Chasing Sophea: A Novel Page 14

  Aunt Baby was relieved when the cab stopped. She needed to get somewhere and rest her bones, but more important, she needed to decide what to do next. This Dr. Kelly couldn’t keep Phoebe, and Aunt Baby couldn’t leave her. She’d promised Dahlia, and she’d die first before she disappointed that girl again. So there was only one thing left to do. She was going back home to Dallas just like that, and she was taking crazy-in-the-head with her. As gifted as she was, she couldn’t heal this child by herself, and she refused to rely on an outsider who didn’t know a thing about her family. Since that day, no one in the Culpepper family had ever spoken about what had happened, not the day after, not in more than twenty years. It was time for a few people to open their mouths. It was time for her to open hers. And whether they were all going to hell or not, it was time for the truth. Baby Marseli dabbed her forehead with her mother’s baby ivory lace handkerchief and immediately felt better. Leaving Pasadena was the sensible thing to do for everyone. She would threaten Phoebe if she had to, drug her and tie her atop an Amtrak train, and they would survive this and live to heal another day. Perhaps on some level Dahlia would sense their destination and realize once and for all that there was no shame in going home again.

  Milky hung up the phone and questioned himself again for being here instead of with his precious daughter. Isabel was fine with his mother, but she wanted him to come home. She missed Mommy, she’d said. Well, that made two of them. And where was Mommy? she’d asked. He’d lied to his daughter like he always did, and he hated Dahlia for that. It had been two days since he’d spoken to his wife. No one was picking up at home, and as usual, she wasn’t answering her cell phone. She was gone yet again, and for the first time, he began to fall apart. Suddenly he was plagued with destructive scenarios and failed outcomes. What if this trip was a colossal waste of time? What if Isabel was emotionally scarred because both her parents were gone? What if his marriage was over once and for all?

  Dammit, his life didn’t used to be this complicated. His life used to make sense, much like his award-winning culinary creations. Right now he should be in his restaurant putting the finishing touches on foie gras; instead, he was in Texas, of all places, yearning for his family and pondering the nutritional value of grits. Yeah, he was losing it for sure and would most likely be certifiable by noon if he didn’t pull it together fast. What good could he do Isabel or Dahlia if he didn’t get a grip and remember why he was there in the first place? “Get up, Michael,” he yelled. “Get up!”

  He sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in the famed Adolfus Hotel and attempted to make sense out of everything he’d learned yesterday about the Culpepper family. Although he was only interested in information that related directly to Dahlia, he was fascinated by it all. He sensed that he had to understand where she came from to truly know her. He wished he’d had a tape recorder because he had no idea how he was going to absorb all of this new information. Names, dates, and people he had never heard his wife mention were now swimming around in his head with worry, fear, and sixteen different recipes for smothered chicken. And as much as he had acquired from Percival Tweed, he knew that there was plenty left unsaid. There was more to know about this family, much more. Today he’d go back there, take notes, and ask more poignant questions. Today he’d meet his father-in-law, Lucius, whether it was the right time or not. Determined and back on track, Milky headed toward the shower. There was no time to waste; the albino was waiting.

  Rest evaded Percival Tweed for the first time in a long while. He wasn’t accustomed to being so affected by life’s twists and turns. He had always been a spectator, not an active participant in the drama that surrounded the Culpeppers. Of course, deep down, he knew that wasn’t necessarily accurate, but he’d convinced himself that it was. Besides, he’d only interfered when it was absolutely necessary. He’d only stepped in when Baby Marseli was involved. And the truth be told, if he had to do everything all over again, he wouldn’t change a thing.

  He had been up and down all night deliberating on whether he was doing the right thing by running his mouth about other folks’ business and, more important, by giving Dante the letter. He hadn’t read the letter, but he could only imagine what secrets were revealed after all these years. “Prettybaby, forgive me,” he whispered. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what had he done? And why had he agreed to give the boy the letter in the first place? After all, he wasn’t a real blood member of this family, even if he’d been a part of it for as long as he could remember.

  At 3:00 a.m. or sometime thereabouts, Percival decided that sleeping wasn’t necessarily that important anyhow but helping Baby Marseli any way he could was. She had always been his priority, and after forty years, that wasn’t about to change. They were never ones for talking, but they communicated effectively just the same. He thought of her and all she did for him, and his heart melted. From the moment she gazed into his eyes, he knew that she saw clear through to his soul. No other woman had ever looked at him that way again, but Baby Marseli still had that same look in her eyes every time she saw his face. Good God, he loved her for that. He loved everything about her.

  Normally people like him were supposed to shy away from the sun for obvious reasons, but afflictions that affected other albinos never bothered Percival. He wore his wide-brimmed hat and glasses when he ventured out in the sun, but only because he wanted to. He tired of folk staring at him all the time. The glasses and the hat usually kept the finger-pointers at bay.

