Calico

by Callie Hart

  I look down at my feet. “I can’t stay,” I whisper. “You know I can’t.”

  “Why?” His voice is small.

  “Because…I’m not happy.” This is a lie. Despite everything I’ve been through and everything I’ve suffered, I am capable of happiness. He makes me happy. He somehow cuts through all of the hurt and continually helps to believe that there’s hope for my future. I will be forever grateful to him for that. I’m so damaged now, though. I don’t know how anything I touch or cherish or love could ever be good.

  “You’re not thinking straight,” Callan says. “This is because of the baby? Because you’re not the only one who lost something here, Coralie. I lost my kid, too.” He speaks quietly, his words slow and measured, as if he’s trying to stay calm in the face of overwhelming odds. He’s hurting. I can see it all over him. He’s barely hanging on by a thread. I want to go to him, let him hold me, let him kiss me, let him fix all of this for me, but he’s already carrying so much. If I did that to him, the effort of it would break him and it would be all my fault.

  “It’s not the baby,” I say. “It was the photo. I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to. If my father sees that magazine, he’ll fucking lose his mind. He won’t just hit me next time. He’ll fucking kill me.”

  Callan’s face screws up. He takes a step back. “What? What do you mean, he won’t just hit you? When has he ever hit you?”

  Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m distracted, trying not to break down into a flood of tears. I’m not thinking about the words that are coming out of my mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

  Callan holds up his hand, guiding me away from his mother’s bedroom, ushering me into his. He closes the door behind us and then rounds on me, eyes alight with horror. “You dad fucking hit you? When? What happened?”

  I sigh. His reaction is one of immediacy—the kind reserved normally for breaking news. This is fresh for him. An atrocity that demands action. For me, the cruelty is so commonplace that it’s become routine. No surprise here. No outrage.

  The fight has completely left me. I can’t even muster up the strength to continue lying about it. I feel weary in my bones and deeper down than that, closer to my soul. “He’s always done it, Cal. Always. Ever since my mother died.”

  Callan sinks down heavily onto his bed. Some photographs slide from on top of his duvet, fluttering to the floor. I see a picture of myself there on the floorboards, lying on my back, surrounded by long grass, face lit in golden sunlight. I’m smiling, my teeth showing, but I can see the quiet pain lurking in my eyes. How can he not have seen it? How can he not have known somehow?

  “Goddamn it, Coralie. You should have said something.”

  “I should have done a lot of things.”

  “That bruise was because he hit you, then? You didn’t get it playing lacrosse?”

  “Yes.” My mouth forms the shape of the word, but no real sound comes out. At least I don’t think it does. My ears are ringing, buzzing with a high-pitched noise that blots everything else out.

  Callan covers his face with his hands and sits there like that for a long time, his shoulders rising up and falling down as he breathes deeply. When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are bloodshot and his face is even grayer than before.

  “You have to stay,” he says. “What can I do to make you stay?”

  I look at him and I see everything in my life that brings me joy. I see hours spent on the riverbanks after school. I see the gentle way he studies me when he’s inside me. I see love, and I see hope, and I see possibility, and it hurts so fucking much. I go to him, placing one hand on his cheek, feeling the sharp prickle of his stubble scratch at my palm.

  “Nothing, Callan. There’s nothing you can do.” I sound strangled as I force out my next words. “Don’t follow me. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” I kiss him quickly, crushing my lips against his. He takes hold of my wrist, making a gasping sound, but I pull away. I turn and I leave, and I don’t look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CALLAN

  Blame

  NOW

  “I don’t understand.” I keep looking at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about, but it just won’t make any sense. “You told me at the school that it was just one of those things. That sometimes women just have miscarriages. And now you’re saying it was Malcolm? He found out you were carrying my child and he beat you until you lost it?”

  “Yes. And I felt so guilty. I had to leave. I was going to ask you to come with me, but…”

  “But?”

