A Witch in the Garden Read online

  A WITCH IN THE GARDEN

  by L.D. Curtis

  Copyright © 2021 L.D. Curtis

  All rights reserved.

  To: Kai and Wrath, find a love who captivates your mind.

  I speak to time.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  A WITCH IN THE GARDEN

  L.D. Curtis

  CHAPTER 1

  My foot connected hard as I kicked my mom in the face. My dad, my doctor, and my best friend collectively rushed me and restrained different parts of my body. A warm sting met my left shoulder. Sedatives. I became weak. My vision blurred, and my limbs grew heavy. I knew, within seconds, I’d be out like a light. But when I wake, dear God, when I wake. They will pay for this.

  “And you will awaken in three, two, one.” Dr. Joshua Coop’s calm voice brought my mind to the present.

  He was a man of minimal effort. His short brown hair was combed neatly to the side. Wire framed glasses sat on his nose. I heard the scribble of his pencil as he guided me from across the room. I let the soft sounds of the recorded meditation bells grab my focus. The smell of sandalwood clung to pillows. I hated that smell. It didn’t fit Dr. Coop’s aesthetic, or so I thought. But I wasn’t about to tell the man I pay to not put me back in the crazy house that I believe his office stinks.

  “I haven’t seen the faces in months, which is good, right?” I kept my eyes closed while I took a long deep breath, “But I also haven’t been able to paint or create anything new or meaningful,” the cloth of the hammock shifted as it swung gently. I sat forward and gathered myself, “I think it’s because of the meds. I mean it’s either choose to be crazy just to be creative or choose sanity.” The sunlight from the window warmed my face. Dr. Coop again took his pencil to his pad. It irritated me whenever he wrote whatever he deemed note-worthy.

  “Rika, you were diagnosed with Pareidolia just last year, after years of being misdiagnosed with schizophrenia,” Dr. Coop waved a dismissive hand, “of course, it’s going to take some time to get used to your prescription. I must insist that you continue taking them.” He placed his pencil down. Always a pencil. I wanted to ask why he never wrote with a pen. Pens were so permanent. Was it some weird phobia or a dark trauma that left him incapable of being able to be in the presence of ink?

  “Same time next week?” I smiled politely as I stood and headed for the door.

  “Same time,” Dr. Coop looked over his notes. The image of his slim frame disappeared behind the closed door.

  Outside Dr. Coop’s office, the Austin heat, courtesy of Texas, slapped me in the face. The taxi I ordered arrived. As I climbed into the back seat, my phone rang. It was Crayon, a fifteen-year-old tagger I had been mentoring for the past six months.

  “Hey, Crayola!” I answered; a smile immediately came across my face.

  “Eureka!” She called me by the nickname she’d given me.

  “I just finished with my therapist,” I pulled the phone from my face to check the time, “I’ll meet you at our spot in five minutes.”

  “Have you seen the traffic today?” Crayon asked. “If you make it here in five minutes, I’ll shave my head.”

  “You shaved your head last month,” I reminded her, “but deal!” I ended our call.

  I was already downtown; I just needed to make it to the lower end of East Riverside Dr. In ten minutes. How hard could that be?

  Twenty minutes later, a worried Crayon greeted me a block from our usual spot, Austin’s Graffiti Wall, a place where artists of all kinds could let the rest of the world glimpse into their minds. Even if it only lasted a second, or in the wall’s terms, until another artist painted over it. Sweat ran down Crayon’s face. Vibrant yellow eyebrows rested on top of her milk chocolate skin. The only hair on her head, and she decided to dye it bright yellow. I dug into my backpack and tossed Crayon a bottle of water.

  “What’s wrong? Someone took our spot?” I asked as we headed down the road towards the wall.

  A sign that read ‘Graffiti Wall Has Moved’ stood in front of an empty field where the wall used to be. The Graffiti Wall was such an inspiration of self to the lost and found souls of Austin. It was a place where more than just artistic expression happened. For some, it was an escape, for others an entrance. For me? It was the one place the faces couldn’t get to me. I shook the thought from my mind. Both dull and vibrant colors splashed into my mind—memories of pain and love displayed on the burned cement walls gone.

