Numb

I'm feeling a little numb. But I guess numb may be better than overwhelmed and upset. I was quite upset last night when I went to bed. I was mostly worried and scared. I am worried about being able to survive here properly. I've never lived in a big city like this before. Every time I leave the apartment to run an errand there are no shortage of homeless people walking about. They even dumpster dive in our dumpsters here at these apartments. And I guess it terrifies me because I know how easy it is to find yourself homeless. You don't have to have done anything wrong.

People who have been fortunate enough to have never have been homeless always assumes it's the homeless person's fault. But how is a child responsible for their homeless state? How is a mentally ill person who can't keep track of the day of the week responsible for their homeless state? How is the unexpected loss of a job one's own fault? How is a job transfer failing to go through properly one's own fault? Or the company you work for failing to explain the transfer process clearly one's own fault? I don't even think it's the alcoholic nor junky's own fault they're homeless. It's our society's fault.

We're number one my red, white and black ass.

We have a lack of safety nets here for catching veterans, those who are mentally ill etc. for keeping them from falling through the cracks and ending up homeless. We spend too much money on the military for jets and fighters that sit in hangers getting dusty. And it looks like it's only going to get worse before it gets better.

In the mean time, all I can do is try to keep a roof over our heads. Keep calling the local Home Depots hoping someone gets sick of me calling and puts my transfer through. It's not a fun thing to be going through when your dad just died.

Overwhelming

Life is often overwhelming. Or at least for me, there has never been a shortage of overwhelming events that often make me feel like I'm drowning in a pitch black tunnel with no light to show me the way out and I can't tell up from down.

My son turned 31 two days ago and I haven't seen him in over ten years now. I miss him terribly and worry for him constantly. My daughter is under the same roof as myself, but I worry for her constantly. My biggest worry is trying to ensure neither will be homeless after I'm gone and that the home that they have after I'm gone is a safe one.

Learned a couple of weeks ago that my father is seriously ill. He was diagnosed with liver cancer and just learned a couple of day ago it's stage 3. He's 72 and he's beat the odds in life a lot of times. He has lived and isn't afraid to die. He wasn't the best father, but I love him. I haven't seen him in over ten years and most of the things I may be mad at him about seem trivial now. All I want for him to know right now is that I still love him, that I will always love him.

He wasn't around much when I was growing up and I wish he had been there more, mostly to keep my mother from beating me because she had a violent temper. I cried for him and she would mock me that he wasn't coming. I threatened to tell daddy more than once about her beatings. But I was always just so happy to see him when he made it for a visit that I never remembered to tell.

My sister Reneta wants us all to make it to South Carolina to see Dad and each other. It's been more than ten years since I've seen anyone except my daughter. And the only reason I see her everyday is she lives with me. The other day Cherokee forbid me from dying. She knows that's not how it works, but hey, can't blame her for trying.

As for going to see Dad and everyone else, I want to very badly. But my arch enemy the monetary system instituted and perpetuated by greedy ass people is totally in my way. My stomach is in knots and I've been up all night. Up all night isn't unusual for me, but the knotted stomach is driving me up a wall.

Would love to visit a doctor about some of the things that are troubling me, but I currently have no health coverage. You have a right to an attorney and if you can't afford one, one will be appointed to you free of charge. But you don't have a right to health care in this country. If you can't afford a doctor, no one's going to appoint one to you, you gonna die.

Of course, no matter what we're all headed there anyway. Still, most of us would prefer to put it off as long as possible. But until it's my time I'll just keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep pushing forward no matter how hard the world keeps trying to push me backward.

Daunting

The idea of a big move is intimidating and quite daunting. And for some people a big move is moving to the next town over or the next county over. For me, those would be little moves that require minimum preparation. But a move from one state to another is a substantial move that can throw you into culture shock.

My first big move was from Ohio to South Carolina motivated by not wanting to still be in Ohio when my mother was released from prison for conspiracy to commit aggravated murder. Knowing my mother as well as I do, I knew if I was still present in Ohio when she was released that she would pick up where she left off in her pursuit to kill me. And I would either die at her hands or be forced to kill her in self defense, neither of which are desirable to me in any way.

My move to South Carolina was made easier by the fact that I have relatives there. So I had family that I could turn to if I needed them. I have a tendency to be extremely independent so I'm not in the habit of asking for help or seeking help until I absolutely need it, or often way overdue for needing help. After years of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of my mother and no one ever being there for me, I don't expect anyone to come save me or be there for me any more. I stopped hoping to be saved or helped when I was still a child. But my move was made easier by having my father and step-mom to move in with initially when I arrived there. But I made a point of not over staying my welcome and moving into my own place quickly.

After my daughter was diagnosed with Asberger's  Syndrome, a form of Autism, I found myself motivated to move due to South Carolina's lack of proper educational programs for children with varying disabilities. Unable to return to Ohio because my mother lives there, I did some research and discovered that LA has some schools that specialize in children like my daughter. But I couldn't get her registered to one until we lived there.

Now my paternal Aunt Sonny lives in California somewhere, but I lost her address and phone number and didn't feel I could call my father and ask for them. My attempt to relocate to LA was a disaster. The apartment I thought I had lined up was much smaller than the add had made it seem. If it had been a parking space, it wasn't large enough for me to park my Camaro in and we don't even want to discuss how expensive this minuscule domicile was. There are tiny houses that are way more spacious than this place was.

So we found ourselves sleeping on the floor of a very nice couple from Utah who asked if we knew anyone in Utah. Well we did. We didn't know them very well, but I called them and they let me and my daughter come stay with them here in Utah temporarily. One of their daughter's gave up her room temporarily for me and Cherokee to share while she slept on the living room couch. The Whetstones will always hold a special place in my heart and I will always consider them family.

And now I find myself ready to make another big daunting move. But not so big and daunting as moving from one side of the country to the other. Las Vegas, Nevada is only about 450 miles from where I currently live in Utah. That's less than a 7 hour drive. So I've set up some vacation time for the beginning of March when I will also have a birthday on the 3rd. I will drive down there and spend a few days driving about getting to know the area.

I've been looking into extended stay hotels. And while some can be rather pricey, I have found a few that are reasonable. What I pay in rent now combined with what I'm paying to keep us warm during the winter is still less than a month at the extended stays I'm interested in. Utilities, WiFi and a pool are included. The mention of a pool makes everything perfect to my daughter.

I'm hoping and praying that everything goes well. There shouldn't be any trouble transferring my job. And if all goes reasonably well, perhaps I will be buying my first ever home for myself and my children. Charles may be in Ohio, but I still keep him in the forefront of my mind.

My biggest worry is that my children could end up homeless after I die. And I have been unable to buy a home here in Utah. I can't get a loan large enough to buy something that's halfway decently livable here. Things are just too expensive here. Plus, I really miss the diversity of Ohio. Still can't go back to Ohio and there's no sense in me dwelling on that. So I'm hoping the Las Vegas/Henderson area will do the trick for us.

I hope to have our own home by the time my younger brother Jason shows up with his Nanny dog in tow. Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. If you're atheist, please wish us luck.

Refund Time!

Whoot! Whoot! Got my W2 a couple of days ago and I already did my return and e-filed it. And as soon as it gets here, guess who's making an appointment at her favorite salon. This guy!

But the return doesn't mean I get to go on a spending spree. It will make things easier for a few months. Several if I am extremely careful with it. But there are things that need to be done with it like maintenance on my Exploder. The annual oil change is due along with emissions testing for plate renewal. And Exploder needs new shocks all around. Meant to get shocks last year, except other repairs were more necessary first.

The other thing I hope to do this year is relocate, and not just to a better rental. I'm looking to relocate out of Utah and it looks like I may land in Nevada. I was originally thinking Colorado, but things have gotten ridiculously expensive there and I want to finally purchase my first home. I'll never be able to afford to buy a home here in Utah.

A friend of mine recently bought his first home here in Utah. $130,000 and it needs all kinds of work. To me if you're coughing up at least $80,000, it should be at least livable with all the essentials not significantly out of date and over due for replacing. What you would need to spend here for a fixer-upper, in Nevada the same fixer-upper is about half what it is here.

Many people are happy and content to stay where they were born their whole lives, and I probably would have been too if things beyond my control didn't make it more likely for me to be murdered by my own mother back home in Ohio. I certainly didn't have big dreams of moving far away when I was young. But you do what you have to do to survive sometimes. My survival required me to leave Ohio and I can't go back there to live.

So after I've received my return, I'll start looking into transferring to a Home Depot in the Las Vegas area. Then I hope to finally buy my first home. Cross your fingers, say a prayer for me and wish me luck.

Be Good to Yourself

When you're poor, being good to yourself is a challenge. As a mom, I am already prone to putting myself on the back burner and taking care of everyone else first. And usually once you're finished taking care of everyone else, there's nothing left for yourself, not even a good night's sleep.

But my two children while both being special needs people are no longer children. They are special needs adults now. And I'm very blessed that they don't require a lot of special attention. As long as they have internet access, a couple of good video games and all the basics like food, clean water and shelter, they are pretty easy to keep happy most of the time. There's no constant running to doctors and specialists like when they were children.

So I find I am now able to do something for myself once in a while. But when you're poor it can be hard to be good to yourself. Thankfully, I'm not too much of a girlie-girl, but even I need a little pampering once in a while. It doesn't cure my depression, nor fix the dilapidated rental we're stuck in, but it does boost my self-esteem for a bit so I'm not drowning in feeling like a worthless failure.

Some women are blessed enough to be able to have a monthly appointment with their favorite stylist, but I'm not someone who's lucky in that manner. And I've been told that if it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all. But I do have good luck. It just gets used for things like surviving a severe skull fracture or the tornado missing my house. It may not ever produce a winning lottery ticket for me, but it has kept me alive when I probably should have died.

I know many people of privilege are mean enough to think that poor people don't deserve to ever eat a good meal, have a decent set of clothes, receive proper medical care, have a reliable vehicle to get to work with, nor ever get to step into a beauty parlor and pamper yourself a little. After all, you're poor. That means you're not a full fledged human being with thoughts, feelings, goals and ambitions.

The assumption is you are poor because you are lazy. If you ask my daughter about me, she'll tell you I'm a workaholic. People of privilege who grew up in well to do families and have been lucky enough to have never experienced any type of poverty don't give a thought to what other circumstance may have made you poor and/or are keeping you poor. They don't have a clue how much work your special needs child(ren) are and can't imagine what kind opportunities you've missed out on because you need a work schedule that allows you to be available for doctors' appointments and appointments with specialists.

It's hard to be good to yourself when you're poor. Finding time to do something for yourself can be a challenge when you're dividing yourself between your three jobs and caring for children or elderly or ill relatives. My time has opened up quite a bit since my special needs children became adults, but I still have constraints that can make holding down a job with a variable schedule impossible.

Yet money is always extra tight. Still I managed to squeeze out three different trips to my favorite salon this year. The most recent one being today. And I know it will be my last one for the year and I won't get to pamper myself again until next year when I get my income tax return. Sometimes the visit after receiving my income tax return is the only one I get for the whole year. And there have been years where I couldn't afford a hair appointment at all.

As for the privileged people that think that just because I'm poor I should have to suffer continually and never have anything nice nor ever do anything nice for myself, kiss my ass. God made mankind so that mankind may know joy, and there's no stipulation that only those with money are allowed to know joy. Even the poor may know joy.

When the opportunity presents itself, I will be good to myself. Even poor single moms need to be pampered occasionally so they don't forget how to smile, so you can still hold your head up and remember that you are important, especially to the people that love you and depend on you.

Pain

Pain is a pain in the ass.

I'm usually not a big baby about things, but I don't like to be in pain, physical nor emotional. My emotional pain I often bury under complaints about other things. There really isn't anything I can do about my emotional pain so I do my best to ignore it.

Physical pain on the other hand, not always so hard to ignore. Often impossible to ignore. My right ankle acting up was more than enough to deal with for me physically. Can't visit a doctor for help so I've been getting by with keeping it wrapped and taking an epsom salt bath everyday. That usually allows me to get through a whole night of work.

But I couple of nights ago I hurt my left hand at work. I somehow managed to break a blood vessel in the lower part of my palm while putting away silver carts. It's the first time I've ever had a bruise on my palm before. I have found that like the ankle keeping it wrapped limits how much it hurts, or at least keeps it from throbbing. But I'm waking up with the fingers of my left very stiff and sore which I find perplexing because I didn't hurt them. But a little flexing seems to dissipate that pain quickly.

Pain is a pain in the ass and I hate to be in pain of any kind, but sometimes you just have to deal with it as best you can.

Working on My Worthiness

I went to church yesterday. I haven't been going the past couple of years because our previous ward... Well, we were never going to be accepted there. There's a bubble here in Utah that makes living in this state quite unique. Your church is one place where you should always be accepted, but here renters like myself are often seen as transients and therefore not anyone the church needs to reach out to. Except the opposite is usually true. Renters are often in the most need of support.

Some people may like apartment life, but I'm not one of those people. I hate the lack of privacy, of feeling like I'm suffocating by the other tenants living on top of me. I hate not having my own yard. And I hate not being able to have a dog. My daughter's companion animal, Echo, is just not the same. But dogs do not belong in little apartments where they don't have there own yard to run and play in.

But after my experience with my last ward and the fact that I'm still a renter, I was more than a little reluctant to visit my current ward. I've basically been in this apartment for two years without going to church. Yet I'm very thankful for the missionaries who came to the door a month or so ago. Not anyone could have knocked on that front door and convinced me to visit my own church.

I was overwhelmed the first visit. I only stayed for sacrament. Then I had to get out of there for fear I would say something extremely inappropriate. I didn't go again the next Sunday. But when I did go again it was different. Again I only stayed for sacrament then walked home relieved that meeting felt better than the first. I meant to go the Sunday before last, but my right ankle is giving me trouble. An old injury where I strained it years ago has been acting up and I had to call off work the Friday before that Sunday. I contemplated driving over to the church, but it felt silly to drive a block away.

But yesterday I drove that block over. I stayed through sacrament, went to class after sacrament and even went to Relief Society. Relief Society is usually the one class I have felt the most uncomfortable with. But I wasn't half as uncomfortable as I expected. I actually enjoyed myself. But I miss the two elders that convinced me to come back to church, especially Elder Hernandez. There are still elders there but I guess you could say I don't feel like they're mine.

My daughter didn't go with me. But I've got to let her make her own spiritual journey. I can't take it for her. Plus, I've still got a long way to go with my own journey in this area. I still don't feel worthy to take the sacrament and I don't know how long it will be before I do again.

Starving, But Not For Food

My busy mind woke me up before I was truly rested and ready to get up, a common occurrence for me. And I laid there trying to will myself back to sleep so I'll be properly rested for work tonight. Except my busy mind didn't let me. Instead it went to analyzing me, my life, my current health issues and what can I do to make things better. But before you can make things better you need to know exactly what is causing the issues.

I don't appear to have a virus or cold. Although I am almost constantly stuffy from my daughter's cat. But my chronic diarrhea, chronic fatigue, depression, sadness, exhaustion, lightheadedness and dizziness must be caused by something. I know I'm lonely. The only family I have here is my daughter. And while she loves me unconditionally, she's not a companion. I look after her.

It is a fact that human beings need love. Love is a human need. It's why we seek out companionship. But when infants are not love loved, they fail to thrive and often die. Same with the very elderly, without love their health fails faster and they die.

So what happens to an adult who is starving in this fashion?

I think I'm starving. Not for food, but for love. I think I'm suffering from love deprivation. I've been alone for a long time. Not by choice, but because I have been unable to find a companion to spend my life with. And I've looked and searched, but problems I have no control over get in the way.

I am interracial and I currently live in a state where the predominant religion frowns on interracial relationships. Except I have no choice in this area. Being an interracial person means all my relationships are interracial. And men are less likely to step outside of the box in this area than women. As a woman, I can honestly say I am more likely to follow my heart and be less logical in this area.

But my interracialness isn't the only problem. Our media paints a very narrow view of what is a lovable woman and very little of it is based on intelligence and personality. It pretty much centers on physical attributes, long legs, fair skin, light eyes, skinny, none of which are me. No check mark on any of those for me.

And I certainly can't control what someone else's family finds acceptable. Mother's usually hate me. I am almost never good enough for their baby boy. There's nothing like watching someone you love and you know loves you marry someone else because his family will not accept you because you are part black, or part white or part Native. Then there are his own preconceived notions of what his wife should look like getting in the way. Notions that were shaped by his family, his friends and our beloved media.

He had it in his head that his wife must be a natural blond. It didn't help that his mother wouldn't allow that little nigger girl in the house. He didn't let that stop him from seeing me at first. But your family, especially your mother is a strong influence on you. So eventually he pulled away from me and married a natural blond that his mother approved of. Last time I saw him they had been married for several years and had like four kids, but he was not happy. He looked at his natural blond wife with disgust. He looked at me with anger, as if it was all my fault he was unhappy because I wasn't at least a white girl his mother would accept and for not being that natural blond he had set in his mind as that's what he had to marry.

I understand why some women stay in abusive relationships. Because between the beatings and yelling there are moments where he is loving. And they live for those moments when he is loving. I can't live like that, but some women manage with it even though no one should have to go through that.

So when I look in the mirror I see a woman the woman the world insist is unlovable. Unlovable for reasons that I cannot change and wouldn't change if I could. I am kind and I am caring. I am down to earth and I am not flippant, nor flamboyant. I'm not shallow nor selfish. I am slow to anger and quick to forgive. And what's wrong with being petite and curvy?

But the fact remains that I am alone and suffering from love deprivation. Will it kill me??? Perhaps... There are days when I am just tired of suffering and I am overwhelmed by all the burdens I carry alone and frustrated to be stuck in a world that keeps punishing me for being me.

Just Want to Chill at Home

I called off work last Friday because my right ankle hurt so bad I could barely walk. I could barely get from the daybed to the half-bath and the daybed is only a couple of steps away from the half-bath. I hated to call off. One I hated not being there to do my job. Two I really can't afford to miss a day of work like that.

Now it's Monday and I'll need to go into work tonight ready or not. The ankle is feeling better but it's still hurting. I think I may have re-injured it at work. I hurt on top of just being flat out exhausted. I slept nearly the entire weekend except for getting up long enough to eat, relieve myself and play a little Farmville 2.

I have farmer fantasies where I look outside and can't see my neighbors, breath fresh air instead of car exhaust and factory smog, where my home is my own and I have painted the walls colors I like and don't have to wait for the landlord to feel like fixing something.

But my daughter came up from her room and made breakfast this morning. She has no idea how much I appreciate something like that. I know she hates to do dishes, but it's one less thing for me to stress about when she does. Taking care of those little household chores for me without being asked lifts so much weight from my shoulders. I really hate to have to nag to get her to do something. And I hate it even more when it gets to the point I'm ready to get rid of her cat because that would be one less thing I would have to worry about taking care of.

She's pretty good about looking after Echo herself on some things. She remembers to feed him, she plays with him and has gotten better at keeping him brushed. But sometimes I have to yell about the litter box getting too full. It's in the half-bath which I uses everyday so I look at his litter box everyday. I know immediately when it needs attention. And it irritates me greatly to have to remind her to come clean it.

I have enough to worry about with just trying to keep us from being homeless. I don't want to come home beat all to hell from work and then have to look at a dirty cat-box while I'm relieving myself and nag to get a few dishes done or the trash taken out. I just want to come home and chill.

It would be nice to be able to go to a doctor because on top of the right ankle hurting to the point I'm limping, trying not to limp, or not walking on it at all because it hurts too bad, I've also been sick with chronic diarrhea, bouts of nausea, vomiting, lightheadedness and dizziness. But I don't have any health coverage so I just get to endure until either whatever is wrong with me fixes itself or kills me.

In the mean time I just want to come home and chill while we still have a home.

Conspiracy Theory

I saw today where the FDA approved Oxycontin for children as young as eleven years old. Oxycontin is a powerful addictive Opioid like Morphine. Morphine is so dangerously addictive it is often only used to ease pain for those who are terminally ill. And they approved giving something like that to children. WTF?

They know that adults often become addicted to these prescription narcotics and that it can lead them to heroin abuse. But now they're not going to wait till we're adults to turn us into drug addicts. They're going to get us hooked while we're children.

During lunch last night at work there was some talk of conspiracy theories. This year's upcoming presidential election has us all scared. And as the only woman at the table I was mostly quiet, mostly taking in what the guys were talking about. A secret government. Billions of dollars and gold just missing. That 9/11 was no accident nor a terrorist attack. But I have my own conspiracy theory.

I believe there are multiple exclusive factions vying for control of the world. These factions are made up of small groups of obscenely rich and powerful elites. And each faction is trying to take over the world in a different way.

The oldest way, religion. Some people are sheeple and need someone to lead them around by the nose. They need religion to tell them how to be good little boys and girls and don't know how to be good honest human beings without it. And I find it just sad and pathetic that you need to be threatened with hell fire just to be a decent human being. But that doesn't work with everyone. Some people reject all religion because it just doesn't make any logical sense to them.

Money is the root of all evil. Money is just another form of slavery. People have allowed themselves to be enslaved to this imaginary thing. And even those of us who see clearly that it's imaginary, are slave to it because you can't do a damn thing in our world without it unless you live totally off the grid and make and grow everything you need yourself. And not many of us can live like that anymore. We simply don't have the survival skills for it. Many millennials can't even fry an egg or sew a button back on. But there are people that reject it and live off the grid while others of us are looking for ways to eliminate it because it's not real any damn way.

The war on drugs. What a crock of shite. Marijuana with all the good it can do is still illegal. Still classified as a schedule 1 drug like Heroin and LSD even though it's not addictive. It can actually be used to help people recover from Heroin addiction along with many other uses. But you could grow it easily in your own back yard. They don't want that. They can't control that. But if they get you hooked on their prescription drugs, that gives them a lot of control over you. So they're looking for the best drug to get us addicted to and trying to figure out just how young we have to be to start using it in order to control us fully and keep us slaves.

Then there's trying to find a way to engineer a group of subhumans that will happily work their asses off for a little praise and a cookie. Plus, they know they're destroying the environment and these subhumans could also serve as cattle. Where did I pull that one from? Zika virus. They are trying to create people who can work their asses off but aren't smart enough to see they're just slaves and will just accept orders without question.

First faction to master their particular form of slavery wins control of the world!

Religion and money are the two oldest. Those two factions just need to give it up. You simply can't control everybody with either of those nor by combining them. Drug addiction will never work completely either because there will always be those who are drug resistant naturally while others will develop a tolerance to the drugs that will make them useless.

The last one though does have me worried. Because they have already done an excellent job of dumbing us down. Too dependent upon electronics, microwave meals and no real survival skills. Lots of children are being born with autism and now suddenly we have to worry about these babies born with the zika virus. They may finally succeed with this one because most of us have no desire to go live off the grid. We trust that the water coming into our homes is safe to drink. We're constantly breathing pollution. We're too lazy to hold onto a piece of trash until we find a garbage can. ADD, ADHD, Tourettes Syndrome, OCD and mental illnesses such as racism keep us from paying attention to the world around us properly. I think we're screwed.

I got off of work about six am and it's going on three pm. I need to get some sleep. But I often suffer from insomnia. As you see above I have a very busy mind. And I believe giving strong narcotics like Oxycontin to children is just wrong. And if a doctor prescribes such a thing for your child, you need to find a new doctor for your family.

What's In A Name?

For the first fifteen years of my life my maternal grandmother (my mom's mom) refused to call me by my first name, Renetta. She called me by a nickname that had nothing to do with my first name and there are still some very old friends and a few family members left on my mother's side that still call me by that nickname.

Renetta... I like my first name. I have never wanted to be one of the more common names people often name their children. Look at my picture. Do I look like a Susan?

Now my last name, I wanted to change my last name. I have heard just about every Corn-y joke there is. I wished it was more identifiable as Native. I wished I had gotten a cool Native last name like Eaglefeather or Flyingeagle. I spent most of my sixth grade year putting another word down as my last name on my papers because I was tired of my corny last name and all the dull corny jokes.

But I finally accepted it. Or rather I've accepted that I'm stuck with it because my father has never claimed me. And since I don't ever expect to marry, it seems I am stuck with it for eternity.

Renetta... I never wanted a new first name. I've always been comfortable with my first name. It is often mispronounced by people who have never heard it before. But that doesn't bother me. I know it's not a common name. But it's not a new name either.

But I was hurt that my maternal grandmother wouldn't call me by it. Her reason? She believed it was a nigger name.

My maternal grandmother was raised to think of herself as white even though that's not true. Her father was German, but her mother was Native. Except we don't know what tribe she was from. It was not discussed. He taught my grandmother and her siblings that he was white so they were white and what there mother was didn't matter.

I was one of those nosy kids who had to know everything. I never just accepted things. I always questioned them. I know it was something that the adults on my mother's side of the family found annoying or at least the ones that would allow me to be around. Because most of my mother's side of the family wouldn't have anything to do with me and my brother. They called us Sheila's Nigger Kids. And no they didn't wait for us to be out of the room. They didn't hesitate to say exactly how they felt about us right in front of us because in their eyes we weren't entirely human so our feelings weren't real and didn't matter.

