve still died if she had not given it to me.

            “Gram, I shouldn’t take this, it—”

            “Shush, baby girl. Just promise you will think of your old Gram every time you look at it.” She wiped a tear from my cheek and kissed my forehead. “God has a purpose for you,” she said, brushing the hair from my eyes. “He done told me so.” She broke into laughter as the words passed her lips.

            Even as she laughed that day, and even more as I repeatedly thought back on it, she had concern hidden within her eyes; it was something she sensed about me. A concern she never spoke aloud. The way her hands trembled on my face as she kissed my cheek. A single tear formed in the corner of her eye, which she passed off to the laughter when I reached to wipe it away. Now I wasn’t so sure about that tear.

            Gram had hugged me that night as if she never wanted to let me go. In my mind’s senses, I smelled the calla lily scent she always wore, sweet and flowery, a bit like lilac but lighter, more pleasant. It was because of her love of the lilies that I got my name. I missed holding her; she always seemed strong, never frail, and abundantly full of life.

            Even at her age, her hair was still long, straight, and silvery grey. I thought older women with long hair like that looked very cool. They were showing, even with creeping age, that they could still be vibrant females, not just some shriveling human being. I also loved her high, proud cheekbones. I saw elements of her features whenever I looked in a mirror, especially her ocher colored eyes. Gram was half French-Canadian, and half Abenaki Indian. Meryl Streep always reminded me of Gram. They shared many features. I still cry every time I see Bridges of Madison County because it makes me think of her. I always thought Meryl Streep was so damn beautiful in that movie.

            I used to fantasize that Gram had a man like that long ago. One she loved more than Grandpa, since he tended to like his beer and his women, in either order, almost as much as his food and his tobacco. I’m not sure Gram was very high on his list. She put up with him for some reason, and he lived to drink his Colt 45 and smoke his hand-rolled cigarettes. I don’t believe women held interest for him anymore. Too much booze or too much food, or maybe just his old age taking its toll. Right now he lives off Social Security and Gram’s savings, and it bothers me to think he is still leaching off her even after she’s gone. I avoid the bastard whenever I can. I hope Gram had her own Clint Eastwood somewhere in her life—a man she loved until the day she died and maybe even now up there in her heaven.

            Gram rarely spoke of the Sight. It really was nothing spectacular to her and no more special than breathing is to most others. Instead, we lived a normal life, about as normal as you can get with the money we had. Gram cleaned houses, Mom worked in town as a grocery clerk at Walden’s Produce Markets during the day, and she worked at a Sunoco gas station at night.

            My dad worked as a truck driver, and he used to call Mom every night before going to sleep. He loved her more than a honeybee loves nectar, and she loved him back in return, with every bit of the same passion. Gram used to call my dad Sandra’s Big Mister Tibbs. I guess he looked like some old actor, but I just know that he was handsome as hell.

            Not one of the four kids (me being the youngest) got his black features. We all look like Mom’s family. I never tell people, “Hey, I’m half black,” any more than I would say, “I’m half white.” An all-white person, if there really is such a thing, doesn’t say to folks, “Oh, by the way, I’m all white!” I am who I am. Pure and simple.

            A jackknife accident only ten miles from our house killed Dad when I was three and a half years old. He had returned home early from a trip in order to surprise Mom for their anniversary. He had with him a single red rose and a ruby ring for her. I wear that ring now, and will until the day I die, and maybe after that.

            That morning had not been easy, and my futile attempts to shake Mara’s cry failed. It seemed to tug at the back of my head, refusing to let go. I felt pain slice across my chest as I went to fasten my bra, and when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I saw why. A tender black and blue mark stained the area between my breasts. I almost felt the burning shock of being hit again, like an abrupt electric shock cutting through me.

#

            Two weeks went by, and I avoided all calls from Detective Barrett and tried to put my thoughts of Kyle in the back of my mind. Feelings of guilt, that I was the child’s only help, ate at me. Even my friends sensed something was wrong, so I avoided them.

