JUNO


    MINDEN, LA


    September 1986


    I open my eyes. I am covered in a sticky sweat.


    The faint sound of rain pattering against the windows makes me shiver. A dense fog has settled over the living room, and the kitchen pantry door is halfway open.


    Below me, the floor is clean.


    It takes me a while to realize that I’m lying sideways on my mattress, and what has most likely been a vision or nightmare has long since faded away. I have a horrible headache. My sheets are strewn all over the place; and my throat is so sore it feels like someone has taken a match and lit it ablaze. With my nose having only been slightly stuffed yesterday evening, it is now running, flowing like a waterfall—green snot stains my pillow case. I am hot and cold at the same time, but if I can just make it through this interview, I am able to rest for the remainder of the gloomy day.


    And hopefully, no more nightmares.


    I check my watch. It is five fifteen.


    It is raining outside as I trudge out to the porch. Pouring, in fact, but I wearily stumble to the pump outside and splash cold water over my face in a desperate attempt to wake myself up and slip into my clothes, throw on my coat. When I make it down the winding hill, my ballet flats are halfway filled with mud.


    I have to breathe out of my mouth, and I cannot stop sneezing as I sit on the bus, going through a second round of used tissues I keep shoving in my backpack. A woman gives me disgusted look as I loudly sneeze again, covering the sleeve of my coat with snot. I fumble for one of my tissues and blow my nose to provide myself a bit of temporary relief. Although the bus is packed, I am relieved that no one has decided to sit next to me—their judgmental stares are already unappealing to me. I try to enjoy the empty space, using it as a leg rest, creating a my own personal nesting place of germs.


    To distract myself, I stare out of the blurry dreary window. The pain in my throat is unbearable, but I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. I can’t. Caney Lakes is only twenty minutes from my place, but the drive seems longer than ever. It’s a popular spot in town; I read it in the tourist guide I picked up once I crossed the state line.


    Upon arrival at the bus stop, the area does resemble my former home in Manhattan. Multitudes of people walk through the rain, their shoes splashing against the puddles they hold onto their umbrellas. The cold air slaps me in the face once I step off the bus; its black exhaust fills the air. I wish I had a decent coat, maybe a scarf, and yet, I am so sweaty. How is it possible to be so hot in such a cold environment, especially in the south, out of all places? I do not know—I cannot ponder it. I simply cannot.


    I have twenty dollars in my coat pocket—money I have shamefully stolen from the stash that Tom Brunswick has left me underneath the floorboards in my kitchen. I promised myself I wouldn’t take it, and yet, here I am. But it’s only a little. If I can just keep awake a little longer, I can find a pharmacy, buy some cough syrup, and be in bed by noon, even though the thought of sleeping in my house sends chills down my spine. But a nightmare is only a nightmare, and besides, I am too exhausted to care.


    As I head down the sidewalk, my arms shoved deep inside of my coat, I catch glimpse of a Vietnamese restaurant. I press my hand against the glass, my mouth watering at the sight of a hot bowl of pho—rice noodles, meat, and vegetables. But it’s packed to the brim with customers standing in line, and wading through the line in such a tight space with this nasty cold and making everyone sick is too much for me to bear.


    Reluctantly, I turn away.


    Tito’s Diner is hidden between two gray buildings, even grayer than the sky. I have to do a double take at the sign. One of the bulb is burned out at the O, a laughing gag for most the youth passing by, as I can imagine. The windows are dirty, and when I go inside, a small chime echoes above near the door, caused by a bell covered in layers of dust. It’s completely empty—although I assume that they’ve just opened. Some of the tables are mismatched, and when I sit down at a booth, a spring pokes me in the middle of my thigh, having made its way up to the surface after years of being buried underneath duct tape.


    I shift uncomfortably and yank my long skirt down, trying to resist the growing urge to grab a handful a tissues from the plastic dispenser and blow my nose until it is raw. It’s already as red as a tomato. I hope I am not here for too long, and I can see people hustling to and from on the sidewalk. It’s pouring harder than ever, and I can see water coming in through a small leak from the ceiling, causing a puddle to grow on a table.


    My house is cleaner than this place, which is quite hard to believe. In the corner by a gumball machine, the jukebox is completely covered in dust. The floor looks like it hasn’t been mopped in ages, and there are cracks in the peeling walls. The trash cans are overflowing. I need to pee, but I decide it’s better to wait until I get back home. I try very hard not to move.


