"Sugar Land" by Priscilla Atkins
Sugar Land
I. Piqued by a bare bones obit, I crunch the internet
So soft, so brown. Her gaze could be anyone’s mom’s. Small wonder, when they busted
Celeste with her stash of Oxycodone, Crack Cocaine, Black Tar Heroin, the officers balked. Half-smile, shades pushed up, shoulder-length hair brushed and clipped, mugshot Celeste looks like she’s at a neighborhood pool watching her kids.
E-trolling further, I snag a school newsletter: Celeste and her ex flank their track star high schooler. The hotel room raid only months past — is this white privilege, full blast?
Decade later, forty-eight — she’s dead. Takes me an hour of Facebook high jumps to score: cardiac arrest (like her father, I elsewhere discover). In her daughter’s last post, Celeste looks heavier, older, tired at the seams. Perhaps trouble runs in the genes.
LinkedIn rolls me a casino job, and a chunk before that (for God’s sake): a B.S. in Chemistry! Minors: Biology, Math. Who’d guess the skimpy death notice’s “easy going gal,” all over “solving puzzles, LSU football,” once worked as a senior chemist in the sweetest sounding town in Texas.
II. Facebook Fantasia
Weeks pass. For old times sake, I drop by. Buttered toast. I knew about two pages: here’s a third. Celeste’s only “Hello” two years ago. Have to laugh. I’d gone to such lengths to piece together my version of her. Now, as if I am the one ear meant to receive it, the internet gods hand me this:
I have been a success, a failure, an overly adored and admired child, a genius, a chemist, a dentist’s wife, a mom of 2, an abusive drug addict's wife, a victim, an aggressor, rich, poor, jet set, homeless, but mostly I felt I was never good enough. Now I know how stupid I was to believe that. Had it not been for my childhood next door neighbor accidentally seeing me on Facebook and messaging me, there is no doubt I would not be here today. We talked until dusk, I didn't want to say much, but he dropped everything, said “Where are you right now, I'm coming to get you.” At that point I had NO ONE, my mom had died of a massive heart attack and my grandparents who helped raise me were also gone, and I was an only child who grew up not knowing my father. God sent Mark to me that day. Black eyes, concussions, I can't imagine what I looked like. But it didn't matter. The first thing he told me was how beautiful I was. The thing is, he needed me too. So never give up on life. God may have some surprises out there for you. You may be a light for someone else. It’s been over 2 years now, I've never loved anyone more, but I still want to throw something at him every once in a while, especially this kiss x: I love you Mark G.
III. Looking for Husband #2
In her brief obit, where this treasure hunt began, Celeste’s children’s surname made fingering #1, the dentist, a breeze. And Mark G., her last love, is writ large: “Before big games, Celeste enjoyed crawfish boils with her fiancé Mark G.” But the second husband (“the abusive addict” of Celeste’s eloquent post) — whom I suspect asked Celeste to babysit his hotel room drugstore — him, I’d completely missed.
A half-hearted sweep makes me wish I’d leave well enough alone. Instead of mystery man (whom I never find), I dredge up this bulletin:
Celeste C___, age 47, 606 Hennika St. _______, LA.
Domestic abuse battery, bench warrant (2 counts).
Arrested by _______Police Department. May 2019.
Mark G’s address is also 606. Months before she died, Celeste’s arrest, here, puts her casual aside “still want to throw something at him” in a whacky new light.
IV. Grace to have lived
Celeste’s obit has no “family by her side.” Best bet: she died alone. Perhaps quickly. A painless sigh. R.I.P., smart, kind (like me — sometimes), complex woman. Adored child, genius, chemist. Your list should include “maker of poems.” I’ll call this one “Sugar Land.”
Priscilla Atkins
Priscilla Atkins reads, writes, frets, and substitute teaches in the public schools in Holland, Michigan. A retired librarian, she is the author of The Café of Our Departure (Sibling Rivalry Press) and Drinking the Pink (Seven Kitchens Press). Her work has appeared in Poetry London, The Los Angeles Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, and other journals.
Headshot: Priscilla Atkins
Photo Credit: Staff