            I spent a lot of time alone hiking in the frozen woods. A thin crust of snow had already covered the fallen leaves. A big doe with her fawn dared the edge of a clearing. That doe paced and put herself between any forest sound and the fawn; she would sacrifice herself for her child without hesitation. I knew at that moment I had to make a decision. Once I did, I would be committed, and there would be no turning back. I had never experienced anything like that before and, frankly, never wanted to again. I needed more time to process what had happened, but I knew that Kyle had no extra time.

            Looking back, I kind of wish I had gotten the nerve to speak with him that day. Instead, I decided to get two friends, Don Sanford and his sister Terri, to go for a ride. We often just got in a car and drove with nothing but music, a quick puff, and talked about whatever came up. Don and Terri were both close to my age. They were nine and a half months apart; I guess Mr. Sanford just couldn’t wait. I loved their dad. They were my best friends, and I grew up across the street from their house, which was just a trailer to a townie’s eye.

            “Hey! Watch the carpet,” Don said as a shower of sparks fell from the joint. “You just burned the last bit of good carpet I had left.” He feigned anger, but it was easy to see he was holding back a burst of laughter.

            “So sorry, so so sorry, sir,” I said, using my best oriental accent, even though I sounded more like a wounded snake. I clasped my hands and bowed my head repeatedly until Terri slapped me in the back of my head and exploded into laughter. It felt good to laugh. It felt good just to be, no reason, no direction. I was alive, I was breathing, but Mara wasn’t. I began to cry.

            Terri spoke from the shadows of the back seat. “Cal, what just happened? What’s on your mind?” Her narrow face and small nose peeked out from the dark, as she leaned up on the seat back. Even in the shadows, I saw her concern.

            She was such a cute girl, almost as cute as I was—now that was a joke—she was,

by far, prettier than I was, but she didn’t think so. She was insecure about her looks, although she shouldn’t have been. She had long blond hair, which during the summer would lighten from the strawberry-blond of the colder months to a sleek beach-sand tone.

            We were both about the same size and frequently shared clothes, though Terri’s breasts were larger, and she strained some of my tops. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining; I had more than enough; she just had more.

            Her hair moved when she talked, and her bright eyes reflected the eerie green glow from the dashboard. She was a master at makeup and had taught me a lot. She enjoyed a body that made a pair of jeans and a T-shirt look gorgeous. She just had a way of dressing and acting that radiated femininity.

            “I’m fine,” I muttered.

            Terri’s eyes opened wide. “What? Did you just say . . . fine?”

            “No, seriously Terri, I’m okay . . . it’s just . . . I have a lot of shit on my mind today. Okay? I am, seriously. Believe me; I’m all right.” I attempted a smile, though friends are hard to fool.

            “Have anything to do with that cop that was on the road yesterday?” Don asked, keeping his eyes glued to the road.

            “What cop?” I asked, all innocence.

            “The same cop that picked you up two weeks ago,” Don said. “The same cop who has been asking around for you nearly every day.” His eyes studied me, searching for my reaction. “You in any trouble, Cal? Anything, all you have to do is ask, and whatever you need, you got it—that is, if I can do it.”

            “You don’t miss anything, do you, Don?” I punched him playfully on the shoulder. “No, I ain’t in any trouble. I’m not sure I’m supposed to talk about it.”

            Both of them knew about the Blind Sight, but to them it was like a magic trick and of no real significance, more of an amusement. I didn’t know how to tell them the truth, but there was no way in hell I would lie to them.

            “Oh my God,” Terri said, pulling herself up onto the back of the driver’s seat. “You ain’t seeing a cop, are you?” Her eyes grew wide. The idea intrigued her. “Is he cute?”

            “Cute?” Don blurted. “You ever seen a cute cop, Terri?”

            Turning to Don, Terri answered, “You ever seen John on NYPD Blue?” She had that fuck-is-he-hot look in her eyes.

