The Brand Ch. 14

The experience was yet to become a distant memory. Victria felt safe enough in Savannah, her guns by her side, though one could not shoot ghosts dead. None of those ghosts had followed, none but the one that still possessed Melody as she sat across from her, staring blankly while Victria tried to enjoy a meal that hadn't been blandly healthful or contrarily processed into a bag. The waitress had brought her one of Fuddruckers's signature burgers, sweet potato fries and coleslaw.

Victria had fed Melody back in the Explorer, holding the Ensure shake and the straw until she drank it nearly to the bottom of the can. She thought it odd, ironic, though it was certainly welcome, that Melody, as catatonia addled as she was, would still willfully take in liquid food. It was the first fact Victria hinged her hope on. Eating, the desire to sustain one's self with anything, was the surest sign that one desired to live. And if Melody desired to live, Victria believed she also desired, somewhere deep inside her insurmountably anxious mind, to eventually, someday, get better and return herself to Victria.

Otherwise, as it stood, Melody was not unlike a puppet of living flesh. Her motor functioning had slowed down to a bare minimum. She would set herself in her own strange positions until Victria moved her into something more socially suitable, but only for Melody to slowly twist herself back out of conventional true. You know she needs to be looked at by someone, thought Victria as she wolfed her burger, maybe I can get her into a clinic or something, maybe get her a prescription for some lorazepam.

While at Grandmother's and on various occasions along the road, Victria had read up and came to understand that Melody could have fallen into a kind of schizophrenia, which would bode much less favorably than a simple depression. Then again, if what she was really experiencing was a trauma induced depression, there was nothing simple about it. She briefly scanned the Fuddruckers's dining room, and then lifted the shade to the window beside their table. I wonder, Victria thought, if they sell any Benzodiazepine on the street. Probably not. She glanced back across the room and found herself reflecting again on the sheer insanity of the other mode of treatment for Catatonia, Electroconvulsive therapy.

Put plainly, it was Shock therapy, primitive, risky, inhumane. It was one thing to see it used among her play party peers, individuals who were alert, aware and getting safely off on a few good squeezes of sparkling tingle juice shot into their genitals. But the notion of passing some degree of electricity across Melody's brain in order to induce a seizure, and while she's under anesthesia, and having such a procedure administered to her twice a week for four weeks, would top all the other bad decisions that preceded it.

Victria also reflected on how she'd seen to getting Melody medically tested for every good reason she could come up with, and how neither wanted any psychological assessment beyond Geralynne's staff's list of questions. That was stupid, Victria reflected, the taste of her burger suddenly losing its flavor. I should have gotten someone to say at least that she wasn't bipolar or anything like that. Victria set the burger back down on her plate, and then wiped her hands on a napkin. She turned her gaze to Melody's blank stare.

"Mel honey," she said, "I need you back. That night we first started to get to know each other in the market and then the two masked hoods showing up, that bloody night in the house. Maybe, if I'd known there was an underlying factor, I could have read the warning: you dropping to the floor, trying to borough a hole into yourself. But I couldn't. I was seeing something else. Masked men, guns in hand, shots fired, triggers squeezed, and then you were gone. It's all my fault and yet- I was selfish. I was afraid. I didn't want my success with you threatened."

Victria looked away. She still didn't want it threatened. But, she was coming to realize that maybe it should be. Slowly, Victria lowered her head and propped its weight against the upturned palm of her left hand while she began to wipe the condensation from the side of her glass of raspberry ice tea with her other hand. I can't play my games anymore. I need to stop. Weary from the road, from thought, from contemplation of the ghosts behind her and of the unknown ahead of her, Victria lost herself in the purple amber depth inside her glass.

"You look tired." Came a voice.

Victria snapped back to attention. Seated beside Melody was an older woman, dressed in a blue blouse, matching blazer, a chain of rosary beads hanging from her neck, her handsome features gently aged, her silver hair shoulder length and curled inward at the ends to frame her face, grey eyes assessing, mouth slightly open in a cautious smile. Victria glanced at Melody before settling her stare on the woman. As she worked through her decision as to how she'd take the stranger, Victria turned to look behind her to see that one of the seats at the table of older women was vacant.

