House Of Sand

This is a slow-burning lesbian romance. I welcome feedback, and to satisfy an odd curiosity of mine, please let me know if you get off to my story. If you have any questions or interests, or if you simply want to have a conversation, feel free to email me. I will respond. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! -Abby Ray

HOUSE OF SAND

PROLOGUE

- Charleston, South Carolina -

April

I heaved as I approached the finish line, my skin drenched, my muscles screaming, my throat crying for water. My body begged me to stop, but the roar of the crowd buried the drumming of my heart, and the clapping of runners' feet silenced the fire in my legs. I crossed beneath the final banner with my arms toward the sky.

"Congratulations!" A young man shouted as he gifted me a medal. "Thanks," I huffed, leaning my weight against my knees. I fingered the medal's design:

Cooper River Bridge Run: 10K.

"Let's go, Maddie," Brie yelled as she smacked my back. "Wooh! What took you so long?"

"You -- will ya give me a second to catch my breath? I tried my best." I puffed, "fifty-four minutes isn't too bad."

"I've been here for ages," she bragged, loosening her sweaty red hair from its bun. "I almost had time to grab a cup of coffee."

"Oh, shut up," I exhaled. "Got the same medal as you, didn't I?" I clinked mine against hers. She shook her head passively to silently admit I was right. I badgered, "and it's not even a race -- it's a run. You didn't finish first. You were probably five-thousandth."

"Yeah, yeah," Brie rolled her eyes. "There were forty-thousand runners. You'd have to be God himself to finish first."

We strode down Meeting Street in the 350-year-old city, the beauty of which I paid little attention during the run. My galloping heart gave way to pride as I wore the medal around my neck, its weight clashing against my chest in rhythm with my movement. Brie handed me a bottle of water and suggested, "you have to make sure you come down here next year and do the run. No skipping out just because you're moving away."

"No skipping out," I sighed.

"Hey!" Brie demanded with a cordial shove. "That didn't sound very confident. You can't give up after your first Cooper River run."

"I'm not," I denied, my shoulders sinking. "You just reminded me about graduating and working like a real adult. I'd love to do this running stuff more often."

"Hey, at least you're graduating in a month. I have another year of this crap."

I contended, "but I like college because it's predictable: do this, get a grade. That's been my whole life. What if I'm terrible at my new job?" I drank the entire bottle in a few gulps.

"You'll be fine," she consoled, waving her hand. "Quit worrying and be happy."

"Like it's that easy," I snapped. I pointed at her shallowly, "but I'll be back next year and I'm going to finish before you."

"Like hell you are," she scoffed.

* * *

I earned both my bachelor's and master's degrees at the University of South Carolina with no time between. I graduated Saturday only to begin a new semester the following Monday. I grew up in a small town in northern Virginia, a stark contrast to the city life I had grown to love in college. My hometown is far enough away from Washington and major highways that it is unbothered by tourists and travelers, but close enough that its residents can reach the capital in a short time. It is a community in the truest sense. The town has one doctor, and he is your neighbor. The owner of the downtown drug store is the wife of the mayor. The butcher is your friend from grade school. The police force, comprising of one lone officer, is the son of the Baptist pastor. Married couples are high school sweethearts. Any resident of the town can spot a visitor from miles away.

You are expected to attend church on Sunday, either at the Baptist church on Main Street or at the Salvation Army in the southerly town. If you neglect your worship routine, even for just one Sunday, people talk about you. They wonder where you could be that is so important to miss church. If you are sick, they promise you prayers. But you had better not be seen in public if you were too ill to go to church.

After graduating with my master's degree, I moved to Washington. My apartment was submerged in the thrill of urban life, but near enough to my hometown that I could visit my parents regularly. In Washington, I could disappear. I could blend in with the crowd.

Pedestrians lunge past those who casually stroll. They wear suits and professional attire and carry briefcases. People flurry in and out of restaurants and businesses with little regard for those around them. They stare at their phones or watches, not at the astounding architecture before them. The city clamors with a peculiar excitement. The buzzing of horns, humming of engines, and wail of sirens crowds the air. Her pristine horizon is not muddled with man-made towers, except for the dome of the Capitol protruding into the sky. She is devoid of wildlife, aside from the estranged birds dueling for scraps among her landscape. Her people are vagabonds trapped in a seemingly perpetual state of urgency. Each of her citizens, while submerged in a broad, diverse society, live their lives in isolation as if the population of the city never exceeds but one individual.

