Shooting Sdax Read online

  Shooting Sdax

  V. Jolene Miller

  Copyright © 2019 by Author’s Ink

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]

  FIRST EDITION

  www.authorsinkalaska.com

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a great deal of thanks to several people. Celeste Ryane, thanks for the great discussion about the wounded child concept and helping me discover the word to use when identifying Sdax and Oscar. Jen Morrisett, you always make time to be my first reader and give critical feedback. My books would be garbage without you. When I asked Laura Karr if I could take pictures of her house because “it reminded me of Starr and Geoff’s place” she didn’t laugh. Laura is awesome like that. Thanks Trevor for gifting me books about Oscar Wilde to help me develop Morris’ character. Minnie Simon, thank you for introducing me to Hooper Bay and giving me an incredible tour of your hometown. Not only were you kind enough to connect me to people who proved valuable resources for this book and the next one, you make amazing pork chops too! You are a dear friend and I'm grateful to have you and your boys in my life. Ellen Wuerffel and Patricia Fick, thank you for taking the time to share your stories and experiences with me. May God bless the work you do in the mission field. Travis Burks, thanks for the unexpected but always appreciated support. Congratulations...you’re immortal now. I'm excited to see where your character goes in book 3. Shooting Sdax wouldn’t be complete without incredible beta readers like Berntina Sankwich, who finds all my spelling and typographical flaws and Tara Bertone, a fellow 10Minute Novelist with a background in mental health. Cathy Walker, thank you for another stunning book cover. Many thanks to Michele Mathews for her editing services. A great big thank you to Wassilene Pleasant for helping me with Yup'ik spelling and reading parts of this book to make sure it is culturally appropriate. Jonathan, my fabulous husband, I’m so thankful you took me to San Francisco and treated me to the San Francisco Writers Conference in 2014, giving me the perfect city to tell Starr’s story. Your unwavering support of this most expensive hobby of mine makes me so glad I married you.

  Dedication

  To Anji Audley, for a childhood of best friend memories and asking for Starr’s story. This book is for you.

  In honor of those who devote their lives to the helping field. In memory of those who have lost the battle.

  Calricaraq

  Healthy living.

  Never lance it.

  Splay the wound,

  Wider still.

  Scoop the poison, thick like pulp.

  Weep and mourn.

  Grieve.

  Wail.

  Caress it. Lovingly,

  Bid goodbye.

  Wash with tenderness.

  Wrap.

  Rest.

  Begin to heal.

  Calricaraq.

  War of the Wisps

  Wisps are everywhere. Little no-grows housed inside and alongside their respective carapace. Petulant, scatterbrained, and full of their own childish, irrational ideas. Some helpful, some not. Traumatized or idealized, wisps are the miniature versions of adults. Seen only by one another and their respective adults, wisps round out the population to double what the census man marks on his forms. The census man’s wisp uses crayon when he decides to help his adult finish his job.

  Though strong and capable of resilience, many wisps suffer stunted emotional health. Their attitudes are built on unresolved pain and trauma. Fuel their fear and anxiety, you might find yourself in the center of a temper tantrum or plunged into the deep end of the pool in an irrational game of holding your breath. In those instances, if you give them what they want, you might regret it. Tread carefully. Wisps are everywhere, and they’re watching.

  The single easiest way to find out how you feel about someone? Say goodbye.

  ~Phil Knight

  Contents

  Shooting Sdax

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Calricaraq

  War of the Wisps

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  Evening was on its way. Starr Randel stood on Steiner Street examining the houses like they were a row of hookers, and she was trying to decide which one to bed down for the night. Each house was three stories tall, and they reached into the clouds where they mingled with mythical creatures who danced until the rain came. Starr checked the note on her iPhone: 1368 Steiner Street. She was right where she was supposed to be, yet her boyfriend, Geoff Stone, was nowhere in sight.

  “Now what?” Starr muttered. She rummaged through her oversized purse and dug out a compact. Flipping the lid, she examined her face closely in the round mirror. “I should be glad he’s not here. I look awful.”

  Starr slouched her shoulders belying her five-foot nine-inch height. Her dark brown hair was ratty. Between the flight, the layover, and the cab ride, the look she’d started her day with was gone. Her long bangs had been held back with a barrette that disappeared hours ago, lost somewhere on her cross-country commute. The quiet smile she infrequently shared replaced by a frown and an occasional nervous tic in her cheek from the stress. Trying not to cry, she held the compact between her teeth and struggled to finger comb her hair into a more becoming look before checking her reflection again.

  “How is it possible I look worse now?” she moaned.

  Her precocious wisp, the eternal six-year-old wounded version of Starr, pirouetted for the empty sidewalk. Clad in a plaid jumper and black patent leather shoes, Sdax grinned. She liked showing off her missing front tooth. Her dark eyes matched Starr’s exactly but held a sparkle that faded with Starr’s age. After a stretch and a wiggle, Sdax took a bow. The hazy blue wisp was a combination of timid and rambunctious. Her single determination in life was to wear a fancy party dress at Starr’s celebration of life. All she had to do was convince Starr to die.

