by Cade Akers
We used to live in a dilapidated mining town in eastern Washington. When the industry and infrastructure was gone, this place became a refuge for hippies and wayward travelers. Some people tried hard to explain their odd predilections by talking about their journeys toward spiritual transcendence. They call this phenomenon bypassing whether a person is doing it willfully or not.
There was a time when my mom stopped shaving her legs and armpits and invited people over to smoke weed, or go down the hill to Dave’s little cabin for a meditation. He led the sessions and was related to Jill, a misanthropic lesbian whose children were Rose and Julie. I guess that made Dave their uncle. My dad said Jill tried to hit him with her car one day while he was jogging. I never knew if my mom disclosed his cheating on her or if Jill’s hatred ran deep enough for it not to matter. Later we learned that she’s serving time for murdering her daughter’s father.
Julie forced us into a room alone and closed the door. With a flat affect, she took off her clothes and mine, and she made me touch all over her body aggressively while she touched me. She was hurried but systematic, like she was witnessing her hands carry out a barely-conscious process. I was five, and Julie thirteen. Some time later, I poked her family’s pet lamb in the belly real hard with a stick until it bleated. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done.
I never trusted Dave. He stole a silver crucifix I found walking one time and lied about it, and he gazed at my sister for too long, sometimes. He seemed like the kind of person who was bypassing and knew all about it.