Out of the Blackness (9 page)
After bowling, we decided to go see the new Kate Hudson movie, during which I fell fast asleep, my head tucked against Sam’s muscular shoulder, and dreamed about throwing strikes. By the time the movie ended, it was time to head back to the apartment for dinner. I asked Sam for hot chocolate for dessert, knowing I would need a good night’s rest to deal with Day One of Retail Hell. Besides which, I figured the two lovebirds would enjoy a night to themselves, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be interrupting whatever they got up to.
So it surprises me when the first swallow of Frappuccino brings with it thoughts of Noah Yates. Perhaps it’s just because I sit here on the bench, the place where we’ve had most of our interactions, but I wonder what his holiday was like. Does he have brothers or sisters? Wait—he has a brother, the one he came in to buy the comic book for. I picture a scene right out of the books and movies, something involving a large family of gigantic but good-looking people sitting around an enormous table, stuffing themselves with turkey and laughter.
Suddenly, I feel as hollow as in those first days after Joey died. And for the first time in years, I wonder where my younger half-brothers are, if they have a good life or if Carl and Mom and Carl’s boys managed to scar them physically and emotionally as badly as they did me. The thought of those two perfect, beautiful little boys going through the hell I did brings tears to my eyes. I wonder how old they were when Carl hit them for the first time. It’s not an “if” question. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he beat them, too. Perhaps he still does. I do a quick calculation and realize Jeremy is already sixteen and Robert is almost fourteen. They were just babies when I left. I can only hope Mom dropped them off somewhere, too, and that they’re safe, although I can’t imagine Carl letting something like that happen to
his boys
. I wonder if she ever wishes she had kept me around to absorb the poundings her two youngest didn’t deserve.
“How was your Turkey Day, Avery?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of Noah's voice. My bottle falls to the ground, but unlike my composure, it doesn’t shatter. Quickly I stoop to pick it up, mindful of the mess it’s creating by spilling its sugary contents onto the cracked concrete. I can’t bring myself to look in Noah’s direction, even as he apologizes profusely.
“I’m so sorry I scared you, Aves. I swear I thought you heard me say hello. Are you okay? Did the glass break? Did you cut yourself?”
I shake my head and watch in fascination as the spilt liquid searches out the lowest parts of the concrete and creates a miniature Frappuccino river.
Noah. By now, I should know better than to come back here on my breaks. I swear the man lies in wait for me. As much as he unnerves me on a good day, the thoughts of my beautiful baby brothers being beaten by Carl and his hideous offspring have turned this into anything but a good day. My anxiety was rising even before Noah’s voice threw me for a loop.
Gathering my wits about me, I look up at his chest. He’s wearing that blue plaid shirt again. When it had become my favorite, I don’t know, but I take a moment to appreciate how snugly it hugs his thickly muscled chest before I force the air from my lungs and around my vocal cords. “What do you want?” I ask, unsurprised by the shakiness of my voice.
I hear the amusement in his when he says, “I just wanted to see how your Thanksgiving was.”
I risk it. If the words I’m about to utter don’t send him into a fist-flying rage, then surely a half-second of eye contact won’t either, right? Still, I tense for flight, ready to attempt escape before he can get to his feet. I glance into those amazing hazel eyes and my voice dies momentarily. I read surprise and pleasure and something else in those depths before I force my gaze away again. “I can’t do this. I can’t be….”
“My friend?” he intones softly.
“Yes,” I whisper around the fear squeezing my chest.
“I think you can, Avery,” he counters with such gentleness it is almost my undoing. “I think you can be a very good friend. That’s one of the reasons Molly's so protective of you—because you’re a good friend to her.”
I shake my head to clear the confusion.
“Avery, I just want to get to know you. To let you get to know me.”
“No.” I stand up on weak, shaking knees. I don’t know where the courage to defy him comes from, but I have to finish this before it deserts me completely, or before he freaks out and decides I
do
look like a good punching bag. “I don’t want you to know me. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Avery….”
“Please,” I whisper, closing my eyes tightly. I put a hand on the wall to steady me.
