Stone Angels
by Michael Hartigan
Below you'll find the first two chapters of my award-winning novel Stone Angels. Please enjoy, and then go grab your own copy at: http://www.amazon.com/Stone-Angels-Michael-Hartigan/dp/1939166799/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top?ie=UTF8
Below you'll find the first two chapters of my award-winning novel Stone Angels. Please enjoy, and then go grab your own copy at: http://www.amazon.com/Stone-Angels-Michael-Hartigan/dp/1939166799/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top?ie=UTF8
Chapter 1
We were clearly lost and the dashboard light blinked
desperately, telling me I was running on empty. Voiceless, it screamed for
help, saturating the car’s interior in a red-orange hue, in a last-ditch effort
for my attention. What the little light didn’t know was that I was already
responding to its begging cry for help.
What the little light didn’t know was that I was
already responding to its begging cry for help.
I turned my Ford Explorer from the highway onto the
next available exit ramp, prompted by a large blue fluorescent road sign
promising twenty-four hour fuel somewhere down the road. I obliged, proud of my
attentiveness to my surroundings and the mechanical effectiveness of my aging
sport utility vehicle.
But as the interstate fell away into the darkness of
the rearview mirror, so did any further direction as to where this mysterious
gas station was hidden. So disappeared my confidence.
The smooth, state-maintained highway quickly
crumbled into a cracked and rocky backcountry road. The asphalt – I was
surprised there even was asphalt – rose and split under my fog lights, wreaking
havoc on my car’s aging shocks.
There were no street signs or streetlights along the
road. It was darker than the highway was and much narrower, wide enough for one
vehicle. Imposing southern pines soared along both sides of the pavement, like
sentinels guarding a secret. I tried to see just how tall they were through the
moon roof but all that could be seen was a hurried onrush of colorless clouds.
No moon. No stars, either. The treetops peaked somewhere in the infinite
darkness above.
Nature was being very difficult. Granted I was
attempting to refuel a manmade gas-guzzling nature-killer. I couldn’t blame her
for refusing to lend a hand. Nevertheless, I could have benefited from some
moonlight, a few stars or hell, even a swath of fireflies.
But no such luck. I was on my own.
The three other people in the car were sound asleep
and useless. Even if I were to wake them, this was only their second trip
through the American South. The first being a week ago when we drove right past
this very exit in the opposite direction, southbound. At that time none of them
were paying attention, I was sure of that. They were too occupied by
anticipation for the Florida sun and our last spring break vacation as college
students.
The two girls on our trip, Emily and Lindsey, had
terrible senses of direction. And Marcus – or Shoddy as we all called him – was
most likely hung-over, if not still drunk, on both the ride down and up the
Atlantic coast. All too often he was caught sleeping off the booze and mistakes
of the night before.
I felt his pain. Like him, I had a pounding
headache. Unlike him, it wasn’t only because of rum drinks.
I turned my attention back to the unforgiving
darkness stretched out ahead. The station had to be up around a bend. If only I
could see farther than the ten yards of pavement illuminated by my headlights.
Maybe then I’d notice if there were any bends.
There weren’t any. Not even a slight bow since we
left the exit ramp. I drove a straight and steady path deeper into the unknown,
what seemed like ages away from the relative comfort of the interstate.
I’m usually a very reserved young man. Which to many
is odd for a college senior. One would expect craziness, frat boy intensity or
at least intermittent jubilation at the upcoming death to homework.
Not me. I kept it all inside, which isn’t to say it
did not exist. It did. But long ago I had erected a wall in front of my
emotions intended to keep all that in, and everyone else out. For the most
part, it worked. Very few people ever got past that wall. I locked away a lot
of things back there.
Recently, for various reasons, the wall was
weakening. The very real danger of running out of gas on a backcountry road at
midnight threatened to add to those recent chinks. Running out of gas was more
than just a logistical threat. There would be very real consequences. I’d have
to wake up my friends. My mistake and failure would be evident. I’d be
vulnerable and scrutinized. The wall would be unguarded.
