BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 17)

Chapter 8: Philip


Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.

Luke 6:21

My father always takes his time—and this time is no different. I hear the long, drawn out creak of his chair as he rises to greet me. He comes down the hallway, his legs swishing together as if taking an afternoon stroll. But his face is different; it reaches me before the rest of him, his eyes urgent. Although like my mother’s, they’re a much brighter shade of blue. His hands flip about nervously in his deep, cluttered pockets as he speaks. “Matt Adler called and said you’ve been harassin’ him. He’s pretty upset.” Coins clank against coins. My head still hurt. “I thought y’all broke up a long time ago.” Gunshots and screams blare from the TV.
     “So?” I ask not knowing what to say.  I look down but I can still see him, standing there, staring.
     “So ...” his head shakes in confusion, “he said you tore up one of his books.” His face softens. “That’s not the Peyton I know. The Peyton I know loves books and would never think of doin’ that. Does your mother know about any of this?”
     “I don’t wanna talk about it.” I turn to go upstairs but he grabs my arm. He holds my thin elbow for a moment but lets me go.  He shoves his hand back into his pocket. “I tried to tell her,” I blurt out. “I’ve tried to tell her a lot of thangs. It always seems like she’s listenin’, but then I realize she didn’t hear me at all. She lives in a different world. She pretends to hear but she never does.”
     “I know,” he says, coins jingling. “But we always thought you were out runnin’ around with friends. I never realized you were out by yourself.” The hallway walls creep closer as the afternoon shadows suck the light from the house.
     “What do you mean?” I ask.
     “He said you’ve been followin’ him. Goin’ from bar to bar when he’s out runnin’ around with his friends.” He pauses and looks down. “Are you havin’ some kind of problem?”he asks without looking at my desolate face.
     “I don’t have any friends to meet at those places and I don’t care.” There are girls I could call, girls I’ve met at school, but I don’t have the guts. I can’t afford to let anyone look at my life up close. They’re all living normal lives, sailing their pretty boats around while something in me, the thing that makes me different, pushes me farther and farther beneath them. Once upon a time, it was just a missing component, but now it’s a spirit, growing unchecked. My mother is right. There’s a demon, but I’m not sure if it entered uninvited or if it’s my own soul, finally emerging.
     “A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be out alone. It’s dangerous.” His hands fly from his pockets causing the coins to splatter onto the floor. We watch them bounce and twirl until they all rest peacefully at our feet. “You gonna help?” he asks, bending down to collect them.
     I watch him crawl across the floor, searching for what he lost. “I just wanna be left alone,” I say.
     “Just let me get these,” he mumbles to himself.
     “Yeah, maybe we’ll talk later,” I whisper and turn to go. When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear the high-pitched creak as he sinks back into his comfortable chair.
     Once in my room, I rip open my louvered closet doors. My hands fall from the knobs as I stare into what seems a deep hole in the wall of my bright blue room. I jerk paperback books from the shelves my father built and toss them, one by one, into the center of my room. They're a part of me and I hate them for it. I fantasize that I’ll set them on fire. I’ll stand close to the flames until my flesh begins to burn. In the end, they’ll find my charred body between the simmering pages. My arms ache as I reach for the hardbound books on the highest shelf. I pull each book to the edge with the tips of my fingers. Then I let them fall toward my feet and ankles. The pages shuffle violently on their descent. The hard covers cut into my bare feet; some hit my head on their way down.
     Finally, when I stand with my feet buried in the paper mountain I’ve created, one book remains. The paint crackles as I pry the little blue Bible from the shelf. On its cover, Jesus sits with arms extended toward a group of children.
     I pull my feet from the pile of books and sit down at the school desk in the corner of my room. I wonder why it’s still there. It was perfect for a ten-year-old. I press the little Bible open on the desk and let my eyes fall indiscriminately upon verse after verse, hoping God will lead me to the right words. But nothing makes sense. The arms of Jesus are extended and I’m trying to go there, but it isn’t as easy as it used to be. I’m not ten anymore. My head sinks down onto the small desk.
     I go to my window. The Crepe Myrtle is barren, allowing me to see the ruddy-haired dog lying peacefully in his cage. It’s too early for leaves, but the delicate buds that should have emerged are missing; it looks sick. The branches scratch at my window. I wish I could touch the tree, that its spindly arms could surround me. That stiff hug seems the only kind I deserve. I want to open the window but can’t. I’ve always known that I’d have to smash it open in case of emergency. It’s permanently closed; my parents bought a home with windows that don’t open.
