Running Home

TW: Suicidal Thoughts; Gore

Joey tore down St. Charles Avenue, the wind picking up speed and belting rain onto her back. Her hair – chopped short but growing stubbornly fast – became soaked and clung to her face. Raindrops, so like tears, dripped from her eyelashes. The wind and rain pushed her forward, in the direction she’d run so many times before. Her legs knew this route by heart. Her feet pounded onto the damp ground as puddles grew rapidly. She raced down the trolley line, her mind always alert – watch out for the trolley, it said.  You don’t want to be hit.

             Joey stumbled and paused. Her heart seemed to pause, too. Then it restarted, just as recklessly fast as before. She stood up and squinted into the darkening mist. It was only five o’clock on an early September evening. The storm was making it dark.

             Her mind wanted to replay the incident – what’s it like to be struck by a trolley, or, for that matter, a car? – but she pushed those thoughts aside and she pushed herself forward. Continuing her run towards Lafayette Cemetery in downtown New Orleans. Continuing her run from…

             “No!” she shouted out loud, willing her brain to keep silent. Why was it always thinking? Couldn’t it just stop for a moment? Not remember?

             She’d always been smart. A straight-A student, an AP Honors student. Her brains had gotten her accepted into Harvard. These same brains which wouldn’t shut up.

             She saw headlights in front of her, and for a brief, glorious moment, she thought it was a streetcar and she would just run into it.

             It was a car on the street, and that was that. The streetcar wasn’t running in this weather. Besides, every time she’d tried, her instincts had won out. Frightening images had popped into her mind – a mangled, bloodied body – and she couldn’t do it.

             And so she ran.

*

             Simon trudged along Upperline Street, clutching his windbreaker close to him. He’d been in New Orleans for nearly nine months now, and he was still getting used to the weather. His sister Lila had warned him – hurricane season – but still he had gone out for a walk. He walked every day, regardless of the weather. Over 100 degrees heat and he’d still gone out. He figured he could handle a little rain.

             Only this wasn’t a little rain. This was hurricane-strength winds pounding rain at a sideways angle, parallel to the ground. He remembered Lila’s rowboat, the one he’d helped move to their apartment on Upperline. “In New Orleans, you never know when you need a rowboat,” she’d said.

             The puddles were getting large; tiny streams were rushing down the road. Maybe soon they’d need a rowboat rather than a car to travel.

             A large black SUV pulled up next to him, carefully so as not to splash him. A window rolled down and a familiar voice called over the storm, “Simon!”

             It was their landlord, Mr. Richards. “I’m going to see your sister,” he said. “Get in.” Simon glanced down at his fully drenched clothes. “I don’t care if you’re wet,” the old man said. “I’ll have the car washed after the storm.” Simon gratefully climbed in.

             “Thank you, sir,” Simon said. Mr. Richards was old-school New Orleans, from a long and distinguished family. He owned numerous properties for rent as well as several fine dining establishments and a couple bed-and-breakfasts.

             “Terrible time for both of us to be out,” Mr. Richards said, “but lucky I found you. Your sister said she’s finished the painting, did she tell you?”

             “Oh, yes,” Simon said. “She showed me right before I went out. I think it’s her best work yet.” Lila was a struggling artist, working part-time as an art teacher at a local Catholic school, and painting commissions on the side.

             “It’s my great-niece, Kayleigh,” Mr. Richards said, and he paused and frowned. In that moment, he looked older than he had before, the wrinkles showing clearly on his aging skin. Lightning flashed, illuminating all his age-worn crevices. “She passed nearly ten years ago,” he said at last. “Devastated the entire family. In Natick, Massachusetts, but we flew her here for burial. All Richards are buried here.”

             The car pulled up to a three-story Victorian with a massive willow tree in the front yard. Simon and Lila shared an apartment on the second floor; Joey lived above them, in the attic apartment.

