by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Nov 24, 2014 | Blog
CHAPTER 29 of Our Orbit
That evening the Daniel Winslows were first to arrive. They pulled into the Fletchers’ driveway in a navy blue Lincoln Town Car, driven by a surprise guest. At the door, Deanne found the old couple flanked by Rachelle on one side and on the other by a tall, thin woman of about Rick’s age, early thirties, in a black pantsuit and emerald crepe blouse. Her wrists jingled with gold charms that matched the chains and pendant around her long neck.
Miriam dashed forward to hug the unexpected visitor. “Cousin Corinne!” she exclaimed. Next to her heavyset parents, in their customary sweatsuit and work clothes, Corinne resembled a queen among the peasants. She wore a wave of ash blond hair sculpted above an angular face.
Aunt Melanie handed Deanne a pie plate under a tent of aluminum foil—“Just a little something”—and a stack of holiday napkins with designs of Indian corn. In a whisper, she added, “From the Senior Center. They can spare a few.”
In the living room, it proved tricky getting conversation underway. Deanne and Melanie both started talking at once, then both fell silent. Rick and Corinne did the same thing. Relief arrived in the form of Kayla and Chad running into the room. They shook hands with Corinne and gave the elder Winslows willing hugs. Miriam led them in a performance of “You Are My Sunshine” (without costumes or make-up) and “Little Rabbit in the Woods.”
The doorbell sounded again. Rick and Deanne both went to greet the new guests, a young couple who looked like teenagers headed to a semi-formal dance. In contrast to his straight-laced brother, Isaac wore his hair loose to the shoulders. It was nearly black, shiny and lank, in the manner of a dashing violinist. He wore a pristine white T-shirt, indigo jeans, and a black satin windbreaker with a red and gold dragon embroidered over the shoulders.
“Good to meet you,” Isaac said with a crooked but sincere-seeming grin. “Better late than never.” He looked delicate beside his wife. Stephanie stood some five inches taller and easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. She wore a long skirt and matching over-blouse in a sunflower print that complimented her burgundy hair.
“What a nice yard you have,” Stephanie said. “And what a nice house.”
On their feet again, the earlier arrivals came to greet their relatives. Everyone talked at once. Miriam jumped up and down, clutching Isaac’s hands. Introductions were repeated, and Kayla and Chad collected more hugs. When things quieted down, the children performed their songs again.
Melanie Winslow suggested they all sing “We Gather Together.”
“Remember?” she said, turning to Rachelle. “Your momma’s favorite.”
On a variety of pitches, they made it through three full verses. The Winslow girls struck up a harmony.
Lovely, Deanne thought. I did the right thing, inviting everyone over.
The Winslows did look pleased, and the children were in their glory with all the positive attention. Only Rachelle seemed withdrawn. Her eyes skirted people’s faces, then dropped to the carpet. In a denim skirt and shapeless, rust-colored sweater, she looked like a thrift-store waif. Bet some nicer clothes would cheer her up, Deanne thought. She made a mental addition to her Christmas list.
Josh and the Weavers had not RSVP’d. Since Deanne invited them, she’d learned about the complaint Josh had filed with the Children’s Services office. It seemed unlikely his branch of the family would put in an appearance, so at a quarter to eight, she invited the guests to the dining room. She had made a pumpkin and a pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and a can of whip on hand. Melanie Winslow’s pie was banana cream. Stephanie contributed a plate of candy buckeyes. The three women poured coffee, tea, and cider for the men, children, and Cousin Corinne, who took the seat offered her at table, vowing to “help by keepin’ out of the way.”
“I remember you from high school,” Isaac told Rick. “Guess I would’ve had you if I’d got up the guts to take chemistry.”
“Did you go out for a sport?” Rick asked. “I coach track and field.”
“Nah.” The young man laughed. “Way too lazy.”
Aunt Melanie quizzed Kayla and Chad about the dishes their grandma cooked for Turkey Day. Corinne leaned close to Rachelle’s chair, one arm stretched over the backrest, as the two of them exchanged quiet words. Deanne did her best to engage Uncle Dan. He allowed as how he used to hunt over by her family’s pastureland. Deanne was intrigued, if also repelled, to learn that he’d cured hides the old-fashioned way—with fresh brains.
“Ever’ critter got enough brain to do its own skin,” he said.