     Hearing the shower in their bedroom, I realize my father is taking his usual early evening shower. I creep into their room and take my mother’s sleeping pills from the bedside table. I go to my bathroom and stare into the cracked mirror.
     Nothing ever changes.
     Twenty-five tiny pills can change everything.
     There are no tears. I gave them all to Matt and he washed them down his filthy drain. I know that I feel real love for him but I grieve for my inability to love him. I know I should focus on something positive but knowing doesn’t make it possible. Each sad moment, each depressed relative, each scary word, and each Thanksgiving dinner when my extended family sat around the table discussing their miserable lives presses into me like giant balloons; I can’t see between them. They stick to my sweaty face and irritate my skin with their static. My face itches, but no matter how hard I scratch, I can’t make the feelings go away. I give up and methodically deliver the pills, one by one, to my mouth. I try to watch myself swallow but my view is distorted. All I can see is the grotesque underside of my peachy skin, my gray-blue eyes, and thick hair. A monster stares at me, snarling. Matt saw the monster and I was been dumb enough to believe that he loved it.
     My father’s shower ends and I walk out. I kept moving until I find myself in our small back yard. Peering over the stucco fence, I decide that the coast is clear. I climb over. The ruddy-haired dog watches but doesn’t move as I approach his kennel. I unhook the latch and open his prison door.
     “Come on, boy. Come on out,” I call sweetly but he remains on the ground. I go in and nudge him with my foot. “Get up. You’re free.” Still nothing. I walk in circles around the lethargic animal. He doesn’t turn his head to follow me, but as I come into view, his eyes lock onto me. “What’s wrong with you?” My arms and legs feel heavy. “Go! Run!”
     He stares with blank eyes.
     I can’t comprehend his choice. I’m offering freedom but he refuses to accept it. “You stupid dog.” I raise my leg to kick him, but instead I fall backwards into the grass. The big dog merely whimpers, shifts a bit, and then settles back into the comfortable groove he’s created. We lay in the dirt staring at each other. “I’m not like you,” I cry. “I wouldn’t have kicked you. I swear.” His sad eyes are dying to believe. “I love you.”
     Pulling myself up, I struggle back over the fence. The stucco scrapes my arm as I fall to the other side. A trickle of blood runs down between my fingers. I lick my hand while my sleeve soaks up the rest. The pain of falling and the taste of blood are dull. My flickering eyes fall like bowling balls toward the ground. My mind becomes a demoted officer who can only sit at a desk and shuffle paper. And while it seems to shuffle efficiently, my body begins to follow an unknown master toward a place that frightens me. I trudge back into the house.
     Finding my father in his chair, I plop into his lap—something I haven’t done in years. “Where’s Mom?” I ask, words slurring.
     “She’s at the church.” He places his glasses on his nose, raises his chin, and studies each of my features as if seeing me for the very first time. My eyelids rise and fall like heavy basement doors. I take deep, slow breaths. My bottom lip hangs down, too heavy to lift. “Peyton, somethin’s really wrong with you.”
     I collapse in his arms, thankful that he finally sees the truth. “Daddy, do you love me?” I ask. He holds me close and strokes my hair. I whisper in his ear, “I took some pills.”
     He springs up, practically throwing me to the floor. “What did you take?” he asks with uncharacteristic authority. It makes me feel safe; I want to be saved. He bends down and holds my face in his hands. “Peyton, listen to me. What did you take?” I whisper the answer and he runs upstairs to get the bottle. Moments later he’s back, dragging me across the rough carpet toward the bathroom. “Make yourself throw up!”
     “I cain’t,” I whine.
     He shoves my heavy head into the toilet. “Stick your finger down your throat. Now!” He goes back to the living room and calls the Poison Control Center. I watch him through the open bathroom door as I try to stick my finger toward the back of my throat. The shock of his authority keeps my eyes half open. My finger brushes against the spot I’m searching for and I gag. The contents of my stomach splash into the toilet. Amidst the slimy mess, I see several half-digested pills.
     My father carries me from the house and puts me into the back seat of his car. “They said you cain’t go to sleep. Keep your eyes open, Peyton. Wide.” He runs red lights and drives over the speed limit. “I’m gonna talk to you and I want you to answer me. Do you hear me back there?” I slide back and forth across the slippery vinyl seat as he speeds toward the hospital. He continues to speak but I’m not sure if I’m answering. I try to decide if I should just close my eyes and fall away, or if I should continue to force them open.
     The demons my mother deposited into my head when she tried so desperately to call them out rejoice.
     I can hear Dr. Piner lecturing on near-death experiences. He’s speaking about those long tunnels of light. I wonder if Anne saw one. I wonder what I’ll see if I close my eyes. I cry for Anne because she didn’t want to go. Maybe she was taken, kicking and screaming into that long, bright tunnel. My father chatters on and on trying to keep me awake. His voice breaks into a million pieces and I know then that he loves me.


