I clutch the armrests of my seat so hard that the lady knitting next to me gives me an odd look. The magazine sprawls across my lap. The cover is nothing but a picture of Angelina Jolie in huge sunglasses along with her children, the image making me even more nervous. For the thousandth time I wonder why parents have to be present at weddings.
Calm down, Trey, I tell myself. Just go to their house, tell them and then take the red-eye back to LA.
It wasn’t really my parents I was worrying about, actually. It’s the town they live in that creep me out. All I can remember growing up is the dismal gray hospital across the road. I remember waking up every morning and the first thing I see is the sign announcing the purpose of the building, the sign shooting out of a well-tended lawn. Too well-tended for a damn hospital. And everyone knows what the largest building really contains.
The main attraction of my hometown is an insane asylum.
My knuckles turn white as the wheels grate against the concrete of the runway. I peer out at the square buildings, nothing but metal and paneled glass. I wet my lips. A shaky sigh from my lips seems to make me sag, to make me shrink back against the seat.
Fifteen long agonizing minutes later, I’m walking out in McKay Local Airport. I go to the nearest Starbucks, buy my favorite drink, take two sips and then throw it away. A waste of 4 dollars.
I follow the arrows to car rentals and I find myself staring in the green eyes of a coffee-perked, clean, sweet lady with a voice like syrupy honey. She’s the opposite of me. I lease out a Toyota van that’s about five or six years old. The growling buzz of the engine makes me wince as I drive out of the parking lot.
I kill time meandering around McKay. Don’t go five blocks within the hospital. I recognize my dad’s favorite hang-out, the park that I used to walk the family golden retriever, the church where Olivia was buried…
I pull over when I see the church. It’s exactly as I remember it. The white marble carved with naked cherubs and robed old men. The dark wood of the heavy front doors. Before I know it, I’m walking towards the church entrance. I reach the door, open it. The door grates open and the hot, bittersweet smell of incense flood my nose to the point of pain. I’d forgotten how many candles this church uses.
Echoes clang in my ears as I step inside. The early dawn light provides enough illumination to inform me of the church’s architecture. And to tell me that nothing has changed in this church since my sister’s funeral ten years ago.
“Father Matthews?” the soprano voice cuts in my ears worse than the echo of my own footsteps. I turn and see the young lady army-stance in one of the countless doorways that line the walls of the sanctuary.
“What are you doing here?” the lady speaks again. A clack of heels against flooring and the woman approaches me. She’s maybe 24, a year or two my junior. Her rich brown hair tumbles about her shoulders, framing a pretty, heart-shaped face with a full, sensuous mouth and large, dark doe eyes.
“Is it wrong to see the church?” I ask.
The lady frowns at me, “The church isn’t open to the public until eight o’clock. How did you get in here?”
I gesture towards the ajar door and the woman’s frown deepens, “Shit! If Father Matthews finds out I left the door unlocked again, he’ll…”
“Hey, hey…” I pat the air in front of me. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Why not, right? In the town of my own personal hell, I need an ally.
The woman’s eyes fill with exasperation, “There’s a security camera in every room. Ever since Olivia Thamsen was murdered in that psycho lair, we have to be doubly careful.”
I wince as my sister’s name comes up. The woman notices it and the exasperation softens to guilt, “Oh, I’m sorry…did you know Olivia?”
“She was my sister,” my answer is terse. But it’s enough to make the woman’s eyes widen to the size of baseballs, “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry…”
But suddenly the guilt changes to recognizing. “Trey? Trey Thamsen?”
I nod cautiously. The woman is beaming at me now.
“It’s me! Kate! Don’t you remember me?”
“No, I don’t think I do…” I search both her face and my memory file. Suddenly something about her makes me gasp.
“Kate! Kate March?”
The woman practically jumps with joy. But I knew Kate as basically someone who was high on energy. Kate March and I had been friends for two decades before I had moved to Los Angeles. We had kept in touch at the beginning, but it soon dwindled to a stray letter once a year until our way of contact dissolved altogether.
“You look…different!” I note. The last time I had seen her, she was suffering from an abusive marriage with her high-school sweetheart. Her hair had been pixie-short and dyed vibrant purple and her dark eyes had been lifeless. Now, Kate looked the opposite.
