What They Told Us

By Alissa Nicole

Charlie Sannover has followed her father from place to place her entire life but has never been quite sure what they've been running from or where they might end up. Arriving at a new home in Southern Arkansas, she begins to experience more odd than usual and finds herself face-to-face with two individuals she feels inexplicably tied to. Together, the three explore a darker side of the past in order to right the wrongs that came before them, but breaking deals by making deals is a lot mor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644243701

Book preview

One

Charlie Sannover had always been an odd girl around whom odd things continued to happen. In her toddler years, a soft, kind-eyed wolf the color of ash had peered into her bed and taken her up by the fabric of her nightie. As carefully as she could, the wolf carried Charlie out the window and placed her at the foot of a thousand-year-old oak tree. And Charlie watched the roots beneath light up with a vibrant orange glow and spread out long past the house and the surrounding community. And in that glow she felt the whole world rise up and envelop her in a warm embrace. Later on, she’d wonder if it had been her mother.

On her seventh birthday, as she and her father exited the ice cream parlor—he had a double scoop of mint chocolate chip and coffee, and she had a double scoop of birthday cake and strawberry—a hawk three times as large as Charlie dove from seemingly nowhere and dropped a slim purple box at her feet. She’d reached for it, but it was her father who opened it to find a series of rocks and crystals of various sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as a note in sloppy scrawl:

To keep him away.

And on every following birthday, a similar package would show up on the front porch of any house they happened to be staying in with a new assortment of crystals and the exact same note.

Then there had been the dreams.

Ever since the wolf incident, she’d had the same recurring dream involving an elephant—a blue elephant, actually. And every time, the elephant bowed before her and offered a pomegranate with its trunk. And each time she reached forward to take it, the whole scene went black and cold and sulfurous. Sometimes she’d wake up then, but more often than not, she was not so lucky.

Out of the darkness boomed a voice so low and chilling hearing it made Charlie feel like she’d shrunk four sizes. And the voice always called her by name and offered some sort of agreement. All she would have to do was look at her reflection and say hello three times, and if she did that, the voice would spare her father. And then she would be shown an image of the man who had raised her, done everything possible to ensure her safety, who would come to wipe her tears when she inevitably woke—and he was pale and lifeless, surrounded by a pool of his own blood.

And she’d always wake to the voice cackling away.

So when her classmates called Charlie odd, most often much less politely, she couldn’t help but agree. She’d only stay in one place long enough for them to realize this, and she tended to think that was best. Not that she didn’t long for a connection with someone, but she always ducked out before the name-calling really began, and she could do without being called a witch.

Of course, it ultimately depended on her father. About two months into a new place, he’d sit her down and ask her to pack so they could leave the next morning. And he never made her feel like it was her fault, but his eyes always told a different story. Never mean. Never dishonest.

And so they’d pack up and start again somewhere further down the line with a new story, which is where we are now.

*****

Charlie looks at the school front—this one with grand columns and Bradford Central High in big bronze letters at the top. Her father had cracked each window of the rusty family Honda at the beginning of the trip because the AC had died halfway to the new house last night, and every so often, the wind brought in the strong stench of grass and teenage sweat. So she watches the mass of adolescents chat their way through the doors, all the while wondering just how many more times she’d look at a similar scene.

We can wait until tomorrow if you’d like, her father offers. There’s a lot left to unpack. It would be okay to take a day.

She shakes her head. No, better get it over with.

You have the paperwork? he asks.

She nods. Yup.

If you need me for anything—

I know. She flashes a smile.

And she sees the concern in his cow-brown eyes and thinks to herself that must be what he sees in hers.

She places a hand on the door and takes a deep breath. On the exhale, for a moment she sees the orange roots stretch far underneath the building ahead. And in that image, she finds peace.

Don’t worry, he assures her. You’ll be fine.

I’m not worried, she says.

And this time she means it.

Charlie steps out of the Honda and shuts the door softly behind her. She takes one step. Then another. And then her legs throw her into the crowd. The wave carries her inside and through a hallway that reeks of airplane air-conditioning and wet paint. All sorts of faces pass her by, fleeting eyes and whipping tongues; but none catch more than a moment of her attention, nor do they place her at any focus. And to her that’s all right.