“Alright,” Noah concedes after a long moment. “If that’s really what you want.” He pauses. “But is it, or are you just scared?”
“Yes—no.” I glance at him again out of the corner of my eye. “Please.”
Slowly, he nods, sighing heavily. “Okay. Goodbye for now, then, little Avery. Take care of yourself.”
I
f I can count on nothing else in my life now—aside from Sam, of course—I can still be grateful for Tuesdays, the slowest day of the retail week, even in the midst of holiday shopping. And so it is today, with only eleven shopping days left until the greatest of all charades, Christmas. And, of course, I still haven’t yet purchased the few gifts I feel compelled to give each year: Sam, Molly, Kira, and her brothers Kyle and Kaleb. It’s a short list, but those are the people to whom I owe something, some token of acknowledgement in this crazy holiday season.
I stare at the cappuccino maker in the break room, trying to remember how to get the beast to work. Not because I want one, but because I can’t remember the steps. Molly has shown me the thing a handful of times, but I just couldn’t ever summon enough will to commit it to memory. But now I think the new meds Kendall Moorhead has had Dr. Farris put me on are eating away my brain. They sometimes make me feel detached and as if I’m looking at the world through a fog, which makes it harder to access the stuff stored in my brain. I need to pack as much stuff in my leftover grey matter as possible.
Dr. Moorhead and her brain-eating pills have had at me for nine sessions now. The woman is absolutely certifiable herself. She has repeatedly assigned me homework—homework! From a shrink! Until this last project, I’ve been able to complete them without much effort. But I know she knows that, so this latest assignment is my punishment. As such, I’m avoiding it with every fiber of my being. Just the thought of what she wants me to do has me wishing I could find a melon baller for what’s left my brain so I could just scoop out the memories she so desperately wants me to write about. She wants me to write down the most important memories of my childhood and then tell her how I feel about them, the lessons each taught me, et cetera. She even gave me a stack of index cards with the questions she wants me to answer about each memory. It’s going to be a long process; she wants me to concentrate on five memories each week.
These sessions have been difficult and painful, just as she and Sam promised they would be. Dr. Moorhead claims that with each appointment I keep we’re making progress, but I don’t see it. The only things I know for sure are that my anxiety levels top out before Sam arrives to drive me to the good doctor’s office and that when the sessions are over, I’m so emotionally wrung-out that I go immediately to bed to nap for several hours.
Dr. Moorhead feels it is her mission to discover every one of my painful, buried memories. She claims that only by exposing them to the light of day can she—we—learn the real lesson from each of them. She is convinced none of the abuse Carl or Tommy or even Mom meted out was my fault. She claims Mom started out with all the right intentions—to be a good wife and mother—but that something outside of her control changed and she coped as well as she could, which, unfortunately for me, wasn’t nearly good enough. I know Dr. Moorhead thinks my dad’s death was the catalyst for this change, but I don’t know. I can’t remember.
I don’t know how she can know these things considering she’s never met the woman who so reluctantly gave birth to me, but if it makes her feel better to say so, then who am I to argue? In my opinion, the sheer number of times my mother told me she wished I’d never been born refutes Dr. Moorhead’s opinion, professional or not.
Finally, I give up trying to figure out the cappuccino machine and head back out to the task I’d abandoned a few minutes ago. The social sciences section needs straightening and restocking as badly as I need to stop thinking about my therapy sessions.
It is just Brian and me for the moment. Molly is off today. Tracy and Matt, the new seasonal part-timers are at lunch down the street. The sound of a familiar voice breaking into laughter causes a hitch in my step. Involuntarily, I look toward the checkout area.
Noah. It’s been almost three weeks since I told him I wasn’t interested in being his friend. In that time, I’ve seen him maybe half a dozen times, but only for a fraction of a second each time. The first time was in the alley, as usual. He was walking from the parking lot to his dock, just like the first time I’d seen him. Just like that first time, he was chattering away into his cell phone. And just like that first time, he slid it into his pocket just a few feet from me. But so very unlike that first time I laid eyes on Noah Yates, I felt no fear. I didn’t try to make myself smaller so he might not notice me. Just like the first time, he didn’t break stride. He merely offered a quiet, “Morning, Avery,” as he walked right on by. I had breathed a sigh of relief laced liberally with disappointment. It had taken me days to recognize that second emotion. No one would ever confuse me with someone who desires attention, but I realized I’ve grown accustomed to being cheerfully hounded by the man. Even if I wanted—no, still want—him to leave me alone, his sudden and complete compliance with that request continues to surprise me.