  “I came there that night, Callan, and your mom was so sick. You were the only one there to help her. You loved her and you were losing her. What would you have done if I’d have asked you to leave?”

  “I would have talked you into staying. With me. You could have moved into the house. You know my mom wouldn’t have minded. Especially if she’d known what was happening with you. Fuck, Coralie! I can’t believe this.” She looks like she’s exhausted, worn out by her confession. Slowly she wraps one of the dustsheets around her naked body, tears chasing down her face. “I couldn’t have stayed close to that house for one more second. I couldn’t have lived here, right next door, knowing what I’d gone through in that basement. He would never have let me go. And you would have understood that. You would have come with me, Callan, and Jo needed you. You both needed each other. I couldn’t do it.”

  “It wasn’t your decision to make, Coralie. Jesus. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” I get up and stalk back through to the kitchen, where I find my clothes. I put my boxers and my jeans back on, and then I take Coralie’s clothes back to her where she’s sitting on the couch, swamped by the tattered old material she’s pulled off the coffee table. She takes her bundled things from me and quickly gets dressed, not looking at me. I lean against the doorjamb, watching her, torn between screaming at her and crying. She went through that alone. She went through all of it alone, and I would have supported her. I would have taken care of her given the chance, but she chose to carry the burden on her own back, and look what happened.

  “So you were here? That whole time I thought you were in New York, you were here? Next door? In the basement?”

  Coralie buries her face in her hands, sobbing. Her head bobs up and down. She can’t speak. I have to rush back into the kitchen. Leaning over into the sink, I throw up, my stomach tensing, my back tensing, everything tensing as I realize what that means. She was alone. Coralie silently appears in the kitchen, still crying, though she seems to have gathered her senses. She places her hand on my back, and I turn around, catching hold of her at the wrist. “Did you ever love me? Back then?” I snap.

  “Of course I did. I couldn’t breathe without you half the time, Callan.”

  “Then how could you have kept me in the dark like that? How did you not trust me enough to let me keep you safe?”

  She dips her head, swallowing hard. “I always trusted you, Callan. I always trusted you. Everything was so raw at the time, though, and I knew how it would affect you. Knowing the truth about what happened would have turned you inside out, and it was too late to keep me safe. I was beyond saving. And you…you were still good. You were still light. I knew losing Jo was going to be heartbreaking enough as it was. I couldn’t pile more pain and suffering onto you. I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Goddamn it. I could have taken it, Coralie.” I start pacing up and down in the small kitchen, trying to walk off the frustration I’m feeling, but it doesn’t dissipate. It only grows stronger and stronger, building inside me until it takes me over. I’m so angry, fit to bursting with rage that I don’t know what to do with myself. I let it have me in the end. I hand myself over to the fizzing, bubbling chaos inside me, and the next thing I know I’m pile-driving my fist through the plasterboard of the kitchen wall. White dust flies everywhere, clogging the air, but I can’t seem to make myself give a shit. Coralie yelps, skittering back, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks so scare
d, and for a heartbeat I struggle to understand why. It clicks when a small voice in the back of my head whispers, ‘she was beaten, you idiot. Her father used violence against her for years. Of course she’s going to freak out if you start smashing your fist into things.’

  “God, Coralie, I’m sorry. Fuck. Come here.” She’s rigid as a board, shaking like a leaf as I take hold of her and pull her to me. “I would never, never hurt you, no matter how angry I was, bluebird. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” My hand is pulsing with pain, my knuckles scuffed and bruised, but it doesn’t hurt anywhere near as badly as my heart. Coralie cries against me, her tears running down my bare chest, and the two of us stand there like that for a while. I know she’s in pain. She’s been in pain for all these years. I hurt for her, for everything she’s been through, but I’m also a little resentful, too. If only she’d had faith in us. If only she’d trusted me to protect her. Sure, I was a teenaged idiot at the time, but the love we had was real. I would have laid down my life for her if I’d thought for a second she was in danger. I’d have moved mountains and held back the seas if only it meant that she was safe.