    It’s about six thirty when a freckled face boy comes up to me from one of the kitchen doors, probably no older than sixteen. He’s loudly chomping down on a piece of gum, and dark brown hair escapes from the backwards hat on his head. He resembles a beanstalk, like he’s far too tall for the dining room, for this restaurant. His uniform shirt is crushed, and he smells so strongly of marijuana and cigarettes that it manages to reach my blocked nose. Must’ve come back from break, I think, even though I wonder what he is exactly taking a break from. I don’t see a single customer coming through. The dining room is still completely empty, despite the restaurant nearly being open for almost two hours.


    “What do you want?” he asks in a monotone voice. His words are slurred, and his gray eyes are slightly bloodshot. In his left hand he is carrying a worn menu, its edges coated with a brown stain, which I assume is coffee. I hope it is coffee. He drops it on my table with a thud and whips out a notepad and a pen. I notice that his worn sneakers are wrapped with duct tape—the same kind on the seats.


    “I….” It hurts so bad to talk, and my throat is so sore that I’m thinking about just going home, even though I have no options left. My voice is husky due to the congestion building up in my sinuses. But I then remember why I am here. Instinctively, my hand goes to my stomach. “I…I have an interview. May I have a word with your manager, please? We spoke on the phone.”


    The kid just blankly stares at me, chewing incessantly. He blows out a large bubble. It loudly pops, clinging to his mouth and chin like demented paper, before he uses his finger to shove it back into his mouth again. With that same hand, he’s already placing a glass of water on the table—ice cubes floating to the surface. I try not to flinch.


    He yawns and glances at his watch.


    “Can….” I weakly try again, before a coughing fit seizes my lungs. My throat. There are razor blades embedded into it.


    “Huh?”


    ”Can I please speak to your manager?” I rasp. “Your manager, please.”


    A dull light suddenly matches his gray eyes. “Oh.” He continued to chew on his faded gum for five minutes, and I am sure that all of the flavor is gone. “You mean Amy?”


    “Is that who’s in charge?”


    The boy shrugs. “Who?”


    I want to rip my hair out. “Your boss.”


    ”What about her?” he asks.


    This conversation is going to last for an eternity, I am sure. Is he the only one here? Given how slow this place is, I wouldn’t be surprised. “Amy. Is she here?”


    ”Huh?”


    ”Is she in today?”


    “I dunno.” The kid scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes she comes in around twelve. She wasn’t here yesterday. Or last week, really. I don’t remember seeing her.”


    I sigh. I’m about to thank him for his time and head out when he glances behind at the sound of the kitchen door opening.


    A tall, extremely curvaceous woman with blonde highlights in her hair emerges from behind the cash register. I don’t know how long she has been standing there. An apron is tied around her waist, and I can see streaks of flour on her face. She’s dressed in a tight pink dress, with large hoops dangling from her ears. Her painted nails match the same color as her outfit, and as her eight inch stilettos echo across the grimy dining room floor, I wonder how she is able to prepare anything back there with them on, especially on top of wet tile. One wrong move and she’s bound to land in the hospital with a broken ankle, maybe a couple of shattered toes. Her beady, dark eyes met mine, and I stare back at her, tensing up.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    “Lucas, darling, why don’t you check up on the cook, sees if he needs anything?” Her voice is eerily high pitched, and the disgruntled teen mumbled a swear word under his voice as he moves away. The woman giggles and slides in the seat in front of me. When she smiles, I see that she has two rows of extremely neat, white teeth; like the people in those toothpaste commercials.


    “You must excuse him. He’s a little…slow. Kind of stupid too, but aren’t we all? We just pretend that we’re not.”


    “I’m Juno,” I try to say, but cough in my arm. I would shake her hand if it was appropriate.


    Amy tilts her head to the side, then chuckles. She suddenly reaches into her purse—something that I haven’t seen her carry with her, and applies a fresh coat of lipstick over her mouth. She puckers them for a moment, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up. The sudden smoke makes it harder for me to breathe. I am suffocating. She offers me one, but I shake my head.


    My nose is blocked.


    “A modest one you are,” she mutters.


