Confined

by Barbi Barnard

“Had other plans tonight, like I told you.”

  “What do you see in him?” He asks.

  “Steve,” I sigh. “We’re really just friends. That’s it. Nothing more.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  I nod. “Really, really.”

  “So if I were to ask you out to dinner next Friday night what should you say?”

  “I’d ask you if I needed a sitter or is my daughter invited as well.”

  “And if I said you’d need a sitter?”

  “I’d say okay, I’ll call my sitter and see if she can watch Emma next Friday night.”

  “Is eight too late?”

  “No,” I smiled. “Eight is perfect.”

  “I love this part,” I mumbled. I know it sounded like I was blowing him off, but I was distracted by the epic love story unfolding before me.

  “Yeah because in about two minutes, his whole worlds about to be upended.”

  “Just how life is,” I said. “It sure as hell isn’t always pretty.”

  We sat and watched as the inevitable happened; the young lovers realized the fate bestowed upon them by a last name and a fathers grudge.

  “Well,” Steve said with a yawn. “It’s late. I should probably head home.”

  I glance at the clock on the mantle. It was nearing ten. I pick up the remote and turn the movie off. Steve stood up and looked down at Emma. “Want me to carry her upstairs?”

  “Oh no, you don’t have to. I’ll just wake her up.”

  “Don’t wake her, I’ll take her.” He bent down and picked up Emma’s sleeping form as if she weighed no more than a pillow. She snuggled into his chest and murmured something about puppies and an alligator. I smile and follow the two of them up the stairs. This whole evening felt so normal, so run of the mill that the next natural thing would have been for Steve to put Emma to bed, shut off the hall light and follow me into dad’s old room, razzing me about getting another year older as I slipped into a comfortable old pair of pajamas.

  For a fleeting second I almost wished it would be that way, that I could have that sense of normalcy and completeness. It was a pang in my stomach as I realized that I would never have that, that I hadn’t even had it with Kyle.

  Steve lays Emma in bed and steps back as I tug the covers up and over her. I drop a kiss on her forehead and murmur, “I love you.”

  She smacked her lips together and mumbles, “Please don’t let the ogre eat the butterflies,” before rolling over and snuggling further down into her pillows.

  “Puppies, alligators, ogres, and butterflies,” I laugh. “Must be one hell of a dream.”

  “Must be.”

  I follow him back down the stairs and into the foyer. “Thanks for inviting me over tonight,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “I had a lot of fun with the two of you.”

  “Thanks for coming. I had a great time.”

  We stand there awkwardly for a moment. I will him to kiss me, even though the simple act scared the shit out of me. Steve leans forward like he is going to then he seems to change his mind. “See you later,” he says, disappearing out the front door into the night.

  “See you,” I mutter as I shut the door. Looking through the window as I went to lock it, I see him coming back. I open the door to ask if he forgot something, but he takes me by surprise, taking my face in his warm hands and pressing his lips lightly to mine.

  Fear coursed through me, the age-old ‘fight or flight’ instinct kicking into overdrive. Relax, I told myself. It’s just a kiss. Steve felt me stiffen and released my face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… I’ve wanted to do that since you moved in.”

  “It’s okay,” I fought to keep the fear at bay. “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m a basket case.”

  “You know you can tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t talk about it. I don’t even want to remember it happened.”

  “Okay,” he says softly. “If that’s what you want, but if you ever change your mind, I’m always going to be here for you.”

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, go get some sleep. And happy birthday.”

  Chapter five

  The ringing of the phone wakes me bright and early that Saturday morning. I rolled over, the opposite side of the bed cold against my bare skin and blindly reached for the phone. “Hello?” I croaked into the receiver.

  The quiet humming of static answered me. “Hello,” I say again. Still with no answer. I hang up and roll back over, closing my eyes.

  Thirty minutes later the phone rings again. I roll back over and pick it up. “Hello,” I said impatiently. When no one answers again I grunt, “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s seven thirty in the damn morning. Some of us like to sleep in a bit, so unless you have something to say, quit calling me.”

  Part of me is waiting for some kind of creepy, whispery voice to say that the call was coming from inside the house. I shake off the eerie feeling and hang up the phone, this time turning the ringer off. I can’t however, go back to sleep. I lay in bed, staring up at the white ceiling, the fan circling lazily overhead.