I'm sure it isn't hard to imagine what this did to my self esteem. I valued myself very little when I was young. For a long time I was desperate for someone to love me despite the fact I didn't deserve to be loved because I was interracial. My father is African and Native American. But in the world I was being raised in that African part made me worthless. Sometimes those feelings of worthlessness still haunt me.

As a result I got pregnant young, very young. I'm not quite a whole sixteen years older than my son. I turned sixteen a month after he was born. I never once considered having an abortion, but my mother would have taken me for one if I had said that's what I wanted. And I didn't consider adoption an option either. I had no guarantee that someone would love my not so white baby as much as I would. Plus, I needed him.

I had finally found purpose in my life. I had a reason to live. I had someone to live for because I had trouble living for myself. I may not have loved myself properly, but I loved this baby I was having. I was going to do everything within my power to do my best to be the best mother I could possibly be for that baby. But that baby needed a name.

I knew from my experience with my own name that names are very important. I spent hours pouring through baby name books because I didn't know the sex of my unborn child. I needed a name for a girl in case I had a girl and a name for a boy in case I had a boy. And while going through the girl names I found my own name. There in black print on the off-white paper was my name. And according to the info provided for it, it was a German name.

I was happy and pleased to share with my maternal grandmother that it was okay to call me by my name because "Look Grandma. See??? It's not a nigger name at all. Renetta is a German name." My grandmother never called me by her nickname for me again.

I remember the look on her face when I shared happy and excited that my name wasn't bad like she thought. I know she realized at that moment that she had hurt me. And I know she never meant to hurt me. I know she loved me. But she wasn't the kind of woman to admit she had made that kind of mistake and had been wrong. So she said instead, that I had become a woman. I was having children of my own. And I was too grown up for that baby nickname.

I have learned more about my name since then. And while never a popular name it has been used widely across Europe. Its root is Latin and means "reborn." Yet the question, "What's in a name?" is one that haunts me.

I know that if my grandmother believed what she did about my first name that she's not the only one. And your name affects your whole life. People have perceptions about certain names. People expect anyone named Marilyn will be a beautiful blond woman. Certain names can make it easier to get a job. Make is more likely you'll get a job interview.

I wonder how many times I have been dismissed and didn't even get an interview because of my name and the perception someone has of it. I wonder how many times my resume was tossed aside because my name was at the top. I wonder how many negative thoughts ran through someone's head about me when they heard my name for the first time.

I've had people state shocked after getting to know me "wow, you're a hard worker." All I can think is, why wouldn't I be a hard worker?

I don't know exactly what's happening in other people's heads except that I am getting judged without the opportunity to prove myself, without attempting to get to know me. And I know I'm not the only one this is happening to. So if you're someone who thinks negative thoughts when you see or hear a rare or unusual name, you have something you need to work on. Because you just might be passing on someone who would be the best, best friend you ever had, would make an excellent employee, or who might be the love of your life and you're throwing away your one chance at Happily Ever After. And why? Because their name sounds funny or strange to you. Sounds really immature to me.

But hey, what do I know? I'm just Renetta. ;)

Omnie-poe-tent

One of the best things about being a parent are the things my children say. My daughter always knows when she's either said something incorrectly or inserted the wrong yet similar sounding word by the giggle fit I burst into when she's trying to have a serious philosophical discussion with me.

It is my opinion that if she ever gets to attend a college that she should study philosophy since things of that nature are her favorite topic.

Last night my giggle fit was while she was attempting to have a serious philosophical discussion with me about God and whether or not there exist a truly omnipotent being out there somewhere. She mispronounced the word omnipotent and instead said omnie-poe-tent which sent me into a giggle fit. She immediately recognized that she had pronounced it wrong and tried to salvage the conversation and put me back on track by telling me I knew what she was trying to say.

Yes I knew what she was trying to say, but she had lost me to my hilarious thoughts and I had to inform her that her omnie-poe-tent being had created an image of an impotent being inside my head that had me giggling. At that point she realized she had lost me because then I reminded her of the time my mother had a vasectomy.

My mother actually had a double mastectomy a few years ago. And while sharing this with some associates visiting us at home Cherokee accidentally used the word vasectomy instead. That one had me declaring we were going to be rich along with my giggle fit because my mother was the first woman to under go a vasectomy.

I thoroughly enjoy being a parent. I look forward to things my two special needs children will say. Occasional one of them will actually say something very profound. I am totally at a loss when people tell me they're sorry that my two children are both special people because I'm not sorry. I'm blessed. My two children are beautiful human beings who are accepting, tolerant and without the petty prejudices many people have.

Even my son realizes the men running around in white hoods are just "stupid."

And as I continue to enjoy being the mother of my two very special individuals, I'm still waiting for our generous wind fall from my mother being the first woman to have a vasectomy. Perhaps that omnie-poe-tent being will cut us a check. :D

Nan

“Come on, guys,” called Nan as she hurriedly pull her black wavy hair back into a ponytail. “We’re running late. I’ve got to get you guys to school.”

“Coming Nanny,” called Coral as her book-bag bounced on her back as she ran out of the house to the crew-cab. Nan quickly checked Coral’s pigtails before she lifted her to the back seats and secures her in her safety seat.

“Rob,” shouted Nan. “Rob!!!”

The teenager trudged out of the house yawning. Nan could tell he’d run his fingers through his jet black died hair but not actually combed it. But she didn’t have time to fuss at him about it.

“What’s with you this morning,” asked Nan as she pulled her petite-self up into the front of the crew-cab with Rob. She looks down frustrated because she can’t reach the pedals. The driver’s seat isn’t in the position she left it in. “What the hell,” she said frustrated.

“What’s wrong Nanny,” asked Coral from the back seat.

“My seat’s pushed too far back,” she explained as she readjusted the seat. “I guess your parents needed something and pushed it back before they left for the airport… There. That’s better.”

She pushed the start button. The engine made an attempt to turn over. The sick woo-woo sound it made caused Nan to slump in her seat. She looked up at the sky and asked, “Why me, Lord? Why me?”

“What’s wrong now Nanny,” asked Coral concerned.

Nan checked the gages in front of her. “Dead,” she said in disbelief. “How can it be dead? It still had more than half a charge when I came in last night. I shouldn’t have needed to plug it in to charge again until tonight.”

“Maybe you read it wrong,” suggested Rob hunching down in his seat.

Nan took a deep breath and blew it out. “Looks like we’re walking.”

“Why,” asks Rob. “Why can’t we just stay home? And isn’t it like a ten mile walk?”

“It’s not ten miles,” responded Nan as she got Coral from the back seat. “It’s not even five. I can walk ten miles in about an hour. I’ll call your schools and let them know your each going to be about a half hour late, but we’re on our way. I’m going to miss my class. After you’re both safely at school I’ll just stop at the farm on my way back to the house and take care of the errands I promised your father I’ld do after my class. Then I’ll call Charlie’s to come get the truck. They’re not open yet.”

Nan held Coral’s hand as they walked. Rob lagged behind them several paces.

“I hate this old bridge,” complained Nan as they walked across it.

“Why,” asked Coral.

“It’s too narrow and there’s no side walk for pedestrians,” answered Nan. “It’s way overdue for being replaced.”

“Why haven’t they replaced it,” asked Coral.

Nan shrugs, “They’re having trouble deciding the best time of year to work on it. Plus, while it’s out creates a long drive the long way around to get to town. They’ll get to it eventually.”

“Nanny,” Coral informs her, “Darla Dumas said you’re a dirty, mixed, nagger hoe. But I told her you’re not dirty. You take a shower every day. Rob always tries to peek at you while you’re showering.”

Nan looked back at Rob and gave him a sour look. Rob didn’t try to deny it. It was best not to tell a lie anywhere near Nan. Nan seemed to have a built in lie detector. It was best to keep your mouth shut. So he looked away like he didn’t hear his little sister tell on him.

Nan told Coral, “Don’t pay any attention to Darla or any of the other Dumas’s when they’re saying mean ugly things about people.” She’s sure the word Darla used wasn’t nagger. But Coral having never heard the ugly word before didn’t hear it correctly. “Besides, Darla doesn’t really know what she’s talking about. She’s just repeating the bad things she’s heard the grown-ups in her family say.” Then Nan muttered angrily to herself, “They’re not called Dumbasses for nothing.”

Rob caught Nan’s muttering and smiled amused. Nan tried to be kind and understanding to everyone. He knew she wasn’t mad at little Darla. She was just a seven year old like Coral. He knew Nan was irritated with the adults little Darla was stuck with as parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Most towns had a town drunk. But the Dumas’s were their town’s drunks. They made their own moonshine because they were usually too broke to buy beer. Occasionally someone would give one of them a chance and hire one. But then have to fire them because they either showed up to work drunk, didn’t show up to work at all because they had gotten drunk or stole something from work or from someone else at work.

“Mrs. Carter, it’s Nan. Our truck is dead so I’m walking the children to school. I’m so sorry we’re running late. Do you need me to walk Rob all the way into the office… No… Thank you because I need to walk Coral all the way to her school. We’re at the end of the road now. Rob should be there in about five to ten minutes… Thank you, Mrs. Carter.”

Nan reaches out and slaps Rob in the back of his head as he walks past her and Coral. She can see the high school from where they’re standing.

“Ow,” exclaimed Rob as he grabbed his head. “What was that for?”

“For peeping at my while I’m showing.”

“But I’ve never managed to see anything,” responded Rob feeling like he didn’t deserve the slap because he never managed to get a good look at her goodies.

“And what would your uncle Harper do if he caught you trying to peek at me in the shower,” asked Nan.

“Rip my head off and pound me into non-existence,” answered Rob.

“Don’t do it anymore,” ordered Nan.

“I won’t,” answered Rob in a defeated tone. Then he headed for his high school.

Coral asked Nan, “Should I tell Uncle Harper Rob peaks at you in the shower?”

Nan shook her head, “As long as he doesn’t do it again no. If you see him doing again, then tell your Uncle Harper.”

About ten minutes later, Nan walked Coral into the office of the elementary school and announced, “Here we are. So sorry we’re late.”

The office attendant quickly checked Coral in, “Alright, all checked in Coral. You can go to class.”

Nan kissed Coral’s cheek. “Have a good day sweetie. See you after school.”

“Love you, Nan,” called Coral.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” called back Nan.

“Ruff morning Nan,” inquired the office attendant concerned.

Nan nodded, “My truck is dead. It didn’t hold its charge overnight. I’m missing my class at the university. I could try to catch the last ten to fifteen minutes of it but what would be the point in that. Rob’s being a brat because he thinks we should have all gone to the Science and Technology Conference together. He doesn’t get that just because it’s in a fancy hotel doesn’t mean there’s going to be time for fun. His parents and Harper will be stuck in conferences for the next two days. And some of it will be interesting, but a lot of it will be boring as hell.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Collins an attorney,” asked the attendant.

“Yes,” confirmed Nan. “Some kind of Amendment review coincides with the conference so she was able to travel with her husband and after they’ve both spent a boring day listening to law and science lectures, they’ll get to meet up for dinner and spend the night together. Harper will feel like he’s crashing their couple’s time at dinner, call me and give me all the boring details.”

“And your big day with Harper is coming up soon, right,” asked the attendant excited for Nan.

Nan smiled happily, “Yes, in two more months I will officially be Mrs. Harper Collins. Oh, and someone needs to go check on Darla Dumas at her home. She told Coral I’m a ‘dirty, mixed, nagger hoe.’ I’m afraid her father’s on a drunken bender again. I don’t know why when her mother left Daryl she didn’t take Darla with her.”

“Nagger hoe,” questioned the attendant.

“I don’t think the word Darla used was nagger, but that’s what Coral heard,” shares Nan.

“I’ll call family services and have someone check on them,” agrees the attendant. She knew just as well as Nan that when Darla began saying nasty things to other children things weren’t right at home.

Nan walked to the university farm to check on things like she promised her future brother-in-law. There were several different growing experiments taking place on the farm. The Amish and Mennonites that worked on the farm for extra money kept their distance from her at first. But now they smile and wave. After taking care of morning chores on their own farms, they come to the university farm to help out and earn extra cash for their families.

Nan grabbed a digital pad that Professor Collins left for her from the farm’s small front office and started to go through the items. She pulled out her phone.

“Cheryl? ... Cheryl, it’s Nan… I survived the morning. But my truck is dead. I had to walk the kids to school. Rob acted like he was dying the whole way. Could you send someone for my truck? … Thank you, Cheryl. I’ll be waiting to hear back from you… Yes, talk to you later.”

Nan continued to check the items on the list for her future brother-in-law. About half way through the list she saw something strange out of the corner of her eye.

“Are you alright Nandellei,” asked an Amish farmer concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I feel like I just saw one,” responded Nan as she stared at the tiny house that sat in the middle of the farm. “No, one’s in the house, right Mr. Engle?”

“Nope,” answered Mr. Engle. “No one’s gone in for anything that I’ve seen. But a couple of the fellas think it’s haunted. One says he saw a woman. Another says he saw a man. I think it was just a trick of the light.”

Nan nodded agreeingly, “You’re right. I’ve just had a stressful morning and my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

“Where’s your truck, Nandellei,” asked Mr. Engle concerned.

Nan took a deep breath. “It didn’t hold its charge last night and was dead this morning. I had to walk the kids to school. Rob trudged the whole way like it was killing him. And we had to walk over that spooky old bridge. I’ll be glad when they replace that old thing. I always get a chill when I cross it.”

“But you made it here,” points out Mr. Engle.

Nan smiled at him, “Yes, thank goodness I did. I just hope whatever is wrong with my truck isn’t serious. Serious always equals expensive.”

“Aye-ya,” agreed Mr. Engle, “that’s always true.”

Nan got back to work. That strange trick of the light happened again. She stopped in the tiny house which mostly held supplies but was also set up for someone to stay in as an example of how little space a person actually needed. She got a chill.

“Nan,” said an old man’s voice.

Nan turned in the direction of the voice and saw Harper’s deceased father standing there. She opened her mouth to scream but he disappeared. Nan had helped care for him the last year of his life. She knew he was very dead.

“Nan, get a grip,” she told herself. “It’s a hot bath, chocolate ice cream and pajamas for you tonight. If my truck isn’t running in the morning, we’re not going anywhere.”

On her walk home, Nan came across the Wells’ boy, Tommy. The chubby ten year old was crying and covered in mud. Nan rushed to him and asked wide eyed, “Tommy, what happened?”

“I was walking to school and some older boys beat me up and shoved me into a mud puddle. Slapped mud on top of my head and threw mud balls at me. Called me names and stuff. Said I was soft like a girl. I finally got away and managed to hide from them. I guess they finally went to school.”

“Is your mother home,” asked Nan.

Tommy nodded, “She should be.”

“Come on I’ll walk you home.” Nan tried his home number but there was no answer. She hoped his mother had only stepped out briefly. She’ld take him home with her if she had to. But they would come to the little dirt road that led to his house before they came to her home.

They pause at the old bridge. Tommy told her, “I don’t like this bridge.”

“Me neither,” confessed Nan. “But we have to cross it to get home.”

About half way across the bridge, Nan heard a car coming. The curve and the trees kept her from seeing it right away. “Get behind me Tommy. A car is coming.”

Tommy let Nan guide him behind her. Then the rusty old El Camino came into view. Nan recognized everyone in it: Dale, Clyde and Daryl Dumas.

“Ten points,” she heard Dale yell to Clyde behind the steering wheel. Then the car sped up and swerved toward her and Tommy. Nan threw Tommy out of the way.

Nan found herself staring down at the old El Camino that seemed to be standing on its front end in the river. Water up to where the bottom of the windshield used to be. But the windshield is gone. The tail end of the vehicle is leaning on the bridge keeping it from falling down. The steering wheel is keeping Clyde’s head above water.

Nan rushed to Tommy in the center of the bridge where she tossed him. “Are you alright Tommy?”

Tommy nodded as he stood up, “Yeah, I think so. Are you alright Nan?”

“I don’t know how,” answered Nan, “But I’m fine. I was sure they were coming right at me.” She pulls out her mobile phone, “Better get some help,” and calls nine-one-one.

Nan answered all the dispatcher’s questions and soon heard sirens approaching. Tommy pointed and said, “Look.”

Nan looked and saw Daryl Dumas’s body floating face down, down the river. She hugged Tommy as she said softly, “Sweet Jesus have mercy.”

Soon there was an ambulance and police cruisers. Nan was answering questions as an EMT gave Tommy the once over. Tommy told the sheriff, “A body floated down the river.”

The sheriff looked at Nan who nodded and informed him, “It was Daryl Dumas.”

The sheriff shook his head sadly. He called to his deputy, “Mike, get a tow truck here ASAP. We need to get this heap out of the river. Once we have it out of the river we can see if Dale and Clyde are still alive.”

Nan informed the sheriff, “I think they were trying to run us over. One of them shouted, ‘ten points.’ Then the vehicle sped up and came straight at us. I tossed Tommy out of the way. But I was right here and I didn’t have time to get out of the way. I was sure it was going to hit me. I don’t know how they missed me. But then I was looking down at their vehicle sticking out of the river like you see it.”

The sheriff called to a couple of officers, “I need one of ya’ to walk down each side of the river a ways. See if you can spot Daryl’s body. Hopefully it’s gotten caught up on something and not gotten far.”

Each officer started down each side of the river. One stopped not very far away from where the sheriff was talking with Tommy and Nan. He called, “Sheriff?”

“What is it,” asked the sheriff.

“I found someone,” answered the officer.

“Daryl,” questioned the sheriff not expecting it to be Daryl.

“No,” answered the officer.

“What,” asked the sheriff, “Don’t tell me you found some random body.”

“Not exactly,” responded the officer.

“Is it recognizable,” asked the sheriff.

“Yes,” answered the officer.

“Do you know who it is,” asked the sheriff.

“Yes,” answered the officer, “but you’re not going to believe it.”

“Well who is it,” asked the sheriff.

The officer looked spooked as he answered, “It’s Nan.”

“What,” Nan and the sheriff both asked in disbelief.

The sheriff headed to take a look at what couldn’t possibly be Nan because he was talking to her. Nan told Tommy to stay with the EMTs and followed the sheriff.

The sheriff stood there with his mouth agape as he stared at Nan’s body. The Dumas brothers hadn’t missed her. They hit her straight on and sent her body flying across the river where it landed here on the other side amongst some trees and bushes.

Nan shook her head in disbelief as she looked at her own body. “No,” she said as she stared at her lifeless body. She began to cry, “No. This can’t be happening. Harper and I are getting married. No.” Then she disappeared right before their eyes.

The years passed quickly. Tommy Wells became a man, married and had a family of his own. His son TJ told him, “But she’s a ghost. Right Dad?”

Tommy tried to think how to explain, “I don’t think she’s a ghost the way most people think of. She saved my life. And now she watches over the bridge here to make sure children make it safely across it. She’s a good person that still tries to help others when she can.”

“Why didn’t you tell mom the lady she saw was a ghost,” asked TJ.

“Your mother doesn’t believe in such things,” answered Tommy. “And not everyone can handle meeting Nan.”

“Is that you, Tommy Wells,” asked Nan.

Tommy smiled at her, “Yes, Nan. It’s me.” She looked just the same as the day she died. Same clothes and everything. “And this is my boy, TJ.”

Nan smiled at TJ, “It’s good to meet you TJ.”

“You don’t look dead,” stated TJ.

Nan shrugged, “But I died.”

“Can I touch you,” asked TJ.

“Sure,” answered Nan.

TJ touched her hand. “You’re warm like you’re alive.”

Nan sighs, “I feel like I’m still alive. But I know I’m not.”

“What happened,” asked TJ. “Why are you here? Why didn’t you go to heaven?”

Nan shrugs, “I’m not sure. I seem to be stuck here. I’ve tried walking home. But I don’t get very far. Then I’m suddenly back in the middle of the bridge. Doesn’t matter which direction I go. I can only go so far then I’m back on the bridge. I’ve even jumped off it a couple of times only to find myself right back on it.”

“Do you get cold and hungry,” asked TJ.

Nan shook her head, “No. I’m never cold now. And I don’t get hungry either. I don’t get wet when it rains or anything like that.”

“So where are you when no one can see you,” asked TJ.

“Sometimes I’m just watching,” answered Nan. “I can see into the park they built here and I like to watch the children play. But usually I’m sleeping. Or at least it feels like sleeping to me. And when someone needs help, I come help them. And when I feel someone who loves me is here, I come see them. Then I go back to sleep until I’m needed or wanted again.”

Nan spotted a car coming across the bridge. It’s not the same one she died on. That bridge had to be replaced after she died. The Dumas brothers’ vehicle did a lot of damage to the old bridge that was already in need of replacing. The new bridge is at least twice as wide as the old one. It has a sidewalk on both sides and a bike lane on both sides of the two lane bridge. Before it barely qualified as a two lane bridge. The car parked across the street from where Nan is talking with Tommy and his son. She lights up at the sight of the driver who’s getting out. It’s her Harper. Harper is no longer a young man, but he’s still a beautiful blond Adonis to Nan. He has a cane and Nan rushes to help him to her side of the street where there’s a very nice bench that he had placed there in her honor. It has an image of her and her name on it.

“Harper,” says Tommy concerned. “You look like hell man. Should you be out and about like this?”

Harper responds, “Cancer will do that to you. I assure you I feel just as bad as I look. And if Coral had her way I would do nothing but lay in bed waiting to die. But Rob’s not the only one that can sneak out, steal a car and go for a joy ride. Of course it’s my car, so it’s technically not stealing. And I always come here so it’s not like she won’t be able to find me when she realizes I’m not in my room waiting to die.”

Harper was nearly 6’6” in his prime. He played football and had been nicked named The Blond Adonis. Nan had initially tried to shoo him away when he tried to talk to her. She couldn’t imagine what such a tall gorgeous man would want to do with her. And she had been sure he was probably nothing but shallow and in love with himself. But they had a few classes together and Nan learned he was nothing but gentle, kind and intelligent. He wasn’t full of himself at all and quickly stole her heart. To Harper, Nandellei Nelson was the most beautifully exotic woman he had ever met. She was seriously studious and the one person he was sure was actually more intelligent than his older brother. And when she smiled, her whole face lit up and Harper knew she was the one the first time he saw her smile and that no one else would due.

“Harper,” Nan told him as they sat together on the bench, “you should probably be resting. You should have at least accepted treatment.” Cancer has taken its toll on Harper. He’s severely hunched over. His hair is completely grey and he’s extremely thin because he’s terribly underweight.

“Nan, that would only postpone the inevitable,” reminded Harper. “I have the same incurable cancer as my mother. Beside, I’m ready to be with you.”

Nan huffs frustrated, “You should have at least them try. They may have discovered something that would help someone else. You should have stopped coming here to me. You should have met someone else gotten married and had a family. You don’t know what’s going to happen when you die. We don’t know why I’m stuck here like this.”

Harper smiled at her lovingly, “I love you too Nan. You’re my soulmate. My life has been incomplete without you there everyday to boss me around.”

“I’m not bossy,” denied Nan.

Harper smiled even wider at her as he leaned into her arms, “Sometimes I tell myself things like, ‘Harper, your dirty clothes don’t belong on the floor. What do you think we have laundry baskets and hampers for,’ just because I miss you. So since I didn’t get to spend my life properly with my soulmate, the powers that be better let me spend eternity with her. If they don’t, they’re not going to like me. You know what a pain in the ass I can be sometimes.”

Nan smiled lovingly at him as a tear ran down her round tan cheek, “A suborn pain in the ass when you set your mind to it… I love you Harper.”

Harper wiped the tear from her cheek, “My beautiful Nan.” He closed his eyes contentedly. Then his head slumped forward.

“Dad,” questioned TJ scared.

Silent tears started to leak from Tommy’s eyes. Then his eyes grew wide with amazement as Nan stood up from the bench. And as she stood, Harper stood up from his body holding her petite hands. He was free of that frail sick body and back in his prime like he was when he met Nan. Sparkles and butterflies rained down over them and they weren’t in normal clothes anymore. Nan’s wavy black hair cascaded down her back. The clothing she was wearing the day she died were replaced by a long white gown. And Harper’s clothes were replaced by similar style white clothing.

Harper asked, “Nan, when did you get wings?”

Nan answered smiling, “The same time you got yours.”

Harper looked over his shoulder and said surprised, “Oh.”

“What’s happening Dad,” asked TJ.

“I’m not sure son,” answered Tommy.

Then a bright light in the shape of a door appeared. Tommy questioned, “You’re both going home now?”

Harper nodded, “Yes, we’re going together.”

Tommy asked, “Do you know why Nan was stuck here like she was?”

Harper and Nan both nodded as he answered, “We both know now.”

“Why,” asked Tommy. “What went wrong?”

Nan answered, “I wasn’t supposed to die that day. We all come into the world with an approximate expiration date. It wasn’t my time. Our free will caused a mix up. And I got stuck in a sort of limbo because I was supposed to have a long life with Harper. But we can both go home now. Take care Tommy Wells. We’ll meet again.”

As they passed through the light door, there was a blinding flash and they were gone. It was something you could actually feel. They were gone.

A little girl lost and afraid in the woods looks up at a man and woman hiker. The woman ask her, “Are you lost Reba?”

The little nods and asks, “How do you know my name?”

The woman smiles. “I’m Nan. I know the names of all the children who live around here. I know your father TJ Wells. And your grandfather Tommy and I are very old friends.”

