Page 41 of It's Me They Follow
“To parents,” she barely whispered as she raised her glass.
“When is ‘enough’ enough with you? You always have to go too far.”
The Shopkeeper felt the conversation heading in the wrong direction. “Do you think I had anything to do with this?” She pointed at Elle’s belly. “And all this?” She pointed at the growing excitement buzzing around the room. Barely anyone was sitting.
“I think there’s something in your book that touches people. We blame it on you. You blame it on Ms. Harriett. We all know how crazy it sounds. But it’s also real. That’s why I told you, no make pretend. It scares me.”
The Shopkeeper had given Elle the book as a beta reader. “I’m no Teddy Pendergrass.” She laughed it off. This wasn’t the first time someone blamed her for something she had no control over. “ME nearly passed out reading it,” she told her sister, and then she wanted to change the subject. “Do you think our parents were good examples?”
Her sister took a beat. “Well, they showed me that you can love someone who you don’t like. That you can attach spiritually to someone, and that connection can never come undone. It’s dangerous. I think they showed us what happens when you mix a lack of emotional control with substance use and religion. But only you can choose whether you want to wallow in the river of their discontent. That choice is totally up to you. You can always build your own boat, make your own way. We need not wade in the water of the past unless we have no direction forward.”
“One person’s wallow is another person’s wade,” The Shopkeeper rebuffed.
“Wallowing is the slow wade; you might want to cross before the next high tide.” Her sister sipped her water through pursed lips. “We should get back on the road soon. It’s getting late.”
“Salmon bites,” the wide-hipped woman interjected, clearing the other dishes from their table. “Talk less, eat more,” she warned. Then, back-to-back, there were baked beans, potato salad, dirty rice, and seafood bisque. They ate their emotions. The food came and went. “My soul,” The Shopkeeper said, stuffing her mouth with food, “is full.” She held her spoon as though directing an orchestra. The dance floor was filled. Her second glass of moonshine was empty. “I can make things happen with my mind,” she confessed to her sister. “Like this moment. It’s all mine.”
“You need an imaginary friend to get you through life,” her sister mocked. “Is your soul full or full of shit?”
“You say ‘imaginary friend,’ I say a ‘guiding light.’ Tomato. Tomahto. And if I need one, so what? I have one.”
“You can have her without blaming our parents for why you need her.”
“They are at least partially to blame,” The Shopkeeper said. “And partially to thank.”
“So thank them for helping you find what you needed. Even if they drove you to Ms. Harriett, they got you to her just the same.”
“How does it feel to have no control?” The Shopkeeper interrupted with fire in her eyes. Her sister was clearly uncomfortable, squeezed into the tight booth and the solemn reality of no turning back. “I mean, you’re swimming in preeeetty deep water.”
“It’s freeing,” her sister began.
“You don’t look so free.” The Shopkeeper could no longer sit still; she stood beside her sister, dancing by herself to the rhythm of house music from the house band. “You look trapped.” The moonshine made her honest.
“In this little booth, I am trapped. On this road trip. Trapped. As your sister, trapped. It feels like I’m drowning in a small puddle of quicksand.”
“Dance with me, then.” The Shopkeeper coaxed Elle to get up, trying to ignore the shifting mood. “Come on.” She pretended not to have heard anything her sister had said. “See? Not wallowing.” She danced in circles. “Just being alive and free.”
“I can’t,” Elle said.
“I never have anyone to dance with. Dance with me and make up for all the mean things you just said.”
“I would. It’s just not smart. Have some water.” She pushed a pitcher toward The Shopkeeper. “Cool off.”
“I’m not.” The Shopkeeper spun in a circle, dancing.I’ll dance with the spirits in my head instead, she thought. “I’m not HOT. I’m just not wallowing.” She mocked Elle and pushed the water pitcher back.
“You’re wallowing in your own way,” Elle said.
“And you’re wallowing in yours.” The Shopkeeper mean-girl giggled but kept on dancing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“I mean, you went all those months without telling anyone because you’re wallowing. You’re a wallower, just like the rest of us. You were hiding in your room because you didn’t want anyone to ask you how you were and how you could put us all through this again so soon. And you can’t admit that for once, you lost control, and you’re just like THEM. We are THEM.” She picked up the water. Took a sip. “And YOU only think about YOU.”
“No, you’re like THEM!” Elle picked up the glass of water. “You’re the one chasing love. Telling people you have a phobia to escape responsibility.” Her sister held the pitcher tight. They stared at each other like enemies. “Is there even a ME, or are you just making him up?”
“Low.” It deflated The Shopkeeper. She stopped dancing and sat down. Elle took a sip of water. Smug, as though she’d won the conversation, and then, without warning, jerked her arm backward and splashed the water directly in her sister’s face.
The Shopkeeper screamed a shrill “Ahhhh!” in ice-cold shock. A few people turned around. But everyone in the shack was used to fights breaking out and ignored them. Elle slammed the empty glass on the table.
