Raising Spirits

A total breakdown was expected. There were so many things wrong with the ten-year-old Honda Civic that Adam had long since given up on repairing it, choosing instead to drive it to its demise. He had grown accustomed to the constant gamble of getting from point A to point B, taking one ride at a time and feeling grateful for each successful ignition. This time, however, the car had to make it. The journey was too important, and not just to him.

With the windows down, the dense Louisiana air lumbered through the car, delivering both a welcome breeze and an oppressive heat. In the back seat, sweat had collected under the chin of an angelic-looking girl enjoying an unexpected nap. Adam was grateful for the break. For a while, there would be no more "when-will-we-get-there," only the satisfying rhythm of the tires crossing the seams of the concrete roadway, like a heartbeat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. He tried to maintain a steady pulse while allowing car after car to pass, a game soon forgotten by his mind’s tendency to wander. They had two destinations, for the short and long-term; he worried about one and could scarcely conceive of the other. He sought stability, if not for himself, then at least for his daughter, who was not yet old enough to realize she deserved better. Much better. 

Mile after mile, Adam’s attention wandered until the sounds of the roadway seemed no louder than a whisper. Each time his thoughts turned to his wife, Sheila, his grip on the steering wheel tightened until it seemed he might snap it in half. He knew why she disappeared, but there was no excuse for leaving her only child confused and broken-hearted. And then there was the illness left behind—the root of his desperation and the reason for their journey. He still loved Sheila, of course, but that had nothing to do with his desire to kill her.  

Zeke liked to sing-hum the music he was raised on—gospel, swamp blues, Cajun. It was a late-life habit that arose from his inability to retain lyrics. He didn’t realize it was happening any more than he realized he was breathing, but it eased the labor of pulling weeds, cleaning gutters, or some other chore. The backyard, in particular, was a frequent audience to his songs. There, the grass struggled, thanks to the trees, whose canopy blocked much of the sunlight from reaching the ground. Year after year, he seeded and sang and watered and hummed, continually surveying the sad, patchy lawn and shaking his head in judgment as though the grass just hadn’t tried hard enough. But without fail, disappointment would give way to a self-directed chuckle as he remembered his willing participation in the years-long battle.

Few in his soggy Louisiana community were as proud of their property as Zeke. For him, caring for the land was both an honor and a responsibility; it had been in the family, as he often said, “since before the French got paid.” He and his wife, Olive, raised their son on the soil of his ancestors and, as was family custom, were determined to remain until the choice was no longer theirs. 

Don’t say,
Don’t you dare say a word.
Mmmm, mmm…
Gonna tell you what I heard.

Two years had passed since they last saw their son and granddaughter. As soon as the visit was planned, Olive put her husband to work. 

“Two more mouths. Maybe a shrimp bo’l. Or somethin’." Olive had a way of using her lazy delta drawl to assign a task to her husband in the most subtle manner, and he fell for it every time, enjoying the same self-directed chuckle he used on his lawn. He didn’t mind. Zeke had few culinary skills, but none were required to boil shellfish and vegetables. It was for the best. He would do all the work out in the yard, her kitchen would stay cool, and there would be little to clean up. 

Your ma, oh, she said,
Your pa, he said so, too. 
Mmm, mmm…
Ain’t no good for you.

It was mid-afternoon when Adam pulled into the gravel driveway. He was relieved the car had survived the journey, but was knotted in trepidation. The boyhood feeling when tiptoeing around the house to avoid his father’s disappointment struck him like a wave he could barely withstand. Like the countless times he missed his teenage curfew, he switched off the motor and coasted up to the house. However, his arrival did not go unnoticed. Olive was there, waving excitedly beside her expressionless husband. There was no going back. 

“There’s my boy! C’mon over here.” Olive held her son momentarily before promptly pushing him back for an inspection. “You’re not lookin’ s’ good. You okay?”

“Long drive, Mama.” Adam offered his mother a weary smile as she kissed his cheek several times in rapid succession.

