Still Air

by Freya Barker

  That’s why, after feeding her some of the cabbage soup and bread I brought home, and bringing a bowl upstairs for Jonas, who doesn’t even look up from his computer screen when I set it down on his desk, I close myself in my bedroom with my phone.

  “Hey,” I respond a bit awkwardly when she answers her phone.

  “Everything okay?”

  The rich tone of her voice used to grate on me. Or maybe it was something else I felt then, because right now it’s just soothing.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s home, he’s going to school, he’s not confrontational, but I still feel he’s slipping away.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Her voice is hesitant.

  “It’s why I called you.” She chuckles softly before responding.

  “Your son responded well to my direct approach. I’m not really a touchy feely therapist, and to be honest, I don’t think that would work anyway. Prefer not to waste time beating around the bush, if I can help it. Jonas, much like you, feels deeply but has trouble or is uncomfortable expressing.” I want to argue with that, but she continues before I can. “I’d like to build a rapport with him, meet with him individually a few times, but at some point it might be helpful to see you together. I get the sense there’s stuff between you that needs to be resolved. I want to see if we can’t throw all that crap on the table and work through them one by one.”

  Therapy. It’s always been a bit of a dirty word to me since Jeannie and I tried some counseling, years back. Jeannie had loved it, probably because of the constant there-there she was getting from the therapist. I’d sat through a few sessions, said maybe ten words in total, and was ignored the rest of the time. He ended up suggesting medication to make Jeannie feel better. Feeling better became the theme for her and snowballed into a substance addiction.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to Jonas.”

  “That didn’t sound very convincing,” Pam chuckles.

  “Let’s just say, if it were anybody but you, I’d have given you a different answer,” I tell her truthfully.

  “I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” Her voice, if possible, drops even deeper, and I force myself to picture her behind a desk in an office instead of in bed.

  “Intended it to be,” I give her, sounding gruff.

  Pam

  I hang up the phone, wondering what the hell just happened.

  I’ll be the first to admit I’m pretty damn rusty, but that sounded an awful lot like flirting. Me, the decades-long queen of evasion when it comes to anything that reeks of male interest. I’ve not encountered the best of examples when it comes to the opposite sex in my own life and spend all of my time helping women get out from under more like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love men, or at least the promise of them, it’s that the good ones I’ve come to know just aren’t for me.

  I thought that’s were Dino fit. In the box labeled ‘not suitable.’ Of course, that was when I thought he was happily married. He’s been part of my circle of friends, even though he always rubbed me the wrong way. I’m starting to think it’s not so much him rubbing me the wrong way as it is him rubbing me just right.

  I’ve had lovers over the years. A few men, who had no interest for one reason or another to get attached, but appreciated the occasional physical release. The last guy called me one day to cancel, saying he had met someone just that day he could envision a future with. He apologized and explained he wouldn’t be able to pursue her in good faith if we still had a standing arrangement. Three months later, I received a brief email from him, letting me know the woman had just agreed to marry him. That was about four years ago and I haven’t seen anyone else since.

  I wasn’t hung up on him. In fact, I was happy to see him find love. I just don’t believe in it for me.

  Shaking any thoughts of lovers, ex or prospective, from my head, I push my chair back and get up. I have a group starting in ten minutes and need to make a pot of tea.

  Maria walks into the kitchen, just as I’m putting the huge teapot on a tray with six mugs, her face strained. This will be her first group session since she got out of the hospital, and although we’ve talked quite a bit since, I know she’s nervous about the reaction of the other women. The timid woman is standing before me, her fingers restlessly plucking at the hem of her shirt, and her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

  “Good. You can help me bring tea in.” I point at the plate of brownies. “If you could grab that?”

  “I’m not feeling too good,” she mumbles, and I know she’s looking for an out. Ignoring the tray, I walk up to her and take her face in my hands.

  “Like a Band-Aid, girl. Best way to deal with things you’re not looking forward to is to just dive in and get it done.”

