Handle with Care
Authors: Emily Porterfield
Copyright
2013 by Emily Porterfield - All Rights Reserved.
ISBN:
0-9700618-0-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, electronic
or mechanical, without the prior written permission in writing from the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations for the purposes of critical articles
and reviews.
This is a work of
fiction. The names, characters, incidents, places, and scenarios portrayed in
this book are entirely fictitious, the imaginings of the author. Locales and
public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarity to or identification
with the names, characters or history of any person, living or dead, or to
business, companies, events, locales, institutions, product or entity is
entirely coincidental and unintentional.
DEDICATION
To
Herbert:
the echo of
innocence past,
of kindred souls alight,
traversing the hourglass,
dreams aflight
a vapor,
a wrinkle in
time
yes...
I will always
remember
"Reflect upon your present blessings,
of which every man has many –
not on
your past misfortunes,
of which all men have some."
- Charles
Dickens
1 ~ Mist
Morning
wasn’t her favorite time. But no time was. It began with little fanfare, little
fervor. Abby liked it that way. The stillness beckoned her to come out and
simply be. She could merge into the unfolding scene with little expectation. It
was quiet on the docks – a place to gather her thoughts, or not to have any. A
slight chill in the air caused her to shudder, then pull her russet colored
shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders.
There
she stood, staring into seeming nothingness, alone in the silence.
The
water lapped effortlessly against the sides of the boat, its sound hypnotic and
soothing. It reached into the tortured recesses of Abby’s mind, seeking to
offer her some semblance of peace. She stared across the water, embracing the
stillness. Abby was fascinated by the morning fog, and how it obliterated any
delineation between water and expansive sky. This was Oregon. Its endless
beauty and intense natural forces were raw, primal, untainted. Her Uncle
Patrick had been right - it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen.
Yet, its splendor did nothing to kindle joy in her. The rugged scene inspired a
sense of loneliness, hopelessness, emptiness, smallness... as if she were the
horizon, lost in fog.
“Nice
morning, hm?” The greeting came from a few steps behind her. Abby cringed and
gritted her teeth. She didn’t answer; she didn’t want to be bothered. There was
no energy to spare for discourse, nor interest.
Maybe he’ll go away?
Abby did not turn around, or in any way acknowledge she had heard him. The last
thing she wanted was to face another human being, to deal with their
expectations or judgments. Oh no... she just wanted him to go away.
“Ah, ma’am?” Reluctantly
,
she turned to face the
man behind her. Her cinnamon eyes narrowed, clearly sending the message she had
no desire for conversation.
“Yes,”
she replied in a cracked, annoyed voice. Clearing her dry throat, her mind
wandered briefly.
What did I drink this morning?
In the past few days,
since arriving in Winchester Bay, she had not said a word to anyone. She had
pretty much stayed on her uncle’s boat, dejected. And that was the point –
isolation, seclusion, rest, not discussing the weather with a local fisherman.
She didn’t want to be bothered.
“We
don't get too many newcomers around here,” his tone was warm and amiable. “My
name’s Craig, and you are...?” Abby wasn’t looking for friends, so his
reception was undeniably cool. As his gaze swept over her, he couldn’t help but
notice the indifference; as though he were a ghost, his presence barely
registering. He held out his hand, anyway.
“Craig
Port, Ma’am,” a more formal attempt. “Pleased to meet you.”
Abby's
lips twitched into an annoyed grimace as politeness forced her to take his
hand. When she shook it, she noticed his skin was rough; enough callouses to
show he spent time working. A long- sleeved flannel shirt, with frayed edges,
covered his athletic frame. The jeans he wore had a few holes
,
too. His leather boots were scuffed with a bit
of dried mud defiantly clinging to the rubber sole. The brim of his cap was
pulled down low over his forehead, darkening his green eyes in shadow. Above
square lips framed with smile lines, the curves of his bristled cheeks were
flushed crimson from being outdoors. Only the curls of his brown hair were at
odds with his relaxed demeanor; they did not seem the slightest bit out of
place.
“Abigail
Miles,” she offered in return. “I'm just visiting for a little while,” she
added, hoping this would dispel his interest.
“With
family?” Craig prompted, attempting to continue the dialog. Abby felt uneasy
with his question. He was overstepping the line of friendly curiosity into
being nosy.
“No,
no... my uncle... his boat,” she said in a hurried, dismissive fashion, not
wanting to reveal anything. “I really should be going.” Abby started to walk
past him along the dock, brushing his arm as she maneuvered by in the narrow
space.
“Well,
I hope you enjoy your stay,” he called out. Craig didn’t try to hide his harsh
tone; there was no need for her to brush him off.
