Stepping Into Sunlight

by Sharon Hinck

  Henry’s basset hound eyes looked compassionate instead of miserable. “I mostly just listened. But something weird happened. By the time we’d finished eating, they’d ask about me. I didn’t say a lot, just that I’m out of work at the moment. And every time . . .” He swallowed and fought back some strong emotion. “They offered to ask around.”

  He lifted his eyes to the table. “They wanted to help.” He looked at me again, as if confessing that he’d cheated on an assignment. “That’s not why I asked them to lunch. I promise.”

  I wasn’t the only one grinning.

  Dr. Marci spoke for us. “Henry, what a marvelous experience. There’s nothing wrong with accepting the support and concern of others if it comes. You didn’t go into those encounters with expectations. Ashley, how about you? Last week you were feeling frustrated by people’s lack of appreciation.”

  A faint blush painted her ghost-white cheek. “Last Friday, I was sweeping the floor at work. A little girl was crying in one of the booths. I winked at her to try to get her to smile. Her dad didn’t freak, so I came closer and asked her what was wrong. She said her mom was sick. So I used my employee discount and bought her a little ice cream sundae and gave her a couple extra kid’s-meal toys we had in the back. When they left, she ran across the store to where I was wiping tables, and—” Ashley twisted one of the many bracelets on her wrist. “She hugged me.”

  She glared around the table, daring us to mock the sweetness of her story.

  Camille spoke first. “You made her day.”

  Ashley shrugged. “But her mom’s still sick. I didn’t really fix anything.”

  A pall settled over the room. “She’s right,” I said, drooping lower in my chair. “All these little things we’re doing . . . they don’t really solve anything. They don’t make people’s problems go away.”

  “So your theory is that unless you can cure cancer, you shouldn’t bother holding the hand of the woman battling it?” A smile sparked in Dr. Marci’s eyes behind the calm, professional demeanor. “These small acts of love are changing things. They are changing you as they pull your thoughts from your fears, obsessions, and tragedies. They change the person you reach out to. Kind acts ease the level of suffering, even when they don’t remove the source of the pain.” She let her smile escape. “Give yourselves some credit. You can’t fix everything. You’re doing good work here.”

  “Like the fish and loaves,” I murmured.

  “Huh?” Ashley quirked an eyebrow stud at me.

  Most of the group stared at me blankly, but Camille nodded. “The boy gave his few fish and a little bread to Jesus, and Jesus multiplied it to feed thousands.”

  Dr. Marci smiled. “I like the analogy of that story.”

  I wanted to point out it wasn’t a mere story, but an actual example of God’s miraculous provision, but I bit my lip and let her talk.

  “If we help in little ways,” she continued, “who knows how it might multiply?”

  The discussion continued, and once again I was surprised by how much comfort this ragtag group brought me. The threads of painful experiences wrapped us into a strange sort of fellowship.

  At the end of the hour, I stood to leave. “You can meet me here tomorrow morning,” Dr. Marci said. “We’ll head over to the precinct together.”

  Shoot. I’d hoped she’d forget about her offer. Of course if I continued to ignore calls, the police might show up at my door and cause more excitement for Laura-Beth.

  “All right. I’ll meet you here.” I tried to sound mature instead of sullen, but my tone came out rather flat.

  I couldn’t do it.

  That fact swirled around me as I drove home, stealing breath from my lungs and starch from my bones. Hadn’t God asked enough of me? Tom’s career change, a move across the country from family, handling single-mom status while he was on deployment, witnessing a double murder and nearly being killed myself. My mom’s theory was that life’s difficulties were sent to toughen us up, but I hadn’t grown tough through this. I’d lost myself. I’d become one of the broken and frail, like the rest of the victim support group.

  Now that I was a physical and emotional wreck, I was supposed to waltz into the police station and see the face of the man who had pulled the trigger?

  “God, why?” I whispered the words through gritted teeth, hoping Bryan wouldn’t hear me from the backseat over Go Fish blaring from the speakers.

