by Lila Felix
But I put no such files on his desk.
I notice Harvey is decked out in his full suit today, complete with his neck tie actually tied and his suit jacket on. The only time he ever gets dressed like that is when people are coming in for a meeting—or his wife is coming in for lunch.
This can’t be good.
The rest of the twenty minutes—maybe an hour—who knows—I spent in this turtle state of being. I was still in my body, but I felt small within my form. Like I was the size of a cricket, just blinking my eyes and rubbing my legs, waiting for it all to end.
I focus on the depth of the crease in Harvey’s forehead. It’s so pronounced that I wonder if his skull has been impacted by it. Every time he sips his coffee, one or two drops dribble down from the side of his mouth, and he catches them with the cuff of his otherwise pristine white shirt. I can also see his feet under the splice of desk which he probably thinks is concealing them. And it’s his feet, bare and hairy. He doesn’t even bother to keep his socks on. Nope, he’s barefooted and coffee cuffed. The whole scene is enough to make me wonder how people like him get into high paying positions like his.
Eventually, Harvey reaches his point. Basically, my own e-mail had stirred up some overall reassessment of my position. The conclusion—there was no longer a place for me at all. Then the oddest thing happened—I start to laugh. I try to hide it at first, playing it off like a cough, but then for some reason the sight of Peaches’ lacey slip hanging out of her skirt begins an avalanche of laughter. Even I recognize the severe insanity of its sound—it borders on a mental cackle.
I get up, walk to my desk, grab my purse, and make for the elevator. I giggle the entire way to my car. It’s only as I shut the door to my car that I sober. The consequences of what just happened snowball through my mind. I’ll have to find another job before my savings runs out. If I can’t, then I’ll have to move back home. Honestly, I’d rather sleep in my car than to do move in with them.
Moving in with my parents would mean always being reminded of the lengths and strides our family had to go through after I’d opened my big mouth. I learned after that to keep my mouth shut, to not tell anyone what was going on with me.
Ezra’s words echoes through my conscience, bringing back my promise to call him if something else ever upset me.
But did he really mean it?
Was that just a platitude?
I text him, scared to interrupt him at work. I roll my eyes at myself after I send such a generic message. ‘Did you mean it?’ I bet he’s staring at his phone wondering why I’m such a dumbass.
I’m wondering the same thing when he texts back, ‘Are you okay?’
Maybe I’m not as nuts as I think.
‘Just got fired,’ I text back, put my car into drive and head home. A text comes in after that, but I don’t bother looking at it. It’s too late. I’ve got one goal on my mind, and it involves no one other than me, tears, and my cabinet.
I finally text him back ‘I’m fine’, when I get to the apartment, before turning the phone off. I kick my shoes off and burrow down into my wooden safe house. The wood smells like security.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” I chant over and over, knocking my head on the side of my space.
I really am a head case—there’s no denying it.
Sometime during my chanting, I fall asleep in the cabinet. I wake up to the slamming of a door and my name being called by Ezra.
This cannot be happening.
His finding me here in my cabinet is enough to make me—well—want to get in my cabinet. I look down at my chest, making sure my hammering heart hasn’t broken its holds.
I try to wait until he moves to another part of the apartment, hoping to sneak out without being caught. I fail. When I open the cabinet, he’s standing there, a gorgeous worrisome expression on his face.
“What the shit, Aysa?”
“What does that even mean?” I throw back.
“It means,” he extends a broad hand out to help me from my crawling position. “What are you doing inside of an entertainment center?”
I think of a million things to say—a million lies to tell. I was hooking up a cable to the TV. I was chasing a roach. I was measuring the inside of the cabinet. I was hiding from the murderous delivery man.
I open my mouth to say any one of these things, but they refused to come out. How could I lie to him after he’d been so open and honest with me about his own personal tragedy?
“I sit in there when I’m upset—hiding.”
I sound like I’m eight again.
There are several reactions I expect out of him at this point. I expect him to laugh at me, laugh at the grown woman who hides in small spaces like a child. I expect ridicule for the same reasons. But most of all, I expect him to leave and never hear from him again.
But what he does next, I never see coming. Ezra pulls me to him, burying my face in his chest.
“You hide in there,” he asks with a cracking voice.
“It makes me feel safe,” I whisper.
“There’s better ways than that to feel safe,” he says.
I look up at him and insist on a defiant tone of voice to come from my mouth, “But it’s my way.”
“Let me show you my way,” he says.
After toeing off his own shoes and going into my bedroom, stripping my bed of its cover, he sits in my recliner and opens his arms for me. I resist. My mind tells me that he’s just going to let me down. That his embrace and the security I will find there is temporary.
But looking at him there, so open and willing—I just don’t give a damn if it’s temporary or not.
I need this.
Awkwardly, I sit on his lap, not knowing how to really go about this. He puts one hand on my thigh and one on my backside and pulls my flush with him. Then he does the strangest and most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me in my whole life. Reaching down to the side of the recliner, he jerks the comforter up and just when I think he’s going to cover me with it, he finagles the blanket until it covers both me and him—creating a cave for both of us to hide in. For a minute, it’s like being on the underside of a hot air balloon. I burrow down in the nest he’s made for us and groan in satisfaction.
