Raven Miller Project Page 4

  “A little bird told me you can see through his eyes.” Leo’s comment raised more questions than answers. But judging by his calm, casual demeanor, the angel knew full well what he was doing.

  “Bullshit,” I replied with a giggle. But the idea was intriguing. Maybe I’d just not been around him long enough.

  “Believe what you like, do as you will.” Leo reclined in the sand, adjusting his hair before resting his hands behind his head.

  “Where do I sleep?” I asked.

  Leo closed his sparkling green eyes, leaving behind an aura of light. “I’m sure the answer will come to you in time.”

  I knew what he meant. He expected me to go exploring or maybe even rummage through their belongings. But at that moment all I wanted to do was sit by the warmth of the fire. Could I really see through Bobby’s eyes? What would that even feel like? I blinked hard, trying to focus on Bobby’s face. I had only seen him for a few hours, but there were parts I could remember. His eyes were dark. Were they brown? No, they were green, a deep forest green. And his hair, it was long and wavy (kind of like Leo’s hair, except without the random streaks of color).

  “Take me to the river, drop me in the water.” I quietly hummed the tune from memory. I didn’t even know the real name of that song, only the part the famous rubber fish toy used to sing. Looking out at the clear, calm water, my mind, body, and soul felt at peace. That was where I needed to be. That was where I needed to sleep. Fully clothed, I took one step then another until I was waist-deep. The hand that held the rosary felt wet, but before I could get a closer look, a glow took over my vision.

  I awoke with a jolt, sitting up indoors. What? How? I was sitting on a bed in a hotel room, my body completely dry. I could hear the television; it was on some kind of infomercial for a magical copper pan. As I stood up to look for the remote, I heard Lola giggle with delight at the sight of the elderly woman making sample dishes.

  “Cookie! She made big cookie!”

  “Lola?” The sound that came out was not my voice. It was low, male, and distinctly French. I needed a mirror. Where’s the bathroom?

  The old wooden restroom door opened. Annie appeared wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, her typical sleepwear. “Hey, Bobby, you alright there?”

  I could see past her, to a mirror. I was Bobby. I blinked my eyes and down at my hands. This was unreal. “Yeah,” I said in his soft French accent. “Je vais bien.” I’m good.

  Annie nodded and moved on. “Well, bathroom is free.”

  “Merci.” Thank you.

  The woman’s eyes seemed to watch me, drilling into my soul with an otherworldly intensity. “No problem.” Even as I closed the door, I could feel her watching me (making it somewhat difficult to urinate despite the intense need).

  “What is your issue?” I shouted, pulling my cock back in my pants.

  “My issue?” Annie asked innocently. “I’m just sitting here with my daughter.”

  I exited the bathroom, slamming the door. “What is your problem with me?”

  “With you, personally?” she asked, picking up the television remote to channel surf. “I have nothing against you.”

  “Could have fooled me.” I leaned against a wall, staring her down. “You have a problem with men, don’t you?”

  Annie stood up, placing her hand upon her hip. “You know, Bobby Reyes, your English has gotten really good in the past few minutes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I do love Raven, even if she thinks of me as a bossy old woman. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

  A series of words flooded my mind. They were in French. And somehow, they also slipped from my mouth in the form of an audible grumble.

  “What did you say?” Annie asked, her Southern twang piercing through her professional demeanor. “Answer me, boy.”

  I repeated the French words, still unsure of their meaning. But I felt the urge to add my own take on the translation. “I said: Why are you such a twisted redneck American bitch?”

  Annie chuckled. “Well, that would have to be my daddy.”

  Don’t I know it. “Want to tell me the story?” I’d already heard it a thousand times, but I wanted to see how she would present it to Bobby.

  “Sure,” Annie said, taking a seat on the bed. “Let’s go back a few years.”