  When he first started working at the Culpeppers’ he discovered a porcelain container filled with an odd-smelling white substance on his front porch. The note attached explained how to use it, and he’d been rubbing that homemade lotion all over his body ever since. As a result, he never had a problem with the sun—or anything else, for that matter. He never had to ask where the concoction came from either. He just knew. And even now, years later, Baby Marseli kept him knee-deep in that cream. She made sure that he never needed anything at all.

  After ruminating over two biscuits and a frosty glass of buttermilk, Percival Tweed decided to confess whatever came into his throat first to Michael and Dante, and he didn’t intend to leave anything out either. No sense in doing anything halfway, that wasn’t his style. He had to go the distance for Baby Marseli. He had to make it easy for her to come on home, back to Dallas—back to him. She was returning any day now with trouble attached to her hip. He didn’t need any confirmation; everything inside told him so. He leaned back and waited for Michael or Dante. He figured one of them was due any minute now, and Percival was ready, ready to release it all, or so he thought.

  The more things change, the more they stay the same. Just when Lucius thought he had a handle on life, Dante’s dead mama shows up in his mortuary. No note, no warning, no nothing to prepare him for the revolving drama that was obviously his life. It seemed to Lucius that no matter what he did, turmoil always seemed to find him. He was mentally exhausted and pained for his brother. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing by not telling him, but he knew that he couldn’t let Dante embalm his own mother. There was something unnatural about that—embalming your own blood—something that changed you forever and rocked your soul from its foundation.

  Lucius had a permanent soulache, and he accepted that. The ache carved into his soul was inevitable after what had happened, after what he had had to do, but Dante deserved better. He had been through enough already. He’d come into this world covered in pain, and Lucius resolved that his little brother wouldn’t leave the same way. Lucius was wrapped in enough anguish for the both of them. He adjusted the volume on his stereo and attended to the final details. She had to be right; she had to be perfect, and he would make it so for his brother’s sake. He covered her lower extremities and sewed her eyelids shut. Oddly enough, he experienced an intense feeling of longing for his own mother, but the moment passed, and he compartmentalized his own needs, just like he had always done. And in that instant of swallowing his emotions raw, Leezel Diezman be
came family and not just a stranger who spent time on his long steel table.

  Finally, after she was fully prepped, he decided to rest, but not in his own bed upstairs. Rather, he reposed on the black leather couch that decorated his expansive office. He knew he should have crawled in bed with his wife and whispered soft velvet apologies. He knew he should have offered some kind of explanation for his erratic behavior, but he couldn’t engage her—not now. God knows he couldn’t. With “Naima,” another ‘Trane masterpiece, playing softly in the backgroud, Lucius Jeremiah Culpepper eased into a restless slumber and dreamed of his life before the tornado, before the children, before his parents left him for good.

  Mercy flinched when she heard the knock on the door. It was her husband, and she had no desire to see him. She didn’t know why he didn’t just come in and berate her some more. Well, if he were waiting for her to acknowledge him, he’d be standing on the other side of the door all night. Either life was a maze of incomprehensible connections or the Almighty had a wicked sense of humor. Either way her life had fallen apart since she’d fallen in love with her husband’s brother. She’d never have believed she could think such ungodly thoughts or fiend for someone other than Lucius. But recently, ungodly thoughts emanated from every vital part of her anatomy and propelled her to do ungodly things.

  He knocked again. She couldn’t answer. She waited. Nothing. Why didn’t he just come in? Why wouldn’t he simply get it over with? Earlier, before Dante, she would have flown to the door grinning like a lovesick teenager eager for attention, but now she just wanted him to go away—disappear and leave her to her guilt-ridden fantasies in peace. She placed her head between her knees and rocked to a rhythm that had become pleasurable and familiar. Time would not slow for her, and she couldn’t make her husband wait forever. After a few minutes, the persistent rapping ceased, and she slid under the covers, grateful that Lucius had chosen not to intrude. She admired the hand-etched crown molding on the ceiling, fidgeted with the folds of her cherry red nightgown, and wondered if Dante was thinking of her.

  Dante locked himself in his room and tried not to imagine the worst. After last night’s terse exchange with Percival Tweed, his fears were confirmed. The old man knew what he had done. The knowing had been in his eyes and all that he didn’t say. His instinct was to run away—vanish in the wee hours of the morning on one of his extended vacations. That was his modus operandi when he felt out of sorts and overwhelmed or when being in the house began to cause him acute discomfort. But he couldn’t leave that way. He refused to be a coward any longer. There was a monsoon brewing around him, and this time, he was keenly aware of the injuries it would bring with it. It didn’t catch him off guard like the last one. He had created the disturbance now beginning to contaminate the very air around him, and he resolved to step forward and do something. This time, he wouldn’t stand on the sidelines with his mouth open while his family fell apart.

  Calamities, he had learned over the years, attracted other calamities and clumped together, much like a cancer intent on metastasizing. And before anyone realized what was happening, they morphed into something palpable, taking on a life of their own. When disaster befell the Culpepper family, the effect of that particular disruption never seemed to leave the house. Instead, the aftermath or the residuals wandered around and waited patiently for something else equally wicked to keep them company. There was enough latent misfortune traveling through the house to begin with without him adding another ruination for the original mass to absorb and grow stronger.