“Are you sure you’re not bad people trying to trick me,” asks the little girl.

Nan smiles amused, “Do my husband and I feel bad to you?”

“No,” answers the little girl.

“Come Reba Wells,” says Nan as she picks her up. “Let’s get you back to your family.”

They walk for a while and finally step out of the woods by Nan’s old bench. Nan sits little Reba Wells on the bench. Then she and Harper sit on the bench too.

Reba touches the image of Nan and tells her, “You look like her.”

Nan and Harper both smile amused as Nan says, “Do I?”

Reba nods. “Grandpa says she was a really nice lady. That she saved his life when he was a little boy.”

Nan nods, “She did.”

“Are you her ghost,” asks Reba suspiciously.

Nan and Harper both giggle a little. But Nan shakes her head, “I’m not a ghost. I was never a ghost. But that’s what some people thought. I even thought that for a little while. Now I’m just an old friend who drops by when I’m needed.”

“Who needed you today,” asks Reba.

“You did,” answers Nan smiling brightly with Harper.

They hear family, friends and searchers calling Reba’s name. Harper stands and calls out to them, “She’s here! … She’s here at Nan’s bench!”

The first one to come bursting out of the forest is Tommy Wells. Relief covers his face. “Reba, thank goodness you’re safe.”

Reba hugs Tommy around his neck tightly, “This nice lady and her husband found me.”

Tommy looks at the man and woman who at first just appear to be hikers. But then he realizes he knows them. Tommy questions in disbelief, “Nan? … Harper? … Is that really you?”

Nan and Harper both nod as Harper confirms, “Yes, Tommy Wells, it’s really us.”

“It’s been so long,” says Tommy. “No one has seen you in years except the occasional small child who says you helped them find their way out of the woods.”

“We’re not needed here often,” responds Nan happy to see Tommy. “But we do come when we’re needed.”

“Dad,” questions TJ looking at Tommy as if he’s sprouted a second head.

“Look Daddy,” directs Reba, “Grandpa’s friends found me.”

“Who the hell are you people,” asks TJ concerned.

“I know it’s been a long time,” acknowledges Nan. “But we did meet when you were a little boy. I’m Nan and this is my husband, Harper.”

“It’s good to see you again TJ,” acknowledges Harper. “I’m sorry we weren’t properly introduced the first time we met. But I was just a little preoccupied at that time.”

“You were dying,” states TJ with feeling as other friends, family and searchers reach them. “I was nine. And I watched you sit right there and die.”

“I’m sorry if that was traumatic for you TJ,” apologizes Harper sincerely. “I just wanted to be with my Nan. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. And I was so exhausted from the cancer. But what you may perceive as the end of life here is the beginning elsewhere.”

“You go to heaven after you die right,” questions Reba.

“Heaven isn’t exactly the right way to describe it,” shares Nan. “But upon finishing life here, good people relocate to where we now exist and bad people are elsewhere. And it is very beautiful, but it is not work free. This small area is ours to look after. It was originally part of a larger area that was overseen by another being. But when I was stuck here, the being couldn’t gain access to this area. I was in the way. But Harper and I have been allowed to continue to oversee this area.”

“Being,” questions a woman. “What do you mean ‘being’? Like God?”

Nan shakes her head, “There is no God the way it is taught here. But there are great spirits, great intelligences, that watch over lesser beings here and on other worlds. They cannot interfere in your free will, but they watch and they guide by giving good feelings about things to those that are sensitive to them to help them make the right choice. But they can’t do anything about those who always choose selfishly.”

“Are you saying there’s no plan for us,” ask a man. “That it doesn’t matter. That everything is just random shit and it’s hopeless?”

Nan shakes her head, “Not at all. There is a plan and that is for lesser beings to grow into good beings and move to the next plain of existence as we have. And what you think of as heaven we simply call home.”

“For most of us,” adds Harper, “Dying isn’t losing someone we love because they will be home waiting for you to arrive.”

TJ points out, “You said for most of us. That means we all don’t make it to where you are. What happens to them? Are those the people that go to hell?”

“Technically,” explains Harper, “there’s not a hell the way you think of it. But bad people, evil people, cannot come home. They’re not ready.”

“So what happens to them,” asks TJ. “What happens to the ones that aren’t ready?”

“That depends,” responds Nan. “For evil people, they find themselves in a prison of their own making. And they will remain in that prison until they are truly remorseful and come to see the error of their ways. Then they are sent back here or another world for another chance to get it right. For those who are not ready because they simply died young and hadn’t gained enough life experience, they return here or arrive on another planet to continue their growth. But sometimes the very young are ready.”

“What makes one ready,” asks Tommy.

“Acceptance of self is one,” explains Nan. “Some people think one’s soul for lack of a better term is a certain gender or a certain race when it’s more accurate to say that a soul is clear, genderless and formless. So when people get hung up on a physical trait or traits, they are failing to accept their present self. Acceptance of others no matter what their present form is the next requirement. There are no bigots where we exist. There’s no room for those with that mental disorder because there are more than just human beings as you know them where we exist now. And most importantly, selflessness. You have to be able to put others before yourself willingly and without reservation or hesitation.”

“Like you did for me when you saved my life,” notes Tommy. “But you got stuck. You were stuck here for nearly thirty years. You said the last time I saw you that you were stuck. And you got stuck because you weren’t supposed to die that day.”

Nan nods, “Someone else was supposed to die that day. I was supposed to be here with Harper and discover a cure for the type of cancer he had. Now it will be several more generations before someone discovers that cure. But it will still be discovered.”

“Someone else was supposed to die,” states Tommy wondering. “Who was supposed to die that day instead of you?”

Nan informs him, “You were supposes to die that day Tommy Wells. You were ready. You had fully accepted yourself. You were fully accepting of others. And you were a generous selfless little boy.”

Tommy feels guilty, “But when you sacrificed yourself for me, you got cheated out of a happy life with Harper. Harper wasn’t the same without you. And you were studying to be a doctor. How many people have suffered and died because you saved me and you weren’t available to help them?”

Nan informs him, “That’s not important Tommy Wells. No one’s time here is unlimited. Everyone’s time here has to end. Some just sooner than others. Some go so quickly like I did that they don’t even realized they passed at first, not until they see their own body. Some not so quickly and are grateful when it’s time to go home. Some will get a redo because they’re not ready. And some will be stuck in a prison of their own making until they are ready for a redo. And they will likely be very different from the person they were before. Their ties to their previous family are lost. They basically have to start all over again. And while they are unable to remember their previous life, some fundamental lessons will stick with them. They often get referred to as old souls.”

“And now you’re going to take my father away from us,” states TJ upset.

“TJ,” Tommy tells his oldest, “they came to help Reba.”

“Dad,” insist TJ, “look at yourself.”

“What’s wrong,” asks Tommy. “Do I have a flagger hanging out of my nose?”

Reba informs Tommy, “Grandpa, your grey hair and wrinkles are all gone.”

“What,” asks Tommy who starts by looking at his hands and finds they aren’t the hands of an old man anymore. And he realizes he has no aches nor pains of any kind. He feels better than he’s ever felt before in his life. He looks at Nan and Harper and ask, “What’s happening to me?”

Harper points as he informs Tommy, “You passed away over there a few minutes ago. But you were so intent on getting to Reba and it happened so fast, you didn’t even realize it happened.”

 “Am I going to be stuck here like you were Nan,” ask Tommy concerned.

Nan shakes her head, “Not at all. You were ready a long time ago. And your wife Sylvia is waiting for you to come home.” She looks at his oldest, “I’m sorry this upsets you TJ. But look at it this way, your father was ready as a boy and got an unintended extension that gave you the blessing of having him for a father. He’s more than earned his place at home where your mother is waiting for him. And they’ll be waiting for you along with many other loved ones when it’s your time to come home.”

TJ complains, “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Nan informs him, “That’s because you’re not quite ready yet yourself. When your time comes you’ll realize that the end of this existence is the beginning of a new existence and that transition is something that should be celebrated, not mourned.”

The doorway of light appears. Tommy is unafraid. He can feel his Sylvia on the other side waiting for him. He doesn’t look back. There’s a blinding flash of light as Nan and Harper follow him through the door.

Many claim the bridge is haunted. They say a woman and a man come when someone is lost to help them find their way home. But no one is afraid because it’s just Nan with her husband Harper. And few believe the stories about the door of light. They just know when a child gets lost near that bridge, they always say Nan helped them find their way back.

Drumpftland

It wasn’t always this bad. Or at least that’s what they tell me. The way it is now is the only way I have ever known. My grandparents tell me there used to be freedom of speech. That there was freedom of religion. That there used to be many different kinds of people and our country was known as the melting pot of the world where everyone was allowed to pursue happiness.

            Happiness… I don’t believe I’ll ever know true happiness. I’m a woman after all. We’re not trusted to make decisions for ourselves. We’re not allowed to vote. But it didn’t used to be like this. We used to get to vote just like men and we used to get to make our own decisions. We used to have a say in who we married and when we had children. Now your father makes all your decisions including who you marry. After you’re married, then your husband makes all your decisions.

            Luckily for me and my mother, my father is a very loving, kind and gentle man. He is very much about doing his best to protect us and make us happy. I know not all homes are love filled like ours. In many homes, a wife is just another piece of property a man owns. She is a servant to do his bidding.

            There were so many freedoms before Drumpft became president and turned himself into our dictator. Changed the name of our country to Drumpftland after himself. We’re not even allowed to say the name of the country we were before and it isn’t taught in school for those that can afford to send their children to school. There are no public schools in Drumpftland.

            The wall between us and Mexico was meant to keep Mexicans out. But they don’t want to be here. Now it keeps us in. Everyday people are shot by our own homeland security trying to escape into Mexico and Canada. Most of the indigenous people escaped into Canada before the wall on the Canadian border was built to keep us from fleeing what was once a land of freedom.

            My father was a little boy when Drumpft made himself dictator. He says people didn’t even take him seriously when he ran for president. Drumpft was a business tycoon and TV personality. Yet he developed a cult following. Dad says people were shocked and appalled because they didn’t realize so many hate filled people still existed in our country. They thought we had gotten past all of that. Apparently not.

            Still most didn’t take Drumpft seriously. They just assumed there was no way Drumpft could win. They didn’t believe someone so Hitler like could possibly become president. After all, this was a land of freedom and opportunity. Someone like Hitler couldn’t possibly come into power here.

            I asked my grandparents what happened. How did such a person manage to become president? And they told me that people simply took their right to vote for granted. That too many assumed that their vote didn’t count and didn’t matter. So they failed to exercise their right to vote. They didn’t bother with voting at all when it mattered most. Yet Drumpft’s mindless cult followers voted.

            All those angry, hate filled bigots exercised their right to vote while too many others failed to go vote telling themselves it didn’t matter anyway. And of course it doesn’t count if you don’t show up and do it. Then it was too late.

            There were executions in the streets. Drumpft executed many of the very same people that support him. He called it “culling the herd.” He had nothing but contempt for people who are poor, uneducated and simple minded. He was most offend by those he perceived as weak minded.

            As for people of color, if you proved to be useful you were allowed to live. But Canada accepted refugees. And African countries accepted refugees to keep Drumpft from executing thousands of people of color. Muslims who refused to convert to Christianity were deported unless Drumpft decided they were terrorists. Then they were executed. If you were lucky, they just put a bullet in your head. The unlucky ones were raped and beaten to death.

            My paternal grandfather is a doctor, a surgeon. And my paternal grandmother was a nurse which made them useful and valuable. So even though they were people of color, my grandmother was black and my grandfather, granddaddy, black and native, they were not deported nor executed. But their home was taken from them. Luckily my granddaddy’s best friend, another doctor volunteered to take them in. Saving them from being crammed into a tiny apartment. My father remembers watching many conversations between his parents and my maternal grandparents.

            My mother is my father’s best friend and the daughter of his father’s best friend. Even though she is half Caucasian, they were allowed to marry because the plan is to breed out the remaining people of color in Drumpftland. My parents didn’t plan to have children. Drumpftland is not an easy place for an interracial child to grow up. I was a happy accident. My father could have asked for an abortion. A woman can’t ask for one, but a man can. All birth control decisions are made by men. Even if you are unmarried, the biological father can order an abortion for you whether you want it or not. But after discussing it, they decided to have me.

            Yet despite having advantages many don’t, sometimes I wish I either had never been born or had been born a boy. All socialist’s programs like public schools are gone. Social security, welfare, food stamps etcetera were all abolished by Drumpft. I am fortunate that my family was able to afford private school for me. If you can’t afford private school, you must home school your children. Something that becomes the wife’s responsibility since women are not permitted to work full-time. They may work part-time outside the home except when they have children at home under the age of six and if your husband or father permits you. If your husband of father gives you permission and you have no children under the age of six, then you may work part-time outside your home.

            I was an excellent student and earned a scholarship to be university educated. Of course I couldn’t go away to study. The other way to become well educated if you are male is to be a devote member of the church. The church likes its leaders to be well educated. And they will oversee university studies for those who can’t go away because they are female or whose families can’t afford the expense of sending their child away to study at the university locations near their district. Every district has at least one church, more than one in large highly populated districts.

            I wanted to study political science. I wanted to learn how to make things better for everyone, how to make a difference. Except I am female, so I was allowed to study medicine and I’m a pediatrician. Most women only become nurses or nurse’s assistants etc. I work at our local clinic/hospital/urgent care with my parents and grandparents part-time, twenty-four hours a week, four six hour days a week. That’s the maximum a female is permitted to work outside her home.

            Nearly everyone has Sunday off. And they expect you to attend church every Sunday. If you are absent more than once in a great while, homeland security will show up at your home. And you better have a good reason for missing a lot of church. I was tired and didn’t feel like it or I just over slept are not acceptable excuses.

            This Sunday my family and I slip into the pew at the back of the congregation hall. We’re the only family of color in our district. If we sit anywhere else, we get stared at. Which doesn’t make sense. We’re not strangers to anyone here. We’re their doctors. We know everyone here. Still, people wrinkle their noses at us as if we smell like shit. But if we sit in this very last pew at the back of the hall, they just ignore us.

            “Ava,” Bryant Cross calls to me. “Ava! I saved seats for you and your family up front with us.”

            Now every single unmarried young woman in the church is giving me the evil eye. I hear one say to another in a harsh angry tone, “I don’t know what he sees in her.”

            Perhaps if one of them had been even remotely kind to Bryant when we were children, he might be interested in one of them. And the last few years have been difficult to say the least making me wish he was interested in anyone but me. They want him for all the wrong reasons, because his family is the most powerful in our district and the most affluent in our district. They’re related to the Drumpft’s. Their father’s mother’s mother was a daughter to our First Lord Drumpft. Drumpft Junior succeeded him as dictator when he passed away and is our current Lord Drumpft. Bryant sometimes likes to brag that he could be our country’s Lord one day.

            I could care less about his family’s power and money. It won’t change the fact that Bryant has been cruel the last few years. He claimed me as his girlfriend when we were in kindergarten. The good thing about him claiming me is I’m seen as his property even though we’re not married yet. I’m still his future wife so most men would not dare put their hands on me. An older married man can’t force me to be his mistress. I know in some districts affluent men basically have a harem of mistresses that live in their homes until he tires of them or their families secure husbands for them. I am Bryant’s fiancé even though he never proposed so I never said yes or no. Sometimes I feel as if he’s my stalker with full access to me and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

            ‘Nigger whore,” someone says in a loud whisper.

            My father pats my shoulder comfortingly as he says softly, “Let’s go. Bryant and his family are waiting.”

            I don’t look at anyone as we make our way to the front pew. There’s no point in that. They would only be motivated to say more angry hateful things. Besides, there isn’t anything interesting to see.  Every woman is dressed nearly identically as well as every man. Women in ankle length skirts of beige, off white or light grey with matching tops and flats. No make-up. Make-up is forbidden so a man can be sure he is choosing a truly beautiful woman. The men are all in the same style of dress casual slacks with button down white dress shirts, a comfortable pair of loafers. For men and women a sweater may be worn over the shirt as long as it is plain, muted and subdued. Nothing fancy is permitted and no bright bold colors are to be worn to church. So there’s nothing interesting for me to see. I just watch my small feet in their plain white flats because there are no friendly faces for me to wave to or smile at. Just angry scowls, evil cold eyes and noses wrinkled in disgust are all I would see.

            The only friendly face are the Crosses’ already seated in the front pew and Pastor Cross, he seems to like me and my family. Yet I often doubt they truly like us. I suspect they just enjoy the meek submissive demeanor we are forced to display at church. That it somehow makes them feel superior. But I know that Bryant is not quite like the rest of his family.

            Bryant lifts my chin, leans over and gives me a quick kiss, “You look lovely today as always Ava.”

            “Thank you Bryant,” I respond softly as he takes my small hand and we sit down.

            Bryant ask me concerned, “Why do you look so sad? You have a beautiful smile. I love your smile.”

            I whisper to him softly, “You know we don’t like to sit at the front. Everyone stares at us when we sit at the front.”

            Bryant looks back at the unfriendly faces. Many of the young women try to make eyes at him by smiling and batting their eyelashes. But Bryant ask with an angry sneer, “What in the hell are you all looking at?”

            They all look away. At least he didn’t drop an f-bomb this morning. That’s his favorite word. But they’ll be careful about how they look at us for the next couple of weeks and be deliberately friendly. After all, they don’t want to offend the Crosses’ favorite pets. Mr. and Mrs. Cross like being able to say their son is engaged to an intelligent young doctor, that he’s snagged himself the most worthy female in the district.

            Pastor Cross begins the sermon with the Love Thy Neighbor stuff. He has to do it every couple of weeks to remind them that we’re their neighbors and the good doctors that look after them and take good care of them and their families. He has to remind them that to be unkind and rude is un-Christ like. That it’s not what Jesus would do. And he sounds truly sincere, worried and concerned. I actually think he believes.

            My family and I are actually atheists. But it’s illegal to be atheists. Just like it’s illegal to be homosexual. Illegal to say anything negative about the Drumpfts and their family. Illegal to obtain birth control without your father or husband’s permission. But there’s no expectation of being a virgin when you marry. Men have the right to test drive you like they would a car. And sex is a physical need that men need to fill. So women are their sex toys.

            Most young women my age have been with several different men or more and are currently being used by several different men or more. A woman’s virginity is often lost immediately after puberty. Once you start to look good to men and they start to want you, you’re not a virgin for much longer. I don’t know how much of it is actually consensual. I’m sure a lot of it is not consensual. But most of the young women seem to be enjoying their very active sex lives. But I’m not.

            Luckily for me, Bryant isn’t good at sharing. Plus he doesn’t have any close friends or associates to share me with and he wouldn’t if he did. But he does have two older brothers that he shares me with because they insist upon it. And the older we get, the less he wants to share me with them. The more he wants me all to himself. So he’s been pushing the marriage thing with my parents who know I’m not in a hurry to be Bryant’s wife. The last few years have been difficult with him to say the least so I’m not in a hurry to put myself entirely at his mercy. But before things got difficult with him, I did look forward to being his wife.

            Pastor Cross announces, “We have a new resident to our little district. Ava’s grandfathers, Dr. Reed and Dr. Washington are retiring to part-time. So this new resident is a replacement of a sort that will start in our clinic tomorrow. His name is Dr. Dunston Walker. Would you please stand for us Dr. Walker?”

            Dr. Walker is quite tall. Taller even than my father and grandfathers who were the tallest men in the district. And he could almost pass for Caucasian. But his naturally lightly tan skin tone gives away that he’s not. His smooth black hair is longish. He has perfect cheek bones and well-shaped lips. He’s a work of living breathing art and I find the way all the young women are looking at him amusing. They need to push their tongues back into their mouths.

            Pastor Cross informs our new resident, “This is the Reed and Washington family. You’ll be joining their household. I know they have room for you. I’ll introduce you to them properly before Sunday school begins.”

            Dr. Walker makes eye contact with me and smiles. It’s a dazzling smile and I naturally smile back. Something that doesn’t sit well with Bryant because he stands, smacks me full force and orders, “Don’t smile at him.”

            “Bryant,” Pastor Cross calls to him firmly, “That was uncalled for.”

            “She was looking at him,” responds Bryant angry.

            “Of course she did,” responds Pastor Cross irritated. “I had him stand so everyone could get a look at him. Her behavior was perfectly normal.”

            “She smiled at him,” states Bryant angrily.

            “Bryant, you’re over reacting,” Pastor Cross tells him. “And you can’t expect her to never look at him or never speak to him. He’s going to be living in their house with them.”

            “I don’t want him living in their house with them,” wines Bryant in a spoiled childish tone. “I don’t want him near my Ava.”

            “Bryant,” his father’s tone authoritative, “her family will never agree to let her marry you if you keep having these jealous outburst.”

            ­Bryant insist, “But there would be no reason for me to be jealous in we were married already. I wouldn’t be worried if I knew she was mine.”

            My grandfather, Dr. Lance Reed, tells him, “Bryant, we won’t give her permission to marry someone who’s abusive.”

            The word abusive seems to register with Bryant. He quickly sits back down beside me, puts his arms around me and apologizes as sincerely as is possible for him, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He lifts my chin and a trickle of blood escapes the corner of my mouth. He request urgently, “Mom, I need a tissue, quick.”

            Mrs. Cross quickly materializes a handkerchief from her clutch purse and hands it to Bryant, who gently wipes the blood from my chin and lips along with the silent tears on my cheeks. He’s capable of gentle loving gestures. But the last few years, he’s just been prone to do the opposite of gentle and loving.

            I look him in his blue eyes because I know he likes it when I make eye contact with him. He thinks my failure to make eye contact with him the last few years is the result of shyness. And I’m not going to tell him he’s wrong even though he is. I’ve been having trouble making eye contact with him and avoiding looking him in his stunning blue eyes because they have come to terrify me. There’s a vacantness there now. His eyes may be stunningly blue but they’re like staring into an endless black abyss. They are empty and cold as if he has become soulless, but his eyes weren’t always like that.

            Bryant smiles pleased I made eye contact with him. His smile is a confusing cross between winning and crazed lunatic. It scares me as much as looking into his eyes. I rewarded him with an affectionate companionable pat on his knee. And since it has become rare for me to initiate any physical contact between us, that simple show of affection delights him. He kisses me deeply and holds me close. I force myself to relax into him. I do my best to please him and make him happy. But his jealous outburst and rages are becoming more frequent and seem to be triggered by nothing most of the time.

            Pastor Cross finishes his sermon. No collection plates are passed. Your ten percent tithing was removed from your wages before they were deposited into your account just like your taxes. As a woman, I am a dependent and I will always be a dependent. I will not be permitted to live on my own and no tax exemptions are available to me.

            Pastor Cross motions Dr. Walker over to introduce him to us. Bryant and his family stand with us. Bryant has a firm possessive hold on the back of my neck. I’m not sure if his hold on the back of my neck is supposed to remind me that I’m his or to demonstrate to Dr. Walker that I’m his.

            “Now Dr. Walker,” Pastor Cross informs him, “this is Dr. Lance Reed and his wife Lupe. He is the official head of the household. Then we have Dr. Eugene Washington. His wife is no longer with us. His son, Dr. Simon Washington and his wife Irena. Irena is Dr. Reed’s daughter. And this is Dr. Ava Washington. Simon and Irena are her parents which makes Dr. Reed and Lupe Ava’s maternal grandparents and Eugene her paternal grandparent.”

            “Why must he be moved into their home,” ask Bryant angrily.

            “Bryant,” Pastor Cross being patient, “I cannot ask an all-white household to take in a non-white male. The Reed-Washington household is already a multicultural, multiracial household.”

            “He looks white to me,” state Bryant. “He just has a great tan.”

            “Except he’s not white,” Pastor Cross tells Bryant. “That’s not just a great tan. That’s his natural skin coloration.”

            “I don’t like it,” states Bryant stomping his foot as his grip on the back of my neck tightens. “I don’t want him there,” giving me a violent shake as his grip tightens enough to force a pained squeak out of me.

            Dr. Walker tells Bryant upset and concerned, “You’re hurting her!”

            Bryant releases my neck to pull me against him allowing me to slip under his arm submissively. I want to thank Dr. Walker but I don’t dare open my mouth until I’ve been addressed directly.

            Bryant tells Dr. Walker, “It’s none of your concern.”

            Dr. Walker responds firmly, “Someone needs to be concerned.”

            My maternal grandfather, my poppa, Dr. Lance Reed, assures Dr. Walker, “Oh, believe me, we are concerned.”

            Pastor Cross decides to push forward, “Since they’re here, let me introduce you to some of my relatives. This my cousin, Byron Cross and his wife Lilith. Byron is our districts head administrator. And these are their three sons. Blake is the oldest. Bronson is their middle child. And Bryant is their youngest. He and Ava have known one another since kindergarten.”

            Mrs. Cross request as she fans herself while smiling way too brightly, “Dr. Walker, tell us a little about yourself. As our Bryant pointed out, you can pass for white. Where do you get your beautiful tan skin from?”

            “When European invaders insisted Natives have last names,” Dr. Walker informs them, “our family’s last name was Spiritwalker. But after Drumpft Senior took over this country and renamed it Drumpftland, our name was shortened to Walker because Spiritwalker was too native. Or at least that’s what the nice white folks who changed it told my grandparents.”