  Mississippi Burning: Annie’s Story

  Before the war, my Daddy was always a good, kind man. According to Nana, he never said a cross word to anyone, not even the nasty neighbors who spit in his face when he returned from ‘Nam the first time, with his new wife. Mississippi was never a hotbed for cultural diversity, but bringing home a war-bride, some people seemed to take personal offense to that. Luckily my nana and grandpa never did. If their son loved my mother enough to save her from that hell, there must be something worth loving.

  That was why Nana was the only person Mama told when she fell pregnant with me. My mother wore baggy clothes when she went to work as a maid at the local hotel. If she lost me, she didn’t want Daddy to know.

  Then he went back. My nana told me it was something about being under a contract; he’d made a deal with the devil to be able to fast-track Mama’s citizenship. That was how much he loved her and wanted to protect her.

  I don’t remember much, only what I was told.

  Nana sent him a letter. She never knew if he received it because later that month, my father was reported missing in action, presumed dead. He wasn’t.

  Just after my third birthday, a car came to Nana and Grandpa’s house. Daddy’s unit had been captured. He was stuck in a bad place because the bad people wanted information. And they were going to use him as a bargaining chip. I don’t remember much of that day. I just recall Nana crying. She said that my Daddy was as good as dead because there was no way the life of a single soldier would be worth sacrificing national security.

  I don’t know what happened next. I just know I was five years old when my dad finally made it home. I had been shown photos, told sweets stories, so I wouldn’t be shy around him. My daddy had blonde hair the color of the sunlight and blue eyes the color of the sky. He had been a high-school athlete, tall and strong, with gentle eyes and a kind smile.

  But the man who came out of the taxi that day didn’t look much like the man in the photos. This man was weak, frail. Although young, he walked painfully slow, with the use of a cane. He had a terrible cough, like nothing I had ever heard.

  I have to admit I was a little scared, cowering behind my Mama. There were so many people; reporters, people in military uniforms. “That’s not my Daddy.”

  I remember Nana pulling me aside before I had a chance to cry. She told me that Daddy was very sick, that was why he was allowed to come home.

  Daddy slept most of the day. Strangers were coming in and out of the room with all manner of blankets, bandages, and medicine. I didn’t want to get in the way, and I was too scared to visit him on my own. I waited until nightfall when Mama and I were finally alone with him. Mama brought him some miso broth and warm rice. I snuck in with her, and stayed by her side, as I got my first look at my father.

  There were bandages on his face, and he could barely lift his head. But somehow his gaze met mine. “Hey, little one. Your name’s Annabelle, right?”

  I nodded. I thought I knew my own name, but Annabelle was pretty.

  “My name’s Ken.” The man in the bed seemed so scared. I was genuinely confused about why he would be so afraid of me.

  “I know, I missed you.”

  My words seemed to bring him a level of comfort as he blinked tears from his eyes. “Can I call you Annie?”

  “If I can call you Daddy,” I replied with a giggle. I always called Grandpa ‘Papa,’ but I’d never had a daddy. I reached out for a hug, for no other reason than because I wanted to.

  “Be gentle,” my mother warned.

  For a moment I wondered why. I nearly jumped back in fear for what I saw. There was a mass of scar tissue
where his right eye should’ve been. The cut extended down his jaw, telling the story of a truly heinous act of torture. Somehow, amid all the drama of earlier in the day, I had not noticed the extent of his injuries. I ran to my mother, burying my face in her shoulder.

  This caused the man to cry. My mother carried me as we sat by his side, together. “It’s ok, Annie,” she said as she rocked me in her arms. “You don’t have to stay if you’re too scared. But just know, this is your Daddy. He’s not a monster, he’s not here to hurt you. He came from a place far away, just to see you. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  My father’s chest was heaving as he sobbed. “Please stay, Annie.” He reached out his hand. He was missing two fingers. His middle finger had been cut with a sharp blade, but his pinky had been burned off or broken in a way that left him horrifically mutilated.

  “It’s ok, Daddy. I’ll stay.” My answer seemed to calm his breathing. I reached out and touched his hand. He felt soft, warm, human.