The headache still lurked behind my eyes. Rubbing my
temples didn’t help.
Again, I tried to focus back on the road and the
task at hand. My mind was being easily distracted. I set my gaze through the
windshield and thought only about practical solutions. I’d probably have to
leave the car and find the station on foot. Marcus should stay in the car with
the girls. I’d have to change into sneakers instead of the flip-flops I had on.
I should probably carry some sort of weapon, just in case. Did I still have
that heavy metal flashlight in the spare tire well?
I could not help but get nervous after another ten
minutes went by with no gas station. The emergence of a soft but urgent ding
ding ding that began emanating from the dashboard did not help. That little
orange light wasn’t kidding around anymore.
My practical questions quickly diverged toward
paranoia. Did I have my AAA card? Would a tow truck find us? Would a service
station be open this late at night this far away from real civilization? What
if the tow truck driver was suspect? Would I call 911 or was that too extreme?
If not, did I even know what number to call for assistance?
I instinctively pulled my cell phone from the center
console and checked the service bars. Full. Thank God. Apparently whatever
Southern municipality we trekked across was in tune enough with the
Twenty-first century to have erected a cell tower. That was good, in case the
tow truck driver happened to be a serial killer.
I had to chuckle at myself. Nothing had even
happened yet and already I thought of the worst possible scenario, something
straight out of a low budget horror movie. This sort of thinking spoke to the
doubts I held about my own ability to handle a potential crisis situation.
Which was actually not that foolish, considering the crises I had dealt with in
the past and their horrifying outcomes.
Regardless of my failing confidence, the only choice
I had was to continue on the current path and hope the blue highway sign was no
liar; hope the fumes we coasted on lasted just a few minutes more. Turning
around wasn’t feasible. I doubted I had enough fuel to make it back to the
interstate. Besides, I had no idea how far away the next exit was or whether or
not I’d face the same problem there.
I had to hope the gas station promised me would rise
out of the darkness like the Emerald City, ready to fulfill my needs. But I
didn’t need a brain, a heart or some courage. I needed gas. Gas to help me get
home.
Five more minutes went by, the dinging grew more
frequent. My body tensed.
Then suddenly the road was smoother. A few yards
later it curved.
I must have understood a change in road condition to
mean a change in luck. Here was the bend I was looking for.
At the same time the dinging from the dashboard got
faster and louder. It was telling me this was it, the last push. We weren’t
even riding on fumes anymore, just lingering particles. Some people might have
stopped then. I usually would have stopped then. But for some reason adrenaline
stopped me from stopping. Subconsciously I increased the speed of the Explorer.
The dinging hurried and I sped up more, trying to keep up with its urgent pace
and maybe beat it to the gas station I was now sure existed. It had to, right
up around the bend. I instinctively psyched myself up. My body reacted
naturally. My pulse quickened. My body arched forward in the driver’s seat,
knuckles white gripped around the steering wheel. I came alive. The hours of
driving in virtual silence and darkness slipped away like the blurred pines
lining the road.
The words of someone I once loved flashed behind my
eyes. “Before this is over, I’m going to lighten you up. I’m going to make you
come alive,” she said to me. Amen to that. Screw my cracking wall. Screw my
sleeping friends in the car. Screw the serial killer tow truck driver. If I
were going to break down on a backcountry road, I’d at least get a thrill doing
it. If I were going to open myself up to failure, I’d do it speeding around a
hairpin turn.
One gradual curve right followed by a wide arc to
the left then a twenty-yard uphill straightaway. At the top I sped through
another curve left around an especially looming group of dark pines at fifty
miles per hour. A quick S bend, my pulse quickened and another wide sweeping
turn to the right. Was that perspiration on my forehead? A hard right, sharp
left, the speedometer fluttering excitedly. We spit out onto another
straightaway and ten yards ahead the road dropped down over the horizon like a
cliff.
