something so noble, the mainlanders eventually referred to them as Les Valiers, which over time, became known as Valirs. The language is a sub-dialect of Cajun, sharing many of the same words, but it’s the pronunciation of them that seems to be a distinguishing factor. That, and it apparently incorporates more European French, from what I’ve read.
Not that I’d know the difference, since I can’t speak a lick of it.
With a quick nod toward the man who greeted me, I duck into the restroom and flip the light on. Toying with the knob fails to release the stiff lock that keeps it from closing entirely, and I huff in frustration, seriously pondering the idea of dropping trou somewhere alongside the road instead of here. At least I wouldn’t hear conversation while I try to relieve myself.
The bathroom itself is clean and quaint and smells like disinfectant, which is nice. Ears piqued, I do my business as quickly as I can, keeping my eyes fixed through the crack in the door for any peeping Toms. A brief wash of my hands, and I wet some paper towels in the cool water to drag across the sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. Outside the door, the men keep on with their chatter, and I nod once more as I pass, on my way to the truck.
I don’t know when my distrust of people began, really. If it was always there, or just became more pronounced the older I got and began to notice the stares. At home, they tended to be rife with animosity, while here, they seem more curious. Wary, maybe.
Or welcoming, and I’ve just become too jaded to know what a friendly gesture looks like these days.
Once back at my truck, I fire up the engine and head out to the highway. A few miles off stands the Veilleux Bridge that connects Chevalier Isle to the mainland. Only about two miles long, it’s not quite as lengthy as the Mackinac Bridge back at home, but it’s vertical height and the slight curve of it makes the thing look like a treacherous rollercoaster hill.
The island, shrouded in mystery, prides itself on the number of tourists that visit for its beaches and Festival des Morts that happens every summer. A carnival that, I’ve read, is a cross between Mardi Gras and Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Rich in its own Valir culture, the island’s dark folklore has always given me the impression of a southern French Transylvania, darkly enchanting, and the locals are said to be friendly, if not a little strange for their beliefs in the spectral and macabre. This island alone boasts more ghost stories than all of Louisiana combined.
And I’m one of them.
Every steel deck panel that passes beneath my wheels feels like the clink of the track, and a thrill winds in my stomach while I drive across. At either side, Veilleux Bay stretches out into the Gulf in a bird-speckled, endless blue horizon, and with the height of the bridge, it’s almost as if I’m flying over it. For as long as I can remember, the ocean has always been a fascination of mine. It’s creatures, unfathomable depths, and mystery, call to me like a siren, and I would give anything to, one day, sail the open sea.
Highly unlikely, seeing as I can’t afford a boat, let alone sail it, but hey, a girl can dream.
The scenery soon gives way to a stretch of stilted houses along the shoreline, whose weathered exteriors are a testament to the many storms that pummel this island during hurricane season. Spike-tipped palmettos and white sand give the place a tropical island feel, but it’s further down the causeway, when the scenery begins to shift to long stretches of crepuscular woods and swamplands, dotted with the occasional forlorn-looking house, that I’m reminded it’s no paradise. The isle itself carries a strange and eerie ambience that somehow seems to exist under a constant layer of fog, even in afternoon daylight. Darkly spellbinding, and almost otherworldly when compared to the mainland.
Another ten minutes on the road, and a tightness pulls like a rope across my chest. The closer I get to the place that was once my home, the thicker the air in my lungs. Will I recognize the house when I see it? Will I remember everything that happened? What if I suffer a panic attack, alone, by myself?
I pull the truck off to the side of the road just before