Layers

by Sigal Ehrlich

  And just as the good memories swirl through my head, the less soothing ones appear. I’ll never be able to forget the look in his eyes when he asked me to read that awful gossip column. A look of disappointment, agony and betrayal, the one look that said what we had was over. I can still feel the exact, sharp pain of seeing the look that shattered my soul.

  And then, again, the sweetest memory intrudes on my ache. A memory of when he tried to convince me to move in with him. “So, Hales, to summarize, my gut feeling tells me I have found the one.” Tears well up in my eyes from the unbearable, colossal loss. I just can’t do without him.

  We had it so good. I never imagined I would connect to someone on that level. I never thought it was possible to love anyone that way. I can’t grasp the fact that this pain won’t subside. It began with a shock, evolved to numbness and remains, a steady scorching, at the center of my core. With every breath I take, I physically feel the aching. I miss him more than I can even begin to admit to myself.

  ~~~

  “Dad, can you have a look at something for me in your office?” I ask, trying to mask the hurt in my voice for the sake of my mom, who’s watching us closely.

  “What is it?” he asks, while we walk side by side to his office. My mom’s forehead continues to increase until we’re out of sight.

  “I got a little bump from the board.”

  “Show me,” he demands, patiently wearing his physician’s persona. His eyes narrow as I pull up my pink shirt. He observes the blue and purple bruise diffusing heat between my ribs and shakes his head with an audible inhale.

  “Ouch,” I breathe through gritted teeth as he presses against it.

  “It doesn’t seem fractured, but I would like to bandage it just to protect it.” He turns to his mahogany and glass medicine cabinet while murmuring, “It must have been some hell of a blow,” and shakes his head again.

  “Come closer.” I take two steps to stand next to him. “You should be taking better care of yourself.” Behind his glasses his eyes wear a soft expression and I know there is so much more laying under his words.

  He tips my chin up to look at him. “Promise?”

  I nod in silent agreement as he secures the bandage with two clips.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I inch up to kiss his bearded cheek. He pulls me into a hug, carefully avoiding my bruise.

  “Take these twice a day for the next few days. It should take care of the pain.” He hands me a small container with painkillers. “Again, Hales, Doctor’s orders. You … Take … Care.” He embraces me again before I leave his room.

  ~~~

  “Lely, should I heat up your food now?” My mom, anxious for me to eat, welcomes me as I get back to the kitchen. Just to refrain from breaking her heart I agree, and her face lights up in response. I look at her affectionately. Such simple little things please her.

  The phone rings. “You want me to get it, Mom?” I say.

  She shakes her head as she starts the microwave with a faint beep.

  “Hello,” she answers calmly. “What is it, Amanda?”

  I shift my stare to look at her, worried by the change in her tone. Her face has fallen and lost all its usual vitality and color.

  “When did you hear that? How much does he know?” She listens, the knuckles on her right hand turning white from her intense grip on the counter. A cold shudder creeps through me, beginning at the bottom of my spine. It could only be something related to Steven; I can sense it too clearly. As she puts the phone on its cradle she turns to look at me, panic decorating her pale face.

  “Is it Steven?” I ask, already knowing the answer but still waiting for some sort of dreadful confirmation. She looks at me, then her gaze slips away; introspective, she stares at an unmarked spot behind me.

  “Is it Steven?” I’m shocked by my own loud voice when I repeat my question. My already loose nerves leave no place for composed behavior. I’m far from being able to control myself. I cannot mentally or physically endure further agony. My father’s appearance in the kitchen distracts us, and we both turn to look at him

  “What’s going on in here?” He stares at us together, then at each of us individually. Finally, my mom snaps out of her shock and tells us about the call.

  “Remember Ron, Amanda’s son? The one that was deployed with Steven and returned last month injured?”

  My dad nods affirmative. I gape at them.

  “He was watching the news about an attack on our forces in Kabul and he said he could tell it was Steven’s platoon by the few news shots he saw.”