Without hesitation I took the Explorer over the top,
hitting sixty-five miles per hour. As the car breached the hill and came into
its descent a sliver of silver moonlight split the clouds above; the high beams
from heaven. All at once the full expanse of the road and the decline ahead was
visible. The black curtain parted and I saw down below, nestled at the bottom
of the hill, a dimly lit gas station. The moonlight mixed with its orange
fluorescent bulbs gave it an eerie green, almost emerald glow.
My head, now full of adrenaline, still throbbed.
Respite ahead but we were still lost. Maybe clarity was up ahead too.
Chapter 2
I barely took the keys from the ignition before I
jumped from the driver’s seat. The excitement of finding the station kept my blood
pumping fast. The adrenaline kept rising while I popped the tank latch open and
removed the gas cap. It only subsided when I reached for my wallet and pulled
out my Visa student credit card. My headache had disappeared.
I went to swipe my credit card. There was no place
to swipe a credit card.
“Dammit,” I said to nobody.
It was then that I became aware of my surroundings.
All around was darkness. In the time it took to
descend the hill, the clouds had re-covered the moon and that initial
shimmering emerald glow around the station had evaporated. The same southern
pines that led the way here now formed a three-sided barricade around the lot’s
border. Even though the station’s existence was our salvation, the trees’
effect was more fortress than oasis.
Without the moonlight or my headlights we were
bathed solely in the orange fluorescent light from four large street lamps
situated at the square lot’s corners. Two double-sided gas pumps sat in the
middle of the square, just barely illuminated by the perimeter lighting.
The Explorer was parked at one of these gas pumps.
Old gas pumps. The retro, non-digital kind that had rotating numbers and a flip
up handle. The orange light accentuated their rusty front panels.
The station wasn’t a franchise and there was no
canopy or giant neon sign adorned with a Pegasus or tiger. The only
identification was a painted wooden sandwich board sign in between the pumps
that read, “Welcome to Mo’s.”
At the rear of the lot was a rectangular clapboard
building that housed a one-bay garage and a small store. The garage door was up
but no lights were on. Inside I could make out the shadowy outline of a tow
truck. The store was three windows long and unlike the garage bay, was lit. A
paper OPEN sign hung on the inside of the glass door.
Other than a few trash barrels and a picnic table
under the lamp in the back right corner, the station’s lot was vacant. Ours was
the only vehicle besides the sleeping tow truck. We were the only visible signs
of life besides the OPEN sign and lit up store.
It was exactly what I would have expected a gas
station to be down a back road in Northern Florida. I should’ve expected a
station like this to be cash only. It fit with the décor.
I double-checked the ancient gas pump before sliding
my card back into my wallet. Definitely no place to swipe a credit card but
there was a small sticker that said cash only. I missed that the first time
around.
Fortunately the lack of credit card payment wasn’t
much of a problem. We had planned for this to happen at some point. Last
Saturday morning, before we pulled out of Providence College’s student lot, the
four of us each threw fifty bucks into an envelope and stowed it away at the
bottom of the center console. It was Emily’s idea. She argued – correctly – that
at some point on our thirty-two hour drive down to Key West or on the
thirty-two hour drive back we’d need cash for gas.
If she weren’t still fast asleep in the backseat, I
would’ve kissed her in thanks. Well, probably not. That would have been a very
bad idea. But I would’ve thanked her regardless. I went back to the driver’s
door and retrieved the envelope full of money from the center console. Two
hundred dollars should have felt heavier. I opened it to find one Benjamin
Franklin starting back at me. Someone had pilfered our gas stash over the past
week.
The memory of last Wednesday night flickered into
focus in my mind’s theater. We had walked by an ATM on our way down Duval
Street. Everyone took out cash, except Shoddy, which was odd since I knew he
tapped out his cash the night before at Irish Kevin’s bar. That night, when we
reached the Lazy Gecko, Shoddy started buying rounds. And he had taken the car
by himself that afternoon to find a package store.