When seconds were passed around, Corinne got up and headed for the kitchen. She dropped a hand to Deanne’s shoulder.
“Can I get you something?” Deanne asked.
“Thought I’d step out for a smoke. Keep me company?”
It was dark outside and cold. Deanne switched on a light over the back step. She slipped on a fleece jacket from one of the hooks by the door and offered her guest one, as well. She brushed a pile of curled-up leaves off the picnic table.
Corinne sat on the end of the bench. She pulled cigarettes from a neat leather purse and lit up, exhaling a long whoooo.
“I think it’s great what you’re doing,” Corinne said. “I want you to know that.”
“Thanks,” Deanne said.
“I can tell Miriam’s doing real good here. She’s happy. Blossoming.”
“I appreciate you saying that.” Nice to hear, of course, but it was not hard to sense a flipside coming.
“I suppose you think our family is pretty much a train wreck.”
“Not at all. We’re very fond of your parents.”
“I’m not saying that to be nasty. When a man gets hauled to jail and leaves his kids? That’s my definition of a train wreck.”
“I’m glad we could help.”
Corinne shot Deanne a sharp look. Again she blew a gust of smoke. “I’d like to fill you in on a few things.”
Deanne’s eyebrows went up.
“You probably noticed my dad has some wacky ideas. It’s not mental illness, doesn’t run in the family. He’s a disabled veteran. It’s connected to that.”
“I had no idea,” Deanne said. But what a relief!
“And the thing with Levi… Well, I guess you know he’s a fanatic.”
“Was he part of this militia movement, like up in Michigan?” Those guys with their campouts and gun-love were more than a bit scary.
“Arm-chair supporter,” Corinne said. “What you need to understand is, Levi raised the boys to be as fanatical as him. With Isaac, it didn’t take, but Josh buys into the Christian patriarchy business. That’s why he thinks he can boss the girls around.” She flicked ash into the grass, ignoring the saucer Deanne had placed on the table. “I’m sure you noticed the kids all have Old Testament names. That includes Rachelle. You know why they decided to spell it with two L’s? It’s not for pronunciation.”
Corinne paused, gave a look like she had some hilarious secret.
“Why?”
“To give it more of a French-type spelling. Levi wanted it to look less Jewish.” Corinne stamped her foot, snorted with laughter.
My God—surely this was an embarrassment, even if the woman thought it made a good story. Should I laugh? Deanne wondered. Act surprised?
“Don’t you get it? He loves the old patriarchs. He’s named for one! But he doesn’t like their names to look so Jewish!”
Deanne gave Corinne’s forearm a squeeze. While she was casting about for something to say, she heard the backdoor swing open. Miriam and Kayla leaned out at the top of the steps.
Kayla called, “More people are here for pie. Josh and his girlfriend.”
Rachelle came up behind the little girls and pushed her way out the door, nearly knocking Kayla down. She crossed to the picnic table and stopped beside her cousin. With a stiff jerk of her foot, she gave the bench a mute kick.
“Josh here?” Corinne asked in a low voice.
“That’s right,” Rachelle said.
Deanne stood and touched Rachelle’s shoulder. “I wanted to invite everyone,” she said. “It didn’t occur to me there might be…friction.” She stepped toward the house and ushered the children inside. With a look back she added, “You two take your time.”
* * *
Josh was at the table with Isaac and Rick and Uncle Dan. Words like “Japanese maple” and “tons of tulip bulbs” sounded in the conversation, so things seemed cordial enough. Melanie had hunted up clean cutlery, and Deanne lifted slices of banana cream pie for the latecomers. She sat down next to Rick.
The backdoor opened and closed softly. Corinne returned to the table. Rachelle could be heard cutting through the kitchen to the living room, where Stephanie had started a board game with the children.
“Let us pray,” Josh said.
Above a white dress shirt, his face wore a grave expression. Who could tell what the guy was thinking, Deanne wondered, showing up like this after so many refusals?
Josh took Bekka’s hand on his right and Isaac’s on his left. Those still eating set down their forks and closed the circle.
But Josh looked toward the living room and raised his voice. “Could we all join in, here? Let’s thank the Lord for bringing us together.”
Deanne caught Rick’s eye. He gave a dry smirk.
“Steph’s got the kids occupied,” Isaac said. “Let ‘em play.”