  “We knew this day was coming,” I attempted to keep my disappointment buried.

  “Yeah.” Crayon bent her head to hide the tear escaping from her eyes.

  “Come on,” I tapped Crayon on her shoulder, “This is the perfect time for me to show you my other creative space.”

  Chilled air greeted us as we entered a tinted-glass building, my sanctuary. Located in South Austin, hidden from the plague of walking carbon, mimicking life. My gallery was only identifiable from the crescent moon impaled by a flame symbol on its door. Inside, paintings, grand and delicate, hung on every wall. Sculptures begging to be touched stood scattered throughout the room.

  “Welcome to my wall of graffiti,” I held the door to my gallery open.

  Crayon hurried into the building, and she placed her hands inside her pockets. A sign she was nervous. She made a peculiar face, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. She scanned the room. Crayon locked eyes with a painting, the one with the shadow of a woman standing in a field of vibrant green and white flowers. Crayon stretched her back and tried to pose as the shadow was posed but quickly gave up.

  “I painted this one when I was a year younger than what you are now,” I pointed to the signature and date on the painting, “It won first place in a competition back in Louisiana.”

  “So, are all of these paintings yours?” Crayon stared at the painting for a second longer, then she turned and gave her attention to a statue, “Did you make that too?” She walked to the figure. Her eyes studied the curves, the twist, and the bend of the marble-sculpted tree. She walked around the sculpture slowly, “Shit!” Crayon jumped backward, “That scared me.” I watched as she eyed the thing that caught her attention. A face. Very subtle, but there. It almost made you second guess yourself. “Is this what you see because of your paraplegic illness?” Crayon asked.

  “Pareidolia,” I stifled a laugh as I corrected her, “and yes, sometimes, but it’s not always this face, “I watched as her curiosity grew, “Now that you spotted this one, look around the sculpture again. See how many you can spot. Guess right, and next week we’ll go for tacos.”

  “Are you like a black version of the rich white people, the ones who feel guilty about being rich, so they find a charity case to feel better about themselves?” Crayon furrowed her eyebrows; she hated to be pitied.

  “I’m like the rich black people who fund low-income schools in hopes that the children of those schools become inspired to change their own lives and not fall victim to the system or get caught tagging police stations.” I reminded her of how our arrangement came to be and nudged her to look again at the sculpture.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” Beau, my agent, and uncle approached me. He was my father’s younger and only other sibling and my favorite uncle.

  “Hey, Unc!” I hugged him, “Meet Crayon-”

  “Her protégé.” Crayon extended her hand for Uncle Beau to shake, “And there are five faces in that face-tree.”

  “Nice to meet you, Crayon,” Uncle Beau shook Crayon’s hand, “And there are 100 faces in that tree. Don’t believe me? Here.” He handed Crayon a brochure from the gallery. She walked back to the sculpture determined.

  “When you’re finished with that, come to my office, upstairs. We still got some painting to do.” I pointed to where she would find me.

  “So that’s the famous Crayon?” Uncle Beau asked as he entered my office behind me.

  “She’s talented, Uncle Beau. She just needs to be given a good chance,” I sat in the chair behind my desk, “Were you able to pick up-” Uncle Beau pointed to the box on my desk I had overlooked.

  “So we got the final installation set up,” Uncle Beau sat on the arm of a nearby chair, “The press kits were sent out last month, we already have a few hundred RSVPs, and everything is ready for the show Saturday. Oh, and your parents are here.”

  I nodded my head as he went down the list of things to do, and-

  “My parents?! Unc what the fuck!?” Horror filled my head, and my anxiety pushed me from my seat. I stood fast, ready to run out of my office, but before I could take a single step, my mom walked in.