            “That’s not real, Terri.” Don snuffed out the joint, which had burned down to barely nothing between his fingertips.

            Her mouth an inch from my ear, Terri added, “He looks real enough to me, eh, Cal?”

            “Either of you hear about the man and woman that were killed up near here?” I tried to change the subject. I didn’t want to bring it up, but my mouth just took over as a result of the recent stress and the numbing effect of the pot smoke.

            “Of course,” Don blurted. “Who hasn’t heard about that? It was all over the news. They had cops everywhere up there.”

            “Well . . . me for one.” I felt a bit sheltered and out of touch.

            “That didn’t happen that long ago, Cal,” Terri said, leaning back in her seat. “The cops searched for about a week, looking for some missing kid.”

            I nearly spouted the name Kyle, but was glad my mouth stayed closed for once.

            Terri stroked the back of my hair and continued. “They think he wandered off after the parents were killed. The news said they thought it was an angry patient of the guy, or something like that.”

            “I thought they said it was some old boyfriend of hers, and he escaped from jail, or some shit like that,” Don said, shaking his head in disgust.

            “What else did the news say?” I couldn’t believe I stayed that far out of touch with the world around me, since this event was obviously big news.

            “It was all over the TV,” Don said. “How did you miss it?” Then he realized that we didn’t have a TV or would even want one if we could have one. “Um, sorry, Cal, I wasn’t thinking.”

            “Sorry for what?” I rubbed his shoulder. His arms were thin and nimble, not like the tree trunks of my brother’s. “You think I’m upset for not having that chatterbox in my house? One of the biggest wastes of time I’ve ever seen.” I paused, trying to formulate just the way to ask about Kyle without coming right out and asking. Instead, that was exactly what I did. “What about the boy? Did they say anything about him, anything at all?” I was glad I didn’t use his name—that would’ve been worse.

            Sounding a bit more serious, Terri said, “Not much. What’s the sudden interest, Cal?”

            “It’s nothing,” I said. It hurt not being truthful with them. I wanted to just spout out everything, but that would’ve got them involved, and that would’ve been worse. “I just can’t believe that something like that could happen up here, that’s all.”

            Don nodded. “Yeah, up here you just go for a long walk into the woods and down into the swamp, never to be seen or heard from again. Had to be someone from the city, no one living up here would be dumb enough to leave evidence behind like that.” He tried to make light of the event, but what he said made sense.

            “I guess they have no idea about who did it?” I already knew the answer.

            “Nah. I was just shitting around with that boyfriend crap,” Don said, opening a bag of Skittles.

            “I wasn’t,” said Terri. She reached across and snatched a handful of candy from Don’s bag. He jokingly pulled it away then offered it back to her, smirking. “The news really said that some old patient was a suspect. There was a letter found in their other house, threatening the husband, or some shit like that. In the letter the psycho threatened to kill both of them with his bare hands. He said he was going to use the man’s intestines to strangle the wife while the son watched. The news said it was because this mental case blamed the doctor for letting his mother die, even though it was really some problem the doctor couldn’t fix.”

            “Want some of these, Cal?” Don asked. He held the bag out to me, trying to entice me. “Mmmm, Skittles, one of your favorites.”

            “You okay, Cal? You don’t look so well,” Terri asked, reaching up to touch my face.

            “What do you expect, after that Friday the 13th description you just spouted off?”

            I must have been daydreaming, because their words just weren’t registering. Or maybe it was the pot.

            “Cal?” Terri repeated. “Cal? Cal?”

            Don pulled the 1984 Buick into Lakeside Drive, the backside of Tressel Lake.

            Two hours would pass before I came back to myself. I preferred the term coming back because waking up or becoming conscious just didn’t do it justice. I wish I remembered how it happened, but it’s like asking someone if they remember falling asleep, and I don’t know anyone who can remember falling asleep. . . . All one remembers, really, is just the before and the after.