But Stephanie seemed ready to accommodate. She came to the table, took Chad on her lap. Kayla and Miriam scrambled together on a vacant seat. Last of all, Rachelle stationed herself between Corinne’s chair and Deanne’s.
Everyone joined hands again.
Josh furrowed his brow and spoke. “How righteous are Your ways, Lord, to bring Your children together for a time of thanks after long days apart. We praise Your divine wisdom. We ask that You look down on us with favor and teach us every day to be Your faithful people. To guide us on the one true path.”
“Amen,” Melanie said.
“That You teach us to forsake every form of evil.”
“Amen,” Melanie repeated.
“And help us through Your Holy Word to reject the ways of Satan. Let us shun sin and repent of its power to defile. For what we do in the dark will be brought to light. Damnation in the lake of fire awaits—”
“A-men,” Rick said decisively. He rapped the table twice with his knuckles, rose to his feet, and spoke in a hearty tone. “I’d like to add that Dee and I appreciate all of you joining us to celebrate the holiday. I know Miriam is glad to see everybody, and so are we. And please—” He gestured toward the remaining desserts. “No calorie-counting tonight.”
Restrained laughter rippled over the table.
Deanne gave Rick a veiled smile. Good job, babe! The look on Josh’s face was an odd mix of smugness and disgust, like he expected no less from the infidel foster family than to have his prayer cut short in favor of pie and ice cream.
Stephanie and the children returned to the living room. Rick fetched the coffeepot and refilled Uncle Daniel’s cup. Deanne urged Bekka to enjoy her cider while it was still warm.
But Rachelle hadn’t moved. She made no effort to mute the anger in her voice as she said, “Can we leave now, Uncle Dan?”
When Josh shot her a look, Rachelle said, “What? What do you want from me?”
He fired back. “I want God’s grace for you. God’s forgiveness.”
“Peace,” Isaac said, his hands raised in the air. “Let there be peace, you two.” He stood and clapped his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Then he turned to Uncle Dan and started his good-byes.
Deanne felt relieved to beat a retreat through the kitchen, if only to fetch coats. One step into the living room, however, and she was waylaid by Corinne. Now the woman was looking for the powder room. Deanne showed her to the hallway and reached in to flip the light switch, a simple courtesy. To her astonishment, Corinne shoved her into the bathroom, pulled the door behind them, and pressed the lock.
“Listen,” the woman said, “I need to finish telling you something.”
“What is it? Just tell me.”
At the sink, this strange guest turned the faucet so water gushed at a noisy clip. Even so, she kept her voice quiet. “You heard that whole sin-and-forgiveness routine? Pulls that every time he gets Rachelle in his sites. He’s out to wear her down.”
“What’s he trying to prove?”
“He suspects. Doesn’t know, but he suspects. I’m sorry to say—he’s right.”
“Right about what?”
“One night last winter, Rachelle turned up at my folks’ house. Begged my mom to go to Columbus and visit me. ‘Could she please go stay with Corinne? Oh please, could she go?’ So I said sure. Drove down, brought her home with me. Supposedly for a weekend.”
“But she stayed longer?”
“Not only that. Turned out she had a whole special reason for coming. Wasn’t just to get a break from the trailer.” Corinne’s eyes burned into Deanne’s, then skated away. “The kid had been running wild since before her mom died. Naturally, she discovered boys. You know what I’m saying.”
When Deanne just frowned, Corinne leaned so close tobacco breath flooded the air. A lock of blond hair broke loose from its wave. My God, Deanne realized, the woman is actually frightened.
“Why do country girls come to Franklin County? Don’t you know? We got a special institution called the Women’s Choice Clinic—”
Deanne gasped.
Corinne bent over the counter. The gold chains swung from her neck and seemed to tremble. “I take full blame. Claimed I was Rachelle’s mother, gave my consent. My parents must never find out. It’s the worst sin there could be. But no one has the right to tell that child she profaned her momma’s grave—”
Talk about unwelcome confessions!
“I give my word,” Deanne said stiffly. “I won’t invite Josh over again.”
“There’s something else you can do.”
Deanne gave a broad shrug.
“Don’t let Josh get Miriam on his side.”
With that, Corinne shut off the faucet. She whirled to the door and peeked out in one motion. She flipped off the light and stepped from the room, leaving Deanne in the dark.
