Out of the Blackness (6 page)

***

Later that night, Sam and I sit down to dinner at the tiny table in our small kitchen. As soon as we got home from the therapy session, I threw myself into cooking. I do it often, but I don’t have the greatest variety. Still, Sam never complains that dinner is usually one of the same ten dishes. “At least I don’t have to look forward to Meatloaf Mondays every week,” he said once when I asked him about it. So, of course, for the next three Mondays, I made meatloaf. The third Tuesday, he presented me with a new cookbook. That night I selected one of the chicken enchilada recipes. I make the same one tonight.

Sam silently fills both our plates from the baking dish in the center of the table. I feel his eyes on me and I know it’s just a matter of time before the questions start. He’s a good cop; he knows how to interrogate a suspect gently. Before he can start, though, I clasp my hands together in my lap and watch my thumbs circle each other, first one direction then the other.

I feel the hot flood of tears leap to my eyes but I don’t even try to contain them. After the disaster at Dr. Moorhead’s office, I should be cried out, but apparently there is still moisture in my body, ready to spring forth at the slightest provocation. As two gigantic drops splat onto my thumbs, I take a shuddering breath and whisper, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

I hear Sam’s fork clatter to his plate and suddenly his big, strong arms are wrapped around me, holding me tight and safe. I bury my face in his neck and sob as he makes the appropriate hushing noises and strokes my back. It is a repeat of the scene under the staircase when he finally found me, but this time there’s no judgmental psychologist watching in the background.

“Are you ready to tell me what upset you so much?” he asks gently, pressing a brotherly kiss to my hair.

I shake my head and tighten my arms around his neck, but I do try to get my sobs and breathing under control. As much as I hate to talk, Sam is the one person in the world I know I can say anything to—well, almost anything. I know I can never tell him how much I want to go be with Joey because I know how much that will frighten and hurt him. And really, I don’t want to die every day, just sometimes.

Eventually, I gain enough control I can push back from Sam a little bit. He keeps one hand on the back of my chair and brushes back my hair with the other. I heave one last sigh and place my hand over the enormous wet spot where my tears have soaked into his shirt, embarrassed even after all these years to leave that kind of evidence of myself on him. He covers my hand with his. “Don’t worry about it,” he says gently, reading my mind. “Tell me what happened?”

“Joey,” I whisper, unable to put sound to my words. “She asked about Joey.” And just like that, the tears start flowing again, but this time silently, without the wracking sobs.

Sam squeezes my hand where it still rests on his chest. “What about that upset you? You’ve talked to me about Joey plenty of times.”

I shake my head. It’s not the same, nowhere near it. “She doesn’t care about him, Sam. To her, he’s just another dead kid.” Now the sobs start afresh. “But he’s my Joey. He was a real person…with dreams…and fears—and so many…bruises he couldn’t…take it anymore.” I wipe my face violently with the backs of my hands, my pain and desolation turning to anger. “She doesn’t want to know about Joey. She just wants to talk about his death and how that makes me
feel
. How do you think it makes me
feel
, Sam?” I glare into his eyes in pained defiance, something I’ve only allowed myself to do a handful of times in all the years I’ve known him.

“I know how it makes you feel, Aves.” Sam’s calm voice and sad expression actually help soothe the spikes of my anger. “You feel lost and alone, and confused and angry, and you’re desperate to keep ahold of at least some part of him.”

I nod along with his words, grateful that he understands.

“But, Avery….” He hesitates. “I think there are two or three more emotions you feel that you really need to deal with. And that’s what Kendall is there to help you do.”

This time, my eyes met his with fear, not of Kendall Moorhead, but of those other emotions Sam just mentioned. As much as I really don’t want the answer, I need to know. I need to hear if Sam knows me too well after all. “What other emotions?” I ask.

He strokes my hair again and I lean into his touch. “You really want me to say them? You don’t want to wait for another session with Kendall?”

I shake my head, my breath coming more shallowly. He knows, I think. He knows me too well to have missed it, even though I’ve never said the words aloud.

Sam closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and begins to speak as his eyes open again. “I think you’re a little bit jealous that Joey’s pain has ended and yours keeps recurring. I think you’re angry that he would leave you alone to face that situation without him—and you have every right to be, Avery. And I think you’re afraid that the only way for your pain to end is to do what Joey did.”