    I can’t breathe, I think. This stuffed nose is becoming more unbearable by the minute.


    ”You can work nights?” she asks me. “It’s 7.50 an hour. Otherwise, we won’t be talking.”


    ”Yeah,” I say, although my heart drops. I’ll have to take a second job, maybe sell my car, which still won’t work, if I am able to. But a start is a start. And I am a quick learner.


    The woman frowns. “You smell like piss.”


    I suddenly glance down at my skirt. Had I actually wet the bed during that horrendous nightmare? If I had the strength to bathe before I came here, I would. I really would.


    She points at my enormous stomach, visible under my blouse. “How far along are you?”


    “Six months.”


    Amy wrinkles her small, button shaped nose. “I can’t stand children. Hope you never think of bringing that in here. And if you plan to have more, you can just forget coming in all together. I don’t want to be a babysitter. You’re better off taking up welfare checks.”


    What a glorious start, I think. And suddenly, my face burns. I have nothing more to lose. I’m not feeling too well, anyway, and the idea of sitting on my mattress with a large cup of tea sounds much more appealing to me than listening to her talk. She’s not that far behind me in terms of how the current state of the establishment is. A look of surprise crosses her face as she watches me slide out of the booth and stand up. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and began to head to the door.


    “Wait!” Amy’s heels are clacking against the floor, and she suddenly stands in front of me, her arms held out towards me. “Wait a minute, now, sweetheart, I don’t mean all that. I just say whatever comes to my head. It’s a bad habit.” She sighs, before putting out her cigarette, and clearing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”


    I don’t say anything. I just want to lie down.


    She rubs her forehead. ”You still available nights?”


    “Once the baby comes,” I croak, “I can do nights. I can do the daytime shifts too before then.” An enormous sneeze takes over me, and I reach into the pocket of my coat and blow noisily into a used tissue. “But I think I’ll pass.”


    Any purses her lips. “Eighteen.”


    I blink. “What?”


    “Not enough?” She suddenly grips my arm. “Alright. Twenty-two a hour, and that’s my final offer. Just to get you up and going with the little one. If you want to quit before the baby comes, fine. But I’ve never had an employee stay here for more than a month. I know Lucas is going to leave soon, and he’s only been here a week.” She clicks her teeth. “Look. If you don’t believe me, I’ll have that written down in the papers for you confirming your pay, so if you decide to sue me, you’ll know that everything is legitimate.”


    Quit? I didn’t even know she intended to offer me the job. A brief desperation linger in her beady eyes. They look almost black. They were.


    “I’m going to lose this place in a year, anyway. Can’t pay back anything. I know my father thinks I’ve wasted my time believing I could ever run a restaurant. And my brother…” Her voice trails off. “Well, he’d be laughing in my face.”


    “I’m a bit under the weather at the moment,” I manage to say, not sure how to respond to her words, “but when do you—”


    “Sweetheart, I ramble too much.” She then abruptly giggles, her curls bouncing around her shoulder. She licks her finger and wipes at the flour that streaks her cheek. “Yes, well, we can all do without snot in our soup, can we? You come back here once you’re your old self, and we can begin.” She bites her nails. “Yes. Okay. Very good.”


    An awkward moment passes between us.


    “I’m Amy Holden,” she bluntly says. “I’ll give you a call in a week, give you your uniform on the first day. Just show up, please. I’ll have all the paperwork ready, and you can meet some of the kitchen staff.” Without another word, she saunters off in the kitchen, walking flawlessly in her very pink stilettos.


    * * * * * * * *


    When I finally get home, I peel off my clothes, climb into my mattress in a wrinkled nightgown, and close my eyes the moment my head touches the pillow. I am so exhausted I do not care that my lamp is missing, or that my pocket knife is nowhere to be found. For the first time in ages, the house’s darkness does not send shivers down my spine. It brings me down, engulfs me in a warm, thick, healing blanket.


    I wake up the next evening and realize that I most likely have the flu. I wearily stumble to my feet. My mouth is dry, and an incredible thirst has come upon me, so much that I go straight to the kitchen sink and eagerly drink the brown water gushing from the rusting pipe. It tastes like sweet wine to me, so incredibly good, and I gulp it down until it stains my neck, chest, and face. The house is pitch black—but I hear a static sound coming from the television.