“My way is better,” Ezra chuckles and tucks my head under his chin.
I nod against his pecs. A few minutes pass in silence as I concentrate on the rhythm of his breaths.
“Is this an everyday thing, or did something happen?”
I laughed, “I think I got fired today.”
He tensed, “You think? I got your text. I know you got fired.”
“They were perfectly nice about the whole thing. I kinda blanked out a few minutes into the conversation. They just said they were letting me go. They make it sound like they’re doing me a favor. Like they were punishing me by working there, so they’re just gonna let me go.”
He blows out a breath, and I giggle to myself because it smells like Juicy Fruit.
“I hate when people do that. They deliver bad news with a smile on their face and a sappy sweet tone. Pricks.”
He is right. They’re all pricks.
A stint of silence follows, “Why do you hide in there?”
“It’s safe. I used to hide when I was a kid when things were bad. Nobody can hurt me in there.”
“Why would a little girl need to hide?”
Third person? Yeah, that works for me. Somehow speaking about the things that happened to me in third person makes everything better.
“If she had a babysitter who was a real bitch.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t even really her, it was everything that happened afterwards. Leslie was her name. She was only my babysitter for three or four months. She didn’t breathe fire or worship the devil or anything, she was just mean for no reason. So, I usually spent the whole time hiding in my room or the bathroom closet so she couldn’t find me. I told my parents about it, but they didn’t believe me. M
y dad put one of those hidden cameras in the living room. I knew he did. So I kinda provoked her one day. She completely went off, calling me a bitch or whatever. That’s when the crap hit the fan. My dad went from working tons to working only part time so he could stay with me after school. My mom couldn’t shop or buy expensive things anymore. My sister had to quit her ballet and after school activities because we couldn’t afford it anymore. Mom tried to convince him to find another babysitter, or an after school program, but he wasn’t having it. Those were some of the best years of my life. But when he wasn’t home, the complaining and whining was incessant. And I would hide.”
“That’s how you cope? Hiding?”
I shrug. It sounds so stupid when he says it like that.
“I left right out of the office. I didn’t grab any of my stuff or anything.”
He perks up; “I’ll go with you, tomorrow. We’ll get your stuff, and if anyone says anything to you, I’ll kick their ass.”
I nod again. I had planned to just forget about anything I’d left there, not wanting to face the music. But with him, maybe I could.
“What’s the sparrow for?”
He blows out a weighted breath, “It’s for Mara.”
Oh God, the girlfriend—the source of his despair.
“Why a sparrow?”
“Remember, I told you about the girl who raised sparrows and then gave them away for free? That was Mara.”
“Oh,” I say, almost disappointed.
“The guy at the tattoo shop said it meant freedom. That’s why she always gave them away. They were meant to be free, I guess. I never really asked her. When I got this, that’s what I wanted, freedom from her memory. But as soon as Gray saw it, she said something about Mara being in heaven, and this was her shadow on me. It ruined the whole thing for me. Now I just want it gone.”
Of course, it was somehow related to Gray. It had to be. Everything in his life came back to Gray or Mara, one way or the other. It was like he didn’t even have an identity apart from them. If he didn’t have any sense of self without those two, what did that mean for me?
“Gray defines you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
I laugh and attempt to move off him. It’s like he and Gray are so completely interwoven—there’s no room for me.
“If you got a tattoo for freedom, then why does her opinion of it even come into play?”
His hands are molten on my waist, and I haven’t really tried to break away. I couldn’t. I was leeched into his story—into the fabric of his being. But I am just another thread in the weave. Just another color that shows in the final product. I neither stand out nor blend in. I realize that Neil, Leon and Roman’s threads weave in just like mine. We help keep the fabric together, but we are not necessary. The backbone of his life will always be Mara and Gray—and only Mara and Gray.
“I don’t know,” he finally admits.
My catty side was brought forth by the look on his face. Those two girls, separately and jointly had turned him into an unknown. He didn’t even know who he was.
“Let me see it,” I command, throwing the blanket off of us both.
Ezra hesitates and I just can’t take it anymore. I may not be able to save myself, but I’d be damned if I’m not gonna at least try to save him. I reach down and lifted the hem of his shirt and to my shock, he lets me. He leans forward, removing the navy t-shirt, and I try to bite back the gasp at the second time I’ve seen his unclothed torso. Long gone was his façade of strength and machismo—in its place was someone deeply gutted.
“Come with me,” I say, reaching out my hand.
He does, and I lead him into the bathroom and force him in front of the mirror. I stand behind him, winding my arms under his, splaying both of my hands on his chest. A shudder ripples through him and then reaches me in waves causing my body to ripple in turn.
“It’s a sparrow, flying, Ezra. That’s all. It’s not Mara or her memory. Hell, it’s not even freedom or whatever bullshit meaning someone came up with. It’s a bird. It’s a damned bird. If you think it means space aliens in the form of sparrows are coming to tear your heart out, then that’s it. It’s your ink—on your chest. You give it meaning, not anyone else.”