“And look at this pretty lady, growin’ up s’ fast!” Olive stole her granddaughter from Zeke’s embrace to take her turn. “April, you look so beautiful! I don’t know who’s doin’ your hair, but we can fix that. You hungry? Come, let’s get your things inside, and you can tell me what you been doin’.” The shy girl beamed at the attention and was led into the house, attached to her grandmother’s waist.

Adam greeted his father, who shook his hand and pulled him close, punctuating the embrace with several slaps on the back. 

“My god, boy. You look like shit.” Zeke never minced words with his son, believing that a father’s duties included serving up brutal honesty when needed. “Like you been sleepin’ in the gutta. What’s that about?”

“Nothing, Pop. I just got a lot to deal with right now.”

“Yes, yes, alright. Always a lot to deal with, but sweet Jesus.” Zeke examined his son, up and down, with a suspicious gaze. “You in trouble?”

Adam thought about answering honestly, but ten minutes back on that sacred family land, he was a teenager again. 

“Naw,” he said softly. 

“How’s that?”

“No, sir.” Adam reset his posture. “No trouble.” 

“Well, get you a good meal and a good sleep.”

“Things are looking nice here, Pop.”

“Yes, well, sure, the house is alright,” Zeke began, leading his son around the yard, calling out his work. “Somehow managed to keep it in one piece. Replaced all that here and up there and, of course, inside some. Took a little time, but we got there soon enough. Lucky to be a little higher than other folks. Yes, the parish ain’t what it was. Shame. I suspect it’ll be five years or more ‘fore it’s all back. Hell, by that time, we’re liable to have another big one, and then we’ll be startin’ all over again. But that’s what we do.” Zeke’s tone pierced his son’s guilt. “Yes, sir,” the old man said, “that’s all we ever can do.” 

Adam watched as his father turned to the late afternoon sun, the trees and clouds reflecting in his glasses. It was the same face that had never shown him approval or pride, only disappointment, and nothing in those leathery, old wrinkles suggested that he would ever change. 

“If only I could get the grass to grow.”

An eleven-year-old Adam once tried to run away from home, a childish reaction to his father’s unreachable expectations, but he didn’t get very far and was back in bed before anyone noticed his absence. The desire to escape grew yearly, but it would have to wait until after high school when he enrolled in a distant state college. Once he left, he did not return—not for his grandmother’s funeral or to celebrate his father’s retirement, not when they were trying to keep the place together with plywood and sandbags, and not while they were rebuilding it on a pensioner’s pennies. Instead, home came to Adam on special occasions. Zeke and Olive traveled to see him graduate from business school. They were there as he became a husband, and, not long after, a father.

Adam had now run to the place he once fled, an irony not lost on him. In his weakest moments, he was lured home by thoughts of safety and comfort. Yet in every direction, there were reminders of why he had always been so intent on leaving. The feeling of confinement. A father’s uncompromising authority. A mother who never wanted more than she had. The sticky air and how everything always felt damp. The absurdly old dirt hound, rooted to the same spot and whining as if pleading to be put out of his misery. Adam felt his teenage desperation to escape return, but he wasn’t there just for himself. He would have to endure his memories.

A massive collection of steaming shellfish and vegetables was released onto the newspaper-wrapped picnic table. April laughed wildly, having never seen such a thing, while the others overplayed their excitement to heighten her experience. The little girl watched with fascination as Zeke demonstrated how to pinch the crawfish tails and draw out the meat. She giggled each time he referred to them as mudbugs, but refused to suck the juice from the heads as the others did. 

Short work was made of the pile. Once the bare corn cobs and empty shells had been rolled up in the newspaper and disposed of, Adam sat with his parents in the twilight, watching April on an old tree swing. He dried the sweat from his face and neck with a handkerchief, took a deep breath, and told his parents he needed a new home.

“I want my girl to grow up right, and that’s not going to happen up in Alexandria,” Adam explained. “The entire place is under a dark cloud; it always will be. We’re not going back. She needs a place to start fresh. So do I.”