With those few words, my best friend and protector has laid my deepest secrets and fears out on the table between us. I feel the tsunami of panic rush in, ready to destroy me and everything in its path. I try to push away from Sam, but I don’t need to. He recognizes the panic and lets me go. Blinded by tears and lack of breath, I stumble blindly down the hall to my room. This isn’t an I-need-to-be-outside-to-get-oxygen panic. This is a laid-bare-to-the-world-must-hide panic. I stagger into my room and directly to the closet, where I pull the door closed behind me, curl up in a ball in the corner and bury my face in my knees, my body wracked by dry sobs and violent shudders.

***

I shiver from the cold, only somewhat enjoying my break. I’m in the alley again. I contemplate taking up smoking so I have a genuine reason to sit on this bench as much as I do. I won’t do it, of course. It’s smelly and expensive and not nearly as sexy as it apparently was fifty years ago. Geriann, the last smoker to work at Flip the Page used to tell me how she just fell in love with Marlon Brando and James Dean because of the cigarette packs rolled up in their t-shirt sleeves. She used to sigh longingly talking about Natalie Wood puffing away in
Rebel Without A Cause
.

I spend far too much time contemplating smoking, but anything that keeps my mind from reliving yesterday’s therapy session is a good thing. My next appointment is tomorrow, a thought that turns my stomach. I know Dr. Moorhead will be intent on finding out why I ran out of the last session, but it’s the last thing I want to talk about. Joey is a very special memory and I don’t want to share him with anyone else. Sam knows about him, of course, because when I first met Sam, it was only three days after Joey’s death and I was keenly feeling the loss. I talked about him then, back when the loss was still fresh, my grief overwhelming. But as time passed, I locked him away in my heart, unwilling to explain him or us to anyone else, even Sam.

I hear the crunch of rocks under boots and jerk my head to the right, where I see Noah Yates approaching on the far side of the alley. I force my eyes to the ground before me when I realize they’ve stopped to take in the sight of his strong thighs moving under tight, worn denim. I don’t understand what it is about him that turns my thoughts to his body. I’m not a sexual being. I know intellectually I would prefer a sexual relationship with a man, but I certainly have no intention of actually experiencing any sexual acts with anyone. I rarely even masturbate, though lately, when I have, my traitorous mind has conjured images of a gloriously naked Noah. I wonder if his chest is as hairy or his belly as flat and ridged as my fevered fantasies have imagined.

“Hey, buddy,” I hear Mr. Fantasy say softly as he takes his customary place across the alley from me. “Are you having a good day?”

Still staring at the ground, I nod and force myself to speak, as difficult as it is. “It’s okay.”

His soft chuckle warms me slightly. As ridiculous as it is, it feels like approval. “It must be,” he says. “I didn’t even have to drag those words out of you.”

I shrug and hide the small smile that plays on my lips, unsure how to respond to the tease.

“Well, my day’s been horrible, but it’s looking up now.”

Despite my best efforts, I’m curious. I’ve never seen Yates in anything but a happy mood and I wonder what he could possibly consider a horrible day. My eyes flick up to take in his solid chest, encased today in a blue plaid flannel shirt under a lightweight green jacket bearing the furniture store’s logo. “What happened?” I ask, surprising both of us.

“Corvo and I were out delivering an old-fashioned buffet to this couple in Olathe. I’m not entirely sure how, but Corvo left one of the thing’s legs on the end of the truck, so when I went to lower the lift-gate to take us all down to street level, the thing pitched forward. It weighed about 150 pounds more than me and caught us by surprise, so neither of us could stop it once it started to go over. In a heartbeat, the customers had three thousand dollars of spankin’ new firewood in their driveway.”

“Oh, no.” I am so caught up in the story I jump at the sound of my own voice.

Noah laughs. “Yeah, they were really great about it, though. We called back to the store and Alvin, the store manager, promised to order them a new one at a discount. Corvo’s in hot water. Alvin’s making him clean out the staff refrigerator.” He laughs again and I find myself wanting to smile along with him. “That thing is a health hazard. The CDC could probably discover a whole host of new bacteria in there.” He draws his long legs up and wraps those muscular arms around them. “Your turn. Tell me about your day.”

