Page 13 of Charmed, I'm Sure
“That’s the last of them,” Dad said as he joined me in the open doorway of the makeshift clinic. For as long as I could remember, my dad—and grandfather before him—would take the drive over to Houma, Louisiana, and open a small clinic one weekend a month. It wasn’t anything grand, but it was a way to give back to the community that meant so much to our family. A way for people to get minor ailments tended to or get their vaccines up to date. It didn’t matter if they had insurance or not; we took care of our own down here.
My grandfather grew up in Houma, and after he became a doctor, he moved to New Orleans and would make the trek over to his tinyhometown to help the community he considered family. When my dad was old enough, he’d been indoctrinated into the tradition, and while I’d spent almost every weekend of my childhood fishing on the bayou, I’d always found myself wandering into the clinic to lend a helping hand.
That’s what we did down here: Helped our neighbors without expecting anything in return, boosted the community, and did what we could to keep our heritage alive. That sense of purpose and pride in what my family had accomplished is what brought me back to the Bayou State.
We stood there for a moment, both of us staring out over the crowd that had gathered for the annual Rougarou Festival with smiles on our faces. To anyone outside of this state, it would look like a hodgepodge of chaos, with the parade of Witches and Zombies, Zydeco music filling the streets, costume contests, and food vendors scattered about. But to me, it was a tradition that I loved to see kept alive and one that benefited the wetlands in the South.
The Rougarou itself was a bedtime nightmare told to little kids who didn’t listen to their parents. With the head of a wolf and the body of a human, I guess you could call it Louisiana’s werewolf. As a kid, I was petrified of the damn thing, my grandfather filling my mind with stories of it snatching me out of my bed while I slept if I didn’t eat my collard greens—which I did, begrudgingly. As an adult… well, it was still kind of creepy, and I now avoided collards like the plague.
“Y’all have a good one!” our charge nurse, Jeanie, said as she passed us and headed out into the festival's crowded streets.
“Thanks, you too,” Dad and I said in unison before he turned to me, “You staying or heading back home?”
“I think I’m going to head—” Pastel pink and blue waves drifted across my line of sight, cutting my words in half.
“Son?”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to stay for a bit. Grab a bite.” I was halfway down the sidewalk that led to the street when I heard him holler behind me.
“No, I’m fine. I don’t want anything. Thanks for asking.”
“Okay, see you back at the house!”
Magnolia
Mother, have mercy. Weaving through the crowd at the Rougarou Festival was a serious pain in my ass. Especially since I had to drag a wagon full of supplies clear across the festival from where Aunt Evie had parked the damn car.
We came every year, setting up a joint booth of her tea blends, candles, herbal remedies, and my charcuterie boards and pastries. It was always a hit, so much so that we had to minimize the number of days that we attended, opting for only one of the three days. But that also meant taking multiple trips back and forth to the car to bring all of the supplies to the booth. This was trek number three and, thankfully, the last one.
“Are you sure we brought enough?” Aunt Evie asked when I finally made it to our aqua blue tent, her brow furrowing as she rearranged the table set up…again.
“Would you stop fidgeting? We do this every year, and every year, you move things around only for them to end up right back where they started.”
“Ugh, fine. Did you get the last of it from the car?”
Nodding, I pulled the wagon into the booth and began handing her the boxes of extras to stash under the table. I’d barely gotten a chance to breathe since we got here, and as I took what seemed like my first full breath, piercing sapphire eyes above a cocky smirk locked onto mine.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
“Anddo youknow better?” I asked, my brow raising as I crossed my arms over my chest.
Aunt Evie stifled a laugh, busying herself with adjusting the candles to make sure all of the labels were facing outward—they were—before injecting herself into the conversation. “Who’s your friend, Magpie?”
Mother save me.
“Magpie?” Taylor questioned, his eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” I seethed, cutting him a sharp glare before shifting my attention to my meddlesome aunt. “He’s not my friend.”
“Oh, come on,Magpie. I thought we were best friends after we bonded over ice cream.”
Red. Deep, burning depths of hell red was all that I saw.
“Taylor, I swear to God—”
“Taylor? As in TaylorHallows?” Aunt Evie cut in.
“The one and the same. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand toward my aunt, and I watched as the once playful look on her face shifted to one of annoyance.