  “Cha’Rika, surprise!” My mom spread her arms wide as she swayed into the room. The sing-song tone she said my name filled me with annoyance, but who was I to be annoyed when my mother gave birth to me!? Or whatever she said when she needed to
continually remind me of her selflessness and power play the mother’s guilt card. Defeated, I walked to her. Ella Balisa, former Miss Southern Beauty Queen, embraced me. I wanted to run. She wore a soft green blouse, which complimented her mahogany skin and white pants. Her hair, a bouquet of short copper curls, framed her feline-like face.

  “Hey, baby girl.” My dad smiled as he gently removed me from my mom’s grip. Joe Balisa was a loving husband, doting father, mystery-man was dressed in denim jeans and a simple white button-down shirt. My dad wasn’t one for fashion. He valued two things above all, his food and his comfort.

  I hugged him, “Hi Daddy.” I squeezed him tightly.

  My parents were high school sweethearts. They had that cliché old school love. The kind of love people no longer believed in. The type of love that looked perfect from the outside.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were having a show?” Mom removed me from my dad and made me look at her, “We had to find out from Beau. Are you embarrassed about us?” Us? No. You? Yes. I looked for my uncle, who was nowhere in sight. Where the hell did he go? Mom released me and looked around my office, “We saw some of your work downstairs, and the faces, Rika,” Mom frowned.

  “Are incredible,” Dad jumped in before his wife got them both kicked out of my gallery, “the details, sweetie, it’s like we can see each medium breathing.” Dad shot mom his famous stop it looks. Dad was a patient man, but over the years, I watched as his patience grew thinner. Things that would never get a rise out of him, such as mom, now received a bit of his attention. I guess with age comes less fucks given.

  “Thanks, Daddy.” I led them further into my office and watched as they took in the view, “looks a lot different from the last time y’all were here, right?”

  “I found all the faces. There were a hundred,” Crayon walked in before my mom could give her critiques on the office decor, “I counted to make sure you weren’t cheating whichever rich bastard ends up buying it.”

  My mom covered her mouth and took a step back when she saw Crayon. My dad, not being one who is easily surprised, wore a perplexed look on his face.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Crayon,” I gestured to the now sitting fireball, “And before you ask, Crayon is a non-binary being. Crayon likes to be referred to as ‘Crayon’ and not ‘he’ or ‘she’. But if you must refer to Crayon as anything due to lack of vocabulary, or knowledge on non-binary beings, then and only then can you refer to Crayon as ‘she, or her’ but only when necessary.”

  Dad nodded his head in understanding; he needed no further explanation. My mom, however, did her typical thing.

  “Thank you for the who and what it is,” Mom looked at Crayon as if she were a mutated slug, “but why is it here?”

  Crayon stared at my mom, “Don’t call me psychic,” she pointed a bopping finger at my mom, “but this one is the reason you’re in therapy.”

  The silence in the room lasted five entire seconds, and within that time, my mom blinked twenty times. Dad busted out laughing at the Crayon’s comment and the fact that she had rendered my mom speechless, not a feat many can claim. I tapped Crayon on the shoulder and pointed to the far-right wall. A blank canvas sat on an easel, a box filled with different paint tubes, and various kinds of paintbrushes sat beside it. I saw Crayon’s hesitation. She had only ever used spray paint. The thought of using a brush seemed so out of her reach.

  “The paintbrush is the original spray-can,” I reassured Crayon, “instead of the paint coming out automatically, you have to apply it manually.” A lightbulb went off in her head. She needed no further explanation. A fire glowed in her eyes as she marched with determination to the blank canvas. That’s the Crayon I know! I turned and walked to the seat closest to my desk. My parents claimed the chairs opposite me.

  “What is she-Crayon like thirteen?” Mom asked as she peered past me, “Is it okay for children to be around you. Not that you’re-”

  “She’s fifteen, and I’m not a fucking pedophile mom,” I rubbed my temples, the promise of a headache was nearing, “Just because a person has a mental illness doesn’t mean they’re a threat to society.”