  “This house is giant, giant, giant,” Sdax said, rising up on her toes.

  All the rectangular windows were empty except the one next door to Geoff’s where a lone cat perched. Starr, surrounded by two large suitcases, a carry-on satchel, and her gigantic purse, fidgeted beneath the cat’s watchful eyes. Her purse was filled to the brim and so heavy, her shoulder ached from carrying it. Starr stretched her neck and rolled her head from side to side. She looked at the highest windows trying valiantly not to look like a peeping Jane. Still, only the cat watched her. It reminded Starr of her old cat Stanlie, an aging tuxedo cat she’d gifted to her former client, Rachel James. The decision had been spontaneous, brought on by Rachel’s report of her young son who couldn’t stop talking about cats. Rehoming Stanlie had seemed appropriate following Geoff’s invitation to move to San Francisco. A pang of loneliness and regret sucker punched her.

  Starr tried not to cry. “You’re easily amused,” she said. Starr let her purse slide off her shoulder and land on the sidewalk. It pitched forward but stopped before her belongings shifted and fell out. “Thank God.”

  “So cool.” Sdax twirled, trying to get the cat to notice her.

  Starr snickered
and scanned the area that was her new neighborhood. Steiner Street was a one-way. At the end of the block on the right was a corner deli. Next to it, a small walk-in coffee shop. It’s neon “Open” sign was dark. There were matching row houses from where Starr stood to the stop sign, and across the intersection were more row houses. Only a few young trees populated the area, planted neatly in holes dug into the sidewalk. Starr looked the other way. There was more of the same—row houses and trees. Across the street and catty-corner to where she stood was a large empty lot. It looked like a park without equipment. A tall, thin sign had writing on it that Starr couldn’t read from the distance.

  Not a soul walked past, so she plopped down on the biggest suitcase right in the middle of the sidewalk and looked back at Geoff’s house. “Cool? He better not expect me to clean that place by myself.”

  Starr met Geoff over a year before during what turned out to be the biggest mental health case she had ever worked. Her client, Rachel James, had discovered she was kidnapped at birth and had to make tough decisions about what family meant to her. Through it all, Geoff was kind. He helped her manage stress. They took long walks together with his dog Bridgette. Starr balked at first. She wasn’t one for dating or traditional relationships. She preferred a life of introverted solitude. Once she agreed to that first walk, things progressed quickly. Movie dates, dinners out, weekend brunch, and invitations from Geoff to stay the night at his place. Though Starr repeatedly affirmed her disbelief in couplehood as well as marriage, she continued to accept Geoff’s invitations. By the time the James’ case began to wind down, the media fallout from it ramped up, and Geoff took a job in San Francisco. They continued their long-distance relationship though Starr expected whatever flame Geoff had for her would eventually diminish and snuff out completely. But he upped the ante and suggested a cross country move from her home in nowhere Indiana to San Francisco, California.

  Maybe it was the fact Geoff hadn’t been traditional that tipped the scales for Starr. It was nice to think he loved her, and since he wasn’t down on one knee, she figured it was possible to continue growing their relationship in a non-traditional sense. A spiritual joining of lives, perhaps. If marriage presented itself, she would keep her last name. Separate finances, no kids. There was potential in a plan like that. So Starr accepted Geoff’s offer. A few flights and a taxi later, she was deposited on his front door step.

  Starr rubbed the heel of her shoe against the sidewalk in frustration. “Maybe it’s things like this that make women demand a ring and a date before they say, ‘I do.’ At least then they’re guaranteed to have a house key,” Starr said. She shook her phone as if doing so would cause Geoff to respond to the three texts she’d sent since the plane landed hours ago.

  Sdax’s infatuation with the cat grew, and she called to him, ignoring Starr’s mood. “Here kitty, kitty. Here, kitty.”

  Pressing the Bohemian style skirt against her legs, Starr was thankful the weather was comfortable. It was her anxiety making her sweat. She twirled the layered ring on her left finger reserved for a wedding band—a symbol of the question that was haphazardly mentioned but never formally asked. The ring and her bracelets doubled as Starr’s coping mechanisms. For the most part, she practiced what she preached to her clients. Besides, it was better to look stylish than crazy when resisting the pull of self-mutilation.

  She found most of her jewelry at antique malls on her days off, choosing the ones that called to her. Bracelets were her favorite. Thick, thin, metal, wood, or beaded, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the sense of calm they gave her. The others she’d found in an old cigar box she received shortly after her aunt Cecilia’s death. With them was a stash of yellowed letters tied with a faded purple ribbon. Starr tucked them away, never giving them another thought until she cleaned out her small one bedroom back home and made the trek to San Francisco. She shipped ahead all but the luggage at her feet and the letters sat waiting to be unpacked somewhere in the gargantuan row house in front of her.

  “There are worse things, right?” Starr asked her wisp. “Worse than being out here on a nice day?” But she couldn’t think of anything other than her craving for a cigar, the kind her aunt used to smoke. She inhaled deeply, pretending to suck in the sweet tar, and put her head in her hands, covering her eyes against the dread she felt.