             “She was young,” Simon said, remembering his sister’s painting – Kayleigh looked more like an angel than a human being, cherubic face with ivory skin and chubby cheeks, rose-pink lips, locks of flowing golden hair. “I’m so sorry.”

             Mr. Richards sighed. “She was such a darling – taken so young.” He looked out in the rain. “I guess we have to brave it.” His chauffeur got out with an umbrella large enough for three men. Mr. Richard and Simon exited and the three walked to the house.

             “I’ll wait in the car, sir,” the driver said, and Mr. Richards nodded.

             “It’s a beautiful thing what your sister does,” Mr. Richards said, “these paintings. A way to commemorate those who depart too young.” Simon nodded as they went upstairs. “Must be emotional work.”

             “It takes a toll, for sure,” Simon said, “but she’s passionate about her work.” He opened the apartment door. Immediately, in the grand foyer, on an easel, rested a large painting – a masterpiece of muted, pastel shades which almost seemed to glow softly. She had even given Kayleigh wings and a halo.

             Lila enter the foyer, her phone in her hand, her face ashen. “Thank god you’re here,” she said to Simon before greeting Mr. Richards. “Hello, Mr. Richards, I believe we have a problem. Not with the painting,” she added hurriedly. She turned back to Simon. “I was so proud – I know it’s very sad, but it’s also very beautiful, a good tribute, and Joey likes art – so I showed it to her—” Her words were tumbling out, as she tried to justify what she had done while also not understanding what had gone wrong.

             Mr. Richards interrupted. “You showed Josephine?” he asked.

             “Yes,” Lila said. “And she turned white as a ghost. She screamed at me, a rage-scream, like she couldn’t control herself. I’ve never seen her like that – I’ve never seen her emotional – she doesn’t get emotional – and then she just bolted. She ran – and I don’t know where – I don’t know why.”

              “She never told you,” Mr. Richards said slowly, “and I didn’t feel it my part to interject.” He looked over both Lila and Simon. Lila, in her oversized t-shirt and loose jeans, covered in paint; Simon, dripping wet in his windbreaker and navy trousers. “I know where she is,” Mr. Richards said, “and I know why she ran.”

             “It’s not safe to go out in this weather,” Lila said, exactly as she’d said to Simon before he’d gone out. “I tried calling her, I tried calling you,” she said to Simon.

             “I couldn’t hear anything,” he said, taking out his phone and noticing the many missed calls.

             “I think we should go together,” Mr. Richards said. “Quickly, before the weather gets any worse.”

*

             Joey collapsed in front of the tomb at Lafeyette Cemetery. She’d made this run so many times before, but today she felt broken. Her legs were as heavy as lead, soaked through and worn. Her heart was beating erratically, and she struggled to take in her breaths.

             The world around her spun. Was it the wind? Or her mind?

             She prostrated herself on the ground, her face half-submerged in soaking mud. The magnificent marble tomb rose in front of her. In New Orleans, all graves must be above ground, or else the bodies will float off whenever it floods.

             She knew that the tomb was intricately engraved with daisies and daffodils, Kayleigh’s favorite flowers. She knew that it read,

                          To our sweet, cherished angel,

                          Gone too soon.

                          May you delight in the rainbows and moonbeams of Heaven.

             She knew the name,

                            Kayleigh Elizabeth Sullivan (Richards)

             The dates,

                          February 10, 2010 – April 19, 2015

             She knew the twinkling sounds of the little girl’s laughter; she could still hear Kayleigh’s high-pitched squeals when she was excited; she could still see the wavy rainbow-colored unicorn she had drawn with Crayola crayons, which she had given as a present to her favorite babysitter.

             Joey could remember, word for word, the multi-paragraph obituary, which had run in the local papers in Boston and New Orleans. The young girl, full of life and laughter, who loved animals and dancing, whose favorite game was hide-and-seek.

             Joey knew what was not printed. What even the obituary had omitted.