  Her eyes water as she looks at me, the plea visible on her still bruised face. “They won’t understand,” she whispers. I chuckle softly at that.

  “Are you kidding me? Those women are all in a better position to understand than anyone else. They’ve been there. They know.”

  Maria has avoided any interaction with the other residents, taking meals in her tiny room, and spending most of the past few days since she’s been back lying on her bed, watching the small grainy TV on her dresser. I don’t want to push her, but at the same time, I know the longer she waits facing the others, the harder it’ll be.

  “Let’s do this.” I let her go, resolutely pick up the tray, and start walking to the door, keeping my fingers crossed I’ll hear her fall into step behind me. I’m already halfway down the hall when I hear the shuffle of feet behind me, catching up. I’d pump my fist, but I have a heavy-ass tray in my hands, so I smile instead. Big.

  “Fucking asshole!” I hear when I walk into the room and my head snaps up. Marianne, the oldest of our residents at sixty-three, a one time country club wife and mother of two adult children, jumps up from her chair, her eyes focused behind me. Oh boy. I’ve never heard a single swear word from her lips. I have the uncontrollable urge to giggle at the short, gray-haired, normally demure woman with her hands on her hips and thunder on her face. I feel Maria close in behind me, using my body to shield her, but Marianne is not done. She walks right up to us, her eyes never wavering from her target. “Let me look at you,” she says in a much softer voice.

  I helpfully step out of her way, set the tray on the table, and take the brownies from Maria, leaving her exposed. The moment she has her hands free, Marianne reaches out and puts her arms around the girl. I try to ignore them while I pour tea, even though my protective instincts are on high alert.

  A group like this, however small, can be volatile. Put a bunch of women in a room, and normally, I’d be the one running out the door. Still, abuse groups are on the whole a safe place, and the support of other women is a large part of healing.

  Her arm still looped around Maria, Marianne guides her to the two empty seats. They sit down, but Marianne firmly holds onto Maria’s hand. It warms my heart. I wasn’t at all sure that she wasn’t going to run at some point, but looking at her now, staring down at the much older hand clutching hers, I’m thinking perhaps she’ll stick around. As incongruous as these two appear at first sight, the street kid and the country club matron, I have a feeling they’ll be good for each other. Maria didn’t have a very nurturing childhood and little experience with kindness. Marianne has been lost since leaving her marriage. Her two sons, both military men like their father, to whom she devoted her life, have easily cut her from their lives. Ironic, isn’t it? She waited all this time, subjected herself to the soul crippling verbal and physical abuse doled out by her husband, all for the sake of the kids. The same kids who resolutely shut the door on her when she finally felt strong enough to choose herself.

  I expected to be exhausted by the end of the session, but instead I feel invigorated. With my emotions all over the place in recent days, it’s good to feel my own purpose reaffirmed at the sight of Maria and Marianne leaving the room side by side.

  When I carry the tray into the kit
chen, Brenda is standing by the stove, working on dinner.

  “How did it go?” she asks when I peek over her shoulder to see what’s cooking. I’m suddenly hungry.

  “Well. It went well. Marianne stepped up right away and seemed to take Maria under her wing.”

  “No shit?” Brenda turns a surprised face my way.

  “I know. She swore when she saw Maria’s face. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a single swear word from her lips since she’s been here,” I chuckle, thinking about the timid, perfectly groomed middle-class lady, who barely ever spoke above a whisper. “Shocked the shit out of me. She took one look at the girl and fucking asshole came flying out her mouth.”

  “Epic,” Brenda says on a smile. “Wish I’d been a fly on the wall.”

  Before I can say anything, the phone in my pocket starts vibrating. The display shows a familiar number. “I’ll be in my office,” I quickly tell Brenda, answering the call as I go.

  Five minutes later when I hang up, all the positive vibes I built up today are gone and a heavy feeling settles back on my shoulders. Fifteen years I’ve been living under a cloud. Longer, if I’m honest, but the past fifteen years I’ve not been able to do anything about it. Not a damn thing. I’ve focused all my energy on helping others where I could, because I had no way of helping myself.