Looked like I had prime suspect number one. I
reminded myself to address that with him when he woke up. I never did.
I was surprised Shoddy and the two girls were still
sound asleep in the Explorer. Lindsey wasn’t a very heavy sleeper, I knew from
experience. But neither she, Shoddy or Emily had even flinched since we left
the highway. I was amazed the sharp turns, racecar antics or the sudden stop at
the gas station didn’t rouse them.
I checked on them all before walking to the store.
Still sleeping. Emily and Shoddy were out cold in
the backseat; Lindsey snoring with her face pressed against the front passenger
window. They’d never know how close we were to breaking down. I’d never tell
them. I’d just add it to the list of other things, much darker, much more
significant things that I wasn’t planning on ever telling them. Compared to
those, Shoddy’s thievery from the gas stash seemed trivial. Perhaps I wouldn’t
mention it to anyone.
I left my three best friends in dreamland and made
my way to the storefront.
Inside was smaller than I expected. To the left, two
racks of automotive necessities and snack foods. One drink cooler covered the
back wall. Immediately to my right was the checkout counter. A tall promotional
display urging customers to change their oil sat on top. A large relic cash
register, continuing the retro gas pump theme, waited proudly, to the left of
center. A screwdriver and some mechanic’s tools were placed next to it.
The register was unmanned and upon further
investigation, it appeared nobody else was in the store.
I took a lap around the candy racks and only on the
way back around did I notice the small door behind the checkout counter. The
oil change display must have blocked my view of it. I briefly debated whether
or not someone positioned it deliberately.
When I looked inside the door I saw what was
probably used as an office. Right on the wall in plain view of the doorway was
a small black safe. There was a folding chair and a metal desk upon which were
propped the feet of a young man. He had on a red trucker’s hat with the number
of some NASCAR driver I didn’t know. He wore a blue, oil-smeared mechanic
jumpsuit, the zipper pulled down to his bellybutton. Underneath was a similarly
oil-smeared white t-shirt. On the jumpsuit was a patch with the name, “Bobbo”
stitched on. I had walked into a stereotype and had to suppress laughter.
I knocked on the counter outside the door. Bobbo
didn’t move. I knocked again. Nothing.
“Hey Bobbo!” I finally yelled, pronouncing it Bo-Bo,
like a clown’s name.
The man jolted upright, his hat falling over his
eyes in the process. He jumped up and immediately zipped up his jumpsuit and
brushed it off; as if he could clean the oil stains that way.
“Hey there, sorry to wake you but I just want to
fill up out there,” I said.
Bobbo recognized the situation immediately. He must
have done this before.
He rubbed his eyes and pushed past me, making his
way behind the counter. I followed but took the customer’s customary place on
the other side.
“It’s Bob-O,” he said with a yawn.
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s not Bo-Bo, like a clown. It’s Bob
then O.”
“Oh. My bad. Sorry about that,” I feigned apology.
“Well I just wanted to fill up. Probably take fifty.”
I handed him the one hundred dollar bill from the
envelope. His face screwed up in annoyance.
“Not from around here, eh friend?”
“How’d you guess?”
“We don’t get many of these around here,” he waved
the hundred like it was on fire. “Actually we don’t get many people in here
that I don’t know personally. So that tells ya something.”
“Yeah, I can see that. But thank God you’re open. I
coasted in here on fumes from the highway. If you were a few more minutes down
the road you would’ve been coming to get me in that tow truck you got out
there.”
Bobbo huffed.
“That’s if I answered the phone, friend. Pretty deep
sleeper, I am.”
He punched a few buttons on the relic cash register
and started flipping through bills. After a minute it became obvious Bobbo was
having trouble making change.
“You wanted fifty, right? I don’t have a fifty to
give back, friend.”
“That’s fine, I’ll take whatever bills you got.”
