I told Mel as she helped me up to my front porch. The rain was receding, the screen door open to the night breeze. We were both still coated with mud. “I hate when you go quiet.” On the way here, I’d told Mel about CLC, my visions, my mom, my gran—though not about the plants—finishing just as we’d pulled up. Now, after my confession, I felt battered, like one of those dolls that always bounces back up when hit. But here’s the thing—those silly dolls get hit all the more for it. When will this day end? My bottom lip trembled as I fought off tears. “I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened in the Cajun’s shack,” Mel said. “I mean, your expression was unforgettable—you were all like, ‘Pa, I seen something behind the woodshed.’ ” “Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” Right now the memory was too raw. “How come I’m, like, the last to know you have visions? The woman who spawned you knew before me. And that hurts.” “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
