Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising

by Tessa Van Wade

  “I don’t mean to bother you . . . it looks like I bothered you.”

  “No, never. I just got here. Are you okay?”

  “This isn’t possible, right?” I point to my face. Yesterday it had been disfigured and discolored. Presently, my cheeks aren’t swollen, my eyes are back to white, and the split on my lip is nearly invisible. “I shouldn’t look like this, right?”

  “You have good genetics,” he assures me.

  “My mom died of cancer last year after a decade of chemo.”

  He cocks his head to the side and smiles, his eyes genuinely soft and kind. “Perhaps your father.”

  “I don’t know who he was.”

  “Then I’m sure you get it from him.”

  I rush over to the table to grab a hairbrush and then hand it to him. “Here . . . throw this to me.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Please?” I walk several feet away.

  He looks uncomfortable.

  “Please,” I ask again.

  He quickly tosses it underhand. I catch it with ease in my left hand, which should be paralyzed. It takes a few moments for Dr. Richards to respond, and finally he smiles, “You were given amazing DNA.”

  I am in my psychologist’s office and I hope that the last six weeks since the attack aren’t announcing themselves by dark circles under my eyes. Who am I kidding, I’ve looked in the mirror. Fatigue is playing games with all the shadows on my face.

  The green velvet couch where I’ve dropped myself sits just across from a wall-size window on the fourteenth floor, and I can see the Transamerica Pyramid on Montgomery Street. Abstract works of art line the office’s brick walls.

  “How are you doing now that you’re home?” Dr. Stella asks. She’s a sixty-year-old woman with frizzy dark hair who manicures her nails with diamonds, yet she resembles a pit-bull trainer more than a psychologist. Her muscles bubble up around her neck and her boob job sits high on lean pecks.

  “Fine,” I say immediately, but Dr. Stella’s face contorts, sending her left eyebrow high and the apple of her right cheekbone swells. After these many years, my poker face is painfully obvious. “For the most part I’m fine except for the large knife I keep just beside my bed. I’m obsessed with whether I’ve locked the door or not, even though I know I have. I check it a hundred times right when I get home, but that doesn’t seem to help. So even in the middle of the night, I check again. And I haven’t gone out much . . . actually I haven’t gone out at all.”

  She’s searching for the best words to challenge me—of that I’m always aware.

  “Do you feel that’s a good choice?” She scratches her head with her pencil.

  “I feel like you don’t think it’s a good choice.”

  “It’s not that. We just had a good discussion last week about why your mom always told you to get back on that horse.”

  “At that moment my mom didn’t know that she would be dead soon, or that I would call off my engagement, and especially that this would happen.”

  “You’re right . . . but you’ve told me enough about your mother, Willow, that I think I understand who she was. What did she say about fear?”

  The sound of Dr. Stella’s dog—sleeping on a bed in the corner of the room—scratching his ear is suddenly very loud and my leg itches, which seems to be from these nasty ill-fitted pants that I shouldn’t have worn.

  “She said that fear is worse than death.” The lights suddenly glisten in the bottom of my eye.

  One thing Dr. Stella isn’t afraid of is “aha moment” silence, but right now there is rush hour traffic in my brain because of that sudden realization: “Fear is worse than death.” She finally repeats, then again lets the silence hover until I squirm. “Have you had many visitors?”

  “Ian comes over whether I ask him or not, and his helicoptering drives me crazy.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “Yes. Always. For everything,” I say in slight jest. “Just as I’ve said before, everything is about him. It always has been. We spent an hour the other day contemplating why he didn’t get the sergeant position on the police force. Meanwhile I’m having a panic attack about some sound I hear in the hallway. I’m sweating profusely, shaking . . . and he doesn’t notice. At all. I mean at all.”

  “Well, we already figured out years ago that he’s a narcissist.”

  “Yeah. And even though it’s nice to feel protected, I don’t need to take care of him right now.”

  “As you shouldn’t. Anybody else? Somebody that makes you happy, comfortable . . .”

