“That, and I’m genuinely busy, girl. It’s been crazy.” She went on to explain about the shipment of books sent to her two days ago, some of which were in horrific condition. She’d been given a tight deadline to go through them and help prepare them for a local exhibition.
“Damn, okay. Try and come through, anyway, even if only for an hour or two. It would be a good time. I’m going back to sleep. Have to work tonight, but I’ll be talking with you soon. Enjoy your day, sis.”
“Okay, talk to you later.” English disconnected the call and picked up the book once again. She flipped through it with gentle fingers, then placed it back down, and surveyed some others. A couple of hours later, she found herself with full body and mind fatigue. I’ve been sitting in that same position too long… Time to stretch.
Making her way to the break room in the employee area of the museum, she greeted a few coworkers, then grabbed a bag of chips from a vending machine. I’ve got to work through lunch if I want to get out of here anytime soon. As she headed back down the hall got on the elevator, her cellphone buzzed. She slipped it out of her pocket, and her insides dropped, as if she’d been jerked about on a roller coaster.
Clutching her bag of Doritos, she got off on her floor and returned to her office, sporting a stiff smile as she passed by a number of people, feigning calm. She entered and softly closed and locked the door, then went to sit at her desk, placing the unopened bag of chips down. Suddenly, her appetite was gone.
On a deep breath, she reached for her phone and looked at the ID. His number was the same. She had it etched in her memory. How had he gotten her new number? Well, it wasn’t his first time he’d traced her, and she highly doubted it would be his last. Sliding her fingertip along the screen, she braced herself, and listened to the voicemail. Her back slumped and a sticky warmth consumed her.
“I don’t have to do an introduction. You know who the fuck dis is. I know you see that I’ve called you twice now, English. Goin’ by that government name again, I see. Your name is still Shira in my eyes. I named you Shira, your real family, and that’s what it’ll always be. Call me. Don’t make me have to call you again. I mean it.”
She played the message again. Why did she do that? Wasn’t one time enough? Those words made her insides freeze and her skull throb.
And then, the wave of shame came forth. The humiliation from that time in her life many years ago, one she’d wished to be rid of. There was no way to erase the past, no antidote, no way to drown it out and make it go away. There weren’t enough bottles of wine, mind-altering pills, sugary snacks, or syringes full of death that could give her a reprieve or cure her disgrace.
I knew he’d be back—all of them. I knew this was coming. They always come back.
She placed her phone down on her desk, turned some music on, and took hold of the first book once again. Her YouTube playlist, starting with ‘Let ’Em In’ by Paul McCartney, started to play. She was in the mood for something relaxing, versus her typical R&B, upbeat jazz, Trap or Rap music selections which were her guilty pleasure. She brought the book to her nose, smelled the time-worn pages, and smiled. She opened it to read a few passages. Certainly, this book could take her away from this place for a moment, trick her mind into thinking everything was okay, one page at a time.
Books had a way of doing that, transporting those who needed a journey. Worlds within words, especially when reality became too much and stood outside one’s door, knocking. She refused to hear any evil, but it was pointless. That book had a final page, and she’d read ‘The End’ far sooner than she’d wished. All that mess she’d buried and covered in sand like some cat in a litter box would be waiting for her. Stinking. And all that pain within would seep through the cracks of her firm exterior.
Then her heart would cry out, demanding to be heard.
The Hollies’ ‘Long Cool Woman’ played as Dad sat on his old, rickety porch with a beer in one hand. A soiled blue bandana was wrapped around his head, and his thin, straggly dark brown hair flowed in greasy threads over his bony shoulders. Tall and rail thin, the outline of his skull was practically visible beneath a thin veneer of sun-bathed skin. Faded prison tattoos covered his exposed limbs as he peered at him with bright blue eyes, surrounded by crow’s feet. When he smiled, a missing side tooth made its appearance.