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That Way, Away
by Nina Ficenec I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, I was driving drunk with my three-year old daughter when the tornado picked us up on Hwy 370 towards Bellevue, Nebraska, and dropped us in some marsh at Little Black River just outside Savannah, Georgia. No, I wasn’t hanging out with a mystic beforehand or singing about rainbows. My daughter was a good toddler. I never had to worry about her picking things from the floor and putting them in her mouth, grabbing random objects off tables and shelves and qualifying their deconstruction. Rather, she would eye an object for some minutes and make silly noises, glance to me for approval. She looked like me, only better, which, at times, pleased me, and, at other times, made me resentful. Hence, sometimes I would let her have the object she desired. Sometimes I wouldn’t. Before the tornado swallowed us, we were on the subject of names. My daughter decided she didn’t like her name and wanted a new one. Penny. Grace. Sophie. Liz. Bobby. Porter. Charlie. We hadn’t decided on one by the time we came to in green and yellow and black reeds and water pruning my feet. The walk across Talmadge Bridge was unbearable. The heat was relentless, my chest felt like caving and I thought everything around us was sinking. My daughter, frightened, latched onto me, then, frustrated with our predicament, pushed me away. She mumbled incoherently and then kept saying she wanted to go back home. I finally became fed up and pointed away from the Atlantic and said, “Fine. Head that way and you’ll reach home.” I left her. She called me and I turned back. She pointed to the expanse of ocean and asked, “Where does that go?” “Away from home,” I said. “Can we touch it?” “Of course, sweetie.” “Not sweetie. I’m Hestia.” “Okay, Hestia.” Her face, my improved self, brightened. We ran towards one another, arms reached. I put her on my shoulders and trudged across the burning asphalt into the city. I found a job as a cleaning woman in a hotel overlooking the Savannah River. We lived in a studio apartment and Hestia, I would call her Tia, would accompany me to work every morning. We spent afternoons walking along the cobblestone Riverfront where Tia would discuss various conversations with ghosts she said lived at the hotel, all of which apparently disliked me. “Henry said you forget to dust.” “Diane said she saw you kick 302’s used condom under the bed.” “Lino said you stink of the alcohol you keep in the towels.” “Paulette said you’re a shit mother.” I snapped at her. “You don’t talk to me that way, Tia.” “It’s Hestia and that isn’t my name anymore.” “Okay. Then what the hell is it, now?” “Artemis.” She let her ice cream melt to a brown gloss before dropping it to the ground. I cleaned it up as best I could while she proudly watched the onlookers watching us. After this incident I quit drinking at work, only allowing myself a few cocktails in the evening after Artemis, I would call her Missy, was asleep in the middle of our bed. I watched her while she slept, wondering what dreams her unconscious may be conjuring. More ghost stories? The thought tied a bitter knot in my stomach that seemed to tug down on my throat while simultaneously yanking up on my cunt. The Riverfront was weighed by the swarm of tourists the city was receiving for a conference. Clusters of people took all the air in large swallows and I was scared that Missy was unable to breathe properly walking at my side. I lifted her up to my shoulders to tower over everyone. She hadn’t spoken of the ghosts recently. I had been more disciplined in my work, making sure every corner, every crevice was wiped clean of any past. I would picture some obscure form behind me in the rooms, noting with quick ghost-hand movements on a spiraled ghost-pad of paper how much I had improved before reporting back to my daughter. Missy lifted her right leg and slammed it hard against my right breast. I lost my breath momentarily, staggering against three men who quickly held me upright so my daughter wouldn’t fall. But then she kept kicking. She pulled my hair. She did this all without making a sound, with the utmost concentration. Two of the men grabbed her from my shoulders and set her down. The third man put his arm around me and asked if I was okay. I was suddenly very tired and jerked away from him rudely. I looked up to see Missy running away and immediately followed. When she glanced back and saw I was behind her she began weaving through the people as though she were trying to outrun an alligator. She stopped once she reached the railing that separated the Riverfront from the water. I had to choke my words out. “What are you doing, Missy?” She glared at me. It was like looking in a mirror, only different. She still looked better than me, and it was also apparent that she would grow to be more intelligent. I felt, at least, some relief. “You said I could touch the ocean.” “You can, Missy. Let’s go right now and we’ll play in the water.” Her hands were clenched white. “I don’t want to play. And my name isn’t Artemis. Or Missy.” With that, she quickly climbed on the railing and dived over the side. Some women screamed. About a dozen men jumped in. I ran to the railing and was held back, fingers sinking hard into my limbs. No one found her. When I went home late that evening she was sat in the middle of the bed, dry and comfortable. She never told me what happened, only that she decided on her name, and she wouldn’t tell me that, either, for a few more years. |
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