  “Dr. Richards. He’s come by several times and there’s something about him that makes me feel safe.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  Pooter, the dog, comes over and sniffs my sweating hands. His cheeks feel like suede, so without thinking I let out a large sigh and my exhausted arms wrap around his neck. Sweetly, the dog sniffs my ear, but doesn’t pull away. “Willow,” Dr. Stella quietly calls, “we’ll get through this. I promise.”

  “I miss my life. I miss the kids . . . the schoolhouse.”

  “Maybe it’s time to go back?”

  Just this idea alone makes my breath stop. “Maybe. But . . .”

  Dr. Stella takes a sip of her water, so clearly providing me time before her next question. “What’s going on, Willow? I know you. I can see that there’s something deeper going on here.”

  Don’t say anything, I tell myself when my neck clamps as a warning. The smell of the pumpkin spice candle is slightly nauseating, so I reach over and pick up the metal lid. “Do you mind?” I ask her.

  “Not at all,” she says, seeming proud that I am so straightforward. I quickly cover the candle and extinguish the flame.

  “Everyone told me my whole life that my mom was crazy. Loving, yes, but also crazy. She saw and heard things that others didn’t.” I let out a long breath—my confidence hanging haphazardly on the end of my lips. “People have been watching me.”

  Dr. Stella’s eyebrow raises, yet there doesn’t seem to be any judgement. “Really?”

  “Since the attack. Every time I take BART, there’s a couple—a man and woman about my age, that are there. They won’t talk to me, but I’ve caught them watching me. Then in the store across the street from my apartment there’s a boy about sixteen. He seems to look at me the same way.”

  Her tone is accepting and her eyes kind—almost curious—so she makes me feel okay. “So, what makes them different? You know? They might just think you are pretty or familiar?”

  I rub my cheek until it’s warm. “The couple on BART? I haven’t gone back to work or even gone out except for doctor’s appointments and police information. Even though it’s never at any consistent time, these people are on the same train, always behind me . . . always watching . . . every time. I never saw them before the attack, but now the woman locks eyes with me as though she knows me.”

  The doctor nods, taking it all in. “Okay. It’s a little odd. Yet could it just be that they use BART often and maybe moved in near you?”

  “Six out of six times that I’ve been on BART? They enter just after me every time, almost as though they’ve been following.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the teenager? I’ve been in the store three times since I’ve been home and three times he’s been there. Last week I left the store and waited around the corner just to see, and he left just after me without buying anything.”

  Dr. Stella, for the first time since all of this, suddenly shows her concern. She breathes heavily, looks away, taps her pen on her notebook, and then scratches her head. So, I don’t let her continue to say anything.

  “I know how crazy I sound.”

  “No, you don’t sound crazy. Just someone who’s trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. It makes sense. What if . . .” she begins hesitantly, “what if you asked them a question?”

  I chuckle uncomfortably.

  “No, I’m serious. You’ve seen them six times now.
It might be time to just prove that your mother wasn’t necessarily always right. She told you from the time you were born that someone you couldn’t see was watching. Now after a very traumatic event—one that would break most everyone—things are happening that you can’t explain. The brain is a powerful thing. Your bubble of protection and safety was aggressively taken away. Perhaps you’re just noticing more. What if this couple and this teenager have always been there? What if you went back in time just a few months ago and found that they were always there?”

  I am sweating until my shirt is damp. She’s probably right. Could this really all be in my head?

  “Times up, but I want you to think about going back to work. Integrate yourself back into a routine and stop trying to analyze the world around you. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s important.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.” I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

  A week later, BART sways back and forth. I try to play on my phone, but I watch the world outside pass by instead. Dr. Stella seems to be right. No one followed me at the station or jumped on the train behind me. Yet why does this realization feel worse? I watch the lady next to me pull her mayonnaise and mustard out of her bag, which is entertaining for a moment and I can breathe.