“That’s the problem, I don’t have enough in here to
make fifty. I gotta go out back and open the safe. Be right back, friend.”
“No problem, Bobbo,” I said, pronouncing it wrong
again. He scowled and made his way into the small office behind the counter.
I moved over a little and watched him dig through
the desk. After finding a small black notebook, which I assumed held the safe
combination, Bobbo got to finding me some change.
I looked away, not wanting him to think I was a
thief. I studied the wall behind the counter. It was covered with local
advertisements, lost pet notices and a dispenser for rolls of lottery
scratch-off cards. An old plastic cigarette pack holder was hung underneath a
novelty singing fish. All were typical backcountry gas station paraphernalia.
All except the frame hung right in the middle of the
wall. There were no ads or lost cat papers crowding it, just a halo of
off-white cinder block. The black plastic frame outlined its contents, a bright
red piece of paper, demanding attention and a tinge of urgency. It must be
important. Every regular customer waiting for change would notice it
immediately if they just refocused their eyes over Bobbo’s shoulder. The paper
would have peeked around him, flirting with locals and travelers like myself,
daring them to ask the obvious. Since I took an indirect route to the cash
register and had an indirect encounter with the slumbering Bobbo, I only just
recognized the fiery notice. Without Bobbo, I was free to investigate the
paper. It was the only object in proximity that didn’t immediately belong with
the redneck motif.
I checked on Bobbo still trying to open the safe
then glanced back at the frame. In order to read the black letters on the red
paper I leaned as far over the counter as I could. I propped myself up and
stood on my tiptoes, braced by my hands on the countertop.
Whoever designed the message clearly harbored strong
sentiments and certainly wanted every human in search of gasoline to believe in
their blazing credo. But he must have had incredibly good eyesight or terribly
poor vision because what he had in flare, he lacked in basic color scheme and
graphic design.
I dangled precariously over the counter’s back edge
and squinted to read the text.
In the frame was a list of ten items with the list’s
title in big bold letters that read: “The Paradoxical Commandments.”
I started reading them out loud but softly under my
breath.
“One: People are illogical, unreasonable and
self-centered. Love them anyway. Two: If you do good, people will accuse you of
selfish, ulterior motives. Do good anyway. Three: If you are successful, you
will win false friends and true enemies. Succeed anyway. Four: The good you do
today will be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Five: Honesty and frankness
make you vulnerable. Be honest and frank anyway.”
I paused at five and read the line over again, this
time in my head.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable. Be honest
and frank anyway.
I read five over once more. I couldn’t pull my eyes
from that line. I think I hated it. But I totally agreed with it.
Uneasiness and some other uncomfortable emotion
began creeping down my brain stem, into the buzzing nest of nerves. I had to
move on to number six. I never got the chance.
“Hey friend, what the hell are you doing?”
Startled, my hand slipped and I stumbled backwards
off the counter. I caught my balance on a candy rack before I fell,
Bit-O-Honeys scattered on the linoleum. As I pondered the fact someone, somewhere
still enjoyed Bit-O-Honeys enough for them to continue being manufactured, I
looked up to see Bobbo standing behind the counter. He held a wad of bills in
one hand and the other was resting on the screwdriver next to the cash
register. His fingers started curling around its handle in anticipation of
trouble.
“What? Oh shit, no. I’m sorry Bobbo,” pronouncing it
correctly for the first time. I put my hands up in a gesture of innocence.
“You trying to get into that register, friend? I
wouldn’t try it.”
“No, absolutely not Bobbo. I just want my change and
to pump my gas.”
“Then why was you climbing over the counter,
friend?”
“I wasn’t. I was just trying to read your
commandments back there.”
Bobbo looked confused. His knuckles whitened around
the screwdriver.
“What are you talkin’ bout.”
