Page 57 of Miserable Marionette

I do know.

How many times had Jess come to my house crying because Bryan had gotten too messed up and almost choked on his own vomit. So much so, she’d started making him sleep with her when he was that far gone.

Was that how Mom felt with Uncle Rodney? Had she taken care of him like Jess did for Bryan? Was that why she hated him so much?

Was Jess relieved?

I am.

God, I really am.

“Hey Audrey, whatever it is, we’ve got your back. You’re one of ours, right, kiddo? We need to know so we can close this part off for his family,” he assures me, reaching across the table to pat my arm.

“Promise me you won’t tell them what I said?”

“I won’t share anything I don’t have to.”

With that, I tell Braylon everything, watching as his jaw tightens with each recounting of a bender. His already ruddy face redder when I make it to that night. I do my best not to cry. Try to make Dad proud, or at least not embarrass him, but the tears come anyway. Panic grips my chest as I remember the weight of him as he shoved my face into my pillow. The way black dots twinkled in my vision as the air in my lungs got thinner. I omit the part about Jess knowing; this is bad enough without having to dredge through another layer of bullshit.

By the time I pull up outside Bell Funeral Home, I pointedly avoid looking at the house for as long as I can. Everything still too raw from the police station to think about the body cooling below it. I put the car in park, my eyes landing on the necklace swaying gently from the rearview. My palms are shaky, my nerves shot as I reach out, letting it dance across my fingers the way Gideon had when movement from the dark woods catches my attention. My heart jolts to a sudden stop in my chest as the darkness churns and writhes, the air electrified with the coming storm, as the little orange tabby bolts to the porch, hitting the steps mere seconds before the sky opens up. It takes me several seconds to work up the courage to actually leave his car, the smell of him worked into the leather seats.

Takes me even more seconds to toss the double front doors open, the cat darting in between my teeth to get out of the storm. “Hey!”

I step inside, just an inch, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I watch as the cat trots upstairs, right at home, and debate if I should get it out, but then my eyes land on the cracked basement door and I immediately decide hell no. As a crack of thunder reverberates through the old double-paned windows, I dart inside, slamming the keys on the foyer table and rushing back out, slamming the front door behind me. My heart is pounding in my ears as I bolt across the road, as if I can outrun my own embarrassment. Like I’m not half convinced Bryan's ghost isn’t trailing at my heels.

27

A Horrible Way to Say Goodbye

Audrey, Sixteen Years Old, 1984

I hadn’t thought the state of things could get worse… until they did. Until I woke up this afternoon to the sound of rolling thunder and hazy green skies. Having stayed up late into the night waiting for Dad to get home from his midnight shift, meeting him at the door with every argument and excuse for Gideon in the book. It was the first time I had screamed at my dad. Ever. I had screamed so loud that Mom dragged herself into the living room, haggard and still half-drunk, to separate us.

Dad nailed my windows shut.

Whatever relationship had existed between the Fishers and the Bells died and withered that day in the graveyard. Even Mom showing up long enough the day after the funeral to stand beside Dad and forbid me from seeing Gideon again. That was three days ago. Three days since my fist slammed my father's chest, his brawny arms wrapped around my waist, holding me back as I tried to dash for the door.

Gideon hadn’t come that night.

He hadn’t come to the door when I’d screamed from across the road for him.

Gideon hadn’t come.

My eyes are swollen, my lips puffy, throat raw, and head pounding, but still I manage to drag myself from my tear and snot-soaked sheets. Even with the storm raging outside, I squint as I make it to the window, uncaring of the lecture I’ll get later tonight when Dad gets home and realizes I skipped school. I pause, my whole body freezing at the sight of a large, boxy moving truck pulled into the circular drive of Bell Funeral Home. My mind blanks as Gideon steps outside his house despite the storm, loading it with already packed boxes. The numbness lasts mere seconds before it’s overridden by pure panic. I barrel down the hall, slipping on the hallway runner, my knee smashing painfully into the hardwood before I’m on my feet again.

No.

No. No. No. No.

I don’t bother shutting the front door as I burst from it into the thunderstorm. Rain pelts me as the gravel digs into my bare feet. I’m not fast enough because my best friend is back inside, the door shut behind him. I don’t care. When I reach the back of the moving truck, its ramp slick with rain, my chest caves in, the last bit of hope I held withering with it.

It's nearly full.

It’s Gideon's lamp from his bedroom, boxes, and bags of clothes. An open tote of framed pictures of the family.

A panicked sob leaves my chest as I run toward the house, my white pajamas already soaked as I knock on the door.

Once, twice.