  At the next stop sign, I glanced back to check on him. His head was wedged against the window at an angle, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open. When I turned off the radio, his wuffling snore brought a soothing rhythm to the car. I pulled onto our block and parked in front of the house, tilted my head back, and matched the pace of my breathing to Bryan’s.

  “Okay, God. You won’t tell me why. Can you tell me how? How am I going to do this?”

  A memory of my brother surfaced, and July sunlight sparkling on unnaturally turquoise water. I could almost feel the tight pressure of my lungs as I had struggled to swim toward him at the city pool. I blew out into the water, turned my head, and gasped in a quick breath—and swallowed a mouthful of chlorine. My hands floundered for the rough concrete edge of the pool, and I hugged the side, coughing and sputtering. “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  How young had I been back then? Seven? Eight? I still remembered the terror, the way the water lapped my chin and threatened to consume me.

  My brother Alex treaded water ten yards away, his arms beckoning me. “I know you’re scared. But do it anyway. Do it scared.”

  A whole summer of Guppy lessons at the pool, yet I’d never braved the deep end. A girl younger than me ran along the diving board and leapt into the air, squealing with joy. She surfaced and paddled to the ladder.

  I stared at Alex, taking aim. Then I closed my eyes, puffed out my cheeks, and pushed off.

  Sitting in my car, listening to the soft tick as the engine cooled, I remembered the feeling of flinging myself away from safety, water embracing my body, flying forward to safety.

  I hadn’t drowned.

  “Okay, Lord. I’ll do it scared,” I whispered. “But I’m going to need your help.” Then I set about hefting the deadweight of a second-grader out of the car and into the house.

  The next morning, I pulled myself from bed and managed to shower and dress. Bryan eyed me over his bowl of Cheerios. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  “I have to go in and meet with the police. They asked me to identify the man from the Quick Corner.”

  “Cool!” Bryan bounced on his chair. “Do you get to go in the room where they line everyone up? Do you get to see the jail? Will there be lots of bad guys? Maybe I can come, too. Do you need me to come?”

  My lips twitched. “Thanks, buddy. I wish you could. But you have school.”

  “It could be a field trip.” He blinked his wide hazel eyes and gave me his best pleading look.

  “I’ll tell you about it when you get home. Did you give Gimli fresh water today?”

  He gulped a last spoonful of cereal and ran from the table to finish his morning chores.

  After the bus scooped him up and carried him off toward school, I grabbed my purse and jacket and walked out to the car. From the sidewalk, I glared at it. “You don’t scare me. I’ve managed the trip in to the victim center each week. I can do this.”

  That’s what I needed to do—pretend I was going to the victim center for the group meeting or my counseling session and ignore what came next.

  My mental trick worked, and I was able to force myself into the car.

  Dr. Marci met me in the lobby of the victim center and she studied my face, assessing. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded, suddenly mute as my dry throat constricted. I adjusted my purse strap with a hand that trembled.

  She smiled gently. “How about if I drive?”

  Another nod, and I followed her from the building to her dented two-door Saturn.

  “Oh,” she laughed when we open
ed the car doors. “Sorry about the mess. Just toss everything in the back.”

  I picked up sunglasses, two empty Starbucks cups, and a few books from the passenger seat and set them in the back. It took three tries to fasten the seat belt with my fumbling fingers. Dr. Marci made small talk as she pulled out of the lot. I managed a few mumbled responses, but my knuckles grew white on the armrest. I closed my eyes and willed the car to stop. Could I conjure up a flat tire if I focused hard enough?

  This was a mistake. It would set me back in my efforts to get back to normal. My neck began to ache from the grip of knotted muscles. My stomach churned.

  “Breathe,” said Dr. Marci.

  My eyes popped open. “What?”

  “You stopped breathing. Deep cleansing breath. Come on.”

  I struggled to expand my lungs, but the car was still moving, and we were still approaching the precinct office.

  “This is such a bad idea.” I labored to take in more air.

