Lost Girl

A good 10 minutes had passed from the phone call and she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Reba’s stiff feet refused to take another step and the rest of her body complied. After she hung up, she grabbed her phone, her bag, the laptop, clothes and clenched on to them, waiting for something to happen. Her wrist watch moved another minute and then another one, still nothing happened. Reba’s stone-like body got stuck in front of the chestnut door, focused on its tiny crack. (Was it always there?) As soon as she will open the door, everything will become real. She tightened her belongings closer to her chest, but wouldn’t let go of that crack. (How long will I stay there?) Reba just moved in a few weeks back, what else had she missed about the house? (I don’t want to go… Do I wait for Nicolas?)

When Nicolas asked her to move in two weeks ago, he did it with open heart. After she finally said yes, they celebrated by making love on the oak floor, next to another small gap that neither of them noticed. She accepted to move back to Myria only because of him; Nicolas gave her the reassurance that things can be safe here. And that reassurance was what she was waiting for again. (I can’t do this alone… I can’t go back there) As long as she saw the dent, she knew the door was there, too. And if the door was still there, she was still safe, in the house. A part of her hoped the door will open to a caressing hand to touch her shoulder and tell her not to worry, everything was being taken care of. That she was not needed anymore and she could just return to her couch, cocoon herself into the warmest blanket and when Nicolas will get home from his late afternoon shift, she would jump in his arms. The night was getting darker (How long do I wait?) and the front door was not touched at all.

Years ago, after the event happened, her therapist urged her to face her fears alone, leaving the trauma behind, by returning to Moulley Valley at some point. Reba postponed that from happening as much as it was in her power. She moved out of Myria when it was time for college - 800 km away from all she knew, seemed a decent distance between her and her home. What her Mom considered to be emergencies and specifically asked Reba to come back for a few days were almost always related to church. It would either be a memorial service for her dad, Ethan, that had passed years prior and needed year and year again to be celebrated and cried for, either another holyday function that Mom wanted Reba to be a part of. Reba came and faked enthusiasm as she always had, ever since she was a kid. Out of 4 years in college, these “emergencies” became less often than she was dreading them. Her college friends were understanding enough to come and join her as an excuse for a road trip when was needed. For “mental support”, as her former therapist would say.

Those road trips excuses extended into a full year of travelling abroad, as soon as they received their diplomas. Reba was the first to propose the idea, coaxing her young peers that “those careers will still be there, but live happens now”. On a certain level, she did believe it. And she was committed enough to the idea to even push it for another few months. But the gig was up when the other parents started asking questions about their money and life plans. Reba was the only one that was using her own saved money, but came to the conclusion that it was time to put the big girl pants, too and come to her senses. She found a job in advertisement in the heart of the capital, still away from Myria. The event barely crossed her mind in the last couple of years. Mostly, because she surrounded herself with new people, all the time. But in reality, because she dug a trench so deep and long between her and her past live, mentally, emotionally and geographically, that there was no need to fear the event as much as before. It was lurking in the back of her mind, but it became less terrifying, knowing there was no need to return there. 

           Until now.

           Faith has always had a good sense of humour. If faith could choose to be anything, most likely it would be a tarantula. Eight all-seeing eyes, that pays full attention to everything that moves across the scorching sand. An all-knowing creature, in a way. As soon as an insignificant, small prey passes by, the lurker is ready to grab it whole. For that, it needs patience of a saint. Again and again, until the time is just right. Out of 8 years that Reba stayed away from Myria and its memories, 8 of those were uneventful. The occasional short trips back to the city, to catch up on Mom’s emotional state were just not good enough for The Tarantula to fully snatch the young oblivious Reba. It took this long to lure her back, using Nicolas as bait. After just a few weeks back – the longest she had stayed since being a teenager – this happens.