  Eventually Coralie stops crying. She looks up at me, eyes wide, wet with tears and I find myself lost in that damn dark spot in her iris. I told her once it looked like the raging storm on the surface of Jupiter, and it still does. She’s the most stunning, fascinating creature I’ve ever met. She really is like a bird—small, cautious, intricate and beautiful. And ready to take flight at the first sign of danger.

  “I need you to leave now,” I tell her.

  Her face falls, like she’s been waiting for this to happen ever since she spoke. Like she’s already accepted it. “Of course. It’s okay. I understand.”

  “I just need a moment to process everything. I can’t do that when you’re looking at me like this.”

  She nods. “I know you probably won’t be able to forgive me, Callan, but you should know that I’ve regretted my decision every day since I said goodbye to you. I know I should have told you, and I know I should have stayed.” She lets me go and slips quietly out of the kitchen. I’m left, staring through the gigantic fucking hole I just knocked through the wall into the family room next door, and for the first time in twelve years I feel empty. It’s a goddamn relief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CALLAN

  No Surprises

  NOW

  I spoke to Malcolm Taylor only once. During the whole time Coralie and I were sneaking around, taking photographs, holding onto each other fiercely in my bed, running as wild as we possibly could with the old bastard controlling her so doggedly, I only had occasion to face him and actually speak once. That seems strange to me now, but at the time I’d been relieved. Coralie had told me he was a hard ass, over protective, and I’d been willing to take her at her word and avoid him at all costs.

  “You never suspected that he was hurting her, though. That night she left town was the first time she ever said anything about it. I remember, man. I remember being shocked when you told me, too. She always hid it well.” Shane gives me a third beer. I’d sat around at home and tried to think things through after Coralie left, but I’d started to go a little crazy. I stopped by Willoughby’s, looking for an old friend to talk to, and we’d ended up going to Chase’s—the only dive bar in town that seems to have escaped the community’s ‘regeneration.’ Shane and I used to come here and get fucked up after my mom died. I can’t even recall how many times I’ve puked in the men’s toilets. At the speed we’re going, I’ll probably end up revisiting that tradition tonight, if only for old time’s sake.

  “Yeah. I had no fucking idea. Still. Part of me feels like I should have somehow.”

  “Fuck, man. I still can’t believe you were going to be a dad. I can’t believe you were going to be a dad and you didn’t fucking tell me.”

  “Sorry. Seems like we were all full of secrets back then.” I pull at my beer, thankful that it’s ice cold so I can’t taste how cheap and shitty it is. “Not like we were shouting it from the rooftops at the time, y’know?”

  “Hmm,” Shane grunts. “Are you mad at her? Do you blame her for what happened?”

  I pause with my beer bottle pressed to my lips, staring at the buzz of yellow and red light reflected in the bar mirror from the juke box behind us. My mind seems to have ground to a jarring halt. “I don’t know,” I tell him, because it’s the god’s honest truth. I don’t know what the hell I should be thinking anymore. I know I love her. That won’t ever change? But do I hold her responsible for the death of our child? It would be easy to be angry and place blame where it fits easiest. Malcolm’s dead already, so hating him even more isn’t going to make me feel better. Hating Coralie might make me feel self righteous and free at last, able to head back to New York without feeling like I failed in achieving something with her here, but it would be forced. She didn’t lie to deceive me. She lied to save me from further hurt. I shake my head, raising the beer bottle in my hand and pouring half its contents down my neck. “I just don’t know what I think or feel anymore. I thought all of this stuff was a side note in my relationship with Coralie, but now it feels like it’s the only thing in my head. I can’t fucking think about anything else.” I shake my head. “Jesus, we would have made terrible parents.”

  “No you wouldn’t, man. You guys would have been great. Every parent thinks they’re going to be a massive failure at raising a kid, believe me. I know. Tina’s crying every five minutes because she thinks she’s gonna accidentally let our newborn drown in the bathtub or something. But when it comes down to it, you step up to the plate. You figure that shit out. You and Coralie would have figured it out, too. You woulda had a better chance than anyone else I know, anyway.”

