Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2 (27 page)

“Mm, no,” he says.

“Why do you think she poured her mother’s ashes into the sea?”

He takes a while to think about this and I do the same.

“I think,” he says, “because the ocean makes a spirit free.”

“In what way?”

“It’s like this,” he says, “the ocean is free flowing. It’s vast and the current can carry you all around the world. Aside from outer space exploration, traveling through infinite universes, it’s the closest thing a spirit can get to living infinitely. Always moving, always a part of that endless blue, a piece of that endless mirror reflecting the ever changing sky.”

“That,” I say, “is definitely worthy of owl status.”

“Ha, what do ya mean? I’m wise like an owl?”

“It’s just something my boyfriend and I say…I’m a turkey and he’s an owl. His mom is Momma Owl. Anyway, it’s stupid. And what you just said was amazing. Not at all stupid. Forget I even said it. See, this is why I’m the turkey.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” he says, laying out more pictures for me to browse through. I look over one he’s taken of a little boy, crying at the end of a driveway, his knees scraped.

“You can’t do this,” I say, stacking the pictures up. “You don’t even know these people.”

“That’s exactly why I do it,” Thomas says. He’s chewing on a bone from a chicken leg he got at Circle K.

“I like to know who people are, too,” I say.

“Do you take pictures of them?”

“No, it’s an invasion of privacy.”

“And I suppose watching them closely, as if under a microscope, isn’t invasion?” he says. “I don’t invade; I take a snapshot and leave.”

“You’re a stalker,” I say.

“A stalker catching stalkers in action.
I’m a protector
.” He hands me a picture from a separate heap stashed in a Ziploc baggie.

I am spinning, my hair a black cloud sweeping through the picture. My hands and arms blurring into each other, my lines long—I look like a dancer. A ballerina. I feel it in my toes, on the balls of my feet, sinuous leather boots turned to ballet shoes, bending with my arches. It’s the wind in my hair and the dizziness in my head as I twirl and twirl. The photograph is alive.

“Bailey, you see it, don’t you?” Thomas says. “See the girl in the car? She has binoculars.”

“
Her
,” I say.

“Yes,” he says taking the picture from my hand and pointing her out. “She’s in her car, watching you at the same time I was. If that isn’t fate, I don’t know what is.”

“That’s her!” I scream. “Thomas, that’s the dead girl, the one who tried to kill me. She was the one watching from my window while I slept, not you!”

“Well, I know
that
. I told you I wasn’t stalking you.”

“I wonder how long she was watching me and why. What was she
planning
?”

“Maybe she wasn’t
planning
anything,” Thomas says. He takes his picture back. “Anyway, you’ll never know, on account of she’s dead.”

“Can I keep it?”

“If you want to.” He gives it back to me.

I spend a good chunk of time staring at Miemah, most of her face blocked by her massive binoculars. It’s hard to tell what a person is thinking when you can’t see their eyes. Her mouth is open, as if she were in the middle of saying something.

“Are you okay?” he asks when my eyes stay on the picture too long.

“I’m not sure,” I say, unable to break free of the binoculars that stare back at me, as threatening and dark as Miemah’s eyes.

“You’re sad she’s dead, even though you think that’s all you ever wanted.”

“How do you know that?” I ask picking my eyes off the picture finally.

“I watch people for a living.” He winks.

“I didn’t think she would ever die, it felt like she were immortal.”

“Vengeance is mine—”

“Saidth the lord,” I finish.

“God protects all his little children.”

I smile at him and Starkey, and my voice echoes the way it does when I’m holding back tears, “God will take care of her and you, too. I know it. And someday you’ll have a real house, and more food than you can even eat.”

“Someday she’ll have a mommy, I hope,” Thomas says, looking down at his silent daughter. She is playing with his chicken bone but her eyes are trained on us, as if she understands our words.

“I don’t see why not,” I say. “Thomas, you’re a wonderful man.”

“And you are a wonderful girl, but you should spend more time with your boyfriend. You kids need each other. I got Starkey to keep me company.”

“Sometimes, you’re easier to be around than my boyfriend is,” I say. “But you’re right, he’s probably wondering where I am. So I should get going, now.”