Her phone suddenly chimed a message. Is from Mom: “At the airport, getting a red eye flight. Be there in a few hours, by morning. Are you on your way?” Her Mom was going to be there soon also, “you can do this”, she imagine her Mom telling her. But Mom never thought of things in those terms, that people needed to hear encouragement. Or if she did, for sure she didn’t voice it out loud to her daughter. Ever since her husband died in a car crash, her smile crippled more and more, until it was gone. She spent a lot of time at church, praying that her daughter will not suffer as much as she was, while hiding her tears every time she passed by Reba. Mom prayed in silence about things Reba never knew about. Between working double shifts and praying in the House of God, Mom didn’t have enough time to ask Reba what loss was to her. So she asked help from her own parents, to take Reba in for a few months, over the summer. Bunu and Buna, as Reba called them, jumped to the occasion to offer a safe place for their granddaughter to grief and grow. “I can’t help her if I don’t have money”, Mom said. “Who will help me now, if not me? It’s for the girl’s sake”, she argued. “She will understand when she will grow up”. But Reba never understood. No matter how much her therapist tried to explain that some love gestures are difficult to recognise.   

           Reba was all alone now, too. “Who will help me now, if not me?’ It was time to return to Moulley Valley, to their grandparent’s home.

           Reba locked the door behind her and put her things in her Honda Civic. The GPS showed a 50 km trip ahead of her, meaning she will be there by midnight.    

•

           Reba might have wanted to forget the way to Moulley Valley, but her gut didn’t. This was her first time driving on the snaky road herself, but she knew every lengthy curb by heart. The forest that she was cutting through became much denser that she last remembered, but then again, she last seen it 9 years ago, in her uncle’s car. A 2009 Renault Clio that she will forever remember as “this piece of shit”, that Hall was always complaining about. If it was not for the “goddamn ABS light that flickers like a Christmas tree”, it might have been the “fucking windows” that usually get stuck. Hall would constantly cry about how much money fixing the car would eat up. Mom was in the car, too, heading to the Valley and she couldn’t care less about the car maintenance. But what she really hated was his foul mouth, that he was bringing the Name of Lord in vain. She’d school him and then silence would fall again in the car. Mom didn’t push for any particular topic and so Hall would put on a CD. They didn’t seem to have too many things in common, even though they shared the same parents, memories and, up to their 20s, same house. Maybe they didn’t have that many things to talk about, after all.

The day her Mom sent her to the Valley, was a beautiful and sunny one. The river flew along the same side as the road, just a few metres below. It ran down from the heart of Backon Mountain, all the way to Moulley Valley, where hikers stop for the beautiful view and for good spots to set up their tents. Nature filled up the emptiness left by three strangers from the same family. So did Layla.

“Did you know”, Hall began his story, “that this song was actually sung by Eric Clapton about another man’s wife?” If the poor man expected a reaction from Mom, he sure didn’t get one. She was too busy with her own thoughts. And Reba, 17 back then, knew this behaviour far too well.

“Really? Is it somebody famous?”, the girl asked.

“So apparently” he joyful continued, “this man got the hots for none other than… the wife of George Harrison! And made her this song!”

“Who’s that?’

“Who’s that? My God, Reba, what are you kids listening to these days?” he berated her, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Hasn’t your Mom shown you the cassettes we had when we were young, of this little band called…. The Beatles?” Hall looked at Mom, to try and jerk a smile, but nothing showed.

“Oh, yeah! The Beatles. I know them, I just don’t know their names”.

“Well, don’t worry. Buna has a lot of their albums back home. I’m sure she’ll play them all summer long for you. You will have a lot of fun here with her and Bunu.

The song stayed with Reba even after all the ordeal. That summer she did listen to The Beatles, just as Hall had predicted. And also The Doors, some Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Eagles, The Byrds and the Matriarch’s favourite, Queen. For that summer, Reba pictured how her Mom and Hall’s childhood might have been, with parents like theirs. They all went out fishing in the morning and cooking together in the afternoon. She watched her grandparents dance in the summer warm nights. And played games, in between. For that summer, she felt like a seen teenager.      

   The present October chilly wind was welcoming Reba back. A small fraction of her heart still wished for somebody to be with her now. Mom was in pilgrimage 500 km away, Hall’s trucking job took him everywhere in the country, she didn’t have too many friends in Myria, to ask for a favour on a random Tuesday night and Nicolas was far too new for all these. No matter how much she anguished for help. (Who will help me now, if not me?)     

 A few more minutes until her destination and the pumping pulse she felt in the ears were more vibrating. Her heart banged like crazy and the wheel she was steering lost its grip since her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t say how exactly she got there, it seemed more like an autumn dream. And yet, there she was, in front of the dark blue house she knew from before.