            As a white woman, Mrs. Cross doesn’t have to wait to be addressed to speak. She may speak freely almost any time she wants. She responds, “I thought all natives migrated to Canada.”

            Dr. Walker explains, “The reservation natives managed to escape into Canada. But many natives no longer lived on reservations. We were just typical citizens.”

            Fanning herself Mrs. Cross claims, “Please excuse me, hot flashes. So are you full native?”

            “No,” answers Dr. Walker, “My father’s a quarter white and my mother’s half white.”

            “Interesting,” comments Mrs. Cross. If she got caught having an affair it could spell disaster for her and whomever she’s having the affair with.

            “Interesting indeed,” responds Mr. Cross not fooled by his wife’s claim to be having hot flashes.

            “Sunday school is about to begin,” reminds Pastor Cross. “After Sunday School you may collect your bags and go home with the Reeds and Washingtons.”

            “Thank you Pastor Cross,” responds Dr. Walker appreciatively.

            “Just stick with us,” directs my poppa.

            Pastor Wimbly is teaching Sunday school. He usually does. My family along with Dr. Walker sit at the back while I’m stuck sitting at the front with Bryant and his family.

            There’s a rumor that Pastor Wimbly is secretly homosexual. But I know he’s not. He likes to admire my bottom and will give it an affectionate pat when the opportunity presents itself. The clergy may marry, but most don’t. Few see a pastor as a step up in the world for their daughters. Yet it is acknowledged that they are men with the needs of men. So several young women will stay for about an hour after Sunday school to provide service to them. But Wimbly’s not in the habit of taking advantage of that opportunity. They think it’s because he’s a homo. I know it’s because they don’t appeal to him. He likes for me to stay after Sunday school to help clean up. And we do clean up like we’re supposed to, but that’s when I service him.

            The first time he approached me to service him I was very surprised. Afterward he asked me who had taken my virginity and I informed him Bryant’s older brother Blake had. He’s told me many times he’s sorry that Bryant is fixated on me. He understands that I have a long hard road ahead of me with Bryant. That being Bryant’s girlfriend while having its pluses also has lots of minuses. As a plus I have never had to go with the other young women after Sunday school to service the pastors. As a minus, both of Bryant’s older brothers make sure they get to use me regularly and his father has found opportunities to impose himself upon me too.

            But I don’t mind Pastor Wimbly. He’s gentle and kind. And most importantly, he’s quick, very quick. He doesn’t try to drag it out and I appreciate that. After all, I’m not enjoying it. So why torture me by taking your time.

            Pastor Wimbly’s lesson today is on the Evils of Riches and Greed. It’s his favorite topic to do a lesson on. Many people in our district are poor and they think if they can find a way into a position of power that will provide financial wealth that all their problems will be solved. But suffering in poverty greatly makes you as short sighted as someone with too much wealth and power. The poor are desperately looking for a way up. While the rich and powerful are constantly working to not just keep what they have, but are also greedily trampling those below to have more, more, more. They never have enough. If Mrs. Cross didn’t have a dress code to follow on Sunday like the rest of us, she’ld show up in a new outfit every Sunday.

            The poor believe the rich are happy. But I’ve spent more than enough time with the Crosses to know they’re not happy. They’re miserable. The only happy one is Pastor Cross who lives a minimalistic life style serving God. The rest of them are a mess. Mr. Cross is constantly stressed out. And Mrs. Cross is almost constantly drunk. Hard liqueur and beer may not be available, but wine is. She’ll have her first class when she gets home from church and by the time they have dinner, she’ll have gone through two bottles. It will have been the cheap stuff because Mr. Cross fusses when she goes through the expensive stuff like water.

            Pastor Wimbly calls on me and my family frequently. I find it amusing that the secret-atheists know scripture better than the so called believers. They’ll walk out of here untouched by Pastor Wimbly’s sincere words.

            Pastor Wimbly ask, “What does Jesus mean by ‘for it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God?’”

            The supposed believers avoid Pastor Wimbly’s wise old eyes. As usual, they don’t want to participate. They don’t wish to be called on.

            Yet Pastor Wimbly still seems pleased. He’s not deterred yet. I know my family like myself are paying attention. So I’m expecting him to call on one of us. Instead he calls, “Dr. Walker, I know you are new here with us. But would you like to try to answer my question?”

            “Of course Pastor,” agrees Dr. Walker. “Jesus means, just like you literally cannot walk a whole camel through the eye of a sewing needle, a rich man or woman that has spent their life seeking riches and has only lived their life as if riches and being rich is what life is all about, cannot enter heaven. They cannot enter into the kingdom of God because they have spent their life with riches as their god.”

            Pastor Wimbly is very pleased, “Thank you Dr. Walker. Now if a rich man cannot enter heaven, what happens to him when his life is over? He can’t get into heaven. So where does he go?”

            He looks around and gets the same eye avoidance at before. So he calls on me knowing I will answer without hesitation, “Ava, what happens to a rich man when he dies?”

            “He goes to hell Pastor,” I answer without a blink. “He lived a selfish self-serving life devoid of faith and charity. So he goes to hell for all eternity. No second chances and no do overs. And anyone foolish enough to follow such a man will go to hell too. The path he walks may lead you to riches in this life, but it will only lead you to hell when this life is over.”

            “Says the gold digging nigger,” snarks a young woman.

            “You shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Bryant threatens the young woman.

            “Ms. Cook,” Pastor Wimbly tells her, “if you cannot say something nice, you should not say anything at all.”

            “But niggers don’t go to heaven,” insist the young woman’s father, “not even if they’re good niggers.”

            “Nonsense,” states Pastor Wimbly. “Absolute nonsense. No one is denied access to heaven based on the color of their skin. And nowhere in the Bible does it say such a thing. It’s how you live your life here that determines if you are worthy of heaven or not. How you live it. Not the color of your skin. And nasty unkind words spoken out of jealousy and greed will not open heaven to you. God created us all and he wants us all to join him in heaven.”

            “Why did God create them,” ask a young man.

            Pastor Wimbly answers with conviction, “Because God loves diversity. The world would be a boring place without it. And your personal malfunction with diversity, your mental illness that makes you hate  people not the same as yourself, is your personal problem that will keep you out of heaven, not God’s will. You are commanded to love your neighbors as yourselves and there are no exception clauses listed. And in Mathew 5:44 you are also commanded to love your enemy. ‘Bless them that curse you, do good to those that hate you and pray for those who despitefully use you and persecute you.’ For once in your selfish lives try to do a little of what Jesus would do.”

            Pastor Wimbly takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, “Heavenly Father, give me strength.” He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes. He checks the time. “Class is over in five minutes. You may as well go home. Be well. Walk with God. And try to do what Jesus would do.”

            A couple of young women hiss at me as they walk past us. Bryant raises a hand to strike the nearest one.

            I take his hand as I say, “That’s not what Jesus would do.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss it.

            Bryant gently touches the side of my face he smacked earlier and says sadly, “It’s bruising.”

            I respond softly, “It’ll heal.”

            Mrs. Cross turns my face to the side to look at it and sighs sadly, “This is not how you treat someone you love.”

            “Really Bryant,” his brother Blake tells him, “you need to get your temper under control. After all, she’s just a little thing.”

            Pastor Wimbly ask me concerned, “Are you alright Ava?”

            I answer softly as I glance at some young women glaring at me meanly, “They act as if I have a choice.”

            Pastor Wimbly pats my shoulder comfortingly, “Don’t pay them any mind. They’re not worth your tears. I do hope to get through to them one day, but I fear I never will. Are you able to stay and help clean up?”

            Bryant answers for me, “Not today Pastor.” He knows I would go straight home afterward and find chores to keep me busy at home.

            My family pauses to hug and kiss me. Poppa tells Bryant firmly, “I want her home in time for dinner please.”

            “Yes Dr. Reed,” agrees Bryant.

            My family along with Dr. Walker walk home without me. I ride in the limo with Bryant and his family to their home, my future home. I don’t know why they take the limo to church every Sunday. They live close enough to walk like most everyone else. But their house is the largest in the district and sits up on a hill for all to see. It’s too much house for Mrs. Cross to keep clean on her own. But the help has Sunday off. Mr. Cross drove the limo himself. His parents are very elderly and in poor health so they are excused from attending church. Mrs. Cross’s relatives look after his parents and are excused because they provide their care. Mrs. Cross was once just a receptionist. I’ve heard rumors of how she seduced Mr. Cross and managed to catch him as her husband. But those are just rumors. I don’t know how she actually managed it. Perhaps her blow jobs leave his cock gold plated.

            But this really is too much house for them, or for most anyone. It feels especially empty on Sundays when there is no help around. No cooks in the kitchen. No maids going around dusting, sweeping, mopping and collecting dirty clothes, changing sheets and doing laundry. No butler to answer the front doors and oversee the rest of the help.

            A breezeway attaches the large multivehicle garage to the oversized house. We enter the house through it into a large mudroom where we take off our shoes, hang our sweaters and jackets. The floors on the main level are heated so there’s no need for house slippers during the winter. But it’s late spring, the weather is beautiful and everything’s in full bloom.

            “Mr. Cross, would you like me to run to the cottage to check on the elder Mr. and Mrs. Cross,” I offer as we step into the kitchen. I like his parents. If they were ever bigoted, age and illness have washed it away. They are always all cheerful smiles and truly delight to see me. They love visitors.

            “No, I’ll check on them myself after lunch,” answers Mr. Cross. He directs, “Go ahead and give Lilith a hand with lunch please.”

            “As you wish sir,” I agree.

            “As you wish sir,” mocks Blake teasingly.

            I simply roll my eyes at him. There’s no point in responding.

            Bronson grabs my ass as I walk by him and I slap his hand away irritatedly. He and Blake both laugh at me hilariously.

            “That’s enough you two,” scolds Mr. Cross frowning at them. “You’re behaving like little boys instead of grown men.”

            “Would you like a glass of wine Ava,” offers Mrs. Cross.

            “No thank you Mrs. Cross,” I decline.

            “We really are overdue for having your family over for dinner,” she says as she sets the timer for the biscuits and cornbread that just need to be baked for twenty minutes. “Do you drink at all?”

            “Yes madam,” I answer, “we have a half a glass of wine with dinner every night except Sunday. And of course we drink the sacrament wine when we take sacrament with everyone else. And my father and grandfathers each have a glass Saturday night as they share a cigar and discuss things at the clinic. That’s girl time for me, Mom and Abuela.”

            “Abuela,” questions Bronson, “what the hell is that?”

            “It’s Spanish for grandmother,” I inform Bronson.

            “You speak Spanish,” ask Blake interested.

            “Only a little,” but I am more fluent than I’m admitting. I know many white people feel threatened when they hear a language they don’t understand.

            “Are your grandfathers looking forward to retirement,” ask Mr. Cross.

            It’s not full-fledged retirement and Mr. Cross understands that. Very few get to retire completely. They’ll both still be working part-time. Still I nod affirmatively even though their nosiness is quite unusual. They’ve never really asked me much of anything about myself before beyond pleasant polite things like, how are you? Except for Bryant, we used to be very close. Still I share, “Papa’s looking forward to more time with Abuela and he’ll only work Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Granddaddy seems a little sad but says he’s looking forward to more time gardening and breeding rabbits. But he’ll only work Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.”

            “Did you know about Dr. Walker,” ask Bryant accusingly.

            I admit, “I knew they were looking for someone. But I didn’t know who, what, where, when or anything else until today. I thought they were looking for a white doctor who would live in staff housing next door to the clinic, urgent care and hospital. I know they hope to attract a second doctor here preferably a male pediatrician who can work full-time since I can only work part-time and won’t be able to work at all for a while once we start a family. And while the small community to look after is appealing, our remote rural location is not.”

            Mr. Cross confirms, “Allen (his cousin Pastor Cross) mentioned they were trying to find a white doctor. But thus far they haven’t been able to find one willing to relocate here or the couple that showed interest would be retiring soon themselves. Being a doctor isn’t lucrative like it once was. They’re not permitted to have a private practice anymore where they could charge quite a bit per visit. As public servants they’re paid an hourly wage like factory and utility workers plus full health coverage. Of course they’re paid significantly more than factory workers and such. But ambitious white males are studying political science and law where things are extremely lucrative and come with power and social status. Doctors are highly respected of course, but it’s not the same as being a government official.”

            “Maybe by the time their first child is ready to begin its university education, Bryant will finally have earned his political science and law degree,” teases Blake.

            “Leave your brother alone,” orders Mrs. Cross. “He’s doing the best he can. Not everything comes easily to everyone. Some of us have to work harder than others.”

            “Come on Mom,” insist Blake. “We all know the smartest person in this room is her,” he points to me. “He never even mastered tying his own shoes. She began university courses while he was still struggling to get his high school diploma. He couldn’t handle taking courses full-time so he was dropped to half-time and he was still flunking out. Now he’s down to one or two classes at a time and she still has to help him. He’s still barely passing with Ds. The only smart thing he does is hang onto her. And he doesn’t hang onto her because he’s smart. He hangs on to her because he actually loves her.”

            “He is too smart,” I defend even though it’s kind of true that Bryant never completely mastered tying his own shoes. The teacher made me tie his shoes beginning in kindergarten and I continued to tie his shoes until sixth grade when they finally stopped buying him shoes with laces. We both had IEPs, Individual Educational Plans. But mine was because I learned so much quicker than everyone else. I was half way to my doctorate when I graduated high school. Bryant’s IEP was because he’s dyslexic and he struggles with things that require a lot of reading and writing. “His strengths simply lie elsewhere. He’s mechanically inclined. He can take apart an engine and put it back together. I can’t do that and neither can you. But what would it look like if a Cross became a mechanic instead of a politician? It’s not his fault he’s not being allowed to work with his strengths.”

            “Bravo,” says Blake clapping amused. “She may not have a choice when it comes to being stuck with you, Bryant. But she obviously cares for you more than you think she does. Just think, behind the scenes she’ll be able to do your job for you so you don’t look like a whoppingly giant dumbass in front of the world.”

            “That’s enough Blake,” orders Mr. Cross in a bored tone.

            “Yes, that’s quite enough,” agrees Mrs. Cross. “Let’s have lunch and discuss something pleasant like wedding plans.”

            “I’m not hungry,” states Bryant crossing his arms over his chest defiantly like a child.

            “Are you feeling ill,” I ask concerned as I step up to him and feel his forehead with the back of my hand.

            Bryant takes my hand and kisses my palm, “No. I just don’t want to eat with them.”

            I suggests, “We can eat beside the pool and go for a swim afterwards.” One of the things I do love about their home is the large swimming pool.

            “I just want to go up to my room,” Bryant tells me in a defeated tone.

            “Really,” question Blake frustrated, “Really? You’re going to hide with her in your room all day because you’re mad and don’t want to share her with us.”

            “That needs to stop anyway,” Mr. Cross tells Blake and Bronson. “She’s his fiancé. She’s going to be his wife as soon as he learns to control his temper. You need to find your own girlfriends, young women who will make good wives like Ave will.”

            “There aren’t any others like Ava,” Blake tells their father irritatedly. “They’re all boney pasty white gold digging whores. And I know when the opportunity presents itself, you’ll make Ava have sex with you again.”

            Bryant didn’t know. I know he didn’t know. And I don’t know how Blake knows. I’ve never told anyone. But there was a witness of a sort, the chauffeur. Mr. Cross made him stand outside the limo and wait, I begged and cried profusely the first time. Perhaps the chauffeur heard me. Maybe he told someone and Blake over heard. All I can do is look at the ground as Bryant stares at me.

            “Is that true,” Bryant ask me.

            I can feel my eyes welling up. I’m not going to answer him. I don’t want to talk about it. Instead I tell him, “I’ll prepare a tray to take upstairs to your room with us,” and I busy myself with that.

            “Damn it Byron,” exclaims Mrs. Cross angrily. “You just has to bang her too. Bryant has never been interested in anyone else. He’s always loved her and has never been with anyone else. It’s not bad enough Blake and Bronson won’t leave her alone. She went through puberty before Bryant and Blake just had to take her virginity.”

            Blake inserts defensively, “He couldn’t do anything with her yet.”

            “It was wrong,” states Mrs. Cross with conviction. “The way you use her and abuse her is wrong.”

            “We don’t smack her around,” exclaims Bronson, “That’s Bryant.”

            “But you’re still one of her abusers,” she tells Bronson, “She doesn’t want you climbing on top of her, but you do it anyway.”

            “So does Dad,” points out Bronson.

            “You’re setting such a wonderful example for our sons,” she says sarcastically to Mr. Cross. “This whole family is going to hell. The only good person in this room is her. I’m just a gold digging whore like those young women they want nothing to do with. I just wanted a better life for myself and my family. I didn’t know it would make me the mother of three sons I can’t stand, I hate watching this wonderful, beautiful, intelligent young woman try to survive the unwanted attention she gets from us.” She grabs the wine bottle and drinks straight from it.

            “How in the hell did you find out,” Mr. Cross demands irritatedly from Blake. “I know she never told a soul… The chauffeur…”

            Blake shakes his head. The chauffer is grateful his daughter isn’t beautiful like Ava, but he hasn’t told anyone. You forget the limo has cameras. Bronson and I watched. And I copied it before you came home and erased it. I have a copy of every time. I think of them as my insurance policies. She really screamed, cried and begged you not to the first time. But since she knows you’re going to bang her no matter what, she doesn’t beg and scream any more. She still request, ‘Please don’t Mr. Cross. It would break Bryant’s heart if he ever found out.’ But you don’t really give a shit about any of us, least of all Bryant. After all, he’s not going to bring notoriety to the family name. Not without her guiding him. And her family will never let Mr. Slap Happy here marry her. He can’t get her off and he can’t treat her right. But the next time the opportunity presents itself, you’ll push yourself between those golden thighs of hers and ignore her tears as you bang her as hard as you possibly can.”

            I’m crying silently as I sit two root beers from the refrigerator onto the tray next to two empty upside down cups with the rest of the food. Bryant steps over to me. I flinch when he raises his hands, but he only gently thumbs away some of my tears. I’m so grateful he didn’t slap me I grab his hands and kiss them.

            Mr. Cross wouldn’t go to jail for raping me. Men have needs. But it would sully his reputation for everyone to learn he had raped his son’s fiancé. It wouldn’t change anything beyond that. But Mr. Cross does value his reputation highly. He’s quite proud that he has thus far been scandal free. That’s because I don’t want to talk about what happened. I just want to pretend it doesn’t happen. And the maids he diddles are well paid, willing and no one can prove an aborted fetus that was immediately incinerated is yours.

            Bryant directs me, “Go up to my room. I’ll bring the tray.” He’s never carried the tray before. I’ve always followed him up the back steps with the tray. But I nod agreeingly and head up the back steps ahead of him.

            From the top of the stairs I hear him tell them, “I love you too family. Have a nice day.”

            I step into his room and wait for him. He carries in the tray and I can hear Blake and Bronson rushing up the back steps. Blake makes it in the door before Bryant can close it and lock it. And of course Bronson follows him in.

            “What,” ask Bryant in an unfriendly tone.

            “I need to talk with you,” Blake tells Bryant.

            “What? You didn’t say enough downstairs,” asks Bryant.

            “I’m sorry,” apologizes Blake. “I know you’re upset. I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But I need to talk with you about Ava.”

            “I though that’s what the conversation was about downstairs,” Bryant tells Blake hotly, “her and about how stupid I am.”

            Blake shuts the door and ask Bryant, “You love her right?”

            “Yes I love her,” answers Bryant without hesitation.

            “And you want her to be safe right,” ask Blake.

            “Yes of course,” answers Bryant.

            “And you want to marry her,” ask Blake.

            “Yes, you know I want that more than anything,” answers Bryant.

            “But her family is never going to let you marry her,” Blake tells Bryant. “She needs a husband to protect her. And you can’t even protect her from yourself. You’ve slapped her around too much. They don’t trust you anymore and are never going to trust you again at this point.”

            Bryant knows that’s true and ask Blake, “What do I do? I love her. I go crazy on the days I don’t get to see her.”

            “You know you’re not the only one who loves her,” Blake tells Bryant, “You know that don’t you?”

            “I know lots of men want her,” responds Bryant.

            “Yes a lot of men want her,” confirms Blake. “But they just want her. They just want to bang her a few times. They don’t love her. They’re not in love with her.”

            “Pastor Wimbly’s in love with her,” comments Bronson.

            Blake takes a deep breath, “Yes, but he’s an old man. He’s too old for them to marry her to. He’ll die while she’s still young and then she’ll need a new husband.”

            “What are you talking about Blake,” ask Bryant. “Get to the point.”

            “I think they’re looking for a husband for her,” Blake informs Bryant. “They are never going to let you marry her. I saw the look in their eyes today. They’ve had enough of you slapping her around for nothing. To protect her from you they will marry her to someone else right out from underneath you. They’ll send her to another district if they have to.”

            Tears start to leak from Bryant’s eyes. He grabs me by my upper arms, shakes me and demands, “Is that what they’re planning? To send you away from me?”

            “I don’t know,” I answer afraid. “They’ve never discussed such a thing with me or in front of me.”

            “Bryant,” Blake orders him, “look what you’re doing. Let her go. You keep focusing your anger on her even though you’re not angry with her. This is exactly why they won’t let you marry her.”

            Bryant releases me, but he’s beside himself, “I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose her.”

            “And you don’t have to lose her,” Blake tells Bryant assuringly. “You don’t have to lose her. We don’t have to lose her. I love her too. I’m in love with her and we don’t have to lose her.”

             Bryant narrows his eyes at Blake suspiciously, “It sounds like you have an idea I’m not going to like.”

            “No. You’re not going to like it,” confirms Blake.

            “Well, spit it out,” orders Bryant.

            “You step aside and let me marry her,” answers Blake.

            Bryant shakes his head, “No. No way. Out of the question.”

            “Just think about it,” Blake tells Bryant. “As my wife she would still be here under the same roof as you. You would see her every day and have access to her every day. Yes, she would technically be my legal wife, but I would still share her with you.”

            “You still can’t marry her.” Bryant reminds Blake, “You’re Dad’s successor. You’re the one that’s set up to follow in his footsteps. He will not let you have a nonwhite wife.”

            “But I have my insurance policies,” Blake reminds Bryant. “He doesn’t want everyone to know he’s been raping your fiancé. Most of them believe he’s never cheated on Mom, that he’s an honest man. He doesn’t want to lose the respect he gets for that.”

            “Insurance policies,” questions Bronson confused as usual.

            No Bryant is not the dumb one. The dumb one is actually Bronson. His hair may be light brown, but he’s dumb enough to try and scratch and sniff a sticker at the bottom of a pool. Blake is the smartest. He’s especially gifted at reading people. So if he believes my family is trying to find me a husband elsewhere, they probably are.

            Blake ignores Bronson and tells Bryant, “I have my insurance policies. Dad has to agree and he has to leave her alone. She’ll be here under our roof as my wife, but I’ll be sharing her with you and we won’t lose her.”

            Bryant takes a deep breath, “I have to think about it.”

            Blake nods acceptingly. Then he smiles winningly at me, “I need a little brown sugar before I go.”

            I look away from him. Blake is the devilishly handsome one. They all have the same piercing blue eyes. But they’re more striking on Blake because he has dark brown hair like their father. Bryant’s hair is golden blond. Bryant is the most innocent looking one.

            Blake and Bronson having finally satisfied themselves leave me and Bryant alone. Blake made sure to give me a deep kiss and tell me that he loves me. His happy thought for the day is he believes he almost got me to orgasm.

            Bryant ask me, “What do you think of Blake’s plan?”

            It sounds like a loaded question. I shrug and share honestly, “I’m not sure what to think. I think he’s being honest when he says he loves me. He hasn’t been with anyone else but me for years. And I know he’s getting offers. And he’s really good at reading people. My family isn’t happy with you. My father want to knock you on your ass so bad he can taste it. If you weren’t a Cross, he would have beaten you senseless a couple of years ago.”

            When I finished my education without him and started working at the clinic part-time is when Bryant started losing his temper with me. That was four years ago. I guess that’s when he realized just how smart I am. But I don’t think he’s dumb. I’ve never thought that. I can’t take an engine apart and put it back together. And so he never really got good at tying his shoes. That’s a manual dexterity thing. He technically knows how. And I really didn’t mind tying them for him.

            Bryant says to me thoughtfully, “I haven’t given you many choices have I?”

            Another loaded question that I counter with another question, “What do you mean?”

            He answers, “I never asked you to be my girlfriend. And I never proposed to you.”

            “No, you didn’t ask me to be your girlfriend,” but I admit, “but I would have said yes if you had asked. And an actual proposal would have been nice so I could have said yes before you put your engagement ring on my finger. But I still would have said yes if you had asked me.”

            “But there’s something else,” says Bryant. “I know there’s more. Tell me. I promise I won’t get mad.”

            I take a deep breath. He usually keeps a promise, “When you began losing your temper with me, I would have broken up with you if I could have. But I can’t walk away from you like you can walk away from me.”

            “You have no choice,” he says to himself. “You’re stuck with me and my foul moods.”

            I inform him, “I only feel stuck when you’re treating me badly. Most of the time I’m happy to be with you.”

            Bryant shakes his head sadly, “I don’t know how I’m going to be a good husband when I’m not even a good fiancé. I’ve failed to protect you from my brothers, from my own father and from myself.”

