Love Like Ghosts

Jack October

I don't know if I believe in ghosts. But I do know that memories can be like ghosts when they haunt a person. I wonder if Bree carries her memories like phantoms that won't let her rest. She told me once, about the time she found her mom on the bathroom floor.

Her dad wanted to be a musician. He stayed out late every night, playing bars in Livingston, Navasota, College Station. Her mom didn't like being left behind, stuck with Bree. She wanted to be a singer too. Instead, she stayed home and drank, letting the injustice of it all seep into her bones and radiate back out through anger and tears. One night, he came back, and she unleashed her pent-up rage. He didn't take it so well.

He locked her in the bedroom. Bree sat in her own room crying, listening to her screams. She wanted to call the police but was too scared. She didn't want her father to go to jail. By the time the house was quiet, he was gone. She found her mother unconscious next to the bathtub, blood smeared on the white tile.

She was nine.

She told me because she didn't have anyone else to tell.

And she knew that I'd understand.

When I was nine, I would find my mom in the little room she called her library. It was her secret hiding place. I watched out the window as spits of snow blew sideways in the wind. My older brothers were out in it, somewhere. I turned from the window and looked at my mom as she sat quietly in the corner reading by lamplight. She had a habit of tucking herself away in that room full of books while my dad raged through the house searching for one of his five sons.

"Y'all gotta scatter," she told us, "when he gets like that."

But I refused to scatter. I wanted to stay by her. I was too young to understand that I couldn't have offered much protection if his anger ever turned on her. 

"He won't ever hurt me, Jack," she promised. "He's just going through some hurt himself. He needs some time. To get better. Go find Jess. Stay out of sight for a while, okay?"

My dad wasn't always like that.

My mom said it was the drought. The drinking. And that it would all pass. Nobody knew but us—not my grandparents or our friends. There was nowhere to run but into the wilderness.

She hugged me close, kissed my hair. "Now go, but don't stray too far."

I scurried down the hallway, grabbed my boots and coat, and quietly closed the door behind me. Then I ran as fast as I could down the winding gravel path until I stopped at Tempe Creek. The cold December air stung my lungs by the time I reached my favorite tree. I climbed as high as the branches would take me.

As close to God as I could get.

"Don't let him hurt her. Don't let him hurt Joe anymore. Please God, help him get better." I opened my eyes just as the setting sun streaked pink and orange through the breaks in the gray cloudbank.

To a boy of nine, that was an answer. Proof that God could hear my prayer.

I don't like to think about it. I don't want to remember. But little things remind me. Triggers they call them. When the weather gets icy and gray or when my brother Joe comes home to visit. I think about it and wonder how it all went so wrong.

And why God saved us that winter from that monster who took hold of my dad. 

*****

            Saturday morning, I'm up early even though we didn't get back from the football game in Vidor until after midnight.

            I tossed and turned all night. I hate worrying about people, but I can't seem to help myself. Or get my mind off that poem. So that's why I'm heading to Bree's house just as soon as it's late enough.

            I text Bree to let her know I'm here.

            The front door opens, and she's standing there in the morning sunlight wearing a pair of pink pajama pants and a white sweatshirt. I gather her books, get out of my truck, and close the door softly behind me.

            "How was the game?" She asks.

            I shrug. "Kind of an ass-whip."

            "Well, that sucks. Come on in."

            I go into the front room where Bree's piano sits next to rows and rows of bookshelves. There are framed pictures of Bree scattered among the books—in her cheer uniform, wearing a crown at a pageant, and one of the two of us at homecoming.

            "You want some coffee? I just made it."

            "Sure. Where's Gram?"

            "Oh, you know Gram. She's got a Junior League thing. Volunteering. I was supposed to go too. Sometimes being sick isn't all bad."

            I nod and set her books down on the piano bench.

            "Cream and sugar, right?"

            "Yes ma'am."

            She turns to go into the kitchen, and I just stand there like a dumbass. I really want to ask her about the poem, but I don't know how.

            I scan the books that line the shelves. Her grandmother seems to be a fan of gardening, historical fiction, and wildlife. She's got both the Backyard Birdwatcher's Bible and The Smithsonian Handbook on Birds of Texas. I reach out and touch its spine—it's the same one Ava had.

            "You into bird watching?" Bree asks as she sets my coffee on the end table. I take the book and sit down in the chair next to my coffee.

            "I've been known to watch a bird or two."

            She rolls her eyes. "Well, Gram is a dedicated Birder. She's constantly going on her little treks with her binoculars. I used to think she was spying on people." She laughs. "Then she let me go with her once, and I realized, nope. She's actually looking at birds. It was super boring."

I smile at her snark. Glad to see it's still in there somewhere. "I was just thinking about this book the other day. My niece Ava had one like this."

            "Why were you thinking about that?" She asks.

            I shrug. "I dunno. Memory is weird like that. Anyway, I was riding with her to dance class, showing her my favorite one."

            She tilts her head and furrows her brow. "Which one?"

            "Which what? Bird?"

"Yes, what's your favorite?"

I go sit by her on the couch and open to the section on raptors and point to the White-tail hawk.

            "A BOP? That seems right." She smiles.

            "What's a BOP?"

            "Bird of prey--that's what the Birders call them."

            "Oh. Makes sense. Yeah, I used to watch them from my tree. Remember the tree I took you to once?"

            "The tree where you'd hide, right?"

            I nod. "Yeah. Anyway, Ava was worried that the pair in that picture there were fighting."

            Bree gazes down at the page. "Aren't they?"

            I shake my head. "No, they're mates. Hawks mate for life, did you know that?"

"No. That's pretty amazing. Most people haven't even figured out how to do that."

"Right? Their mating dance is one of the coolest things I've ever seen. They both soar up into the sky and circle each other, spiraling closer, until one of them touches the other. Then it's like a chain reaction. They start spinning in these crazy loops, holding onto each other's talons. It looks like they're freefalling to their deaths."

            "Did you tell Ava that?"

            "Yeah."

            "What did she say?"

            "She said it looks painful."

            Bree nods. "It certainly can be." Her eyes turn down to her lap.

            "Bree?"

            She looks up, tears pooling in her eyes. She's not wearing any makeup. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. But she's never looked more beautiful. Radiant even.

I swallow and get ready to confess. "I uh...read some of your poems. I should have asked. I had no right, but I've been kind of worried about you."

            She closes her eyes and nods.

            "They're really good. I mean, dark and everything, but good."

            "Thank you. It's kind of embarrassing, but I don't mind. Because it's you," she says softly.

            "If you ever want to share them with anyone, I'm here."

            She puts her head on my shoulder, takes my hand, and says, "I know you are, Chap."