The wave spits her out by the main office and leaves her to walk in alone. An older Latino man sits behind the desk, behind a name plate that reads Señor Nuñéz. At her entrance, he glances up through wire glasses and breaks into a fond grin.

Hola, señorita, he says in a gravely, heavily accented voice. What can I do for you?

My father phoned yesterday, Charlie explains. We just moved from Baton Rouge.

Ah! He lifts a pointer finger. "Sí, sí. Señora Walters left me a note. She’s at a conference, you see. In Colorado! I’m very jealous."

Oh, she nods slowly, how nice.

But I can help you, he eyes the file in her hands. Might I have a looksie at your papers?

With a nod, she hands him the folder she’d watched her father compile over breakfast. He flips through slowly, every so often marking on a purple sticky note. When finished, he sets it aside and leans over a keyboard.

You move a lot, eh? he says. Your papa a military man?

She shakes her head. Anthropologist.

And it’s partially true.

Her father had finished his undergraduate from Penn State before meeting her mother on an excursion in Savannah, Georgia. And he had been enrolled in graduate studies in ethnoantropology, but when Charlie was conceived some months later, that had been placed on the backburner. So when he’s lucky, he takes jobs as an adjunct at one of the local universities and can smile when he calls himself that in front of a classroom full of co-eds; but more often than not, he takes the handyman jobs or factory jobs or anything he can find on such short notice.

So, yes, he is an anthropologist. Just not a practicing one.

Señor Nuñéz nods. Ah, well, okay then.

The printer behind him whirs alive and spits out a temporary schedule, which he glances at once more before handing it over.

"If you wait a moment, I can call up my nieta—I mean, my nieto, forgive me, he stammers. It is new to me, you see. My nieta just told us she is now my nieto. I say, no problem, but, uh, telling my tongue that is another thing."

He manages a short, embarrassed laugh.

"I appreciate if this is not mentioned to mi amor, mi nieto, he says. I wish not to upset him. Big test today."

Charlie nods. Okay.

Gracías, señorita, he flashes a smile. I’ll call him down.

While the man is on the intercom, Charlie takes the opportunity to glance around. The office itself is rather bland and reminiscent of every other main office she’s ever had to step into, but the decorations occasionally placed here and there strike her as odd. Every object seems to be blue or white or clear, and each seems to fit a coastal theme. She thinks for a moment it has more to do with Señor Nuñéz’s heritage or birthplace, as it isn’t necessarily a style she thought would be so prominent in the high school of a town in the absolute north of Louisiana, but it strikes her as something much more important.

She looks to the table behind his desk and finds a small royal-blue cloth underneath a figurine of a mermaid sitting in the mouth of an oyster shell. Her skin is dark and her hair is wrapped up in a white cloth, and she neither smiles nor frowns. And even from far away, Charlie gets the sense this inanimate object somehow knows her, watching her.

That is my orisha, Señor Nuñéz acknowledges her gaze. Yemaya, she’s called. Other religions like to see her as Mother Earth, and for some reason, that means they associate her with dirt and trees an’ all this other hippie stuff that liberals like to claim when fighting the green fight, you know? But they forget just how much of our world is covered with water, and so they forget she’s mother to that too.

If you don’t mind me asking, what religion are you? Charlie asks.

Santería, he explains, cracking a smile. "Mi hijo is the priest around here. Perhaps you can come to a ceremony one day. It’s quite the experience."

The door to the office opens, and a boy with eyes the same as the man standing before Charlie walks in. He dons a baggy bright-yellow sweatshirt and straight-legged jeans. And his smile is sweet and kind, even if slightly embarrassed.

"You called for me, abuelo?" he says.

"Sí, Salvador, Señor Nuñéz nods. This is Charlotte Sannover. I said you might be able to show her around."

Charlie, she corrects, extending a hand.

Sal, he shakes it.

Hasta luego, patos. Señor Nuñéz waves.

Adíos, abuelo, Sal says.

And he opens the door and walks Charlie into the hall. He turns to her and manages an awkward smirk. Sorry about him, he says. He has a tendency to say too much.

What did he say while we were leaving? Charlie asks. Patos?

Ducks, he says with a nod. And then he starts walking.

Charlie follows him past an