by John Herrick
Once they entered Brecksville, Hunter concluded they were on their way to Brendan and Ellen’s new home. Sure enough, after winding her way through the now-familiar twists and turns, they reached the house. From outside, Hunter couldn’t point to any changes since his last visit; then again, only a few weeks had passed, and progress could have occurred inside. Wiring, perhaps?
Without a word or gesture, Ellen parked the car in front of the house and turned off the engine. Zombielike, she wandered toward the home in an aimless fashion. Hurrying out of the car, Hunter caught up with her and kept pace at her side. Although the home’s doors and windows remained absent, sheets of plastic covered their designated spaces. Still unsure of why Ellen had brought him here, Hunter pushed aside the heavy plastic and followed her through the front doorway.
Inside the home, ounces of daylight slithered through the window plastic into the rooms, but at the far end of the foyer, dimness permeated the interior hallway. When Ellen reached the intersection, she looked to her left and right, then turned to her right. With cautious, measured steps, she stretched her arms, sweeping her hands up and down the walls as she crept deeper into the murkiness. As she moved her palms along the walls, the friction sounded like a tropical breeze. Hunter followed behind. Outside one unseen window, a bird chirped, followed by the sound of wings as it fluttered into flight.
She stopped at the linen closet. She ran her fingertips along its narrow threshold. A dark void lurked inside.
“It’s the walls,” Ellen murmured.
The broken silence took Hunter aback.
He felt his eyebrows furrow. He angled himself so he could catch a discreet glimpse of Ellen’s face. Her zombie eyes remained rigid, lifeless, as she stared into the claustrophobic closet.
“The walls?” he said, unsure of whether she expected him to take notice of the walls that surrounded them. They remained bare and white, same as before.
Emotionless, Ellen stared ahead, fixing her attention on the void before her.
“It’s the walls,” Ellen murmured again. “They scare the hell out of me more than anything else.”
A chill ripped up Hunter’s spine. He started to reach toward her from behind, but hesitated. He cocked his head, unable to take his eyes off of her.
“Ellen?”
She looked to the guest bedroom on her right. Morning sunlight filled the room, which faced east, where workers had left various tools and supplies. Ellen poked her head through the bedroom doorway, then wandered into the room and out of Hunter’s sight. Confused, Hunter remained frozen in the hallway and wondered whether he should call Brendan.
Hunter heard a rattling inside the bedroom, a sifting through items of plastic and metal. He wondered why humans felt the urge to snicker when caught in edgy moments. Ellen’s behavior seemed so out of character, he could have convinced himself this was a joke, had he not sensed otherwise. But within a few seconds, his nervous snicker departed and, once again, wariness resumed control.
“Ellen? You okay in there?”
No answer. A shadow shifted inside the bedroom doorway.
Ellen emerged with a sledgehammer in her grip. Its wooden handle was two feet long. Its battered head, the color of steel, glinted in the daylight that escaped through the doorway of the bedroom. Hunter felt his jaw slacken. Ellen didn’t look at him; if she still noticed him standing there, she gave no indication of it.
“Ellen?”
“These damn walls,” she murmured. “These damn walls went up so fast.”
“Ellen, maybe it’s better if we—”
Hunter scrambled to get out of the way as she drew back the sledgehammer in a long arc and readied her first strike. When she brought the hammer forward and made contact, the thud made Hunter sick to his stomach, the way the muted thud had sickened him once when his car hit an icy patch and slid into an oncoming vehicle.
The metal head of the hammer tore a deep gash into the wall beside the doorframe of the linen closet.
Hunter was paralyzed with shock for a second but forced himself to recover.
“Ellen, what are you doing?!”
He took a step forward to stop her, but scurried backward again as the sledgehammer returned toward him in another long arc. He stumbled backward, lost his footing, and landed on the hallway floor as Ellen took another swing forward. Another gash appeared above the first, close enough for the tears to merge into one larger hole.
Ellen raised her voice to a shout.