  The door to the right opens and the swishing sound pulls my eyes away; they connect with the woman and her boyfriend who have been following me. They seem frazzled, as if late for something, but the moment they see me, she calms down. She’s funny. Her body moves a bit boyish. Her messy platinum hair frames wide and expressive brown eyes. She’s attractive, with a dose of humor. As they contort their bodies to get through the people this morning, she pretends to be a robot as she dances through. I smile, but she shrugs and laughs off her silliness. The man with her is terribly serious, yet there’s something about them that fits.

  For a moment it even seems she might say something to me, but he nudges her, so she thinks better of it. Yet every few moments she tries to cover up that she’s peeking. There is nothing on my clothes; my hair is messy, but none of it is standing up straight. The selfie mode on my camera phone doesn’t reveal smeared dirt across my cheeks or mascara down my face.

  It’s as though she wants me to recognize her and I scroll through my internal black book. She does seem slightly familiar, but then again, she is a pretty woman in a city with a million pretty women.

  At one point the boyfriend holds his phone in a position on his knee that seems to point straight at me. Is he taking pictures? She subtly hits his arm with hers, so he stops and looks away. I begin to fidget—running my fingers through my hair and bouncing my heel so fast I might dig a hole in the floor with my toe.

  When the train slows at my stop, I stand up and let my phone accidentally fall to the floor. She swoops down and grabs it with strong hands before kindly smiling as she gives it to me. “Here.” Her voice is slightly husky.

  “Thank you.” And with a nod I jump out.

  Moments later, I look back to see them escape out the second door. Yet when they see me turn it’s obvious that they pretend to be uninterested in me.

  That’s it. There’s no doubt in my mind that they are there for me. But why?

  Later that day, I stand in my classroom, staring out the window.

  “How are you, Miss Willow?” many of my students ask.

  “Fine,” I lie.

  Yet I can tell their intuitive little eyes don’t quite believe me. Especially when they all jump up to go to recess and find that I’ve locked the door. For a classroom of children, this is a safety hazard, yet my instincts seem to be controlled by my fear, as of late. I do these things now without thought.

  After the end of school when nearly every child is sent away, the last yellow bus sends a cloud of exhaust as it drives down the street. A white car is all that is left, parked against the brick wall on the other side of the circle drive. Standing there, leaning against the car wearing dark sunglasses, is a man and woman—both breathtakingly beautiful with smooth black skin. The man has long dreads down to his waist and the woman’s hair is nearly shaved, which makes their tall, statuesque, athletic bodies stand out in their perfectly tailored clothing. I look around, but there aren’t any more students left and most of the teachers have disappeared.

  “Hi,” I call out, raising a hand to wave.

  Before I can walk closer, they jump into their white high-end car and disappear down the road.

  “Whoa!” The rough but small voice surprises me. I look to my right where DeSean stands with his backpack on. “You know them, Miss Willow?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s too bad. That’s an Aston Martin. My dad says he’s gonna get one of those.”

  “Speaking of your dad, what are you doing? How are you getting home?”

  He looks up with a grin. “I missed the bus.”

  “Oh DeSean, what am I going to do with you, kid? Come on, let’s get you home.”

  The next morning, they are all back: the tomboyish blonde woman and her boyfriend on BART, and the beautiful man and woman with the white Aston Martin waiting after school, but who never pick up a child.

  The next Friday night, as my Uber drives away, I wrestle my keys out of my deep cavernous bag. Once again, the streets are quiet except for a few college students huddled together several feet away drinking Starbucks in sweaters and rolled up jeans—the millennial way. A few of the male students flirtatiously play a game of keep away with one of the female’s purses while she meekly tells them to stop.