Truthfully, as much as I would deny it to anyone who asked, I sort of miss the man. He is relentlessly perky and as persistent as a bad rash, but there’s also something very Sam-like about him. As enormous and obviously powerful as he is, there is within him a gentleness that chips away at the majority of my fears and anxieties. Honestly, I could have worse-looking men trying to give me their attention, not that his looks have anything to do with anything.
Since that first sighting after he agreed to leave me alone, the most acknowledgement of my presence he’s given is a slight nod in my direction or a casual wave as he walked by. One voice in my head screams that simply isn’t good enough, while another begs me to just let Noah Yates fade into my past before we find out about the flip side to his gentleness. It’s there, that flipside. It has to be; it always is. While I silently agree with the voice urging me to ignore Noah, I am somehow unable to do so.
I almost give in to the urge to look down at my feet as they propel me toward the registers up front where Brian and Noah are in conversation. I resist only barely, and only because my eyes are so greedily taking in the sight of him. He’s dressed differently today, in khaki slacks and a deep brown turtleneck sweater that hugs his body like a second skin, showing off the width of his shoulders and the sleek narrowness of his waist. The huge biceps that a month ago had me recoiling in fear just look powerful and strong today. The things those slacks do for his butt should be criminal—or a requirement for every pair of men’s slacks. Surprised at the track of my thoughts, I round the corner to the safe zone behind the counter and feel heat rising to my face. I glance over as if I’d only just noticed the big galoot is there. I force a shy smile to my lips before I turn and bend over to look in the cupboard behind Brian for…Ah! Windex. Yes, I’m in search of Windex. To…uh….
I’ve totally tuned out their conversation, though I’m vaguely aware it has something to do with
X-men
. It’s only when I hear Noah tell Brian it’s time for him to leave that I realize my mistake. I’m facing away from him with my head hidden away in a cupboard. Not exactly the easiest way for him to begin a conversation. But by the time I pull my head out of the cupboard, the front door is closing behind him.
My stomach drops to my shoes as disappointment almost overwhelms me. I lean back against the counter, the Windex bottle still in hand, and try to stop my head from spinning.
This is what you wanted, Avery,
I tell myself
. Stop flaking out and be glad. Remember how much it hurts when they finally figure out what you’re good for
.
“Man,” Brian says, “I don’t know what you did to him but you should try to fix it.”
“What?” I’m so taken aback I actually meet Brian’s blue gaze. “I didn’t do—I didn’t do anything!”
He frowns. “Really? Because he was just fine until you showed up. Then he bolted like a spooked horse.”
I meet Brian’s gaze again and hold it for a heartbeat longer than last time. Kendall Moorhead would be so proud. “His break was over?” I offer by way of explanation.
“Dude, he isn’t working today. Didn’t you notice? No uniform.”
My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but I have no words to offer. Instead, I shrug, put the Windex down on the counter and stare at the worn pattern of the carpet. “I didn’t do anything,” I repeat, more to myself than to Brian. But I wonder if maybe I did.
***
“So what do you want to do today?” Sam asks over breakfast.
Unsurprisingly, he was up and around before me. Typical of those mornings, he made us breakfast. Banana pancakes, bacon and hash browns. Orange juice for me, water for him, so his peanut butter-slathered pancakes don’t stick to his mouth. How he eats that stuff, I’ll never know. I keep to the traditional maple syrup, which I also pour liberally all over my hash browns, much to Sam’s disgust.
At his question, I chew faster, swallow hard and ask the stupidest question of the day. “You’re off, too?”
Sam smiles widely. “Yep. And I’ve scheduled Avery Time all day.”