Black Dove

one

gone

I run my fingers through the sand, the tiny black specks tickling my bare chest. My body is roaring with delicious anticipation, so much that I fear I may explode from desire alone.

In an attempt to tame my mind, I am forced to close my eyes to the startling gray skies. It is no use, though. I feel him there all the same. Even with him having not even touched me yet.

Ellie.

His voice seemingly runs through me—a fountain thoroughly contained for centuries too long. I reopen my eyes just as it pushes through the gates, releasing a flood as pure as the steel blue waters—that which is the most vivid thing on this island. Besides the waves and the black sand, there is nothing but the fog perpetually holding my vision hostage.

I shiver as he runs a finger down my back’s middle.

Are you ready?

I lean up on my elbows in preparation to turn when he lays a hand on my shoulder, his chest grazing across my bare back.

Not yet, he breathes, allowing his lips to skim over my ear.

The anticipation is killing me and my stomach muscles clench as I restrain the need to turn around and just wrap my arms around him already. And I soon regret not doing just that when he begins to brush his lips gently down the center of my back—a trail of unspoken promises, leaving an overwhelming desire for fulfillment in each kiss’s wake.

I know I’ve never told you, but—he pauses between kisses—I don’t think I can ever deal without you. He leans down and kisses me behind my ear. You understand what I mean?

I shake my head. It is all I can do as I try to still my overly responsive body.

He sighs and then pulls back.

‘I miss you,’ I hear his voice ring out all throughout my being, though he is standing silently behind me.

After a few minutes of me continuing to lie still, with my eyes closed, just savoring the moment, he starts again. Ellie.

Hmm?

I, he coughs, his voice suddenly sounding hoarse. I …

The unmistakable, unnaturally loud sounds of a rooster crowing penetrates my ears, causing my eyes to shoot open and me to hurriedly scramble onto my back.

I throw my hand over my mouth and am momentarily shocked immobile as a rather large bird steps forth out of the fog and cocks its head to the side.

A six-foot tall, colossal ass rooster.

I hurriedly try to push myself up, but find my butt somehow glued to the ground.

Literally.

I can’t seem to free myself from my position as the thing slowly advances. I try to kick myself up, grabbing and pulling at my butt the whole while, but whatever it is that has me mended to the ground refuses to budge.

The animal is right upon me now. I consider just lying down and accepting my fate, when the thing begins to extend both wings.

Fuck this! I yelp into a scream as I begin kicking and punching with everything I’ve got. But when my fist connects with the creature’s beak with incredible force, a new shriek ignites deep from within me …

Slowly adjusting to my surroundings, I blink twice before quickly looking side to side. I peer over the side of the bed to see the contents from the nightstand, including the broken alarm clock, all strewn on the floor.

The pain in my right hand begins throbbing anew. I study it, and imagine it would be beginning to bruise if I were a couple of shades lighter. It hurts like a bitch, but I’ll deal.

I sink back into the pillow.

Whelp, at least that’s better than normal.

It is a friendly reminder, but still I press not to let my thoughts go there.

I eye the locked door as I remember the times when everyone in the house would come running to beat it down. They’ve since learned to leave me alone to deal with my inner-demons.

Rays of sunlight are peeking through the cracks of the plum colored drapes and I know it has to be, like, ten or eleven.

Just lie here, Ellie. You ain’t got no job and you ain’t got shit to do.

I snort at that. Ice Cube was dead on the money. But, alas, I do have something to get done and over with today. Another session. I tame the normally dormant dread that is trying hard to rise up within me. It’ll be a piece of cake.

Sighing, I sit up and push myself off the side of the bed. The cries of a small child coming from somewhere in the house briefly disturbs my focus, but I carry on by popping in my earbuds and plug into my iPhone. I gather up some cargoes and a tee-shirt, along with my bag of personals and slowly head out of the room.

Sneakily, I hurry down the hall to the bathroom, looking from side to side as if I’m crossing the street all along the way.