  I’m getting tired, though—and with every new disappointment, I can feel myself eroding more underneath the hard outer shell.

  I grab my coat and stick my head around the kitchen door.

  “I’ve got to head out. Have you got things here?”

  Brenda turns from her perch at the stove. “Yup. I’ve got it,” she assures me.

  Outside the cold wind hits me as I struggle to get into my car. The bite on my skin an almost welcome sensation to focus on instead of the numbness I was feeling. Once behind the wheel, I pause for minute, not sure where I should go. I don’t really want to go home, where there is nothing waiting for me.

  Resolutely I turn my car in the opposite direction. I need nourishment, not only for my stomach, but also to fill the gaping hole in my chest. Food for the soul. There’s one place I know I can find both.

  The Skipper.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dino

  “Bud, can I come in?”

  I don’t usually stand outside my kids’ doors and knock, but I don’t want Jonas already irritated when I talk to him.

  A surprised Jonas opens the door and steps out of the way. It makes me think of something I’ve heard before; if you’re looking for change, start with you. Guess it worked, because Jonas isn’t showing his customary scowl or blatant dismissal.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” I tell him honestly, as he sits back down in his chair, but instead of turning to the computer, he stays focused on me when I sit down on the edge of his bed. “Things have not been good here. Not just you.” I lift my hand defensively when I see him gear up for a response. “Things with your mother...I’m not sure when it even started, but it’s not been good for a while.”

  “No shit,” I hear him mumble.

  “Right. Anyway, I can’t change what got us to this point, but I sure as hell can change what happens going forward. Not now, but at some point we’re going to have to hash out all the crap that’s been piling up.” I’m about to ignore Jonas’ derisive snort, but change my mind. “That right there? That’s why I think we need help. You’re pissed at me and I get that, and frankly, I’m pissed with you, too. We need someone to help us sort through that shit and get this damn family back on track.”

  The scowl that hadn’t been there earlier is now firmly etched on my boy’s face.

  “Bud” I plead softly. “I love you. I can’t sit by and let this go.”

  “You did fine before,” he bites and I’ve got to admit, it hurts. Because it’s true.

  “And that’s why I can’t now,” I push on. “Pam offered to help sort through this. I’d like you to talk to her.”

  “The social worker chick? Why?”

  “Don’t call her a chick, she’s old enough to be your mother, so show a little respect. Pam’s been more than kind to you.”

  “She got me locked up,” he mumbles defiantly.

  “You got you locked up,” I point out. Jonas looks a little sheepish at that. “Given what she walked in on, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d torn you limb from limb instead of going through all this trouble for you. She saw you under the worst of circumstances and still saw the good in you. I hope to God you’re smart enough to appreciate that. Which brings me to the why,” I say when Jonas silently stares at the floor. “Nothing you can say to her will be anything new. She knows the worst already. If there is one person you can say anything to, it’s her. Besides, it’ll probably work to your benefit should the district attorney decide to charge you.”

  Jonas straightened up, shock clear on his face. “Charge me?”

  “Son, you didn’t think this was just going away, did you? He may, he may not, but in the meantime you can do your damnedest to show this was a serious lack of judgement on your side, and not the beginning of a future in crime.” I should feel bad, putting the screws on my own flesh and blood, but I don’t. I hate seeing the tears welling in his eyes, but I meant what I said to him earlier; I will do anything. “I’ll let you think on this,” I say, getting up from the bed. I already have the door open when I hear him behind me.

  “Dad?”

  My heart does a little skip at the vulnerable sound of his voice, but I keep a straight face when I turn back to him and find him standing a few feet away.

  “I’ll do it,” he says, a pained look on his face that almost makes me burst out laughing. Instead I take two steps and pull him into my arms. His body is stiff and unresponsive but I don’t give a fuck.

