Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Page 12

  Travis raised his sunglasses. “Well then, this just got interesting.”

  My hand pressed against fleecy moss, and I leaned around the right of the trunk, southward while Travis crouched to the left. Beyond the shade of the tree, I watched Nash light two cigarettes. Bridget’s hair hung down her back, and she dangled her legs in a soft swing off the edge of his flatbed. Pinching a cigarette from Nash’s grip, greedily she inhaled.

  I whispered, “Do you see Katie Lee?”

  “Around the corner. Is that her, with the fast food bag?”

  “Bingo.”

  Travis tipped his head back behind the tree. “Remind me what we’re spying on?”

  “We’re not spying, we’re sightseeing.”

  “Right.”

  I tugged his arm. “Come on. Let’s find out what’s going on. Remember, act normal.”

  “Rachael.” Katie Lee called out, “I’m glad you turned up. Sorry we lost you last night.”.

  “You remember Travis?”

  Bridget stroked a piece of hair from her face and pushed it aside. “Of course.”

  Under a breath of irritation, I asked, “Where did you go?”

  Katie Lee leaned her head on Nash’s shoulder. “Look who’s in town.”

  Grinning, he nodded his chin at me. I interpreted the silent gesture as hello, nice to see you again.

  “Did you see him,” Bridget asked, “playing drums last night?”

  I hopped onto the tailgate next to Bridget, and she patted a spot on her other side for Travis.

  “I didn’t know you were in a band,” I said.

  Under a maze of red veins, the whites of Nash’s eyes had disappeared and darkened circles shaded the paper-thin skin below his lashes. He yawned, “This gig came up last minute.”

  Nash gave Katie Lee a bear hug, “I’m heading out.”

  With the door to the Dodge open, Katie Lee scurried to his side, sharing private words and collecting a goodbye kiss. “Call me.”

  Nash closed the tailgate. Travis, Bridget and I meandered near Katie Lee and with the driver door open, I had a view of the truck’s interior. I did a double-take when I caught sight of a suitcase identical to the one that I’d found in Katie Lee’s closet.

  My face was reflected in the polished chrome trim. I didn’t want to be involved and tried to keep the discovery off my face. “Nice truck,” I told Nash. “But I thought you drove a Chevy.”

  “Traded it in,” he said, pleased I noticed.

  Travis nodded approval. “Custom chrome wheels, kick steps. You must play a lot of gigs.”

  Nash slid into the truck and pulled a lighter out of the console. “It was a demo. Got a killer deal.”

  Katie Lee’s boyfriend had more layers of bullshit than the mystery casserole served on Fridays at the cafeteria. Turning over the ignition, he reached out the window and knocked the door with his palm. “See y’all around,” he said, and burnt rubber skid marks across the parking lot on his way out. My connection with the suitcase, although brief, was over.

  “Any idea where Macy is?” Katie Lee asked.

  Travis looked at me. “We have an idea.”

  KATIE LEE SHOUTED INTO the oversized burger intercom, “Four large Pepsis.” From the front seat of Big Blue, Bridget handed Macy and me sodas. “Nash oozes potential. He is an awesome drummer. He so carried the band last night,” she said.

  Macy held the wax coated plastic cup on her forehead. “Lower your decibels.”

  Flipping the visor down to reapply blush Bridget winced, “Sorry Macy. Don’t Katie Lee and Nash make a cute couple?” She laid her hand on Katie Lee’s shoulder. “He’s lucky to be in a relationship with you.”

  Macy spoke with closed eyelids. “Why did you two smoke screen us? For all we knew, you were dead.”

  My pounding head whirled with opposing emotions. I was also miffed at Katie Lee and Bridget for taking off, but relieved that the suitcase found its owner. My anger was a wash.

  “I didn’t mean to blow y’all off. It’s just that I spotted Nash before his set and flipped out. I didn’t know he’d be here, and I reamed his ass. Once I calmed down, he explained that the drummin’ gig was spur of the moment. Bridget joined me by the stage to hear him play and we ended up hanging with the band. The guys wanted to grab a bite to eat, when we came back, frat row was deserted. I looked for y’all, but never found ya.”