She giggles, “I broke up with my ex-husband. A relationship change can do wonders.”
“You’re with someone else?” I assume.
“No. I’m single and loving it.” A high squeak of a laugh follows the last phrase. The echoing of Kate’s laugh reminds me of where I am. Why Kate came in the first place…
“I’d better get out of here before Father Matthews finds us.” I start for the entrance and Kate falls in step with me.
“I’ll walk you out,” she replies. A couple of seconds later, we’re walking outside and down the steps. The morning air is a welcome alternative to the burn of the incense. Kate inhales beside me and voices my thoughts, “Thank God you came, actually. I didn’t think I could stand the stink.”
“You just started working here?” I ask.
She shakes her head, “No! I started like 4 freaking years ago after I moved here.”
“I thought you were moving to Miami or something…”
“Well, I did that after my divorce,” Kate explains. “But then my father died…”
“Aah, no…” I interrupt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We had fallen out of touch by then.” Kate replies before plowing on. “Anyways, so my father died. I was chaotic. I really was a wreck. Basically Brody, my ex, had ruled my life and even though I had took his every penny and left him practically homeless…”—a cackle stops her babbling for one millisecond—“…I didn’t know what to do with all the money. I mean, Brody was pretty upper-class and I was a bit poor. Remember that? A lot of people used to call me Hand-Me-Down Girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle. “And I punched that guy in the face after he asked you how many pairs of panties you had.”
“You were pretty pissed,” Kate arches a brow. “So, I talked to Father Matthews after the funeral and he offered me the job of receptionist. I took it and right now, I’m pretty happy.” She shrugs. We’ve already reached my car and we’ve been standing by it for two minutes.
“Well, that’s good…” I trail off.
Kate breaks the awkward two-second silence, “Why are you here anyways? I mean, there’s no one here to grieve for that you know. Not that I know anyways—”
I interrupt her again, “I’m here to ask my parents to come to my wedding.”
She squeals again, “Omigod, yourengaged?”
“Uhh…what?”
“You’re engaged, Trey?” she actually squeaks. “That’s so great! Congratulations! When is it? Who’s the lucky lady? Can I come?”
“The lady is someone I worked with. Her name’s Sarah.” I reply.
“Ooh. That sounds nice.” Kate is practically bouncing. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you! Is it gonna be here?”
“No, my parents are going to come to Los Angeles.”
For the first time, Kate seems to deflate. “Oh…”
“Something wrong?” I ask, more than a little uneasy by the worry blazing in Kate’s eyes.
She wets her lips, “I’m not sure…”
“About?” I prod.
Kate gives me a rueful smile, “About your parents leaving their home.”
I’m the one to frown now, “What do you mean?”
“Well. We tried to put them in a nursing home, but they didn’t budge. Your mom—Mrs. Thamsen, she said that she would either be in her house or in the asylum.”
“Oh…” my voice is nothing but a puff of breath.
But Kate tries to cheer me up, “I’m sure you’ll get them up and out!”
The encouragement doesn’t work. It makes me only dread seeing my parents more.
“Your mom said what?”
The last word is a screech; and one so loud I swear my eardrums popped.
“Sarah, breathe. I’ll try to get them. I’m sure I can.” I find myself repeating Kate’s words.
“I know, but…” Evidently, it didn’t work for Sarah either. An image flashes in my mind of my fiancée anxiously twisting the phone cord as she talks to me, her blonde hair pulled back and her light-colored eyes framed by square tortoiseshell glasses.
“Look, baby. I’ll try to get them there. I know them better than anyone. And I’ll try to be back.” With that, I hang up and growl a sigh.
The clock above the door in the restaurant reads 8:30 in the morning. I’m idly munching on a stack of flapjacks and a pile of crispy bacon. People crowd this place—apparently, it’s a local favorite.
It’s nine when I finally finish. I give the waiter a ten-dollar bill, tell him to keep the change and I stalk out. Kate’s news has made me pissed. The tires squeal as I drive away from the curb and I’m speeding towards the place I hate most.
The asylum.