I pointed to the black frame behind him. He
hesitated but I shook my outstretched hand in assurance. He turned quickly and
his stressed face calmed. His grip on the tool loosened. He gave me one last
look up and down and concluded either I was no threat or that his lumbering
frame could easily subdue my inferior one. Or at least he was confident in his
ability to stab me with the screwdriver.
Bobbo punched a few keys on the register and the
drawer popped open.
“Yeah, that there’s Mo’s idea of employee training,”
he offered as he shuffled a few bills.
“Who?” I asked.
“Mo. Mohammed, Ajay Mohammed. He’s the owner of this
joint, my boss. This is his station,” he said and without looking up, pointed
to the glass storefront.
There on the window next to the door were white
adhesive letters. From inside the store the words were backwards but still
easily readable. I read out loud, “Ajay Mohammed – Owner.”
“Yup, that’s him. Good ole’ Mo,” Bobbo said, his
words laced with sarcasm. He handed me two twenties and a ten dollar bill. “He
puts them things up in all his stores around here. Says we should all live by
them rules like they’re a code or sumthin’. Says if we all did, we’d change the
world.”
His belly jiggled with a deep, cynical laugh. Bobbo
clearly was only a believer as far as it earned him a paycheck.
I put the money back into the white envelope and
stuffed it into my back pocket. Then I asked a question just for the sake of
conversation. I had to make sure Bobbo wasn’t planning on following me outside
wielding a screwdriver. I mimicked his cynicism, hoping to keep his mind away
from that possibility.
“So this can’t be Mo’s only gas station. How many
stores does he have? Probably need a lot if he wants to change the world with a
piece of paper.”
“About ten or twelve, I think. Has ‘em from here on
up through Georgia. Mo’s got the dough. He’s a little wacko, comes in here once
a week always pointing at that damn list and askin’ me if I’m livin’ by the
code. Then goes out back to count his money.”
“What do you tell him?”
“I always just say yes, boss. It’s easier that way.
But I don’t think I’ve ever
read the whole list. I figure when you got all the
dough like Mo, it must be nice and easy to go around livin’ all good and honest
and preach to other men. He don’t have to worry about two kids, an ex-wife or
paying rent.”
I was getting more information than I really wanted.
It was time to bid Bobbo farewell.
“Well Bobbo, thank you for being open. You saved my
ass,” I said and turned to exit the store. I took one last look at the framed
red paper list before I did.
“No problem, friend,” Bobbo said. “Sorry ‘bout
sleeping on ya. And for not having the change right away.”
“No worries,” I said. “Have a good night. I’m sure
you can head back to sleep now.”
I pushed through the door next to Ajay Mohammed’s
backwards name. As I did, Bobbo yelled out one last sarcasm.
“Hey friend, don’t forget to live by the code!”
The glass door closed behind me and I laughed. But
it was an uneasy laugh, the kind that jolts your insides for a second like a
tiny, unconscious punishment.
I could feel the tremors of another headache. I
thought of turning back to Bobbo and buying some Tylenol, or perhaps he knew
where I could get something stronger. But I had enough Bobbo for one night. And
for some reason, I really did not want to go back into the store. My body was
instantly averse to standing in front of that red paper again.
I walked back to the Explorer in a daze, my mind
hopscotching around the image of the red list of commandments on the store
wall.
A few times it landed on number five. Be honest.
Tell the truth regardless of the consequences.
It was a novel concept I never lived by. In
twenty-one years of life I had done some bad things. I had hurt some people.
Revealing truths would certainly have consequences, life changing ones. Being
honest would make me vulnerable. I wasn’t comfortable with vulnerable. But was
I comfortable with the current state of things? Maybe I was warming to the idea
of change.
The rear passenger side door was open. Shoddy was
staring unconvincingly at the retro gas pump, a credit card in his hand.
“Hey Auggie,” he mumbled when I reached him. He was
the only one that ever called me that and he did so infrequently. “You know
this thing doesn’t take credit cards?”