Chapter I -

Anastasia

- Washington, DC -

May

All I had to do was stay awake for fifteen more minutes, but my eyes had become stone. I was aware of what I was doing, though unable to stop myself. Every time I veered to the right, the rumble strips jolted my heart and pushed me back to the center of the lane. If I had any sense, I would have stopped until I was fit to drive.

But it's just fifteen more minutes. I can handle it, right?

I repeated the mistake a dozen times, drifting in and out of consciousness until the rumble strips were no longer enough to wake me.

When I awoke, Mom sat on my right, clutching my hand with her soft, cold fingers. Dad was opposite her, his face pale and heavy. "Hey sweetie," Mom whispered.

"Hey, Mom," I answered, my voice raspy and dry.

"How are you feeling?"

I looked down toward my leg, upon which there was an awful bruise, a testament to my stupidity. "Never better," I quipped. A subtle smile crept along Dad's face, but it faded when I groaned. It felt as if someone had driven a knife through my skin. Mom clutched my hand more tightly as if I were slipping away from her.

"Is it broken?" I blurted, squeezing the bedsheets with my left hand.

"Doctor says it is," Mom answered. "That's the x-ray on the wall," she pointed to the skeletal outline of my cracked bone, illuminated in the otherwise dark room.

I closed my eyes to hide my tears. "I'm such an idiot."

"No, you're not," Mom consoled. "This is not the time to worry about that. God was watching over you tonight, so let's just be thankful you're okay."

But I was driving sleepy. I knew it was wrong. If I had just--"

Dad raised his hand, "but you're alive, and that's what's important."

"What about my car?" I sighed, tightening the muscles in my face. The pitch of my voice raised as the pain crept throughout my body.

"Totaled," he described plainly. "At a body shop in Fairfax right now."

"Oh, Lord," I whined.

Dad persisted, "your insurance will cover everything. Just focus on resting and recovering."

Another seizure of pain strangled my leg. "What time is it?" I squealed, clenching my teeth.

"It's about four in the morning," Dad looked at his watch. "Guess you've been here about three hours or so."

I yelped as another sharp bolt arrested my composure. "Just be still, Maddie," Mom fallaciously instructed. She placed her hand over my arm. "You're beat up a little."

I brought my hand to my forehead. "What's this?" I questioned, fiddling with the bandage above my eye.

"It's a small gash," Mom reported. Her voice was accented with horror, "the cop said your engine pushed through the car and broke your leg -- and that you hit your head on the roof of your car."

"My head doesn't feel too bad," I remarked coarsely.

Dad added, "well, they also gave you some painkillers, so you probably feel a little better than you really are."

We just thank God you're okay," Mom asserted, clutching the cross on her necklace. "And we thank God that he sent that girl to take care of you."

"What girl? I don't remember any--" I shrieked and bouldered my fists. "Ahhh!"

"Be still, Maddie," Mom raised her voice.

"I'm trying, Mom," I squawked. "And what girl are you talking about?"

"The girl who called 911 and stayed with you." She snapped her fingers as she attempted to recall her name. "Anna -- her name was Anna."

Dad observed, "I don't think she remembers, Jen."

"I don't," I admitted. "I remember crashing -- I remember being sleepy. But I don't remember anything between then and now. I don't remember any woman either."

Mom observed, "the doctor said you hit your head, but that it's not a big deal. She said it's minor and you need to just take it easy." Mom motioned toward the door, "matter of fact, Jim, go tell the nurse that Maddie's awake. They said they were going to get her leg in a cast soon."

Dad left and Mom went on, "just get some rest. You'll have a lot of recovering to do before you start your new job."

I thrashed my head against the pillow. "I haven't even thought of that. How am I going to work with my leg like this?"

Mom repeated, "like I said, just take it easy and you'll heal faster. But you're stubborn and you know you are."

I smirked half-heartedly, "not on purpose."