            I inform Bryant, “You protect me more than you realize. I am not passed around the way most of the young women are because of you. I don’t even want to think about how many times or by how many different men would have rape me if it wasn’t for you. My father knew he couldn’t always be there for me and protect me from everyone. So he made sure I had all my shots and a birth control implant and prepared me as best he could for the worst that could happen. He told me, ‘Don’t ever try to fight them. Just let them have their way. Your life is too precious to lose over it. So just let them have their way.’ It tore him up inside to tell me that. But the worst never happened because of you. I’ve never been gang raped and left for dead. You would insist the men who did such a thing to me were hunted down and executed. And they like breathing so they leave me alone.”

            Bryant lays his head on my breasts and I pull my finders through his golden blond hair. I tell him, “You worry too much. It’s going to be alright. We’ll find a way to make it work.”

            “I think the only way may be Blake’s way,” he says sadly.

            “If that’s what you choose,” I tell him, “we’ll work with it and cope as best we can.”

            “That’s how you do it,” says Bryant thoughtfully. “Everyday you work with it and cope as best you can. You’re like a little bird in a cage. You’ve never known true freedom yet you continue to sing sweetly. But I can set you free,” and his hands tighten around my neck.

            I’m on the ground with a sheet around me when my parents find me. I hear my father say distressed, “My baby, please not my baby,” as he scoops me up in his arms. I hear my mother crying as he says, “If there is a God, please don’t take my sweet baby girl from me.”

            People think that atheist don’t pray, but we do. Or at least in my family we do. Just because we don’t think there is a God, doesn’t mean we don’t hope that there isn’t one. We don’t want this to be all that there is either. We hope there’s a heaven as much as we hope there’s not a hell. The Holy Bible with all its many inconsistencies and contradictions isn’t proof there’s a God for us. In my family, we believe Jesus was a real person. That he was probably the first self-actualized person. A self-actualized person speaking at that time would have amazed many people and frighten many others. Perhaps every religion has some part of it right. But here in Drumpftland you practice the religion they tell you to or die.

            I hear voices talking. They sound far away. Lights are shined in my eyes, Dr. Walker is looking at me. I reach up and touch his hair. I remember saying, “so pretty,” as I touched it.

            I wake up in a hospital bed in a private hospital room. My parents are sleeping squeezed together in a recliner. My poppa and Abuela are in the second recliner. And my granddaddy is curled up on a loveseat he’s too tall to stretch out on.

            I’m thirsty so I’m trying to reach a pitcher and a cup as Dr. Walker steps into the room. “Let me get that for you,” and he pours me a cup of water.

            I manage a rough raspy, “Thank you.” The water feels wonderful on my throat. But a few swallows later I’m ready to talk and ask Dr. Walker, “How long have I been here?”

            “When you weren’t home in time for dinner on Sunday,” Dr. Walker informs me, “your parents left to walk to the Cross’s home. And I think your father planned to give them a piece of his mind. They found you on the sidewalk about half way there. It’s now Tuesday just after four am.”

            I nod my understanding as my family gathers around my hospital bed. They’re all smiling delightedly at me.

            “Oh she’s going to be fine,” declares my granddaddy with a big cheesy grin.

            My mother tells me, “You gave us a good scare. When we found you laying there like that, we thought you were dead. I nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

            I squeeze my mother’s hand assuringly, “But I’m still here for you to fuss at. And you can clean my room like you’ve been threatening to and I can’t stop you.”

            My mother admits, “I cleaned it yesterday.”

            I give her hands an affectionate pat as I respond amused, “Of course you did. Now I won’t be able to find anything.”

            My Abuela defends, “Everything out everywhere is not an organizational system.”

            I tell her, “But it’s a system that works for me.”

            “I get it,” my granddaddy tells me. “Your office here is neat as a pin. But home is where you get to relax.”

            “Thank you,” I respond managing a loving smile, “finally somebody understands.”

            “Do you remember what happened,” ask Poppa.

            I have to think about that for a minute, “I think I remember most of it.”

            “You don’t have to talk about it yet,” my mother tells me. “A detective is waiting to talk to you. I’m sure he’ll be by later to ask you questions. We’ll listen while you talk to him. We’re not going to leave you alone with him.”

            “And of course we’ll be coming and going until you’re released,” my father informs me.

            I yawn tiredly. “I don’t know how I’m possibly sleepy.”

            “You need rest to heal,” my Abuela tells me, “So just rest.”

            I want to ask some questions about my injuries, but I’m back to sleep before I can ask anything else.

            By dinner time I am ready to go home whether they think I should or not and I’m sure most of the nurses would let me walk out if I could. Dr. Walker steps into the room followed by a very buff serious looking man as a very empty bedpan bounces off the wall by the door.

            “I hate bedpans,” I state angrily. “I just need some help getting to the bathroom.”

            The shocked nurse responds, “But Dr. Washington, they don’t want you getting out of bed yet.”

            “I don’t care what they want,” I tell the nurse angrily. “If you’re not going to help me then get the hell out of my way. I’ll crawl to the damn bathroom if I have to.”

            “Oh Ava,” says my mother still in her white nurse shoes and hospital whites, “you’re setting a bad example for the other patients.”

            “I’m not just another patient,” I respond irritated. “Now are you going to help me or not.”

            The serious buff man ask Dr. Walker, “Are you sure he was abusing her and not the other way around?”

            Dr. Walker tells him amused, “Doctors make the worst patients. And this is her domain, the clinic, urgent care and hospital. She’s used to being in charge here. Outside of here, she’s submissive to Mr. Cross. But inside here for the last few years, she’s been the boss.”

            The nurse tells the man, “No one wants to be stuck on bedpan duty for a month.”

            Dr. Walker motions the nurse out of the room. Then he steps up in front of me. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. My right foot and ankle are in a splint so I’m afraid if I slip off the bed too fast my legs won’t support me and I’ll hit the floor with an inglorious thud.

            He leans over and tells me, “Now put your arms around my neck,” and he helps me off the bed. “Are you steady,” He ask me as I clutch my IV pole.

            I nod, “I can make it,” as my father steps into the room.

            “You’re supposed to stay in bed,” states my father irritated.

            I sneer at him, “I need to pee.”

            “Didn’t someone come with a bedpan,” ask my father.

            I tell my father in a very unfriendly tone, “You use the damn bedpan,” as I slowly and cautiously make my way to the bathroom with Dr. Walker’s assistance.

            Daddy gives Dr. Walker an irritated look to which Dr. Walker responds, “If I didn’t help her she was going to crawl to the bathroom.”

            My mother tells my father, “You know she would do it. She’s every bit as stubborn and head strong as you are.”

            I sigh blissfully as my bladder empties into the toilet. I hear my granddad enter the room and ask, “You let her out of bed? She’s not supposed to be out of bed yet.”

            “I didn’t let her out of bed,” responds my father defensively. “They let her out of bed.”

            Dr. Walker informs my granddad, “She threatened to crawl if she had to, to get to the bathroom.”

            My granddad sighs, “And she would have.”

            My mother says sarcastically, “Don’t know where she gets that kind of stubbornness from.”

            “Oh he’s not that bad,” defends my granddad. “He’s not as stubborn as his mother was. Ava takes after her.”

            I wash my hands before exiting the bathroom and slowly make my way back to my hospital bed where Dr. Walker helps me back into bed as my Abuela and poppa come in carrying a couple of large picnic baskets.

            “Food,” I say ecstatically. “Abuela, I love you.”

            “She’s not supposed to start on solid food until tomorrow morning,” protest my father. “She has two head injuries.”

            “She called me and said she’s hungry,” Abuela informs my dad.

            Poppa shrugs helplessly, “I know when I can’t win an argument with my wife.”

            “I am starving,” I tell my father as Abuela makes me a plate, “and I can’t get any real food around here. I don’t want another damn bowl of jello. Next person that brings me another bowl of jello is going to wear it.”

            Daddy reminds me, “But you may just vomit it all back up.”

            I ask him, “You want to try to bring me another bowl of jello?” He folds his arms frustrated and I shrug, “If I vomit, it’s my own fault.”

            “Don’t worry Simon,” Abuela assures my father, “I didn’t make her anything heavy, just chicken and rice and rice pudding.”

            “Don’t you men have any control over your own women,” ask the buff serious man.

            My mother and grandmother laugh hysterically. I laugh too only to hold my ribs and complain, “Oh, it hurts. It hurts.”

            “Serves you right for getting out of bed,” states my father.

            The buff serious man says to Dr. Walker, “And this is your host family. How are you coping?”

            “Actually,” shares Dr. Walker with a pleased smile, “I feel right at home.”

            I focus on the serious stranger and look him in his hazel eyes. He has the typical flat top most homeland security have so that much I’m sure of. I ask him flatly, “So who the hell are you and what do you want?”

            His eyebrows furrow for a moment. Then he shows me his badge, “I’m Detective Robert Reynolds of Homeland Security.”

            I take his badge and look at it. “Sent you in from out of town. Don’t trust the local officers to do their job properly or you’re here to keep things as quiet as possible. Doesn’t matter either way to me. You just need to remember that out there on the streets and while at church I may have to be a quiet and submissive female and those lily white nurses working get to call me ‘nigger whore’ and ‘gold digger’ out there and even during church services, but in here I am the boss and they jump to kiss my red, white and black ass. And if they piss me off too badly out there, they’ll find themselves on bedpan duty for a month in here.”

            “But you’re only permitted to work part-time,” points out Detective Reynolds, “How can you possibly run this hospital and its adjoining clinic and urgent care?”

            “Population wise,” I inform him, “this is a small district. Small enough for everybody to know everyone. The haves are strangers to the have nots because they choose not to know them. They prefer to pretend the have nots have enough and ignore them unless one looks good enough to have sex with. She may elevate her family for a time playing cute little mistress to a fat old fart with too much money. We provide health care to everyone in the district. We know everyone that lives here and all their dirty little secrets. And as long as you’re on top of things like I am, things are easily managed here.” I direct at my father and grandfathers, “And three somebodies better stay on top of things while I’m incapacitated.”

            All three of them start talking and nodding at once insisting, “Don’t worry. We’ve got it under control.”

            I inform Detective Reynolds, “They let me take the administrative and hospital management courses so I could assist in running our health care center. After all I’m only permitted to work part-time and like yourself they weren’t expecting me to run things. But within six months of starting here I was running the whole shebang.”

            Detective Reynolds gives my father a what were you thinking look to which my father responds, “She’s better at it than us. Plus pediatrics is never over worked. She has more time for it than us.”

            Detective Reynolds shakes his head in disbelief. I tell him, “You weren’t sent here to judge us. You were sent here to do a job.” I toss his badge to him, “Now do your job.”

            Detective Reynolds takes a deep breath, pulls out an electronic note pad and refers to it, “Dr. Eugene Washington?”

            “Yes, that’s me, detective,” answers my granddad.

            “You lost your wife some years ago,” states Reynolds.

            Granddad nods affirmatively, “My beautiful Veronica was raped and murdered in this quiet little district when Ava was three. They never arrested anyone. But within six months after her rape and murder, several men relocated to other districts.”

            Detective Reynolds nods as he looks at his digital pad. “Yes. Three of those men were arrested and executed for murder in their new districts. And a fourth was arrested and executed for the rape and murder of a child. It was determined that the local homeland security officers and detectives failed to do their jobs properly here while investigating your wife’s murder allowing her murders to get away and murder again. Thus, I am here because we don’t trust local security officers to do their jobs properly.”

            Granddad says, “I bet the murdered women were white and the child was white too.”

            Reynolds mouth sets in a grim line but admits, “Yes that’s true.” Then he pushes forward, “Do you think this incident could possibly be connected to your wife’s murder?”

            Granddad shakes his head, “No, I don’t believe so. This appears to be some sort of domestic matter.”

            “Mrs. Lupe Reed?”

            “Yes detective,” answers my Abuela.

            “Are your parents deceased,” asks Reynolds.

            “I don’t know,” answers Abuela. “They were deported back to Mexico for being illegals when our daughter Irena was a little girl. And we’re a closed country now. Nothing is imported in nor exported out. I have no way of contacting them. And they have no way of contacting me if they’re still alive.”

            “But you weren’t deported,” questions Reynolds.

            Abuela shakes her head, “I’m an anchor baby. I was born here and I married another citizen. Plus, I’m a nurse practitioner. That gives me value here.”

            He consults his digital pad and turns to me, “Dr. Ava Washington.”

            I respond with a drab, “Yep.”

             He ask me, “How long have you known Mr. Bryant Cross?”

            I answer, “Since kindergarten.”

            “Would you say you and he are close?”

            “Since I am his only friend,” I inform Reynolds, “I would say yes, we’re close.”

            “Do you have a lot of friends?”

            “No, not outside my family I don’t,” I answer.

            He ask me, “Is Mr. Cross close to his family?”

            I inform him, “No, they’re not a close family. But they manage to tolerate each other.”

            “Do you think they love each other?”

            I nod my head slightly, “Yes they love each other. They just don’t like each other.”

            “Do they like you?”

            I nod with a slight bobble, “They seem to like me better than they like each other.”

            “Do they permit you to speak freely in their home?”

            I inform him, “Yes I may speak freely in their home. I am already regarded as a member of the family and they are anxious to have me be an official member of the family.”

            Reynolds request of me, “Tell me about the Crosses.”

            I take a moment to collect my thoughts, “Mr. Cross is a hard worker. He and Mrs. Cross have that in common. He is very much about running our district smoothly and well. And she is very much about making their family look like it’s running well which is very much a full-time job.

            Blake is their oldest and their smartest. He has been carefully and meticulously groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’s sharp. He’s sociable. He’s athletic and friendly. But you have to be on your toes with him. He reads people expertly. He can tell by facial expressions and body language what’s going on in someone’s head. And he’s not above using what he knows about you to manipulate you.

            Bronson is their middle child. And he’s their dumb one. He’s a dumb blond with light brown hair. He’s very friendly, very outgoing and very athletic. People mistake the stupid things that fall out of his mouth for jokes. They think he’s just being funny. They don’t realize he’s just that stupid. He made it through school because hopeful girls did his homework and young women hoping to become his wife did his homework and papers for his university courses. But he does have excellent recall that allows him to remember facts and pass tests on his own. He doesn’t understand the answers. He just knows how he’s supposed to answer. Blake can see Bronson’s life clearly. Bronson will marry and divorce a few times and squeak by and be well liked because he’s naturally friendly and outgoing and people mistake his stupidity for humor.

            Bryant…” I feel my eyes well up with tears. “Bryant is having a hard life. He is a square peg and his family is a round hole pounding him with a hammer trying to make him fit. They want him to be like Blake and Bronson, friendly, outgoing, athletic, able to give inspiring speeches and toasts. Instead, he’s dyslexic and thoughtful. But people mistake his thoughtfulness, his taking his time to consider his answer, as slow witted and dumb. If it involves reading and writing, because of his dyslexia he struggles terribly with it. He’s mechanically inclined. That’s where his strength is. But they are trying to make him a Cross, make him fit into that round hole no matter what it takes. His parents don’t understand him and are frustrated with him. They just don’t get that he’s never going to be a Cross the way they believe he should be. They can’t accept his natural inclination is to be Joe the Mechanic and there is nothing wrong with being Joe the Mechanic. His brothers often tease him mercilessly. And I think he’s finally cracking under the pressure.”

            “You know his family well,” states Reynolds.

            I nod agreeingly, “But they don’t know me half as well as I know them and they don’t really know my family at all. They have us sit with them at church on Sunday, but they’ve never had us all over for dinner nor accepted having dinner with us. They just know the basics. That we’re all good hard working people.”

            Reynolds request, “Tell me about the incident at church last Sunday.”

            I respond, “I know these people. I know they like to gossip. You can’t tell me a couple dozen people haven’t told you a couple dozen versions of it already.”

            “True,” he confirms with a nod, “but I want to hear about it from you.”

            I breathe in deeply through my nose, “When Pastor Cross ask Dr. Walker to stand so everyone could get a look at him and meet our new doctor, I naturally looked over at him too. Dr. Walker smiled at me and I automatically smiled back. Bryant just snapped. He hopped up and smacked me full force and ordered me not to smile at Dr. Walker. He was always a little possessive and insecure, but since I finished my degree and began working he’s been very, very insecure and needy.”

            “Was he physically abusive before that,” inquires Reynolds.

            I shake my head, “No, he wasn’t. Before I started working he was a little possessive, but I was looking forward to being his wife.”

            “But you don’t look forward to it now,” Reynolds stating more than asking.

            But I confirm, “No. I’m afraid he’s begun a habit he can’t break. That I’m just going to go from being a battered fiancé to being a battered wife.”

            “Why do you think he’s so insecure,” ask Reynolds.

            I share, “He’s acutely aware that there are a number of men in our district that while saying one thing out in public in front of the women and at church, privately feel different. Things have been whispered to me and to him. He worries that I’ll be raped and murdered like my grandmother was. And it frustrates him that I don’t listen to him and won’t quit my job like he wants me to. I love my job, I don’t want to quit my job.”

            “What kind of things have been said to you and him,” ask Reynolds.

            I ask because I’ld rather not repeat any of that filth, “You really don’t want to hear any of that sick crap do you?”

            He responds with a firm nod, “I asked.”

            “Alright,” I agree but not happily so, “To me: ‘Bet you’re a sweet little fuck. I’ld like to fuck your tight little hole bloody. I bet that fine ass of yours sure gives a good bounce when your asshole’s being fucked.’ To him I once overheard, ‘You don’t fuck no one but her, her hole must be incredibly tight.’ And I hope you’ve heard enough because I think if I tell you one more my father will faint.”

            Reynolds puts a hand up in surrender, “That’s fine. So did the rest of church on Sunday go well?”

            I shrug, “It was typical for what it’s been like the last couple of years. Bryant made it known he wasn’t happy about Dr. Walker joining our household. And I think Bryant only dropped one F-bomb that morning. That’s very good for him. Peggy-Sue nearly got smacked in the mouth by Bryant for hissing at me. But nothing too out of the ordinary happened. And I rode home with Bryant and his family and Bryant was supposed to have me home in time for dinner.”

            “Anything out of the ordinary happen before the altercation between you and Bryant Cross,” ask Reynolds.

            “Not that I recall,” I shrug. “As I was helping Mrs. Cross with lunch his brothers teased him. Mrs. Cross noted our families are overdue for getting to know each other. They asked me some questions about myself and my family they hadn’t ever asked before. Bryant asked me if I had prior knowledge of Dr. Walker joining our household, but I didn’t… There was some kind of argument or disagreement…” I can’t tell the man everything. I mean I could and I probably should. Damn my head hurts.

            But Daddy helps me out unintentionally with, “Don’t push it. You’ve got two different knots on your head. If you don’t remember everything that’s okay. It may come back to you later.”

            “I just remember Mrs. Cross was so upset she started drinking wine straight from the bottle. And Bryant was so upset he didn’t want to eat lunch with his family so I made a tray to take up to his room. Blake and Bronson made it into the room the room before Bryant could shut and lock the door.”

            “What did they want,” ask Reynolds.

            “Besides me,” I respond, “Blake wanted to talk with Bryant.”

            “About what,” ask Reynolds.

            “Me,” I answer. Then I explain, “Blake told Bryant that he believes my family is so fed up with Bryant that he thinks they’ve begun looking for someone to marry me out from under Bryant.”

            “Did that upset Bryant,” asks Reynolds.

            I nod, “He gave me a panicked shake. That’s how I got the fingertip bruises on my arms. But all I could tell Bryant was they haven’t discussed such a thing with me. But Blake has a plan.”

            Reynolds ask, “What’s Blake’s plan?”

            I inform him, “For Bryant to step aside so he can marry me. And he promised to continue to share me with Bryant even after I’m his wife.”

            “So Bryant’s been sharing you with his brothers,” states Reynolds.

            I tell him, “He really didn’t get much of a choice in the matter. Bryant is only older than me by a couple of months. But I went through puberty before him and Bryant didn’t go through puberty for another two years. But Blake managed to trick me into playing Find the Pussy in the Dark. He led me to believe he had a kitten hidden in a large walk in closet. And I was still a gullible kid. After I went in to look for it, he shut the door behind himself trapping me in the dark closet with him. By the time Bryant went through puberty, Blake had been having sex with me for two years. Bryant was upset when he found out. But Blake manipulated him into sharing me. And when Bronson found out he didn’t want to be left out. Bronson’s opportunistic when it comes to getting laid and gets laid every chance he can get. With a maid at home, a woman or girl at church, he does it every chance he gets with anyone who’s willing. Blake was like that at first too. Diddling the maids and girls at school and church too. But for around a decade now, Blake has only been having sex with me and Bryant has only ever been with me.”

            “Is Blake in love with you too,” ask my mom.

            I shrug, “He says he is. And if I look at his behavior he seems to be telling the truth. And now he thinks Bryant is losing me. So he wants Bryant to step aside so he can marry me and they don’t lose me.”

            “Blake’s clever devil,” states my granddad.

            “Scary clever,” states my poppa.

            “How does Bryant feel about Blake’s plan,” ask Reynolds.

            I shake my head, “He doesn’t like it, not one little bit. And since Blake’s the one that’s supposed to follow in their father’s footsteps, Bryant doesn’t think Mr. Cross will allow him to marry a nonwhite woman. But Bryant agreed to think about it.”

            “What else happened,” ask Reynolds.

            “After Blake and Bronson satisfied themselves they left the room. Bryant and I were finally alone. We were lying in bed together talking, he asked me what I thought of Blake’s plan and I had to acknowledge that Blake is really good at reading people and that he’s certainly right about my family not being happy with him. Then he asked me something I felt was a loaded question. Something about him not giving me any choices. I acknowledged he had never asked me to be his girlfriend and had never proposed. But I admitted if he had asked I would have said yes. But I also admitted I would break up with him if I could over his losing his temper with me. But he wasn’t mad. He acknowledged that I was stuck with him and I told him I only felt stuck when he’s mistreating me and most of the time I’m happy with him. He said something about not being a good fiancé and not being a good husband or father and failing to protect me. He finally compared me to a bird in a cage singing sweetly.” I shake my head because it’s fuzzy, “He said something about setting me free and started choking me. He was crying as he said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to set you free.’ I got my hand on a root beer bottle on the nightstand and hit him in the head with it. He grabbed his head in pain and I tumbled off the bed away from him gasping for air. Then he was kicking me. Kicking me and yelling, ‘Let me set you free.’ Then he was sitting on me choking me again.” I wipe away some tears, “I realized I still had the root beer bottle in my hand. I hadn’t let go of it. And this time I hit him with everything I had. The bottle broke and he fell unconscious.” I sob as I ask, “Is he alright? Nobody will talk to me about him.”

            Reynolds informs me, “He’s alright. But he’s not really talking to anyone. He woke up Monday morning. He believes he killed you. All he’s said so far is ‘I strangled my fiancé, Dr. Ava Washington. I wish to be executed immediately.’”

            “Is anyone going to tell him I’m alive,” I ask.

            “We’ll tell him,” assures Reynolds. “We’re just still piecing things together. Do you remember how you got out of the Cross house?”

            I inform him, “I pushed Bryant off of me. I checked his pulse. He was breathing and his pulse was strong and steady. I was partially twisted up in the flat sheet so I held on to it. And I just wanted to go home. I started down the front stairs, tripped and fell down them. I may have laid unconscious at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes. I just remember trying to focus on the front doors and they were fuzzy. But I had to go home. So I pulled myself up, limped to the front doors, let myself out and limped down the driveway. All I could think was I wanted to go home. I need to get home. I held on to that damned sheet as I limped and when I was about half way home, I tripped again. I heard my father’s voice. I heard my mother crying. There were bright lights hurting my eyes. I touched Dr. Walker’s pretty hair. And then I woke up here around four am this morning.”

            Reynolds reminds me, “You said you were limping after you fell down the stairs. Do you remember if you we limping before you fell down the stairs?”

            I have to think about it for a minute, “Slightly. I think that’s why I fell down the stairs. But it was worse after I fell down the stairs.”

            “The sidewalks uneven,” states my dad in realization.

            “What’s that Dr. Washington,” ask Detective Reynolds.

            My dad explains, “Where I found her the side walk is uneven. People trip there all the time. They usually catch themselves before they actually fall and just keep going. But she was injured and disoriented. So when she tripped there on the uneven sidewalk she went down.”

            Detective Reynolds nods his understanding, “I think I have everything I need for now. But I may have more questions later.”

            I ask Reynolds, “So how many steroids does it take to get that swollen.”

            He looks down at himself and admits, “Okay, maybe I’ve overdone it a little. But it’s supposed to make the bad guys think twice about trying to fight me.”

            I tell him, “I’m sure it works.”

            He shakes his head with an amused grin, “Have a good night folks.”

            And we all call good night as he leaves.

            I’ve never been hospitalized before save the first few days of my life after I was born. And being a doctor who’s accustomed to giving orders and directions, I’m a horrible patient who’s not following her orders. I’m no fan of the bland hospital food. But luckily I have my beautiful Abuela to bring me good food. I’m going to live and my family knowing that they can’t all be in the room with me twenty-four, seven have adjusted their schedules so they can take turns visiting me so that I’m never alone in my hospital room. And on my second conscious day in the hospital, I get visitors.

