Only Saints

« vii. »

There's something reassuring about a place that hasn't changed in a decade. There's something to be said for the feeling of digging your fingers into rich black topsoil and closing your eyes and throwing yourself back ten years, to days when you knew exactly what you were going to be and how you were going to be it. There's something to the idea that we are only amalgamations of all the people we have been before—that in order to be myself, now, I must also have been myself at age four, age eight, age twelve, and some part of me will live in those days forever.

There's a little creek that runs past the edge of the trailer park. It technically begins a little ways off of the property line, on government land, but then it crosses over into the rich soil and sparkling sand that make up Old Mère's back yard, and then back over onto government land again. It's not much of a curve, but it's enough that it brings it onto my family's property legally.

I can't remember a summer that I didn't spend sitting out by the creek. It used to be swollen with rainfall, day in and out; after the afternoon rain, it would rush past to empty into whatever reservoir it met downriver. When I was younger, almost a teenager, Florie and I would throw rocks just to hear the noise they made. When I was little, maybe five or six, I would come out here to gather the perfect stone just for Old Mère.

It had to be round, and it had to be worn smooth, and there had to be a hole in it somewhere that went all the way through. That, she taught me, was a natural worry stone. I never found one, not in all the years I lived here, but she did once.

I'm elbow-deep in the water now, turning rocks over in search of one just like that. It's not likely I'll find it, but I may as well try. What harm can it do?

One of the cousins—not Florie, don't care—sits next to me on the edge of the creek bed. They're still a kid, with floppy hair combed over one eye and dyed with pale blond highlights. "What are you looking for?"

Sigh. Wipe my hands off on my jeans. Sit back and look over my shoulder at them with a forced smile. "Hey. Vin, right?"

"Yeah. You're Paul." They say it with the kind of certainty that only comes from knowing.

And why shouldn't they know? The thought is a little uncomfortable. Of course my cousins know who I am; for all Old Mère talked about me, I'd be more surprised to find out they didn't.

I push myself back to sit next to them and say, "I'm looking for a worry stone."

"Oh. Huh." It could be a question, but it's said so flatly I'm not sure.

"What are you doing out here?" They don't look like the sort to get much sun. Maybe I'm a hypocrite—if I was a few shades paler, I would glow at night—but I darken pretty quickly when I spend time outside during the day. The hard part is getting outside during the day when I work nights, because I'm not about to give up all of my sleep. I need at least a couple hours to function properly.

"Taking a break." They grin, pull their knees up to their chest, and rest their elbows on top of their legs. "Mom's arguing with Aunt E."

"Again?" I scoff.

They roll their eyes, but their grin stays bright. "Again. I wish she'd stop. Hey, Aunt Leda's your mom, right?"

"Yeah."

"Has she always been so, like..."

"Abrasive?" That's one word to describe my mother. There are a lot more, and I've heard every one of them coming from my dad's mouth, whether over the phone or when he's talking to me.

Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe it isn't healthy to shove your kid in the middle of a messy divorce and explicitly blame him for it.

No. That can't be it. Look at me, I turned out fine.