“Here?” Olive asked.

“I don’t know where, Mama, but not up north.” Adam went on to say he had left his job, which was only half-true. He spared them the details of being told to leave due to chronic lateness and careless work.

“We got no extra money,” Zeke interjected. “We’re not workin'-age. Don’t even know if what we got will last.” 

“No, I’m not asking for money, Pop. I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, well, that’s good, ’cause we ain’t got none. You’ll figure it out. I know you’ve been given a bad hand by that woman who ran off, but it’s time to move on now. Pick yourself up. That’s all.”

Adam’s head fell with the sting of his father’s dismissive words. They would never be able to talk, not really. Not as father and son. Not even man-to-man.

Suddenly, Zeke jumped up to assist his granddaughter, who had tumbled from the swing and into the dirt.

“Adam,” Olive’s voice was calm. “We’ll—”

“It’s okay, Mama. He’s right,” Adam conceded, lifting his hand to end the conversation. There was pain in knowing that everyone he had in the world was right there, none of whom had any idea how serious his problems had become. His chest felt heavy as he watched his daughter swinging back and forth, propelled by her grandfather. April, who had not deserved any of the events that had led them there, somehow, impossibly, continued to laugh.

Adam’s wife had been gone long enough for him to know she would never return. Sheila’s departure was as abrupt as her arrival when they nearly collided, each walking from one class to another. Now, looking back, everything about their relationship seemed too easy. Neither had to work to gain the other’s favor. Her upbeat energy, beauty, and confidence drew him in, just as his good looks and gentle manner attracted her. When she told him she wanted to be with him forever, he immediately, delirious with desire, proposed. Within months, they married, rented a home, and conceived, though not in that order. Like many young families, they didn’t have much, and once April arrived with her father’s eyes and her mother’s magnetism, life became harder in every way. Adam reassured his wife that everything would be fine as long as they made an honest effort, a conviction he often expressed to steady their partnership.

With the help of a promotion he had earned, their expenses became manageable. However, a car accident brought new hardships. Sheila endured a battery of medical examinations and treatments for her injuries, which depleted their savings, while the necessary car repairs quickly negated the small settlement that was awarded. 

She was in constant, severe pain. Prescribed painkillers helped, but she never stopped taking them, so she would never really know if the pain they were intended to alleviate had ceased. Her complaints grew along with the dosage, but Adam saw no cause for concern. After all, everything was on the order of a physician; it was legitimate, easy-to-refill pain management. 

Adam worked hard to keep his job while helping his wife recover, but each day demanded more energy than he could muster. April came with expenses that threatened to throw them off the tightrope they walked and into a cauldron of bankruptcy. With his wife hindered by a pain that refused to subside, he was the sole breadwinner. She needed time to heal, she told him, and he wanted her to have it, but she never seemed to make any progress.

After returning home one evening to find chaos for the hundredth time, Adam snapped, ranting about the toys and clothes scattered about the house and the dishes piled in the sink. Calmly, stoned, she quieted him and placed a small tablet in the palm of his hand, assuring him it would bring relaxation. Without a moment’s pause, he took it. Days later, there would be another. And then another. It soon became habitual, providing the couple with an odd new connection. But she was over her head in dependency, and without a word, disappeared. Adam was left alone with their daughter, his brain rewired for a perpetual need.  

But he hadn’t succumbed completely. Not yet. Instead, he doubled his efforts, packing lunch boxes, working, shopping, paying bills, washing clothes, and telling bedtime stories—without chemical help. Releasing the stress required his wife’s prescriptions, which were simple to renew and collect on her behalf. While his supply wasn’t an immediate problem, Adam exercised great discipline in his daily allotment before discovering how easy it was to obtain his own prescription. Easier still was purchasing all he wanted online. It was a dangerous practice, yet he felt no fear. He was paying, but another man was buying.

