Prologue
Bloodswirled in feathery tendrils as the drain devoured the water. The grimy sink somehow made the blood appear sinister. Of course, seeing how I came to be covered in blood could account for the baleful countenance.
For the first time, I caught sight of the reflection in the mirror above the sink. My skin was so drained of color that the freckles beamed like stars in the sky. Leaning closer, I realized blood was streaked across my right eye. Had I wiped my arm over my eyes and not realized it, or had some of the blood squirted in my face? I hoped it was mine. What if it got in my eye? Who knew what diseases that kid had? Another torrent of anger washed over me as his face flitted through my mind. Filling my hands with water, I plunged my face into them, washing away as much of the blood as I could with my eyes squeezed shut.
After another inspection in the mirror, I was satisfied there was little likelihood of blood actually getting in my eye. Glancing down, I took in the rest of me. The bottom half of my shirt and the lap of my jeans had soaked up most of the blood. As much as I wanted to tear them off my body and throw them away, burn them, I’d have to wait. Bloody clothes were better than no clothes at all.
Looking back to the slices across my right forearm, a tingle of dread clawed at my gut. There was no way some of the boy’s blood didn’t mingle with mine. It had to have. Gingerly, I placed a thumb and forefinger on either side of the wounds and spread them apart. They weren’t overly deep. Deep enough for stitches, and probably deep enough for scars, but shallow enough toavoid any significant injury.
Returning to the mirror, I gazed at the man staring back at me. His eyes, bluer than normal, peered from his nearly translucent skin. His lips were chapped and splitting. He looked somewhat crazed, ready to self-destruct. Worse than the wounds, worse than the blood, even worse than holding the boy down, was the dread beginning to take control.
Something was different this time. Something was coming, something that was going to strip away the life I had carved out for myself. Something I couldn’t fight.
Part One
One
Roughly seven years earlier
Mostpeople would say I should start this story from the beginning. You know, the very beginning. Bright white tile flooring that has been bleached spotless. The doctor in his thin green cotton scrubs, anxiously awaiting the moment he could smack my ass. The exit from my mother’s vagina, the last vagina I would ever see up close and personal. The moment my tiny fist clutched onto my mother’s little finger and she burst into tears, the bonding process beginning.
I guess I could begin there. There’s a lot to tell. However, I’m sure I will take you back to glimpses into my childhood at some point. Even if I don’t, I imagine you’ll be able to paint a fairly accurate portrayal of what my growing-up process was like once you get to know my mother. Besides, it wouldn’t be that interesting a place to start. After all, my mother didn’t pick me up or hold me for weeks; it was my aunt who carried me out of the hospital. There was no finger bonding. I pretty much just lay there.
Thankfully, I don’t remember that particular period of my life. I am sure there were some great and satisfying shits in my diaper that broke up the boredom, but really, who needs the details on those? It’s the one thing that bonds us all. Well, except dying, but we can’t really share that with anyone else, can we? It’s a one-person ride. Wow, went from being born to dying. I don’t think I will start with death either. There will be plenty on that subject later.
I suppose I could start with an amusing episode when my cousin Donnie saved me and my bantam chicken, Murdel, from getting beaten up by a group of fourth graders who thought it was fun to pick on a sissy who was smaller than them. Well, maybe not smaller, as I was quite the little porker, but shorter at any rate. It really was quite an exciting event. Donnie, being Donnie, saved the day and neither red hair nor brown feather was disturbed. Although, looking back, it might have been fun if he had waited a few minutes to see what would have happened. A pissed-off chicken can hold its own in a fight.
I don’t really think I want to start my story there either, though. It is enough to know that the fat little kid was able to waddle off into the sunset with his best friend skittering along at his side, occasionally searching for worms or roly-polies.
Maybe I’m simply trying to postpone really starting. I know where I want to begin, and it is not a bad place to start, nor is it a painful memory—not this particular aspect of it, at any rate. I just know that once the story commences, I will have to see it through. I won’t be able to stop; I won’t be able to skip much. True, I will get to relive the good times, and there were so many, but I will also have to ponder memories that hurt, memories I have yet to be able to understand. I am probably making my life sound much more Shakespearian tragedy than it really is. However, it is my life, not Shakespeare’s. He got to tell his stories. I want a turn to tell mine. So, I will begin. Not with a huge, dramatic happening. Not with a moment of heroism or terror. Simply with a moment. A moment I originally saw as me being brave and self-sacrificing, an attempt to do right. I now see it for what it was—a moment where I was stillafraid to face who I really was, and too timid to expect others to accept me. Regardless, it was a moment that would assist in me having to return home. Return to the Midwest. Return to my roots. Return to my mother. Just a moment in my life.