  I leaned back and glimpsed Macy without moving my head. “Someone found a distraction in the frat house.”

  Macy leaned in to tell me. “That weed I smoked with Stewart baked me.”

  Katie Lee lifted her eyes into the rear view mirror. “Wait a minute, Stewart Hayes?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Macy said. “Said he knew you and Meredith.”

  She turned left. “He’d be a good catch. His daddy runs an exporting company. I’m surprised he smoked. I thought he steered straight.”

  “Never mind the pot,” Bridget said. “Anything else happen?”

  “Not really,” Macy said, and I made a mental note to remind her to get a penicillin injection. She subjected herself to way more contaminants than I did inside that frat house.

  “Did you sleep with him?” I whispered.

  Macy whispered back, “Which one?”

  I pried Macy’s eyes open. “Dish it out.”

  “He was cute. The attraction was mutual. We had sex.”

  Bridget cocked her head. “With Stewart?”

  Macy closed her eyes. “Ryder.”

  Katie Lee squealed. “How was it? I mean with a name like Ride-her Ridgemont, one would have a lot of expectations.”

  Macy pulverized a piece of ice from her to-go cup and garbled, “Good enough. Ryder was creative with the…” She paused. “Study pillow.”

  Intrigued yet puzzled, I asked, “The what?”

  “Are you tellin’ us,” Bridget said, “you had sex on a husband?”

  I looked from Bridget to Macy. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. The study pillow. Like the one on my bed with arm rests. They’re called husbands.”

  Giggles sent a stream of tears down Katie Lee’s cheeks, and I worried about her ability to steer Big Blue on the I-85 West.

  “Isn’t that what y’all call them?” Bridget asked.

  I worked hard to erase the visual that had dried like quick cement in my head.

  “I suppose,” Bridget said, “the study pillows are called husbands because they’re sturdy and prop you up.”

  “Oh stop,” I said.

  Macy whispered, “Sure did.”

  “What happened with Travis?” Macy asked.

  Thoughts of Travis, sexually speaking, were confusing. I’d found the dessert with all my favorite ingredients, but it wasn’t available. Embarrassed at my judgment, I decided I’d keep that story, or lack of, to myself and refocus on the men on campus. “Nothing happened.”

  “Come on Raz,” Katie Lee said, “you can tell us. Was it the night?”

  NOTE TO SELF

  I’m attracted to gay men. Hopefully a fluke.

  Expect Houdini i.e.: Katie Lee to disappear when off campus.

  Always keep a spare twenty and a back up plan.

  Suitcases and New Bern. Something’s up.

  NOVEMBER 1986

  16

  Planetary Disturbances

  On my way out of the parking lot, bright sunlight pounded at my head. Ghoulish drinking, high drama and a lack of sleep had me shattered. The duffel bag I carried weighed on my shoulder, and against an unearthly gravitational-pull, my feet slumbered up the dorm steps. The girls went to the cafeteria, but my stomach squirmed and I’d passed.

  Always hopeful for some sort of care package or letter, I keyed open my lobby mailbox. Empty.

  Dad and I checked in with each other every Sunday afternoon, and I hurried off the elevator toward my room. When he called, I’d ask all the usual questions, was he was eating right, getting out of the house and staying busy--my cryptic way
of making sure that he didn’t obsess about Mom.

  We’d never been emotionally bonded. Conversations were discussions of facts, not feelings. My relationship with him was less problematic if I told him what I thought he wanted to hear. It was a functionally dysfunctional relationship that had worked, but my mother’s new physic calling disrupted the mechanics I’d spent years perfecting.

  Dad didn’t spell it out, but I knew Mom’s abrupt departure had devastated him. Being away at school distanced me from reality. Back at home he endured physical reminders of her. The Quaker bench she’d refurbished, clothes still hanging in her closet, and framed photos - a flash through time - all reminders of a life no longer lived together. I sympathized, knowing I’d escaped the tangible memory triggers he awoke to every day.