Through the window screens came the sounds of nocturnal insects welcoming him home, or perhaps trying to frighten him away. Their songs droned on and on as Adam stood in the bathroom looking at the mirror, oblivious to his reflection. His only concern was what he would find on the other side. 

In searching for a reason why he returned to his childhood home, the best he could come up with was that there was no other place to turn. Asking his parents for help was not something he wanted to do. He had never done so in the past, knowing his father would have seen it as a weakness. To Zeke, a man took responsibility for every event in his life—a kind of mantra he drummed into his son’s ears year after year. Adam liked that idea, but while responsibility was one thing, assistance was very much another, and he knew his father would be unable to see the distinction. No. It wasn’t worth the humiliation. He would not cause more disappointment; it was better that they remain unaware of his struggle. 

Adam opened the cabinet door slowly, revealing a library of short, amber containers with typed labels and white lids. The tablets and capsules inside were leftovers from a knee replacement, chronic back spasms, arthritis, root canals, and other ailments. He didn’t know where to start. It was as if each one was calling him, hoping to be chosen. For a moment, he didn’t need to ingest anything; merely knowing what was there seemed to calm his breathing. With only a few of his own painkillers remaining, he felt instantly uplifted by the discovery of reachable relief. They would never know what was missing. But instead of taking an entire bottle, he skimmed a few pills from several containers and folded them into a tissue, which he tucked into his front pocket. One reserved pill disappeared into his mouth just as his mother opened the door to find him standing before the open medicine cabinet. 

“Oh, sorry, hon. Didn’t know you were in here. Y’ okay? Need somethin'?"

“Just a headache, Mama,” he said. 

“Well, you’ll have to look through it for aspirin or somethin’. I don’t know what all is in there. Some of it has to go. Help yourself, and if you can’t find anything, we’ll go out and get you somethin’.” She placed a stack of neatly folded towels into a linen closet and left the room without suspicion. 

Adam randomly selected another bottle, opened it, loudly shook out some of the tablets, replaced it, and closed the door. He swallowed, closed the cabinet, and stood looking deeply into his own eyes.

For all the familiar feelings, it was not the house he remembered. It might have been, but water damage had destroyed most of the furniture and flooring. What he saw was showroom new. The paint and lights were updated, and the thousand decorative accents could have belonged to anyone else. The kitchen appliances were from the current century. The well-worn burgundy carpet had been replaced by a pristine blue, which looked like it had never been stepped upon. Wandering through the house, he found little to jog his memory. It felt haunted now, as though the present was trying to suppress the past with fresh drywall and new decor.  

After checking on his sleeping daughter, Adam headed to bed in what was once his old room. He could feel the warm pharmaceutical relaxation approaching. Without intention or effort, he listened to the conversation on the other side of the wall. Voices traveled through the walls as though the house itself forbade secrets, once its best and worst feature.

“How can we help him out?” Olive asked her husband. “He’s had such a hard time since that woman left him, and now that baby’s growin’ up without a mother.”

“Let the boy find his way. He’ll get there,” Zeke assured her. 

“Everybody needs help now and again.”

“Like us? We could’ve used help. Where was he? Barely lifted the phone to see if we were okay.”

“He had his hands full with his family and work,” Olive noted. “He couldn’t just leave all that to help pick up the pieces down here.”

“Always makin’ excuses for him. He was only a couple of hours away. Can’t give a weekend or two? Help to haul away the debris? Make sure we’re safe?”

“We made it just fine.”

“And he will, too. On his own.” 

Adam wiped a tear away and quickly fell asleep.

“I’m not sayin’ we can’t ever help,” Zeke assured his wife, “but giving him a handout now won’t do him any good.”

Each day, April’s perfectly ironed dresses were paired with lace-trimmed socks and Mary Jane shoes, and her meticulously styled hair was tied with complementing ribbons. She was her mother’s living doll, at least until valium, oxycodone, and their friends arrived. From then on, the little girl’s gradually disheveled appearance indicated how far Sheila had fallen. April, of course, sensed something was wrong as it became harder to capture her mother’s attention each day. She watched with sadness while her mother numbed herself into uselessness, all the while believing she had done something wrong.

