Illusion or imagination…?
It is true what is said about time being a healer. It wasn’t easy, but eventually fear eased its grip on our lives, and we soon came to find a humble routine. Once Noma could breathe without me constantly being by her side, Johnny Watts was enrolled in school. During the year and a half I was homeschooled, I fell behind. Noma was definitely educated enough to teach me school subjects, but was far more preoccupied with keeping me safe and alive. Hence why I failed an admissions test and was held back a year when returning to the public school system.
In attempts to keep me disguised, Noma insisted I grow my hair out and even forced some ‘highlights’ so that I looked different as could be. She wouldn’t speak of my hand but knew my missing finger was in hospital records. Anyone searching for us had a huge, unmissable telltale sign that they had found the correct grandma and grandson. But no one came. Grandpa’s cloud sheltered us well.
Noma also dyed some blonde streaks in her hair. Not letting her medical degree go to waste, she took an online job recording medical data for a small hospital. She didn’t want to touch much of the ‘emergency’ money we had brought with us.
Off the school bus, I’d kick at pebbles, wishing I had a friend who lived closer. The ones I’d made at school were pretty cool for the most part. They didn’t understand why my grandma and I never took family vacations like they did, but stopped asking questions when I was always vague with answers. Noma said it was best the less they knew.
Being an eighth grader had me a top dog in middle school. My voice had dropped, and my balls had grown. Girls were very interested in me, even with a deformed hand. My hormones were interested in them, but my heart wanted no part of any normal girl. I couldn’t get past the memory of the magical one. Even if, at times, I was close to that memory fading—or my mind becoming convinced she simply didn’t exist, I would do something as routine as wash my hands and see my missing finger. Or shower. Or it would rain. Like now, as I was walking home, a girl from school’s number in my back pocket, all I had to do was look at the water falling from the sky and see the stars, calling to me like a siren, making sure a certain set of green eyes never left my mind for too long.
“Dammit,” I swore to myself, grabbing the papered digits from my pocket. I crumbled them in my left fist and threw ’em to the side of the road, letting the mud seep and become quicksand to a future—a normal childhood—I doubted I would ever have.
Under incredibly thick and rich green tall trees, there was a glow coming from our light pink home. Music was floating through white lace curtains and out the open windows. I sighed, still grateful we had survived the heartbreak of all that had transpired. Losing Dad changed who we were. To add to the tragedy, one of Noma’s friends had a ‘mysterious’ death. Noma never told me any details, but I had watched her suffer raw guilt. At times, her mounting sadness made the whole house ache. I couldn’t help her. I was too young and drowning in sorrow myself.
Noma loved Van Morrison, and I believe that music helped save us. One day, she wiped off the dust on the records and played them. Music crackling through old speakers, her eyes closed. Tears formed, but a slight smile did, too. Hand to her chest, she slowly began to sway, as if dancing with Grandpa.
I believe he was there, pulling her from the darkness, like my magical friend had for me.
For the last two years, she swayed her skinny hips to the beat, not caring if or who saw her. In fact, most of the time she’d make me dance with her, swearing someday I’d be happy she taught me so I could impress a ‘lady friend’.
After opening the front door, I stepped inside, water dripping from my now longer brown hair. My upper lip snarled as I accused, “It’s raining. A ride would’ve been nice.”
We no longer owned the sedan. Now we had a four-wheel-drive hunter-green Jeep. Noma had taught me to drive the stick-shift vehicle by the time I was eleven. Even in rough terrain. If something happened to her, I was to get in and drive to a different hidden location she had paid for in cash. Like I would ever have left her behind. Crazy woman.
Noma swiveled her jeaned hips while her hands danced in the air. “Today is another day you don’t love water?” Behind her, spread around the room, were potted trees and hanging plants because they ‘brighten up any space’. Or, ‘secrets of life need water’. Or, ‘in the leaves are hidden treasures’. I swear, sometimes I was sure she was losing her wits.
Plopping on a couch, a palm leaf attacking me, I kicked my sneakers up on a rickety old coffee table. “Yup. Water is annoying.”
Dancing coming to a halt, Noma swiped my feet from the table. “So is mud on my furniture. Have you lost your mind?”
Not getting up, and with a bit of ‘unappreciated attitude’, as Noma always put it, I toed each shoe off, letting them plop on the floor in protest.
Her nostrils flared.
Oh shit. I got up from the couch and quickly put my shoes by the door. Staying out of swatting distance, I came back to the living room and waited for what I had coming.
She pointed a silver-ringed finger at me. “I know deep down you don’t want to be a bratty asshole. It’s just part of your age and growing anger toward the world.”
Per usual, this woman was correct. The urge for revenge for my dad’s murder had not faded. Deep inside, that part of my spirit was getting louder as each year passed.
She kept on. “Now, you wanna stay safe?” Her glare struck deep. “Or teeeeest me.”
“Safe.” I grinned at the firecracker, who I had already outgrown, and who could still beat my ass. “I choose safe.”
Van Morrison still playing in the background, she lifted her chin. “That’s my baby boy.” She walked to her bedroom. “Now, go shower. I’m starving.”
Like a spoiled teenager, I dragged my wet socked feet toward a bathroom that was nauseating with pink floral wallpaper. “Are you going to feed me a stuffed cat that, whoever lived here before us left behind?”
Noma’s laughter was beautiful. It sang through the air like a happy song you couldn’t help but smile to. “Do you want that cat dinner with or without fur?”
Chuckling while shutting the bathroom door, I mumbled, “Jesus, woman.” Her wit and humor were my saving grace.
“Maddox?” I was surprised she was right outside the door, using my real name, and that her tone had changed. It was now kind and held a touch of wisdom. “Do your best to appreciate the gift Death gave you. Try to forgive fate. You’re still here, baby. For a reason.”
Glancing at the scars on my knuckles, a lump formed in my throat. The damaged skin stretched with my now larger hand. “Have you forgiven fate?”
There was a meaningful pause, then, “I try every single day.” The wooden floor creaked as she walked away.
