Before I can protest again, he’s placing his own order. Coffee. Black. When he’s finished paying, I follow him to the counter where we’ll pick up our drinks.
I pick up a few napkins. “Are you staying? Or do you have a class?”
“I have thirty minutes before a meeting with a student. My next class isn’t until after lunch.”
“Would you…” I hesitate, not wanting to give him the wrong impression, but I enjoy his company, and he’s seemed clear during our last couple of conversations that I’m only able to offer him friendship. “I have a table if you’d like to join me for a few minutes.”
“I’d like that.” The barista hands him his cup of coffee. “Have a seat. I’ll wait for your latte.”
I start to argue with him, but I know it’s useless. He’s a gentleman through and through. “Thank you, I’ll do that.”
As I take my seat, Ryan enters the Bean. He stops to talk with a student briefly, then walks toward the counter. When he sees me, he detours and comes over to the table.
“Hey, you here for a few minutes? I’ll join you. Can I order something for you?”
“Oh, I…” I glance from Ryan to Jon, who’s coming our way, and then back. “Sure, join us.”
“Us? If you’re meeting with someone—”
“Ryan. Good to see you.” Jon sets my latte on the table then holds out his hand to Ryan.
Ryan hesitates for just a second before shaking Jon’s hand, or was that my imagination?
“I invited Ryan to join us.”
“Great. Can I get you something?” Jon sets his cup of coffee down.
“No, thanks. Actually, I need to get back to my office.” Ryan looks to me. “Deni, I have a situation with a student I’d like to discuss with you. Do you have time this afternoon?”
“Sure. After my last class?”
“See you then.” He turns and walks back out of the café without ordering anything.
Jon pulls out a chair. “Did he seem a little tense?”
“Ryan?” I laugh. “Intense. It’s his middle name. We’re old friends.”
“Ah, I don’t know him well. Seems like you have a great group of people in your department.”
“We do. I’m very fortunate.”
“It’s more than fortune. You’re good at what you do, Deni. You’re a gifted leader who’s developed a strong team.”
I wrap my hands around the warm latte cup. “Thank you. I haven’t felt like much of a leader recently, so I appreciate the reminder.”
He studies me a moment. “Are you okay?”
The gentleness of his tone and the compassion I read in his expression are like rainfall on parched land. Not that others in my life don’t care, but beyond Jaylan and Heather, I haven’t opened up much.
Before I catch myself, I sigh, exposing more than I’d intended. “I’m so-so, I guess.”
Again, the response I see in his expression, his body language, is one of understanding, and I realize how much his own pain, the grief he’s still dealing with, has impacted him—changed him.
“I’m just”—unexpected tears prick my eyes, and I look down at the table—“struggling a little bit.”
“I’m here to listen if you’d like to talk.”
I dab at the corners of my eyes with one of the napkins and give myself a moment to consider my response. Then I look back up. “You’re familiar with the flight or fight response, I assume?”
He nods.
“I’m flying high and fast.” I try to smile, but the effort proves feeble.
“So you’d prefer not to talk about it?”
“I often know what’s helpful emotionally, but that doesn’t mean I always do it.” I shrug. “But… I would like to find some balance or middle ground. So if you’re game…?”
“I’m game.”
“Okay.” I reach for another napkin. “After the attack”—I’ve told him enough that he knows what I’m referring to—“I suffered with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder for quite some time. Therapy helped. Applying techniques to stay present helped.” I look up from the napkin I’ve folded into quarters. “But… recently, the symptoms have returned and I’m not sure why. Actually, I’m… afraid. Afraid of why the symptoms have returned and what they may mean.”
I take a deep breath and lean back. It’s the first time I’ve named the fear out loud. I am afraid of what’s behind the symptoms. Afraid my instinct is accurate. That my body is alerting me to something my mind knows but that I’ve yet to process or accept. Something I’ve experienced before, I remind myself. Again, the implications of that possibility threaten to overwhelm me, as they did in Heather’s office two weeks ago and as I drove home that night. I haven’t let my mind go there much since then.
“May I ask you a question?”
I nod.
“Suppose you landed, just for a few minutes, what would that look like?”
“Are you sure your doctorate’s in English and not psych?”
He laughs. “Very sure.”
“That’s such a wise question. It might look like… stillness. Rather than flight, running from my fear, or fight, confronting my fear, it’s maybe just… sitting with my fear for a time, or maybe even relinquishing the fear?”
“Sometimes in stillness, when we’ve quieted our minds, we hear from God.”
There’s no judgment in Jon’s tone, nothing accusatory. Just gentleness. Maybe it’s that gentleness that leads me to consider what he’s said. And it’s something I haven’t considered in a very long time.
“I used to believe that. Or maybe I still believe it, but I just haven’t practiced it much.”
“Listening for God?”
I nod. “It’s not as easy as it used to be.” I look away, and again I expect an admonition, but none comes. Then I look back at Jon. “May I ask you something now?”
“Anything.”
