JUNO


    MINDEN, LA


    SEPTEMBER 1986


    “Hello?”


    There’s a knock on the front door. At first, it is so faint that I think I’m dreaming for a moment. Then there’s a jiggling of the knob, like someone is jimmying it from the outside. A creaking sound echoes in the hallway, followed by a thick rattling of the small chain; in which I hear the main latch being undone.


    “Hello?” the voice repeats. “Juno?”


    I want to turn my head to the side, but I can’t move. I’m struggling to move. I hear footsteps across the wooden boards of the floor, a distinct shadow bouncing up against the walls. Tom Brunswick comes into view—his boots are leaving a puddle of water upon the ground, and he is soaked from head to toe; the rain from outside is still dripping from his coat. The umbrella he is carrying slips towards ground as he rushes towards me in the living room, where I am seated at the table. My eyes are so swollen they hurt to move them. There is a desert in my throat.


    ”Juno,” he says, lightly tapping my cheek with his hand. “Come on, girl. Come to me.”


    “The TV is broke,” I rasp. I want to tug him away from it. “I made the screen come apart.”


    ”Why ain’t you call me or Georgia?” he replies in a accusatory tone. “I gave you our phone number. You can’t just cut people off like that. She’s worried sick. It’s been weeks since we’ve seen ya.” Slowly, he shakes his head as he places a hand on my forehead. “For heaven’s sake, you’re burning up. We need to get you to the emergency room.”


    “Don’t.” I manage to grab a fistful of his sleeve. “Don’t go near the TV.”


    A bewildered look falls upon Tom’s face, especially when he notices my broken arm. He then scans the room, which is relatively in good order—the shattered glass and blood that had littered the ground from what only seems like an hours ago is now spotless. But I had seen it. My skin had been sliced through because of it. He tried to help me to my feet, but I collapse on the ground like a sack of potatoes. My legs don’t work properly, and before I know it, he’s carrying me in his arms. He’s surprisingly strong for an old man, and as we cross the driveway, I can see the hood of my Camaro is open—the engine is missing.


    It is raining very hard, and Tom has taken off his coat and draped it around me. I’m in my thin, ugly nightgown, and I don’t even have my shoes on, but he has already placed me into the passenger seat of his blue pickup, which is already running. My teeth are chattering. I need more cough syrup to numb these symptoms. Tom slams my door and rushes to the driver’s seat. The smell of cigars are faint, but welcoming, and I want him to mash on the accelerator, as the sight of the two-story house in front of me, gloomy as ever, makes me want to vomit. I don’t care if he drives to Arkansas or Florida, or the nearest gas station.


    I just want to get away from it.


    Once Tom climbs in, he begins to drive down the hill, and only then I am able to lean my head against the seat and breathe a little slower. His normally care-free face is pale, and his large gray eyes focus upon the road. There is only static on the radio, and the windshield wipers scurry back and forth.


    ”I’m taking you to a hospital,” he snaps.


    “I don’t…I don’t need a hospital.” My words are slurred, slower than ever. I know how mad he is at me, that I haven’t even bothered to call him or his wife, despite me going to their house three times in one week and not finding them there. But I can’t have him enter the living room again. Let alone the house. What if he’d encountered the game console? A shiver runs down my spine. I have to warn him. I must.


    “Why didn’t you tell us that you don’t have a phone, Juno?” Tom asks. The line on the speedometer only rises, and I want to tell him to slow down. “We could’ve given you one.”


    “I went into the TV,” I try to say, but I’m coughing so badly it’s impossible to breathe. “The TV—that TV, it traps people inside it.”


    Tom slams his fist on the steering wheel. “Enough with this talk. You’re clearly intoxicated. Have you been drinking or experimenting with other things lately?” He suddenly glares at me. “You know it’s not good for the baby. I can’t believe this.”


    ”No, I—” Panic rises in my throat. My fingers dig into the seat cushion. “You don’t understand. There really was a—”


    ”We are going to the hospital. And when you are discharged, we are discussing a few rehab programs for you. I can’t trust you to live by yourself while you’re feeding your bloodstream with God knows what.” His hand tightened around the steering wheel. “Do you want your baby to be born addicted to that?”


    “I’m not on anything,” I fire back, losing my temper. My cheeks burn. “I’ve been clean for three months. Look, I’ve been sick, okay? The only thing I’ve had so far is Contac. I’m not a child, for Christ’s sake. I don’t need your permission to do things. I don’t need you or Georgia to constantly look after me. You don’t know me. You know nothing about me.”


    He gives me a side glance.


    I’m furiously scratching my broken arm, blood gathering under my broken nails. It itches so horribly I suddenly want to chop it off. I want to rip out the stitches embedded in my skin.