"Yes," the woman continued, her southern accent moderated with a cloying lilt, "I was seated with those lovely ladies over there. We were on a tour through Saint John's Cathedral and I remember seeing you girls in the front pew. It's a lovely place, isn't it?"

Victria cleared her throat and reached for her ice tea.

"Yes." She said before taking a sip.

"Where ya'll from honey?"

Victria set her drink back down and cleared her throat for a second time.

"Annapolis, Maryland." She answered.

The lady let her stare linger, her expression that of one expecting the truth but not getting it. Victria stared back with her customarily naked boldness. It was true. She had taken Melody into the great Cathedral, but had no memory of the woman and her friends. It had been earlier that day, under a cloudless blue sky and in the face of mostly smiling strangers.

Victria had found an establishment at which she could kennel Spanky for a while and guide Melody on her wheel chair through historic Savannah. Her stroll ultimately led them to the tall brick faced church on Harris and Lincoln Streets. If it hadn't been a Cathedral dedicated to the Baptist, Victria would have likely passed it by. Instead, she remote controlled Melody's chair up the accessible ramp and guided her through the entrance's wide plaza. Victria had paused, just beyond the vestibule, to marvel at the French Gothic styled church's stately nave and its transepts.

Bronze colored iron columns supported its triple rows of groined arches. The main altar and four side altars, she'd read later from a guide book she'd left Melody for a moment to purchase, were designed by Baldwin & Price of Baltimore and constructed of white Italian marble. Victria had brought Melody down the aisle, parked just behind the first row of pews, lifted her from the motorized chair, and then set her down to stare at the high alter.

Victria sat close beside Melody and whispered passages from the guide book into her lover's ear. She paused occasionally to whirl her head around in childlike wonder to take in the brilliance and majesty of the stained glass windows, executed by the Innsbruck Glassmakers in the Austrian Tyrol, and a series of murals depicting the Passion. After she'd taken it all in, admiring the beauty and craftsmanship, the public legacy of who knew how many nameless artists, Victria settled into a reverent silence as she watched sun golden moats of dust gliding through the broad shafts of sunlight that shown upon the high alter.

"Your friend is catatonic." The woman stated.

Victria slowly nodded, her eyes not leaving the woman.

"How long now?"

"Three days."

Again, the woman gazed at her with casual disbelief. Victria began to hope that the visit would end very soon. Presently, the woman took Melody's left hand, and held it for a time as she stared into her green eyes.

"I'd ask you her name," the woman continued, still looking into Melody's eyes, "but you'd just lie to me again."

Whatever lady, thought Victria. What's your game?

"It's just that I noticed you two there in the church," said the woman, "and you reminded me of a story. And now that I've come upon you for a second time today, I feel that I should tell it to you."

"Hmm," said Victria, "Her name is Melody, really."

"Melody." The woman repeated, turning to briefly face Victria, "Well Melody: I once had a sister. Her name was Eveline and she was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease back when she was oh fifty-four. That's the disease, you know, when your brain and spinal cord just stop talking to your muscles and the person just sets there, watching, waiting."

The woman paused, closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Anyway, I remember how my mother used to join me at my home, because I had taken Eveline in, after her total shit of a husband just up and left. Anyway, our mother, God rest her soul too, used to bring her holy water. And she would take her holy water, take a little bit of it into a little bowl and add some olive oil to it. Then she'd bring it into Eveline's bedroom, set herself down by her side, dab a little cross on her forehead, and then recite the Lord's prayer several times. And I would watch our mother do this twice a week, usually Wednesdays and Sunday afternoons, and every time, when she'd finished praying for the miracle I always knew she was praying for, that woman would sit back and say: Well don't you see now Eva that the problem is you. You ain't got no faith honey."

Victria stared at the woman, her gaze softening slightly. She thought about her time with Melody in the great cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. Then she slowly brought her right hand up to feel the written prayer behind the smooth material of her breast pocket, paused and said:

"I don't know exactly what kind of faith Melody has."

The woman turned to look at her.