“Yeah, I already took care of it. Paid inside with
Bobbo the attendant,” I responded, not looking at him. I was looking back into
the car, checking to see if the girls were awake. Shoddy must’ve noticed the direction
of my gaze.
“She’s still asleep, don’t worry.”
“Good,” I said, finally looking at his face.
“You alright man? You look like shit, with those
bags under your eyes. Like a raccoon coming down off a bender.”
Where did he come up with those analogies? It didn’t
matter. I barely registered this one anyway. The haze of headache surged.
I stared at Lindsey’s face pressed up against the
glass.
“Hello, Augustine Shaw, wake up bro,” Shoddy said
and waved his hand in front of my face.
I blinked and looked back into his eyes. We stared
at each for a few seconds.
“You ain’t been right lately, bro. You’ve been off
all week. I haven’t seen you this bad since, well, last Friday night outside
Primal Bar,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” I got defensive.
“Before we left for Florida, last week, we went out
drinking? Something happened that really fucked you up.”
I opened my mouth to respond but the words weren’t
ready. Almost, but not quite.
“Forget it,” he said. “I gotta take a piss. Did you
see a bathroom inside this shithole?”
“Um, I’m not sure. Go ask Bobbo in there. And don’t
call him Bo-Bo.”
“Bo-Bo, got it. I’ll be back. You want anything?”
I just shook my head no. Shoddy shrugged and headed
for the store.
After he left the haze descended again.
Taking the handle, fitting it into the gas tank,
squeezing the handle. It was all done almost instinctively. I didn’t even look
at the numbers swirling by on the old pump’s face.
I instinctively went back to staring at Lindsey. Her
breath had fogged the glass a little near her mouth and there was a tiny wet
smudge from drool. She didn’t look comfortable. The seatbelt cut into her neck.
There was a slight red mark around the strap where it gently compressed her
skin. But she must’ve been sleeping well. With the door behind her open I
could hear her muffled snores. They weren’t feminine but they weren’t
Neanderthal either. More like heavy breathing. Her unconscious way of letting
me know she was still there.
Lindsey must have felt me staring at her because for
a moment she woke up; or at least her eyes snapped open and locked on my own.
They were a deep blue: almost unnaturally so, with a hypnotic way of grabbing
the attention of the opposite sex. Her lips curled up at the corners in a sweet
smile. The way her head was tilted, resting against the window, gave her a
coquettish smirk. I had seen it that way before.
The headache I anticipated exploded at that moment.
A sharp pang sliced from ear to ear. It was a familiar pain but something I had
never become accustomed to.
About a year ago I started getting the headaches. I
had migraines as a teenager, but these were different. They came strong and
fast; they dissipated just as quickly. I assumed it was some onset of adult
migraines. But I never went to a doctor, which in hindsight was probably a bad
idea. Over the last week, since the morning we left for Florida, they came with
more frequency and force. I never told anyone about them. I stuck with the
migraine thing. I handled it as a young teen, wasn’t something I had to worry
about now. Besides, I was always good at hiding my emotions, especially pain. I
hid pain really well.
What I had trouble with was guilt. It was what
ultimately was going to get me. Not the headaches or speedy driving, but the mutinous
guilt. Guilt over so many things that in so many ways hurt so many people,
Lindsey included. It was corrosive. It chipped away the ramparts I erected to
hide some things. The guilt was stronger than a sledge, more precise than a
jackhammer and more determined than a late-1980s Berlin twenty-something. The
pain was just a warning – a warning that the wall would soon come crumbling
down.
Yes, the guilt was going to get me. The wall had
cracked. I had to get control before a flood spilled through unchecked. You
want one thing but you get the opposite, the dichotomy of control. You want to
be honest but it makes you vulnerable. It was time to stop seeing that as a bad
thing.
NOW GO GRAB YOUR OWN COPY AT: http://www.amazon.com/Stone-Angels-Michael-Hartigan/dp/1939166799/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top?ie=UTF8
####