After your wife died, how did you still believe in God’s goodness? How did you, how do you, trust Him?”
He ponders my question a moment, then leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “I made the choice to trust Him. It’s a choice I still make, every day.”
“Even when you don’t feel like you can trust Him?”
“Especially on those days. But honestly, Deni, I don’t think trust is a feeling. I believe it’s a choice. And on those days when doubt plagues me, I ask for His help to believe what I can’t see. That’s faith, believing what we can’t see. And in this world, we can’t always see goodness.”
Again, I have the sense of having lived in a dry land for much too long, and Jon, through his words, his faith, has offered me a glass of cool water to slake my thirst.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
After my last class, I spend almost twenty minutes talking with two students about a group project I’ve assigned. When we’ve finished our discussion, I make my way upstairs to my office. When I get there, my office door is open and Ryan is sitting in the chair across from my desk.
“How’d you get in here?” I come around the desk.
“Your door was open.”
“What? Open or unlocked?”
“Both. Just like it is now. I figured you forgot to close and lock it when you left. When I realized you weren’t here, I thought maybe you’d just run out for a minute, so I sat down. When you didn’t come right back, I decided to sit here and keep an eye on things.”
“Thanks.” I look around the office. Everything seems to be in its place. “I’ve never forgotten to close and lock the door. In fact, I remember locking it because I had to come back in and get my keys out of my coat pocket.”
“Is it possible you grabbed the keys but forgot to close and lock the door?”
“No.” It wasn’t possible, was it? I’m hypervigilant about that kind of thing.
Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. Janitor, maybe?”
“In the middle of the day? That makes no sense.”
I drop into my chair a
nd reach for the phone. “Give me a minute. I need to check with facilities.”
“I can wait in my office.”
“No, no.” I put the phone down. “I’m sorry. I’ll call them when we’re finished. I’ve already kept you waiting.” Again, I survey the office. Had someone come in? If so, why?
“Deni?”
“Yes, sorry. You mentioned a situation with a student…”
“Yeah, but listen, really, if you’d rather do this later—”
“No. Now is good.”
Ryan looks around the office, then looks back at me. “Oh, this rattles you, right? I’m sorry, I should have realized.”
“I’m not…” I sigh. “Yes, it’s a little unnerving. Since coming back to school last week, I’ve had several odd occurrences. Things like this. I’m sure I locked the door.”
“I believe you. But we all forget things once in a while. Isn’t it possible—”
“No. I’ve doubted myself enough. This time I’m certain.”
“Okay. Listen, why don’t you check it out. Make that call, and we’ll talk later.”
I exhale my frustration. “Okay. Thank you.” As Ryan gets up to leave, I reach for the phone again. “Hey, wait a minute. What happened at the Bean this morning? One minute you were going to join us, the next you had to get back to your office. What was that about?”
He pauses at the door and turns back toward me. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” His tone is tight.
“You weren’t. I told you to join us.”
He looks down at the floor. When he looks back up, his emotions are no longer curtained and there’s misery in his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, Deni.”
I shake my head. “No, there’s… we’re friends. That’s all. We’re just friends.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll catch you later.” He turns and walks out.
Phone still in my hand, I look down at the desktop. I forget sometimes how well Ryan knows me. Maybe better than I know myself.
But it’s more than that, isn’t it?
While we seem to maneuver around it fairly well most of the time, it’s always there, the issue between us. Ryan has expressed his feelings for me through the years. Once was just about a year after Adelia left us, although—I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me—that wasn’t the first time.
I open my eyes, set down the phone, and reach up and massage my temples.
Adelia…
She and Ryan had such a tumultuous, passionate relationship. And ultimately so tragic. When Ryan told me he was in love with me after all he’d gone through with Adelia, I was certain his feelings were just confused. In the same way I’d felt certain he was confused the first time he confessed his love for me.
But I didn’t, I don’t, feel that way about him.
So we’ve choreographed an intricate dance that allows us to remain friends and continue to work together as we sidestep the issue. But I know it’s a dance that costs Ryan. And occasionally, like today, I see the price he pays when, for just a moment, he lets down his guard and I see the pain in his eyes.
Whatever it is he has felt for me, it’s still there.
Grief, like an angry sea, tosses, and its waves crash over me. So much grief over the last decade. So much loss for all of us. Perhaps the greatest loss was that of our innocence.
Sometimes I fear I’ll drown in the churning waves of grief.
But as I stare at the empty office, what I can only describe as a vision comes to me. A hand reaches for me in that sea. A strong hand, the hand of One offering to save me.
I swallow the ache in my throat as I recall Jon’s words. Trust is a choice.
But is it a choice I can make again?
After speaking with individuals in both the facilities and security departments of the university, I have no answer about my office door. No one in the facilities department had any reason to be in my office, and the janitorial staff, as I know, won’t come in until tonight. And because this building is the oldest on the campus, it’s one of the few that doesn’t yet have security cameras. At least not upstairs where the offices are housed. Only classrooms downstairs are monitored. Cameras for the upstairs offices and hallways are part of next year’s budget.
