by L. G. Davis
I’ll make your life a living hell.
Goose pimples brought on by my undiluted fear push through my skin, scattering across the surface. Where is my brother? Where is the little boy who used to adore me as a child? The one who climbed into my bed when my mother came home drunk, and he needed my protection? What if I never find him beneath all the pain and anger?
What if he never learns to live again? Tears come, but I blink them away. I will not cry at work.
Thirty minutes later, my phone rings. Thinking it’s Ryan, I ignore it. But the sound of chirping birds seems to get louder so I reach into my bag. The caller is Lin Hu, Ryan’s physical therapist.
Massaging my temple, I answer.
“Sorry, Paige, did I wake you?” She pauses. “I wanted to catch you before your classes.”
“No, Lin. It’s fine.” I place a hand on my forehead, trying but failing not to pay attention to the approaching headache. “Are you calling to confirm today’s appointment?”
“No, Paige.” She pauses. “I ... actually, I’m calling because I can no longer work with your brother. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to tell you this, but last time I went to your place he refused to open the door. When I came back later, he let me in, but he was too drunk to do anything.”
“Lin, please ... please give him another chance. I’ll talk to him tonight.”
I can’t afford to lose Lin after only three months. She’s one of the few affordable physical therapists in town. And I can’t allow Ryan to quit physical therapy. It’s important not only to him but also to me. I desperately want him to walk again.
“You’re a nice person, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but I can’t work with him. He’s too rude and disrespectful, and drunk half the time. It doesn’t feel right for me to take your money when I’m unable to help your brother. I want to help people who actually want to improve.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. I can’t find any words to talk her out of her decision. She’s gotten a taste of Ryan’s dark side. How could I force anyone to look into the eyes I saw this morning and subject them to the kind of abuse Ryan puts me through every day? Lin’s words are hard to swallow. It shatters me to think Ryan wants to remain in the dark hole of depression, to stay stagnant.
“I ... I understand.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Thank you for trying. Lin, if you change your mind, call me, please.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do.”
After ending the call, fury rushes through me. The desire to call Ryan and give him a piece of my mind burns through my veins, but I resist the temptation. I’m still not ready to talk to him, to take more insults. After a fight, I’m often the one who reaches out and begs for forgiveness, even when I’m not in the wrong. Not today.
Today, I won’t call him at all, even though I normally check up on him every few hours. Today, I’ll focus on my job. I’ll put myself first.
Blocking all kinds of negative thoughts from my mind, I push myself out of the chair and move to the window. From my classroom, I can see the sparkle of the ocean in the distance. I watch it for a few heartbeats, wishing I were out there in the water. I love to swim, but I never get the time to do it.
Finally, I unlock the door to give the students permission to enter, then I spend the time preparing for my lesson with a confidence I haven’t felt in a while. When the students finally trickle in, some of them bringing in the smell of unwashed bodies, I greet them with a fake smile. Some respond, but others are too distracted by conversations with their fellow classmates to pay attention to me.
Behind my desk, I watch them in silence as they take their seats, scraping the wooden floor.
Once everyone has settled down, I rise.
The hairs at the nape of my neck bristle when the breeze, from the window closest to my desk, touches my skin, drying my sweat.
I greet the students again. This time they all turn to face me. In a few words, I remind them of my classroom rules. No chewing gum, no phones, no talking when I’m talking.
The rules have to be repeated every day because they seem to expire after a couple of hours.
Sinking into my chair again, I flip open the textbook in front of me. Before I can start the lesson, Margaret Harris—the principal—walks in with a somber expression on her face.
“Paige, could I have a word?” she whispers into my ear. Her breath is laced with the mint chewing gum she always has in her mouth.
My chest tightens immediately. Whatever she has to say to me must be important for her to walk in during a class.
Most times when Margaret asks to speak to me, my immediate reaction is panic that I’ve done something wrong, something that puts my job on the line. My worst nightmare is losing my job and not having enough money to care for Ryan.
“Sure.” I follow her outside, the door closing softly behind us, blocking out the whispers inside the classroom.
Margaret leans a shoulder against the wall closest to the door, lays a hand on her chest. “I have some bad news.”
“Oh.” I try to say more, but the words die on the tip of my parched tongue.
“I got a call a few minutes ago, that Isaac Baxter passed away from a heart attack last night, while on vacation in Greece.”
Every person in Corlake knows Isaac Baxter. He was not only the town’s only billionaire and owned half the businesses and buildings in town—including where we live—but he was the founder of Baxter Junior High, the largest private school in town.
“Oh, God.” A cloud of worry settles on my mind again. How will his death impact my job? “What, what ...?”
“His loss will definitely be felt throughout town. And I’m sure every student or teacher at this school will be impacted in some way directly or indirectly. Isaac was a friend of mine. We went to school together.” Margaret brushes away a tear.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you.” She runs a hand through her bleached blonde hair. “I’m calling for an urgent assembly in an hour. It’s best you don’t mention anything to the students just yet. I’ll break it down to everyone during the assembly.”