    “You need to go to the hospital,” he slowly says. “And I don’t want to hear anything coming from you.”


    “I’m clean,” I repeat. “I am. You don’t need to call nobody—I am fine. Just…you can drop me off at a hotel somewhere, and I’ll figure it out. I’m not going back to that house.”


    Tom shakes his head in disbelief. “You look like you’re going through withdrawals.”


    ”No, I’m fine.”


    We’ve reached town at this point, where the bright red brake lights of the cars glow in the downpour. I can hardly see through the window.


    ”When it’s the well being of a baby being threatened, it is my business,” Tom snarled through his teeth. “You can go ahead and destroy your body and mind on your own—that’s fine. But I’ll be damned if your child comes home to a run down place and to a junkie lying down on the couch, with nothing to eat, just shit upon shit lying around. If it’s not rehab, and if you don’t get yourself together soon, then I will get CPS involved.”


    ”No, no, no! Don’t you see? I don’t want to put my child into any danger. You’re not—”


    ”I mean it.”


    My baby. He’s going to have my baby taken away. “The TV set broke, because I was trapped inside of it, and I needed to get out.”


    He gave me a confounded look. “Juno, I—”


    ”Listen to me! I told you already that I’m clean,” I weakly say. “I’m telling you the truth, even though I know I sound crazy. But I really am. And I was planning to go to rehab once I came here.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “That was my original plan. I’m going to get clean. I won’t ever touch a needle again.”


    ”Isn’t that what you all say?”


    “So we’re all the same, apparently.” A lump rises in my throat. I want to hurt him as much as he has hurt me. “Given with all the medication you have Rana on, I suppose you’re an expert when it comes to raising children. She grew up in your household, and look at how she’s turned out. She’d have been better off in foster care.”


    The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. A long silence passes between us.


    Tom slams on the brakes. He does not look at me, only focuses on the blurry windshield. I can see that we are in the parking lot of the hospital. His jaw clenches as he unlocks the doors. A red shade has settled upon his face, and his gray eyes are suddenly moist.


    “Get out,” he quietly says.


    I swallow hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”


    He doesn’t say anything.


    Once I slip out into the rain, still huddled in my blanket, I wrap it tightly around my shoulders and watch his truck speed off, leaving a long spray of water. My heart is thudding. I have a horrible temper, but that is no excuse. There’s no point in dwelling on it.


    As I enter the hospital and check myself into the large waiting room, where it is packed and full of families and crying babies and children, I can only slip into a small chair in the corner and bury my face into my hands. What was I thinking, pissing off the only friend I had down here? My stomach hurts. Everything hurts, and I realize that my face is wet.


    Tom doesn’t believe me, and no one will. But the idea of someone else raising and loving the only family I have down here—I can’t let that happen. I can’t lose my marbles over two atrocious nightmares. Although every time that I glance at my arm, the green thread is still there, embedded in my flesh. To keep my child, I must assure myself that what happened the previous night—or two nights ago—was a dream. I bite down on my tongue. It was a dream, nothing more. I’ll end up in a psych ward soon if I don’t shut up.


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    I wish I had never left New York.


    I’d never thought I’d find myself admitting it, but I realize that I am completely alone. At least back home I had my dealer, a circle of girls who weren’t really my friends but coworkers, and after work we’d spend our weekends in Times Square, before splurging on pizza, Chinese, and Italian food.


    I miss the smell of my old apartment and my neighbor, Mr. Hidgens, whose cat I used to feed and watch over when he went to his doctor appointments. Being a WW II vet, he’d always invite me over for stories, hot chocolate, and his grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. I even miss the rats present on the street, or how the snow would land on the roofs of the towering skyscrapers above.


    I miss home.


    * * * * * * * * *


    I’ve been at the hospital for three days.


    It’s beyond painful to tug at the sling hanging from my shoulder. I’m supposed to return in a couple weeks for a checkup and to remove my stitches. My brand new cast is itching me.


    I can’t stop picking at it as I stand on the Brunswick’s freshly painted porch the following morning, balancing a cherry pie that I had brought from the supermarket with the last bit of change I had in the pocket of my nightgown. Before I was discharged, the doctor had commented how well I had managed to stitch myself up upon cutting myself up on the glass from the television set, asking if I had attempted to do this myself at home. I could not give him an answer, because I didn’t want him to think that I was crazy too. He didn’t remove them because he didn’t want to interrupt the healing process, and just cleaned my cuts. There are light scabs from when I had been scratching my arm so vigorously—criss crossed lines upon my skin, next to that bright green thread.