“These damn walls …”
Another swing. Another gash.
“… walls …”
Another swing. Another gash.
“… walls in my life …”
Another swing. Another gash.
“… closing me in …”
Another swing. Another gash.
“… suffocating the life out of me …”
Hunter scrambled to his feet, waited until Ellen began her next arc forward, then lunged toward her. He wrapped his arms around her arms and chest and locked them tight. The sledgehammer remained in Ellen’s grip, but its heavy head hit the floor with a clunk that boomed through the hallway.
“Let me go, Hunter!”
Hunter didn’t respond. He focused on keeping Ellen locked in his arms.
“I said, let me go!”
Ellen wriggled to break free. The force of her thrashing didn’t surprise Hunter, given Ellen’s tenacity and the strength of her personality. He tightened his hold but his biceps started to quiver from sustained flexing. He slid his hand toward hers and fought to pry her fingers from the sledgehammer handle, one at a time. She resisted at first. As soon as he pried a second finger loose, she would coil her first finger around the handle again. She dug her fingernails into the tops of his fingers. But Hunter remained tenacious, and after what felt like a full minute of effort, Ellen relented and dropped the hammer. With his chest pressed against her back, Hunter felt Ellen’s shoulders grow limp and her muscles relax.
She began to sob. Hunter loosened his arms into a tender embrace and continued to hold her. He placed his head against hers, rested his cheek against her hair, where he picked up traces of violet shampoo.
Hunter had never seen Ellen in such a vulnerable state. At a loss for what his friend needed from him in this moment, he embraced her for several more minutes. He didn’t try to stop her tears.
Closed in by life’s walls. In his own way, Hunter understood how she felt.
Peering up, Hunter examined the series of gashes that now dotted the perimeter of the linen closet. He shook his head, awestruck at the extent to which Ellen had hidden her emotions all this time and the manifestation of pressure that had come to a boil.
Then he returned his attention to his friend. Sliding his hands toward her shoulders, he rubbed her upper arms with a note of affection. He turned her around to face him. When their eyes met, Hunter found the expression of a helpless child. He brushed his fingers along her cheeks to wipe away her tears and, once again, drew her into his embrace. This time, Ellen pressed herself against his chest as he held her close, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he could. She rested her head against his shoulder, and if Hunter hadn’t known better, he could have sworn she fell asleep with the peace of an infant.
PART 4
FREEDOMHOPE
CHAPTER 47
After church the next day, Hunter grabbed a quick bite to eat, then sent Ellen a text message to see whether she was home early that afternoon. When she replied to let him know she was home, he headed to her apartment. She answered the door dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, her curly hair wrapped in a ponytail. Hunter followed her into the living room, where she plopped onto the sofa.
One look at the circles under her eyes and Hunter knew Ellen had been up all night. She’d worn no makeup today, a state in which Hunter had seen her before, albeit on rare occasion. She gave her hair a quick run-through with her fingers as Hunter eased beside her.
“How do you feel?” he asked with a tenta
tive pat to her knee.
“I didn’t get much sleep, but otherwise, I’m okay,” Ellen said as she settled into a cozier position on the sofa cushion. “That’s a pleasant surprise, to feel okay. You don’t know what to expect after you go half-assed crazy the day before.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me long ago?” Hunter caught her gaze and offered his warmest expression so she wouldn’t doubt his sincerity.
“I’m used to doing things on my own, I guess. You wouldn’t have understood.”
“I understand how it feels to be alone.”
A knowing smirk hinted that Ellen had indeed returned to her normal self. She squinted at him as though studying a specimen under a microscope.
“I never realized this before,” she said, “but you and I are more alike than I thought.”
“Oh yeah?” He returned her stare in a playful dare. “How so?”
“We hold a lot inside. Deep waters, or whatever they call it,” she said. “We prefer to carry our secrets to the grave, keep them harbored in the depths of our hearts till they sink into oblivion. And at that point, no one knows what happened. All they can do is speculate about us. We’re two mysterious people who take our treasures with us to the ocean floor, like Mama Cass when she went down with the Titanic.”
