{Letters to Ghosts - Lucie Silvas}
...Left were the ashes, 'cause I let it burn, they're with my cold heart, buried in the dirt, his loss is the only thing that still hurts...
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Loud. So loud.
Through neon lights and a pounding bass line, the very foundations on which I walk are unsteady. Hands wander over drunken skin while music vibrates off the walls. Smoke and powder cover every sight and surface as droopy-eyed, slack-jawed comrades thrive on through the night. Eyes roam over me while I clamber through the waves of people, feeling the gentle grip of his hands in mine, pulling me through each dizzying motion, a shield against the sea of sweat and booze.
His hands, white-knuckled in silent desperation for an empty space, are the only tangible thing I can focus on. Like being underwater, we enter into the quiet. The click of a door mutes the party, separating us into a soundproof bubble, the party still part of us but we are no longer part of it.
Blurry, faded edges.
Numbness stings my body like ice water and yet his breath on my neck is a sensation that lingers, sinking in all too deeply. The gentle touch tightens around me, yet I struggle to move, the emptiness of this foreign bedroom leaving my faltering footsteps like intruder's prints.
The shield his body had once been now stands like a force field that I cannot pass through, yet with no power behind these intoxicated bones, that force is what keeps me still standing. His face had been a part of that wave he had saved me from in what feels like a moment before. Something had shimmered beneath his eyes, something not quite crystal and definitely not clear, yet I held my hands out, clutching at him. Or had he held out for me?
His moves are slow. Calculated. Aware of this room and its contents. His brain whirrs as I feel his swift and precise motions colliding with my unsure slurs. I know what I want to say, yet he doesn't know what I mean. Does he? With a falling step forward, his arms catch me, carrying me over to a bed, where the mattress holds me.
Envelopes me. Drowns me. Suffocates me. Silences me.
I gasp.
----
A bead of sweat runs down my neck as I open my eyes, wide and frantic, before slumping back into the itchy fabric of the seat, suddenly aware of where I am. On a God-forsaken bus, headed to the middle of nowhere -- soon to be population: Me.
I wipe the sweat off of my neck, my body feeling sticky and uncomfortable as I attempt to stretch my aching back. I am just happy to be awake again, aware of myself and in control. Sleeping has become an impending dread in my life, the paralysis of reliving what I'd rather leave buried until I gasp myself awake again.
This half-empty bus is filled with nothing but poker-faced strangers who look as excited about reaching their appointed destination as I am. A couple of lonely adults, a mom and her child, and even a little old man who sits staring out the window at the front of the bus. We're all on our own journeys, leaving something behind, headed to this nowhere town to become no-one special. Specks of dust, wiped off and forgotten.
I had watched as the world outside the large glass window morphed from the concrete and streetlights of the city, over state lines and into the rolling hills and endless fields of the dirt road counties I was headed into the heart of. Since waking, nothing much had changed, the window showcasing an expanse of fields, and small-town signs we would pass in and out of, never being the right one. Even when we get to the right stop, I know it won't feel 'right'.
'No choice'. 'Last chance'. 'Fresh start'.
Somehow heading back to a childhood memory of where I would spend endless summer days, doesn't feel like a fresh start. Still, I know running away from the life I have now left behind me won't look like the bravest choice, I feel steely and strong about this journey. Every turn of the wheels under the bus reminds me how far I have come, and how close I am to this new start.
It's when the sign for Laurel Valley comes into view, that I know a chapter of my life has ended, and another one is about to begin.
----
Like a memory from a childhood dream, back when I roamed these lands with scraped knees and a head full of dreams, he stands waiting for my arrival. His statement black pickup truck steadies him as he leans against it, and his eyebrows furrow to protect his eyes from the setting sun as it slices in at my vision. Tentatively, I clamber down the steps of the bus, into the asphalt, all light blinding me. I raise an arm up to shield me from the relentless brightness, and there I see him.
Uncle Deacon.
Mom and Uncle Deacon grew up together, twins, and sometimes I used to think there was no one in the world she spoke more about than him. My Uncle, the Derby champion. The Hero of the Valley. It didn't mean much to the suits and ties back in the city, but to our family, he is our crowning achievement. His face was always a clear picture from every memory, of travelling to Laurel Valley with Mom when I was younger, for holidays and summers, and even long weekends when Mom wanted time away from Dad. Taking him in now as he stands by the truck, it's impossible not to notice that his features have faded to an old western grey and yet the blue in his eyes still shine in brilliant technicolour. Just like Mom.