I’m so shocked my gaze actually meets his before I slam it back to the ancient concrete between my feet. I shrug uncomfortably and concentrate on keeping my breathing under control. It’s a simple question. I should be able to answer it without panic rising in my chest. “It’s okay,” I say again.

“Yeah? No crazy furniture-delivery guys coming in asking about comic books?”

The panic recedes a little at his teasing. It’s almost comfortable in a strange way. “He’s harassing the help on his break,” I answer, hiding a stupid smile behind my hand. I keep my eyes on the cement between my feet. It takes him a couple of heartbeats to react, but when he does, it’s with a full-bodied laugh that actually elicits a giggle from me before I clamp down on it.

Finally, Noah gets his laughter under control. “You’re a quick one, little Avery. I kind of suspected you would be, but that took me by surprise. I thought I’d have to wait a lot longer for you to turn your sense of humor on me.”

I can’t fight the rush of warmth that spreads through my body at his praise and I glance up through the curtain of my bangs to see a broad smile lighting up Noah’s handsome face.

“That’s an official fifth win, buddy. You keep this up and I’m going to run out of fingers to count them on.”

I open my mouth like I’m going to respond, but my train of thought is derailed by Molly crashing noisily through the door. “Avery, we need you,” she says, then smiles widely as she catches sight of Noah. “Oh, hi, Noah. Hey, why don’t you swing by for lunch on Thursday?”

My startled eyes meet hers in a silent plea. She gives me that “get over it” expression and smiles again at my stalker—new friend, whatever he wants to be called. I know neither of them cares what I think, so I slip past Molly and leave them to it.

***

What none of us realized when Molly stuck her big fat foot in my mouth is that Thursday is Thanksgiving. For those of us in retail, that particular holiday begins Hell on Earth. The Day After Thanksgiving brings thirty days of the crankiest, rudest shoppers imaginable, all searching for that one—or one-thousandth—perfect gift to celebrate the season of joy and love and giving. I giggle a little at the thought, but quickly control myself when I feel the stares from others in the waiting room. They probably think I hear voices now.

It’s Wednesday, time for therapy session number three. Sam sits beside me paging through a three-month-old
People
magazine whose cover story wonders if Kate could be the new Diana, whoever that is. Sam’s fidgety, nervous, I suppose, about my appointment. His case of nerves certainly isn’t helping mine any. I don’t want to be here, don’t want to go through all this.

“It’s going to be hard,” Sam had warned me last night as we ate leftover chicken enchiladas. “It’s going to be painful; I won’t lie and say it won’t be. But you need this, little brother.”

I nodded then and nod now, reliving his words. I don’t know what he hopes I’ll gain from this. It’s not like Dr. Kendall Moorhead can suddenly flip a switch and change who and what I am. I know I’m a cosmic punching bag, an abortion that failed. She can’t change that and there’s no use pretending she can.

My musings are interrupted by the sound of the great doctor herself calling my name. I look up to see her smile and gesture for me to follow her back to her office. I glance pleadingly over at Sam, who looks so confident and safe in his police uniform, but he just smiles, ruffles my too-long hair and nods his head in the doctor’s direction. “Go on, little brother. I’ll be right here.”

I nod stoically, forcing my chin not to tremble, and rise to follow the doctor down the long hallway to her office. My knees are weak so I feel even more awkward trying to get my legs to function properly. I ought to be grateful because that amount of concentration forces the wildly unsettling thoughts out of my head for the moment. It is only when I’ve taken a seat on the World’s Lumpiest Couch that my fear rises to the surface and threatens to undo me.

Dr. Moorhead positions herself in her office chair, legal pad on her lap and faces me. I see all this through wavering, rapidly tunneling vision. I hear her gasp seconds before my world goes black.

***

Sam’s worried face is the first thing I see when I open my eyes again. He smiles slightly with relief as I take in my surroundings without moving my head. I know immediately what happened and I feel stupid—and maybe a little hopeful that Sam will realize what a bad idea this therapy experiment is. Maybe he’ll agree that I can stop this foolishness now.