As planned, an hour later, the entire school is congregated in the assembly hall. I’m in the row assigned to teachers, facing the podium, Thalia next to me.
“Let’s hope his heirs don’t move too many jobs out of town. The man owned the whole bloody town.” Like everyone in the room, Thalia is shaken by Isaac Baxter’s death.
“Yeah.” Thalia just voiced my worst fears. The entire time Margaret addresses us and the students from the wooden podium, my mind is drifting. My job is the only stable thing in my life. What would I do without it?
Teaching jobs are scarce in Corlake. If BJHS closes down, we might have to move to another town, and Ryan is not one to embrace change.
My thoughts move to my worries about the rent that’s due. Any day now, Mike Porter will show up at my door for the second time this month, and I’ll beg him again to give me more time.
Most of the money I earn goes toward Ryan’s medical bills and the debts my mother left behind. The disability payments he receives don’t come close to being enough to support both of us.
What if Isaac Baxter’s heirs decide to sell our apartment building? We might never find another like it.
In the moment of silence for Isaac Baxter, I clutch my hands in my lap, drop my head and pray not only for Isaac Baxter’s soul, but also for Ryan and myself.
After the assembly, I manage to get through the rest of the school day in a daze.
Once the students have left the classroom at the end of the day, I pull out my desk drawer and reach for my phone.
Twenty missed calls—all from Ryan. He left several voice messages and one text. I read the text message first.
Your worst nightmare will be right here waiting for you.
CHAPTER 5
Six o’clock strikes, and I’m still at my desk, alternating between staring into space, tidying up
, and preparing for two days’ worth of lessons. The only time I move from my chair is when Daisy, the cleaning lady, enters my classroom with a mop. She asks if she should come back, but I shake my head.
“It’s fine. I was just about to go home.” The last place I want to be is home, to face my worst nightmare.
I leave the school grounds, but instead of going home to Ryan, I pick up a few groceries and drive for an hour around town with no destination in mind.
I pretend to be a tourist in my own town, forcing myself to be swept away by the beauty of whitewashed houses framed by pastel-colored picket fences and the lavender blooms of the jacaranda trees lining the streets. The round, mother-of-pearl clock on the St. Peter’s Catholic Church is already lit up for the evening.
I slow down when I approach The Cake Palace, admiring the colorful display of sweet treats in the window. I stick my head a little out the window and inhale deeply, imagining breathing in the aromas of baking bread, melted butter, sugar, and the tang of lemon icing.
As a child, I never walked past The Cake Palace without stopping to stare through the window at the gourmet cupcakes. I used to see myself biting into the cushion soft icing, my mouth watering in response.
Lucy-Anne Taylor knows the value of her baked goods and makes sure to charge what they’re worth. In spite of steep prices, her baked goods are always a hit at the annual Sweets & Blooms Festival that takes place a week before Christmas, a way to end the year on a sweet note.
I drive past the newly-renovated post office, the firehouse, and the library, and turn into a street that affords me a direct view of the sugar white sandy beach, turned golden at sunset.
It’s ironic that despite being surrounded by the breathtaking beauty and calm of Corlake, happiness eludes me.
I drive to the beachfront, where I park the car across from a closed ice cream shop with a pink plastic cone at the entrance.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath before switching my phone back on. I’d switched it off after reading Ryan’s text.
I ignore more missed calls and messages. One message has done enough harm to last me a couple of hours, days, weeks even.
What I need now is a break from him. In spite of my love for water, it’s been a while since I went for a swim or a walk on the beach.
Even if we’re apart, Ryan refuses to let me go. He continues to whisper venomous words into my ear. I can still feel the trickle of his saliva on my cheek, the area it hit pulsing like a heartbeat. The heat of his gaze still burns into my flesh.
He controls me even from a distance.
But I still have the power to choose. Today, I choose not to go home until I’m ready.
Though a part of me feels guilty, the other is rebelling. The thought of walking through the apartment door makes me feel sick to my stomach.
It’s impossible to breathe inside my own home when Ryan sucks the air out of every room before I step into it. He follows me around the place, making sure I get a good look of his broken state, that I see the anger etched into every corner of his face. That I breathe in his pain.
Before I lose my nerve, I swing my legs out of the car, remove my shoes, and cross the road to get to the promenade.
The sea breeze sweeps across my face, brushing my hair back, refreshing my skin, drying the sheen of sweat on my forehead.
My hunger for freedom pushes me to run, stopping only when my feet sink into the warm evening sand. There are barely any people on the beach at this time of day, only an occasional jogger or dog walker.
While listening to seagulls squawking, I draw in the scent of sea air mixed with traces of suntan lotion left behind by the afternoon sunbathers. I tip my head upward as a seagull flies by, exercising the kind of freedom I wish I had. I’d give anything to be that bird, to fly high above my troubles, to flee from my dark place.
The sun is setting now, a ball of fire in the horizon—magical, warm, and soothing.
