Freedom's Child (10 page)

“Blink once for ‘No’ and twice for ‘Yes,’ ” the nurse says.

He blinks twice with understanding.

“Is this about my sister, Rebekah?”

Gabriel blinks twice.

“Do you know where she is now?”

He blinks once.

“Have you seen her in the past few days?”

He blinks twice. He raises his hand with all the strength he can muster and points to letters: R-U-N-A-X-A-Y.

The doctor writes it down. “Runaway?” he asks.

Gabriel blinks twice for yes.

“She was running away?” Mason asks.

He blinks twice.

“Do you know where she was going?”

He raises his arm once more, as if his bones are made of paper and his muscles made of lead: W-E-S-T-C-O-S-T. It takes him a whole ten seconds to point between letters with a shaky finger that pokes from bloody gauze, missing most of its fingernail. Defense wounds. “Westcott, as in the hotel?” Gabriel blinks once. “West Coast?” Gabriel blinks twice. Mason breathes a little easier. “So she’s all right?” Gabriel blinks once. Once more, he brings his finger up: K-I-D-N-A. “She was kidnapped?” Mason interrupts. Gabriel blinks twice. “Did you get a look at who took her?” Two blinks. “Do you know who they are?”

Suddenly, the pain starts to return to Gabriel. His muscles contract and bones straighten like rods. His eye rolls up like he’s trying to get a visual of the back of his skull.

“This interview has to end, Mason.” The doctor hooks him back up to the IV.

“Tell me who did this,” Mason screams. “Who took my sister?!” Mason is pushed out of the room, met by Violet. He goes into his phone and onto the Internet to find the number for Sheriff Don Mannix in Goshen. He grabs a pen and paper from the nurses’ station and jots it down.

Minutes later, the doctor goes to his side. “We were able to stabilize him for now, but I don’t think he’ll make it through the night.”

“Doctor, do you know where the paramedics picked him up from?”

“Let’s have a look.” He shifts through a bin for the records behind the nurses’ station. “A place called the Bluegrass, outside the truck stop at La Grange.” Mason knows where it is. He takes Violet’s hand to let her know she’s not completely invisible to him. He leaves for La Grange.

On the way, Mason can’t help but think of his sister, his father, his mother, Gabriel.
Like the archangel
. And like riding a bike, he can’t ever forget the exact words of scripture. And he hates it. He remembers Luke 1, the irony sends a pang to his gut.

And the angel answering said unto him, I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God; and am sent to speak unto thee, and to shew thee these glad tidings. And, behold, thou shalt be dumb, and not able to speak, until the day that these things shall be performed, because thou believest not my words, which shall be fulfilled in their season
.

“You’re smoking too much,” remarks Violet from the passenger’s seat.

Mason says nothing in return. It’s supposed to be one of the most important days of his life, all the hard work was just seeming to pay off, a long-awaited vacation was just on the horizon. And as the rain begins to beat on the windshield in a traffic jam, Mason feels the inkling of fear grow in his chest. The harder he inhales the smoke, the more he hopes it can take away that feeling.

Hypnotized by the red lights before him, Mason remembers his last day in Goshen.

“Come with me, Rebekah. I can take you from here, I’ll take care of you,” Mason pleaded as he packed the last of his belongings into his suitcase on his bed
.

“But this is where I’m supposed to be,” she answered, unsure of why Mason was packing. “And so are you, here in God’s will.”

“This place is a fucking trap!”

Rebekah crossed her hands under her chin with a gasp, praying for the salvation of her brother. Mason often had to remind himself of his sister’s handicap, that her IQ was low enough that it bordered retardation. He had to remind himself that she needed some extra help, extra kindness. Her whispers ran rampant: “Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what he does.”

Mason grabbed her shoulders and shook her from the prayer. “When
you’re ready to leave, you can come to me. Always. Anytime.” He could see the blankness in her eyes. She couldn’t even grasp at the concept of leaving home; it was inconceivable to her small mind. But Mason didn’t feel sorry for her. He was envious of her ignorance, admired her innocence. “Just promise me that you’ll always remember me if you do change your mind, if God tells you to move.”

Things had been getting strange in their home. Their father seemed more interested in filling the pews than he was in his own family; he claimed he had these dreams where God would talk to him, would call him to lead people to the church before a certain date. It was supposedly the date that God told him Christ would return, a date that he could tell no one. And it went against what Mason was raised with in church, that not even the angels of heaven would know the date of Christ’s return. As far as Virgil was concerned, Mason was deliberately disobeying God for questioning these visions. Finding a packet in the mail from the University of Louisville for prospective students was all that it took for Virgil to kick Mason out of the house
.