"That's not my point dear." She said, leaning closer and measuring her words, "That's not something that's meant for you to know. My point is that you are a wonderful friend and that is the miracle. It's not easy to watch the ones you love slowly die on you. I will pray for this young woman, certainly. But, I will also pray that she continues to have you and that you continue to have the patience and strength to be her miracle."

Victria looked away then as her face grew hot and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me your name honey," the woman asked, her voice hushed, "so that I can pray for you too. I can't rightly ask God to look after that pretty young girl with the hard eyes that likes to lie to kind old ladies."

Victria leveled her gaze at the woman, the gleam in her eyes both savage and subdued, her cheeks red, twin tear drops trailing a slow course to the sides of her chin.

"My name is Victria." She whispered, and then looked away again.

Back in their hotel room, her mind tuned to the silence of the world, Victria went to work. She'd taken advantage of the kennel, deciding to leave Spanky there overnight. He was fine, the proprietor had said over the phone. He's found himself a little girl retriever and they're playing like a pair born out of the same litter. After the Fuddruckers's, after their visit with the old woman in the blue outfit and the rosary around her neck, Victria drove Melody to a craft store she'd spotted earlier and took her shopping for supplies.

The bag of Victria's purchases waited on her side of the bed as she undressed Melody, changed her diaper, and then undressed herself. The door locked and the shades pulled down, Victria crossed the room to her side of the queen bed and turned the clock's radio to WGPB. It was the ragtime hour, which would be followed by the big band show, and then all night blue grass. Upon the bed, beside Melody's half naked prop up body, were an array of items.

As Victria studied the tools and materials she'd bought at the craft store, she remembered how she hadn't also purchased a few packs of cigarettes or hadn't ducked in to any one of the hundred liquor stores in town. Then the fact of her guns imposed itself into her working memory, and informed her that there was nothing smoking tobacco would calm or anything that could or should be blacked out through the excessive drinking of alcohol.

Presently, she took a pair of shears and stepped around the bed. Carefully, she trimmed off a few inches of Melody's hair, collecting it in one of the hotel's complimentary plastic wrapped plastic cups. Then, having everything she needed in order to create what she had in her mind's aesthetic eye, she went about fabricating the concept into reality. She'd bought a plastic doll, a dollar store Barbie knock-off and was using it as a manikin template so that she could cut out a body pattern from the satiny flesh toned microfiber she'd found among the fabrics.

Then, taking variously geometric pieces of sponge, Victria cut arms, neck, head, torso and legs into shape. Next, with needle and thread, she proceeded to sew the front to the back pattern, starting with the legs. With practiced hands, Victria measured, gauged, clipped, nipped, tucked, stuck and stitched her latest doll into existence. Her mind was vacant of extraneous thought. She'd lost all sense of time. She had facilitated an active means of prayer and had become a fleshly conduit, enacting with her hands the will of some anonymous goddess.

Victria's execution was flawless, creating detail after detail. She had formed, gathered, spread and stitched the lovely curves, lines and nooks and crannies of Melody's breasts, buttocks and bare vulva. She had securely stitched into the doll's scalp each and every one of the hairs she'd cut from Melody's head. She had hot glued emerald and pink sequins to represent her eyes and her nipples. She had fashioned a little slave collar of foil and she'd painted the glaring red scar along her right outer thigh.

Setting the doll aside, Victria gathered up the materials she'd chosen to create its dress. It was in the style of the gown Melody had worn the night of the invasion, shoulders bared, bodice narrowed to the waist, the skirt long and flowing. Victria sewed strips of yellow and white for the bodice: the colors of success, understanding, magnetism, confidence, peace, security, cleanliness, health, honesty and sincerity. The long skirt consisted of rippling bands of red: power, energy and love; purple: physical and spiritual healing, strength, wisdom, the ability to contact good spirits and to resist black magic; green: fertility and rebirth; and finally blue and pink: love, morality, friendship, honor, affection and dedication.