“Mama Cass didn’t sink with the Titanic.”
“Then who was Mama Cass?”
“The ham sandwich woman.”
“Whatever. Don’t screw around with details. I’m having a moment of enlightenment here.”
They snickered together. Hunter listened as a car started outside and left the parking lot. Ellen rested her hands in her lap. She studied the smooth, unpolished surfaces of her fingernails before gazing at him again.
“I broke off the engagement,” she said.
“With Brendan?” Hunter reacted before he had a chance to stifle his surprise. He looked at her hand, and sure enough, her ring was absent. “When?”
“Last night.” She returned her gaze to her folded hands. “I can’t do it, Hunter. Not right now, at least. The pressure of everything going on—I bit off more than I can chew in one season.” She winked at him. “As you might have noticed, I ran out of storage space and tried to expand a linen closet yesterday.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for marriage.”
Hunter grimaced. “How’d Brendan respond when you told him all this?”
“Once he was able to bring himself to speak, he wanted to know why I’d done something so stupid to the house. We argued at first, but he came around in the end. Said he’d take a look at it, but it didn’t sound to him like the damage was major. Nothing he couldn’t get fixed. Sweet guy that he is, he was more concerned about me. We spent the rest of the afternoon getting honest.” She met Hunter’s stare again, this time with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I probably freaked you out yesterday, huh?”
“It was a first.”
Ellen chuckled in response, but grew sober again, furrowing her eyebrows in concentration.
“I don’t know what happened yesterday. Everything boiled over,” she said. “It’s like I lost control of my own life somewhere along the way, and things started to close in.”
“If it’s any consolation, I know what it’s like for walls to close in on you.”
She regarded him a moment. “I guess you do, don’t you?” She paused, then asked, “How are you and Gabe doing?”
“We’re fine.”
“I’m sorry some people have treated you shitty,” Ellen said. “Like it wasn’t hard enough for you, trying to be someone you’re not.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Hunter gave her a paternal smile and wrapped his arm around her in a side hug. “So you’re gonna be okay?
“I’ll be fine. It’ll all come together somehow.” Ellen shrugged her shoulders and shot him a look of resignation. “It always does, right?”
“I’m your friend. I’m here for you.” Hunter gave her a final pat on the knee. “You can always talk to me.”
Ellen nodded. She bit her lower lip.
“And don’t go demolishing any more houses without warning me first,” Hunter added with a wink.
Ellen drew her hand to her mouth, too late to stifle a laugh.
CHAPTER 48
At home that evening, Hunter felt restless. With a touch to his arm, Gabe suggested they take a walk and allow fresh air to invigorate him.
Though brisk, Hunter found the crisp air bearable. An occasional passing car brought life to the night. The sun had disappeared two hours before, but streetlights dotted the road and the moon brought a sheen to the otherwise navy-blue sky as Hunter and Gabe sauntered along the sidewalk.
Gabe reached for Hunter’s hand, and Hunter allowed Gabe to wrap it in his. In the darkness, nobody would recognize them. Hunter felt free.
As they walked, the moon cast its glow upon banners affixed to homes and signs planted in front yards. Some carried sentimental messages such as We Miss You, Lucas. Others featured nothing more than an enlarged version of Lucas Hampton’s recent yearbook picture. One sign included a photo from Lucas’s childhood. The community had taken the suicide hard and had come together during its plummet into mourning. Nobody wants to see a teenager lose his life.
Hunter couldn’t help but eye each sign as he walked. Another car rolled past, its tires emitting a sound like static on the suburban street.
“You’re so quiet,” Gabe said. “You must be deep in thought.”
Hunter sought words to wrap around how he felt for Lucas Hampton’s family.