  “You probably don’t remember me, but I met you before, a long time ago.”

  “Really?” I wanted to keep him talking because when he spoke, he seemed more human. Even though he spoke in a hoarse whisper, there was something about his voice that resonated.

  “I wasn’t there for your birth, but I made it home for your christening. You were one month old when I first held you in my arms.”

  Although not scientifically possible, I could remember exactly what he was talking about. Perhaps I had seen a picture of the day, but as he spoke, I could perfectly visualize his face. He’d been in uniform, the same clothes he’d worn on his wedding day. He had the most beautiful smile. That was the moment I truly recognized the man in the bed as my father.

  He had the same look of love and compassion. “I should have run. I could have taken you and your ma to Mexico. I would have done anything to stay with you.”

  My mother held his hand, speaking in her broken English. “We will be ok.” She bowed her head the way she always did. Nana always said it made Mama look like a little doll. “We are together now, that is all that matters.” Mama kissed his forehead, brushing away a lock of his hair.

  I flinched at the sight of his massive scar. I could picture what happened. Someone tore out his eye using a large knife or cleaver. I could picture a bad man chopping into my Daddy’s head the way Nana cut open a chicken.

  “Annie,” my mother said gently, “stay with your daddy while I clean up the kitchen.”

  “Ok, Mama.”

  When Mama left, Daddy reached for me. I could tell he wanted me to lie on his opposite side, with his good eye. I was about to walk around the long way when he scooped me up in his arms. Daddy might have been sick, but he wasn’t weak.

  We stayed up all night just talking. He asked me about my hobbies; if Grandpa ever took me fishing, or if Nana baked with me. He told me about his childhood, his time overseas and how much he’d missed home.

  “Did you miss me, Daddy?”

  “I didn’t know enough about you to really miss you. So, I made up stories in my head, dreaming about the person you would be.” Daddy told me I was the one who kept him strong. Knowing I was out there, waiting, it kept him alive.

  The bad people, they’d hurt him for a very long time. They’d only agreed to let him go as part of a trade. But to save face, the army wanted to make it look like he came home a hero.

  He couldn’t see very well, even out of his good eye, and the lower part of his leg was so mangled, it didn’t look human. But he was human. I knew he was.

  Every night I could hear him crying. Mama stayed with him, except for when she had work. Then he’d cry even harder. To see him in so much pain truly broke my heart. But I was just a kid, not much I could do. Nana would come over to check on him and bring some supper. She always told me to leave my daddy alone, leave him be. And for the most part, I did.

  Except when he was just sleeping. I liked to watch him sleep; it was the only time he didn’t look like he was suffering.

  My dad cried a lot. So, I stayed with him as much as I could. He never hurt me. He never laid a hand on me. He even took me to my first day of school, with Nana and Grandpa.

  That was when he said the words I would never forget. “When I found I had a little girl, I was so happy. Most guys want a boy, someone they can mold into a little version of themselves. But the world has too many boys like me. The world needs more brave, compassionate little girls like you. You’re going to grow up to be a very special person, Annie. You’re going to change the world.”

  Daddy was good, but then he started taking medicine; a lot of medicine from bottles. I could never get close enough to see all of what he had, but there were so many. Nana told me it broke her heart.

  I know it broke Mama’s heart too. But he would get so upset at her. When he was in pain, he would get angry. Mama came home late one night; I don’t remember when. She had been working extra hours, but this time she came home too late to cook supper.

  Nana brought me over some roast chicken and lemonade. She made a plate for Daddy, but Daddy stayed in his room with his medicine.

  It was past my bedtime when Mama came home. I opened the door, greeting her with a hug. I didn’t even notice Daddy until he placed his hand upon my back. “Go to your room.” He sounded angry, like a volcano ready to burn the world.

  “Ok, Daddy.” I went to my room and shut my door. There was shouting, so much shouting.

  He seemed to think she was seeing other men. He accused her of not loving him, of thinking he wasn’t good enough of a husband and father, that he wasn’t enough of a man.