Lastly, Victria created a sash of glittered Indigo, the most sacred of the colors, possessed of the property to remove evil. After dressing her doll and fitting the magical sash over its shoulder, she admired her work and blessed its face with a kiss. As she began to remove her scraps and tools, she saw that day was dawning. Returning to the bed, she carefully maneuvered a sleeping Melody to a supine position and pulled back the covers. Then she brought the doll into bed with her beside Melody. Settled in beneath the sheets, Victria turned Melody's body so that she lay on her side, so that she could keep the doll between them and so that she could fall asleep with Melody's lips against her own.

Around noon of the next day, Victria packed up all of their gear, showered and dressed, and then cleaned and fed Melody. After a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, bacon and grits, Victria loaded Melody into the packed Explorer, and then drove toward the establishment where she had kenneled Spanky. She drove the two miles to the place and into the parking lot.

From there, Victria could see the dog happily playing with the young golden, a female that the kennel's proprietor had told her about. She watched him pause in his play to sniff at the air above his head. A few seconds more, Spanky was turning his head about, scanning around him and barking. A moment after that, he'd spied the Explorer and ran toward the fence. It was that very moment that Victria shifted the vehicle back into drive, turned back out of the kennel's lot, and then made her way out of Savannah. Her face dry of tears, she did not stop again until forty miles later.

At first, she couldn't comprehend the sight outside Melody's window. Yet, she could not deny it was there: a long strip of grass, beyond which stood a long strip of barbed wire reinforced wood fence, beyond which grazed and brayed a veritable sea of sheep. Presently, she grabbed her phone and slipped out of the Explorer. She strolled for a time, not getting too far from Melody, back up north and then south again and gazed in her bold and blameless way. Presently, she leaned over the fence, withdrew her cell and made a call. The party answered on the second ring.

"Victria!"

"Hey Vance."

"What the fucking fuck Vic! Where the Hell are you?"

"Don't worry about it Vance."

"Are you okay? How's Melody? Where's Melody?"

"We're fine big brother. I just wanted to finally take the time to call you and tell you that we are as fine as we can possibly be, given our new circumstances."

"Vic. Listen to me, please-"

"No Vance." She interrupted, "You listen to me. I have something profound to tell you."

There was silence on the line. Victria paused as her eyes bounced from one sheep to another.

"We spin around and around this insignificant little ball of space debris," she continued, "and we intellectualize about each and every one of our emotional turmoil's, trials, narcissistic reflections, debts, imbalances and indemnities, all doomed to each and every one of our own personal oblivions and we have made each other think that way until each and every one of our bitter ends. Because, you know, you must be certain, that each and every one of our bitter ends are indeed bitter, painful to the tongue, to the heart and to the soul, the break, the disconnect, the fuse blown, the plug pulled until each and every one of our life's lights are out and no one is no longer home."

Again, Victria paused. Glancing behind her, she saw that Melody was right where she was supposed to be. Meanwhile, Vance breathed deeply, helplessly, into his phone.

Is it a shame...or is it just business as usual?" she went on, "I have a better idea than I did before, but I still can't ever be sure of anything anymore. We can't be sure, none of us. So love who loves you. Belly up to the bar with a friend or a stranger on either side or drink in your life until that inevitable bitter taste. God loves you enough to give you the chance at life, to live it, to get attached to it so securely that you can only believe to miss it when it's gone."

"Tell me you don't have any guns Victria." Said Vance, speaking quickly, "Tell me-"

"Yes, it is sad." Continued Victria, raising her voice, feeling it begin to shake in her throat, "It's as sad as it is true. But, that's the price we pay to be able to enjoy the abstraction of love, to reflect, to be sensate, touch, smell and taste the lover just within the reach of your lips, your sensitive lips, the lips that longed for your mother's milk, our mother's breast, to drink, to get our fill until the umbilical, the tether, the distance, the spacewalk that ends in our finally having to let go, let's us go so that God can ultimately take us into His or Her ultimate and final...own."

""Victria, please." Whispered Vance as he listened to his sister weep.

"I'm going to fix it Vance." Said Victria as she stared at the miles and miles of sheep and wiped the tears and the snot from her face, "I'm going to fix Mel. I can do it. I know it, I think. And then everything will be cool again. I love you Vance. I'll talk to you soon."