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Nov 17, 2014 | Blog, Letters from Miriam
Dear Mrs. Miller,
Many people ask about my sister Rachelle. In a nutshell, she is doing okay after two divorces, although she still has no children. As you know, she is 5 years older than me, and I think that worked against her in a bad way when our family broke up. I was still little enough to fly under the storm. Everybody felt sorry for me and wanted to help, and I was innocent enough—if I may say so myself—to accept kindness at face value. I realize now, that was lucky for me.
It was different when Rachelle came along. People would react with, “Who needs this sneering teenager?” Or even if they didn’t, even if they wanted to be nice, she was always suspicious of outsiders. We had a very closed-off kind of upbringing, and even though Rachelle tried to reject it, that mentality made its mark on her, I think.
And even among our relatives (or especially among them), people tended to look at Rachelle and say, “Oh good—here’s our new cook and housekeeper.” So I must admit, she had a “tough row to hoe,” as the saying goes.
Way back when I was little, Rachelle was my favorite person in the world, or at least a very close second after Momma. She was a wonderful sister right up until she turned 13. Then she became a different person overnight. Wanted nothing more to do with family. Out with friends all the time. And she refused to account for where she went or who she spent time with. If she did say anything, it was bound to be a lie.
This is why it didn’t come as such a shock when I learned that my beloved sister had gotten an abortion. I mean, it did bowl me over, and I needed to put it completely out of my mind for a long time. But somehow, knowing that she could reject our whole family like she did, it wasn’t so surprising to hear that she had gone the extra step and “killed her own baby.”
Is that unfair? I know I can be harsh toward Rachelle because of how she let me down as a kid. But I remember that she was a kid herself when she got pregnant, and I realize now how easy that can happen by accident. Or by stupidity, or by fooling yourself, or getting carried away with your own feelings.
Nowadays we all know where babies come from, but that doesn’t mean we connect sex with the job-for-life of becoming a parent.
So I try not to judge my sister. I’ve made a law for myself never to talk to her about what she did. In my heart I know it was wrong. It’s one sin I swear I will never commit. And that leaves a coldness between the two of us, even though I don’t come out and blame her to her face.
Am I still too harsh on Rachelle? I don’t know how to melt that cold spot in my heart.
Your friend,
Miriam
P.S. Yes, once again, please share this on your blog if you care to. As personal as this material might be, I’ve reached a place in my life where I’m eager to grow in understanding based on the experience of others.
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Miriam Winslow is a fictional character, but many readers have taken an interest is her possible future. Information on her background may be found in the novel Our Orbit by Anesa Miller. You are invited to explore Miriam’s past adventures and help create her future on this blog under “Letters from Miriam.”
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Nov 3, 2014 | Events
Doing an interview with Sage was the greatest fun I’d had in weeks!
Before calling to talk with her, I was feeling very nervous, my usual shy and retiring self, wondering why anyone would be interested in me. But no sooner did we get on the line than she put me at ease and I found I had no trouble holding forth on various writerly topics. The next time I glanced at the clock, our half-hour had flown by. Have a listen and tell me what you think!
Check Out Writing Podcasts at Blog Talk Radio with
Sages Blog Tours on BlogTalkRadio
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Oct 27, 2014 | Blog, Issues in Our Orbit -- Substance Abuse & Recovery
It was just turning dusky when Mr. Fletcher stepped outside with candles for the three jack-o’-lanterns lined up on the porch. Mrs. Fletcher, bent over a fancy dress at her sewing machine, gave Rachelle instructions: Chad’s treat bag should stay on the handle of the stroller. The children were not to eat any candy before they returned home. If the girls got too tired to walk back, they could phone for a ride from the Quick-Mart on the corner of Main and Elm. Two quarters were provided for this purpose.
In the white and silver robe Aunt Mel had borrowed from the Baptists, Rachelle steered their group up the sidewalk. The Fletcher kids were all happy-go-lucky, but the look in Meerkat’s eyes showed she was working up another mean remark.
Here it came. “So you got an angel costume?”
“Aunt Mel got it,” Rachelle said. “A pageant outfit.”
“You’re the last person who should wear an angel costume.”
“Don’t be nasty, Miri,” Kayla said.
Kids were pouring into the street. Rachelle set a slow pace for Kayla’s benefit. Others dashed past them up the sidewalk and driveways.
Miriam said, “I guess you’re a Halloween expert. Do you know how to trick and treat?”