  Dad and I were survivors who had a new bond. He was the sane parent who cared enough to keep in touch with me. Our relationship hadn’t vortexed to discussions of personal business--I wouldn’t be asking his take on the Travis thing. But he and I now trod on unsurveyed territory, and I didn’t mind checking in with him.

  A hallway roadblock blinded me. Francine a.k.a. Mama was dressed like a pastel spin art explosion. Sauntering in the direction of the communal bathroom, she wore a cotton lavender robe and adorned her feet in furry, egg blue slippers. Was she celebrating Easter early, like a Christmas in July thing? She must’ve had plans because under a shower cap, she had her hair rolled against her scalp in pink foam curlers. Next to her thigh, she swung a basket of beauty essentials.

  Since she and Macy had tried to kill one another, I’d only exchanged one or two words with her. Macy was a good friend, and I didn’t want to miff her by becoming chummy with the enemy.

  Francine stopped dead center in the hallway. Her territorial maneuver created a moment of hesitation between us. Halloween had turned my head loopy. Even though, Easter was months away, I said, “Hey Francine, big night with Roger Rabbit?”

  She broke her vexing glare, shook her head, and began swatting imaginary flies. “Rachael O’Brien,” she said, “You’re a corked bottle of crazy and I admire you for it.”

  Before I answered, I heard the shrill ring tone I recognized. I raced past her. “That’s for me.”

  Fumbling to unlock my door, I jumped to answer the phone.

  “You sound out of breath. Is everything okay?” Mom asked.

  The stagnant air in my dorm room suffocated my brain. Cradling the phone, I distanced it from my face and moved it as far as my arm would stretch. In a state of disbelief, I fought a natural instinct to drop it and run. “Rachael, are you there?” she called.

  Mothers have remarkable powers. Their voices are engrained in children’s memories, and when they say certain words, they can extract compassion even when they don’t deserve any. I reminded myself that I’d become a responsible adult, living on my own. What if she was calling to say she was in trouble, or that she’d made a mistake? “Hi mom.”

  “Rachael, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. How is your freshman year going?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “Why haven’t you called Dad or me?”

  “I know you must think I’m horrible for leaving.”

  The mini fridge motor hummed. I couldn’t think of, I didn’t want to think of any words to make what she’d done okay.

  “Channeling is something I was called to act upon. When I met Betts, everything clicked. And with you off at college, well.”

  Dad and I had worried and had lost a lot of sleep fretting over her physical and mental well being and an incinerator of anger combusted inside me. “Betts? Who’s Betts?”

  “Oh she’s marvelous. Betts is the most seasoned trance medium in our celestial cluster. She’s helped me to understand that there isn’t one creator, but an omnipotent God. We’re all living in a multi-layered dimension of consciousness and …

  “You’re kidding,” I said, irritated that my mom was more interested in converting me than finding out how I was adjusting to being away from home, and dealing with her disappearance.

  “I couldn’t be more serious. It took me months to work up the courage to follow the inner me. If I hadn’t, I would’ve ended up with regrets. Regrets are missed opportunities--harder to live with than mistakes.”

  “Is this some sort of midlife thing, or have you lost it?”

  She sighed. “Betts suggested I wait to call until Orion moves southward. The planets under your star aren’t in alignment.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten it’s me, your daughter, and I’m not interested in your extrasensory, planetary bullshit. I liked my old mom, the one that raised me. If you find her, will you tell her to give me a call?”

  I hung up. In my fury, I hadn’t noticed Katie Lee. Before she asked, I said, “Mom.”

  Katie Lee hugged me. “What did she say?”

  Forgetting my irritation with her for ditching me last night, I vented, “A bunch of clairvoyant crap, I’d feel better if I knew she was on drugs or hypnotized. She wanted to tell me all about the multi-dimension, and some Betts person who’s a master at transcending through the light and fluffy phyllo dough layers of the other side.”

  “Is Betts a pastry chef or her boyfriend?”

  “Neither. Betts is a she. The head crazy.”

  “I take it the conversation was short.”

  My head spun. Sitting on my bed, I cradled my face in my hands. “Katie Lee, my mom’s orbiting her own planet.”

  “Are you going to tell your dad she called?”