I should come here more often instead of rushing home every day. Maybe if I do it a couple more times, Ryan will get used to it. If he doesn’t, he’ll have no choice but to deal with it.
Since he doesn’t appreciate me, it could be time I put myself first for a change. I could come to the beach on the weekends, prepare for lessons while sitting on a lounger, gazing at the water. The soothing energy of the sea would help me cope better with his dark moods and unpredictable behavior.
An old woman with a stooped back and a golden retriever trotting ahead of her, mumbles a greeting to me in passing. I nod and return her smile.
As she walks off, I can’t help wondering what kind of challenges she’d had to overcome in her life. Are her struggles as hard and heavy as mine? Could they be responsible for the hunched back she now carries? She disappears into the distance before I can figure her out. Her life is none of my business anyway.
Instead of wasting time wondering about other people, I better make the most of this time alone before the guilt rushes in to torment me.
On my way to the edge of the water, I step on whole and broken seashells.
Instead of coming to a halt where the water ends, I walk straight in. Clenching my teeth from the shock of cold, I keep moving into the waves until they engulf me, invigorate me.
I don’t care that I’m fully dressed. If someone sees me from the beach, they might think I have suicide on my mind. I don’t care. For the first time in months, I’m doing what I please.
Once I get to a deeper part of the ocean, I throw myself headfirst into the water, tasting the salt on my tongue. And then I start to swim. I swing my arms from back to front, slice through the thick liquid until my lungs scream with exhaustion, until my muscles burn with pain.
The pain is good. It reminds me I’m still alive. It distracts me from my scattered emotions.
When I emerge from the water, I feel different, my heart lighter than it had felt earlier.
Nothing calms me quite the way water does.
My love of water started in childhood. It drove my mother nuts when I ran into the rain every time it poured, gazing up at the sky, giggling as drops of water tap-danced on my face and sluiced down my petite frame. On one particular day, we had just come home from a birthday party and I was wearing a new princess dress grandma had given me weeks before her death—a fancy dress with butterflies scattered across the hem. When we stepped out of the car, it started to rain. My mother shouted for us to run into the house before we got wet. Ignoring her, I twirled in the rain, jumping in puddles, laughing with rare happiness as liquid diamond drops fell around me. It was a high price to pay.
When I recall that day now, what stands out the most is pain. My mother had pulled me into the house by the hair, threw me onto the floor of the entrance hall, and attacked me with one of dad’s thick belts. The buckle sliced into my skin, cut through the flesh, drew blood. My screams ricocheted off the walls as I covered my face to protect it. When I cried for her to stop, the only responses I got from her were insults and more beating. The only time she stopped was when she was exhausted and I was broken.
When I think of my mom, that’s one of the memories that comes to me, vivid even in the dark recesses of my mind.
The more she wanted me to stay out of water, the more I craved it. I couldn’t help myself. Another vivid memory is of her throwing a glass of wine at my head. It shattered on my skull and a piece of glass left a gash at the tip of my eyebrow. Still, I could not allow her to take away the only thing that brought joy into my life. When trying to survive a terrible childhood, some children turn to imaginary friends, some overeat, and others cut themselves. I turned to water and math. Without those two things, I’d have gone insane.
I have no idea how long the relief I found in the ocean will last, but I hang on to it until I get back to the car, dripping wet, ignoring the curious glances from passersby.
From the trunk, I remove a towel I keep in there for moments like this, moments when it starts to rain and I feel the urge to dance, moments where
I rush into the ocean on a whim.
I dry myself off and squeeze the water from my hair, then cover the driver’s seat with the damp towel.
Cold now, I climb into the car, slam the door shut, and close my eyes, trying to hang on to that good feeling that’s already starting to dissipate.
My phone rings from the passenger’s seat.
I don’t need to see his name on the screen to know he’s the one calling. He wants to know where I am and when I’ll be home.
Instead of answering his incessant calls or returning them, I step out of the car again. I don’t care that it’s close to 8:00 p.m.
Outside the car, my dress still damp and sticking to my skin, I go for a walk along the promenade. I shiver when a breeze wraps itself around me.
I spot a newspaper on one of the wooden benches.
Isaac Baxter’s face is plastered on the front, his salt-and-pepper hair thick on his head, his face swathed in a smile. I lower myself onto the bench to read.
Margaret must have received the wrong information. In the paper, it says Isaac Baxter died three days ago. It also goes on to say his billion-dollar estate will probably be passed on to his only son, Dylan Baxter, who takes care of his businesses in New York.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t shed light on what will happen to his many businesses in Corlake.
After reading the paper, I remain on the bench for a little longer. Let Ryan take care of himself tonight. He’s perfectly capable of doing that.
I won’t apologize for taking a huge step toward getting my life back. Even as I try to be brave, I get an inkling deep inside my heart that I’ll be paying a high price for this moment of freedom.
CHAPTER 6
Something is wrong. I know it as soon as I turn onto our street. My plan when I left the beach was to go home, jump into the shower, and head straight to bed. But I’m now getting the feeling that that’s not going to happen.