“I look at these signs and wonder what could’ve been,” Hunter said at last. “Why didn’t people celebrate the kid while he was alive? That’s what he needed. He needed someone to notice him, to care enough to notice something was wrong. Why did it take a kid to kill himself for some people to remember to care?”
Gabe studied him with his compassionate eyes. “I wish I had an answer for that.”
They walked past a sign whose artist had used a different color for each letter of Lucas’s name.
“This is our fault,” Hunter said, watching his breath disperse before him in a little cloud.
“What is?”
“That kid. The one who killed himself.” Hunter gestured toward the sign with his thumb. “We caused it.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“We’re the ones who brought attention to what he was dealing with. It was difficult enough for him, but to feel like he couldn’t find refuge at church—the one place where he should have felt like he was loved—must have been the last straw for him. And the whole reason he had to listen to that pastor’s words were because of us. The last couple of nights, I’ve laid in bed and wondered if that kid would still be alive if it weren’t for us.”
“Hunter, that pastor chose his own reaction. It’s not your fault how he chooses to approach things.”
“But there must have been a better way to go about all this.”
“We didn’t get a choice in the matter. Someone else discovered us and decided to talk. You and I didn’t go looking for a battle.”
“I know we didn’t, but regardless, I feel like we’ve let our churches down. We look like hypocrites—despite the fact we felt we needed to hide.”
“People would have responded with the same fervor no matter how we handled it.”
“But by keeping it to ourselves, sorting through the confusion on our own timetables, and trying not to cause a disruption, we get branded as hypocrites and the community gets divided—until a kid pays the price.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Hunter.”
They grew silent. Hunter shoved his hands into his coat pockets as they reached Hudson’s town square. The shops along Main Street, which called to mind Norman Rockwell’s pictures of America in its innocence, had closed for the night.
When they reached the clock tower at the corner of the green in the center of town, they strolled to a wh
ite gazebo and sat down inside. A nearby streetlamp cast its light upon them. A slight breeze now whirled, which sent Hunter into a slight shiver. Gabe wrapped his arm around him and Hunter allowed himself to settle into the embrace. Hunter felt their shared warmth emanate through him.
“Better?” Gabe asked.
“Everything’s better.” Hunter turned his head to gaze into Gabe’s eyes. “You’ve made everything better.”
Gabe rubbed Hunter’s arm. “How so?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Hunter said as a sweet, welcome ache settled within his heart. The ache of vulnerability. “This is the first time in my life I’ve felt comfortable with myself. Truly comfortable. Comfortable enough to let anyone see me deep down. And it’s not an attraction thing. It’s just …” Hunter searched for something complex but wound up with simplicity. “It’s just … you.”
Gabe rubbed Hunter’s arm once more.
“That’s not a bad thing, right?” said Gabe with a wink.
“It’s not bad,” Hunter replied. “That’s what makes this so confusing. The contentment is real, and yet it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Here I am, a guy who loves Jesus with everything in me. I’d die inside if I didn’t get to talk to Him or spend time with Him. Yet because of one area in my life that doesn’t make sense to others, I’m told what an abomination I am. Some people tell me I’m going to hell. And you know what? For years, part of me wondered if I am going to hell.” Hunter paused. “But then, in those moments of fear, I can sense Jesus’ touch. I don’t know how to explain it, but I can feel His arm wrapped around my shoulder, that sense of love and acceptance I’d always wished I could find with other people. And I can hear Him say to me, ‘I love you, Hunter. It’s okay. I’m going to work it all out for you.’ And just like that”—Hunter snapped his fingers—“I have hope again. Hope that I’ll make it through this journey, that I’ll be able to help and comfort people along the way. Hope that, decades down the road, at the end of my life, I’ll fall asleep one night talking to God, and when I wake up, I’ll wake up in heaven. And as I walk on the streets of gold up there, the struggles of this life on earth—these temporary issues—won’t matter anymore, because I’ll have finally made it home, and I’ll climb into those loving, accepting arms of Jesus that I’ve sensed around me during the hard times here on earth.”