*

             The raindrops pounded on the car, sounding like a rogue drummer in a heavy metal band. “My whole family thinks I’m crazy,” Mr. Richards said ruefully. “Maybe I am.”

             Simon squinted through the window. There were still cars on the street, headlights murky in the storm. New Orleans has too many storms for the city to stop for one.

             “I told you about my great-niece, Kayleigh,” Mr. Richards said, “but I didn’t tell you how she died.” The wind and rain beat onto the car; the windshield wipers swished loudly; the car’s passengers were silent.

             “We don’t have to know,” Lila said, knowing the importance of being discreet when it came to grieving relatives. Knowing that when a child dies, the grieving never stops.

             “And it’s not my story to tell,” Mr. Richards said. “It’s Josephine’s.”

             The car slowed and swerved to avoid a rushing puddle. It pulled up to the intersection at Canal Street and waited at the red light.

             “Joey?” Lila asked in surprise.

             “Josephine was Kayleigh’s babysitter,” Mr. Richards said. “She was a wonderful babysitter, the kids loved her, she was responsible. But she was just a teenager – she was seventeen, studying to get into college. Or maybe she’d already gotten in college. That was it, she’d gotten into Harvard.”

             “She went to Harvard?” Simon asked. Joey was a dishwasher at one of Mr. Richards’ fine dining restaurants. Mr. Richards shook his head.

             “No,” he said. “Although she did start at a state college. She dropped out. I found her a job here. It seemed the right thing to do…”

             They could see the entrance to the cemetery up ahead; in the storm, the giant gate looked menacing, the rising graves sinister. “I didn’t tell you how she died,” he said, his voice choking. “It was an accident – a pure accident. A horrible twist of fate. But Kara and Michael – my niece and her husband, Kayleigh’s parents – they could never forgive her.” The car pulled in and parked. “Kayleigh’s tomb is here,” Mr. Richards said, pointing, “with the rest of the Richards’ family. Not the youngest, sadly, but the youngest from this century.”

             Lightning flashed and the whole cemetery lit up, the marble tombs practically radiating light. “This is where Josephine goes when she feels guilty. She feels it is her fault. It is her fault, but not in the way she believes. Not in the way Kara and Michael believe. It was an accident.”

             Thunder boomed so loudly that the car shook.

             “I suggest that Simon goes alone,” he said. “She must be angry at me, for commissioning that painting. She probably thinks you think she’s guilty,” he said to Lila.

             “What happened?” asked Lila.

             “An accident,” he said again. “Josephine had spent the night, as a babysitter, but I doubt she slept. I don’t think she ever slept when she babysat, she took her duties so seriously. She must have been exhausted. Kayleigh was playing hide-and-seek behind her car. Josephine didn’t see her – ran over her – it was a quick ending, mercifully.” He handed his umbrella to Simon as well as a flashlight. “Go get her,” he said.

             Simon took the umbrella and flashlight and opened the car door, pushing it into the wind. He stepped into about six inches of a muddy puddle. His shoes were soaked through. Even though the temperature was still warm, his feet were cold. He headed into the cemetery.

*

             Joey’s face was mostly under water by now. She could breathe in the mud, only it wasn’t just mud – it was part sewage. Everywhere in New Orleans there’s trash and sewage. It seeps into the ground, especially during storms.

             She opened her mouth and let it in.

             Instincts took over, and she choked, sat up gasped, and spit out the water. She shivered involuntarily.

             Lightning lit up the grave, the memorial to the little girl lost forever. Joey laid her head against the marble and, for the first time in many years, wept.

             When it had first happened, she had cried herself dry. Her cheeks had hurt from the salty liquid always streaming down. Her eyes had turned bloodshot red. Her body ran out of water to produce. She had dry-heaved, choking, clutching her stomach and crumbling to the ground.

             And then…

             She had reminded herself that it was not her child she had lost. It was someone else’s daughter.

             She had reminded herself that she had not “lost” the child – she had killed it.

             She was evil.