“Nothing to it,” Rachelle said.
“So you did it before?”
“Last year I did.”
“Without permission.”
“Guess so.” Rachelle sighed.
“How come you never went before?” Kayla asked.
“We weren’t allowed,” Miriam said. “But she didn’t care.”
“All you do is yell ‘trick-or-treat’ when they open the door,” Rachelle said. She turned up the nearest walkway where a brick ranch house had its porch light on. A family of giant inflated spiders dangled from a tree branch.
“And say ‘Thank you’ when they drop the candy in your bag,” Kayla added as they mounted the step.
* * *
By the time they reached Main Street, the sky was dark, and the kids’ heavy treat bags were all hanging from the handles of the stroller. Also hanging were Kayla’s fairy wings, which she’d shed in order to put on her jacket. The magic wand had gotten lost along the way. Miriam was complaining her feet hurt, and Kayla admitted that, when she went trick-or-treating last year, her dad had carried her on his shoulders.
“This is as far as we’re supposed to go, anyway,” Rachelle said. “We can call your dad for a lift if you want.”
“But let’s have donuts first.” Kayla suddenly sounded more lively.
The Quick-Mart was a former local grocery. As in years past, the management was offering free cider and donut holes to children in costume. A woman in a black dress and witch’s hat sat at a picnic table by the entrance, dispensing drinks in 4-oz. paper cups to the red devils, superheroes, and Goths gathered around her.
“Here you go, my little pretty!” the witch said with a loud cackle. She extended a cup in Kayla’s direction. Her hands and face were dark green, and she wore a long green nose. Chad’s eyes went wide, and he burst into tears. Kayla stepped behind the stroller.
“Aw, don’t be scared,” the woman said in her normal voice. “I’m not a real witch.” She reached into a cardboard box with a pair of tongs and plopped a donut hole in Chad’s lap.
Rachelle handed out the drinks and helped Kayla onto the picnic bench. “You want to sit, too?” she asked Miriam. “Rest up before we go back?”
Miriam flounced up to the bench, tossing gypsy skirts from side to side. She shoved in next to Kayla.
“So now you won’t talk to me at all,” Rachelle said. “I guess that’s better than the mean way you’ve been talking.”
“Be nice, Miri,” Kayla said. “She’s nice to us.”
“Nice enough to lead us astray,” Miriam said. “I can see now. Halloween is an evil holiday. Look at these demon people. And who’s bringing us to sinfulness?” She nodded at her sister. “The sinner disguised as an angel.”
“Who says Halloween is evil?” Rachelle asked.
“Our parents never let us go out.”
“But we don’t have our parents anymore, do we? And your new parents think it’s just fine. Why don’t you believe them?”
“Josh says I should beware of your bad influence,” Miriam blurted.
“So Josh turns you against me behind my back.”
“Why did you come if it’s a sin?” Kayla asked.
Miriam wriggled. “I had to see it for myself.”
Rachelle raised her voice. “Josh went trick-or-treating from the time he was your age until he turned fifteen. So did Isaac. Does that make them demons?”
“Josh repented!”
“How do you know? More like, he forgot all about it.”
“Don’t!” Chad cried.
“Don’t fight, you two,” Kayla agreed.
“Drink your cider. It’s time to get back.” Rachelle sank down on the bench. She faced away from the children like she was only near them by accident.
* * *
From the lower block of Main, a group of teenagers advanced on the Quick-Mart. Most wore hoodies pulled low on their faces, but the boy who led the way had a full-head zombie mask with a dangling eyeball. Rachelle watched them pass through the circle of light under a streetlamp, then fade into darkness as they came on. Five teenagers, familiar shapes and sizes. Familiar movements, too. Should she get up now and hustle the little kids away? Or hang back till the posse passed by?
When they entered the parking lot, the guy in the mask started a zombie walk with stiff legs, arms out, wrists limp. Two other boys exchanged punches and shoves. One carried a large lump under his sweatshirt like a hunchback. A pale girl kept pace with them, eye sockets blackened like empty wells. And a second girl brought up the rear in a narrow dress and featureless white mask. She wore a tall bi-color wig—the bride of Frankenstein.
They zeroed in on the picnic table. Rachelle bent over her cider. The zombie let out a series of roars and clawed at his gory mouth. “He’s starving,” one of the boys told the witch with the donut holes. “You better give him food, or he’ll eat one of those little kids.”
