Unbound (3 page)

On
the street, I felt better almost instantly. Hardly three blocks into my route
and my thoughts were clearer, my mood less grey. I concentrated on my foot
strikes on the pavement, counting rhythmically as I tried to drown out my
regrets and worries, tried to listen only to my breathing and my heart as it
pushed blood through my veins. When I felt like this I could almost forget
everything that felt wrong in my life. Everything that had been wrong since my
father had died.

Our
house had always been quiet, but the year I turned thirteen it had become as
silent as the grave. My father’s grave, actually. That October, my father’s
constant indigestion had turned out to be colon cancer. It was over quickly
– six months from start to finish. And in that short time my mother and I
had slowly and silently withdrawn into our own grief. After he left us, we
wandered the house like strangers, as if my father was the sun that had held
our family in orbit for all of these years, and without him, we were no longer
connected in any meaningful way.

Nights
were the hardest, dinners non-existent. Neither of us even wanting to pretend
we had the energy or the appetite to make pleasant companions. I grazed throughout
the day and my mother simply stopped eating for a while. Noticing her jeans
sagging around her hips one morning, I looked at the dark bruises under her
eyes and began to worry. About her health. Her heart. Her sanity. Whenever I
confronted her about my concerns, she gave vague reassurances that sounded
indifferent, at best. Sometimes she said nothing at all.

That
was worse, I think.

She
didn’t sleep well. For months, I would wake in the night and pad silently to
her room to find her sitting on the edge of her perfectly made bed watching
reruns of some old sitcom. She would barely glance in my direction before
returning dead eyes back to the ghostly flickering light of the television
screen. Every so often I stayed there, watching her, waiting for her to move,
to cry, to react. To comfort me.

She
never did.

Money
became an issue. I knew that my Dad had left enough to give her some breathing
room, but the stack of bills teetered precariously in the front hall, unpaid.
Telephone messages from the director of the hospital clogged our voicemail: at
first gentle requests, then more insistent, and then finally, reluctant
ultimatums. I didn’t think she could work in the state she was in. She could
barely face her own life, never mind saving others. It was as if she’d gone
missing. I think she was waiting for him to bring her back. I think I was, too.

Aching
and angry, I did my best and tried to hold things together. My mother had lost
a husband, but now both my parents were gone.
 
When my dreams woke me in the night I
stuffed the blanket in my mouth to prevent her from hearing my sobs. I don’t
know what was harder during those first few months, waking up from my nightmare
without the comfort of my father or waking up to the nightmare that he wasn’t
ever going to comfort me again.

My
grandmother stepped in, finally.
 
She showed up unannounced one day to find me pleading with the
hydroelectric company to extend the deadline for payment while folding laundry
and burning dinner. Taking one look at my mother – her thin, pale arm
flung over her eyes as she napped on the couch – she had simply announced
that she was coming to live with us.

And
it helped. Sort of.

Although
her arrival meant I was able to give up many of the adult responsibilities I’d
adopted, I didn’t seem able to let go of the adult-sized anxiety I carried like
a backpack.
 
It felt safer to brace
myself, to wait for the inevitable loss and heartbreak that I knew was to come.

My
own grief – foreshortened by mother’s breakdown – didn’t really
resurface in any observable way. Instead it went subterranean, feeding on the
parts of me that others couldn’t see. Leaving me hollow. Eroded.
 

One
of the few bright spots in my life had been my best friend, Lacey. Born
smack-dab between six brother and sisters, Lacey knew middle kids were supposed
to be screwed up, so she used her position in this dubious birth order as
permission to be as outrageous as possible. She was the girl who barely needed
a dare to do something wild. The girl who was quick to laughter and to tears. I
both envied and admired the way she thumped through her life, bold and brave. I
think I also envied her family, as crazy and chaotic as she complained they
were.