  “Why is that?” Dr. Marci’s counseling voice was switched on. She was probably thinking that if she kept me talking it would distract me.

  “I’m trying to move forward. I need to put this behind me. Wasn’t what I went through bad enough? Why does it have to keep disrupting my life like this? This is guaranteed to make the nightmares worse again.”

  The car’s heater wasn’t doing a good job of fighting off the chill air, and I shivered.

  Dr. Marci turned on her wipers and washer fluid sprayed the windshield. The surrounding glass suddenly revealed its grime as two wide arcs of clarity appeared.

  “I’ve worked with lots of folk who’ve gone through trauma,” she said. “Most people want to shut out the experience or suppress it, but then it comes out sideways. Sleep problems, physical tics, health issues, depression, anxiety—”

  “Okay, I know the list.” This snarly, irritable woman wasn’t me. Again, I mourned the loss of the real Penny—the fun gal who was bubbly and warm, who people enjoyed being with. “Look, I’ve started talking about it. I’m facing up to my feelings. But what if the guy threatens me? Or what if he smirks and makes me feel even more anger? What if I say something wrong, or can’t be sure of the identification, and the case is ruined all because of me?”

  “Breathe. Hey, look at that. They’re opening a new Starbucks near the library. Have you visited this library? They have a really cute children’s reading room.”

  We cruised past a cheerful building. Even though I knew Dr. Marci was trying to distract me, a spark of interest interrupted my panic, and I made a mental note to take Bryan to this library one day. My hands were shaking too much to pull out my actual notebook, though.

  A few blocks farther, and we turned into a small parking lot. The building in front of us looked more like a school than a set for Law and Order.

  “This is it.” Dr. Marci turned off the engine.

  The innocuous building should have eased some of my terror. Instead I glared at it in suspicion. The Quick Corner had looked safe and innocent, too, and look what happened there.

  chapter

  22

  I HITCHED UP THE strap of my shoulder bag and marched toward the door. Though I was a wreck, I had too much pride to dissolve into a quivering puddle of jelly on the sidewalk in front of the precinct office. I yanked the door handle and stepped inside. Maybe this was my chance to take back my power. Confront the man who had tried to kill me and feel triumph that he’d failed. Maybe today would be the ultimate turning point.

  The lobby was small and neat, like a dentist’s office. I pulled up, confused. “Are you sure . . . ?”

  Dr. Marci stepped past me to a counter. She pulled out a card. “Dr. Crown from Victim Support Services. We’re here to meet with Detective Ramirez.”

  The young man in uniform at the counter carried himself with military posture. “Yes, ma’am. Have a seat, and I’ll page him.”

  I perched on the edge of a cushioned chair and looked at the landscape print on one wall. Where were the screaming suspects wrestling against handcuffs or the world-weary detectives in rumpled coats? I heard the soft trill of a phone and murmured voices, way too benign to fit my image of a police precinct. Colorful characters arrested for nefarious activities should be slouched in a crowded cell nearby. When I threw a sidelong glance to the room behind the counter, I couldn’t spot a barred cage anywhere—only bland desks.

  Twisting my hands in my lap, I felt a rough edge on a fingernail and picked at it. Finally, I pried the thin line of white off and began nibbling the edges to smooth them.

  “Mrs. Sullivan? I’m Detective Ramirez.”

  I shot to my feet. When had he walked into the lobby? I was really out of it if I didn’t notice someone of his size enter the room. He was well over six feet and had a linebacker’s bulk—pure muscle. The citizens of Chesapeake would sleep better at night if they all knew this guy was working to protect them.

  “Thank you for comin’ in, ma’am.” His liquid drawl evoked the same melted honey and pecan as his dark skin.

  I gave a halfhearted smile and nodded.

  “I’m Dr. Crown from victim support.” Doc Marci held out her hand. I suppose I could have done that. They shook hands and exchanged a little small talk. My feet still hadn’t budged. I wasn’t betting on his chances of making them move.