I let out a sigh of relief once I’m in and lock the door behind me. I make quick work of stripping out of my clothes. When I catch sight of the mirror showing off the ugly scar marring my bikini line, I try hard not to cringe and step into the tub.

The warm water pounding mercilessly from the shower head seems to be heaven sent.

Maybe if you spent less time ducking and dodging, you’d enjoy it more often.

It is true that I do spend the majority of my time avoiding all living creatures, and especially the residents of this house. Still, I’d choose that over accidentally running into someone and seeing the wretched pity in their eyes for the lack of … well … anything in mine. Or worse, seeing the one face that may well ruin my icy exterior. And after last year, I can do without another carefully constructed built wall ever being beaten down again. I was and am fine the way I’ve always been.

Alone.

And even as the word resonates throughout my entire being—the song of my life—it doesn’t settle in, the chord mistaken. I can’t think on that, though, and instead focus on how much time I have left before the household begins to wake.

I hurriedly shut off the water, blot myself dry, and throw on my clothes. When I gently crack the door and slide out into the hallway, I am already regretting my choice to not properly dry myself. Whomever chooses to keep the air on blast and therefore leaving the rest of us continually grabbing for our sweaters.

And therefore also leaving my dumb ass freezing in damp clothes.

I quickly glide my way toward the room, my body practically pressed against the wall along the way.

The sudden thump of something hitting the floor in the office down the hall in the opposite direction jolts me a bit, and I find myself hastily pushing open my door and slamming it shut.

I sigh as I lock it, the clicking sound of the bolt a joy to my ears.

Well, at least I made it …

You have a missed call.

I whip my body around to find Yael sitting on my bed, facing the opposite direction, her arm stretched out, waving my fragile iPhone 4s in a less than firm grip.

I can’t keep the grimace off of my face as I march over and swipe my phone out of the nine-year-old’s hand.

The girl only slightly glances up at me, appearing disinterested, but I know better. I am more than sure her heart is leaping with joy for having breached my early morning security barrier and sneaking in here.

Yael isn’t really annoying in the traditional sense. It’s more like the girl has taken an odd liking and desire to be close to me, even with my body language raging to be left alone. It’s probably a given seeing how her older sister, Elizabeth, is seldom around due to college, and I’m the next youngest female here. It is because of this that my face transforms into that of placidity and I try to keep my tone calm.

What have I told you about coming into my—this room? I sigh.

She pauses a moment and then smiles up at me sweetly. "Hasn’t Pastor asked you to eat breakfast with us?"

Such a smartass. I frown and then look her over. She is dressed a little ornately, her hair in an intricate braid with all of her ends tucked in, forming a halo-like design.

Really?

What? I snort.

You don’t even know it’s the fourth, do you? Yael smiles creepily, examining me like I’m some kind of whacked out science experiment.

Suddenly uncomfortable by what may be trailing through the girl’s thoughts, I find myself involuntarily backing up and then walking over to the window. I peer out at the backyard. There’s no way I’m leaving this room. And if the girl even thinks about pushing for it, this will be the last time she is even partially invited in.

I continue to stare out at the gazebo in the backyard. It appears to be someone sitting inside the roof. The open-floor rooftop is above my window—only a couple of feet from being level with the top of the house. I am about certain of who is up there and, to avoid an undesired sight, I turn to see Yael examining my flower shaped perfume bottle.

Dad—Pastor, I mean—she clears her throat which briefly makes me wonder yet again why his children are so formal when they speak of their father—is thinking of heading us off to Indy.

A fleeting memory of Mom, Grandma-ma, and I in Belize distracts me from responding. It was shortly after Mom’s wedding—the radiance on everyone’s faces from the anticipation of a beautiful and blessed future even hard for me to capture on mere paper. The paling background of my seven-year-old self with the beautiful images surrounding and the zoomed in, nearly identical, beaming smiles of joy on my mom and grandmother’s faces will forever be etched in my mind. A time when worries were little and Independence Day was looked forward to. A time before all else went to hell and the two distanced forever until the elder’s death.

And so the cycle repeats.