Thinking
of Lacey, I felt a smile pull at the corners of my mouth, knowing that she’d
likely turn my morning into some kind of adventure. Only Lacey could convince
me that a hold up at gunpoint was a lark that I was lucky to experience.

Picking
up my pace, I began to sprint, eager to get home and shower and share my day
with her. Of course, I’d leave out the part about the man with the grey eyes.
Even Lacey didn’t know about him. No one did.

“Because
he probably doesn’t exist,” I said under my breath. But Sam had seen him today,
hadn’t he? Why hadn’t I asked Sam more questions? Why had I felt so…complacent?
Irritated with myself, my legs churned faster as I got closer to my street,
trees flying by, dark leaves blowing in the crisp night air. Pulling oxygen
into my lungs I felt a burst of adrenaline, my muscles humming with energy that
felt powerful, however short lived. With a gasp of triumph, I leaped over the
steps of the side walk that led to the front door of our building and jogged around
the side, finally leaning against the large maple tree that I could see from my
bedroom, chest heaving.

My
blood rushed through my veins, and I walked in slow circles, feeling the sweat
trickle down my neck and under my collar. Hanging on to the tree, I pulled my
heel back to stretch and then stopped, trying to listen over the thrumming
woosh of my heart. The lawn disappeared into the shadow of the other tall trees
that bordered the building. Hearing a twig snap, I felt the hairs on the back
of my neck stand at attention like soldiers. I peered into the darkness, trying
to distinguish what was shadow and what might be something else. Or someone
else. The silence stretched until a cat yowled off in the distance and I could
hear a car alarm a few blocks over. My lungs hurt and I realized I was holding
my breath.

“Are
you there?” I whispered. The night gave no reply. A gust of wind blew through
my damp t-shirt and I felt a shiver run down my spine. My muscles already
beginning to stiffen up, I took a step towards the darkness and stopped, feeling
scared and foolish all at once.

Chilled,
I moved backwards into the pool of light near the entrance and turned into the
building,
trying not to look back over my
shoulder. Sprinting up the stairwell, thankful again we only lived on the
fourth floor, I hurried down the hallway, and then stopped, one hand on the
wall for support. The front door was slightly open and blackness stained the
gap like spilled ink.
Shit
. Hadn’t I
locked it when I left? Adrenaline rushed through my veins again, a familiar
friend. Moving slowly towards the threshold, the door creaked slightly as it
swung open into our dark two bedroom apartment.

“Mom?” I took a hesitant step inside, feeling my legs
shake as I noticed her shoes were there.

“Mom?” Moving towards the kitchen I called again, my
voice rising with each repetition. My throat felt tight. Images of my mother murdered
in the bedroom flashed through my mind, her room ransacked, her body broken. As
quietly as I could, I eased the kitchen drawer open, grabbed a steak knife and
turned to move into the darkened hallway.

“Rachel? What the hell are you doing?” My mother stood
in the doorway, staring at me.

“Mom!” My heart slammed into my ribcage as fear and relief
mingled with anger. “Jesus! You didn’t shut the door behind you again.”

“Oh.” She screwed up her face. “Sorry.”

 
My hands
shaking, I went to put the knife away. “There have been two break-ins this week
Mom, not that far from here. You have to be more careful.”

She frowned. “You’re being paranoid.”

I inhaled deeply and turned my back to her as I
flipped on the light in the kitchen and opened the fridge. A ketchup and a mustard
bottle sat forlornly on the middle shelf, huddling together for comfort in the
empty fridge.

“What’s for dinner?”

She shrugged. “We could order in, I guess,” she said
looking over her shoulder towards her now open bedroom door as if she were
being pulled towards it. I could hear the television.

I leaned against the counter, trying to not let my
irritation with her show. “What should we order? You need to eat something healthy,
Mom.”
 

She pulled her purse out from under the table, took
her credit card out and handed it to me. “You go ahead and order something for
yourself. I’m not hungry right now.”

Wrapping her hair up on top of her head with an
elastic, she walked back towards her bedroom and shut the door.