  “Happy about that, Bud,” I mumble in his ear. “We’ll get through on the other side, I promise you that.”

  His body, no longer that of a little boy, slumps in my hold and his fists come up behind me and clutch my shirt.

  “Okay...”

  -

  “Can I have two fish and chips, tartar sauce on the side, for table nine?”

  Matt sticks his head around the kitchen door, and I wave my acknowledgement, before diving into the cooler.

  The stupid new computer that is supposed to send orders straight from the front to the small printer in the kitchen went on the fritz about half an hour ago. Right in the middle of the dinner rush. It had been a good idea, one that I completely supported, because it would cut down on the foot traffic between the pub and the kitchen. It did—for two days.

  I run the halibut filets through the beer batter and drop them carefully into the fryer. I do the same with the fries on the other side. The beer batter dipped fries had been an idea that Ruby came up with. She sometimes helps in the kitchen and is constantly expanding her newfound cooking skills. She is very creative, that’s for sure. I never would’ve thought to dip sweet potato fries into the batter, but she swore it makes them nice and easy to pick up and dip. So I had her cook them for me and was blown away.

  She’s revamped a lot of our regular fair with new and innovative ways to prepare and serve them, and especially overhauled the staple of fish and chips, which has become popular. In part, I’m sure, because of the chipotle she adds to the beer batter. Gunnar loves it, because anything with a little heat makes people drink more. Since we’ve updated the menu, beer sales in particular have gone up noticeably.

  I left the kids doing homework and promised I’d be home before their bedtime, but Thursday nights are generally busy because of the special. We have enough capable hands that the kitchen keeps running even if I’m not here, but everyone has children now, and we all need an occasional night off. After that emotional talk with Jonas, I figured both he and I could do with a bit of breathing room. I’m off tomorrow night, so maybe I can convince him to watch a Bruins game with me.

  I lift the fryer baskets and drop the contents on paper to
drain, before arranging the food on the plates with a little fresh coleslaw. I add two little glass bowls with tartar sauce and carry the plates into the bar. It’s almost eight thirty and orders are slowing down. People are settling into drinking.

  The moment I step out from behind the bar, I zoom in on table nine, where, to my surprise, Pam is sitting with Mark. Mark is an ex-cop and Ruby’s brother-in-law. Good guy, but something about him sitting with Pam tucked away in a booth is pissing me off.

  “Fish and chips?”

  Pam’s head shoots up at the sound of my voice, looking surprised. I don’t have a chance to question why, because Mark pipes up.

  “Dayummmm, drop those babies right here.” He rubs his hands. “Thanks, Dino,” he says when I slide the plates on the table.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I respond a little distracted, before I address Pam. “I...eh... Enjoy.” I walk away, ignoring the heat of her eyes on my back.

  Son of a bitch. This is stupid. She used to walk into a room and all the hair on my neck would stand up straight, she annoyed me that much. These days, she still gets a physical response from me, but it sure as hell has nothing to do with my neck.

  Pam

  What in God’s name is wrong with me?

  I came here looking for some friendly distraction from the pressure on my chest and in my head. Sometimes the air feels so heavy—so thick—I can barely breathe. I bumped into Mark outside and he suggested we sit together and grab a bite. I hadn’t seen him since the night I called him for help.

  For some reason, I assumed Dino was at home when I talked to him earlier, but apparently not. When he walked up to the table with our order, it threw me.

  Nothing’s supposed to throw me. I’m supposed to be unflappable, even-keeled. It’s what has worked for me for years. Stay aloof, don’t show weakness, and don’t lower your guard. I like to know where everyone stands, where I stand in social interactions. Until I was faced with a different Dino than I’d seen all the years before, I thought I did. The tension that’s always been there, simmering between us, now all of a sudden has a completely different vibe, and I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve always had a fairly tight hold over my emotions but lately they’ve slipped from my grip like loose sand. Most often in the presence of this man. He doesn’t seem to fit the box I placed him in anymore.