Seed
: Chapter 8

The bar was a seedy joint—the kind of place with a front door that looked like it’d been kicked in one too many times. In a town as small as Live Oak, a place like this was the electric heartbeat of insomnia, the midnight pulse of those too tired to deal with their problems without Jack Daniels there to listen. Jack felt his skin crawl as he sat in the gravel parking lot, considering whether he really wanted to go inside. Going inside meant he’d need an excuse for calling Reagan out, and having a reason either meant telling the truth or lying to his best friend. Sitting in the dark interior of the Oldsmobile, the cabin lit by garish red neon from a flickering Schlitz sign, he wondered if caring about lying to Reagan while having lied to Aimee for so long made him a bad husband. Aimee would have said so, and whose opinion mattered more than hers?

Sucking in a steadying breath, he shoved the driver door open and crunched his way past a rusty red pickup. Reagan was already inside, occupying a booth and nursing a Blue Moon, peering at a crappy old TV mounted in the top corner of the room. He lifted his bottle in a salute to the bar’s choice of programming as soon as he saw Jack step inside.

“Cheers,” Reagan said, then cracked a stupid grin. “No really, look.”

Ted Danson sat at the bar on TV, chatting up Shelley Long.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Playing Cheers in here? It just doesn’t seem right. I don’t know why,” he said. “I just have this feeling like blasphemy is being… what would you say, performed? Is that right?”

A tired looking waitress appeared at their table before Jack had a chance to settle in. She was gaunt. The weird lighting from the neon signs cast gruesome shadows across her face. If there was news of a zombie outbreak, this was one woman he’d steer clear of.

“What’ll it be?” she asked. Her eye sockets looked like gaping holes, just like Charlie’s Dias De Los Muertos figurines—skin and bones, surviving off of nothing but bumps of meth. Not that it would have been all that surprising. In places like these, addiction was as comforting as the bayou itself.

“Whatever he’s having,” Jack said, motioning to Reagan’s beer.

She didn’t say anything, just turned and walked back to the bar, not giving half a shit about her patrons or their lousy two dollar tips.

“So,” Reagan started, “what’s going on? Monday night? Must be serious.”

He was right. They hadn’t hit a bar on a weeknight since before Abigail was born. Ever since then, Jack had tried to be a responsible father and husband—and for the most part he had succeeded.

Jack shook his head.

“What?” Reagan asked. “Dude.” He stopped peeling the label off of his beer bottle and shifted his weight. Pressing his elbows against the table, he leaned forward to get a good look at his comrade. “Please tell me you aren’t here to break up with me. My world will crumble.”

Any other night, Jack would have cracked a grin. Tonight he couldn’t lift the weight off of his shoulders for long enough to manage.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jack admitted after a moment.

Reagan suddenly looked uncomfortable. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “What does that even mean?”

Jack sighed. He nodded at the waitress when she set his beer in front of him. His fingers wrapped around the bottom of the bottle if only to give his hands something to do.

“Things aren’t going all that well at home,” Jack said. “I don’t really know when going up to the Quarter would be appropriate.”

Reagan’s face twisted; a cross between horror and confusion.

“There’s something wrong with Charlie,” Jack heard himself say. It hadn’t taken long to get to the point.

“What do you mean ‘wrong’?” Reagan asked. “You mean how she’s been sick?”

“Sort of.”

It was Jack’s turn to pull at the corner of his label. His fingers fiddled at the corner, carefully peeling it away and trying at the some time to keep it intact.

“Jack, come on, man. If you’re going to ruin my fucking night at least be kind enough to be specific.”

Jack actually laughed. It was a short burst, a knee-jerk reaction. Reagan stared at him from across the table. He was freaked out.

“Okay?” he said, unsure of himself. “That was funny?”

Jack leaned back against the vinyl seat and shrugged. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “What’s your opinion on God?”

“God.” Reagan continued to stare. “My opinion? Like whether or not I think God is a good guy? Well I don’t know, Jack, we don’t exactly run with the same crowd. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say he’s probably a righteous dude.”

