Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  We now knew for certain that he’d sent the bracelet and was responsible for the threat that came with it. But the question as to why the third charm was mailed from Seattle remained unanswered. Had the guy following me wanted to frame Keith? If this was a case of erotomania—the delusion that he was in a romantic relationship with me—he could want Keith out of the picture.

  In which case Keith could also be in danger.

  There was still so much we didn’t know, including the guy’s identity.

  After I sent the photo, on a whim, I opened a new email, attached the photo again, and then wrote a brief note:

  Dear Friends,

  I am trying to identify the man in this photo. Do you know him? If so, please contact me as soon as possible. This is an urgent matter, one I will explain at a later date. In the meantime, I appreciate your respect of my privacy until the issue is resolved.

  Denilyn

  I then sent the email and photo to everyone on my contact list, both personal friends and professional acquaintances. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I closed my mail app and stared at the photo still open on my screen.

  “That’s him.”

  I turned and looked up at Keith. I hadn’t heard him come in. He was much later than the thirty minutes he’d predicted in his text before I left the office, but I was growing used to his absences.

  “Yes.” I looked back at the screen.

  “Where’d you get the picture?”

  I clicked the photo so it closed and then pushed back from the computer and swiveled in the chair. Keith had plopped down in the upholstered chair in the corner of the den. He ran his hand through his hair. He had dark circles under his eyes. “I took it tonight. At the grocery store. He… was there.”

  Keith said nothing, his expression blank, so I continued. “He’d followed me, I guess. Maybe from the office. I don’t know. I was shopping, and suddenly he was behind me. He wanted to know why I wasn’t wearing the bracelet.”

  “So it was from him.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Well, that answers that.” He got up and headed out of the room.

  “Keith, wait.”

  He stopped at the door of the den and turned back.

  “Can we talk about this? How you feel?”

  It seemed odd that I was the one asking how he felt. Shouldn’t it be the other way around given the circumstances? But I told myself not to overthink it. To offer what Keith needed.

  He shrugged. “Nothing to talk about.”

  “You don’t have any feelings or concerns or”—I shrugged—“anything?”

  The pulse in his neck throbbed, but he offered nothing and then turned to leave again.

  He stopped in the hallway and looked back at me. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. I’m beat.”

  “Wait a minute. I need to talk with you about this. I know you’re tired—so am I, believe me. I had a long, stressful evening. Please, just come back and sit down. Just for a few minutes.”

  If I couldn’t offer what he needed—and it was clear I couldn’t—then I would seek what was best for me. For us, I believed.

  His jaw clenched, but he came back in and sat in the chair again, though obviously he wasn’t at ease there.

  I leaned forward, my tone gentler. “Babe, I’m… struggling. I’m scared, and I need you. I need your support. Your help through this. How can we get through this—together? What do you need me to do differently, or what do you need in order to support me?”

  He stared past me and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a lot of drama, you know? I can’t handle the drama.” There was tension in his tone that I’d rarely, if ever, heard.

  “Drama? It’s more than drama. That implies—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “I’m tired, okay? I don’t want to get into all this now.”

  I wanted to hurl words at him like darts. I wanted to hurt him as much as I was hurting. You never want to talk about it, was what I wanted to say. You never want to deal with anything important. And that was just the beginning. I took a deep breath. “When would it work for you to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know.” He got up.

  “What about with someone? What if we made an appointment with a counselor who could help us navigate—”

  “Of course, that would work for you, wouldn’t it Dr. Costa?”

  “What? Keith, this is me. What are you doing? Are you trying to hurt me?”

  “You know, Deni, not everything is about you.” With that he turned and walked out.

  Who was he? The man I’d just seen was as unknown to me as the stranger in the store tonight. Both were only vaguely familiar. I’d never heard that type of sarcasm or accusation from my husband. Never. My throat ached, but I knew crying would drain any remaining emotional energy I had. I leaned back in the desk chair, closed my eyes, and swallowed my tears. I had to preserve myself, my energy. Had to protect myself in any and every way I could.

  Protect myself from Keith? When had that become necessary?

  Just as I was pulling myself out of the chair to follow Keith to bed, my laptop dinged, indicating an email had just arrived in my inbox.

  Then my phone rang.

  I slumped back into the chair and saw Ryan’s name on the screen of my phone. As much as I cared about Ryan and our friendship, he required energy I didn’t have right now. I let the call go to voice mail and opened my email app instead.

  The email was also from Ryan, a response to the email I’d just sent. I opened it, and even before I’d finished reading it, I grabbed my phone and called him back.

  “You know him? How?” The fatigue I’d felt just moments before was replaced with adrenaline. “Who is he?”

  “Brad. That’s all I remember, but I’ll figure out his last name. He was a kayaker who hung around Mick’s sometimes. Or at the bar at The Gateway. Remember? Quiet guy. Like he was hiding something.”

  I searched my mind but came up blank. “No, I don’t remember. I knew him too?”

  “Remember the guy I had the run-in with that night at The Gateway? With Adelia?”

  “The guy who had a thing for her? The guy who… Oh Ryan!”