  “Peek-a-boo,” Sdax said, giggling. She crouched in front of Starr, dropped her head in her hands, and pulled them away in glee.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Starr’s mouth. It’d been the two of them against the world for so long. “Ha ha. I hope your shenanigans keep you entertained when we’re living in a cardboard box.”

  “Peek-a-boo.”

  “You realize that’s going to happen, don’t you?”

  “I said, peek-a-boo.”

  “Fine. Peek-a-boo right back at you.”

  The little wisp put her hands on her hips. “No, like this,” she insisted and demonstrated a proper stance.

  “Rascal,” Starr said lovingly and followed directions only to shriek and jump to her feet when she opened her eyes. “Shit, Sdax!” Starr sidestepped the line of ants making their way under the hem of her skirt. A few feet away, she smacked her hips, legs, and backside twisting and turning until she was satisfied they weren’t crawling on her. “You could have told me I was sitting in a pile of bugs,” she growled.

  Her little wisp sat stone still, crouching above the ants. It scared her when Starr swore and yelled, reminding her of when they were little and frequently banished to Starr’s bedroom for being too loud, too annoying, or too childlike. Sdax opened her mouth to apologize, but before she could, she shimmered brightly and faded into the color of air. Someone was coming.

  “Is that some newfangled video call you’re on?” The question came from a woman, age undetermined. She was well endowed with curly brown hair that poked out from her head in various directions. Her belly sagged some, and she carried the cat from the window. It purred and stared down in Sdax’s direction as if he could intuit her presence.

  “What?” Starr asked.

  “Your phone.” The lady tapped an ornate cane against the ground. “You on video with someone? I didn’t even hear it ring.”

  Puzzled, Starr pulled the phone away from her forehead to inspect it. Was she on a video call? The black screen looked back at her. She tapped the home button only to be rewarded with a picture of her and Geoff’s smiling faces. They took the picture six months ago, the last time he’d been in Indiana. Starr frowned and wondered again why he insisted on her moving when it was clear by his lack of presence that he didn’t want her here. “No. I’m just waiting,” Starr told the lady.

  “Hmmmph. I guess your shouting is for the rest of our listening pleasure then? You interrupted my piano playing, you know.” Her cane bent under her weight as she inspected Starr from head to toe. She pointed her cane at Starr’s luggage. “From the looks of it, you’re the one he told me about.”

  “Okay,” Starr replied.

  “Now, I’m no holy roller like your friend, but you can keep your language to yourself.”

  “My language?”

  The woman snorted. “I’ve said my fair share of curse words back in my day, but ‘shit-Sdax’ is a new one.”

  At the sound of her name, Sdax fizzled back into her blue aura and sidled up to Starr, hiding in the folds of her skirt. She knew the woman couldn’t see her, but she was still scared.

  “Excuse me?” Starr asked.

  “You’re excused,” the lady said. She rubbed the cat against her nose like a tissue. “I’m Mossie Caulton. Ms. Caulton to you. And most people.” She held out an arthritic hand.

  Ms. Caulton looked down her nose at Starr though she was only a few inches taller. There was something about the way the old woman wore irritability like most people wore clothes. She pulled it over her head and lived in it like her favorite sweatshirt, bulky and warm. At first glance, the material looked inviting only to find it molded to the person weari
ng it. Mrs. Caulton’s irritability was hers alone. She shared it only with those she deemed worthy. Around her mouth were deep laugh lines that looked as if someone held her oval face in one hand while wielding a blade in the other. Though if asked, no one could recall the last time a smile had graced her puss. Was she pushing seventy or only creeping toward her early sixties? It was hard to tell.

  “I’m Starr. Randel.” Starr was surprised by Ms. Caulton’s firm grip. “Sorry if I bothered you.”

  “I’m used to it. Not that my constant battle with spitfire young people means I want to hear that kind of talk or anything. You get old, and people forget you still have ears to hear. Keep it to yourself. I know I’m old. I’ve got no patience for that kind of talk anymore.” She glared at Starr. “Shit Sdax. That some kind of new age swearing?”

  Sdax peeked around Starr’s leg and examined the stranger. All big people were nothing more than carapaces with an inner wisp. Some wisps were wounded and emotionally stunted. Others, happy and healthy. She wanted to know which kind Ms. Caulton had, and she wanted to pet the furry cat so badly. She reached out her hand only to snap it back when she heard someone burst out laughing.

  “Pet him already. She can’t see you.” Two feet away was Ms. Caulton’s wisp. She was older than Sdax but younger than Starr and much younger than her adult with the cane. The wisp wore her hair in a ponytail and was clothed in jeans, a button-down shirt, and loafers, surrounded by a slate blue haze, just like the one that surrounded Sdax.

  The little wisp bristled. “I know that.”

  “If you knew that, you wouldn’t hide like a baby.”

  She had a point. “Well, I didn’t know then, but now I do.”