  One long and wide scan of my block before I enter my apartment is now commonplace. Behind me, across the street, is a large man leaning against the metal fence. At first my eyes move past him, but then turn back. His green eyes are captivating underneath thick messy, dark hair. At first, because he is watching me, my pepper spray practically leaps into my hand—but I calm down when taking a closer look and see the relaxed nature of his body. The intensity behind his eyes, yet soft smile, force me to examine him while the college students nearby grow louder and more obnoxious. Not even their disruptive game derails the connection between us. I try to pretend that I am spending most of these precious moments figuring out the key situation, but he knows it is all a facade. His five o’clock shadow and slight wrinkles around his eyes tell me that he is possibly in his thirties, maybe forties. His eyes are a deep green behind olive skin, and he stands nearly two inches above a six-foot-tall gate.

  Perhaps instinctively I know that despite his large and assuming frame, there is something about him that is simply safe. I can’t tell what he is thinking, but it seems earnest when he won’t look away.

  Suddenly I hear “Watch out!” before one of the students knocks me over as he dives for the purse.

  “I’m so sorry!” the guy vehemently states, partially serious and partially laughing.

  The man with green eyes rushes forward to the middle of the street as they pull me to my feet.

  “It’s fine,” I say as I turn back to my apartment lobby door. Finally, I find the key and with blushing cheeks, I depart, but not before taking one last look at the man with green eyes. There is something so familiar about him.

  Inside my apartment, I rush to the window and scan the street. But he is gone—much to my disappointment.

  The following morning I gaze at a perfect view of the sun rising over the city out my window, my tea burning my lip as I watch. Perfect rows of stratus clouds line the sky while taps of precipitation pelt my window, leaving sections of my view in watercolor.

  As I follow a drop of water down the glass, my eyes catch something in the background. My focus turns to the tall man across the street.

  He stands confidently in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets—looking at me. As the sun rises, his face becomes clearer under a mist that dampens his dark hair. There is something about him that wraps around me like an old T-shirt, which means that as he watches me in the privacy of my home it seems strange to accept it—or bigger yet,
feel as though it makes sense. When the sun finally reaches its place in the gray sky it catches my interest.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  I jump when a man’s voice hits my ears. Ian stands on the threshold with his Kings bag over his shoulder, wearing a Kings jersey and a Dodgers cap. He is a child.

  “You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you heard me come in. I hollered at you a couple of times.”

  “You did? Out loud?” I ask sarcastically.

  “You knew I was coming. We talked about everything I needed to get done today and you said you would go.”

  Suddenly I remember. “Sorry, I’m just not getting much sleep.”

  “Do you need me to move in?”

  “I need you to get out of my house if you keep saying stuff like that.” I walk past him into my kitchen, and he follows.

  “I’m just kidding. Come on . . . let’s go. Let’s go!” He grabs my purse and stands by the door.

  “Why don’t you ever give me more than a few seconds?”

  He shrugs. “Come on. I have a lot of things to do.”

  We walk down the small corridor and then take the narrow stairs one by one to the lobby. The old door to the street squeaks on its hinges as Ian throws it open, instantly revealing the wet has begun to dissipate.

  My heart whimpers just a bit from the downtown buzz because of a jazz festival in the square. Even the people that surround us as we head down the street cause me to sweat and my knuckles to become white. It isn’t until we stop at a crosswalk that I notice the man from my window just a bit to my left. He isn’t looking at the phone in his hand or paying attention to the crowd. Instead, he keeps a steady gaze on me. We have never been this close and my stomach twists. I can’t look away, and it seems neither can he.

  As Ian is in his wondrous oblivion, I stare at the green eyes. His hair looks just a bit lighter and his clothes are casual. Under his messy hair he is far from average.

  While we wait for the light to turn green, he tucks the phone into his back pocket, then steps closer, pushing his way to stand beside me. It is possible that I won’t breathe again, at least until the distance between us widens. For the first time I can smell the soap on his skin, and he comes so close our arms touch. He looks down at me and our chemistry is unmatched. I attach myself to his stare, as if it is my only possibility to draw close. His desire for me is transparent just as the light turns green and the crowd pushes us apart. Something about the way his jaw clenches with disappointment reminds me of the night of the attack and the man across the restaurant in the blue sweater.