            I wasn’t expecting visitors. After all, the only close friend I have outside my family is Bryant if you count him. But my first visitors are other currently hospitalized patients and patients in for treatments bringing me their charts to check over for them.

            “Mr. Peters everything looks perfectly in order,” I assure the elderly gentleman. “I wouldn’t do anything any differently than Dr. Walker.” I hand him his chart, “Just relax and get some rest.”

            He rolls his wheel chair out of my hospital room door past Dr. Walker who’s smiling amused. Dr. Walker ask me, “How am I doing Doctor?”

            I tell him pleased, “Very well. Thus far I’m very happy with your work and I don’t think I’m going to need to retrain you.”

            Dr. Walker chuckles, “I’m glad to hear that.”

            “This is the room,” says a man’s voice.

            “Pastor Cross,” I say surprised as he steps into my hospital room.

            “We heard you regained consciousness yesterday,” shares Pastor Cross as Pastor Wimbly rushes past him to me.

            Pastor Wimbly is in tears as he hugs me and covers my face in kisses. I wipe his tears from his wizen face as I tell him, “Don’t cry Wimbly. I’m going to make a full recovery. They may let me go home in another day or two.”

            “I’ll let you visit,” Dr. Walker tells Pastor Cross before exiting the room.

            Pastor Wimbly kisses my fingers, “If only I were a younger man. I’m too old to make you a proper husband.”

            “Oh Wimbly,” I tell him from my heart, “I think you would make any woman a fine husband.”

            Pastor Cross lifts my chin to have a good look at my face. He doesn’t look pleased. “List your injuries for me please Ava.”

            “Two head contusions, stitches here, black eye, bruised ribs, one rib fractured on this side and two fractured on this side. My right foot is broken and my right ankle strained. And I have quite a lot of bruises and a few places with stitches here and there.”

            “The bruises on your neck,” ask Pastor Wimbly concerned.

            I inform them, “He tried to strangle me.”

            “Did you two have an argument,” ask Pastor Wimbly.

            I shake my head, “No. No argument. No disagreement. He just decided to set me free.”

            “Set you free,” questions Pastor Cross in disbelief.

            I shrug, “That’s what he kept saying. I think he had a psychotic break.”

            Pastor Cross nods agreeingly, “He has been having a hard time for quite some time. You and your family have been amazingly tolerant.”

            I tell Pastor Cross, “He’s been unhappy for so long. I was hoping he’ld pull through it. But he seems to have forgotten what it’s like to be happy. Have they let you see him? I don’t want him treated badly.”

            “They haven’t let anyone see him since they took him into custody,” shares Pastor Cross. “But they’re going to let family see him today. That includes me. When they found him they thought you had both been attacked by intruders.” Pastor Cross shakes his head sadly, “Except when he regained consciousness Monday morning he confessed to your murder and requested immediate execution. To my knowledge he hasn’t struggled or put up a fight of any kind. But he’s not talking to anyone either. He just keeps requesting to be executed.”

            Pastor Wimbly says to Pastor Cross, “Whatever’s gone wrong inside his head, he still loves her and want to be with her. He thinks she’s dead so he’s asking to be executed so he can be with her.”

            I squeeze Pastor Wimbly’s hand, “I think you’re right.”

            Most young women would be turned off by Pastor Wimbly’s wizen face. But I think he’s adorably cute. I can see the once devastatingly handsome young man he once was. Pastor Cross looks at the way we’re holding hands with soft understanding in his eyes.

            Pastor Cross informs me, “There have been complaints that you have never been included in the rotation with the other young women to provide service for the clergy. But you’ve been servicing Pastor Wimbly haven’t you?”

            I blush as I nod yes, “I was a little uncomfortable with it at first. I knew Bryant wouldn’t like it. He’s been stuck sharing me with his older brothers since I went through puberty. The last thing he would ever want is to share me with one more man. That’s the biggest reason why he’s been in such a hurry to marry me. So he can tell his brothers no because I’m his wife. But Wimbly is no chore. He often comforts me when I’m very upset.”

            Pastor Cross tells Wimbly, “And here we all thought you weren’t seeking service with the young women because you were no longer able to perform.”

            I giggle, “Wimbly is not having any trouble performing.”

            Pastor Wimbly adds, “I just don’t like any of those rude mean selfish little bitches.”

            Pastor Cross and I are both shocked silent for a moment. Then I state amused, “Wimbly, I can’t believe you said that.”

            Pastor Wimbly shrugs, “They’re lost and they don’t want to be found. I know the sermons and lessons are wasted on them. They want heaven to be an entitlement instead of something that’s earned through good works. They’re so willfully stupid they don’t even realize I told then they’re all going to hell last Sunday.”

            “You told them they’re going to hell during your last lesson,” questions Pastor Cross shocked.

            “Not directly,” I defend.

            Pastor Wimbly informs Pastor Cross, “Ava answered a question of mine perfectly and got called a ‘gold digging nigger whore.’ And that was followed by niggers don’t go to heaven, not even if they’re good ones. I explained that skin color has nothing to do with it. That it’s how you live your life that determines if you’re going to heaven or hell, not your skin. Then I got asked why God created them.” He rolls his old grey eyes, “They simply choose to ignore that God’s first people were people of color and nowhere in the Bible does it say only white people go to heaven. They ignore that scientists discovered white people evolved from people of color. That pale skin is a genetic mutation. They insist on believing that being pigmently challenged makes them superior. So I simply told them that their chosen mental illness in this area will keep them out of heaven. There are no exemptions from loving thy neighbor and loving thy enemy.”

            I tell Pastor Cross, “They think he’s going senile and it was just him going on in an old crazy person rant. They never listen to what he’s saying.”

            Pastor Cross takes a deep breath and sighs sadly with a heavy heart. “I know exactly how you feel Pastor Wimbly. It’s why many of the clergy aren’t in a hurry to lead Sunday services or teach Sunday school lessons. They feel like they’re beating their heads against a brick wall. And I hate that word, that damn N-word. I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for the man that came up with that word. And that mind set we’re battling is making it next to impossible to find young men who are appropriate for sharing the word of God. But we can’t give up. We may be reaching more than we think. I’ve seen little ones abandon their parents to go sit in Ava’s lap and hold her hand.”

            Pastor Wimbly nods agreeingly, “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

            Pastor Cross checks the time, “We need to get going. They’ll be bringing Ava lunch soon and I need to be ready to visit Bryant. I’m hoping I’ll find the right words to help him.”

            Pastor Wimbly nods agreeingly to Pastor Cross. Then he gently touches my hair and face. He tenderly kisses me good-bye, “Hope to see you again soon.”

            I tell him with a warm loving smile, “You will.”

            Pastor Cross lets Pastor Wimbly exit ahead of him. He pauses in the door to tell me, “I will note your service to Pastor Wimbly. And I will note that you’re not appropriate for providing service with the other young women. Your service to Pastor Wimbly is more than enough.” Then he leaves.

            Abuela brings me lunch. Dr. Walker eats with us. I like him. His personality is very much like my granddad’s personality, gentle and kind, thoughtful and patient. He has a tendency to be soft spoken that makes you listen more intently. He’s the first new person to the district that wasn’t born here since before I was born. So some will be leery of him. Some will never accept him because he’s not a white man and he understands that clearly.

            The medications make me sleep for a couple of hours after lunch. Arguing outside my hospital room door wakes me up. The door is barely open a crack and I distinctly hear my father yell, “No. I don’t want any of you near my daughter.”

            I recognized Mrs. Cross’s voice, “Listen, I know you don’t know us and that’s our fault. We’ve deliberately kept you at a distance. And we don’t know Ava as well as we should. We are a broken dysfunctional mess. I don’t like my sons, but I love them. And I don’t know what came over Bryant because he loves her. He’s begging to be executed because he’s sure he killed her. She’s part of our family.”

            “Just ask her if she’ll see us,” request Mr. Cross. “If she says no she doesn’t want to see us, we’ll leave.”

            My dad reminds Mr. and Mrs. Cross angrily, “It’s my decision. I’m her father. I don’t need to ask her anything.”

            I finally call out, “What’s going on out there?”

            “Damn it,” exclaims my father mad.

            “Ava,” calls Mrs. Cross, “we’re here to see you.”

            “Dad, it’s alright. Let them in.”

            My dad steps in the door blocking their path, “Are you sure about this?”

            I nod, “Yeah, Dad. It’s fine. If it makes you feel better, you can stay in the room with us.”

            My dad steps all the way into the room and opens the door for them. He makes an enter motion with his hand unhappily. Blake and Bronson rush in a head of their parents, but stop shocked just a couple of feet from my bed. Bronson’s eyes are wide with shocked disbelief as he covers his open mouth with both of his hands. Blake’s eyes well over with tears. Mrs. Cross being a woman lets out a shocked sob. Mr. Cross’s eyes well up but he’s got it under control. My dad sits on the loveseat with an angry frustrate plop. Bryant began losing his temper with me and slapping me around four years ago. The slapping has very slowly increased in frequency, but it’s usually not full force. Usually the worst is my cheek is pink for a day. Yet over the past year I’ve worn a bruise shaped hand print several time, occasionally accompanied by a split lip. But Bryant never actually beat me before, so his parents and brothers are shocked.

            Blake comes all the way to my hospital bed first. He takes my small hand and brings it to his lips. Then he holds it to his cheek with his eyes closed for a few moments. He tells me sincerely, “I’m so sorry. I know Bryant’s been troubled the last few years. But I didn’t think asking him to step aside so I can marry you would send him over the edge.”

            I tell Blake, “I don’t think that’s what did it,” as Bronson goes around to the other side of my bed where he grabs the doctor’s stool and sits on it next to my bed. I’m short so there’s plenty of room across the foot of my bed where Mr. and Mrs. Cross each sit on a corner.

            “Why would you do that,” Mrs. Cross asks Blake.

            “Because he’s losing her,” explains Blake. “I can see her family is fed up with Blake and his unpredictable temper.”

            “Lost,” states my father. “He’s lost her. He’s never going to marry my daughter. None of you are. I’ld marry her to Pastor Wimbly if it wouldn’t leave her a young beautiful widow and vulnerable all over again.”

            Mr. Cross reminds Blake, “You’re my oldest. You’re slated to follow in my footsteps. I can’t allow you to marry Ava anyway.”

            Blake says to his father with narrowed serious eyes, “Insurance policies,” which puts a frustrated look on Mr. Cross’s face.

            “Blake, I didn’t know you were in love with Ava,” states Mrs. Cross surprised.

            Blake responds to her irritated, “It’s hard to know anything when your head is stuck inside a wine bottle.”

            Mrs. Cross admits, “You got me there.”

            Blake tells his parents annoyed, “If either of you were paying any attention, you would of noticed Ava’s the only woman I’ve been sleeping with for years.”

            My father informs Blake firmly, “I don’t care how in love with her you are. You’re not marrying her.”

            Bronson inserts “I know Pastor Wimbly loves Ava. I’ve seen him pat her bottom and steal kisses from her. But he’s too old to get it up.”

            I inform Bronson, “He’s not too old to get it up.”

            “What,” ask Bronson confused.

            I roll my eyes and inform Bronson, “Pastor Wimbly gets it up just fine.”

            Bronson ask me, “How do you know he can get it up.”

            Mrs. Cross tells Bronson matter-of-factly, “There’s only one way for her to know. Are you trying to be funny? This isn’t the time to be funny.”

            I inform Mr. and Mrs. Cross, “He’s not trying to be funny. He’s never trying to be funny. He’s your stupid one.”

            Blake nods his agreement with me, “If either of you were paying any attention, you might have figured out for yourselves that Bronson’s the stupid one.”

            “But,” says Mr. Cross confused, “his grades were always decent. Not good, but decent. He usually averaged at least a C.”

            Blake informs his parents, “Girls that like him have always helped him with his work and done it for him. He’s never written his own essays or anything.”

            Bronson counters, “I rewrote them in my own hand.”

            I inform Mr. and Mrs. Cross, “He has excellent recall. He remembers facts, figures, dates and stuff. He knows the answer to two plus two is four but he doesn’t necessarily understand why the answer is four.”

            “I know why,” inserts Bronson enthusiastically. Then using his fingers, “Because if you have two things and you have two more, then you count them together, it’s four things. See?”

            My dad starts laughing, “You don’t even know which one of your kids is the stupid one.”

            I inform them, “He’s not trying to be funny. The stupid stuff that comes out of his mouth is what he’s actually thinking. It’s almost like a super power he doesn’t even know he has. He says something stupid, but it makes people laugh. So they think he’s being funny on purpose.”

            “Wait,” request Bronson confused. “I thought Bryant was the stupid one.”

            “No dear,” I tell Bronson sweetly. “Bryant’s not stupid. But don’t worry about it. You did an excellent job of explaining why two plus two equals four.”

            And I know he won’t worry about it. He smiles winningly at me for telling him he did a great job and ask me, “Can I have a kiss?”

            I nod yes and give him a kiss. Then he rest his head on my lap. I pull my fingers through his hair and comment to Blake, “Best puppy ever.”

            Blake scruffs up Bronson’s hair and says with a warm smile, “Yeah, I like him.”

            “I like puppies,” comments Bronson. Then he tells me, “I love you Ava.”

            I have no trouble responding, “I love you too Bronson.”

            Blake ask me, “Why is it easy for you to tell Bronson you love him, but you have trouble saying it to me and Bryant?”

            I take a moment to think how to explain it, “When you or Bryant tell me you love me, it’s this intense serious thing. I love you both, but not with the same intenseness or passion you have for me. And I don’t want to tell you a lie. But when Bronson says it, it’s childlike, not serious and passionate. So I have no trouble saying it back.”

            Blake take a deep breath, “I think I understand.”

            Mr. Cross ask me, “So what happened after Blake and Bronson left you and Bryant alone.”

            I take a deep breath and exhale heavily, “I don’t know. Parts of it are fuzzy. But there was no argument or anything like that. One minute we were laying together cozily just talking and the next he was straggling me with his bare hands as he went on about setting me free. When I hit him with the root beer bottle the first time it wasn’t hard enough to knock him out and I think I just made him mad. He kicked me repeatedly. He made a fist and pulled back, but I don’t really remember the blow. I saw stars. Then he was sitting on me straggling me again. The second time I hit him with the root beer bottle I gave it everything I had and knocked him out. Still, there are injuries I’m not sure whether they came from Bryant or when I fell down the front staircase.”

            “You fell down the front stairs,” state Mrs. Cross with a gasp.

            I nod, “I tripped and I lost my balance. Tumbled all the way to the bottom.”

            “You must have been terrified,” says Mrs. Cross.

            I nod agreeingly. I was terrified.

            Blake ask me, “Can you make some room for me so I can hold you?”

            I nod and scoot over so Blake can slide onto the bed with me and hold me. It feels good to be held. And I don’t mind the slow thorough kiss either.

            Mr. Cross slides off his corner of my hospital bed and joins my father on the loveseat. He tells my father, “We’re overdue for a proper conversation with one another.”

            My dad responds, “That’s true.”

            “Ava,” Mrs. Cross says my name softly, “I’m sorry we’ve failed to get to know you properly. We don’t know you half as well as you know us. And we’ve not tried to get to know your family at all.”

            I shrug, “They feel they know more about all of you than they would like to anyway. After all, we’re our districts doctors. We know everyone and all their dirty little secrets: who cheats on her husband, who’s secretly homosexual or bisexual. And just so you know, your pool boy’s bisexual.” I point to her and I point at Bronson’s head on my lap because they both screw the pool boy.

            “Oh dear god,” exclaims Mrs. Cross. “I really need to sober up so I know what’s going on around me. So is Bronson bi???”

            I shake my head, “He’s not truly interested in men like that. He’s not seeking them out for sex like he does women. But he’s very opportunistic when it comes to sex. So when the pool boy offers to blow him or be done analy, Bronson just goes with it. Just thought you might like to know where the mouth of the pool boy has sometimes been just before you’ve kissed him.”

            Mrs. Cross states looking a little green, “I think I’m going to be sick.” Then she rushes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

            Blake and I tune out her retching to listen to our fathers talk. There’s no telling how much Bronson is absorbing until he says something that indicates he heard every word that was said.

            My father informs Mr. Cross, “We’re not pressing charges. We just want Bryant to get the help he needs. We love him. We don’t know Blake or Bronson well. They only visited us with Bryant occasionally. But Bryant used to spend time with us regularly. He really took us putting off the wedding until he’s finished his studies the wrong way. Stopped spending time with us and taking Ava to your home all the time. We understand his learning disability and the pressure he’s under. We didn’t want to add to that pressure by letting them get married and then he would be coping with working part-time, school part-time and a family of his own full-time. I know he wants Ava to have his baby and Ava would do it for him if I let her. But I know he’s not ready for all that. He doesn’t want Ava to work because he selfishly wants to keep her all to himself. But Ava needs to work and the hospital, clinic and urgent care need her. People like her who want to serve by taking care of others are becoming hard to come by. Being a doctor may allow you to live a comfortable life, but it doesn’t make you rich and powerful.”

            Mr. Cross questions, “My boys have spent time with your family?”

            My dad nods, “Yes, but mostly just Bryant. About two weeks after kindergarten he showed up at our front door. I asked him if he was lost and he ask me if Ava Washington lived there. I answered yes and he told me, ‘Then I’m not lost.’ Walked on in calling for Ava who excitedly came running, gave him a hug, got his hand, started showing him around the house and introduced him to everyone. I called your home and spoke to your wife. She didn’t even know he was missing. Thought he was playing in his room.”

            “I didn’t know that,” admits Mr. Cross.

            Mrs. Cross has come out of the bathroom. She still looks pale as she sits in the recliner nearest the loveseat. She informs her husband, “I didn’t tell you back then because I was afraid you’ld get mad, a Cross boy befriending and playing with the only child of color in our small town. But she was the only friend he had. The other children wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They picked on and bullied both of them. They sat together because no one else would sit with them. The teacher didn’t want to waste her time with him because as she told me, there were children with real potential she needed to focus on. Ava helped him with his school work and tied his shoes when they came untied. She played with him when other children wouldn’t. I let him go to Ava’s after school for over a month before he finally mentioned her in front of you. I was terrified you were going to forbid him from having anything to do with her when you met her.”

            “Why would I do that,” ask Mr. Cross. “She was a beautiful, intelligent, friendly, kind child. Bryant adored her and she adored him.”

            “Because she’s part black,” answers Mrs. Cross frankly, “and you’re a Cross and Crosses are related to Drumpfts and Drumpfts aren’t fond of people of color. But they’re especially not fond of blacks and Mexicans and she’s part black and Mexican, two strikes.”

            Mr. Cross nods his understanding, “I see why you thought that. But just because Crosses are related to Drumpfts doesn’t mean we think like them. In public I let it look like I don’t disagree with the Drumpfts, but you’ve never actually heard me say I do agree with them. Yet I can’t openly say I don’t agree either. Drumpft Senior had one of his own grandsons executed for being openly gay. My grandmother being Drumpft Jr.’s older sister isn’t going to protect us.”

            “You two aren’t a couple who talks much are you,” ask my father.

            “Very true,” admits Mr. Cross. “You and your wife married each other because you’re in love?”

            “Yes of course,” answers my father.

            “I think that’s wonderful,” says Mr. Cross sincerely. “I had hoped for that when I was a young man. And I hope for loving marriages for my sons. But Lilith and I are not married for love. I know the rumor is that she seduced me and she may have believed that herself at one time. She married me because I’m from a rich, powerful family and she believed that would provide her with a lavish, opulent, cushy life. Yet she long ago discovered that it isn’t half as easy as less fortunate people think it is and she drinks a lot of wine to cope. I married her because I was expected to marry and have a family, carry on the Cross name and such. I needed a wife who was reasonably pretty, reasonably intelligent, photographed well and would look good on my arm during formal functions. Lilith checked all the boxes so I married her. We don’t talk more than necessary and usually only when it’s necessary. She’s given me three sons I love very much and I love her for that if nothing else. Her tubes were tied after Bryant was born and she is now free to have discrete affairs as I have my discrete affairs. And once in a while we still bone each other.”

            My father shakes his head, “That’s just sad.”

            Mr. Cross nods agreeingly, “Indeed it is. The one bright spot in our miserable lives is your daughter. That big house on the hill is cold and lonely when she’s not there. Without her we all go to our neutral corners and only interact when necessary. With her, we come together and interact almost like a real family. And I understand Bryant has become too unstable to marry her. But Blake is stable and more in love with her than I was aware of before today. He loves her enough to blackmail me to let him marry her. Until today I just thought she was his favorite sex toy and favorite way to annoy Bryant.”

            “Well I just learned yesterday that Bryant’s been stuck sharing her for years with his older brothers,” shares my father unhappily. “Quite frankly I’m shocked and appalled that this has been going on in your home. It certainly hasn’t been good for Bryant’s mental health and I don’t like the effect it’s had on Ava. She’s become distant and quiet over the years. She was a happy sing-songy child. Here she’s been protecting us from knowing what she’s been going through in your home. Protecting us from suffering with her because there really isn’t anything we could do to stop it. All we could do was get her an implant as soon as she went through puberty to protect her from an unwanted pregnancy because we knew someone would take advantage of her first chance he got and she would be entered into the service rotation for the pastors when she turned sixteen. We were grateful when we discovered how much being Bryant’s girlfriend and later his fiancé protected her, kept her out of the rotation from the pastors and such. Except he couldn’t protect her from his own brothers. I can’t imagine how much that has eaten at him. But I understand better why he was pushing so hard to marry her sooner rather than later.”

            “Yes it’s been a bone of contention between them,” admits Mr. Cross. “He wanted it to stop. But with Blake being in love with her too, it wasn’t going to stop. And Bronson is practically Blake’s shadow. The women Blake rejects turn to Bronson with open legs as a back-up plan. But I want you to seriously consider allowing Ava to marry Blake instead of Bryant.”

            My father shakes his head, “That would put her under the same roof as Bryant. Next time he may succeed at setting her free. I can’t risk her life like that.”

            Blake suggest, “What if I relocate to your home instead of Ava relocating to ours? I want Ava to be safe just as much as you do.”

            “What about that,” ask Mr. Cross. “Will you consider allowing Blake to marry Ava if he relocates to your home instead of she to ours?”

            “I will consider it,” agrees my father, “but I need to inform you we think we’ve found a suitable husband for Ava.”

            “I knew it,” states Blake frustrated. “I should have made my move months ago.”

            “Is he someone from our district,” ask Mrs. Cross concerned.

            My father shakes his head, “No. He’s from another district.”

            “Are you sure about this,” ask Mr. Cross. “Do you really want to send her to a stranger in another district?”

            “No,” admits my father, “but I do want her safe from Bryant. We love Bryant. And we’ve greatly missed his presence in our household the last few years. But we have to do what’s best for Ava. We have to protect her. We’ve been searching for over a year and we believe we’ve finally found someone. I’ll still consider the marriage to Blake, but I need to discuss it with her mother and grandparents. It’s their home too. And I ask that you seriously consider what is right for Bryant. He’s not like Blake and Bronson. I know he’s been working part-time at the municipal building and he hates it. Why not let him work part-time in his maternal grandfather’s garage instead? He’s a good mechanic. It would be good for his self-esteem. Consider letting him drop out of the university or at least let him study what he’s interested in. He hates political science and law. For the love of God man, stop worrying so much about what’s right for the Cross name and do what’s right for your son.”

            Mr. Cross nods agreeingly, “I guess in many ways Lilith and I are failing miserably as parents when it comes to Bryant.”

            “Not just when it comes to Bryant,” my dad points out, “for all three of them. You didn’t know who your dumb one is, you’ve been torturing Bryant with his weaknesses instead of building on his strengths, holding him to unrealistic expectations and you failed to recognize your oldest child is in love. And I’m supposed to let my daughter, my baby girl, our only child, marry into this mess you call a family? I’ll seriously consider Blake’s proposal. But I’m going to do what’s best for my daughter. And I hope you’re going to start doing what’s best for your sons.”

            From out of nowhere Bronson ask me, “Ava, did you have sex with Pastor Wimbly?”

            I answer a little amused, “Yes Bronson, I have. I service him at least once a month.”

            “But that’s gross,” states Bronson.

            “How is it gross,” I ask curious.

            “It’s gross old man sex,” answers Bronson. “He’s old. Old people shouldn’t have sex. It’s gross. Just ewe.”

            I shake my head amused and tell him, “You won’t think it’s so gross when you’re an old man.”

            “But I’m not an old man,” responds Bronson.

            I inform Bronson, “If you’re lucky enough to live as long as Pastor Wimbly, you’ll become on old man.”

            “It has something to do with your age,” ask Bronson.

“Yes,” I confirm for him, “it has everything to do with your age.”

“If I don’t celebrate my birthdays will that stop it,” ask Bronson.

            “No,” I tell Bronson, “even if you don’t celebrate them, you still get one year older every year.”

            “Is there any way to stop it from happening,” ask Bronson.

            I tell him, “No. It happens slowly. For the most part you won’t even realize it’s happening. You just wake up one day, look in the mirror and your outside no longer matches your inside. But it’s not a bad thing.” I don’t dare tell him if he dies young he won’t grow old.

            “It’s not a bad thing,” questions Bronson.