I kiss Starkey’s fuzzy head, as I often do before leaving her and Thomas, and wipe the dirt from my shorts.

When I leave the shed, I am brought back by the sight of a black wall of clouds heading toward Goodwill. Another thunderstorm is festering in the summer heat. I hike up the small hill to the parking lot. My new boots slip, lacking traction. Their design is meant only for show, they are beautiful but, in a way, as useless as a Faberge egg.

Despite the consistent heat of the day, I’m dressed in a plain white T-shirt and a sweater, like what Mr. Rogers wore on
Mr. Rogers’sNneighborhood
.

We have customers. A car is in the parking lot beside Spencer’s truck, which is rarely seen with a companion on weekdays. I open the door so fast that the bell fails to give out a warning ding to Spencer as I come up behind the customers and wave my picture for him to see.

“Spencer, you have got to see this!” I say. “You won’t believe it.”

“I’m with customers, Bailey,” he says, his eyes bulging toward the family of Cubans who are intent on finding a microwave.

“One that can pop popcorn and cook frozen TV dinners
,”
the head of the family is saying.

“Any one of them can,” I say. “In the back, to the right, is where we keep the appliances, have a look.”

“Bailey,” Spencer says, trying to get me to leave.

“Can we talk?” I ask him, ignoring the customers who are watching us with impatience.

“No, I’m with customers.
Get!
”

I slap my hands down to my thighs and let my eyes roll to the ceiling to show my deep displeasure. “
But we need to
,” I whisper and head into the back room.

I crouch under a free hanging shelf holding buckets of nails and jars of bolts, while listening to Spencer coax the family into buying a toaster oven, rather than a microwave.

What’s more rare, customers or finding out that Miemah has been stalking me?
Customers.
Miemah could have done any number of things under my nose while she was still alive. Besides, Thomas is right, she’s passed on now, maybe I should too.

I hear the bell ding and Spencer saying goodbye to the customers and my heart speeds up irrationally. I dread him coming to the back room the same way I dread my mother after she has drunken herself into oblivion.

“What couldn’t wait?” Spencer asks. He looks for me but cannot find my hiding place until I speak up.

“Miemah died,” I say my voice wavering.

“That’s great!” he cheers.

“No it’s not! Her dad beat her to death. Spencer, it’s horrible!”

“What does it fucking matter? The girl deserved it, about time she got a taste of her own medicine.”

“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,
not even my worst enemy
,” I say.

“What’s the picture?” he says, not paying attention to the anger I’m swimming in.

“It’s of Miemah,” I say calming down. “She was watching me. Maybe she felt sorry for what she did. I think she’s the one who gave back my locket, that night on the beach, not Trenton.”

“Let me see,” he says.

I relinquish the photo.

“She’s dead and yet you still let her control your life. What’s wrong with you, Bailey? You should be celebrating, not clinging to a picture of her.”

“I feel sorry for her.” I press my chin in between my knees.

“You’re insane.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know what it’s like to have your own mother or father strike you down,” I say in Miemah’s defense. “It’s the worst feeling in the world and he
killed
her.”

“I don’t care. I’m fed up with this—you constantly running back to those who hurt you. You need to stop; it’s going to tear us apart.” Spencer looks at the picture, down at me, then back at the picture. “I’m sorry,” he says, twisting it in his hands.

I hear it rip but can’t bear to watch it happen.

The picture, in thirty something pieces no bigger than a thumbnail, sprinkles to the floor. I’m like boiling water inside a kettle; I need to blow off steam. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I say, a warning tone to my voice. I unfold myself and stand up. Spencer is leaning against his worktable, his arms crossed in defiance.

“Why would you do that?” I ask, my voice denying me the evenness that I need to keep my body from acting out in rage.

“It’s better the picture be torn apart than our relationship,” he says, shrugging his empty palms. “You don’t have to worry about her, anymore.”

His demeanor nibbles at me, his coolness and complete disregard. My fists are already clenched when I swing my arm at him like a professional tennis player; it is the racket and Spencer’s face is the ball. I clock him hard in the chin and step off a little ways, knowing out of instinct he might strike back.

“Bitch,” he says, under his breath, rubbing his chin. He puts a hand to his lip and it comes back red.