There’s no way to know if I left the door open or if someone else unlocked it.
Ryan is probably right—I grabbed my keys and walked out without locking the door. Honestly, I can’t imagine it. But neither do I specifically remember locking it—it’s such an automatic action. The last thing I remember was going back to get the keys out of my coat pocket. Was I interrupted after that? I don’t recall. My mind was likely elsewhere. Which means it is possible I didn’t lock the door.
I get up from my desk where I’ve spent the last hour either on the phone talking about the door or stewing about it. I walk out of my office and poke my head into Ryan’s office. “Have a few minutes now to talk?”
He pushes away from the computer and rubs his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Do you mind coming back to my office? I left the door open.”
He chuckles. “Good one.” Then he gets up and follows me next door. “Did you find out anything?”
“No. You’re probably right. Maybe I was preoccupied and never closed it.”
“Well, as long as nothing’s missing, no damage done, right?”
“I suppose.” Ryan takes the chair across from my desk again, but this time I pull up the chair from the corner of my office and sit in it so we can talk without the barrier of the desk between us. “So, back to the student you wanted to talk about…”
“Yeah, it’s Willow. That’s why I wanted to mention it to you.”
“Willow? That surprises me. What’s going on?”
“She didn’t show up for my classes this week. Second week of the semester? Seemed odd. As a TA, she’s supposed to let me know if she can’t be there. Which, obviously, you know. I haven’t seen her since last Friday. Have you heard anything? Talked to her?
I shake my head. “No. I did have a conversation with her last week, but she didn’t mention anything related to school. Have you checked with any of her other instructors?”
“No. If it were anyone else, I might not think much of it. But because of your recommendation”—he shrugs—“it seemed worth asking you about.”
“Let me do a little checking. I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt—she does have some things going on, but I don’t know the impact they’re having.”
“Yeah, all right.” He hesitates. “So…” His gaze shifts from me to the window. When he looks back, he appears troubled. “Does Willow remind you of anyone?”
I’m slow to respond, but then I nod. “I wondered if you’d see it.”
“Adelia.” Her name is just a whisper on his lips.
“Yes. She reminds me of a young Adelia.” Or at least what I imagine she looked like at that age. She was several years older when we met her. “Actually, I was just thinking about her.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“How does that feel—that reminder?”
He stares past me for several seconds then gets up. “Let me know what you find out about Willow, okay?” When he reaches the door, he pauses, his back still to me. “Have a good weekend.”
“Ryan?”
He walks out of the office and doesn’t turn back. Maybe that answers the question I asked him. I get up and move the chair back to the corner of my office, then go and stand at the window. A sprinkling of rain spatters the walkways and parking lot below, and dark, thick clouds blanket the sky above. But as I let my mind wander back, all of that recedes and I see Adelia, as she was when we first met. Long, dark hair, flawless creamy complexion, and her eyes—green, but a deeper shade than my own.
Ryan used to say her eyes were the color of the deep pools of the Kaweah and mine were the lighter color of the water as it plunged over boulders and rocky ledges.
I always wondered if there wasn’t something more to that analog
y.
Adelia and I were often asked if we were sisters, so alike were our looks. Me of Italian descent, Adelia Latino. Yet the similarities, at least physically, were striking. Well, except for the tattoos—we didn’t share those in common. I smile at the memory.
Willow, with her blond hair and light complexion, doesn’t physically resemble Adelia, as much as her mannerisms; and her inflections when she speaks are a reminder. But more than that, there was a look I’d see in Adelia’s eyes—a look I also recognize in Willow’s eyes.
It’s the same look I’ve seen staring back at me from my own mirror.
Has Ryan recognized that look?
It’s the look of fear.
But what did Adelia fear? And what about Willow?
I may never know.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Denilyn
December 2009
Keith and I were in the process of buying our home when I received the advance for my first contracted book, which enabled us to pay for a few upgrades. The extra Keith was most interested in was wiring for a surround sound system in the bonus room upstairs. In my mind, granite countertops in the kitchen were the nonnegotiable upgrade. As it turned out, after the advance, we could afford both.
I wiped the speckled black granite countertops, flecks of copper flashing like licks of flames ready to devour. Then I rinsed my hands at the sink, dried them, and went to the base of the stairs and yelled up to Keith. “They’ll be here any minute. Can you come down and help?”
I felt more than heard the edge in my tone, and I didn’t like it. We’d argued when he didn’t meet me at home as he’d said he would after the incident at the office several days ago. His excuse that he’d stopped to talk with someone on his way out of the office and “got caught up” in conversation about the Sacramento Kings point guard hadn’t sit well. Hadn’t I made it clear how distressed I felt?
Wasn’t I a priority, or my security a priority?
I’d continued to wrestle with those feelings, along with my rising anxiety, since that evening, and we’d had little time together since then to make amends. We needed to work through the issues, and I also needed to forgive him, I knew.
“Keith?”
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