    The lady at the front desk informed me that a bill would be arriving in the mail—a bill that I won’t be able to pay off soon. I lied when I reassured her that I had a ride, and yes, that my imaginary husband and friends would be there to pick me up soon.


    I’ve decided not to take the bus.


    I’m too scared to return back to the house myself, so I had taken a trip to the store before I return to the Brunswicks. Despite how strange this past week has been, I’ve managed to catch a good night’s rest in the waiting room. No one escorted me out, and I fashioned myself a makeshift bed by pushing two chairs together and wrapping my blanket around myself. No nightmares, no hallucinations. I can think clearly, and after enjoying a cup of coffee and a warm bagel at the hospital cafeteria, I have plenty of energy—a rare instance for me.


    I’ve received a lot of stares from customers as I wandered in between the grocery store aisles, walking barefooted and in a stained, crushed up nightgown. The cherry pie is a bit wilted at the edges due to the heat, but I hope this peace offering will be able to mend things between the Brunswicks and I. I hesitate for a moment, before knocking on the door, rehearsing what I am planning to say.


    It takes about five minutes for the doorknob to turn, before Tom’s downcast face appears behind the screen door. To my surprise, he grins when he sees me, and it startles me to see how fast his expression changes. A chuckle escapes from him as he glances at my bare feet.


    Sweat drips from his face.


    “How come whenever I see you, you ain’t wearing no shoes or nothing?” He peeks outside at the empty road. “Did you walk here? Don’t tell me you walked here like this. Why didn’t you call me at the hospital, let me know they was dischargin’ you? I could’ve given you a ride home, let you get your stuff.”


    This is exactly what I don’t want. I don’t recall him giving me his number. I don’t want to go back to that house. I can’t go back. All my belongings there could catch on fire, and I still wouldn’t return. The word home makes my stomach churn, but I hold out the cherry pie. He looks astonished at the sight of it. I need to do what I’ve come here for.


    ”I’m sorry,” I say. “About what I said the other day. That was real rude of me, and I hope you don’t continue to harbor any hard feelings.” I pause. “And I am…I am planning to go to rehab. I was before I even moved here. I just…I only needed to get myself situated—”


    To my surprise, Tom pulls me into a hug. “I want you to know that Georgia and I are here for you and your baby, no matter what.”


    I don’t reply.


    His gray eyes are growing wet again. “ I owe you an apology. You’ve been dealing with a bad bout of influenza, and I came on too harsh with you. I wasn’t listening to you, and I’m sorry about that.” He heavily sighs. “I don’t want to see you lose custody of your baby. I hope you understand. It’s just that I want you provide a healthy environment for the child. I don’t mean to impose on your decisions, but I was getting concerned when I hadn’t seen you in a while. And then, when I saw them scars on your arm, you bein’ so skinny—I tend to jump to conclusions too quick.”


    I release him and step back. “I wasn’t lying about—”


    ”It’s them night terrors, Juno.” He placed both of his hands on my shoulders. “You’re stressed. New place, no family; it’s enough to get anyone unhinged. And you need to go to the doctor regularly, since the baby ain’t too far from coming.” His eyes narrowed. “Go to your checkups. Please.”


    ”I can’t afford to—”


    “When they send you the doctor’s bills, you mail them over here. I’ll pay for everything. All I need for you is to focus on getting healthy. And eat well.” He pats my arm and places the cherry pie on a porch chair, before pulling out his keys. “Come now. I’ll drop you back to your house so you can get changed into some proper clothes. And we can look at some rehab programs in the area, then grab a bite once we get right back here. Georgia’s making fried fish and mashed potatoes for supper. She’s been asking plenty about you.”


    I freeze.


    He’s halfway to the driveway when he notices I’m not behind him. I haven’t even left from the porch step. A concerned look crosses his face when he notices that I am shaking.


    ”Juno,” he softly asks, “what’s wrong?”


    “There’s something in my house,” I stammer. “It’s waiting for me there.”


    Tom frowns. “An intruder? Did anyone break in, steal your stuff?”


    Frantically, I begin to bite my nails. “My pocketknife is gone, the one my father gave me when I was real little. I haven’t seen him in years, and I used it on our hunting trips.” I pause. I’m heated it about it—that thing is all I have of him. “And my driver’s license. I can’t find them anywhere.”


    He rubbed his forehead. “You sure you didn’t replace anything? I think you may be getting a bit paranoid, now.”


    I shake my head. “I’m not going back there.” The stitches under my cast are sore, and I can still feel the imprint of that thing’s fingerprints on my arm. My hand instinctively goes to my protruding stomach. “No, no, no.”


