It was the night before the last Sunday of summer. The sun had all but gone from the sky, leaving town in a hurry. I’d gone to bed early that night, a low sinking feeling in the back of my teeth like the ones I’d get before watching a game our football team would eventually lose. Outside the windows I heard the coyotes start to sing, weaving their voices with the night birds high up in the trees. I could hear the TV on downstairs, drifting upstairs like muffled waves. I dreamt about Lyla running through the purple sky, hair streaming out behind her. I’d had this dream many times before, and each time I ran after her she’d be too fast, leaving me behind. But this time she turned around and stretched her arms wide out towards me. Her voice was slow, like she was talking through a wall, lagging in time.
“Swim, Wren! You have to swim!” she said, eyes wide as she pointed behind me. I turned as a wall of lake water rushed at me, pulling me under into the deep.
I woke up sweating, sheets a tangled mess beneath my back. The sky outside was turning blue, streaked up with gold like God spilled something across it. I could hear my heart banging so loud it sounded like it was coming from every direction. There was a wetness between my legs I could feel on the insides of my thighs. I yanked the sheets back and my hand came back red and sticky with blood. I yelled for my momma, convinced I was dying, organs bleeding out through my stomach. My heartbeat was so loud I held my head in my hands. Mom ran into my room. She saw the blood on my hands and collapsed on the ground, knees bending like she was about to pray.
“Jesus, forgive us,” she started to cry. I saw Daddy grab his gun from under the bed and stand at the top of the stairs. “Please forgive us.”
“They’re coming, Lorna, not a thing we can do.” He turned to look at me over his shoulder and something like the seven stages of grief passed over his face faster than I could keep up with. “Wren. I’m so sorry. We thought we could save you.”
The banging was now so loud it was shaking the walls, and as the front door was kicked in I realized it wasn’t my heart at all but the sounds of fists on the walls of our house.
Grandfather ran up the stairs followed by Granny who was clawing at his arms, wild, trying to hold him back. He pushed her aside. He looked down the barrel of my daddy’s gun and dad handed it over silently, turning away with his eyes closed as mom screamed at him. Mom jumped from the floor and stood in front of me like she was shielding me.
“Step aside, Lorna.” Mom shook her head. Grandfather stepped towards her, pointing the gun. “Don’t think I won’t. It’s the way things have always been, and the way they always must. Step aside!”
“Momma.” I stood, hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her aside to face my grandfather. This was the same man who taught me to drive, the man who gave me my first beer, the man who sat up with me all night during thunderstorms when I was little, sitting under the kitchen table with me as I cowered and telling me it was just God moving his furniture and there was nothing to be afraid of. The same man who was now pointing a gun towards the center of my chest. He was crying, I realized, which scared me even more. I’d never even heard of my Grandfather crying, not on his wedding day, not even when Lyla went away. He gritted his teeth and held out a hand towards me.
“You best come with me, Wren.” So I did.