I make a run for the door but his arm hooks around my waist and jerks me back. It’s a move that would normally be playful, like when he tosses me on the bed and tickles me. Except I know he isn’t playing this time.

“Let go of me!” I scream. “Spencer, take your hands off me!”

I struggle against his arm.

“This is the last time you hit me,” he says.

My skin crawls at the severity of his voice. I fear that pain is soon to follow.

“You ripped my picture!” I say to distract him from my mouth as it slowly moves toward his arm.

“You’re obsessed with Miemah—” he starts, his words morphing into a howl as I sink my teeth into his arm and break free. I bolt for the front of the store, not bothering to look behind me as Spencer’s footfalls land closer and closer.

“Bailey!” he screams as I push open the door. “I really have to tell you something.”

I turn for a second. The time is such a small window but it’s all it takes for Spencer to grab me again. He pushes me to the floor and straddles my stomach. There’s blood dripping down his arm and teeth marks. I can’t believe I’m the one who did that. Can’t believe it wasn’t a dog or a shark. I’m an animal.

“I love you, Bailey. I love you so much that it hurts. But you don’t want love, you’ve never wanted love, you only want pain!”

I try to get a grip on the carpet with my boots but as I push my feet against it, I remember how little friction the soles have. I am slipping my feet out of them when Spencer forces my head straight and drives his fist into my nose. The punch is driven up, as if he had been aiming for my chin, but I pushed my head down as soon as I saw his fist coming, to refract the hit.

I find my hands from beneath his body and cover my face. His weight shifts on me so I am no longer pinned. I bring me knees to my chest and turn on my side, away from him.

“Damnit,” he says, punching the ground.
“Fuck.”

“Spencer,” I cry, “you really hurt me!” I bring my bloody hands away from my face and show him. I am not a strong, forbearing girl, who can fight off men with teeth and fist.
I am a whimpering, cowering, little girl in the fetal position.

“I know,” he croaks.

Should I really be angry that he fought back? I mean, what was he to do?
I fucking bit his arm
.

Something feels right about this pain, if pain can be right. Deserved pain, unlike Mom’s senseless abuse.
Well-earned pain.

Spencer crouches over me. He pushes back my hair so he can see my face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really sorry; I should never lay my hands on you.”

I’m surprised to see tears in his eyes, too. He lays his head on my collar bone and weeps. I comb my fingers through his hair. “I’m just like my dad,” he blubbers, “he used to hit my mom. He had problems controlling his anger and I thought it was you. But it’s not you at all. I’m just like him. And I hate myself for it.”

“You’re not like him,” I console. “You know what sets you two apart?”

“What?” he asks lifting his face that glistens with tears. “How is this any different from my father?”

“Love,” I say.

“How does love make up for any of this?”

“Love conquers all pain.”

Spencer rolls me onto my back and pushes his hands under my head. “Love,” he says, “you silly girl, is what causes the pain.”

“It is its own antidote.”

He raises my face to his lips, and opens his mouth, inhaling my scent. We share bloody lips like Chap Stick, his saliva diluting the taste of metal in my mouth. Hands work at the wooden discs that hold my sweater closed, hands work at pulling my shirt over my head.

I push Spencer’s arms and we roll together until I am the one on top. Our lips don’t leave each other the whole time. His hand crawls along my back, unhooking my bra and sliding down my spine.

“Can we do it?”
he asks.

“Spencer, I’m not about to lose my virginity in a thrift store.” I laugh in disbelief. I stare at him, smeared with my blood, his wide smile cut into his face like the Joker from Batman.

“You’re a temptress if I ever knew one.” He chuckles.

“And you,” I say wiping the blood from his lips, “are a vampire, if I ever knew one.”

“Touché. Now shut up and kiss me, already.”

I wonder if the Joker kisses this good.
I keep my lips pressed against his for the longest time, like I’m waiting for something to happen. Then I realize I am. I’m waiting for that surge of electricity, that bolt of energy that stopped my heart every time I kissed Clad. “Clad would never hit me.” I meant to think it not say it.

“And he would have never gotten your shirt off either,” Spencer says smugly. “Feel better now?”