Seven Days in June(94)

The horizon was eternal, endless, complete. All that existed was the swampy lake and a dramatic sky. America was celebrating itself—and Eva was feeling brave.

So she picked up her phone.





Today, 12:47 AM


EVA: Hope this isn’t weird. Just checking in to see how you’re doing.

SHANE: Oh! Hi! I’m good!

EVA: Great! You are?

SHANE: No. I’m sad, but trying not to be. Been trying to stay busy. Running 8 miles a day. Researching clean eating, again.

EVA: Yeah? What are you eating?

SHANE: Well…I get choice paralysis at Whole Foods, and end up going to the bodega for dinner. Have you tried Entenmann’s Lemon Iced Cake? Fucking triumph of unnatural ingredients. Idk. I guess I’m flailing. I don’t really know how to mourn properly.

EVA: No one does. But maybe grief counseling could help?

SHANE: Maybe. But enough about me. Tell me about Belle Fleur. Everything.

EVA: It’s heaven. Hot, humid, haunted heaven. It’s such a vivid place. It’s like, people settled here three centuries ago, and no one left. Everyone’s related. The supermarket checkout lady asked me “who my people was,” and when I told her I was a Mercier, she listed, like, nine ways we were cousins. I feel like I’m HOME on this bayou full of short people who inherited generations of farms and fields and stories and terror and rage and brilliance and resilience and gumbo and culture. And everyone looks like me!

SHANE: Everyone looks like you? The fucking promised land.

EVA: :)

SHANE: Eva, it sounds revelatory. Can we talk? I just wanna hear your voice.

EVA: I can’t talk to you yet.

SHANE: Okay. I understand. Reading your words was almost as good.





Two days later…

Shane collapsed on the grass in the middle of Washington Square Park after running his usual eight miles around Lower Manhattan. He was bathed in sweat, sticky, and pissed off. Running was supposed to make him feel good. And it did, while it was happening. But after, when his heart was thundering, his chest was burning, and his darkest, most buried thoughts were suddenly excavated, crystal clear and loud—there was only one thing he wanted to do. And he couldn’t. Shane couldn’t risk hurting her, so he had to find a way to fix himself by himself.

He wanted to talk to her.

That was where Shane was—flat on his back, a mere six feet from a fleet of meditating Hare Krishnas—when he got a text from her.

A voice note. Just her voice.

“Shane? Hi. I said I couldn’t talk to you yet. And I can’t. I’m not ready to hear your voice, but I know you’re in pain. So it might help you to hear mine. I’m just gonna talk, okay? Um. Where do I start? So, I’m staying with my aunt Da. She found me on Facebook’s ‘Belle Fleur Creoles’ page after I posted that I was looking for a room to rent. Da is short for Ida. Two syllables takes too long down here. Also, she’s not really my aunt; she’s my grandma’s second husband’s niece, but no one keeps score. You’d love her, ’cause…”

Eyes shut, grinning, Shane folded his hands on his chest and drifted.





Later that day…





Today, 3:23 PM


SHANE: Wyd?

EVA: Cowering in a corner.

SHANE: WHY? You okay? What’s wrong?

EVA: I’m in mortal terror. Aunt Da’s house is so charming. But it’s been in her family since the 1880s. It’s OLD, with water bugs, and there’s a huge one on my bed.

SHANE: Huge, like what?

EVA: LIKE CHRIS CHRISTIE OKAY? LIKE UNCLE PHIL. HUGE.

SHANE: Lol. You’re in the South, right? Lean into it. Lure him into a mason jar, deposit him under the shade of a mighty magnolia tree, pour him a mint julep, and skedaddle.

EVA: I saw Aunt Da smush one with her thumb. Right on her kitchen counter. It crunched like it had BONES, Shane. And I crumbled. You know, I feel such a kinship with Aunt Da. But when she did that, it hit me…like, wowww lady, we’re from different worlds. SORRY, GOTTA GO, IT’S MOVING!!!





A day later…





Today, 2:40 PM


SHANE: Did the water bug eat you?

EVA: Yes, I’m texting from his larynx. What are you doing?

SHANE: Wondering how your head’s doing in that humidity.

EVA: Truthfully? I’m in ferocious pain, rn. Still in bed.

SHANE: Fuck. Is there anything I can do to help from here? They got Seamless on the bayou?

EVA: Too nauseous to eat. You know what’d help? If you told me a story. An original one. Actually, no, I want a poem.

SHANE: You’re v. demanding. Hmm. I’m a terrible poet, but I got you. Hold on.

SHANE: .….

SHANE: .…

SHANE: There once was a girl named Eva

I liked her the moment I see’d her

Wish I could live in her dimple

If only life were that simple

I was a fool to ever leave her

There once was a boy named Shane

Who’d kill to ease her pain

If only he could change the past

If only this poem didn’t suck ass

But Eva has only herself to blame

EVA: This is my favorite poem of all time.