For information on parenting struggles and teen substance abuse, visit these posts and scroll down for links to other resources.
Miriam glared at the teenagers. Kayla scooted closer to Rachelle.
“How old are you?” the green witch asked. “You got no business trick-or-treating.”
That’s right, Rachelle thought. They’re all fifteen except the zombie. He’s sixteen.
“We’re the children of America,” the first boy said.
“We’re not trick-or-treating,” the other boy put in. “Not tricking, anyway.”
“Not yet,” laughed the girl in the hoodie.
“Take pity,” said the bride of Frankenstein. “Then we’ll get out of your way.”
The parking lot had emptied except for this crew. Wielding her tongs abruptly, the witch dispensed donut holes. She did not offer cider.
Rachelle glanced up at the girl in the tall wig. Through the slit eyes of the blank white mask, their gaze met.
“Rachelle Winslow?” the girl said. She slid the mask up on her forehead and stepped closer. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
Of course it was Angie Renard.
The zombie continued to roar. He grabbed the donut hole his friend passed to him, smashed it against the front of his mask, and rubbed it to crumbs on the hideous mouth.
“So what’s up? How’s it going?” Angie asked. She spread her arms.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rachelle stood and accepted a hug. “It’s going kind of okay.” She moved away from the table.
“You’re babysitting?”
“Just taking them trick-or-treating.”
“Ditch ‘em and come around back,” Angie murmured. She reached into the plastic pumpkin she carried and displayed the neck of a pint bottle, half-hidden under orange taffies.
By now, the zombie was strangling the girl in the hoodie. Her shrieks filled the air. The boys had returned to punching each other. One dropped to the pavement and yelped in mock agony.
“Okay.” Rachelle heard the words from her lips before she decided to say them. “I’ll meet you back there.”
“Don’t cry wolf,” the woman at the table scolded. “You’ll need real help one day.”
Rachelle turned to Kayla and Miriam. “Stay put and rest up.” She lifted Chad, who had struggled out of the stroller, and sat him on the bench between the girls. To the witch-woman she said, “We’ll get those jerks out of here for you. Can you watch the kids just one second?”
* * *
Angie had started down the passageway between the Quick-Mart and an apartment building next-door. The others followed close behind. Green shards of scattered glass glinted in the light at the far end. The girl in the hoodie turned to look back at Rachelle and cried, “God, she’s like a ghost! Look at her—all white!”
They gathered under a leafless stand of sumac in the corner of an eight-space parking lot. Behind a brown van, one of the boys shrugged a backpack from under his sweatshirt. He cast a cautious eye toward Elm Street and pulled out a six-pack.
A cool cylinder slid between Rachelle’s fingers and thumb.
The boys leaned their heads back and chugged.
“I thought that was you, Rachelle Winslow,” said the zombie boy. He pulled the mask off of his head. Like she’d figured, it was Angie’s brother, Damien. “You’re back in town,” he said. “Didn’t you move to Columbus?”
“I live here,” Rachelle said, “but I don’t go to school. I’m on distance learning.”
“Must get boring.”
“Sometimes.”
“Why don’t you come over anymore?”
“She will. Won’t you, Rache?” Angie said. She threw an arm around Rachelle’s shoulders. “At least you’ll come and see me.”
Rachelle felt the foil halo teeter on her head. “I live with my aunt and uncle now. They’re old. I can’t give them any trouble.”
The girl in the hoodie laughed. “I give my grandparents trouble. Even my great-grandma.”
“You still a big Jesus freak?” asked one of the boys.
“Not like I was,” Rachelle said.
“Why don’t you drink, then?”
She looked at the can. Silver. It matched her costume. The boy reached out and pulled the ring, popping it open.
“I’ll finish it off if you can’t,” Damien said. “I’m drinking for two.”
The others joked, giving sips of beer to the zombie mask now riding on Damien’s hand.
Just one swallow, Rachelle told herself. Then I’ll go back. She raised the can, caught the sweet-bitter smell. One swallow left it half-empty. Then Angie pulled the bottle of schnapps from under the taffies. It was easy to take a quick gulp.
Nothing to it!
The sumac rattled in a gust of chilly wind, reshuffling the shadows that fell on the pavement. A dervish of dry leaves danced into the air at Rachelle’s feet. The bottle came round again.