"And that's what gets you in trouble sometimes," Mom scolded.

Dad returned with the doctor. "Good morning, Ms. King. How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I guess." The doctor, a young African American woman, smiled. She was more energetic than the situation required.

"You're having a pretty rough day, so we're going to make this as easy as possible. Do you remember the crash?"

"I remember everything before the crash and the crash itself, but I don't remember anything afterward until I woke up here."

"Tell me your birthday, Maddison," the doctor requested.

"September 18, 1997."

"Good," the doctor affirmed after confirming my answer on her clipboard. "And who's the president of the United States?"

"Joe Biden," I muttered.

"Good. Lastly, what was the first question I asked after 'how are you feeling'?"

I pondered a moment before replying, "do you remember the crash?"

"Great!" She stood at my feet, put the clipboard aside, and clasped her hands together. "Let's do the good news first, then the bad news." She looked at me for verification. I nodded to give her permission to proceed. "So, good news: you hit your head, but it's minor. You have memory loss of the event -- or the brief time after the event. That's normal and it doesn't seem you've lost anything more than that. Your head will be fine as long as you take it easy, though you probably will have headaches in the coming weeks. That's the good news. Everything else is fine with the exception of your leg, and we'll cast it in just a minute. The bad news is that it's broken. You'll have to keep weight off of it for about six to eight weeks. That means using a wheelchair or crutches. And I can write you a note for your place of employment."

I interjected, "actually, I don't start work until mid-August."

"Okay," the doctor grinned. "That's even better. Where are you working?"

"High school teacher at Haley High School. I'll be starting my first year." My mind sank as I remembered the anxiety-inducing responsibilities I would soon have, but then raised itself when I considered the excitement of the job.

"Oh, wow," the doctor praised. "That'll be fun. And mid-August is about eight weeks away, so if you take it easy, you might be walking normally by then." She squeezed her hands more tightly and hardened her countenance. "But I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping weight off your leg. If you don't stay off of it, six to eight weeks can turn into twelve or even sixteen weeks."

I nodded, "yes, ma'am."

"But as far as I'm concerned," the doctor went on, "you're free to go once we get your leg cast. Someone will be in here to schedule some follow-up appointments with you, but that's it. I'm prescribing you a few pain meds, which I'd recommend you pick up today."

A nurse came and cast my leg. Afterward, I hobbled down the hallway on crutches, my arms burning from the stressing of often-neglected muscles.

"Are you sure you don't want a wheelchair?" Mom whispered.

"I'm fine, Mom."

As we approached the elevator, a young woman was sitting in one of the waiting areas. She rose as soon as she saw me clumsily hopping along, taking care not to further injure myself.

The woman approached us politely. She was fine-looking, standing tall with good posture. She boasted an asymmetrical hairstyle -- golden blond -- a modern fashion gesturing boldness. On one side, it hung partially over her eye, and on the shorter side, it rested behind her ear. Her jawline was well-defined, and instead of wearing makeup, she relied on her natural beauty.

"Hey," she said softly. "Doing well?"

"As good as I can be, I suppose." I narrowed my brow, unsure of who the woman was.

Mom open-hand pointed toward her. "Maddie, this is the young lady who saw your accident and called for help. Then she came here to make sure that Dad and I got here."

"Oh, thank you so much," I lauded, bowing my head.

Mom continued, "you might not have been okay without her."

The woman replied, "I really didn't do anything special. I just called the paramedics who handled it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I left."

"No, you could have kept going, so I appreciate you very much. Apparently, I was in and out of it. I don't remember anything after the crash. I could still be out there for all we know if you hadn't stopped."

The woman smiled, revealing a cute pair of dimples on either side of her mouth. "I just did what anyone else would have done," she said with humility. But I'm glad you're alright." She spoke with a firm alto voice.

"What's your name, if you don't mind my asking. I'm sorry -- I don't remember."

She answered, "Anna." Her dimples appeared again juxtaposed to her gleaming teeth. "Is there anything else you need? I don't live very far from you." I raised my eyebrows, wordlessly imploring her to clarify. She added, "the 911 operator asked how old you were. I looked for your birthday on your drivers' license and happened to see your address. We both live on Georgia Avenue."

