On my way back to the kitchen, one of the two boys sitting at table four flagged me down to request a milkshake. I could see how some could interpret that to me it was my touch that killed her.Īt least they weren’t blaming me for my father’s murder, but that was likely because I was only six at the time. After all, she hadn’t died until I’d interfered. You think it’s my fault my mom died during the exorcism. I get it, I thought at the back of her head. She gave me a long, condemning glare, then released my arm, gathered her purse, and hurried to the checkout counter. Your mother would have wanted it that way, she said sweetly. The customer was always right, after all. I considered pulling free, but if we caused a scene, I would be the one to go down. She grabbed my arm, and I forced my glare from her whitening knuckles to her scowling face. Why would I sell my inheritance unless it would profit me enough to leave this rotten town? I was hoping you reconsidered my offer on your house. I walked to the register, printed her check, and headed over to the red vinyl booth where she sat.
She actually touched her ears as she said this, and it took all I had to suppress a groan.
I’d prefer to leave before any secular music touches my ears. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from her paisley, ankle-length dress. So-phiii-aaa!īound by my waitressly duty, I gripped the sides of the jukebox and turned my head toward her.
Franklin’s high-pitched, singsong voice cut into my thoughts. I crossed the black-and-white tiled floor to the jukebox, hoping Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here would drown out the wasping in my mind. On that same day, an ever-present static moved into my head like a squatter I couldn’t evict.Īfterward, I thought getting rid of the noise would be my best shot at survival-like all I needed was silence, even if only within myself, to feel at home again. My mom died during an exorcism on my eighteenth birthday.
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