  The memories flowed like an engorged creek—so many details they threatened to flood my mind. Several of us had met at The Gateway late one evening. They had live music—a band from Southern California was playing, and we’d gone to hang out, listen to the music, and cure the nighttime boredom we often suffered in the small town. Most of Three Rivers shut down about 7:00 p.m. The Gateway was the “hot spot,” if there was one.

  That night Jaylan and I met Ryan and Adelia there. It had become clear early that summer that they had something going on besides the friendship we’d all shared. Ryan was clearly infatuated, though why it had taken him so long to figure out he was drawn to her, who knew. But all that intensity of his was redirected to Adelia, or Addie, as we called her then—the nickname Mick had given her. Even Jay agreed that Ryan had softened, or was “at least easier to bear.”

  Because the place was jammed that night, we’d grabbed the only open seats, stools at the bar. We ordered drinks, though none of us were big drinkers, and turned the stools to watch the band and the action on the dance floor.

  The music was so loud that talking was pointless, but soon it became clear that the guy sitting on the other side of Addie was trying his best to have a conversation with her. I only noticed because I saw a look of agitation on her face as the guy tried to engage her. I was on the other side of Ryan, so I nudged him and pointed out what he’d missed.

  It was a nudge I regretted.

  As soon as Ryan saw what was happening, he’d stood, and Addie had looked at him and put out her hand, as if to ward him off or hold him back. I couldn’t see Ryan’s expression, but I could imagine it. Ignoring Addie’s cue to back off, he got in the guy’s face, pointed a finger, and unleashed a tirade of some sort. I couldn’t
hear it, but again, I could imagine. I’d seen Ryan angry, and it was clear whatever he’d said was heated.

  When Ryan grabbed the guy by the shirt, Adelia grabbed Ryan’s arm, and the guy lifted his hands, as if surrendering, and backed off, literally. He’d grabbed his beer off the bar and moved somewhere else. Or left. I didn’t know, and at the time it didn’t seem to matter.

  It made sense now why my memories of him were vague. The bar was dark, the music blaring. Though I’d seen him, I hadn’t recognized him as someone who’d hung around Mick’s. At least not until the next day when I saw him again. This time from a distance, across the property. He’d stood in the shade of a cottonwood near the fence and stared at something. When I followed his gaze, I realized he was watching Adelia as she helped load rafts into one of the storage units.

  In hindsight I recognized the expression he’d worn that day. It was the same expression I’d seen on his face as he watched me, both at Kepler’s and again as he leaned against that tree in the church courtyard.

  That was the beginning of the end of that horrific summer.

  “Ryan, why… me? What is he thinking?”

  “I don’t know. You barely remember the guy. Does he remember you? I don’t get it.”

  “He knows my name. He’s done his research, that’s for sure. First name, middle name, last name. The first time I saw him was at a signing—he had my book. He definitely knows me, or thinks he does. He must remember me from Three Rivers. There’s a link. There has to be.”

  “Wait, Deni. Where’d that photo of him come from?”

  “I took it. Tonight. I was at the grocery store, and he was there, following me.” In a torrent of words, I told Ryan everything that happened, about the questions the guy had asked, about the woman who interrupted us, and then about trying to find him in the parking lot. I told him how I felt, the fear that consumed me, and how when I’d finally gotten back into my car, I was so nauseated I was sure I’d be sick.

  I told him how when I’d come home, I’d walked in alone and felt adrift, bereft, with nothing to keep me afloat. Like water tumbling over a spillway, I spilled all the emotions I’d dammed over the last few weeks.

  I told him everything I’d wanted to tell Keith.

  I talked until the river of emotion had run dry.

  Or almost dry.

  I stopped short of sharing my growing doubt about my husband, and my marriage.

  “Why didn’t you call me tonight? If Keith wasn’t there, I’d have come over until he got home. You know that. I’m here to help. Whatever you need.”

  I wiped my damp cheeks, grateful Ryan couldn’t see my tears. “Thank you. But I have to get through this—I did get through it. Keith would have been here if he could. He just…” Was I really going to cover for him? “Anyway, thank you. And thank you for listening.”

  “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

  After Ryan and I said our goodbyes, I sat in the silence of the den for a long time considering all Ryan had offered me. His viewpoints, personal and professional when I asked, his understanding, compassion, and support. All the things I’d desired and needed from my husband but that Keith was either unwilling or unable to give, Ryan gave freely.

  But it wasn’t fair to compare the two men. Their experiences of my circumstances were entirely different, and each would process them in his own way. God had provided a friend when I needed one tonight. I was grateful, and I’d leave it at that.

  I had to leave it at that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Denilyn

  February 15, 2017

  As students filter into the classroom and take their seats, I’m grateful for what I anticipate will serve as ninety minutes of both normalcy and distraction. If only I can discipline my mind to focus—although I know there’s more to it than discipline.

  A few minutes before it’s time for class to begin, Willow walks into the room and makes her way to the front where I’m seated. I stand up as she approaches. “I am so glad to see you. How are you?”

  Her fair skin tinges pink as she looks from me to the floor and back again. “I’m okay. I know you don’t have time to talk right now, but I just wanted to tell you I got your email. Sorry I didn’t respond. I’ve just been, like, sort of overwhelmed. I made some changes to my schedule, so…” She shrugs. “That’ll help.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I was just concerned about you.”

