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Liam’s at UT. I’m there too, but a little bit behind, my graduation only slightly postponed.
Again.
My wild behavior screwed me out of UT—and graduation—for a while. I’m making up a few courses. I can’t even blame Josh. I did it. I chose to deal with our breakup by letting alcohol and random fucks be my pastimes.
BRIDGES AND MEMORIES
CASSIE
I’m stuffed. I rub my belly to ease the feeling that I overate. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about, or so they say. I guess I proved it today.
Thanksgiving dinner was a quick affair. Thank God. I couldn’t handle yet one more moment of my mother’s swooning over Jeremy while pretending that Liam is scourge, and I’m brainless and shouldn’t be wasting money and time at school. I’m not even going to argue with her about how Jeremy isn’t really doing anything all that stellar with his life. Nothing wrong with what he’s doing. He works offshore, good money, I guess. But it’s not like he’s a Rhodes Scholar.
At least I’m not wasting their money by being in school. Because I’m not using their money. I pay my own way. I pay for my room in an apartment with three other girls, and I pay for my tuition. Of course, I blew the scholarship. I don’t think I can get it back, but I’ll figure it out without getting a penny from my parents. Though Dad does slip me cash every so often, with a whispered, “Don’t tell your mother.”
Sometimes I wish he’d grow a set and leave her, but I know he loves her. Like a lot. And I get it. From the time I met Josh, I understood love. I still don’t understand why Dad stays withher. Or why he fell in love withher. But I’m sure there must have been something about her, sometime—some reason he fell for her and hasn’t fallen out of love after almost thirty years.
Maybe I’m wrong for thinking he should leave her, but life’s too short to waste it not being happy. I’m one to preach. Here I sit, brokenhearted. Still.
On that note, the aura in here is stifling. I turn to my mother. “Can I borrow your car?”
She frowns. “Why? It’s Thanksgiving. Where could you possibly go? You’ll probably get it dirty.”
I don’t feel like explaining the way I feel. I’ll start walking before I tell her why I want to take a ride or where I’ll go.
Keys jingle behind me. Dad’s handing me his truck keys. “Take mine. It’ll get you there and back.” And he doesn’t even know wherethereis.
I plant a kiss on his cheek, whisper, “Thank you, Dad,” and grab a windbreaker.
“Hey.” It’s Jeremy. “Want company?”
“Nah. Thanks, though.” I don’t want anyone around. I want to be alone with my thoughts and my memories.
“You sure?” Liam, this time. Between both my brothers, Liamgetsme best.
Igethim too. We have a cool connection in that way. I see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He feels the same way about Mom as I do, but two-fold. I get that he’d like to get out of the house too. He has a motorcycle. He can go. I’m the goofy one that caught a ride from a friend who headed down to Corpus to visit her family, saying she’d pick me up on Sunday night. I should have thought that one through. Saving on the gas money also left me stranded and at Mom’s mercy. What the hell was I thinking!
“I’m sure.” I bolt out the door, yelling, “Bye.” I pull it closed behind me.
I start Dad’s old GMC pickup, kick it into reverse, and pull out of their crushed oyster shell and pebble driveway. Their house is out in the country, some acreage that backs up to the bayou, twenty acres, and a lot of it is on the waterfront. The brackish, reed-filled, swampy bayou waterfront. Mom hates it. Dad loves it. He’s got his little garden out back. And a little pen where he used to raise chickens and goats—just for kicks.
Oh, Mom would move to one of the more hoity-toity estate homes in a heartbeat, selling this one before she could even stake her real estate sign into the ground. She’s embarrassed to live here and spends a good portion of money making it look more and more like one of the estate homes she covets.
Living here is one of the few times Dad put his foot down. And Mom capitulated because not doing so would be the end of their marriage. It’s not like Dad asks for much—ever. Always doing whatever she wants. But he said this was home for him. That he wanted to die here. Mom won’t get a divorce, so this is their home. She doesn’t want to be‘one of those.’Those who end up divorced. She weighed it out—have a divorce on her life’s resume or live in this house while she spends tons trying to upgrade it. So she puts up with living here.
Shifting intoDrive,I roll over the crushed oyster shells that come out of the Texas gulf coast by the ton, making a crunchy exit on the driveway. I take a right over the bridge and head toward the beach. Orchid Beach is about fifteen minutes away. Not much of a beach, really. Almost no beach in Texas is, unless you’re going to South Padre.
Halfway to the beach, there’s this bridge that I go over, then take a left and end up parking in a dirt road. A short walk later, I’m under the bridge, and overlooking Orchid Bay.
The bayou behind my house dumps into this bay. This little water haven is usually teeming with fishermen buzzing through. Not today. It’s Thanksgiving. People are at home with family. With loved ones.
I park the truck, lock it, though that’s not exactly necessary out here, and make the short trek to the shoreline under the bridge. It’s chilly outside, not really cold. I suck a deep breath in, relishing the smell that’s characteristic of this area—brackish water, salt, rotting reeds, and decapitated, skinned fish. Maybe I don’t relish all the smells, but the last two aren’t prevalent today, since the fishermen aren’t out.
I haven’t been back in this town much since I left at the end of the last year of high school. While every one of my friends went to graduation, then left to go to college, I traveled to a little town north of Austin to stay with one of my dad’s aunts. That detour lasted a few months. I put my scholarship on hold, thanks to some strings my mother pulled. That and a very persuasive letter I wrote to the board at UT.
An occasional vehicle crossing over the bridge makes me aware that there are other people in the world, but for the most part, all I can hear is the wind blowing through the cotton fields and wild bamboo reeds.
The bridge is braced by massive, thick, round concrete columns. There are columns lined up going through the water, every ten or so feet, from one shore to the other. The columns have large flat bases, a perfect place to sit. I leap from shore to one of the bases. Barely making it, exhilarated from the risk of falling in the cold water, hoping it’s too chilly for the gators to be around.