“Your aunt and uncle have that funky store down the road from us, right?” Angie asked. “You can walk over easy from there. Cut through the woods.”
Rachelle pictured the Next-to-New Shop like a village scene in one of those Christmas snowballs. A place under glass, safe from all the world’s troubles. Like snow, her body was floating. Dark air caressed her cheeks. God, she had missed this feeling. Missed it like home.
Angie said, “I heard about that shit with your dad. That was harsh. You must worry about him.”
Not so harsh right now, though, Rachelle thought. Maybe it’s true. Things happen for a reason. She let her head loll back and looked up at the sky, surprised not to see a star moving from the East, one she could proclaim at the top of her lungs. In egg-shell-sis Day-o! Instead, with a whoosh of tires, a car sped by on Elm. In a flash, she remembered. “I’ve gotta get going. I have to take the kids home.”
Angie produced a pen and wrote her number on the inside of Rachelle’s wrist. “So you can’t lose it,” she said. “You’ve got no excuse not to call.”
Back down the passageway, Rachelle ran toward the storefront aglow like a jack-o’-lantern’s eye. She bounded on the memory of freedom, those wild times last year when she ran with the posse. A different lifetime. But who says it’s gone forever? A shrill spirit laughed from its hovering place by her shoulder. No excuse! No excuse! It sang, flapping silver wings to urge her on.
* * * * *
Visit SoberNation | Follow @SoberNation
Visit Parent Treatment Advocates
♥ Don’t forget to sign on for the great GIVEAWAY through April 2015: Win $50 in free books! Support indie writer & bookstore.Click here! ♥
by anesamiller_wuhi6k | Oct 20, 2014 | Blog
Dear Mrs. Miller,
I hope you are enjoying good health as you live the life of an author. Much has changed for me since the events you describe in the book Our Orbit. I am hoping you won’t mind me getting in touch. I thought you might like to know that, in spite of everything that happened when I was a girl, I turned out alright.
I know that social workers do their best to keep kids from getting bounced from one home to another. Sometimes, it just can’t be helped. When I landed in the Fletchers’ home, I knew I had it good. Not in some cynical way because they had a lot more money than I was used to, but in the way that I knew they were good people. From the first day, I knew they would love me and be kind to me. Even before I arrived to their house, I had the assurance of that. My own spiritual assurance.
It also turned out really good for me to have little kids under me, which I never did have in my own family. A younger brother and sister taught me to be good for more than an abstract reason. I wanted to be their leader for fun & games, but then I realized I also had to teach them to do right and show a fine example. Kayla and Chad – I still think of them all the time. I wanted them to have a good sister, not a sneaky liar like I could have been.
So overall, I’ve come to see the short time I spent with the Fletchers as sort of a golden age. A time of peace between the wars. It was a time when I learned, without realizing at first, that my dad didn’t have the only righteous view of good and bad that could possibly be. My dad was a man who aimed to always be right with God, and I respect that. But how could God want him to be so stubborn that he would break the law and go to prison? Did God want him to leave his children behind when we needed him?
It took me a good long while to realize these things, but it no longer feels like a sin to say that my dad wasn’t right about everything.
In my heart I feel certain that my dad would never have shot anyone. And I don’t believe he wanted his son to do it, either – no matter what the lawyers said at my brother’s trial. But that is beside the point because our daddy collected the guns and kept them hid and that’s what gave Josh so many wrong ideas. Everything took a bad turn from there.
I’ve had my own hard luck with men since I came of age. I seem to wind up with the ones who think they can control everything a woman does, even the thoughts in her head. I’ve got the scars to show for it. Was there something in my childhood that made me prone to this? No woman should blame herself when she becomes a victim. But it’s hard not to wonder if I may have invited the harm in some way… With prayer, I’m healing. Good Lord willing, I may even grow in understanding.
Thanks for reading this and thank you for telling my story.
Your friend,
Miriam
P.S. Yes, please share this on your blog, if you care to. Your readers who know my story (and other stories like mine) might have some good things to say. I will be eager to read any wise advice.
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Miriam Winslow is a fictional character, but many readers have taken an interest is her possible future. Information on her background may be found in the novel Our Orbit by Anesa Miller. You are invited to explore Miriam’s past adventures and help create her future on this blog under “Letters from Miriam.”
CHAPTER 29 of Our Orbit