  “Thanks. So, okay, I’ll see you later.” She turns to go, then looks back and waves.

  I watch her as she walks out of the classroom. Her thin frame looks almost brittle. Was her timing intentional? Did she come now knowing I wouldn’t have time to talk or ask questions? Though I’m glad she connected with me, something about the brief encounter unsettles me.

  But then, unsettled is my most frequent state of being these days, so I take that into consideration.

  I switch on the projector and then find the PowerPoint presentation on my laptop that supports my lecture. When I had one of the university’s IT guys look at my laptop to see if he could find the missing file with my presentations and the syllabi for my classes, there was no sign of it. Although the file was easily restored from my backup drive, I still don’t understand what happened. The missing file is more than an annoyance; it’s baffling. One more event I can’t explain.

  I turn to the class. “Before we get started, are there any questions based on the reading I assigned? Or did anything strike you?”

  Several students look at me, eyes wide, terrified I might call on them. It’s an expression I’m very familiar with. Others dig through backpacks so they won’t have to make eye contact with me. Then there are those whose blank stares make me wonder if they’ve even heard me.

  “So the chapter enthralled you, I see.” A few students offer sheepish smiles. “Let’s see if I can pique your interest, but in order to do that, you’ll need to participate. Don’t leave me all alone up here, people.”

  I reach for my mug, take a sip of my lukewarm coffee, and wish I could infuse caffeine directly into my system and, come to think of it, into my students too. Early morning classes have their drawbacks.

  I glance at the screen then turn to the class. “Who, based on the reading, can give me an example of a psychological influence on aggression?”

  I wait until finally a student raises his hand. “Sanji, go ahead.” I can always count on Sanji to get things going.

  “Personality traits.” His tone is confident.

  “Yes. Give us an example.”

  “Someone who either lacks empathy or has low empathy for others.”

  “Thank you. How about another example of a personality trait that may lead to aggressive behavior?”

  Another hand goes up. “Yes, Meghan.”

  “Impulsivity.”

  “Good. Give me an example of how someone who lacks empathy or is impulsive might display aggressive behavior.”

  Meghan thinks for a moment. “Like, bullying?”

  I nod, and another student raises his hand. “Jason…”

  “Cyberbullying. Like that guy whose ex just offed herself because of the stuff he said about her on social media.”

  “She committed suicide. Yes, that’s an example of how someone who lacks empathy and may also be impulsive might demonstrate aggressive behavior that leads to tragic consequences. It’s also an event that’s become all too common.”

  A young woman in the back of the class raises her hand. Her name has slipped my mind, so I point. “Yes?”

  “My sister went out with a guy—they only went out once—she wasn’t that into him. So when he asked her out again, she said no. Then he started harassing her and following her everywhere, like stalking her. She finally had to get a restraining order against him. That’s aggression, right? Kind of like bullying?”

  I take a deep breath and then address the class. “What do you think?”

  Heads nod in unison, and another student speaks up. “That also
demonstrates both a lack of empathy and impulsivity, right?”

  “Definitely a lack of empathy. Anytime someone forces unwanted attention or behaviors on another person, which a stalker certainly does, it’s a form of bullying. Oftentimes there’s an imbalance of power between a bully and the person they’re bullying—it may be social power, physical power, or even financial power.”

  “Aren’t you kind of an expert on that?” Jason asks.

  “An… expert?” I’ve never had a student in the classroom directly ask me about my experience. “Actually… I guess you could say that.” I have nothing to lose here, only something to offer, I remind myself. “I had a man stalk me over the course of a year. Perhaps similar to what your sister went through”—I’m grateful when her name comes to me—“Kassy.”

  There isn’t a student whose attention isn’t completely focused on me now.

  Kassy is the first to respond. “What happened?”

  I run my hand through my hair, the raised scar on the side of my head a permanent reminder of exactly what happened. But I won’t share the details. “He was arrested, tried, and is serving a sentence in one of our state’s corrections facilities.”

  “Deni?”

  “Yes, Jason.”

  “Sorry. I mean, I’m sorry for whatever you went through, but that wasn’t what I meant, exactly. Aren’t you an expert on bullying? You wrote a book, right?”

  “Oh yes… The book was based on research I did for my doctorate. I’m not sure I’m an expert, but I’ve researched the topic extensively. And, like Kassy’s sister, I also have some personal experience with an extreme form of bullying, or aggression.”

  I glance back at my presentation on the screen and then click ahead several slides until I reach a brief quiz I’ve developed. “There are other psychological influences on aggression, including environmental influences, as you know if you’ve read the chapter. Take out a piece of paper and go through the questions on the screen, listing your answers, and then we’ll go through the questions. I’ll give you about ten minutes.”

  The quiz provides the breather I need to assimilate my thoughts and gather my emotions. While I’ve never intended to hide my past from my students, neither have I offered to share it. Speaking about it brings it all rushing back. I rub the back of my neck and take a few deep breaths. As I do, my phone dings somewhere in my briefcase. I forgot to turn off the volume.