    The television is on. There are many black dots flickering to and from on the screen.


    Despite sleeping for so many hours, I don’t feel better, but not worse. My nose is still blocked, but at least I can think alright. In a daze, I slowly step towards the screen after wrapping the blanket around my shivering form. Only a few feet from my empty mattress rests the game console I placed on the table. I don’t remember how it got here. A gray cartridge is placed in the open vent. In the flickering light, I can just make out the words, visible with Tom Brunswick’s boxy letters. The same one on the envelope full of cash. I have to return that, I must—


    A loud sneeze escapes from me. I should put this down, and try to make some tea. Maybe canned soup. Then go back to bed and sleep this off. Maybe it’s the cough syrup I’ve recently ingested, but that was over forty-eight hours ago. My limbs are so heavy. I don’t know what time it is. My watch is missing. My pocketknife has disappeared.


    I don’t know how Tom keeps getting into my house. I don’t know why he keeps doing this. He doesn’t have a key, as far as I know. And isn’t Georgia concerned in the slightest?


    I blink a couple of times, flipping the cartridge over and over in my palms. It doesn’t say anything on it, so as I place it back into the console system, my hands are drawn towards the joystick, the plastic cold against my flesh.


    Piece by piece, the room disappears.


    I no longer hear the static sound of the television—I only feel it: white, glowing warmth, like I am suddenly touching the sun. And maybe I am, before the pressure drops in my ears, and my braids rise above my head.


    * * * * * * * * * * *


    It’s okay.


    I look down. My body is not my body. I don’t know what I am, but my nightgown, arms and legs and feet have disappeared. Boxy, colorful pixels replace my flesh, but I do not understand what creature I am supposed to be. Around me, strangely enough, looks no different than I. I am floating, not flying, just levitating off the ground. I cannot move.


    It is not okay.


    I am trapped. My child is gone. My child is—


    I know what’s best for your baby.


    My child is not in this place with me. I try to scream, but not so much as a sound escapes my mouth—wherever it is.


    I know what’s best for you.


    There is pressure building up in my lungs—if I have them. I do not understand this place around me.


    I wish you’ll stop running away.


    I squirm uncontrollably, teetering more towards the left. It is the worst pain of my life, and my eyes bulge. I need to get out of here, although there is a pixelated path ahead of me, I refuse to follow it. I attempt to reverse backwards, but there is an overbearing force that shoves me forward, leading me headfirst into it. I do not know how to move.


    With all of my strength, I barrel forward again. I am shaking, breathing heavily. I remain still for a long time, wondering if I am stuck here forever, or if this is another bad dream that I am unable to wake up from again. I try to pinch myself as hard as I can. It doesn’t work.


    Please, don’t go.


    I push off again, turning away my head. Why am I here? I don’t belong here. I want to destroy this place. I will. I shall. I slam into the wall, causing glowing neon streaks of red, green, and blue to cross in the front of me. I want it to crash and burn and crash and—


    Don’t leave me here by myself.


    * * * * * *


    The sound of broken glass falling echoes in the entire house. Deep lacerations mark my arms and legs as I lie down next to the completely smashed television set, gasping heavily. My nightgown is stained with blood, and there is so much of it everywhere. I don’t realize I’m holding onto a shard of glass until I drop it. It makes a clattering sound on the floor. My left arm is twisted in an unnatural angle. I can see the bone showing through it. A noise escapes from my mouth as the worse pain I have ever experienced in my life settled in. My mouth is partially open, and I claw my bloody fingers against the ground’s surface.


    Get to the door. Get to the—


    And then, what? There is no one out here for miles. I don’t have a phone. I have no neighbors nearby. As I roll over on my back and clutch my swollen stomach, there is a creaking noise nearby; footsteps in the kitchen; as gentle as ever. I begin to drag myself across the floor, gasping heavily. Crickets are chirping. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I need some fresh air. I am dizzy from the aftermath of this nightmare.


    It is pitch black outside.


    Moonlight streams through the window, although the living room is dark. The game console, cartridge, joystick are gone. I don’t know where they are, and I notice that the notebook full of sprites—the one that I had thrown away in the garbage—has been directly placed on the kitchen table. One of its pages is ripped out. My eyes are slowly closing; I don’t know why I am so exhausted.


    My blood slowly pools on the carpet.