  Steve finally asked me out, I thought, smiling to myself. But along with that came the nasty business of telling him the truth before things got to serious. It wasn’t something I could wait to tell him, because let’s face it, if he didn’t already know something was up with me, he sure did after he tried to kiss me last night.

  I slide out of bed, turn the ringer back on, and pad quietly to the door, opening it carefully. The hall is quiet. I tiptoe down the stairs and into the kitchen where I fix a pot of coffee. While waiting for it to brew, I pull on a sweater and open the front door to retrieve the morning paper.

  The pavement is cold under my feet, the newspaper bag damp. As I pick it up, Steve’s front door opens and he jogs down the steps in a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, and a bright yellow Livestrong t-shirt.

  “Morning,” he hollers when he reached the end of my driveway.

  “Good morning,” I reply. “Going for a run?”

  He nods looking up at the light blue sky. “It’s a good morning for one. Want to join me?”

  I laugh and shake my head no. “I don’t run.”

  “Suit yourself.” He fiddled with the device on his arm and turned north. For a fleeting moment I wanted to call his name and spill my guts to him. I didn’t though. I let him jog down the street, his feet steadily slapping the concrete beneath his shoes.

  Inside the house, the phone rang. I hurry back up the walk to answer it. “Hello.”

  Heavy breathing answered me. “Who is this?” I demanded. Part of me expected some raspy voice to tell me to leave town or some other eerily similar message.

  However, heavy breather said nothing. “Whatever,” I muttered as I drop the phone back into the cradle. I turn to the fridge and scribble, “Call Phone Company on Monday” on the magnetized pad hanging there. If I have to, I will change our phone number, unless the phone company can block the number. Either way the calls are creepy and they have to stop.

  The weekend goes by quickly and soon enough it is Monday all over again. The creepy phone calls stop and I forget to call the phone company. Monday passes, as did Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and before I knew it, Friday was knocking at my door.

  I am nervous all day, unsure of how to proceed. Go to dinner with Steve; tell him all my dirty laundry, watch him run away screaming and spend the weekend crying like the bus driver ran over my dog and eating cherry pie like it’s going out of style.

  Yeah, that didn’t seem fun.

  Or the alternative. Tell him nothing and make up lame ass excuses for why I’m such a spaz, or why I act like a Catholic Nun when he tries to kiss me.

  I had to tell him the truth. I had to. There was no alternative. It was either lie… or lie. And I couldn’t lie to him. Somehow, someway, I’d find strength to tell him the truth.

  ***


  “I’m sorry for the terrible, clichéd date.” Steve said apologetically. “I mean, dinner is kind of universal.”

  “Dinner was fine,” I say as we walk down the street. I look around as the buildings grew farther and farther apart. The noises I could hear a few minutes ago, car engines and horns honking, the sound of a woman yelling at a man, the echoes of her screeching cry still bouncing off the buildings a few blocks back, had all faded. It was unnaturally quiet.

  I slow down, suddenly afraid. Ahead of me, Steve slowed to a stop and glances at me. “You okay?” he asked, holding his hand out for me to take.

  I nod and look around. “I’m fine,” I whispered. I glance down at his hand waiting to be taken. I stand behind him for a second, unsure of whether or not to take it. When I did, it was large and warm. It enveloped mine and chased away the cold that has lingered in my heart for so long.

  “Your hand is cold. Are you warm enough?”

  I nod falling into step beside him. With my hand in his, we continue walking for a few more blocks before coming to a stop outside of what looks like an abandoned building. “What is this place?” I ask, looking up at a sign above the door.

  “Port Angeles’ response to the Willard Planetarium.” He opens the door, bending slightly at the waist and making a sweeping motion with his hand.

  “Why thank you, sir,” I say grandly and dramatically enter the observatory. A large photo of the universe winked at us, thousands of clear Christmas lights twinkling in the shape of various constellations. A Coldplay song pops into my head. It is the one with the lyrics about the stars and how they shine. Once again, Steve takes my hand, leading me toward the back wall and the universe.

  “This place is great,” he whispered softly. “If we go up to the top level, there’s a telescope up there and you can see the planets.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “What made you decide to bring me here?”

  We enter another room where the universe is spinning around us. Overhead, a female voice lectured listeners about the creation of the universe, stating its creation was due largely in fact to the big bang theory. I drown the voice out and looked around the room.