  But my mother didn’t respond.

  “You’re a fucking whore! I was never enough for you! I gave you everything and you betrayed me, I know you did! Who was it? Simon at the grocery store? Or Dave from down the road? Or Carl, is that who you’re fucking?” A loud bang followed by crashing.

  I covered my head with my pillow, rocking back and forth as I cried myself to sleep.

  I awoke to silence. That day was a school day, so I got dressed and waited for Mama to come and get me. But she never did.

  Time passed. I was getting hungry, so I went to the kitchen. Sometimes there would be applesauce, maybe even some old crackers.

  That was when I saw my parents’ bedroom door open just a crack, just enough to see a ray of light. “Mama?”

  I heard my Daddy breathing, sobbing.

  Daddy was sitting on the bed. He was staring out the window, into the bright sunlight. Looking down from his eyes, to his neck, down his chest, I could see he was covered in blood. There was something shiny on the floor. I thought it was a knife, but with how big it was it could have been a chunk of a mirror.

  In the reflection, I could see my mother’s leg. She wasn’t moving. I took one step closer, then two, causing the floor to creak.

  “Annie?” My father’s voice was so calm, I could practically feel his stare.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “I need you to go to Nana’s house,” he said, his voice trembling. “You run and never look back, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Daddy, ok, Daddy.” I did as he asked. If nothing else, Nana and Grandpa would know what to do. Wearing my nightgown and no shoes, I ran down the road in the direction of my Nana’s house. I was quiet until I ran into the mailman. I started to cry.

  I cried so hard I couldn’t form thoughts, much less sentences. He carried me to Nana’s house and knocked on the door. He was able to knock louder than I would have been.

  Nana sent Grandpa to check on my house while she carried me to her bedroom. She called the police from her room; she already knew something was wrong.

  Both Mommy and Daddy were already gone. They went to live with God and his angels.

  I slept in the old bedroom/office space that used to be Daddy’s childhood room. Nana took down his photos and baseball trophies. She didn’t talk about him, even when I asked.

  I didn’t hate him. But I knew the full
story; I knew my mother never cried out for help. She loved him too much. She just wanted to give him what he needed. My mother had survived a war zone. She probably thought she could live through whatever he did to her.

  My parents were cremated, their ashes spread together over Nana’s garden. Nana never planted any seeds or anything over their grave. But for the entire time I lived there, every year there I saw the most beautiful flowers. Some were yellow and gold like my father’s hair and blue like his eyes. They would interlace with small white flowers that grew on a vine, reaching up to my window. The vine reminded me so much of Mama’s clothesline, the place in the backyard where she always found peace.

  I would greet those flowers every spring and cry every winter when they had to leave. It was like Daddy’s deployment all over again. Except at least now they were together.

  On the day of my high-school graduation, my grandparents gave me a suitcase with my father’s belongings. I was dressed in my cap and gown, just hours away from getting the little piece of paper that would finally allow me to put Mississippi in my rearview mirror. But I quickly tore into the dusty case while my grandparents watched on.

  “We kept some things,” Nana said nervously. “They’re things that I know your folks would have wanted you to have.”

  I found my father’s military medals; just to touch them brought tears to my eyes. He had so many, and I only knew what a few were for. “He was given a Purple Heart,” I said, holding the medal in my palm.

  My grandpa nodded. “Your father did so many wonderful things.”

  His words turned my attention to the photos. I had seen them all before, but I was glad to have copies of my own. I saw my father when he was a little boy, with eyes filled with light and happiness. My parents on their wedding day, where he looked just as happy. But my mother looked even happier. The way she looked at him, even in the photo, I could feel the warmth of her emotion. I flipped through the small pile of pictures, desperate to find more images of my mother. I knew every image would be of when she was in the United States, with him or my grandparents. At the bottom of the case was a thin black folder: a police report. I looked up at my nana. “Is this part of my gift?”