            “No,” I assure him, “it’s not a bad thing. It’s perfectly natural.”

            “Alright then,” responds Bronson agreeably, “if it’s not a bad thing, I guess I can do it. Can I have another kiss?”

            I take his face in my small hands and kiss him. He can tie his shoes, read and write, walk and talk, and for the most part he seems perfectly normal. He’s even house broken. But if you spent enough time with Bronson, you would come to recognize that there’s just some part of him that’s stuck as a ten year old boy. There are some things he just doesn’t absorb. He just doesn’t understand them, isn’t capable of understanding them and he’s not capable of being overly concerned about it. All you can do is explain things as simply as possible for him. He might come back to it later, but usually not. It’s sort of an out of sight out of mind thing and he’s very agreeable.

            “Did you get to visit with Bryant today,” I ask them. “Pastor Cross came by earlier with Pastor Wimbly and said you were going to get to see Bryant.”

            Blake answers flatly, “We saw him.”

            “How is he,” I ask because I need to know. “They aren’t mistreating him are they?”

            “No, they’re not mistreating him,” answers Mr. Cross.

            “I feel like there’s more to it,” I state concerned.

            Mrs. Cross informs me, “He doesn’t believe you’re alive. He was told you are and we told him you are. Pastor Cross even shared that he visited you this morning himself and that you are very much alive. But he thinks it’s a trick so he’ll stop asking to be executed. He thinks we’re trying to prevent him from joining you. So he’s on suicide watch. They’re afraid he might hurt himself.”

            I nod understandingly as I shed a few silent tears. Even if I had majored in psychology, I don’t think I could help him. Yet I still want to help him. I want my old friend back. I miss him.

            Blake brushes my tears away, “There’s nothing you can do for him right now. Just get better yourself.”

            I nod agreeingly to Blake and accept his loving devouring kisses. His gentle touch is comforting. And it might seem strange that I am so worried and concerned for a man who has felt more like a stalker than a boyfriend or fiancé the last few years and just tried to kill me a few days ago, but Bryant wasn’t always like this. The real Bryant wouldn’t dream of harming a hair on my head.

            “It’s getting close to dinner time,” my father reminds the Crosses. “Ava’s Abuela will be bringing her dinner soon. And you need to eat yourselves.”

            Mr. Cross nods agreeingly as he stands, “Let’s get home in time for dinner.” He comes to my bedside and kisses my forehead. “Even if they don’t let you marry Blake, you’ll always be a member of this family. We love you no matter what.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Cross,” I respond appreciatively.

            Mrs. Cross kisses my cheeks, “I almost got the daughter I always wanted. I know your father and grandfathers will discuss Blake’s proposal and give it serious consideration. But I know what I would do if I were them.” She accepts Mr. Cross’s offered hand.

            Blake slips off my bed, takes my round face in his hands and kisses me thoroughly, “There are a few things I wish I had done differently with you. But I can’t go back and change the things I did when I was a dumb, horny teenager. All I can try to do now is better. Rest and heal. I love you.”

            He’s giving me strong eye contact waiting for me to say it back, “You know it’s not like I don’t care for you at all.”

            “Just say it,” request Blake with love filled eyes.

            I finally cave in, “Alright, I love you too.”

            Blake smiles beatifically and kisses me again.

            Bronson hugs me tightly, “When you and Bryant come home, we can all go swimming together in the pool.”

            My eyes well over with big tears, “I’m sorry Bronson. I don’t think I’ll get to come home.”

            Bronson says confused, “But if you don’t come home Blake and Bryant will both be unhappy and miss you. I will be sad and miss you too.”

            I don’t know what to say to him. But my dad points to my neck ask him patiently, “Do you see these bruises on Ava’s neck?”

            Bronson nods yes. I can tell he’s listening carefully.

            My father explains, “These bruises are strangulation marks.”

            “Strangulation marks,” repeats Bronson in serious thought. “But that’s like hanging someone,” finding a frame of reference for it in his mind that he understands, “like they used to do in the wild, wild west for bad guys. Hang them and they died. I don’t want Ava to die.”

            “I don’t want Ava to die either,” my father tells Bronson, “but Bryant did that to her. He strangled her. She’s not safe with Bryant any more. She’ll be safer at home with me and her mother.”

            Bronson nods agreeingly, “Okay, as long as she’s safe there. I want Ava to be safe. I love her and Blake loves her. And I know Bryant loves her too. But he hasn’t been himself lately. I think something broke in his head.”

            My father tells Bronson with a somewhat amused smile, “I think you’re right. So we better keep a little distance between him and Ava until he gets better.”

            Bronson ask my dad, “Is it alright if I visit Ava at your house?”

            “Of course,” answers my father, “we’ld love for you to come visit Ava at our house. It’s been way to long since your last visit. You can even bring Blake with you.”

            Bronson ask seriously, “I don’t have to bring him do I?”

            My father chuckles, “You don’t have to, but you can if you want to. You’re both welcome to visit.”

            Bronson hugs my father unexpectedly, “Thank you, Dr. Washington.”

            My dad pats his back, “You’re welcome son.”

            Then Bronson hugs me and kisses me again. And this time he also rubs his face in my crotch. I was really hoping he wouldn’t do that in front of my father as my face flushes red with embarrassment. But Bronson’s not embarrassed. He’s happy as a clam as he waves cheerfully to us as he follows the rest of his family out of my hospital room.

            I shake my head embarrassed and amused as my as my father says to me, “How in the hell did they miss that boy is a grade A doofus?”

            I respond smiling, “I’m telling you it’s like a super power he’s not even aware of. He’s friendly, outgoing, athletic with excellent recall. He reads fine when he’s reads out loud even though he may not fully understand what he’s reading. And his hand writing seems perfectly normal. It’s actually a little too nice for a guy’s handwriting. So when he says something totally asinine that doesn’t make any sense out of the blue, people assume he’s joking.”

            “Hey,” greets Dr. Walker cheerfully as he enters my hospital room with my Abuela carrying a large picnic basket and small cooler for her. He shares, “We just past the Crosses as we were coming down the hall. Were they visiting?”

            My father answers, “Yeah, they just left.”

            Abuela tells us, “You should have seen the dirty look Blake gave Dunston.”

            I ask surprised, “Why on earth would Blake give Dr. Walker a dirty look?”

            “Dunston,” Dr. Walker directs me. “I’m not on the clock right now. So call me Dunston or Dunny.”

            So I restate, “Why give Dunston a dirty look? They’ve never had a conversation.”

            Dad informs Abuela, “Blake is sharp. He figured out we’re looking for a husband for Ava because we decided Bryant’s become too unstable. So I informed him we began looking over a year ago. So he’s kicking himself. He’s in love with Ava too and finally asked Bryant last Sunday to step aside so he can marry her.”

            Abuela’s eyebrows furrow with serious thought, “But he’s their oldest. He’s been groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. Cross can’t let him marry Ava.”

            “Apparently,” Dad informs Abuela as he helps her and Dr. Walker make our plates, “he has something over his father’s head so Cross won’t deny him marrying Ava.”

            “Insurance policies,” I insert. “He calls them his insurance policies.”

            “Oh,” says my father in surprised realization, “so Blake blackmailed his father right here in front of me to marry you.”

            “Wow, that was bold,” states Dr. Walker.

            “Sure was,” agrees my father. “I’m not sure if I should think better of him or worse.”

            Abuela ask me, “Ava, do you know what Blake has on his father?”

            I nod yes, but I don’t answer. I just want to concentrate on the food that’s been placed in front of me.

            “Well,” questions my father expectantly.

            “Well what,” I respond innocently.

            Dad ask me frustrated, “What does Blake have on his father?”

            “Video recordings,” I answer with a shrug as if it’s not important.

            “Recordings of what,” ask my father a bit demandingly.

            I ask him, “Isn’t this a bit like gossiping?”

            “Just spill it,” orders my father.

            So I inform them, “Video recordings of Mr. Cross being inappropriate with someone.”

            “With another man,” questions Abuela.
            My mouth falls open from shock that she asked such a thing, “Abuela, no. He’s not gay or even bi. It’s a young woman. And I’m not going to tell you who so don’t ask.”

            “But you know who,” ask my father.

            “Yes I do,” I admit. “But I’m not telling you who.” I would be mortified for my family to know. As much as they try to protect me, I do my best to protect them. We are a close family. We have very few secrets from one another. But just like all families, we have secrets just the same. Secrets that we each keep to protect the hearts of those we love.

            Abuela then shocks me by asking, “Have you seen any of the videos?”

            “No,” I answer a little high pitched. “What’s with you tonight? Why would I watch something like that? If Blake offered, I would not watch any of them.”

            “Then how do you know Blake’s not bluffing,” ask Abuela.

            I state matter-of-factly, “Blake doesn’t bluff. If he’s going to lose he wants to do it with dignity, not possibly looking like a fool.”

            Abuela ask me, “Do you think Blake asking Bryant to step aside so he can marry you himself set Bryant off on Sunday?”

            I answer, “I think it was a combination of things not one specific thing, I know he was feeling like he failed to protect me properly.” I shrug, “He’s suffering. That’s the one thing I know for certain. He’s suffering.”

            Dr. Walker suggests, “Maybe he assumes you were suffering too in the same way he is. Maybe that’s what he was trying to set you free from, suffering.”

            I nod agreeingly, “He was a sensitive boy. I think that’s probably about as close as we’re going to get to knowing what was happening in his head last Sunday.”

            Blake slips back into my hospital room after visiting hours. I’m mostly asleep from the pain meds. He strips down to his boxer briefs and carefully climbs in bed with me. He curls up with me hugging me back against himself. He whispers to me, “I love you, Ava.”

            I mumble back, “Love you too, Blake.” Then I sleep soundly for the night. I don’t even wake up needing any pain meds.

            Then I’m awoken by my poppa exclaiming, “What the hell!”

            I feel Blake lift his head behind me. He asks, “What time is it?”

            I mumble, “Too early.”

            My Abuela informs him, “Six am.”

            “Can’t you Cross boys even leave my granddaughter alone while she’s recovering in a hospital bed,” ask my poppa angrily. “Did you have to come and impose yourself on her while she’s recovering?”

            Blake stretches as he sits up, “What do you mean impose?”

            Abuela informs Poppa, “Ava’s still has on her hospital gowns. She’s not naked.”

            Blake slips of my hospital bed and Abuela tells Poppa, “He’s wearing his underwear. He’s not naked either. I don’t think they did anything.”

            “What would we be doing,” ask Blake getting dressed. “Ava’s injured. I just wanted to be near her. I’ve been so worried about her the last few days I’ve not slept well. And when I couldn’t sleep last night, I came here to sleep with her. I didn’t think that would hurt anything.” Then he steps into the bathroom to relieve himself.”

            Poppa ask me directly,” Did he impose himself on you?”

            I shake my head,” No, Poppa. We just slept.”

            Abuela opens the curtains and blinds and I squint at the bright morning sunlight and complain, “Why does it have to be so damn bright? My eyeballs are melting.”

            Abuela tells me, “You’re eyeballs are fine, vampire.”

            “Ava,” Blake calls as he’s washing his hands, “Is this your tooth brush?”

            “Yes, it’s mine,” I call back. Then I hear him brushing his teeth.

            Poppa asks me, “Has he ever been cruel to you?”

            I shake my head, “No. He likes to tease Bryant and Bronson, but he’s not cruel about it. It’s just typical big brother stuff.”

            Blake comes out of the bathroom and to my bedside, “Can I do anything for you before I leave for work?”

            “Help me out of bed and to the bathroom,” I request.

            Blake stays in the bathroom as I relieve myself, wash my hands and brush my teeth. Then he helps me back to my hospital bed and into it. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers.

            I asks Blake, “Why did you give Dr. Walker a dirty look on your way out last night?”

            “He told you that,” assumes Blake.

            I shake my head, “Abuela told me when they came in with my dinner last night.”

            Blake shrugs, “I guess I just don’t like him.”

            I ask Blake, “How can you dislike someone you’ve yet to have a conversation with? He hasn’t even lived here a whole week yet.”

            Blake shrugs again as he’s holding my hand, “He’s not from here and I guess that makes me uneasy.”

            “Well we’re all from the same planet,” I tell Blake. “Does that make you feel better?”

            Blake smiles amused, “Not exactly. I really don’t like that they just moved some strange guy into your home. What if he takes a shine to you?”

            “Blake Cross,” I tell him amused, “you’re sounding insecure.”

            Blake sighs and admits, “Maybe just a little. There wasn’t anyone better than me, Bryant and Bronson in our district for your family to choose for you until he showed up. He’s a doctor like you, your dad and your grandfathers which means he’s smart like all of you.”

            “You’re smart too,” I tell him.

            Blake admits, “I’m smart enough to know I’m not as smart as you. I like to think I’m perfect, but I know I’m not. And until he arrived, I was the best looking guy in the district and the best they could do for a husband for you here. I know I’m technically not good enough for you and that you deserve better, but I love you and want you anyway. I can’t do any better than you.”

            “Goodness,” I tell Blake, “whoever they think they’ve found for me, he’s probably in another district. And I know they’re not in a hurry to send my away. Give them time to consider your proposal. I think they’ll like the idea of keeping me under their roof. Of course after putting up with me while I’m recovering, they may be anxious to get rid of me.”

            Blake manages a smile for me, “They may want to keep you under their roof, but they’ll do whatever they feel is best for you. And I can’t blame them for that. I better get going. I need to grab something to eat before I head to work.”

            “Here,” offers Abuela, “have a breakfast burrito.”

            Blake accepts the breakfast burrito and I happily accept one too. He is visibly impressed with it and tells Abuela, “Mrs. Reed, this is delicious.” He finishes his breakfast burrito, kisses me good-bye and heads to work.

            After Blake is gone Poppa says, “That was really mature of him to admit his insecurities when it comes to you, Ava. And brave of him to admit you deserve better than him. I knew he was the sharpest of their three boys, but I didn’t know he was sharp enough to know he can’t do better than you. We’ve got a hard decision ahead of us.”

            They will ask me questions to help them make their decision on what’s best for me. Truth is in this area I have no idea what’s best for me. My Doctorate’s didn’t come with that information. Caring for infants and children is much easier than trying to decide who I should be stuck spending my life with. And I will be stuck with him. I can’t get a divorce unless he decides he wants one. Plus, I really don’t have much choice in the matter. I expected to become Bryant’s wife whether that’s what I wanted or not so I just accepted it. I really try not to have any hopes or dreams in this area because it’s easier to accept whatever decision is made for me if I don’t have any.

            Around ten am a gentle hand on my shoulder wakes me. I blink my brown eyes open to a smiling Dr. Walker who informs me, “Detective Reynolds needs to speak to you. Are you up to it?”

            I nod as I sit the bed up, “Sure.” I rub my eyes and stretch as much as my sore body will allow, “Good morning Detective Reynolds.”

            “Good morning, Dr. Washington,” returns Detective Reynolds.

            “Just Ava is fine, Detective Reynolds.”

            Detective Reynolds nods acceptingly, “So how are you feeling today?”

            I think for a moment, “Mostly groggy. Between the anti-inflammatory medication and the pain meds, I’m doing a lot of sleeping. And I find being a patient a little unsettling to say the least. But as long as no one tries to make me use a bedpan, I think we’ll all survive my injuries.”

            Detective Reynolds smiles amused, “That sounds like the safest approach. Ava, Bryant doesn’t believe you’re alive. He thinks we’re trying to trick him for some reason. And he can’t be evaluated properly by the specialist that accompanied me and my partner here if he won’t speak to us.  He won’t even speak to his family. He just keeps requesting to be executed. So we would really appreciate it if you would come over to the psych ward with me and talk to him. You won’t be alone with him. Both my partner and I will be in the room with you. The specialist will observe from the observation room. Dr. Walker can stay in the room with you too.”

            I nod agreeingly as I answer, “I’ld like to see Bryant.”

            “Are you sure,” Dr. Walker ask me concerned. “You don’t have to do it.”

            I assure him, “It’s alright Dunston. I want to see Bryant.”

            He doesn’t look happy as he tells me, “Alright then. I’ll go get a wheelchair for you.”

            “Detective Reynolds, would you please assist me out of the bed and over to the lavatory.” He doesn’t hesitate to assist me out of the bed and over to the lavatory. The lavatory’s not spacious, but it’s functional and wide enough for a wheel chair to maneuver in. I’m grateful for the bars to hold onto and put my weight on. After relieving myself, I wash my hands and face and brush my teeth. I check the two French braids Abuela and Dr. Walker put in my hair last night to ensure they’re not coming loose.

            Dr. Walker is waiting by the lavatory door with a wheelchair. I am happy to plant myself in it. Even with assistance, my short trip to the lavatory and back to my hospital bed is exhausting.

            Dr. Walker lays a blanket over my lap and tucks it around my legs and feet. Then he places a throw over my shoulders. Hospitals are chilly places for a reason. Most viruses and bacteria thrive in warm moist environments. The hospital’s cooler temperature discourages the growth of most viruses and bacteria.

            “Are you comfortable,” Dr. Walker ask me concerned.

            I nod, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Then Detective Reynolds leads the way.

            Dr. Walker tells me, “If you change your mind just let me know and I’ll take you back to your room. I understand if you’re scared.”

            “But I’m not scared,” I inform him. I probably should be, but I’m not. “I know it must seem strange, odd or even crazy that I’m not afraid to be in the same room with him. I know one would expect that I would never want to see him again after last Sunday. And the last few years he’s felt more like a stalker than a fiancé or boyfriend… I don’t expect you to understand, but he wasn’t always like this. He was a sweet kind little boy. Before we started kindergarten together we only saw each other in passing at church and in the Little Sunday Schoolers’ class on Sunday with our mothers. He would always wave to me with one hand tucked under his arm so everyone didn’t see and I would give him a little wave back. After we started kindergarten it didn’t take long for the teachers to get tired of tying his shoes for him. People like to gossip that he never learned to tie his shoes, but that’s not true. He knew how. He just didn’t have the manual dexterity to get them tied tightly. So the teachers had me tying his shoes so they didn’t have to. The other children wanted nothing to do with either of us just for different reasons. Me because I was a little brown child to put it nicely, so don’t play with her. They would tell me I was dirty and go home and wash your ass. And him because he was quiet and thoughtful. So all we had was each other growing up. He didn’t care that I have brown skin.” I smile, “He loves my brown skin. He wasn’t dumb enough to think I was dirty. And I always appreciated that he wasn’t the typical loud mouth pushy little boy.” I frown sadly, “We were best friends. I’m losing my best friend and it hurts. My family just wanted to give him time to finish earning his degree and get comfortable with my working here so he wouldn’t make me quit and would let me come back when our children were old enough. I’m this district’s only pediatrician. I fill a vital role here even if it’s only part-time.” I tear up, “Even if they let me marry Blake instead of Bryant, Bryant will still be broken hearted.”

            Dunston pats my shoulder companionably, “I think I understand.”

            Our psych ward isn’t huge, but it has rooms and cells for those that are sick and injured to be kept in for homeland security. Besides his head injury, Bryant is on suicide watch. No one has managed to harm themselves seriously in one of our padded rooms to my knowledge. But Detective Reynolds leads us to a homeland security interview room within our hospital. This is the first time one of these rooms has gotten used since I started here. The table and the chair are bolted to the floor so they can’t be over turned during a fit of rage.

            Detective Reynolds knocks on the door and another detective that’s nearly as buff as Reynolds answers the door. Reynolds makes quick introductions, “This is Dr. Ava Washington. Ava, this is Detective Parker.

            “Good morning Detective,” I greet pleasantly.

            He glances down at me in the wheelchair unimpressed and doesn’t bother to respond. He simply steps back out of the way and allows Detective Reynolds to step inside the room. Then Reynolds allows Dr. Walker to push me into the room.

            I never imagined seeing Bryant like this. His feet are cuffed to an eyebolt in the floor and his hands are cuffed to the table in front of him. I can see the sweet little boy I grew up with. He’s so lost and scared. But he’s there in his eyes. I see him. He’s there. His eyes have been terrifyingly empty the last few years. But he’s back. He’s there, I see him. And I try to take control of the wheelchair to go to him as he calls wide eyed and shocked, “Ava!”

            Dr. Walker retains a hold of the wheelchair preventing me from going to Bryant. I demand frustrated, “Let me go.”

            Dr. Walker tells me softly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

            I ask the detectives, “Has Bryant given you any trouble? Has he been violent?”

            Both detectives shake their heads no. Detective Reynolds shares, “He’s actually been quite docile. We just haven’t been able to get him to talk to us. He’s just kept confessing to your murder and requesting execution.”

            “And if he becomes violent and tries to hurt me,” I ask them, “are you both confident you can stop him?”

            They both nod their heads and Detective Parker answers confidently, “Of course.”

            I look back at Dr. Walker and tell him, “It’s alright, Dunston. You’re here and so are these two detectives. It’s alright.”

            Dunston reluctantly releases my wheelchair. I roll it over to Bryant and take his tear streaked face in my small hands. I wipe his tears lovingly as he says my name softly, “Ava… My beautiful Ava.”

            I am so happy to look into his eyes and see him. I kiss him lovingly and ask him, “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

            Bryant rest his head on my shoulder, “I don’t know Ava. I remember everything. But it feels like a bad dream, like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.”

            “Could you at least uncuff his hands,” I demand of the detectives. “We’re not going anywhere. He’s still chained to the floor by his ankles.”

            Detective Reynolds frowns but he uncuffs Bryant’s hands.

            Bryant’s hands are trembling as he gently touches my face and hair. He kisses me lovingly and holds me tightly, “I can’t believe I hurt you.” He sobs softly, “But I remember doing it.”

            I inform him, “You weren’t yourself. You haven’t been yourself for a while. And it wasn’t all you Sunday. I fell down the front staircase. I’m not sure when some of my injuries occurred.”

            Bryant tells me, “I remember choking you. I remember kicking you and punching you. And what was going through my mind doesn’t make sense to me now. You are the one person who has always loved me unconditionally.” He tenderly kisses the bruises on my neck. “I’m so frustrated and tired of sharing you with Blake and Bronson, I feel like I’ve trapped you with my dysfunctional family and I don’t know how to let you go. I love you so much. All I ever wanted was to spend my life with you. But for you, spending your life with me means being stuck with my dysfunctional family.” He sobs again, “But your family will never let us marry now.”

            I caress away his tears and kiss him lovingly, “But I still love you. And above all my family wants me to have a happy life. They need to see you’re yourself again.”

            “Has Blake asked to marry you yet,” ask Bryant.

            “Yesterday.” I answer sadly.

            “How did your dad respond,” ask Bryant concerned.

            “Initially he refused,” I share, “They’re lucky they got in the room to see me. But Blake offered to relocate to our family home to be my husband. Daddy agreed to think about it.”

            Bryant ask me, “Is Blake right about your family looking outside of our district for a husband for you.”

            I nod yes.

            “Have they found someone,” ask Bryant worried.

            “They think they have,” I answer. “But I haven’t asked any questions. I’m afraid of the answers I might get. I just know I’m our districts only pediatrician. I know our district needs me. So I don’t know what they’re trying to work out.”

            “It’s not like you not to ask questions,” notes Bryant. “Why haven’t you asked?"

            I admit, “Because I’m afraid of the answers. What if they’re trying to arrange a marriage for me in another district? I know in some districts I would be much safer than here. They may be trying to make a trade. There are districts with more people of color than ours, many more. That means more health care providers. They’re probably trying to trade me for a male pediatrician that can provide full-time care.”

            “I doubt that,” says Bryant thoughtfully. “But maybe another district would be good for you. Maybe you would be safer in a district with more people of color. Here, you’re a novelty. Men’s mouths may be saying they don’t want you in front of their wives, mothers and daughters here, but their dicks are saying something else when you walk by.”

            That’s too true. I’ve seen the rising interests of men that contradict the ugly things falling out of their mouths. Still I tell Bryant sincerely, “But this is my home.”

            Bryant gently caresses tears from my cheeks and kisses me tenderly, “It may not feel like home at first. You may feel homesickness the likes of which you’ve never been able to imagine. But in time, your homesickness will wane and it will come to feel like home.” He manages a weak smile for me, “And you’ll wonder how you ever missed this awful place.”

            I still tell Bryant with a slight sob, “But it’s not all awful.”

            Bryant hugs me, “The things I remember from the last few years are awful. The things I know you’ve had to endure because I love you are awful. I love you, Ava. And how you have managed to endure me and my family with such strength and dignity, I’ll never know. But I do know you deserve better.” He kisses me lovingly and tells Dunston, “Doctor, please take the woman I love back to her hospital room. Make sure she rest. She’ll work herself half to death if you let her. And give her better loving care than you’ve ever given before in your life.”

            “Will do,” responds Dunston confidently as he pulls me and my wheelchair back away from Bryant.

            Bryant tells the detectives, “I don’t know if I can answer all of your questions. I’m not sure I remember everything clearly. It feels like a terrible nightmare. I don’t know how reliable and accurate I’ll be.”

            “Just do your best,” Detective Parker tells Bryant as Detective Reynolds lets Dunston out of the room with me.

            Detective Reynolds tells me, “Thank you, Dr. Washington.”

            I point a stern finger up at him, “You just listen to me you big thick goon. You better not harm a hair on his head. He’s suffered enough.”