Have fun, I mumble.

We’re about to go get the firecrackers and food. The nine-year-old sprays the perfume and wafts. They need you to keep the baby, she murmurs absently as she makes a face at the smell.

I tense up at that, now suddenly feeling the light throb in my left temple from my abnormal morning wake-up spreading into a full blown headache.

I can’t—

Mama says that if you can’t watch her while they go to the store, they’ll need you to watch her if we go to Indy.

Shit. I breathe out slowly as the nails of disruption slowly pierce into the Leave Me The Fuck Alone space of my mind.

They always do this shit. And by they I mean Patience. I’ve still yet to figure out what the hell is up with the woman. She’s even more nagging than Pastor and he is my authorized therapist. But given the position I’ve put them both in, I can’t object and so I silently fester as Yael replaces the glass flower back on the dresser and then, as if summoned, abruptly turns back to look at me.

I sigh then at the sadness in her dark eyes, betraying her otherwise rigid features. She reminds me a lot of myself in a way. Except her cynical-like demeanor seems to be natural rather than brought on by thorns of darkness.

Mama is probably going to start looking for me, she says quietly, heading off to the door. I’ll see you later.

No sooner than the girl’s feet plant on the other side of the room, am I already locking the door behind her. I can’t deal with Patience right now. And I already later have to deal with—

Just one intrusion at a time.

I take a moment to look around—something I often find myself doing even though I know I’m alone—and then stroll over to the window and close the blinds.

I walk back over to the all-in-one computer and wake it. As soon as it’s up, I click on the movie player and wait for it to load. I don’t know why I keep doing this, but ever since I first saw it, I can’t seem to go more than a few days without privately watching it.

I click on the saved news clip I’d stumbled upon while browsing the net a few months ago. A glaring image of mom comes on the screen. She’s decked out in one of her finest black, business suits—a Dolce & Gabbana. Her hair is pinned up into a rather elegant chiffon, causing her to look more like her older sister, Mia, than her usual fashionista self.

Having been spotted leaving an unknown, amazingly luxurious penthouse (that later was reported to have been listed in her name for over a year), someone tipped her whereabouts off to one of the local news stations, who caught up with her at a nearby Starbucks.

Naturally when Sandra—seated with a young, familiar looking, caucasian man—saw the newscaster, she and her friend left, opting to sit inside. They stayed in the coffeeshop for several minutes before Sandra exited the entrance alone, her overly large shades aiding her poker face.

Bombarded by a series of questions—everything from why she was in Florida while her daughter was laid up in an Indiana hospital, to whether or not her new date knew about her pending divorce—Sandra kept it cool, not breaking stride to her car. That is until one reporter asked her if it was true that she’d allowed me to be raped.

How dare you! Sandra spat—literally—at the reporter before snatching off her glasses to reveal swollen, red and puffy eyes. That is my kid. Mine! I had her. She threw her hand over her mouth then—emotion distorting her features—before snatching open the door to the car and speeding off.

It is a lot different from her initial airing, where she mumbled, robotically, everything Jimmy’s sister had stated in a separate interview. That it is tragic that something like this has happened. That she had no idea that her husband was capable of hurting me. That this was the first time she’d ever known of something like this to happen.

The first time anyone decided to walk in … My mind goes into overdrive then.

The blood.

The lights.

The blur of angry faces.

The cameras.

The hate mail.

Pastor.

If the man hadn’t come in, neither me or Hope would be here today. And for that, I’m still unsure as to whether to be grateful or hate him above all.

A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I quickly release the mouse that I’ve nearly disintegrated with my hand, and turn off the monitor.

You can come out, Yael calls from behind the door.

I open the door to find the girl holding Hope out to me in arms outstretched. I instantly avert my gaze, just as the at-first cheerful baby recoils—probably having recognized whose door she was brought to.

Not here, I say quietly.

Irritation slightly mars the girl’s features, but she doesn’t say anything and instead cradles the baby close and walks off. I disregard the empty stare of the infant and focus my attention straight ahead, above her, as I follow behind Yael.