  I sink into the nearest chair; I am too much of an emotional wreck to hear this standing up.

  “They don’t know for sure, but they’re talking about some missing and dead soldiers.” At the last fragment of her sentence her voice breaks. My father reassures us calmly, with a straight face. “There’s no need for panic. We don’t know anything for sure, which means we don’t know anything. Let’s go and check the news.” He takes off his glasses and cleans them at the hem of his shirt. Putting them back on, he holds out a firm hand for my mom to hold and she takes it with her unsteady one.

  “Are you coming, Lely?” His eyes ask me to join.

  “I want to call Tasha first.” I hug myself. There’s a sudden chill over me.

  ~~~

  “Hey, Tash.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asks at the sound of my voice.

  I scratch the side of my thumb with my index finger nervously. “It’s Steven.” My voice turns fragile.

  “Steven? What is it, Hales?” Her response is shaky and at my momentary silence she goes on. “Hales, you are freaking me out here. What happened?”

  I fill her in as best I can.

  “Is there anyone who can provide you with some sort of information?” she asks.

  “No,” I sigh, in despair. All I can think in that moment is that I want to hear Daniel’s voice, but I cut off the thought before it evolves further into agony. We speak for a while till Tasha has to go. Before hanging up she offers to fly over to be with us.

  “No need, Tash. I’ll be coming back in a day and a half.” My voice is weary.

  ~~~

  When I share the news with Ian, his serious tone amplifies the way I feel. When I hear the worry in his voice I find myself unraveling.

  “So how are we really doing, gorgeous?”

  “Nothing that a combination of hard booze, yoga and heavy sedation won’t fix.”

  He chuckles. “I’m glad to learn you’re uber fine.”

  I snicker. “You know I’m just a phone call away, day or night,” he says as we hang up.

  I stop myself before I dial the last digit of the number I so want to call and walk to the living room to join my parents.

  We sit in silence, watching the repetitive news, even though they haven’t revealed anything in the past few hours. We sit glued to the screen drinking in each and every word, holding on to any piece of information that might give us hope. Same headlines, same images, same information about the ‘nine casualties in central Kabul today when a suicide bomber struck a vehicle in a military convoy’. The only elaboration is that of those killed in the attack, four were troops and five were civilians.

  My eyes burn and my head aches. I’m nauseated, physically and emotionally drained.

  “I’m heading to bed,” I say listlessly, finding the mere task of standing up challenging.