  The buzz of the security door jarred me back into the present. The detective had swiped a keycard and was holding the door for us. “Let me bring you both back to my office.”

  Office? That didn’t sound too frightening. I’d steeled myself to face the ravening suspect through cell bars, or imagined shivering behind a two-way mirror as hardened men lined up by a measuring-tape wall. Still, I stared at the open door and wavered.

  With Dr. Marci’s light touch on my back, I convinced my legs to move and followed the man past desks and cubicles, then a short way down a hall that screamed grade school. The water fountain was even at child level. The only things missing were tempera paint art projects taped to the walls.

  Detective Ramirez followed my gaze to the water fountain and sighed. “Saving tax dollars. When they okayed expanding the division’s precinct offices, they bought a vacant elementary school. We haven’t completed the transition yet.”

  A nervous giggle left my throat. Then he led us into his office, waved us toward some chairs, and settled behind his desk.

  “How y’all doing?”

  I murmured noncommittally.

  His eyes softened. “It was a tough scene. I’ve had men in my department fall apart seeing the kind of thing you saw. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  His quiet validation almost undid me. I cleared my throat and clutched my shoulder bag tightly. If we didn’t get this over with fast, I might lose my breakfast. “So where is he?”

  His eyes widened. “He’s at the county lockup. I only need you to do a photo ID. The D.A. is working out a plea agreement, so it most likely won’t go to trial. But we like having our ducks in a row in case anything falls through with that. We already have the security tapes and the clerk’s eyewitness testimony. You’re just part of dotting the i’s.”

  No trial? Before I could absorb the relief, the page of six mug shots was in front of me. None of the young men looked particularly happy. I spotted the snub nose and hollow eyes of the boy from the Quick Corner right away.

  “Him.” I pointed.

  I waited for rage, loathing, or fear to jolt me. Instead, I felt cold and empty—as dead and lifeless as the plain white sheet of fax machine paper with the row of faces.

  “Okay. Sign here and date it.” The detective pointed to a line on the page of photos.

  I scrawled my name and suddenly Dr. Marci was ushering me down the hall and out of the building. As we stepped outside, I drew big, gasping breaths, as if I’d just escaped a burning building and needed to clear smoke from my lungs.

  With a gentle hand on my arm, she guided me to a nearby bus bench.

  I sat and doubled over, hugging my stomach.r />
  “You did it. How does that feel?”

  When the waves of dizziness passed, I laughed. “I was so worked up. Lineups and courtroom confrontations and defense attorneys badgering me. It’s almost anticlimactic.” I lifted my head. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  I waited for the splash of emotions to settle, so I could assess what I actually felt. Dr. Marci waited with me.

  “Does this really count?” I said at last. “Do I have to see him face-to-face in order to heal?”

  “Penny, only you can figure out what steps will help you move past this event. Do you want to see him?”

  I shuddered. “No.” I was uncertain about a lot of things, but I had great clarity on that issue.

  “Then trust that instinct. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your anxiety begins to ease after today. You may have subconsciously feared seeing him again, as long as he hadn’t been arrested. Now that you know he’s going to prison, some of your hyper-vigilance might ease.”

  I did feel better. Calmer.

  The achievement deserved a celebration.

  Dr. Marci stood and smiled. “Well, I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, so I’ll drop you at the center. We can talk about this tomorrow during your appointment.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

  After picking up my car at the victim center, I decided to commemorate my courageous act with another. I stopped at a gas station to fill the car. That errand drained me, but I didn’t have a panic attack. I’d probably always hate the smell of gasoline, but maybe it wouldn’t always cripple me. On the way home, I took care to avoid the street that passed the Quick Corner where the crime had occurred. I’d been able to confront a photo of the man who tried to kill me, but I was never going to set foot in that store again.

  More than anything, I wanted to drive to a friend’s house to share my small victory. With a pang of loneliness, it hit home that I’d made no new friends. I’d been in Chesapeake for over two months. By now, I’d expected to be woven into the fabric of church, school, and Navy base.