“About that,” Jack said. “Running with the same crowd.” He paused, squinting at the bottle in front of him. “If you don’t run with God’s crowd, whose crowd do you run with?”

“Well, there’s L. Ron Hubbard,” Reagan quipped. “But seriously, imagine going to a party where there’s one guy who can’t stop talking about aliens and volcanoes.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s what’s freaking me out. Serious about what? What are you asking me?”

“If you don’t believe in God, what do you believe in?”

Stunned that he was having this sort of a conversation at a bar on a Monday night, Reagan gave Jack a what-the-fuck look. “I guess I don’t know.”

“Do you believe there’s good in the world?”

“Well sure, there’s good all over the place.”

“So then, do you also believe in an opposite?”

“Like what, evil?”

Jack nodded.

“I guess.” Reagan shrugged. “If there wasn’t evil, we would be seriously lacking in the serial killer department. And child molesters. And those angel of death nurses that run around hospitals unplugging people’s IVs.”

Jack chewed on his bottom lip, his gaze focused on the torn beer label curled atop the table. “So are those people born evil? The serial killers and the child molesters and the crazy nurses; are they just fucked in the head from square go or do they start out like everyone else and become that way over time?”

“It could be the Kool-Aid. Who knows? Where is this coming from anyway? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind existentialism, but you’re asking me about whether or not people are born bad… in a bar. And you haven’t even bought me a drink. This on the tail of telling me things aren’t going well at home, that you might have to take a break from the band…”

“I’m trying to be open here.”

“Well your openness is giving me a heart attack, man.”

“Do you believe there can be a Devil if there is no God?” Jack pressed.

Reagan slowly leaned back in his seat, his expression wavering from confusion to full-blown concern. He pressed his lips together in a tight line as he stared across the table at his friend—a friend who looked dead serious about the question he’d just asked.

“I’m not really what one would consider ‘worldly’,” Reagan finally said, “so my opinion on this might be completely full of shit, but…”

Jack looked up from the label on the table. He met Reagan’s eyes and waited, hoping the answer would be no, knowing it would be yes.

“I’ve never seen any miracles,” Reagan said, “but I sure as hell have seen my share of darkness. Does God exist? I don’t know. But I kind of hope he does. Because if he doesn’t? We’re probably fucked.”

Jack came home well after the girls had been put to bed. Aimee was in the master bedroom with the comforter pulled up to her waist, the washed out emblem on her mock football shirt peeking out from behind the spine of an old paperback. She’d given up on Les Misérables and picked up The Stand—another book she’d been trudging through for what seemed like the entirety of their marriage.

“You’re still reading that?” Jack asked.

Aimee flipped the book over, a finger hooked between the pages to keep her place, and studied the cover. It had been so long that the corners had rounded and softened.

“It probably makes me some sort of tasteless idiot,” she said, “but I can’t get into it.”

“But you keep trying.”

“It’s King,” she said. “Anybody who’s anybody has read this.”

Jack stood in the doorway of the master bathroom, peeling off his t-shirt and kicking his jeans off his legs.

“I haven’t read it,” he told her. She rolled her eyes at him like that was supposed to mean anything.

“You also haven’t read the Bible,” she said. “Which, if my mother knew—I mean, I don’t know… maybe she found out somehow and that’s why she kicked you off the porch.”

“Yeah, or maybe she’s tired of pretending she doesn’t hate me.”

Aimee glared at the ceiling with a sigh. “She doesn’t hate you. We’ve been over this.”

“Well maybe you should go over it with her one of these days. Maybe filling her in on the details would cue her in to not act like a vengeful old…” He paused. Aimee watched him steadily, waiting for him to finish his thought. “…mother-in-law.”

“Maybe you should ask her why she kicked you off of the porch.” Aimee fished her bookmark from the back few pages of that paperback and marked her place. “Because when I called her tonight to ask what her problem was, she denied the whole thing. Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s getting Alzheimer’s?”