April was a quiet girl who rarely asserted herself, as though waiting for permission to be a child. Adam worried that her timidity would be a disadvantage as she grew. If a trait were responsible for holding the door open to addiction, was it passed on to his daughter? Her manner alone made her susceptible to harm, but what would result when paired with those genetic predispositions? He wanted April to grow strong and confident, embodying only the best of her mother. He had no idea how to protect her from a demon who may be lying in wait. 

Parenthood’s obligations left Adam unable to dwell on his broken heart. Caffeine fueled him during the day, and pills at night helped bring him down, a routine he maintained for nearly a year until the crashes came. As time passed, even getting out of bed became a chore. His work suffered, and he grew forgetful and was often short with his daughter. 

When April found him sitting on his bed one night, holding his head, she offered him the comfort of a floppy, plush frog.

“Mommy said the medicine made her feel better.” She pointed to an upper shelf, where an enamel box served as a bookend. 

Confused, Adam sent April and her frog to bed and watched the box as though something might jump out. He didn’t know if a stash was inside, but his child suggested there had been at some point. He paced, afraid of what might be found there and elsewhere in the house—something she might have forgotten, only hidden, it seemed, from him. To think that his child held the secrets of an addict, and not knowing what might have been within her reach, was nauseating. Cautiously, he lifted the box from the shelf, resolving to do whatever it took to keep the scourge out of his daughter’s future. 

The seed was from an unfamiliar brand, but the packaging promised growth even in the densest shade, so Zeke took a chance. He opened the bag and filled a bucket, having already prepared the soil by loosening it with a rake. 

Everybody’s down on me.
Hmmm-hmm…. 
God in heaven knows,
Mmm hmmm”

From an old glider on the back porch, Adam watched his father and listened to the snippets of a song he had heard many times as a boy. The sing-hum was at a lazy tempo, which meant Zeke was calm and relaxed; there would be no better time to talk. After taking a deep breath, Adam walked into the yard and, instead of offering his help, asked to be put to work. Soon, the men were moving from one end of the yard to the other and back, sending seeds into the air to fall evenly onto the ground. 

“Would you and Mama take April for a while? Maybe the summer?” 

“Where’ll you be?” Zeke asked, without looking up, unsurprised at the question.

Getting clean, Adam thought to himself.

“We need a new place to live. I need to find work.”

“Yes, well, where’s that goin’ to be?”

Behind his father’s back, Adam shrugged. There was a long silence, and the seeding abruptly stopped. 

“Ain’t got a plan? No place to start even?” Zeke studied his son for a long while and shook his head. “You're goin’ to leave her here where she ain’t never been before and run off in no particular direction, hoping to find a life?”

“Well, what would you suggest I do?” Adam was fighting to keep his shell from cracking, but his heart was racing. “How would you have done it?” 

“Boy?”

“What should I do? How would you have managed if Mama had run out on us?” Adam struggled to take a deep breath and threw his hands out to his sides with a scoff. “You know, I keep looking up to you. I’m not sure I know why. A man’s got to do this, a man’s got to do that, that’s all I ever heard. I keep looking at you as an example, but I don’t think you could wear my shoes any better. But maybe I’m wrong. Tell me, what am I missing? How would you have handled it?” 

Zeke snapped back.

“I would have just done it. That woman left you. So what? You can do without a woman just fine.”

“Easier said. And you don’t know.”

“You may be a grown man, but the dirt under your feet still belongs to me. Come to think of it, I ain’t ever heard you ask if you could come. So don’t tell me what I don’t know.”

“You’ve never once had a day without a woman around to make sure you get from sun up to sleep tight. You lived in my grandmother’s house and ate from her table all your life. You married and brought Mom under the same roof until she wore the apron, and she’s kept you going in the right direction every day since. You had nothing but help every day of your life, and you’re going to deny me a little?” 

“Who are you talkin’ to like that, boy?”