  “Such an ugly word,” Mom turned to dad, “mental illness,” she whispered.

  “Ella!” Dad almost shouted, something I’ve only seen him do twice in my life, “Rika, sweetie, your mother and I want to take you to dinner tonight,” Dad looked a little nervous, and mom took his hand, “we have something important to tell you.”

  “If you’re getting a divorce, I’m not surprised. I don’t need the dramatics of a dinner to break the news.” I waved a dismissive hand just as I’d seen Dr. Coop do to me many times.

  “Divorce? Ha!” Mom waved an even better dismissive hand, “Your dad and I have something serious to talk to you about,” Mom stood, she knocked a few imaginary wrinkles from her pants, a sign she was uncomfortable. She grabbed dad’s arm and tugged him as to get him too to stand, “Let’s have dinner at one of those food vehicles you like so much. Come on, Joe.”

  Dad gave into mom’s tug and stood as mom gave Crayon one more once-over. Crayon gave mom the middle finger and a smile in return. Off my parents went, leaving me to sit in the anxiety-filled disruption they had just created.

  “Rika, your mom, is heavy, but at least she cares.” Crayon moved the paintbrush back and forth. Her words brought me from my thoughts. I. knew she was comparing our situations, my mother very present but a pain in the ass mother versus hers. I saw the sadness about to settle in her big almond-shaped eyes.

  “Oh! That reminds me,” I grabbed the box off the desk, “here.” I walked over and handed it to Crayon.

  “What’s this?” She took it, “I’ve never gotten a gift before!” She. Tore through the wrapping paper. Inside the box were two things: a new phone and a spare key with her name on it. Crayon closed the box, the smile on her face disappeared. She handed the package back to me.

  “What’s wrong?” I placed my hand on top of the box, stopping her from returning it.

  “If my mom finds that phone, she’ll sell it,” Crayon shook her head, “and if she finds that key, which I assume is to your place, she’ll probably find a way to your spot and sell your shit too.” Crayon tried to push the box into my hand, but I applied more pressure, “I like you Rika, you’re honest with me, unlike most adults. I don’t think I could face you if my mom got a hold of anything you gave me.”

  I tapped the box, settling it back into Crayon’s lap, “Material things can be replaced, but you, Crayola, can’t be. The phone is for emergencies and inspiration. As an artist, you should start documenting things that inspire you.”

  “Kind of like a look-book?” Crayon asked as she reopened the box.

  “Exactly,” I walked back to the nearby seat, “And the key is for when your mom relapses, or-”

  “If she brings home strange men.” Crayon finished my statement.

  “Especially if she brings home strange men.” I grew angry at the thought of Crayon being home when her mother found some piece of shit guy to help her get her next fix.

  “Thank you,” Crayon hugged the box; her expression was hard to read, “but you can’t get mad at me if my mom jacks your shit.”

  I laughed, and my anger faded. When it comes to moms, Crayon had me beat. Her mom battled drug addiction. Sometimes Crayon’s mom would go missing for weeks. Crayon’s older brother committed suicide when she was only a baby. She’d never gotten to know him. So, she didn’t have a sibling to lean on. Crayon had a chip on her shoulder, like many kids that grow up in her situation. I wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone anymore, and I wasn’t going anywhere. I opened the playlist on my phone and let the sound of oldies feel the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  Drinks? - Joy

  Can't, the parents are in town. - Rika

  Holy shit! R u okay? - Joy

  Nope. - Rika

  I'll be at our spot if you need me. - Joy

  K. - Rika

  I put my phone in my jacket and took a deep breath. Hours had passed since my parents showed up at the gallery to surprise me. Uncle Beau conveniently was out, running last-minute errands, so I couldn't rip him a new one. I knew he chose not to tell me because he knew it would add to my already full plate, but a heads-up would have been appreciated. Crayon left an hour after my parents. The rest of my day was filled with double checking everything for the show on Saturday.