Tossing her book onto the nightstand, Aimee settled into the mattress and watched Jack get ready for bed without another word. Patricia had all but insisted he was lying when Aimee had brought up the incident. She had laughed with a huff and said it was the most ridiculous thing she’d heard, but something about her tone—about the way she replied to questions a little too quickly, trying her best to stay on her game, assured Aimee that not only did the porch exchange happen, but that her mother was intent upon keeping it a secret.

Jack flipped the bathroom light off and slid into bed. Just a week or two ago, with the both of them still awake, they would have pulled the sheets over their heads and gone at it like a pair of horny teens. Now Jack stared up at the ceiling and Aimee peered straight ahead of her, both of them stewing in uncomfortable silence.

“Abby’s ready for her own room,” he finally announced. “She offered to move down to the basement—”

“What?”

“I told her no. At least to the basement thing.”

Aimee stared into the darkness.

“It’s damp down there,” he said. “And it smells weird.”

“That’s because it’s a basement. And what do you mean you told her no ‘to the basement thing’? Does that mean you told her yes to getting her own room?”

“She’s ten years old.”

“So?”

“So imagine not having your own room at ten years old. Imagine having to share it with a younger sister who’s obsessed with Spongebob.”

“So we should let her move into the basement and cover the walls with posters of glittery vampires.”

“Abby doesn’t even like vampires…”

“Like we have the room, Jack. Like this house is big enough for four people as it is.”

“You were expecting the girls to share a room until they were ready to move out of the house? They’ll move out at puberty.”

“Great,” Aimee said. “The way things are going that’s probably a fantastic option.”

“Cool,” Jack replied, “it’s settled then.” He rolled onto his side to end the conversation.

It took her less than thirty seconds to pipe up again.

“I can’t believe you’d get her hopes up like that. Now I’m going to have to be the bad guy and tell her she can’t actually have her own room because Daddy doesn’t think before he makes stupid promises.”

“I didn’t make her a stupid promise,” he countered, his back still turned. “I told her I’d work something out to what I personally think is a reasonable request.”

“Well, it’s completely stupid.” She turned her back as well, shoving the corner of her pillow underneath her head. “As soon as those two split up they’ll live in the same house but never speak to each other again, just like every other dysfunctional family.”

“Have you considered them hating each other if we don’t split them up?” Jack asked the wall.

Aimee was silent.

“I’ll fix up the basement,” he said after a moment. “It’ll be good to get it in order anyway.”

Aimee threw her side of the covers off and sat up as if struck by lightning—but instead of lightning it was rage.

“No you won’t,” she snapped. “I don’t care what you told Abby and I don’t care how disappointed she’s going to be; she’s not moving out of that room. Ever since the accident you’ve been taking everyone’s side but mine, and I’m sick of it, Jack. I’m sick of being told what’s going to happen, so now I’m telling you: Abigail isn’t moving out of her room, we’re not spending money to fix up a basement we never use, and Charlie isn’t going to be excused for her behavior because you swear there’s nothing wrong with her. Because I think something is.”

“Like what?” He watched her as she towered over him like the fifty-foot woman, waited for horror to creep across her face, waited for the idea of fire and brimstone to breech her anger and sway her toward terror. But none of that happened. Aimee squared her shoulders and answered plainly:

“I think she doesn’t spend enough time with her father. She needs your attention.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest.

“You’re too busy running around all of Louisiana with your buddies, playing bars and getting drunk and wandering up and down Bourbon Street doing God only knows what.”

His mouth snapped closed. His chest tightened. He was just about to argue when a sickening realization set in. Aimee was wrong about it being Jack’s lack of quality time with Charlotte, but she was right about it all being his fault.

Doctor Copeland’s oversized desk made Jack feel small. Even the chairs across from the desk, while comfortable, seemed huge. It seemed odd to Jack that a doctor who was supposed to make people feel better would choose to dwarf them first.