“Man.” There was no fear left. “A man is talking to his father. Imagine that.”

Zeke was silent. He looked down at the ground and turned away. After a moment, he raised his head and spoke without emotion. 

“You think I like not giving you help?” He returned to his chore.

“Well,” Adam replied, “you seem to enjoy keeping it out of reach.” 

For a long while, there were no more words. Adam stood and watched his father casting seeds, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, Zeke stopped and started for the garden hose without looking at his son. 

“Pick yourself up.”

From beneath the heat of his laptop, Adam searched for rehabilitation facilities in southern Louisiana. It had to be simple—find a facility that would accept him, no questions asked, and quickly flush the toxins from his body. That’s all. I’m not an addict, he told himself. One pill to relax, another to stay that way, and maybe another for good measure. And maybe one to sleep. And occasionally, one in the morning, to face the day. That did not add up to a full-blown addiction in his eyes, but he knew he was approaching the point of no return. 

The search results were overwhelming. Community centers, hospitals, private rehab, outpatient treatments, group support, referrals, intakes, detox, and twelve-step programs. But he had no way of knowing which options were reputable. A wrong choice might lead him to a facility filled with criminals, toothless meth heads, or crack whores. He wanted to go where he would be treated with respect and not blamed for what was beyond his control. There had to be somewhere that would address his condition as a medical problem, without dour attendants looking down on him in judgment. Then a worrying thought crossed his mind: what would it cost, and how would he pay for it? Swallowing a pill without thinking tempered a full-on panic attack, and in the calm, he dismissed his search and fell asleep.

“I asked Pop if April could stay here through the summer.”

Olive was performing a lively kitchen dance that Adam had witnessed many times in his youth. She moved gracefully yet deliberately from the toaster to the sink, then to the coffee maker, the table, and finally the stove, before starting again. The result was a simple breakfast for her son and her soon-to-awaken granddaughter. Unfazed by his words, she placed his meal on the table and sat beside him in the warm morning sunlight. 

“I see.” She sipped her coffee as he picked at the food on his plate. When she was sure he wouldn’t detect her gaze, her eyes shifted to study his face, seeing the burden he carried down from Alexandria. He looked drained and seemed barely present.

“He didn’t have an answer. I guess he’s thinking about it, but I don’t know.” Adam was quickly distracted by the view. “Used to be able to see the Finch place from this window, right?”

“Mmm. Gone. All of it. In the storm.”

“Good God. That big old house? They gonna rebuild?”

“No, they’re gone, too, like everything else over there.” She watched as her son’s face filled with disbelief. “Didn’t go to a shelter. No, they decided to pray it out. You remember them, all that Bible talk. Too much, even for me. Anyway, I’m sure they thought their singin’ and prayin’ would protect them.”

Adam was stunned. It was less than a mile away.

“Everybody’s always praying to something around here.” Olive had begun flipping through a grocery store circular, occasionally dampening the tip of a finger on her tongue to help turn the page. “All kinds of Jesus. Buddhists, Islam. Creole Voodoo, if you know where to look. But you know what I remember thinking after we heard about the Finches? Where’s the megachurch to Mother Nature? Every inch of this land is at her mercy. Every life. Every dollar earned and spent. Always has been, always will be.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help. I didn’t know how bad it was.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to know. But it’s alright.” Olive offered her son a warm smile. “We did just fine, and that’s much more than can be said about some of our neighbors and many others we don’t even know.” She reversed her page-turning, in case she missed something.“Maybe folks have been prayin’ to the wrong god, is all I’m sayin’.” 

They sat in silence, which was filled with the sounds of birds and bugs, the call and response of the summer cicadas, and the Mississippi River breeze passing through the trees. For them, that was silence—when no manmade sound disrupted nature’s constant commotion. After a while, something began to emerge from the backyard. 

My love’s a lightnin’ strike,

Mmm… Like a fallin’ tree.

Oh, mmm, hmmm…

give you misery.”