  “She hasn’t changed her mind. She didn’t say she missed either of us.”

  A LIBRARY CHAIR IS one of the best places for head-time. Staring at a plastic coated, three-sided cubicle provided controlled quiet and anonymity. Inhaling musty paper and bound-leather scented air, I neatly sorted and shelved the emotional leftovers that lingered. The conversation with my trippy mother didn’t deliver a meaningful prophecy. I rolled our chat into a tight ball, tucked it into a dusty corner of my inner closet, and slammed the door shut.

  I had an overly active memory. Mom and Dad said it was a gift, but I didn’t always agree. I could recall images of symbols and names, the details of the loop size, any ink stains or drags of the pen with exact accuracy. I still had to read to learn stuff, but my ease with recalling information made fill in the dot tests a breeze. Once other kids found out, they treated me like a toy that they expected to recite answers to the questions they asked, especially homework. After learning the hard way, I kept my head-camera to myself.

  Penning a plot summary of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, I read over my notes. Olivia, enamored by Cesaro, doesn’t realize that he is really Viola. In an emotional irony, Olivia falls for a female impersonating a male. Studying the Bard of Avon has a way of prying at inner-closets, and mine crept open, clouding my focus. Did my mom truly believe she had extrasensory abilities, or was she bluffing? What was Stewart Hayes doing with eighteenth and nineteenth century canvas oils in a fraternity house? He was from New Bern, so was Nash. Maybe Stewart and Nash were entrepreneurs who transported drugs inside of canvases? Last night--how could I have been ready to sleep with someone who wasn’t what he’d seemed? Laying my head down on the library desktop, I wondered; Had I missed a life lesson on faking it?

  A student threw a backpack down in the cubicle next to mine. Opening one eyeball, I held my Swatch in front of my flattened face. My neck cramped and drool had puddled under my cheek. It was nearly five-thirty. I’d slept for two and a half hours. Coming out of a dead sleep, I stood to stretch my stiff neck, and the plot summary I’d worked on stuck to my cheek. Peeling the paper from my face, I stared down an aisle of ceiling-height, gray metal bookshelves. A green jacket moved toward me. It was the guy who sat in the nosebleed section of my Psych class. The one who’d rescued She-Devil. He exited the section labeled nine-hundred to nine-hundred-fifty, History and Geography, two topics I’d like to explore with him, a
nd said “Hey.”

  Like a discus champion, I swiveled to see if anyone else was around. I was alone, and by the time I composed myself, he’d disappeared between another set of shelves. I wiped saliva off my chin and ran a hand through my hair. “Please let this one be heterosexual.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Checked Katie Lee’s closet, and under her bed. No black suitcase.

  Parent = sensible. My mother ≠ sensible.

  Green jacket is smoking hot. There’s probably a BBQ sauce named after him. Would love to marinate in that.

  17

  Ought O

  I pondered the last sentence of the phone call with Dad. He had been evasive when he said, “I’ve invited someone over for Thanksgiving that I’d like you to meet.” The thought of my Dad and me alone for the holiday was depressing. The thought of him setting me up was frightening. With the break two weeks away, I didn’t want to go home, but didn’t have any other offers.

  Hugh’s voice lured me across the hall and into Macy’s room. He lounged on top of Macy’s chenille bed throw and picked at one of the appliqués. Macy’s grandmother had handsewn decorative jewel-tone flowers onto the quilt. My grandparents had passed before I was old enough to remember them, and my mother left after eighteen years. Tempted to wallow in melancholy, there was no chance with Hugh around.

  Macy shouted, “You’re going to stretch that out,” and rescued her silk eye mask that he wore as a headband.

  Under the false pretense of studying, Katie Lee used a book as a prop in her lap. “This weekend was social suicide. We spent the entire time investigating non-happening, hearsay parties.”

  “We’re not in the know,” I said.

  We all heard Francine clear her throat at the doorway.

  Hugh fished through Macy’s plastic tackle case that held polishes and nail gadgetry. He found a pair of clippers large enough to contour troll nails and slipped his boot off. Scissoring the clippers through the air, he asked Francine, “Can I help you?”