  In the center of the room was a bench, circular, offering a view of the universe regardless of where you decide to sit. I sink down onto the bench and look up at the ceiling. Steve sits down beside me. He leans back and, like me, looks at the ceiling.

  When he puts his arm around my shoulders, I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder. The peaceful feeling returns and I long to stay exactly where I am, the rest of the world – well most of it anyway, be damned.

  I’m not worried about what would happen if I let my guard down, or if he is going to try anything. I’m able to sit here and just … be, in the moment. We sit quietly for a while, listening to the lecture and watching as the universe changes around us.

  “Why’d you bring me to this place?” I ask.

  “I was skimming through the A.M. channels the other day, trying to find out the score of a ball game when the radio stopped on some kind of hour of power station, you know, the empowerment stuff. Well the guy talking said that you should take your scars and turn them into stars. I know it’s not physically possible, but it made a lot of sense. I know you have a lot of scars, things you’d rather never talk about, but maybe it’s time to start letting them go, let them turn into stars.”

  “I was raped,” I say, the words slipping out before I have the chance to stop them. “That’s why I left Mora way back when.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready,” he says quietly.

  “I have to,” I tell him. “Because I know that this,” I point to him and me. “This isn’t some casual thing. If it were, if you were like Paul, I wouldn’t be telling you all this. But you’re not Paul, and I feel things when I’m with you, things I haven’t felt in a long time, and I want to be honest with you so that you know what you’re possibly getting yourself into.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper. “All you have to do is listen.”

  Steve nods and pulls me closer to him. “I can do that.”

  I take a deep breath and begin the story.

  ***

  “Spring break eleven years ago,” I begin. “There was a party. It was the party of the year; everybody was going to be there. My best friend, Curtis Duggar, and I, well, somehow we ended up at the party. It wasn’t really our scene, but like I said, somehow we ended up there.”

  Telling the story to Steve, I remember the night like it was yesterday. Curtis drove us to Sappho that night. We had originally planned to see a movie, but then we ran into Wanda, a girl from school who told us about the party. Curtis looked at me and said, “Wanna go?”

  “That night, I was raped by three different boys. They took it a step further and pulled a page from Showgirls, raped me, then beat the shit out of me and tossed me down a flight of stairs.” It still hurt to say those words aloud. The physical injuries from that night had long since healed but the mental ones were still as raw as the day it happened.

  I closed my eyes and let that night wash over me. It was spring, still kind of cool in Mora, definitely not warm enough for the trips to the beach where girls clad in bikinis and suntan lotion hung out looking sexy. For us, spring break meant jeans and long sleeve t-shirts, maybe a t-shirt if you were in the sun. Like I said, Curtis and I were in Sappho that night to see a movie.

  That was the first mistake.

  As we waited for our burgers, Wanda Tullis and her merry band of cronies walked in. If I knew then what I know now, I would have knocked her the hell out and drug Curtis out of the burger joint. Instead, however, I stood there like the socially awkward retard I was and watched as she flirted with Curtis until he was putty in her perfectly manicured hand.

  When she walked away, he turned to me and said, “Wanda invited us to a party. Wanna go?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to go see the movie, like we planned on doing.”

  Curtis pouted and practically threw a hissy fit. Muttering under his breath about how I wasn’t any fun and all I did was keep him down. “Fine,” I relented. “Let’s go. But I swear if it’s lame I want to leave.”

  So we got our burgers and got back into my truck, heading across town to the address Wanda had scribbled on a napkin. Hard-hitting bass was pounding through the night air. People with red and blue plastic cups were stumbling drunkenly across the front yard, giggling as they sloshed alcohol all over themselves.

  I eyed the house warily but followed Curtis up the walk and into the foyer. Almost immediately, he ditched me, seeking out Wanda Tullis who promised him God only knows what just to get him here. He, we, should have known better. Hollywood made all kinds of movies about people like us and party’s like these.

  It always ended badly.

  Carrie, Prom Night, Psycho party at the Frat House, the list goes on and on.

  I watched Cutis as he disappeared, seeking out my own little dark corner to occupy until he was ready to go. As I was heading in the direction of the backyard, Rodger Byers, the hottest guy at school bumped into me, a smile breaking across his angelic face.

  “Hey,” he said smoothly. “How are you?”

  Again, I should have known better, but when the hottest guy at school asks how you are, you tend to forget logic.