I
watched her go and with a sigh, grabbed a spoon and the peanut butter jar from
the cupboard and stalked off to my bedroom. Shutting my own bedroom door, I slid
down with back against it, wondering how one day could have gone so horribly
wrong. And how I could feel so lonely, even with someone in the next room.

“Enough,”
I said. “I give up.” I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. Putting the peanut
butter aside, I grabbed my phone and dialled the number I now knew by heart.

I
listened to the beep and the silence after it, forcing myself to speak like
other people might force themselves to jump off the high dive. “Um, hi. My name
is Rachel. I’d like to make an appointment.” I hung up quickly after leaving my
number, afraid that I would somehow take it back.

The
dream is pretty much the same every time.

Jacob
is there and we are walking hand in hand through a field filled with
butterflies and sunshine. We are easy and natural in each other’s company.

“Is
this heaven?” I ask looking up at the bright blue sky.

He
stops and turns to look at me. Placing both hands on my shoulders, his little
boy’s eyes, the same colour as mine, are grave. “You must remember, Rachel.”

“Remember
what? “ I always ask, puzzled by his seriousness.

Jacob
reaches out towards me and places something in my palm, closing my fingers
around it in a fist. Kissing me lightly on the cheek, he walks away into the
mist that suddenly surrounds us. Opening my palm, I look down to see an old-fashioned
key in my hand. It feels heavy with age and importance, but it’s untarnished.

I
don’t understand.

“But
what’s it for?” I ask the empty space around me.

And
then I hear it. A rustling in the trees, a scrabbling in the dirt. Although I
can see nothing, these sounds are threatening and my heart pounds in my ears. I
start to run, blindly panicking through the foggy meadow that in an instant has
morphed from heaven into hell.

My
desperate screams fade into the fog.
 
Because I know what’s coming. It’s death, of course. And it’s looking
for me.

As
bad as that part is, as much as I hate the dread that washes over me when I
realize I’m being stalked, I hate the next part more.

My
dream shifts and I stop abruptly, turning towards the person behind me who has
come to deliver my death. Calm settles over me like dew on the early morning
grass and filled with peace, I smile and reach towards death, wanting it now,
no longer fighting.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

I
stared down at the carpet, my sneaker nudging at the knots along the border of
the area rug. I wondered if the knots were done by hand or machine. The table
that rested between us had a lower shelf filled with board games and books and
I tried to read the titles to see if I recognized any of them. The room was
quiet, although I could hear the hum of the central heating system if I
listened closely.

Looking
up at the ceiling, I imagined myself floating up and out of the skylight, escaping
into a sky that was filled with fluffy white clouds. Right now, I wanted to be
anywhere but here, with someone sitting across from me, waiting for me to say
something. I swallowed, unsure of where to start and then looked up at her.

“What
brings you here today, Rachel?” Her green eyes were kind.

Looking
back down, my eyes rested on her shoes. They were comfortable looking, sporty.
The kind of shoes worn by someone who walks a lot. You could tell a lot about a
person by the shoes they wear. I imagined her hiking through the forest with
her husband, a baby strapped to his back, sharing nuts and water they’d brought
from home. The silence seemed to grow larger around me and I felt it like a
weight on my chest.

I
stalled for time, looking around the room. A collage of colorful children’s
pictures on the wall, the wooden bookshelves crammed with books, the afghan
thrown casually across the back of the couch she sat on. Bright sunshine
streamed through the sun catchers hanging from the window, sprinkling warm
refracted light on the softly worn furnishings. The room was honest and
unpretentious. Meeting her gaze and seeing only curiosity, not the judgement
I’d feared, my hands clenched into fists. I made a decision.

“I
think I might be losing my mind,” I said. I’d wanted to say going crazy, but I
didn’t want to offend her. People threw the word crazy around a lot.

“You
do?” Her voice was even, curious. I wondered if she hadn’t understood what I’d
said.