Virgil was stern about it, claiming it was what God would have him do, which made no sense to Mason whatsoever. He warned Mason never to come back, forced Rebekah to amputate her brother from her life, like he was a cancerous mole. And Mason decided that, when it felt right to her, Rebekah would follow suit and try to find him, and that until then, Mason would never look back
.

Rebekah’s eyes filled with water as she looked up at him. “Will you at least wear your cross?”

Mason tucked his lips in and reached in the front pocket of his bag to retrieve it, just to make her feel better about the situation. He held it against her necklace, identical to the one in his hand. “Will you promise to visit me?”

Rebekah smiled like it was a sin, turning over her shoulder to make sure no one saw it. She stood on her tippy-toes to kiss him on his cheek before running off
.

Dear Mason and Rebekah, though once upon a time, you were Ethan and Layla,

Mason, for the first year of your life, I breast-fed you. You’d wake in the middle of the night often, hungry. I could hear Lynn in the living room, a late visit from one of her many regulars, a coke deal. I knew I had to get the hell out of there as soon as possible, I was just waiting for my inheritance to clear with the lawyers. I was still recovering from childbirth, still sore, hormones running rampant.

The room was dark when you woke. Sleep was hard to get, as hungry as you always were. I rolled over to turn on the lamp, not surprised to see that Mark wasn’t there. I crawled toward the end of the bed, to where your bassinet was. In a chair at the corner of the room, I was startled to see your uncle, Matthew.

“Matthew, what the hell are you doing in here?”

“Just bored.”

I felt like my privacy, our privacy, had just been invaded as he watched me sleep. “I need for you to leave.” I picked you up to stop your cries of hunger.

“But I want to watch,” Matthew said.

“No.” And just as I said no, Lynn walked by the door.

“No, what?” she barked. I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, Mommy,” said Matthew, his eyelids heavy as if he were stoned, his words soft on the cigarette smoke. “Nessa here is telling me no. I hate it when cunts like this tell me no, don’t you, Mother?”

Lynn marched to me, her finger in my face. “Now, you listen to me, you prissy little bitch. I’m sick of you going around
my
home, acting like you own the place, acting like you’re better than us.” I felt a tear of rage escape my eye. “No one says no to my boys, am I understood?”

I thought, in her last sentence, that that’s why her boys were all little shits, with the exception of Peter, of course. I could tell Lynn was high; her agitation was worse than it was most days, her top lip tucking itself in by her teeth. But I just nodded. Lynn went back out of the hallway. “And shut that baby up, he’s interfering with my work.”

I’d grown afraid of Matthew. This fear would dissipate the older I got. I continued to feed you, in front of him, because what choice did I have?

A few days later, Mark and I were alone in the house. I cannot recall where everybody else was, but for Peter, who’d usually locked himself away in his room. “Ness,” Mark called down to me from the hall. I was holding you in the living room, studying, with contempt, a box of illegal fireworks that your father had brought home after one of his busts. He was always bringing things like that home. Illegal fireworks, guns, drugs, even the odd boa constrictor.

“What is it?” I yelled back.

“Leave the baby for a minute and just come here.” I walked up the hallway, Mark standing there in his uniform, leaning against Matthew’s doorway, thumbs tucked behind his belt. He reminded me of some cowboy. “What is it?”

“I want you to stop leading my brother on,” he said, his voice indifferent.

“But I’m not—”

Mark grabbed my upper arm and squeezed hard enough that in the days following, I could map out the bruises from where his fingertips were when I’d raise my arms in the mirror. He pulled me into Matthew’s room, where, on a desk, were photos of me. Candles. Locks of my hair tied in bows. A shrine, in honor of me.

I felt sick; I felt violated. “I know you are,” yelled Mark. “
My
wife will not be whoring herself around, especially to my own brother. Am I clear?”

I nodded.

He looked down at me and adjusted his shirt, like I was a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe. “I’m leaving to go finish packing for the new house.”

Officer Mattley kisses his mother’s cheek as he enters the house. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble for you.”

“No, he was an angel. I was just fixing his breakfast.” At the breakfast bar, seven-year-old Richie puts the heads of his rubber dinosaurs into the milk of his Lucky Charms. “You look tired. Let me make you some coffee.”

“Thanks for coming over again, Mom. These night shifts are killing me.” He takes off his uniform top, leaving a white tee that was underneath. He wraps his arm around his son’s waist and kisses the back of his head. “Morning, Champ.”

“I’m not Champ,” he says as he holds the toys by the tails. “I’m Spider-Man!” Richie turns and pretends to shoot his father with projectile spiderwebs from his hands.

“You got me,” Mattley says as he stumbles back into the wall. Richie goes back to his dinosaurs drinking marshmallow milk and makes slurping noises.