    Tom places his hands on his hips. “Tell you what. I’ll call the police; let them search the place from head to toe. This is fine, anyways, because Georgia and I were hoping you’d stay at our place for a couple days to discuss rehabilitation places. However, you’re going to have to return this week. Rana is moving back in, and this tiny house of ours can barely hold two people, let alone three. If I could, I really would let you stay as long as you want.”


    My mouth goes dry.


    ”But,” Tom says, holding up a hand. “I have a friend who works in real estate, deals with with several apartment complexes in Baton Rouge, if you’re interested. He’s pretty much booked throughout all next month, but I can give you his number, so he can schedule a tour.” A smile crosses his face. “You think you are able to hold out until then, and find a job?”


    I grin, truly smile for the first time in months. “I already got an offer. I wanted to tell you. It’s more than enough to cover rent.”


    He laughs with excitement. “When do you start?”


    ”In a week. At small restaurant.” I didn’t tell him that it probably won’t last for a couple or months. But a job is a job.


    A glow crossed his face. “I am so proud.” He glances at the pie, his mouth watering. “Well, this ain’t going to eat itself, isn’t it? Don’t tell Georgia, she’d never let me have any sweets. Good thing she ain’t up yet. Let me grab a few plates; you just wait out here. I saw some brochures in mail that I want to go over with you for a really good treatment center.” He swings open the porch door and wags his finger at me. “No more walking around here without shoes, young lady. I mean it.”


    I sink down into the porch chair and exhale.


    One more month. Just one more.


    * * * * * * * *


    The night before my first rehabilitation session, I return back to the house. The cereal that I scarfed down this morning churns in my stomach, but I force myself to walk into the steps. It is quiet and still, just as I have left it. There is no television in the dark, empty living room. Even though the police found nothing, I planned to call them the moment I saw something suspicious.


    Thanks to Tom, I have a brand new telephone, which I make sure to place in a good hiding place, underneath the floor. Before I arrived home, I brought a flashlight, a small knife, and a package of batteries.


    I drag the mattress off my porch, give it a good beat down, which is hard to do with only one arm. I layer it up with freshly washed pillows and blankets. It is getting dark, but I yank it up the steps until I reach the smallest out of the two bedrooms—the room that would have been my own child’s. A lump grows in my throat as I shut the door behind me. The baby is asleep; but I still plan to read a couple of stories for them. I want them to become familiar with the sound of my voice.


    I place an empty bucket in the corner of the room in case I need to answer a call of nature, there is no way that I would be going downstairs in the pitch black.


    Using the knife, I mess with the doorknob until it is locked. I press as many heavy boxes against the door as possible to barricade it, so nothing can enter, nothing can leave. As it grows darker, I turn on the flashlight, which illuminates the room. My breaths are shaky, but I have made up my mind. I shall repeat this process every night here I leave for good.


    After positioning my flashlight, I crawl on the mattress and wrap the blankets around me, my eyes focused on the closed door. My knife is hidden underneath my pajama pants, the folded blade cold against my upper thigh.


    I take a deep breath.


    The house is silent.


    Silent.


    Silent.


    Silence.


    * * * * * * * *


    My eyes open.


    I am soaked with sweat under my blankets, but I do not move in the pitch black room. My flashlight is smashed into pieces, but the door remains the same—the cardboard boxes not even shifted. It must still be locked. I stare at it, wanting to run outside, but I do not look anywhere else, or the dark shape lying next to me on the floor, only inches from my mattress. Their presence is strong, and their breathing is still, very quiet. I feel their eyes upon me, and bile rises in my throat. I cannot move. I must pretend to be asleep.


    I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a nightmare, I remind myself. Just a nightmare, a nightmare. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep.


    A thought then comes to my mind. Do they have a weapon—a gun they want to point against my head? Maybe they desire money, but if they would’ve already taken what little I have. No, they are not real. They aren’t. I shift my arm under the blanket to shield my stomach, preparing to reach for my knife.


    I try not to flinch as a rough, calloused hand, much bigger than mine, carefully wraps around my left palm. I’m surprised by how gentle their grasp is—it reminds me of how my mother used to hold my hand when I was a child. It’s a very strange sensation, yet such a comforting, familiar hold. This is a hungry hand that has not held another in years, one that has been empty too long.


    It gives my own a light squeeze.


    I try to close my eyes.


    But my hallucination realizes that I have awakened. I can’t make out anything in the pitch black room, just the shape that is lying mere inches on its side. Rough fingers tuck strands of my damp hair from my face. A mouth is so close that scabbed lips brush against my temple. Then there is rancid breath, smelling of trees and dirt and cigarettes, hot and moist in my left ear.


    It’s a very soft, delicate whisper, mostly broken and shaky, but audible. Barely audible.


    I missed you.