  “Good night, Lely.” My parents’ soft voices blend into one. I hug both of them. Passing by the kitchen, I grab my phone before climbing upstairs to my childhood den.

  ~~~

  Everything looks so familiar and yet so alien: the innocent lilac wallpaper that has slightly started to peel and fade at the left corner, the soft white, twin-sized bed still neatly covered by the lavender duvet decorated with feathery white clouds. With my mother’s preference for order my CDs and books are all in place. Only the fading shades and some stains on the cream rug in the center of the wooden floor reveal that it
’s been a long while since the room was in its prime.

  The teen I used to be is far from recognizable to the woman I’ve become. It feels as if a million years have passed since I last slept in this place, in this bed.

  Kicking off my shoes, I slip under the thick, soft duvet with my clothes still on. As soon as my head rests on the pillow the dam in my eyes breaks, releasing a stream of exhausted, weary tears. With the tears a realization strikes me hard, a realization that’s been stewing for a while. There is only one thing that I want; there is only one thing that can release me from this excruciating pain. To be comforted with one embrace. I want to hear his voice; I need to hear his voice. I need him to tell me that everything will be okay and that he still loves me, just like he tried to a few days ago.

  With trembling fingers I dial the number I’ve been fighting myself from calling for far too long. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voice.

  At the first ring he answers.

  “Hales?”

  My name is a prayer of redemption on his breath. Tears block my throat. I manage to whisper, “Daniel, I need …” You, I whisper to a lifeless line and the faint beeping sound of my phone as it dies, along with my courage.

  It’s a sign. I shouldn’t have. Think with your head, not with your heart. I bury my face in the pillow and sob myself to sleep.

  Chapter 41: Daniel

  I gotta do something about this restless anger ragging within me. Ever since that fucking article, I feel like kicking the life out of everything that breathes. I’m on edge at the smallest thing; rage has invaded every part of me with no end in sight. I’m too hazardous for my own sake. You need to blow it off, Daniel.

  I think about her big, beautiful, agonized eyes just before she closed the door on me. It seemed so infinite, that look, and it makes me feel like shit. Hopeless. I don’t do hopeless.

  Fuck, what’s become of me? I shake my head at the thought. I need to focus. I need to let this restrained violence free, and the sooner the better. An idea crosses my mind; I should call Ted, have him set me up in one of those fight club matches I used to do. Daniel, don’t even think about it. Leave your past behind.

  My tolerance is running among the lines of zero to none. I can’t even fully concentrate at work, which has never happened before. Even there, the hours drag. It was the only place that really made sense, but not anymore. Hayley’s divine body is the real temple. The ultimate cure is to bury myself in her.

  I walk down the hall to the only place I can do something about it, the only legal way to be as violent as I need to be. And, at this stage, I need to be. Damn, I really screwed it up this time. I can’t stop picturing her angelic face, her golden hair, those eyes … Fuck.

  Where are the goddamn gloves? I turn up the music to a disturbing volume; Metallica will be the perfect companion for what I have my mind set at. I shrug the first glove on, adjusting the tie to hold it firmly in place. For the other I use my teeth to pull it tight against my wrist. Parts from my last conversation with Hayley sway through my head as I face the bag. “It was you who broke us. It was you who made the choice not to trust me, to not even try to understand. You chose to give me up, give us up.” She was right.

  The first punch throws the punching bag up towards the ceiling; at its return I catch it with both hands. The contact of my next blow with the leather skin is so strong the hit rises above the music, but it doesn’t help. I keep dissecting these thoughts in my mind. Goddamn it, Daniel, pull yourself together. You’re like some virgin obsessing before the first time. For fuck’s sake, what’s become of me?

  My body heats up, the adrenaline kicks in and I start to sweat more heavily with every swing. I throw my fists at the bag repeatedly, which absorbs the hits and asks for more. As my damp clothes start to cling to me, I take them off, throw them into a pile in the corner of the room and continue, with just my boxers on and the AC turned to freezing.

  I hiss through gritted teeth, increasing the momentum of the next punch. I feel the intensity of the strike even through the protection of the gloves. This is good; I need to feel the pain. I yank the gloves off my hands and resume my assault on my inanimate opponent bare-handed. The pain is sharp but it clears my mind. This is exactly what I was looking for, exactly what I need.

  I punch and punch, channeling my strength with better efficiency. My punches get gradually faster. With each swing I find within me more anger, more force, to hit more precise and with greater strength. I only stop when a layer of warm, thick blood coming from the wounds at my knuckles starts to stain the punching bag, leaving moist smudges of dark, rust red.