“How was your night, dear?”

“It’s Painter, Mom.” He smiles as he grabs a stool beside Richie. “Nothing exciting to report.”

“You mean you didn’t catch any bad guys?” His son doesn’t take his attention away from his T-rex.

“Luckily, there were no bad guys to catch. The world was safe!”

“Just Painter, Dad. Just Painter was safe.”

Mattley rubs his son’s brown bowl cut. “You already packed for your mother’s house?”

“Do I have to? I just saw her,” he whines.

“Yeah, like a month ago. C’mon.” He lifts Richie off the stool and pats his butt. “We don’t wanna be late.”

“But Mom yells too much,” he says as he drags his feet down the hallway.

“Sounds about right.” It was a nasty divorce. A wife of two years with some insane trust issues. A wife who fell out of love with a man who cared too much about his work. A wife who didn’t adapt to the fact that she was a mother and no longer belonged at the club scene.

“Are you doing anything exciting with your day?” His mother asks, the smell of dark roast surrounding them.

“Gonna stop and see my friend at the Whammy Bar and maybe grab a drink before sleeping the rest of the day.”

“You mean Freedom?” yells Richie from his bedroom.

Mattley’s perplexed. “What do you know about it?”

“Remember, we ran into her not long ago at the line at the fair? You love her, I can tell. You couldn’t stop flirting with her. At least she is pretty, though, not like that Jennifer next door who’s in love with you.”

“I was not flirting, and Jennifer next door is not in love with me.” Mattley looks at his mother, his voice low. “Where the hell does this kid get his smarts from?”

“He gets his smarts from you.” She smiles as she makes his coffee. “Accusing you of flirting with women? That he gets from his mother.”

“
It’s odd seeing you
, when there’s only one of you to see.” Freedom laughed, poking Mattley’s side from behind. In all fairness, it was
just as odd for Mattley, seeing her for the first time in daylight while she was sober. Away from the night, she was strikingly beautiful.

It was a few months ago, the Fourth of July. The fair smelled of sunblock and gunpowder and watermelon. Vendors’ stations smoked with hot dogs and burgers, the kids had their faces painted. “Freedom, how have you been?” Mattley’s cheeks were tinged pink, an insulated beer cup in hand.

“I didn’t know you drank.”

“This?” He raised the can. “This is maybe my first beer since Christmas.”

“So, you’re here for the fireworks?”

“I am, here with my son,” he looked around. “He’s around here somewhere. What about you? You here to share your patriotism with the rest of Painter?”

“Me? No.” Freedom adjusted the red bandanna on her head. “I’m just walking through. I prefer to be drunk by myself.”

“Well, all the cops are already here. Might as well save ’em a trip.” He smiled. He lifted his sunglasses to his sunburned head. “You shouldn’t drink, though.”

Freedom looks at his beer. “Oh, really?”

“I’ll make you a deal. I will, hand on heart, not drink one more sip if you don’t.” He tilts the beer, ready to pour it out.

Freedom smiled, perhaps for the first time in twenty years. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because.” He had to think. Freedom recognized the buzz in him and was amused by this unseen side of Officer Mattley. “Because you have beautiful skin, and alcohol is bad for your skin.”

She rolled her eyes with a laugh. “You’re not that smooth.”

“Well, it’s my day off.” He leaned in to her ear. “And I kind of like being your knight in shining armor.”

Richie ran up and grabbed his father’s leg. “Daddy, Daddy, look at my face paint!”

“Last chance,” he says as he tilts the beer once more.

“All right, fine, fine.”

He put his arm around her shoulders as he spilled the beer onto the dried grass. “Thatta girl.”

“That’s alcohol abuse, ya know.”

Throughout the evening they flirted until it was time for the fireworks to finish off a seemingly perfect night.

Moments after the grand finale, their ears and eyes sore from the blasts, and the sun long set, Richie fell asleep on Freedom’s lap, melted ice cream pasted all over his face. Mattley took her hand.

Attendees from the show were packing their blankets and balloons and beer cans and lighting the last of their sparklers. Freedom buried her face in Richie’s hair and remembered the softness of her own son’s from twenty years ago. The smell of his kid’s shampoo filled her heart with lead. She looked down at the boy from above his head, which rested on her chest, and swore it was Ethan. She placed her hand on his heart, feeling his chest rise. Mattley wondered what she was doing, caressing the top of her hand with his fingertips. He realized that in his son’s hair, Freedom was crying.

“What’s wrong, Freedom?” His touch moved up her arm.

She lifted her head, the lights of children’s blinking toys reflecting off her flooded eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I just can’t.” Freedom cautiously handed a sleeping Richie to his father before running off to her home, where she proceeded to drink by herself until she could no longer function.