When we get to the den that Pastor and Patience had renovated into a nursery especially for Hope two months back, I further retreat into myself.

Beautiful that it is, the stark white room with its pink accents and large pink area rug is my least favorite place in the house. Everything from the glider to the large photo of Hope beneath the letters of her name give me the heebie-geebies. But still I have to stomach it. No matter how much I hate this place, having Hope in my—Daniel’s room would bring about a slow deterioration to whatever shred of mental stability I still hold.

Yael reaches out to give me the baby, but then quickly changes gears and places her in her swing. Minus one, no one has ever actually seen me hold Hope, and therefore assume that I won’t. It is true that I only touch her as needed, but if they believe I don’t touch her, better for them to stop sticking me with her to try to get us to bond. After all, I only even do this for the person I owe our lives to.

Okay, well … Yael begins as she starts walking off, her steps a bit rigid. Take care of her, she says quietly.

I watch after her until I hear the front door close. The girl’s concern doesn’t exactly offend me, though I am the baby’s moth—the one who gave birth to Hope. No doubt, the situation is fucked up for everyone involved. I sometimes wonder if my phone hadn’t accidentally dialed Daniel and Jeremiah’s dad that night, and me and Hope had died, if everyone around would be more at peace. If Pastor hadn’t acted immediately, startled Jimmy with a gunshot to the ceiling, and pulled him off of me. If he hadn’t heard every word of my impending death …

I carefully avoid the glider and sit on the crisp-white love seat instead. I’ve never once sat on the rocker. Thinking on how well Patience takes to the thing, I sneer.

It isn’t that Patience and I don’t get along. The only people I share more than a full sentence with are Pastor, as required, and Yael due to her incessant bothering. It’s just that Patience, seemingly an advocate for children stuck in limbo, wants the best for Hope—which apparently isn’t me.

If you’d just sign the papers already. It’s not as if—

The coos of Hope distract me from my reverie. When I catch her eye, she just looks at me curiously—not unlike everyone else in this house.  I try not to frown as I stare back at her. For a baby she’s very perceptive—sensitive to the moods of those surrounding her, Pastor says.

Watching her is weird and always gives me the creeps. Except for the black springy curls, she doesn’t particularly look like me (nor The Evil One, thankfully). She just looks … like her. She’s only a little darker than Mom’s orange-like complexion and slightly favors Desmond when she smiles. When we are here like this alone, my mind almost always ends up traveling to a place I hope one day will be wiped clean from my psyche.

It’s funny how I remember nothing from after Pastor pulled Jimmy off of me that horrible night, but everything after waking to find Hope no longer inside of me—the sheer anxiety of it all that led to a full-blown panic attack and hyperventilation. The river of tears that I’d let her die, only for Hope to be brought in later. And then the new river of tears as the last six years came rushing back. Me vomiting. Them taking her out.

Hope frowns, her lip poking out as if ready to bawl at any moment. I give her a reassuring smile then. Well … maybe not quite reassuring. But a smile that at least lets her know that I’m not a danger. It seems to work, as the baby relaxes, her face going back to normal. Well, her norm for me, anyway. Curiosity and discomfort seems to be her natural way when I’m around. Not at all when I accidentally catch glimpses of her with others. It could be just that we’re not all that familiar with one another, I guess.

Usually, when that fateful night begins to replay in my mind, I oftentimes find myself going into Hope’s drawer and pulling out her birth certificate, wondering if this is really the Hope I carried—the normally bouncing baby girl that sits here strangely watching me. It is exactly like I sometimes do with my own birth certificate, wondering about my so-called mother. It’s just that Hope and I don’t resemble in the least and when I woke up I was no longer pregnant.

Yeah, that is the reason I look over it so often, and not at all the glaring Danniyel Achim Jennings in the place where the father’s name would go. I close my eyes.

Another blank spot. After my panic attack in search for Hope, they’d sedated me so much that the only thing I remember is Daniel gently rubbing my forehead and uttering the word yes.