            Detective Reynolds smiles understandingly and somewhat amused at me, “You really do love him.”

            “Of course I do,” I respond a bit insulted. “Do I really seem like a gold digger to you?”

            Detective Reynolds shakes his head, “No, I know you’re not. My apologies that I may be a little narrow minded in areas concerning women and colored folk like yourselves. Get some rest, Dr. Washington. Good day Dr. Walker.”

            “Good day, Detective,” returns Dunston.

            I go home Monday. It feels strange to miss church on Sunday. I am to stay off my right foot which means a wheelchair came home with me. And schedules are shuffled so someone is always home with me. But Dunston sees to most of my care. I find him to be an extremely knowledgeable and competent doctor with a warm caring bedside manner. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that he is gorgeous eye candy. I think he’s the first man I’ve ever really found attractive. And I hate to admit it, but I’m attracted to him. He’s in the bedroom by mine which puts him sharing the Jack and Jill bathroom with me.

            When Poppa bought this triplex he intended for it to also house Abuela’s parents and he planned to rent out the basement apartment. He says it just needed a little work. Abuela always rolls her eyes when he says that which tells me it needed more than just a little work. But the renovations Poppa and Granddaddy did make it feel like one large home that just has a kitchen, living, dining and three bedrooms on each floor.

            Originally Abuela’s parents were on the main floor so they didn’t have to go up and down too many steps. Poppa, Abuela and Mom when she was a little girl, lived on the top floor and Poppa rented out the basement apartment to another doctor and his wife. Abuela’s parents were deported to Mexico for being illegal aliens. The doctor and his wife were here legally, but not citizens yet. They were from Nigeria. And when things started to get bad, returned to Nigeria on their own. I know Abuela is tortured by not knowing what’s going on with her family in Mexico. But there’s no mail received from other countries. No phone calls. No contact what so ever. But occasionally someone hacks into our television service and a message is seen by everyone watching TV. It’s usually just people quickly saying to family members trapped here that they’re safe and well where they are and send their love. But they wouldn’t do it if they knew how much trouble it got their family members trapped here into. They get picked up, detained and interviewed. I’ve heard those interviews sometimes involve torture. But Abuela’s parents were deported when my mother was a little girl. They have most likely passed away by now. I can only imagine how tortured Abuela is by not knowing what’s become of them.

            Dunston and I have quickly become friends. I feel a little guilty about my attraction for him. Bryant is still hospitalized in the detention center of the psych ward. Blake comes to see me and he usually comes alone. But I know Bronson likes to come with him. And Mrs. Cross has visited too. And a couple of times a week I get a call from a young mother checking with me that Dunston, my father or one of my grandfathers has advised her correctly.

            I don’t think my father is planning to let me return to work even after my foot is healed. I overheard him talking with Granddaddy, Poppa and Dunston. My relationship with Bryant protected me from the advances of unwanted men. But that relationship is technically over. Daddy won’t let me marry Bryant. And it’s not safe for me to go anywhere unescorted as a single woman in Drumpftland. The men don’t bother each other’s wives not so much out of respect as it is an unsaid agreement that if I don’t bother yours, you don’t bother mine. But if you’re a beautiful woman, even being married may not protect you. If you’re lucky, you’re just raped. Not so lucky, beaten and raped. Or the worst that could happen as with my grandmother, murdered so you can’t tell anyone who raped you. And Daddy’s been getting calls from other fathers inquiring about his plans for me and asking him to consider their sons. And he’s been telling them that Blake has already proposed. But he admits that he is still undecided concerning Blake.

            I’ve been home from the hospital for nearly a month and a half. I’ve gone from wheelchair to crutches. My ankle was badly strained and is healing quite slowly. It would have been better if I had broken it along with my foot. Breaks heal stronger than sprains and strains. My ankle may trouble me off and on for the rest of my life, ache when it rains and such.

            I got to go to church Sunday. It felt a little strange after not attending for nearly two months. I have to admit that I did miss it. But Pastor Wimbly was delighted to see me, and I was delighted to see him. He only made it to visit me a couple of times. Of course there were some shocked gasps when he gave me a deep loving kiss in front of everyone. With me technically unattached, he doesn’t need to hide his affection for me. Blake wasn’t pleased though. He didn’t say anything at church. But I could tell by his face. Just like I could tell by his face he was bothered to come to church and find Dunston sitting with his arm around me. Mr. Cross asked Blake if he was coming and he said no, that he was sitting at the back with me. He glared at Dunston as he sat by me, took my hand and gave me a kiss. But Dunston didn’t remove his arm.

            Tonight is going to be interesting to say the least. The Crosses have asked to come have dinner with us. Mr. Cross wishes to speak with my father and grandfathers. I’m sure it’s about Blake’s proposal. And I’m afraid Mr. Cross isn’t going to like Daddy’s answer. Mr. Cross will look to Poppa to override Daddy. Poppa being my only Caucasian male relative in the household and Daddy’s father-in-law can override Daddy’s decisions regarding me. But Poppa won’t override Daddy. Any decision that was made regarding me my parents and grandparents made together. They’ll all be in agreement on whatever decision they’ve made.

            “Hello,” calls Blake opening the front door, “We’re here.”

            My father invites in a friendly tone, “Come in. Come in.”

            “I brought a desert dish,” shares Mrs. Cross.

            “Thank you, that’s wonderful,” my mother says pleasantly as she accepts the dish.

            “Since I became Byron’s wife I haven’t done much cooking,” shares Mrs. Cross. “But I do still have a few things I can do.”

            Blake steals a quick loving kiss from me as Abuela informs our guests, “Dinner is almost ready.”

            “Here,” directs my father, “make yourselves at home. We need to set the dining table. It’s been a while since we’ve had guests. My apologies that we’re a little rusty at it.”

            “No worries,” responds Mr. Cross. “We’ve had guests way too often. It’s nice to be the guests instead of the host. Ava, you are looking remarkably well. How are you feeling my dear?”

            “For the most part I feel fine,” I answer as I sit on the loveseat with Blake and Bronson. Yet I admit, “But I miss Bryant and Daddy won’t let me go see him. How is he doing?”

            “He misses you,” Mrs. Cross informs me. “But he’s being cooperative and actively participating in therapy. Somedays he seems a little lost, but he hasn’t had any violent episodes. You were everything to him and he’s just not sure how he’s supposed to live without you.”

            My father addresses Mr. and Mrs. Cross, “I want you to understand that we’re all fond of Bryant. We’ve missed him the last few years and we still think of him as a member of this family. When they let him go home, he’ll be welcome here if he wants to visit us. And as much as I want to forgive and forget and welcome him back with open arms, I need to do what’s best for Ava. They both need time to learn how to live without each other.”

            “Alright,” calls Granddaddy, “dinners ready.”

            For the most part, I’m quiet through dinner. I’m trying to get a sense of what’s going to become of me marriage wise. Mr. Cross is sure laying it on thick. I’m playing it cute and mute as I sit between Dunston and Blake. And every time Dunston touches my hand or my arm as he checks to see if he can get me anything, Blake glares at him. I’m not sure what exactly is bothering Blake. He’s very good at reading people. Maybe he noticed I’m attracted to Dunston and he’s worried because it makes me all warm and tingling when Dunston touches me.

            At the end of the meal, the men separate from the women. I don’t like it. I can’t hear everything they’re saying perfectly.

            “Ava, you’re very quiet,” notes Mrs. Cross.

            “My apologies,” I say sincerely. “It just makes me uneasy when decisions are being made about my life without my input.”

            I hear my father tell Mr. Cross, “I like Blake.”

            Mrs. Cross ask me, “Your father isn’t going to give you permission to marry Blake is he?”

            I sigh sadly, “I’m afraid not.”

            My mother informs Mrs. Cross, “Blake has many fine qualities. We like him. But he seems uncomfortable here with us while he’s visiting Ava. And while he obviously cares for her greatly, there seems to be a lack of respect for her and her feelings. And he doesn’t seem to care what marrying Ava will do to Bryant. You only seem to look out for each other as far as protecting your family name is concerned. Other than that, you really don’t operate like a loving caring family. We don’t feel you and Mr. Cross have set a proper example of being caring parents. And without that example, how is Blake supposed to know how to be a loving caring husband and father?”

            Mrs. Cross opens her mouth to say something, but then we hear Mr. Cross begin to laugh loudly in the other room. Mr. Cross isn’t a man with a sense of humor.

            Then we hear Mr. Cross state way too pleased, “That’s just fine. Since you will not permit Blake to marry Ava and she is now completely unattached, I am claiming her as my mistress.”

            I start to cry. Legally, a man can only have one wife. But he can claim as many mistresses as he wants. Mr. Cross has never had an official mistress before. Just occasional secret rendezvous on top of using me against my will when the opportunity has presented itself. I guess I’m the first one he’s ever wanted to keep.

            As he strides into the room triumphantly, Mrs. Cross pleads, “Don’t do this Byron. Think of how this will affect Bryant.”

            Mr. Cross responds coldly, “Bryant’s not a damn child anymore. He blew it with Ava. And they won’t accept Blake either. She’s finally completely unattached. And I’m claiming her before anyone else can.”

            “Please Dr. Washington,” pleads Blake, “let me marry Ava. I will live here. I will never force her to live under the same roof as my father.”

            “The decision was made,” Mr. Cross tells Blake triumphantly. “And being my mistress will protect her the same as if she were my wife. She won’t even have to endure that old coot Pastor Wimbly.”

            As I’m sobbing “no,” Mr. Cross yanks me up from my chair, tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and slaps my ass. He informs my father, “I want her birth control implant removed immediately. I know she’s going to be a wonderful mother and give me fine sons. I’ll send help to assist in packing her clothes and personal items. I think she’s going to love the large bedroom I have waiting for her.”

            “Byron, stop this,” demands Mrs. Cross.

            Then Dunston orders Mr. Cross, “Put her down.”

            “Like hell I will,” responds Mr. Cross. “This is my prize.”

            Dunston orders, “Put my fiancé down.”

            “Your fiancé,” questions Mr. Cross in disbelief.

            “Yes,” answers Dunston firmly, “my fiancé. What do you think I relocated to this little nothing nowhere district for? The good weather?”

            Dunston takes me from Mr. Cross and carefully places me on the sofa. He kneels on one knee in front of me and ask concerned, “Are you alright?”

            I nod jerkily as he gently wipes tears from my face. He assures me, “It’s alright. You’re not going anywhere with him.”

            I grasp Dunston’s hand and hold it to my cheek. I don’t even know how to start to express how grateful I am to him. I just sob some more.
            Mr. Cross checks with my father and grandfathers, “You’re giving her to him?”

            My father nods, “She’s already been given to him. It was decided months ago, before Bryant lost it all together and tried to kill her. Then there were transfer papers and such. The paperwork to transfer Dunston here took nearly three months. We love Bryant and we kept hoping he would pull himself together, but that just didn’t happen.”

            “Why wasn’t an announcement made,” demands Mr. Cross angrily.

            “Those that needed to know, did know,” answers my father. “Pastor Cross helped us find Dunston for Ava. And an announcement wasn’t done so they could get to know each other without any outside pressure. Plus we wanted to make sure Dunston was right for Ava. We wanted their relationship to grow and develop naturally.”

            Dunston tells Mr. Cross, “Ava has endured enough from your family. You and your sons have been imposing yourselves and taking from her for years. I don’t want our relationship to be like that. She deserves to receive as much love as she gives. I want her to be comfortable with me, feel safe and secure with me and know that I am here for her and I’m not going to demand anything of her. I want to make her happy. I’ll never take her against her will.”

            Dunston and I are married a week later. And we’re married for a month before our wedding is consummated. I didn’t know sex could be this wonderful. And I often feel guilty that I just never enjoyed it fully with Bryant. We’ve been married about three months when Bryant is allowed to go home. The guilt really hit me hard when I saw him back in church for the first time. Settling in as Dunston’s wife has been easy for me. Loving Dunston is so easy. And I feel guilty that it was never easy with Bryant, but I don’t blame him for that. I know it’s not his fault nor mine.

            My birth control implant expired about the same time Bryant came home and Dunston didn’t have it renewed. And as I sit here at the back of the church very pregnant with our first child, I’m quite content. I miss work, but women with children under the age of six aren’t permitted to work outside the home. And I’m okay with that. I’m looking forward to being a mother. The other young women who are all hoping to snag Blake or Bronson just ignore me now. Not that Blake or Bronson are showing any serious interest in any of them.

            Well this is different. There’s a young woman with the Crosses that isn’t from our district. A young light skinned black woman. Her skin is more yellow than mine. My hair is curly but won’t do a cute fro like hers. Her fro is just a little darker brown than her skin. She’s smiling as she’s holding Bryant’s arm. There’s a lot of whispering among the young women in the church. Not that any of them want Bryant any more, not after he tried to kill me. But I doubt this young woman knows anything about it.

            Pastor Cross announces that the young woman’s name is Amber and that she and Bryant are to be married today after Sunday school.

            My father whispers to us, “Byron is screwing up. He wants it to look like Bryant is bouncing back from losing Ava and making a full recovery. But I don’t think Bryant is ready for this. He looks numb.”

            My dad’s right. Bryant does look numb.

            Someone hisses at Amber.

            We haven’t spoken for months, yet the Crosses approach us on the way to Sunday school.

            Mr. Cross looks a little uncomfortable as he says to my parents and grandparents, “I know we haven’t spoken for a while. And I have no right to ask anything of you. But Amber has no friends or family here beyond us. And I’m hoping you’ll allow Ava to be her friend.”

            My father nods agreeingly, “Sure. Amber, welcome to our little district. I’m Dr. Simon Washington and this is my wife, Irena. She’s a pediatric nurse. My father, Dr. Eugene Washington. My mother is deceased. My father-in-law, Dr. Lance Reed and my mother-in-law, Lupe. She’s a nurse practitioner. This is my son-in-law, Dr. Dunston Walker. And of course, this is my daughter, Ava. She’s a pediatrician.”

            Amber is just as cute as a button as she shakes my hand with both of hers, “You’re a doctor. That’s wonderful. I’m just a nursing assistant.”

            I smile warmly, “Welcome to our district. I hope for the most part you’ll be happy here.”

            “Thank you,” returns Amber smiling brightly. “Are you due soon?”

            I nod, “Two more months.”

            “You must be so excited,” says Amber excited for me.

            I admit, “I am. I didn’t think I would be. I was initially concerned with Dunston’s decision to have a child. My childhood here was rather lonely. Bryant was my only friend while we were growing up. So I worry about our child not having friends.”

            “So you and Bryant used to be close friends,” inquires Amber interested.

            I nod, “We were best friends.”

            Amber shares, “I think Mr. Cross is hoping for a grandchild right away. Our children will be able to be friends.”

            I return her infectious smile, “That would be grand.” I turn to Bryant, “Bryant, she’s lovely.”

            Bryant reaches over and lays a hand on my swelling abdomen, “Pregnancy suites you, Ava. He’s treating you well.”

            He looks very sad as I inform him, “Very well. He’s a loving, doting husband.”

            “Good,” says Bryant with a firm nod. “I’m glad.”

            Bronson says sadly. “We miss you Ava.”

            I push up on my toes and kiss his cheek, “I miss you too.”

            Bronson ask me, “Do you still love us Ava?”

            I answer without hesitation, “Of course I still love you all. I’m sorry we don’t get to spend time together anymore.”

            Blake leans over kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear softly, “I love you. I’ll always love you. And I miss you so much.”

            My eyes well up with tears. I know my relationship with them wasn’t a healthy one, but I miss them too.

            “Once Amber has settled in,” my father suggests, “you should bring her for a visit.”

            “That’s very kind of you,” says Mrs. Cross who looks very sad and like she might have had a couple of glasses of wine before church.

            Another district resident pauses by us in the hall outside the Sunday school room and says to Mr. Cross, “Really Cross? You didn’t think one nigger whore in our district was enough. You had to import one from another district for Bryant.”

            Mr. Cross responds unruffled, “We’re doing our part to breed them out. What are you doing to prove your patriotism?”

            The man does dome deep grumbling as he tries to come up with a response.

            My poppa says, “He’s raised a sorry excuse for a son that we would never consider allowing to marry Ava, but he still had the nerve to call us requesting Ava for that bully he raised.”

            The man takes a deep frustrated breath and walks away from us into the Sunday school room.

            “Jackass,” comments Mr. Cross irritated.

            Amber ask concerned, “Are many people here rude like that?”

            I ask curious, “Did you have white friends in your home district?”

            Amber nods, “Yes. No one back home would come up and say something like that. I’ve actually never heard the N-word before.”

            I inform Amber sadly, “You won’t have any white friends here outside of your family. Don’t bother trying to make friends with any of the young white women here. That hiss earlier was nothing. You would think they would know that’s not keeping the Sabbath holy, but many don’t read and write and they’re never paying attention during the Sunday school lessons.”

            “How are we doing today,” ask Pastor Wimbly all smiles as he comes up to us. He gives me a quick kiss.

            “We were just getting acquainted with Bryant’s bride to be,” shares Poppa.

            “Well isn’t she lovely,” Wimbly greets her warmly, “Welcome to our little district.”

            “I didn’t realize there were districts this small,” shares Amber.

            Wimbly shares, “This district was originally meant to be a retirement community. So it was designed to be very walkable and electric vehicle friendly. But it’s also very rural and isolated. Physical size wise, we’re not that small. But it’s mostly farmland. Some of the farm families have to endure an hour long carriage ride to be here Sundays which seems to leave them grumpy. But they’re exempt from attending when the weather is bad. I think they hope and pray for rain every Sunday.” Then he tells Amber softly, “A word of caution. We have a shortage of good, honest, reasonable people. Don’t bother trying to associate with or befriend any of them. If they’re being nice they’re up to something. But Ava and her family are good people. You can always count on them.”

            “Thank you, Pastor,” responds Amber with a concerned look on her face. Things are going to be very different here from her home district.

            We stay after Sunday school and witness Bryant and Amber’s wedding. Weddings here in Drumpftland are not big fancy affairs. Your church clothes are also your wedding attire. It’s kept small and simple to remind you that the greatest joys in life often come from the little things. Vows for the bride and groom are different. The groom is asked if he accepts the bride as his wife. He is asked if he will love her, honor her, keep her counsel and cleave to her and only her. He is asked those things. He has the option to say no and not accept the bride that was usually chosen for him by his parents.

            Bryant says “I will,” but he doesn’t look happy about it.

            Amber on the other hand has a big excited smile. Her vows are different. She is told she is to love, honor and obey her husband. She is directed to bear him as many children as he desires, keep his home clean and harmonious. The only question she is asked is, “Do you understand your wifely duties?”

            Amber of course says she does happily. They are pronounced husband and wife. Bryant is told he may take his wife home and enjoy her.

            The next evening, we’re in the middle of dinner when the doorbell sounds. We rarely get to sit down to dinner all together any day other than Sunday. Poppa says he’ll get it and heads to the front door. I hear men’s voices, but I can’t make out what’s being said.

            Poppa returns to the dinner table but he doesn’t sit down. He’s pale and looks shocked as he’s just standing there staring at nothing.

            Abuela ask him, “Lance, what’s wrong?”

            Poppa begins with “Bryant,” but he doesn’t continue.

            “Is Bryant alright,” I ask concerned. “Has there been an accident?”

            Poppa shakes his head, “Not an accident.”

            “Pop,” questions Dad concerned.

            Poppa finally finds his tongue, “Bryant was found with the body of his new bride a few hours ago. They’re not sure if he did it this morning, sometime during the night, or yesterday sometime after they were married. They just know she’s been dead for hours. It looks like he strangled her, but her body’s being sent for a full autopsy. Bryant’s not responding to anyone. They want us to bring Ava to see if he’ll respond to her.”

            We’re all in shock.

            “I knew he wasn’t ready to begin a new relationship,” says Dad, “that he wasn’t over Ava yet. But I didn’t think he would hurt the girl.”

            Dunston ask Poppa, “When do they want us to bring Ava?”

            “Now,” answers Poppa.

            “Let’s quickly get the food into the frig,” directs Mom. “We’ve all lost our appetites.”

            A short time later I find myself at the hospital. We pass Mrs. Cross in tears as Blake tries to console her. Bronson looks as if he’s seen a ghost. Mr. Cross looks like a lost puppy.

            Dunston and I are let into the same interrogation room where Bryant is once again sitting with his hands cuffed to the table and his feet cuffed to the floor. He’s staring at nothing as he rocks slightly. I don’t try to rush to him this time. I cling to Dunston as we sit across from Bryant. His eyes are empty. There’s no sign my Bryant is in there at all. He doesn’t seem to know we’re there. So Dunston nods toward Bryant for me to go ahead and try to talk to him.

            “Bryant,” I say softly afraid of a violent reaction.

            Bryant’s head turns slowly in our direction. He focuses on us and smiles. “Ava,” he says smiling, “My beautiful Ava.”

            “Hello Bryant,” I return with a nervous smile.

            Bryant tells me, “I miss you, Ava.”

            My eyes well up with tears, “I miss you too Bryant.”

            Bryant asks me, “Is he treating you well?”

            I nod, “Yes, very well. Dunston’s a good husband.”

            “He better treat you well,” states Bryant.

            “He does,” I respond.

            “Good,” states Bryant. “I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy. But I still wish I was the one making you happy, that we were having a baby.”

            Now the tears spill from my eyes, “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

            “Yeah,” acknowledges Bryant, “that sucks,” as a detective is motioning for me to ask about Amber.

            So I ask, “How’s Amber?”

            “Who,” ask Bryant.

            “Amber, your wife,” I remind him, “You were just married yesterday. I really like her. She’s absolutely lovely. Is she settling in okay?”

            Bryant says, “Oh, her. I set her free.”

            “Set her free,” I question.

            “Yeah,” Bryant tells me, “She didn’t belong with my mess of a family any more than you did. I knew I couldn’t protect her properly from my brothers and my dad. So I set her free to make sure she’ld be safe. Sent her back into the loving arms of God. She’s free now.”

            I ask, “Why didn’t you just refuse to marry her?”

            Bryant informs me, “Dad said you were making us look bad with how well you’re doing with Dr. Walker. He said I had to show everyone that I’m over you and moving forward with my life. Except I’m not over you. Yelled at me about being a Cross. And I am a Cross. No escaping that. So I married her like Dad told me to. But I didn’t have to leave her stuck being a Cross like my mom. So I set her free.”

            I take a deep breath and blow it out.

            “I’m sorry Ava,” apologizes Bryant, “I know you don’t approve. That you would find a way to endure with strength and dignity. But I really believe setting her free was the best thing I could do for her.”

            “I can’t say I understand Bryant,” because I don’t understand, “but they may put you down for this.”

            Bryant shrugs uncaringly, “That may be for the best. Probably better than spending the rest of my life in a nut house. Certainly better than being stuck in that cold oversized house with my family.”

            I tell him, “Your family’s not the worst.”

            Bryant responds, “They’re far from the best though. Your family’s the best. I hope Dr. Walker knows how lucky he is.”

            “I have an idea of how lucky I am,” Dunston tells Bryant.

            Bryant tells Dunston firmly, “You better take good care of her. You better love her with your whole heart and soul. Because if you ever mistreat her, I’ll send you into the loving arms of God.”

            Dunston tells Bryant sincerely, “I do love her with my whole heart and soul. And I promise I will always take good care of her and treat her well.”

            Bryant nods acceptingly to Dunston, “It’s getting late. You better get her home to bed.”

            Dunston helps me rise. I pause by the door, “I’m sorry Bryant. I feel like I failed you. I was hoping for a long happy life for you and Amber since I couldn’t do it for you. But I’ll always love you. And I’m always going to miss you.”

            Bryant gives me a smile that’s half full of love and yet half deranged, “I’ll always love you too Ava. You’re the one person who’s never failed me. Good night and sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. I’m so glad you’re free.”

            Bryant has never understood that here in Drumpftland no one is free. Everyone in Drumpftland is a slave of one kind or another. Slave to their own ignorance. Slave to their own hatred and bigotry. Slave to their daily survival. Even Drumpft Jr. is a slave. Slave to holding on to being Drumpftland’s dictator. Slave to holding onto and maintaining his family’s power and wealth.

            Not one person in Drumpftland is truly free and casualties here are high. Most will only count the dead like Amber as a casualty. But your life, your very self, can be lost without dying. Bryant has lost himself. And I believe he’s lost for good this time. But it’s not his fault. He gave everything he had trying to be the type of slave they demanded he be. He gave until he had nothing left of himself to give. Drumpftland stole everything from him.

            Perhaps Bryant’s right. Perhaps putting him down would be a kindness. Even though when I looked into his beautiful blue eyes they were cold and empty, I fear that somewhere, deep down where I cannot see, he’s in there, a prisoner within himself, screaming in unheard agony to be set free. I hate the thought that he may be stuck inside himself suffering. Bryant has suffered enough.

            Many people my grandparents’ age once had the opportunity to vote, to choose. Poppa says they took it for granted and didn’t vote. I wonder how many of them that didn’t bother voting wish they had. I wonder if they see that their lack of involvement led to the Drumpftland we exist in today, where we are forbidden to say the name of the country it was before. Or are they still telling themselves that it doesn’t matter and their vote wouldn’t have made a difference anyway? It’s certainly too late for it to make a difference for my Bryant.