  The physical urge to blow off my murderous violence lessens and I feel somewhat relieved. Now the music is a disturbance, and I kill it before it adds to my already overflowing annoyance.

  Exhausted, I slide to the floor at the corner of the room. I rest my pulsing head against the wall. The cracked skin of my knuckles burns, but the sting is a relief. Drops of sweat saturated with my frustration roll down my temples in small trails to my jaw and neck. I glance at my phone, tossed onto the pile of what used to be my day’s attire and breathe, rhythmically, slowly, in and out, working to even my heartbeat.

  I go through the clusterfuck of failure based decisions I’ve made since that first time Brian, my PR guy, sent me that fucked-up gossip column. Even now I can revive the rage and disappointment that conquered me on the spot. I saw red, a dark crimson sheet waving in front of my eyes. I should have never jumped to conclusions; I should have never let her go. I should have immediately made someone get to the bottom of that shit, just like I eventually did, too late. That sorry excuse for a “reporter” is going to live her life regretting the moment she ever laid her damn fingers on a keyboard with the defamation lawsuit my lawyers have prepared especially for her.

  I can’t help but also think about the other senseless, meaningless idiotic mistake I made just to get back at Hayley, to hurt her. If I ever get a second chance, this will never go down simply with her, if at all. Fuck, what have I done?

  Christ. The way I’ve treated her, the words I’ve thrust upon her, infused with sheer poison and aimed to cut deep. “yes, I did say everything that was written in that article, but not the way it was written, not to the person who wrote it, and the main point is that it was said out of love, out of confessing my overwhelming feelings I felt for you.” She confessed and I didn’t listen. I should have known it all along. I should be the one taking a beating. What the fuck have I done?

  And through all the obscurity clouding my mind I can’t help the instant smile forming on my lips as a memory of the way we met appears in my thoughts. I remember walking into my private kitchen to the sight of that teasing, plump, pear-shaped ass under tight jeans, focusing my vision on nothing but that supreme body of hers. When she said that provocative “fuck me”, even before she turned and I was able to see her face, I already wanted her buck naked and bent over the counter. When she finally turned to look at me I found myself immediately lost in those eyes.

  And as she started speaking, bashing the hell out of me, I instinctively imagined doing things to that sassy, pouty mouth. I had to shove my hand into my front pocket to conceal the bulge forming in my pants, the same one that distracted the shit out of my mental balance. Right there and then I knew there were two things I must do to her at whatever price. Have her in my bed and put her in her place. Unfortunately, I knew it would not be in that particular order.

  I want her so much that I can conjure up everything about her. The touch of her flawless, silky, honeyed skin. Her sweet, childlike freckles. The way her flushed face and parted sweet mouth looked above me. Her soft hair and that incredible scent of clean, cinnamon, and Hayley. She’s the only thing that’s right. The only thing that matters. I gotta get her back.

  Damn, she even made me think more than once seriously about the dreadful combination of the words settling and down. And I even liked the sound of it.

  I grab my phone from its resting p
lace on my clothes and check out the damage of not being connected for a few hours. Damn. So many emails; it never ends. Delegate, Stark, delegate.

  And just like an answer to a silent prayer my phone rings and it’s her.

  “Hales?” I breathe, instantly picking up.

  There is so much fused into that one single name—my anxiety, my exhaustion, my constrained frustration and a whole lot of longing. What’s happened? What did she just say? “Daniel I need …” What, baby, what is it that you need? Hales. Damn, she’s gone. I try to call back, but her phone is switched off. What the fuck?

  I have to talk to her. Where is she? She mentioned something about visiting her parents. Chicago, was it? I’ll try Natasha; she must know how to reach her. What’s the time? 10 p.m. Natasha finally answers after the fourth or fifth ring. Anxious, I almost break the phone with my grip, waiting.

  “Who is it?” she asks, hesitantly.

  “Daniel Stark.”

  There’s a short silence on the line. Don’t play games with me now; I am far from being in the mood. I try to compose myself before I bark out something I might end up regretting.

  “Hayley just called me and the line went dead. Do you know where she is or how I can reach her?”

  She clears her throat and replies. “She’s at her parents, in Chicago. She’ll be coming home tomorrow evening.”

  “Do you have her parents’ number?”

  “I do. Daniel,” her voice sounds weary, “but it’s one a.m. in Chicago now, I don’t think it’s a good time to call their landline.” She sighs and goes on, “Given what they’re going through, I’m not sure a call in the middle of the night will do any good.”

  “What do you mean, ‘given what they’re going through’?” What happened? Is Hales okay? Restless, I stand up and start pacing the room.

  “It’s her brother. There was a situation with his platoon in Afghanistan and they aren’t sure.” Her voice cracks. I bite my lips and slam the wall with my palm. Fuck.