Chapter 15
The sounds of cicadas keep me awake at night. I think I fall asleep a few times, but the next thing I know, I’m awake again, hearing their incessant buzz that drowns out all other nature sounds. How does anyone like camping? I can only imagine it’s worse if you’re in a tent instead of one of these cabins. And that’s about the only time I’ll even consider giving a compliment to the cabin.
I let out a huff of air and roll over, the old bed frame squeaking in protest. In the dim moonlight that manages to sneak through the thin curtains, I can see some kind of dust or something on my pillow, right in front of my face.
I blow some air out to brush it away.
It does not blow away.
It runs toward me.
I scream and sit up, realizing a few seconds too late that it’s a spider, not dust. Afreaking spider!I trip getting out of bed, and the sheets are all tangled but I kick and twist my way out of them until I’m standing barefoot on the dirty wooden floor and the sheets are all over the place, and the spider is nowhere to be found.
A shudder ripples through me, and I run my hands up and down my clothes, my hair, my neck. I don’t feel the damn thing but that doesn’t mean it’s not on me.
Oh, hell no.
I’m so done with this place. Screw being safe. Screw staying off the roads. There are no spiders in my car. If you ask me that’s a lot safer than being stuck in this crazy old shack where spiders try to eat you in your sleep.
I grab my few belongings and shove them into my backpack, then unplug my cell phone without checking it because I know there’s no new messages. I leave the sheets where they are because I’m not risking being bitten by yet another insect on this evacuation from hell. My hand is still sore from the first bite I got the other night while sleeping in my car.
I shove open the stiff cabin door and lock it and then deposit the key back into the box at the front of the campgrounds. Then my spider-less car and me get the hell out of there.
The clock on my dash says it’s just after four in the morning. Good enough for me. I hit the road with a vague sense of which direction I’m supposed to be driving. Once I get back to the main road that cuts through Blackwell, I see some other cars and it feels good to finally be back in civilization. I keep an eye out for a convenient store or fast food place that’s open this early so I can stop and get some breakfast before looking up the GPS on my phone.
Just as I’m puling into a Jack-in-the-box, my phone lights up with a call. An actual phone call, what a miracle! Ethan’s name isn’t on my screen, but rather a series of random numbers, but maybe he’s calling from another sat phone or something.
“Hello?” I say, unable to hide the smile in my voice. The greasy smell of food coming from the restaurant makes me even happier. Soon this crap will be over. I’ll have breakfast, and then I’ll be with my boyfriend, and we’ll be able to watch the hurricane unfold from the safety of the Poe’s hotel room.
“Is this Ella?”
The timid voice on the other end of the line is so familiar but I can’t place it. “Yes,” I say. “Who is this?”
“Oh, Ella, it’s so good to hear your voice! This is your Aunt Donna.”
I swallow. When I was a kid, I loved my aunt so much. She’s about ten years older than my mom and always smelled like sugary coffee. She’d bring me gifts and teach me how to cook and we’d have a great time together. But my mom never let her take me to the movies, or anywhere else for that matter. Aunt Donna didn’t babysit me or do anything that normal aunts do. She would come over and share her world of whimsy with me for a few hours, and then she’d leave.
It wasn’t until I was much older that my mom told me why Aunt Donna was a little different from other people. She was a free spirit who had also been diagnosed with a handful of mental illnesses. She wasn’t a danger, my mom assured me, but she also couldn’t totally be trusted. It seemed weird to me at the time, and it still does. Aunt Donna has always been nice and sweet to me. But she lives in a halfway house and has never married or dated or gotten a job or anything else that “normal” people do.
Sometimes I hate that she’s stuck in that halfway house that Mom and Grandma arranged for her, but the few times I’ve seen her over the last years, she doesn’t seem to mind. I guess if she’s happy, then it doesn’t matter.
“Hi,” I say as I stare up at the sign in the window of the Jack-in-the-Box. It’s advertising an iced coffee that looks delicious. “What’s up?”
“Honey, I’m so glad you answered. I’ve been calling all night. Your momma told me she’s in Louisiana but she said you might be able to help me if we’re close to each other.”
I sit up a little straighter. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Her home is located just north of Galveston island which means she definitely would have had to evacuate.
“I’m at a place called Kountry Korner and it’s spelled with K’s instead of C’s. That’s kind of stupid if you ask me. I lost my group that I was travelling with. They just left me, can you believe it? I’ve spent the last two damn nights sleeping on the ground like some kind of hobo and no one treats me with any respect. I keep telling them I havedoa place to live, I just had to leave it.”
My heart aches. Knowing my Aunt Donna, she’s probably wearing her beloved thrift store clothing, and her long dark hair is probably messy like always. Even if she was homeless, that doesn’t give people the right to treat her like shit. People are people no matter what’s in their bank account.
“I know where that is,” I say. How could I forget a store with such a stupid name? It was the last store I saw before I entered Blackwell. “I’ll come get you.”
“Sweetheart, you’re such a blessing,” she says. “I knew I could count on you.”
It makes me feel good to be of some use, and I try thinking of the last time I saw my Aunt Donna. I guess it was two Christmases ago when Mom brought her to our house for the day.
