Only Saints

« vi. »

"I've been meaning to talk to one of the girls in town anyway." Aunt Etta talks to fill the silence. It's me and her in the front seats of her tall rusted pickup truck, and the air blasting in my face smells like hot dust and summer. The sun beats down on us through the cracked glass of her windshield, heating the black dashboard and the old tan leather of the seats. "She's been having some trouble with one of her dogs, wanted me to take a look and make sure the poor thing's okay. I think she changed the food she's using recently. Hopefully it's just an upset stomach and nothing major, I..."

I curl my left hand into a loose fist. I can still feel the split in my skin; the cut is thankfully not as deep as I thought it was, initially, but it's still worrying that it's so long. I'll be going back to work with stitches in my palm, and no doubt my supervisor will use that as an excuse to send me home again.

I can't go home again.

Outside the window, plants race past. I forgot how long of a drive it is from the trailer park into town; it's not too far outside of Frostproof, but it's far enough that you can't see the highway lights from Old Mère's yard. If I'd lost any more blood, if I was a little bit dizzier, a drive this long would make me incredibly motion-sick.

As it is, I think I can make it a little longer. At least until we get to the urgent care center.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, cutting my aunt off in the middle of her sentence.

"What? No. No," she says, "don't worry about it. I needed to go into town anyway."

"No, I—I ruined it. The day. Looking through stuff. I shouldn't have gotten hurt. I should have been more careful."

Aunt Etta sets a hand on my knee. She has the same thin fingers as Old Mère, sharp nails just like the ones that pulled bad stitches out of my early attempts at sewing. No, do it again, Old Mère would say as she set the fabric back in front of me. She let me practice on scraps before we moved onto anything that had to do with patterns or finished products.

Now I want to hear that voice again. I want to hear that admonishment, that disappointment, and instead all I hear is concern:

"Are you feeling okay, Polliwog?"

Polliwog. I haven't heard that nickname since I was a kid. A hard laugh sits at the top of my chest, but I shake my head and offer her a smile instead. As much of a smile as I can muster. It's not much, but it's more than nothing. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound it." She curls her fingers around the steering wheel again and pulls us off the back road and onto the main road that cuts through the middle of town. "You know, Florie's started seeing a therapist. She's doing it online and everything. Have you ever thought about...?"

"I'm on antidepressants." When I remember to take them. When I care enough to take them. I think I got a three-month refill six months ago, and I haven't been back to see the doctor since. I didn't even bring the bottle with me on this trip; it's not worth even pretending to medicate myself any more.

"That's good." Aunt Etta does not sound like it's good at all. "You need to take care of yourself, baby. You know how important you are to us."

To us, she says. To the Chastains. To the people who gave me their name as a middle name, a kind of semi-permanent marker that only comes up on my birth certificate and when I'm handling official paperwork. Enough to make people ask, Chastain? That's an odd one.

Enough to make me explain every time that my mother was afraid my father would just change my last name anyway.

One of these days I'll get that off of my official documentation. I'll pick something normal. Luke, or Simon, or something else that sounds better with my name.