             And so she stopped crying. She allowed herself to finish school, to go to the state college which had already accepted her and offered her aid, but she couldn’t focus. She failed out after one semester.

             When Mr. Richards – the only one in Kayleigh’s entire family who hadn’t blamed her – offered her the job in New Orleans, her parents forced her to go. She needed to do something, they urged. She needed to reinvent herself.

             But she didn’t want to reinvent herself.

             And so nine years had passed by. Nine years without crying.

             Until now.

*

             Simon had heard about the New Orleans cemeteries, and he knew that Lila spent quite a bit of her time in them, painting, but he had yet to visit one. In the dark, in the rain and wind, it was surreal. He felt like he’d been lifted out of this world and into a Lovecraft novel. He looked carefully at the shadows, wondering what strange creatures he would see.

             And then he saw – a circle of tall, marble mausoleums, and in front of the newest one – the shiniest and cleanest, the one with engravings of flowers – a huddled shadow.

             He quickly turned off the flashlight and froze. He could barely see now, but the shadow was not moving. Maybe she had thought the flashlight was just lightning. He didn’t want to scare her away.

             The wind threw mud onto his face. It was getting fierce. They had to get out of here.

             He walked towards the figure and knelt.

             “Josephine,” he said, calling her by the name Mr. Richards used for her, the regal name of Napoleon’s beloved, and he gently put his hand on her shoulder.

             She started and scrambled to her feet. She took off running, a slow, choppy sort of running through all the mud and puddles, against the wind and rain.

             He chased her but didn’t have to go far. She fell into the ground, and he knelt down beside her. He wrapped his arms around her and put his face close to hers so that she could hear him.

             “Josephine,” he said, “it’s okay. It’s Simon.” I love you, were the words he thought, but he did not say them aloud. He took a deep breath, pondering the best things to say to her, what would convince her to return to the car. “I know,” he said, keeping his arms firmly around her, supporting and comforting her, but also preventing her from attempting to flee again. “I know what happened. And I know this – Mr. Richards has forgiven you. A long time ago. He cares for you. And I – Lila and I – we care for you.” I love you, his mind whispered again. “Kayleigh is resting in peace,” he said, “and it’s time for you to live in peace.”

*

             Lila breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the two figures exiting the cemetery. Simon’s arms were wrapped around Joey, who had folded her body into his, barely walking – more like, gently drifting as he carried her along.

             The chauffeur opened the door and the two entered. Joey was covered in mud and twigs. She sat limply in the middle seat. Simon fastened her seatbelt, and she fell back into him.

             “I apologize, Josephine,” Mr. Richards said. “I commissioned Lila to paint Kayleigh to memorialize her. I should have asked you.”

             “I’m not – you don’t need,” Joey muttered. She was shivering, and Simon held her more closely.

             “Kayleigh was near and dear to you,” Mr. Richards said. “You deserve a part in the decisions being made in her memory.”

             The car backed slowly, laboriously, out of the flooded parking lot and turned onto the street. “Where to?” the chauffeur asked.

             Mr. Richards look at Joey. “You can spend the night at my place,” he said, “warm up, get some comfort. I’ve got people there who can take care of you.”

             “Or you can spend the night with us,” Lila offered. “We have a pull-out couch. I can make you tea. I’ll hide the painting.”

             “But you shouldn’t be alone,” Simon said.

             The car headed back towards St. Charles Avenue. “Where to?” the driver asked again.

             All eyes turned to Joey, who had to make a decision, who had to clear her turbulent mind. All the thoughts she’d struggled to put away, they would never leave her. She couldn’t run anymore.

             “Home,” she said, and by home she meant the Victorian on Upperline Street. She would spend the night on the second floor apartment, with Simon and Lila. She buried her head deep into Simon’s drenched windbreaker, taking in the scents of the city which had seeped into the jacket. They mingled with the leftover scent of his cologne – some fancy department store brand. It smelled like home.