“So,” Copeland said, folding his hands on top of the varnished desktop. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Gilda had met with Copeland alone a few days before, and Jack could only imagine the horrors she had told him. For all he knew, she had recapped The Exorcist, after having replaced the movie characters with their own family, exchanging that fancy brick house with their dilapidated trailer. Jack lowered his chin and looked down his nose at the doctor as if sizing him up, looking for signs of what Copeland did and didn’t know.

“Is anything bothering you?” Copeland asked.

Jack held his silence. It was never smart to make the first move, in case you ended up giving yourself away.

Copeland frowned at this lack of participation, but he was prepared to fight. Leaning back in his squeaky chair, he folded his hands across the slope of his round belly and watched Jack with earnest curiosity.

“You aren’t going to talk to me?” he asked.

Nothing.

“Are you afraid of what you might say?”

Jack narrowed his eyes, thinking it would make him look harder, tougher; but all it did was give Copeland a non-verbal answer.

“Okay,” Copeland said. “You obviously don’t want to be here, but your mother won’t let either of us off the hook until we get some work done, so why don’t we cut to the chase? Tell me about the cat.”

Jack stiffened.

“You know the one,” Copeland said. “The cat you strung up in the front yard tree.”

Jack’s fingers dug into the cushion of that fancy chair. He imagined his nails biting into the fabric, boring holes into the upholstery.

“Did that cat bother you?”

Jack flinched.

“Had it wronged you in some way?”

It had hissed and run. For no reason.

“Jack?”

He felt his breath catch in his throat. He felt hot.

“Jack, are you with me right now?”

He was sure that at any moment he’d lose the ability to suck in air, that he’d forget how to breathe.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he spit out. “I didn’t know.”

Copeland peered at him, contemplating Jack’s revelation. Then he leaned forward and scribbled a note.

“That cat had it coming,” Jack whispered. “He had it coming.”

Aimee hesitated outside the girls’ door the next morning, not wanting a repeat performance from the day before, but when she finally pushed the door open she was greeted by a sight that caught her off-guard. Abigail was still fast asleep, but Charlie—the night owl—was wide awake, sitting on top of her Spongebob covers, facing the bedroom door, waiting for Mom to come in.

Aimee’s muscles went tight. “Charlie?”

“Good morning, Mommy,” she said with a bright smile.

“Good morning,” Aimee replied, but her words were less than sure. Charlie was notorious for sleeping in. The kid had the ability to sleep for twelve hours straight if she was allowed—yet another trait she’d inherited from her father who, in his teens, had slept through an entire day and a half because he hadn’t felt like getting up. Seeing Charlie awake, let alone cheerful at seven AM, was more than a little disconcerting.

“Is… everything okay?” Aimee asked, giving her daughter a wide berth as she stepped inside the room. “Why are you up so early?”

“Because it’s time for school,” Charlie answered. “And it’s time for breakfast.”

Aimee turned away from her youngest, mouthing a silent okay, busying herself at the dresser. It was too weird; weird enough to make her skin crawl. When she heard bare feet hit the floor and scamper toward her, Aimee’s breath caught in her throat. She spun around and shoved her back against the chest of drawers, the dresser shuddering from the impact.

Charlie stood a foot from her mother, looking up at her with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Good morning, Mommy,” she repeated.

Aimee opened her mouth slowly.

“Yes,” Charlie said. “Everything is okay.” Her words were flat, but that wide smile remained. “It’s time for school,” Charlie said. “Better wake up. We don’t want to miss the bus. Breakfast is on the table. Go brush your teeth.”

Charlotte pivoted on the balls of her bare feet and bolted out of the room.

Aimee stood frozen against that dresser for several long seconds. Her breath hitching in her chest. Then she, too, excused herself. But instead of looking for where her daughter had gone, she rushed to the bedside table in the master bedroom and yanked the drawer out so fast it crashed to the floor. Searching through old receipts, random sticky notes, and a few hairstyle magazines she’d tucked away in case she ever felt like making a change, she eventually located her inhaler, uncapped it, and took a couple of puffs.

The prescription was expired by two years.

Aimee hadn’t had an asthma attack in over three.