Abby did not reply as she stepped off of the dock and onto her uncle's
houseboat, beating a hasty retreat. Craig watched her with a mixture of
curiosity and unease. There was something about her that did not feel right. In
a town of less than six hundred people, it was easy to notice a stranger. It
was easier still to peg someone who did not fit in the Winchester Bay
lifestyle. He shook his head and continued along the dock to his small fishing
boat. After all, it was Saturday - his day to enjoy the open water. A few hours
away from his responsibilities, and Abby wasn’t his concern.
* * *
Abby
emphatically closed the door behind her. She did not want to make any friends,
none whatsoever. She wanted to be left alone, to remain anonymous, and “enjoy”
time away from the chaos she left behind... chaos she felt entirely responsible
for. She wanted to lose herself in silence.
As
she stretched out across the bunk, she wondered, for the thousandth time, how
she had ended up here. Once she had been a prominent psychologist, specializing
in working with traumatized war veterans from the conflicts in Iraq and
Afghanistan. Abby was praised highly for her ability to reach the most broken
men and women who were returning from incredibly harrowing experiences. She
closed her eyes against the flood of patient faces through her memory. The vain
pride she once had in herself was gone. The pain rose within her – the
self-loathing and intense need to escape – it was enough to make her wish she
could disappear. That was why she was here. To disappear. Sadly, it would take
more than Winchester Bay’s soothing qualities to rescue a woman as lost as
Abby.
* * *
The
next morning, when she awakened, Abby could not immediately recall where she
was. The sunlight battled its way through the gritty window and splintered
across the white wall of the small bedroom. Abby sighed as the real world
unwound around her. Ready or not, she was being forced to face it. She always
treasured those few seconds just before opening her eyes; a few blissful
moments in which she was simply Abby, again. Although she had compassion for
her patients, she had never truly understood the depths of their despair, their
inability to release, to move on from a trauma. Now she did. Now she saw her
arrogance with such painful clarity - it wounded her.
I can’t believe I used to say, “Time heals all wounds,” or “Let's keep
focusing on the positive.” How utterly trite
! Abby groaned.
Stupid,
stupid, stupid.
She struck the pillow with her fists repeatedly, burying
her face in it. Sitting up, she grabbed each end of the pillow and yanked it,
this way and that, in a frenzied crescendo of fury.
Arrrghhh!
With the
pillow still clenched in her hands, she plunged her face into it again,
screaming her pain and frustration into its billowy softness - the down inside
muffling the tortured sound. Her fit of anguish spent, Abby pulled the pillow
down from her red, puffy face, hugging it as she rocked back and forth, sobbing
softly.
A river of tears flowed down her
cheeks.
Her
stomach rumbled, distracting her momentarily from her grief.
When was the
last time I ate?
She didn’t want to go out.
I can go another day without
food
.
I don’t have much of an appetite, anyway.
* * *
“So,
you make people feel better, Doc?” He had asked her, that first day they met.
The session had taken place in her large Philadelphia office. His deep brown
eyes had been so wide and desperate, like a trapped animal, seeking cover from
attack.
“I
try,” Abby replied with a cautious smile. “I can only guide you. Whether you
get better will depend on how much you are willing to participate in the
process.”
“I'll
do anything,” he said, as fresh tears filled his eyes. “Oh please, Doc, I just
want my life back. I just want these horrible feelings to go away. I will do
anything you say.”
And
he did. He had followed his therapy goals, confronted his demons, and confessed
atrocities committed in the name of war. At only twenty-six, he was a young
man. He had been deployed for a little over a year; much less than most of the
patients she treated. But this man, Bill Neil, was different. What he had done
in the name of his country broke him in a very deep way. He confessed, through
deep, gut-wrenching sobs, he had liked the brutality. He returned from war
craving it. There was exhilaration in the “release” he felt when he took the
life of another.
“It's
okay.” The words she had spoken echoed through her mind as her own body
shuddered with the force of her grief. “It's normal to feel that way,” she
assured him.
It was that very moment which haunted her. Those whispered words meant to
soothe him, meant to steer things back into proper perspective for a young man
who had committed no greater crime than following orders. As Abby recalled the
memory, tears streamed from between thick lashes framing her eyes. The
intensity of that moment washed over her yet again. Remorse threatened to
cripple her, to rob her of any remaining sense of self-worth. So, she decided it
was time to get up, to get out and avoid obsessing, as she would advise anyone
else to do. Abby forced herself out of bed and into the small bathroom cubicle
for a brief shower. Once dressed, she trudged back out through the houseboat’s
front door.
* * *