There are areas of the Deep South that see rain nearly every day. Whether a light sprinkle or a downpour, it never lasts too long, and in almost every case, the moisture is reabsorbed into the air so quickly that it’s easily forgotten. Occasionally, a considerable storm passes through, and on rare occasions, the storm is deadly. Lifelong residents know these are part of a natural cycle and the price to pay for making the land their home, neither of which should be taken for granted. The worst storms announce themselves with clouds the color and shape of fear and frequent lightning as stinging as any camera flash. Things are blown around—things that aren’t supposed to move in the wind. The storm does its job easily, whether washing out a ball game or halting a family line. The water deceives as it collects. Smooth and silent one moment, raging and rising the next, it saturates mile after mile until there is nothing to do but watch the deluge and wait. Eventually, the land reappears, bringing mold, rot, and sewage. Those affected must forge through like settlers in unexplored territory, clearing away the broken trees and refuse and driving back the rats and the snakes until they can reclaim their place. The price to pay. 

After severe storms, weary friends and neighbors may leave for a different life, voluntarily or otherwise, but far more remain, their roots too deep to be weakened by water. Even their souls will linger to haunt the land long after their bodies have given out, but until then, they rebuild. Some do so at great speed, eager to move on while forgetting the lessons of the sky. What is raised quickly is quickly razed, and the only way to withstand the future is to return stronger than the past. 

The plump church ladies who hosted the gathering were delighted to meet Olive’s son and granddaughter. Dressed in their floral and pastel Sunday best, they buzzed around like a cluster of insects, constantly crossing paths but never colliding, while laying out an impressive spread of drinks, salads, and jello molds. They had many questions, yet none would slow down long enough to fully hear the answers given. When asked what he was up to, Adam amused himself by thinking he would offer brutal honesty, sharing that since leaving home, he had gone to college and was married to an addict who had run off and left him alone with a daughter and a penchant for pharmaceuticals. Though the ladies might not pay much attention to his response, he opted to keep it vague.

“Busy, busy, you know. Since I finished school, I’ve been working hard,” Adam told the nodding heads before employing a fail-safe diversion. “And you know this little one keeps me going constantly.” 

The ladies turned their attention to the little girl, remarking how pretty she looked and asking if she was enjoying her visit. Adam had successfully used his daughter to divert the nosy gaggle’s inquiries.

He watched April that day with relief as she was finally able to be a child. She had never been happier, running and laughing, playing games, and enjoying the day without a care beyond her melting ice cream.  His parents were trying to make up for the time they had missed with their granddaughter in previous years, which was reassuring; he knew they would always have a place for her.

Later in the day, Zeke approached with a chubby friend in tow. 

“Pastor here says he knows a man who can maybe set you up with somethin’ on his farm. And some odd jobs need to get done here in the church.”

Zeke had decided to resolve his son’s problems and was recruiting others to join his cause. Adam chuckled in disbelief. It was not the help he wanted. Aside from his chemical crisis, his father knew nothing of his abilities or limitations. The man who had ordered him to pick himself up countless times was now ready to drop him into a rice field or crawfish farm, and assign any number of church repairs with none of the requisite skills. Making the offer at a crowded picnic was clever; he would be forced to say thank you and accept. Instead, Adam did the unexpected.

“Well, I appreciate that, Pastor. I don’t know what my father told you, but he is mistaken in what he thinks I need. But thank you. I do appreciate it.” 

The pastor shrugged off the response without concern and happily walked away while Zeke stood seething at his son’s response. The two exchanged no words through the remainder of the day.

Adam trembled as he waited for his evening pill to take effect and again could hear his parents’ voices through the wall.

“Won’t be too long, and we’ll have to start thinkin’ ’bout passin’ this place on to him,” Olive said in a steady voice. “Before we’re gone. Like it was to you.”

“This is not the time for that. I offered him help like you wanted. You saw what he did. Now you want me to give him my land? No. I need to see him earn it.”