Itwas three days after I’d graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree in youth ministry. Most people don’t believe youth pastors at churches actually have degrees, but they do, many of them anyway.
My hands were shaking, and sweat was pouring down my sides and back. My first interview, and I was fairly certain I was going to pass out. There was a ring of sweat circling my collar as my blue paisley tie seemed intent on keeping all the oxygen in the room for itself. My deep purple shirt betrayed me by pronouncing the growing pools of dampness under my arms. I berated myself for not wearing a suit so I could have kept the jacket on. Of course, I would have needed to own a suit for that to have been a possibility.
After waiting in the office for over ten minutes, my nerves began to get the best of me; running away was sounding more and more like a viable option. The pretty African-American receptionist had assured me it would only be a matter of seconds before my potential boss would arrive.
My thoughts amused me. I actually thought,she’s a very pretty African American. I shook my head. College had really changed me. I had become overly politically correct; even my mind had bought into the lifestyle. I thought with distaste what other choice descriptors some people from back home would have used to depict her.
Glancing at the table in front of me, I reached for a magazine to help the time pass and get my nerves to a less panicked place. My only options were various issues ofSports IllustratedandField & Stream. I placed them back on the coffee table and simply sat with my ankles crossed, my hands folded in my lap, and the pools of sweat under my arms attempting to transform into oceans.
After another ten minutes, a noise outside the door startled me. Flinching in my seat, my right leg shot out and kicked the coffee table. While the magazines stayed in the perfect fan formation I’d arranged them in, the tiny glass vase tipped over and dumped its contents of nondescript assorted candy onto the floor. Immediately, I dropped to my knees and began to scoop up as many as I could.
The door opened behind me, and I turned around slowly, my eyes on the floor. I took in the exhausted-looking pair of loafers in front of me. They were a boring shade of brown, the toes overly worn out in comparison to the rest of the shoe. What struck me, however, was not the sad state of the shoes, but the enormousness of them. They had to be a size fifteen or sixteen. I unbugged my eyes and forced them to travel upward, which wasn’t a short journey. By the time they reached the horizontal position, I was still below the man’s torso. I continued upward, taking in his expansive chest and shoulders and his thickly corded neck. When my eyes finally met his, my head was tilted as far as it could go. He had a lazy eye that floated off to the right, but his left gazed at me for a moment. He appeared to be in his early fifties. His dark face broke into a huge, gleaming white smile, and he offered a pancake-sized hand for me to shake.
“You must be Brooklyn Morrison. I’m sorry for being so late. I’d like to say it’s an uncommon thing,but around here, nothing’s ever on time. Thanks for being patient and waiting.” His voice was as low as a person would expect from a giant. However, it was soft and quiet. It put me at ease as much as his size put me on edge.
I cleared my throat in an effort to get my voice to work. “Nice to meet you, sir. Please call me Brooke. Sorry about the mess.” I gestured with my free hand to the candy all over the floor. He still had a hold of my other hand. It felt encased by a bear.
He only offered me a friendly smile and took a seat across the room from his desk, motioning for me to do the same. I sat a few chairs away. Far enough that I wouldn’t have to spend the entire interview with my neck craned up.
My hands and legs returned to their folded position. Suddenly, my sweating left me cold, and I began to shiver slightly. I hoped it wouldn’t be enough for him to notice. He didn’t glance at me after I sat—he simply took my résumé I’d placed on the coffee table beside the magazines. By the way he pored through the two pages, you would have thought it was the final chapter in a murder mystery. After a while, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead on his enormous thumb and index finger.
I glanced around the office, not sure what I was searching for. Again, I saw the candy spread all over the floor and returned my gaze to the huge black man in front of me. I noticed his lips moving slightly. Was he praying? Surely not.
He opened his eyes suddenly and caught me staring. I quickly shut my mouth, which apparently had decided it would be an opportune time to hang open. He lowered hishand and brought it down into his lap, mimicking my own position.
“Brooklyn… Brooke. I’m sorry I have to be quick about this, but things around here never seem to slow down, and I’ve not even started figuring out next month’s schedule, and that always seems to take me hours.” His voice was slow and easy, bringing to mind my grandfather’s cadence as he sat on the edge of the pond, fishing. “They keep trying to get me to do it on the computer. They assure me it would cut the time in half. I guess you just can’t teach this old dog new tricks.” He paused. He took in a deep breath and simply looked at me.