  Dante breathed the newly transformed air and thought of his mother. He had bedded his brother’s wife, but he was still some-body’s son. He should have called Aunt Baby by now and made sure she’d arrived all right. He should have done a lot of things, but unlike most people, he had a different kind of mother. He didn’t remember when he first realized how unique she was, but he was certain it had been very early. He’d heard enough stories to know what she had done for him, how she had saved his life and rid him of unimaginable scars, both emotional and physical. He knew that he’d probably be dead and in the ground if it weren’t for her. Aunt Baby was connected to many people, but their bond was extraordinary, and from what he’d been told, it always had been. No, he couldn’t ring her—not now, not yet, not with his feelings for Mercy so close to the surface, so close to being exposed. Baby would sense his emotional distress right through the phone and strip him naked—that was the nature of their relationship. He had to end it with Mercy first—stuff his feelings for her way down in the core of his heart where they belonged. Severing all ties with her was the only way, and then, when things appeared to have returned to normal, he would leave the business for good and sign everything over to his brother. It was the least that he could do.

  Decision made, he retreated further inside himself and conjured up every facial expression, every exchange, every curve and nuance to magnify Mercy Blue. He adored her more than she would ever know, and although he’d deluded himself for a minuscule space in time, a part of him had always known that he was destined to love her from a distance. Dante focused with an intense certainty. He needed a strong image to sustain him on his journey without her, an indelible print of their time together. He dozed off reminiscing about the taste of her, and when he awoke, he remembered that the albino had given him something. At the time, so many things were crowding his mind that he’d folded the letter and shoved it in his inside jacket pocket and had forgotten about it until now. The old man wouldn’t tell him what it was, and he had to admit that a part of him didn’t want to know, so he’d distanced himself from it and had almost thrown it away.

  He examined the outside; his name was written in a flowery scrawl he didn’t recognize. It was probably a note from some decedent’s family member thanking him for a job well done. He commenced reading unaware that his perception of himself was about to change forever. His lungs swelled; his heart began to beat to a familiar rhythm, and for a moment he was unable to breathe.

  “Well, is he here or not? I don’t have all damn day.”

  “Calm down,” Aunt Baby hissed. “The man knew we were coming. Lord have mercy.” Aunt Baby looked at her watch: 9:00 a.m. Just how long would it take to crack Phoebe’s head open and pull her niece on out of there? The door opened, and she determined to find out.

  “I’m glad you were able to make it. Hello. We spoke on the phone. I’m Dr. Trevor Kelly. And you must be Phoebe.”

  “Well, you always were a genius, Trevor,” Phoebe answered first.

  “Please excuse her, Dr. Kelly. I can offer no explanation for her manners. I’m Marseli Culpepper, Dahlia’s grandaunt.” Phoebe rolled her eyes at no one in particular. “Now, before you begin doing whatever it is you’ve got to do, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Ms. Culpepper, as per our conversation on the phone earlier, I’m afraid that I can’t discuss Dahlia’s … er … ah … Phoebe’s case with you without her … or their … permission. I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “Son, do I look like I have a learning disability? Do I look crazy in the head to you?”

  “No, ma’am. I just wanted to inform you that—”

  “I don’t care, Trevor,” Phoebe interrupted. “She can listen to whatever you have to say. She’ll probably drug it out of me later anyway. Can we get this show on the road already? Christmas is coming.”

  “Phoebe, are you saying that you don’t mind if I discuss your condition with your aunt? And you don’t mind her sitting in session with us? Is this correct?”

  “I see you’re still thick in the head and getting thicker by the minute. You know, you should really consider getting your ears checked. That wax buildup is a bitch. Look, I said fine already, and I told you before that she’s not my aunt. She’s not anything to me but a pain in the ass, much like you.”

  “Well, all right, then, both of you may come on in and chat for a while. Ms. Culpepper, may I sp
eak to you outside for a moment?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  While Phoebe waited inside his office, Dr. Kelly addressed Aunt Baby. He had to be allowed to run the session his way without her interference, but he was also aware that she most likely had information that would help him reach Dahlia significantly sooner. Diplomacy was key here. For Dahlia’s sake, he had to approach this matter delicately, as Dahlia’s aunt appeared to be a formidable woman. He opened his mouth to speak. “Ms. Culpepper, I’d appreciate—”

  “I know, son, but let me tell you how this is going to work. I’ll give you today with her and maybe tomorrow if you look like you know what you’re doing, and then I’m taking her home whether you’re successful or not.”

  “Ms. Culpepper, I don’t think you understand the severity of Dahlia’s condition here. Dissociative identity disorder is not something that can be cured or fixed overnight. The course of treatment is long-term, intensive, and often quite painful, as it generally involves remembering and reclaiming the dissociated traumatic experience. I’ve explained all this to say that she needs consistent treatment and medical attention to heal. The memory must be faced, experienced, metabolized, and integrated into Dahlia’s view of herself. As I’ve said, this will be excruciatingly painful for her. I need more time.”