“You didn’t offer him help, Zeke. You tried to solve the problem for him. You don’t see it, do you? I don’t know why, but for some reason, you never really listened to your son when it mattered.”

“Yes, well, that’s not true. I don’t know why you want to give the boy everything. When he realizes no one will take care of him, he’ll pick himself up. That’s what a man does. That’s what I’ve always raised him to do. That little girl will be there every day, reminding him what he’s working for, and that will keep him on track. If it doesn’t, he’s no son of mine.”

In the next room, Adam rose and quietly dressed, the anger and hopelessness gathering in his chest. He collected a few things and stopped to make a large withdrawal from the bathroom cabinet before escaping into the hot, wet air. 

“Ezekiel, enough.” Olive wore a face Zeke wasn’t sure he had ever seen. She pointed to the bed. “Sit.”

Zeke couldn’t respond. She wasn’t arguing, but her voice was as stern as it could get. Before she uttered another word, he knew he would be overruled.

“Our son will stay,” she continued. “Our granddaughter will stay. We will help them find some peace. Help. That’s what their hearts need. A month or forever, they’ll be welcome, and you’ll let go of this need to make your son strong by throwin’ him in the water so he teaches himself to swim. You never had to deal with problems like his. His life fell apart, and he’s tryin’ to collect the pieces as best he can. No better place than home to do that, I say. This home, this land. I worked just as hard as you to save it for this very reason. It’s why you did it, too, though you won’t let yourself see it. It’s what a home is for. And that’s why we’re done talkin’ about it.”

After a moment of silence, Olive continued to prepare for bed, while Zeke sat quietly. He hung his shaking head and faintly chuckled.

Not long after midnight, Adam found himself driving the deserted roads, guided by a single working headlight. The car rattled a reminder of its fragility, which he ignored, wondering if he was lost. He once knew every mile and turn, but now, beneath a cast-iron black sky, nothing he saw resonated in his memory. 

This is not my life. 

He could return. They would all be asleep, and if he woke them, he would say he just needed to go for a drive to clear his head. That wouldn’t set off any alarms or trigger conversations he wasn’t prepared to have. He could return, but what then?

This is my life.

However unfocused, he managed to keep the car on the wet, unpaved road. All he could see were the choices he should have made. With his mind racing and his hands wringing the wheel, Adam could feel and practically hear the beating of his own heart. He became preoccupied with its rhythm, the beat slowly accelerating while growing louder and louder in his ears. He took two of the many loose pills from his shirt pocket and fought with his dry mouth to swallow.

He had traveled similar back roads in his youth, where he was a reluctant participant in much teenage mischief, escaping the town and, on more than one occasion, the law. He searched for the lights of a residence or business but found nothing. His anxiety grew as the dark, empty roads revived a forgotten childhood fear of the unseeable, of not knowing what was concealed by the night.

The South is a haunted place, his father always said. There are too many sins in its past, too much pain and suffering. Adam could feel the air getting heavier, weighted with old ghosts, perhaps trapped souls desperate for release or defiant ones who remain despite what man constructs or Mother Nature destroys. He was alone, cutting through the dark stillness on a dirt road near the swampland’s dense, undisturbed growth. The tupelo and cypress, dripping with moss and beautiful in the sunlight, became a horror show in darkness where the absolute unknown was no more than an arm’s length away. This was a place where things could easily be hidden and just as easily become lost. His body jolted with every insect that smacked into the windshield. Croaks from the bayou became screams. Terrified, he found more pills to settle his nerves.

As the chemicals in his system began to activate, the shadowed sights and night sounds drew him in, but now offered comfort. His heart was calm and steady again, freeing his chest to capture the moisture-heavy air. Driving over the gravel faster and faster, he felt a new sense of belonging. There was nowhere else to go. There was no one else to become. But he wasn’t afraid, not anymore. Not of the bayou, not of the darkness, and not of the old southern ghosts and their distant voices calling to him again and again. He wasn’t afraid. Adam had plenty to hide and many reasons to get lost, but no fear. No longer.