“Yes.”
Nodding, I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans.
 

She
frowned slightly. “What makes you think that?”

I
tried to say the words, but my tongue felt heavy and my jaws ached with
immobility. It was the same hesitation that had kept me from making this
appointment for so long. I knew what I was afraid of. Knew that this wasn’t
just about someone thinking I was mentally unstable. The truth was, there was a
part of me that was scared that if I said it out loud, I’d make it untrue. What
if the magic disappears once you name it? What if telling someone what I believed
meant that I’d break the spell and end up totally, finally alone? Instead of
words, I glanced nervously at her face again and then back at her shoes.

“Let’s
start with something easier today, Rachel. Tell me about your family.”

Raising
my eyes, I half smiled. It was hardly easier to talk about my family, but at
least it would sound less insane.

 
“I live with my Mom,” I said. Alex nodded
encouragingly. “She’s a nurse.” I folded my arms and looked out the window, not
wanting to wade into the sorrow that usually accompanied my next sentence. “My
father’s dead.”

“I’m
so sorry Rachel.” She looked directly at me as she said it.

I
nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”

Silence.

“Do
you have any brothers or sisters?”

And
so I told her. I’d always known I was a twin. Even lost in their grief, my
parents understood that dishonesty about the details of my birth would only
spell disaster later. From the very beginning, they spoke about Jacob in my
presence and told me how much he was loved. When I was very young, maybe two or
three years old, my mother explained to me that Jacob had been a very special
baby. She said it had been his job to help me into the world, so that I could
be their daughter. Once I was safely in their arms, he had returned to help
other babies meet their parents. I’d loved this story as a child and often
demanded to hear the tale of how Jacob helped me be “borned.” Looking back, I
wonder how much it cost my mother to speak so often of the child she lost. If
it intensified her grief, she never let it show.
 

Each
year, they added a few more details to the story, small things that would make
sense for a child my age. But they had no choice but full disclosure the day I
came home and demanded to know the truth about Jacob. Jessica Turner’s mother
had just given birth to live, healthy twins, and with the utmost pride, Jessica
had brought in pictures for show and tell. Incensed, I wanted to know why
my
brother had not stayed long enough
for pictures to be taken. If Jessica’s twins were together, why weren’t Jacob
and I?

Pushed,
my parents shared with me the story in its truest and simplest form. Although
my entry into the world had been accompanied by much screaming and wailing,
Jacob’s had been silent.
 
Gently, my
father had explained what stillborn meant, and that although they were very sad
not to have been able to meet him, they were very glad that I had. He said they
believed that I carried a part of him with me and that he was still very much a
member of our family.
 
I had cried
that day, not so much because I was sad about Jacob – I’d become
comfortable with his simultaneous presence and absence – but because in
some simple way, I realized that I was a living memorial to their dead son
– a symbol of both their joy and their grief.

The
details of my birth, and his death, did not change the way I felt about Jabob.
To me, he would always be my protector. He was the brother who had loved me so
much, he had wanted to make sure I had lived to meet our parents. I think Jacob
is the reason my mother decided she didn’t want to have any more children. I
think she was uncertain she could handle the emotional cost of losing another
child, however unlikely that would be. Unable to take the risk, she chose to
live with only one child, where there should have been two.

Alex
listened patiently. “I’m sorry about your brother, too,” she said. She shook
her head. “So much loss.”

I
nodded, feeling self-conscious after saying so much to a stranger. I pulled my nails
away from my mouth, grimaced as I noticed they were bleeding and clenched my
hands together.
 
What was the point
in coming if I didn’t say it?

“And
I think I have a guardian angel,” I blurted.

“I
see,” she said gently, leaning forward in her chair, hands clasped loosely in
front of her. “You mean your brother?”

I
shook my head, heart still pounding at having said those words out loud. “No,
he’s not my brother.” I was sure of that. At different times in my life, I had
believed the man with the grey eyes might be connected to Jacob, but I knew he
was something different. Someone just for me.