“Get it together, Reba. Do it for Bunu”. The three knock on the car window came from nowhere, but the dark. And it extended the heavy fat arm of Olivia, the neighbour that called Mom about Bunu’s situation. She was the village nurse and took it upon herself to check on him ever since his condition had worsened. Hall and Mom came as often as they could, but he refused to let them help with things he allowed Olivia to do. It seemed too much for the old man. Olivia and the dreamy hooved man were the only one with full access. Since he started the morphine, his dreams were getting more frightening and vivid, he couldn’t stop the hooved, fury man’s visit. It was a risk he wanted to take, to ease the pain. His last walk in the garden was in the spring, when he got out of bed and let the sun touch him. Soon after, the pain got too much.

Reba asked Olivia to stay with her just for a little bit, just to enter the house. But the nurse’s kids needed her, too. “They get scared easily in the dark. But come for me if something happens”, the nurse offered. Reba knew little about the struggles her grandpa had been going through. His cancer came late in the mourning process of his wife. She knew from her Mom that he started drinking heavily after her funeral and didn’t stop until the diagnosis came, a year ago. The summer that Buna’s heart decided it had enough and stopped, changed him as much as it had changed Reba. It had seen enough beautiful trees and bees, it had given and received enough love, danced enough songs and taught enough lessons. But for her husband, it was never going to be “enough” without her. The day the last shovel of dirt was thrown on her coffin was the same day Bunu left the door open for Death itself to come into that big, old house.

•

           Reba remembered how her heart sank, at the sight of her grandma lying on the floor. She had no life in her anymore and maybe no soul, either. The Flowing Woman took it. Her ruby-red eyes haunted her all her life. How that ghostly being came out of nowhere, but maybe was always there… How it felt her grandma’s face, with her pointy fingers… And then it disappeared without even touching the ground, holding something close to her. Reba fell down in her own urine, before even trying to make a sound. When she told the story, nobody wanted to listen. Especially her grieving mother. 9 years later, Reba entered the same house that made her run away. With her heart skipping beats, Reba held to her chest while hoping no Floating Woman would visit again.

           “Bunu?... It’s me, Reba…” One shy step in front of the other, Reba went from one dark room to the next. No living soul around. The only sound she heard, led her to the back room of the house. Bunu was lying on a short-legged bed, with his face to the wall, struggling to release the cough that burden old, sick men. Only light source came from a TV that nobody paid attention to. He looked so fragile, one strong cough and he would break into a million pieces. This was a pale image of the man that danced with his wife in the garden, waiting for supper to cook. Was it the same man who gave his time and shoulder to Reba, to cry on? The one that told Reba the door was always going to be opened for her? It was. Reba covered her mouth, to hide her crying. It wouldn’t make any difference to him, his drugs twisted reality and fantasy too well by now, to understand she was really there.

           “I am here, Bunu… I came back…” The burning sensation that filled her chest was new to Reba. Her scared childish fears gave space for a different feeing: guilt. Of wasted time and stupid dreads, that kept her away. Floating Woman or not. She sat down by his side, kissing his hand that couldn’t feel a thing. “I’m so sorry… I am so sorry…”

           “It was never… about you… Reba”, a voice challenged her. The raspy voice was coming from the room she has just come from. As Reba lifted her eyes, an enormous shadow filled the room. A hooved, hairy creature tried to pass through the door, eyeing the person lying in bed. Reba stared in disbelieve at its horns and long dark fur, thinking this can’t be real. Bunu saw it, too; he greeted him with a smile and collapsed back on he pillow. Those ruby-red eyes made Reba dizzy…    

 “You… saw me once… And thought I’d… take you. It was never… about you, Reba”

“You are… the Floating Woman?!”

“In a way. My… good friend here… searched for me. We must go”

“You are Death…’

“I am… his faith now”. The human-like hands of the creature caressed the old man’s bony cheeks, touching him like the last spring sun rays had done. The girl tried to push it back, but that was nothing to push; its presence was not there for her. She tried grabbing the sick man instead, holding him tight to her heart, hoping it will make a difference. That Bunu will wake up and embrace her back. She needed to bring him back. The tears she cried fell on the man’s pale face. 

 “Let him know he is not alone! Please, just let me tell him how sorry I am! Please! Don’t take him yet!”

Before disappearing as sudden as it came, the creature took what it came from and held it tight.

“It was never… about you”.