They dump my lethargic body into a wheel chair and shove it toward the large, sliding doors of the emergency room. People swarm around me like church greeters, eager to save my life. A voice says I’ll feel a pinch just before the IV needle enters my forearm.
     “How old are you, Honey?”
     “You got any hobbies?”
     Silence.
     “Don’t you go to sleep, girl.” Someone taps me on the head. “We’ve got to keep you awake, okay? Just try and answer the questions.”
     “What school do you go to?”
     Matt is my hobby, my education, my age, so I don’t answer.
     A nurse forces a drink under my nose. Her chunky gold rings flash, blinding me more than the fluorescent lights and the lab coats, sheets, walls, everything white. My eyes slam shut, sorry that my plan hasn’t worked. The nurse’s patronizing voice rings out above the others. “Honey, your daddy said he’s not sure how many pills you took, so the first thang we’re gonna do is let you drink this syrup.” Her big head shakes up and down as she speaks. “It’s gonna make you throw up,” she continues, “but in the end it’ll make you feel a hundred times better. She pries my left eye open with her fat finger. Its girth reminds me of being full and satisfied and I hate it. I’m skinny.
     But I nod and drank from the small cup.
     “I’m gonna get you a nice, big bowl. I know this ain’t pleasant but it’s what you have to do when you go takin’ pills like that.” Her cheerful, high-pitched voice reminds me of my kindergarten teacher. She brings me a gigantic silver bowl and helps me sit up. Another person sticks a needle in my arm; I watch my blood drain into the clear syringe while I wait to vomit. The bigheaded nurse rubs my shoulder until it burns.
     It strikes me as sad how adults always think they’re helping when they give you the wrong thing, something you don’t really need and never asked for.
     Sometime during the vomiting, my mother and grandparents fill the doorway. The doctor stands just outside. As I watch them talk about me, my vomit spills into the bowl and splashes back into my face. The smell fills my nose, runs through my body, and empties out again into the bowl.
     When the doctor finally comes in, he sits and grins.
     I struggle to smile back; I was taught to be polite.
     “Peyton,” he says, “I’m gonna ask that you drink ac-ti-va-ted charcoal. It’ll bind up what’s left inside you so you’ll be okay. Do you understand?”
     I nod, hugging the silver bowl, staring past him at my parents.
     “It’s gonna be the worst thang you’ll ever taste, kind of thick and sandy, but you have to drink every drop. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna have to put a big tube down your throat and pump out your stomach.” He rubs my leg and then pries the bowl away from me. “You don’t want me to have to do that, now do you?”
     I nod again, wondering why they’re all talking to me as if I’m ten.
     The thick, lukewarm charcoal sticks to my tongue like tar. The muscles in my throat struggle to swallow the thick blob. “That’s a good girl.” I want to vomit again but my stomach aches. The charcoal finally makes its way inside me, a huge mudslide coating me black. The big, silver bowl filled with my vomit sits on the counter next to the door, just beyond my mother’s pinched face.

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BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.