The last time I saw him.

Whimpers disturb my troublesome memory and I open my eyes to see the baby girl on the verge of a full blown wail. I’d been gripping her bear uncontrollably.

I slowly let go of the stuffed animal that I hardly remember picking up, and then put it in the swing with her. But still it serves to do nothing to calm the baby’s now crescendo of a cry.

Shhh. Quiet.

At the sound of my voice, she screams even more fiercely.

I hurry down the hall to my room and grab my CDs. My spawn or not, there is something about holding Hope that burns me to the core. After so many counseling sessions with Pastor, I am coming to learn that she is not at fault for how she was conceived. And that it’s also not her or my fault that I was the carrier. But nevertheless …

I rush back to the room and carefully avoid the swing with wailing child and head straight for the small pink and white radio. I pop open the CD player and gently place in Nicki Minaj’s Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded.

I turn it up, allowing it to drown out the baby’s cries. I then sit up erect on the couch, patiently waiting until the infant calms down.

About twenty minutes later, and after plenty of angry cries and death stares directed my way, Hope finally calms down and focuses on the toys built onto the tray of her swing.

Finally.

I slowly lie down then as to not catch her eye. Pulling one of the throw pillows over my face, I allow myself to zone out.

A hundred muthafuckas can’t tell me nothin’ … I sing along.

It has to be the realist thing I’ve ever heard at this moment. After all I’ve endured—lying on my back so that my baby brother can stay fortunate. So that Mom could stay in Dior. So that the family wouldn’t be shamed. After I carried a child I didn’t even want and almost died to get her here. I can’t see what anyone can ever tell me about what the hell I should and shouldn’t be doing.

I picture myself in Brazil or something shooting a video. And as I listen to Nicki, I’m further reminded of how different my life would be if I’d been born a fucking boy.

My conception really could’ve been the cure to all of this shit.

I nod my head. I’d spend a coupla thou just to—

The cease of the music interrupts my rapping along, and I slowly pull the pillow off of my face to see Pastor—his back to me as he faces the radio. He remains quiet as he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt.

Patience is in the entranceway, pink faced and frowning so hard I shrink.

Just a little.

She rushes over to Hope, who begins jumping and smiling when she notices the older woman, and sweeps the baby up into her arms in a close cradle.

I scowl at how she holds the child as if just having rescued her from some kind of danger. Inadequate that I may be at seventeen, I’m not a complete monster. And I’d never harm Hope.

I—

We won’t be going out of town, Patience says calmly. Yael will let you know when dinner is ready.

Pastor looks over his shoulder, back at his wife then. It gives me the distinct feeling that the decision to stay home was made just now. I fight the urge to scowl or look around for the time for that matter. It can’t be much later than ten-thirty.

I open my mouth then to speak my annoyance when Patience looks at me square on, both anger and sorrow clouding the strong determination in her eyes. I look away for a moment, and then take my leave.

Whether I be in the land of weeds or a field of ever-green grass, I will forever be the rough patch. And it is for that very reason, in the fucked-upness that is this world, that I’ve chosen to keep my fucked-upness to myself. That is the least I can do for contribution.

I swing open the door to Daniel’s room—my sanctuary, unbefitting that it is—and lock it behind me.

two

bon voyage

I stare straight ahead, past the older man I’m seated before, at the many awards and certificates lining the walls. Just as in times past, I’m not too thrilled about today’s counseling session. And it is especially annoying with the cloud of disappointment from my time with Hope still looming over me.

Really, it wasn’t as if I’d left the kid to watch herself.

How are you feeling? Pastor pens his signature to a document sitting on the desk separating us, and then looks up at me expectantly.

I open my mouth to speak, but then think better of it and decide to let my face do all of the talking.

The older man’s eyebrows raise a fraction, slight lines marring his forehead. Okay, he says simply, and then glances back at the document before him as if unfazed.