“Mom?” Abby stuck her head into her parents’ bedroom and found her mother sitting limply at the corner of her bed. “Are you okay?”

Aimee swatted at the tears and forced a smile. “I’m fine, sweetie. Are you two done eating breakfast?”

Abigail nodded slowly, studying her mother. Abby had seen her mom upset before, mostly after she and dad would argue about New Orleans, but this wasn’t the same kind of grief. This was different.

“Okay,” Aimee said, clearing her throat and gathering her wits. “Let’s go.” She got up and motioned for Abby to get moving, trying to fall into their typical morning routine. “Where’s your backpack?”

Abby skittered down the hall to retrieve her things and Aimee forced herself out of the bedroom. She paused when she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes snagging on Charlie. She was sitting at the table, her wide eyes fixed on a corner of the room, seeing something that wasn’t there.

“Charlie,” Aimee said as steadily as she could. “Chop chop, let’s go.”

But Charlie didn’t move. Whatever lurked in that corner had her transfixed.

“Char?”

Nothing.

Aimee pulled a face. She began to approach with slow, reluctant steps.

Charlie didn’t respond.

“Honey, you’re really starting to worry Mommy.”

Regarding herself in the third person was one of Aimee’s safeguards against vulnerability; it made her feel removed, less in the line of fire of whatever decided to creep out of that corner and twist her once normal life beyond recognition.

Aimee closed the distance between them, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder—another move made with obvious hesitation, like putting a hand on to a hot stove. As soon as she made contact, Charlie sprung from her chair and dashed after her sister like a spooked cat. Aimee was left alone in the kitchen, trying to push thoughts of childhood psychosis out of her head. But nothing she told herself convinced her that what was going on with Charlie was normal.

When Aimee appeared at the girls’ door, Abby already had her backpack pulled over her shoulders. She stood at the opposite side of the room, keeping distance between her and her sibling. As soon as Abby saw Aimee appear, she pulled at the straps of her bag and fell into motion.

“I’ll wait outside,” she told her mother and brushed by her; staying in that room was the last thing she wanted to do. Aimee was left alone with Charlotte yet again. She crouched down to help the six-year-old tie her shoes so she could join Abby at the bus stop.

Charlie began to giggle—a sound that had once been as airy and iridescent as bubbles floating through the sky, now oddly heavy with unidentifiable emotion.

“What’s funny?” Aimee asked, looking up from her crouched position. That weird smile hung on Charlie’s once-innocent face.

Aimee looked away, masking her panic by directing it toward the floor. Just as she finished securing Charlie’s second shoe, she felt an exhale flutter a few strands of hair across her forehead. Charlie’s crooked smile was less than an inch from Aimee’s hairline. When Aimee lifted her head, coming nose to nose with her daughter, Charlie didn’t lean back to give either of them more room. She remained uncomfortably close, her eyes glinting with wicked mischief. A glint that Aimee had always known was there but had never seen this obviously before.

“Good morning,” Charlie sing-songed. “Better get up. Time for school.”

“That’s enough,” Aimee said, surprised by the forcefulness that had jumped into her tone. “No more games. Mommy’s tired of it.”

“I know,” Charlie said solemnly. “I’m sorry.” Her apology was tainted by a grating babyish tone, making her insincerity that much more apparent.

Aimee turned away for a second, long enough to grab Charlie’s backpack. When she turned back to the child, Charlotte was still grinning.

Suddenly, Aimee wanted nothing more than to grab that stupid little girl by her shoulders and shake her as hard as she could, shake her until that smile was wiped from her face. Instead, she extended a stiff arm outward and handed Charlie her bag.

“You’re going to miss the bus.”

Charlie shrugged and sauntered out of the bedroom. Aimee followed, not to make sure she made it to the bus stop, but to make sure she left at all.

But Charlie wasn’t one to make things easy. When she reached the front door, she turned to look back at her mother, that disconcerting smile still pulling her face tight.

“Don’t be scared,” she said. “At least you still have Abigail.”