The rain strumming my window panes woke me early the next morning. It was still dark out. I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stretched. A guttural moan started softly and built within me, releasing like the sound of a beefy, mountainous, football player as he orgasms.
Only a lot less frightening, I would think.
Sassied up in my faux-velour, red, lil’ devil pajamas I padded softly down the corridor to the nurses station.
The Debra was gone.
Behind the counter, a young Hispanic woman with red hair and red freckles—everywhere—stood holding a cup of coffee. Her French braid was so tight she could have stashed quarters in it. At the sight of me, she smiled, whispering, “Mornin’. Y’on’t some coffee?”
For those of you not in the know, we don’t just do things differ’nt down here, we say ‘em differn’t too. Like Terry, here. Here’s a quick translation guide to una’stan Texas speak; it’s a lot like math in that you find the lowest common denominator through simplification. We never say in ten words what we can say in two. Terry said three words and an ungodly contraction, but in Texas it translates as, ‘Good Morning. Do you want some coffee?’ The word want is pronounced similar to won’t when used in conjunction with do and you, with one minor change: use a Y instead of W.
My dad greeted me this way the mornings I got up before he went to work in the oilfield, except he also calls me Poot. Terry’s accent was so close to his I could hear his gravelly voice rise in my mind. I nodded, because at the moment it was all I could do.
“I love it here in the mornin’. It’sa’ quiet and nice. World just seems completely differn’t in the mornin’, ya know?” She said, conversationally.
“Yeah, it’s almost like nobody exists, yet.” I said, and I could hear my accent creeping up on me, returning to the slow drawl my father has.
“Exactly! Like it’s just you and tha’ dawn.” She smiled, handing me my cup.
I don’t think I can take much more. “Yeah. Can I take this back to my room? I’m sorry, but suddenly I don’t feel so well.”
Immediately, a concerned look came over her. She put down the cup of coffee and got out a pair of keys, taking a step toward a cabinet while looking at me. “Are you okay? You’re Brittni, right? Do you have a migraine?”
“I’ll be okay. I just need…I just need to go back to my room, I think.” I told her, suddenly embarrassed. I wanted to stay and chat, but something was burning and constricting in my chest. If I stayed and talked to this woman who sounded like my father, I was going to lose it.
“Well, all right, but if you need anything, I’m rit‘chere, okay?” The way she said I’m right here broke the tide and a tear trickled down my cheek.
I nodded and lifted the cup. “Thanks for the coffee, Terry.”
“Any time, Brittni. Any time at all.”
Back in my room, I sat on the long love seat and stared at the window, rain batting its fists against the diamond patterned glass. It wanted in as badly as I wanted out, searching any nook or cranny, any hairline fracture through which it might trickle.
My father was an Italian cowboy. Yeah, I would not have believed they existed if I had not grown up with one. He was a good man and a great father. The faults he had were not stronger than he was in the end, and he had shown that in the past two years. I was so proud of him, but how could they be…proud…
I could not finish the thought. It hurt too badly.
Time slipped away until it was simply me and the rain. Please, I thought, wash away my sins?
Rolling my eyes, I scoffed at myself. Here I am asking a God I’m not even sure I believe in anymore to wash away my sins when I can’t even get all the grit from beneath my fingernails. Lifting my eyes back up to the weeping sky, I added an addendum. Pace yourself on that sin washing request. It could take a while, and I’m not sure I’m done sinning, yet. I’ll keep you posted.
Sipped the coffee. Fingers ached for the Funnies. How I’d tried as a child to be just like my Dad. The only times I can ever remember him ever crying had been over me. Once when Faron Young’s This Little Girl of Mine came on the radio. Once in fourth grade when I began having horrible stomach pains and nobody knew what was wrong. We later found out my digestive tract is longer than most, and it causes compaction, making it difficult for me to process waste without medicine.
And once…five days ago.
My mind stumbled at the thought, rearing back and away, but I forced it to barge straight into the memory aching so. The call to my parents the morning I overdosed.
“Mom? I just…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Baby? What’s wrong?” Alarmed, she’d come fully awake.
“I’m so tired. Just going to sleep. I wanted to say I love you.” My words were slow and thick, difficult to expel. My vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. I hoped it would not take long.
“Where’s Jennifer? Brittni, Brittni! Get Jennifer! We’re coming! Lynn, talk to her!” She screamed, begging me to get my roommate. Inside, I felt a spark of alarm, regret bucking it’s head against my action. The anguish in her voice had been like a butter dipped razor, slicing through me to bone.
No, I thought, evan as my mouth began feeling as though it were stuffed with wool, it was a mistake. Not at this price, not for them…They don’t deserve to pay this.
My father got on the phone, broken some place where only I had been able to reach. “No, baby, no. Please, just…stay with me. God, baby, stay with me…please….Don’t do this. You didn’t have to do this…Please, baby…”
Back in the ward tears poured down my cheeks and I hugged the pain to me, knowing I had caused it and could not undo it. As much as it hurt, I would not hide it anymore.
The rain had finally made its way into my room.
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