“You cussed;” He laughs, eyeing me in the mirror.
“Sounded legit, right?”
“No, it sounded abnormal—unnatural.”
I giggle, “Nice change of subject.”
“Yeah,” he looks back at the ink on his chest.
“If we are together—or going to be together, it has to be about us, can you do that? Can you even break away from them long enough to be with me?”
He turns around to face me and lift a chunk of my hair, running his fingers through it.
“I can. I mean, I want to—so badly.”
I take my opportunity and trace the blocks of his abdomen with the tips of my fingers. He sucks in a labored breath through his teeth. Gray’s unsure eyes bear down on me, carrying a myriad of unspoken emotions and guilt so deep it can’t be touched. One curl of his black hair dances along his forehead, rebellious and independent like I wished he was.
“Can you at least try?”
“I can. For you, Aysa, I would damned near try anything.”
“Why Ezra?”
He covers my hands and then brings them up, kissing each palm before laying them on his chest.
“I don’t know. I see a future when I look at you. I see hope for something more. I see a glimmer where there was only darkness. I will be your hiding place, you don’t have to hide by yourself—just keep being my light. As long as I can see the light, I know I can make it.”
I clear my throat, on the cusp of bringing up a potentially hazardous question, “How long has it been since you saw your parents? Her parents? Her grave?”
Ezra pales, “I saw my parents on Thanksgiving—but only for a few minutes. I haven’t seen her parents since the funeral. And I’ve never been to her grave.”
“Never?”
“No. What’s that gonna solve?” His voice took on a tinge of defensiveness.
“You never really said goodbye. No wonder you’re always in a state of limbo.”
Ezra
She has a point.
There are two people fighting in my head. There’s eighteen year old Ezra. He’s there, pacing, stomping a painful path into my temporal lobe, keeping the memories of Mara on constant replay. Each step carries enough pain and remorse to fill a stadium worth of people seven times over. Tick by tick, he’s killing my soul.
Then there’s a new Ezra, one I didn’t even know existed. He came out of the shadows the night I first talked to Aysa. He’s been firmly hidden away in a cave, just waiting for someone or something to loosen one tiny boulder and show him the light.
But standing here, looking down on her as she once again confronts the pacing Ezra—she’s digging under the skin, penetrating the muscle and the things I’d gotten so damned good at ignoring.
It almost burns, like the post-singe sensation of a knife pulled across skin.
“I don’t know if I can;” I squirm involuntarily.
“I’ll go with you,” she backs up her case.
“Now?”
Maybe there’s time to turn this around. Didn’t I come over here to make her feel better? Anything to get the spotlight off of me. I’d rather peel skin from an old man’s toes than to go to Mara’s grave.
“Yes now, move it mister.”
She can’t be serious. Snapping her fingers and pointing toward the living room, I get the feeling she might be for real. I don’t like her very much right now.
I do kinda like her ordering me around.
Throwing on my shirt, I check every couple of seconds to make sure she’s means business. I expect any moment she’ll punch my arm and say, ‘Just kidding!’ But it never comes. Instead, a half an hour later, we’re pulling around the circular road that leads to Mara’s resting place. I kill the engine and get out, not even notic
ing whether Aysa is getting out with me or not.
A truck door closes behind me, and I assume it’s Aysa. I don’t want her to see this. I don’t want anyone to see what I am sure is gonna be some big, crying, emotional fallout.
I approach the rectangular piece of marble. I’m ashamed that I have to read the names on each one in the general vicinity to find hers. I should know exactly which one it is. I really should.
Finally, I see it. MARA JANE ASHBURN beveled into the shiny marker. Her body was cremated and buried in this hole. I don’t understand why people bury ashes, but to each his own. A necklace with a cage and a sparrow hangs from a metal post in the ground, a Merry Christmas flag blows lazily in the slight breeze, attached to it. There are no flowers in the tiny white vases and grass clippings litter the area. Some landscaping man cut the grass but never bothered to blow off the gravesites.
Before I can comprehend the meaning of where I’m standing, I fall to my knees. I let it all barrel through me, running over any feeble attempt at preserving some pride. Doubt and guilt are the loudest when you’re alone. And even in the company of others, I feel alone all the time—me and the ghost of Mara. Contradictory to what I predicted, I don’t cry. I let all the memories wash over me one last time. My fist rubs my chest as I revel and roll in the guilt. I wonder if her parents hate me.
‘Aysa has thrown me this rope,’ I realize still kneeling. Sure, people over the years have made suggestions and told me where to go.
But this is the first time someone has actually made a move to get me out of the pit.
After what seems like hours, staring at her name on the ground, I get up and intend to find out what her parents think of me. I’m afraid to allow the adrenaline of this process die down by waiting any longer.
I turn to find Aysa, but she’s not by the truck any longer. Looking around, I see her at a distance, sitting on a stone bench inside a small gated area of graves. Pink and pale blue ribbons mark the entrance to the gate, and as I approach the first gravesite, I see why.
It’s an infant graveyard.
Was she purposefully turning the screwdriver already lodged in me?