"Oh, thank you, but I think--"

Dad interrupted, "well, Maddie, if she lives near you it would be good to have someone to call on in an emergency. We live over an hour away and you know how traffic can be."

Mom noted, "yeah, and in the short time you've lived in that apartment, have you met anyone you can rely on?"

"Not really," I accepted. "I mean, there's my neighbor, though I don't know him all too well. But I wouldn't want to be someone else's burden. You've already done more than is necessary."

"Oh, it wouldn't be a problem," Anna ensured. "And I'd feel terrible if I knew I could be useful but refused to lend a hand."

Mom voiced, "and you don't want an unfamiliar man to help you in an emergency."

"Okay," I leveled with hesitance. We exchanged numbers, and though I had no intention of calling on her for assistance, I supposed it wasn't going to hurt to have an extra lifeline.

"God bless you," Mom said.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said as I shuffled toward the elevator. I turned back and repeated, "seriously, thank you." She nodded earnestly as the elevator doors partitioned us.

* * *

Living with a broken leg was hell. I bobbled around my apartment like a drunken man. In support, Mom stayed with me for six days after the crash. She helped cook, clean, and do tasks that would have otherwise been simple for any normally-functioning person. Yes, Mom was a great help, but it was hard living with her again, even if it was just for a short time. We did not watch the same TV shows, listen to the same music, or share the same hobbies. While I enjoyed reading, she would have preferred a conversation. While I liked historical documentaries and fiction, she watched scripted reality TV. I loved my mother, but there was only so much time we could spend in the same room before the annoyance became overwhelming.

I use the terms "parents" and "Mom and Dad" in the cultural sense of the definition. Mom and Dad were my adoptive parents. It never sat well with me as a child when school teachers referred to them as "guardians" or "foster parents." To me, they were my true parents, and like any child, I did my best to please them. When I was not away at college, I attended church regularly. This was mostly to appeal to Mom and Dad. I cared little for what the pastor preached or the hymns we sang. For me, church was a chore I would have had no problem abandoning, and I would have thrown off the principle entirely if it would not have disappointed my family.

The Sunday morning after my accident -- five days -- Mom appealed, "do you think you can make it to church?"

I subtly clenched my fists. I knew she was going to ask. I wanted to say, "no, Mom, I can't." Or better yet, "Mom, I don't want to go at all because it's a waste of time." I sighed as I considered the thought. She rubbed her hands together in anticipation of an affirmative answer.

She inserted, "everybody is worried about you. They'd like to pray for you." Mom couldn't keep a secret better than she could keep the sun from rising in the morning. She called everyone she knew to tell them about my condition. She had good intentions, sure. But I wasn't thrilled about having half of Virginia feeling sorry for me. I was rather introverted, something my parents never quite understood.

"Can't they pray for me while I'm at home?" I contented, trying to balance myself between the crutches.

Mom crossed her arms, "well, you don't have to go. I'm just saying it'd be nice if you're able. You said yesterday you were already antsy to get out of the house."

This is how Mom spoke when she wanted me to do something but wanted me to think it was my choice. In reality, it wasn't. I kept my disparity to myself and conceded, "okay, I'll go if we don't hang around forever when it's over. These meds make me sleepy."

Mom's face brightened. "Good, I already told them you'll be there."

Often, I silently critiqued the pastor's message instead of taking it as "food for the soul," as he frequently presented it. On one occasion, for instance, the pastor claimed he was thankful to God because he did not have to stop at a single red light one particular morning. I laughed at the thought. Is it God's will that you make every green light? Surely, the law of large numbers considers that, at least once per year, you'll have a morning when you're lucky enough to get all green lights. And what of the people who had to wait at a red while God allowed you to keep moving? Does God consider your trip to Wal-Mart more important than everyone else's responsibilities?

For years, I battled thoughts surrounding my understanding of the church and its principles. During my time in college, I never once went to church unless I was back home in Virginia, though my parents believed I was going every week. Still, I felt guilty sometimes; I wanted to be a free, independent thinker, but there was that bothersome voice in the back of my head that held me back -- the voice that was born from years of learning of the eternal damnation for the unholy.