Without a word, he bundles me into a hug, harsh and manly. It is one I am not prepared for. His shirt is warm with that distinctively familiar smell, like wood shavings and pine trees hitting against my small frame as my bags fall into the dust. I am awkward and unsure of exactly the right way to respond. I opt for the good old pat on the back. It's tried and tested and not too eager, but at least he won't feel like he's hugging a corpse.
Uncle Deacon smiles at me as we part from the hug, a little warily like he's whispering to a horse, trying not to spook me. There is a slight awkwardness where I know he's struggling to find the right things to say before he ushers me to hop into the van and we will head 'home'.
He doesn't correct himself, and it fully hits me that this isn't a two-week trip. This is 'home'.
----
It's like the tyre tracked roads are still engrained in my brain. I can vividly remember every turn on our way back to Uncle Deacon's house, and the ranch I ran around for Summer after Summer in my childhood. I ask him if he's still riding, but he only shakes his head, says he's there to take care of the horses and give other future riders a place to practice.
Uncle Deacon, the county champion horseback racer with his white 'cowboy' hat was his signature article along with his wide smile and was the only character from a story that ever lived up to his legend. How he would hoist me up over his shoulders and I would laugh loudly and unfettered with worry, and stay up late with me reading spooky stories. His smile was always wide, and his eyes always sparkled. He was a hero, and Mom never wanted me to forget it.
Glancing over at him in the driver's seat, my childhood hero has mellowed into a quiet stillness. His smile isn't the same anymore. I guess mine isn't either.
The radio is the only noise between us except for the sound of the tyres on the road. My eyes re-acquaint themselves with the fields; the wooden fences, the horses, the hills, and the harsh Southern sunset.
I pick at my chipped nail polish, a nervous tick, while I try to make time pass.
"You know," he says, finally ending the silence. "Your Momma told me what happened."
"I don't want to talk about it," I tell him plainly, keeping my eyes focused on the road ahead. He does the same.
"'Course not," he nods understandingly. "I want to let you know that here, we do things a little differently than when you lived with your folks. Laurel Valley ain't the east coast."
"You're tellin' me." I agree with him.
I always used to hang on to his every word when I was younger, because he never spoke until he had something important to say. I was used to Mom and Dad's constant complaining, constant bitching, constant shouting, screaming, and then all at once, deafening silence. His steadiness was a welcome change.
"And, as such, the rules around here ain't the same. I know your Momma and Dad want you to settle here," he tells me as if I don't already know. I remembered hearing Mom on the phone to uncle Deacon, her words hushed and pleading. Begging for me to go. Begging for me to leave everything behind and start again.
"You mean to settle down," I say matter-of-factly. "They just don't want to handle this responsibility. I get it."
"You ain't a kid anymore."
"Believe me, I know," I feel my voice shrinking. "I just don't think they realise that parenting doesn't end when you reach eighteen."
"You just gotta learn to follow the rules, Ruby, darlin'." His eyes look over at me quickly, checking to see if I'm okay. He's reaching out to me, the first person to do such a thing in such a long time, it startles me. It humbles me.
"So tell me, what are the rules? Give me the commandments." I nudge him, smiling slightly, easing up on the tension that was building. I don't want any trouble. I've seen enough.
"No law-breaking', no partyin', no boys, and no drinkin'..." His voice quietens as he reaches the last one, but I skip right over his fear that he may have upset me. Memories of my recurring dream on the bus creep in, but I try to keep talking, moving on.
"Uncle Deacon, I doubt any of that will be happening around here anyway."
"Well, you'll have the horses to keep you busy," he smiles slightly at the corners of his mouth. A childhood pastime of ours was riding out near the hills and cliffs together, free and careless. Feelings that are so far in my past, I sometimes wonder if I ever felt them at all.
"And no trouble," I confirm.
"That's right darlin', no trouble."
As much as his words settle me, little by little, there's still a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me that somehow it won't be so simple.
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