 
“Tell me more.”

I
took a deep breath to steady my voice and steel my nerves. “I see him all the
time.” I closed my eyes, unsure of where to look. “He’s in my dreams...but I
see him when I’m awake too. When I run, it feels as if he’s right behind me,
but when I turn to look, there’s no one there. I’ve seen him at the library,
when I’m working. Sometimes I only catch a glimpse of him because he’s too far
away, but I know it’s him.”

She
waited. Interested. Accepting.

 
“Sometimes I pretend I don’t see him at
all, and I can’t be sure, but I think... I think I see him more often when I do
that.” I paused and then whispered, “He knows where I live.” My voice cracked a
little and I cleared my throat. “He was in the backyard last week, standing
under the big maple tree, looking up at my window. My lights were off so I...I
don’t think he could see me, but I’m sure he was there.”

She
regarded me seriously, “Does he scare you?”

I
squeezed my eyes closed trying to stop the tears I knew were gathering. I took
another deep breath. “I’m frightened by everything,” I managed. “By cars and
people and weather and the future...” I swallowed thickly over the lump in my
throat. “For the past five years I’ve been so afraid, all the time.”
 
I looked at her through my tears and
shook my head. “But I’m not afraid of him. Never him. He’s the safest thing I
know.”

I
pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs; let my tears
run their course.

Nudging
the tissue box closer to me, Alex simply watched me and waited.

“I’m
crazy, aren’t I?” I said finally, my voice muffled by my legs.

Silence.
I looked up.

“I
don’t think you’re crazy, Rachel. I think you believe someone is following you,
but I’m curious why you’re not scared. A lot of people would find the idea of
someone watching them really frightening.”

I
shook my head. “It’s hard to explain. When I was a kid, he felt like a grown up
who was supposed to take care of me. Now that I’m older,” I paused, unsure of
how to explain something that I just knew, but didn’t know how. How could I
explain that he made me feel special? That if he existed, and I wasn’t crazy, then
somehow I knew he existed for me? I tried again. “Now that I’m older, he feels
more like a…friend. He’s trying to protect me, I think. But I’m not sure from
what.”

“What
makes you think he’s protecting you?”

Resting
my head on my knees, I tried to remember when I had first thought of him that
way.

It
had been the day I was tearing up the soccer field. On that overcast Saturday
morning, the air soup thick, my legs pumped furiously as I tried to outrun the
stocky, red-haired boy beside me. A pint-sized pup compared to the bulldog he
would become, Greg made no effort to hide his disdain at having a girl on his
team, nor his belief that I was only there because my father was the coach.
Only ten years old, he already swaggered like he had something to offer the
other boys didn’t. And maybe he was right, because despite loudly accusing him
of being a jerk during recess, Lacey had quickly accepted his offer to go
rollerblading after school.

My
fast legs and quick footwork on the soccer pitch that summer had convinced my
father to bend the rules slightly, convincing the board of directors that
because there was no girls’ league within our district, it was only fair I join
the closest team. The team he just happened to coach. Although their consent
had hardly mattered to me at first, the light in my father’s eyes when I scored
my first goal immediately increased my investment in the team and I had
resolved to prove him right. The other parents hadn’t seemed to mind at all,
but there were boys on my team – like Greg – who were less than
thrilled. Every time I stepped on the field, I felt like I was on trial and
every mistake I made, like evidence presented to the jury that I didn’t belong.

We
were down 3-2 as Greg and I raced neck-and-neck towards the ball, despite the
fact that we were on the same team, despite the fact that my father’s frenzied
shouts to ‘forward pass’ could be heard faintly behind us. With a burst of
speed powered mostly by desperation, I overtook him in two strides and sensing
the moment was mine, wound up and walloped the ball. Shading my eyes, my heart
lifted…and then sank as I watched it sail clear
over
the goal posts before landing in the dense cluster of trees
behind the soccer park.