It is a damn good act, I’ll admit, as I take in his relaxed posture and the evenness of tone he always uses when I’m here. Still, I feel his displeasure of the person I’ve become even more than the rest. Perhaps it is because I will never forget the haunted look in his eyes in a reoccurring dream of the night he’d rescued me from Jimmy. Perhaps it is because he was the one to rescue me and, despite sharing few words, I somehow feel closer to him than anyone else in this house. Even still, nothing changes the fact that I hate sitting here like this, being dissected. Hell, for all I know, he can’t stand doing this either. It has to be mind boggling not being able to figure me out. Nevertheless, I haven’t much of a choice. That is, of course, unless I’m to possibly be in contempt of court.

With me having refused to speak to the authorities concerning anything that happened between me and Jimmy the night I almost lost Hope, or answer any questions regarding … well  … anything, I am required to speak with a psychologist to deal with my post-traumatic stress in hopes to get me to open up enough to testify.

Good luck with that. I inwardly frown.

I get enough threats via mail alone just from Pastor telling the police what he saw. Nevertheless, when Pastor asked Mom to let me live with him and his family for a while and I assented, when it was suggested that I speak with someone that will be outside of the home, I insisted that I will not sit in the same room with anyone other than him. And since he does hold his Masters in Psychology … well, here I am.

We know why Danniyel signed that birth certificate.

I go a bit stiff as I’m snapped out of my reverie by the sudden turn in conversation.

Pastor continues to casually view his document. He knows that’s what you would’ve wanted—no one to know what you’ve suffered. No one to know your pain. He knew that your pride wouldn’t stand the pity. Pastor pauses for a moment as he finally looks me in the eye. He also knew you’d be scared.

Now wait—

The older man puts up a hand. But it’s been four months. Now is the time—

I can’t, I say calmly, though I’m aching to scream.

Ellie, you cannot live like this forever.

I’m fine.

You’re not. And the baby—

She is fine.

Pastor frowns. You won’t even look at her, he says quietly and the hurt that seeps through into his voice slices me to the core. You don’t even know her, Ellie. I’m begging you—not Patience, but me—if you don’t want her, at least let us raise her as ours. I’m just asking for you to give her a chance. We love Hope and we just want what’s best for her.

I stare down at my faded cargoes as I pinch the skin on my fingers. What are you saying, Pastor? I ask quietly.

He doesn’t respond.

I just asked you … and her to give me time. My voice is hoarse. Am I not stepping back and allowing you to raise her?

Yes, he says slowly. But you were supposed to sign her over at her birth.

It’s just paperwork.

It is her life, he says more firmly.

You don’t trust me. I somewhat draw inward as the realization sets in.

Pastor sighs. Ellie, look at me.

I slowly look up at the man across from me. He looks a bit weary. His salt and pepper beard looks as if it’s missed a few trimmings and the bags beneath his eyes could probably hold a few things from the pantry. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Pastor has aged even just in the short time that I’ve been in this room.

He takes off his glasses. I didn’t call you in here to counsel you today. I called you in here as a father to a daughter. You say I don’t trust you. Ask yourself, have you given me any reason to? I mean, since you’ve been here. He blinks, his eyes staying closed a few seconds too long in between. Yet we love you still. He smiles then and I know it’s genuine. Still the corners of my mouth only barely tip upward.

Now down to business, he continues, his brows furrowing a bit. The real reason I called you in here is concerning your mother …

What? Ran off with Jake? I smirk as I finally realize who the white male—a guy Mom had had an affair with sometime last year—in the video is.

She’ll be here in just a bit.

Come again?

She’s moving out of the country …

The world seems to stop for a moment, with me blinking rapidly before finally finding my voice. Excuse me?

She’s planning to leave in a few days. I assume she’s coming over to—

Can I please … I begin, my voice suddenly even more raspy, my eyes shut tight. I clear my throat. Can I please be excused?

It is silent for a moment and I open my eyes to see Pastor studying me intently, not unlike someone else I know.

Don’t think too hard, Ellie. Pastor smiles and motions his assent for me to leave.

I grip the arms of the chair tightly as I stand, more to balance myself from