  “How d’you figure that out?”

  “Because you guys loved each other so much. Every kid in school used to watch you guys together and flip out, because you were both so invested. There was no Callan or Coralie. Only Callan and Coralie.”

  “Pffffttttt.” I blow out a long sigh between my lips. It feels so sentimental thinking back to those days. I’ve tried so fucking hard in the past to stop thinking about Coralie altogether, but that was always a futile exercise. “We didn’t know we were special at the time,” I say, but this is an out and out fallacy. Both of us absolutely knew. There was no hiding from it.

  “Look, man, I know she’s all you’ve wanted for the past decade, but trust me. Ending up with your high school sweetheart is not all it’s cracked up to be. You know them inside out, front to back. You know what they’re thinking at all times. You can pretty much guess what they’re gonna be wearing each day based on how they said good morning to you when you got out of bed. You can anticipate each other, know exactly what’s going to come out of their mouths when they’re pissed off, when they’re happy, when they’re sad...”

  “And these are all bad things, because…?”

  Shane hunkers down next to me, casting a wary eye at the barmaid like she’s a Soviet spy. “There are no surprises left, Callan. None. It’s awful.”

  I laugh for the first time since Coralie left my house. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you didn’t have it, asshole. Trust me.”

  “I don’t think I can trust a guy who’d rather sleep with one woman the rest of his life instead of hitting all of that New York pussy.”

  Shane is so full of shit. I know him. I’ve known him his whole life. He’s not a one-and-done kind of guy. He wouldn’t know how to have casual sex even if there was a naked woman laid out on a bed in front of him, telling him she wanted to get fucked and never see him again. He’s been with Tina forever. I’m pretty sure she’s the only woman he’s ever slept with—the only woman he ever wants to sleep with. He’s just trying to make me feel better, and it isn’t fucking working.

  “Just stop talking,” I tell him.

  Shane pulls a face at me and then gestures for the barmaid to bring us another round of beers. She gives him a scandalized look,
throwing her polishing cloth down on the bar. “You’re not even halfway through that one, Shane Willoughby,” she says.

  “I’m aware. But the rate you move, Carolyn Anderson, I’ll have finished and drank his.” He tries to take my beer from me, but I shoot him a glare that tells him quite plainly what will happen to him if he tries to touch the damn bottle again.

  I’m about to tell Carolyn the barmaid not to bother fetching me another drink anyway, but my cell phone starts vibrating in my pocket. When I pull it out, I see Angela Ricker’s number flashing on the screen. Lord knows what she wants. I haven’t heard from her in a while. In fact, I haven’t done any work for Rise and Fall Magazine in well over a year. I answer the call, making an apologetic face at Shane. “What’s up, Angela?”

  “Callan Cross. You’re a hard man to reach. I’ve been calling you for days.” She probably has, and I wouldn’t have a clue. I’ve been far too preoccupied with Coralie and her father. “I even swung by your place last night but the doorman said you were out of town. South Carolina? I told him he must have been mistaken. Big city boys never go back to their small town roots once they’ve escaped.”

  “Ha! And yet here I am.” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Angela seems to be waiting for me to tell her what the hell I’m doing back here. She’s going to have to come out and ask me if she wants to know, though, and even then I probably won’t be telling her the truth.

  “Right, well,” she says. “I have a job you won’t be able to turn down. You’ve been dodging R and F assignments for far too long, Cal. There’s no way you’ll turn down this shoot, though. No way in hell.”

  “I don’t want it, Angela.”

  “You don’t even know what it is yet.” She’s one of those women who pouts unnecessarily. I can picture her doing it right now as her forehead creases in frustration. “It’s a chance of a lifetime. And the pay is phenomenal. I’m not going to stop bugging you about it until you’ve at least let me explain.”