Rebecca Bavone

Rebecca Bavone Blue I woke up to the terrible sound of rain. Thumping against my window with a rhythm so awful I knew something was up. It came down with more persistence as I laid in bed, warm under my comforter, listening and waiting. Waiting. And waiting. Then the thumping mixed with shuffling and I saw a small figure fly past when I lifted my head. I met her at the door. Right as she was turning the knob with such care. Trying not to make a sound. I stepped on the blanket wrapped tightly around her like I had many times before. You’d think she would ditch the blanket and wear an actual coat. I had bought her a coat once and when she came back without it, I bought her another one. She didn’t wear it. She looked at me. I always remembered her eyes being blue. Blue like the soft summer skies with tufts of cloud like cotton balls ripped apart. On the night she left, the color had become so dull I could have sworn the life was drifting out of her and down murky rapids into an infinite fall. It wasn’t like her. Sure, she had left plenty of times but she had always come back. This had been a particular time someone didn’t want her to come back. They told me it was inevitable, that a girl as troubled as her would of course run away. And I’m telling you. It wasn’t like her. I had a certain feeling when I walked along the dirt road. It was a feeling of loss, I suppose. A feeling that the one good thing about me was gone. A feeling that it was probably all my fault, but it’s not like she was my kid or a kid. The cool wind pushed the high corn stalks of the field back as if they were trying to escape my presence. Our first meeting had been terrifying. I had been chugging a sweet cup of coffee and furiously punching the keys of my laptop when suddenly my world went dark and the shadows descended on me. But it had just been a girl. It had just been her, peeking through my window with her hands cupped around her face and her nose squished against the glass. I’d been mid-sip as I laid eyes on her rather odd appearance, and I let the steam cling to my lips and warm my cheeks. She hadn’t smiled at me or tried to signal for help or been about to bash into my home and murder me with a dull butter knife. She’d just stared. I had thought about calling the police, but the thought was replaced by the memories and feelings one has when they’ve let so many people down that it’s overwhelming. I was that kid who didn’t help you with a homework question, who didn’t let you sit with him even though you looked lonely, who killed fish because he forgot to feed them, who let the dog leash go because he wanted to stare at the blue sky. I was kind of a horrible person. A horribly irresponsible person. I think I still am. She had walked away from the window. Knock. I had opened the door and there she was with a tired face and her arms wrapped around her body like she was freezing. Staring. I had stared back, hoping to scare her off or get her to cut the weird silence with words. But she never liked speaking. She nodded or shook her head or pointed at things. I can’t say why, but after what seemed like ten minutes, I’d gone back to my couch and watched her enter my home, my place of privacy, my little bubble. She had curled up next to me and slept. There had been no bags with her. Just her, shivering, and an outfit that had probably been hand-me-downs. She liked following me. When I walked upstairs, she walked upstairs. If I went out to get the mail, she would stay behind me and then pry the letters and packages from my grasp. I would always put my bag on the counter and make breakfast before going to lectures. She would look up from her spot on the couch and gaze at it fiercely until she finally gave up and sat at the counter, tapping her fingers impatiently. A few times she was so annoyed at how slow I was moving that she took off with the bag and ran down the road until I caught up with her. The girl followed me so closely that I had to tell the other faculty (and even some nosy students) she was my half-sister (it seemed reasonable) and, no, she would not talk. Or pay any attention to you. No, I don’t think she’s mentally disabled, Steve. Autistic? No, she’s not going to be in your research study, Karen. She knew enough to sit in the back of the classroom. Car rides were the only time I wasn’t the center of her vision. Her eyes would light up as trees whipped by on her right and everything blurred into one while the scene in front was steady and organized. I’m not sure which she preferred. I do know she hated the corn field. Her hands would intertwine on the back of her neck and push her head down so far it touched the seat. The first time she did this I’d been afraid she had somehow opened the door and thrown herself out of the car without me noticing. I never questioned why she hated the field and never asked her. Why hadn’t I? I brushed shriveled leaves aside with my shoe to make a little path within the path of the dirt road. A gust of air, so strong it threatened to take my hat, bent the corn stalks just enough to reveal a roof. It looked like it was near the woods. Between the deep woods and a giant corn field. A place cut off from everything, really. Hidden. They don’t have to deal with lonely kids. They are the lonely kids. But I bet they look up at the sky and let the leashes go all the time and get lost in the clouds and don’t move when the dogs run through the corn to freedom. And I bet they don’t even flinch when they hear tires squeal. They don’t lift a toe when they hear a cry. Maybe they can’t hear because of the corn. I faced the field. The stalks looked down on me, and I was suddenly so aware of everything wrong I had done. I hadn’t called the police. I hadn’t asked why she didn’t speak, why she hated leaving my side, why she trembled at the sight of the field. Why she couldn’t wait to get in my car and leave. I felt myself drift into this realization, up into the bright sky and through her blue eyes so I was looking back at my idiotic self. I stared and stared at the corn until all of the rage that had sat simmering for so long reached a boil and overflowed in a surge of energy that moved my legs through the corn like I was flying. She would leave and come back and leave and come back. Her eyes were clear and her eyes were cloudy. They were dull and they were dead inside and not because she ran away, you fucking imbeciles. The house was small and dinky. White paint had chipped off almost completely and the roof was sunken in. There was a line of clothes fluttering in the wind and at the perfect moment, when my face contorted with such wrath and I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer, the girl walked out of the house with a swollen face. I didn’t stop. Even when she jumped back inside. I crossed into their world, up their steps and through their front door. I almost ran into the man, but he threw me to the floor with a single push. He wore a bloody apron and placed a knife on the kitchen table before raising me up. I could see the red stuck under his fingernails. She could barely open her right eye. I kicked him. I kicked him until he fell and when I reached for the knife I was looking at her. I was looking at the difference between her blue eyes. The left was like peering into a dream only she couldn’t see. The right was everything she knew. I didn’t hear the groan of pain from the man. I only heard her. A whisper. “Leave.” I took her hand in mine and we ran. It wasn’t like me. I’m telling you I’m okay with that.