Bittersweet

by K. S. Thomas

  I lie back and pat the mattress beside me for Carter to the same. Turning my head toward him, I smile. “This is a miracle, Carter. A beautiful, perfect miracle. A sign. All of the hurt and fear of the last few weeks is behind us. We have no reason to look back. Not when we have this amazing gift to look forward to.” I rest both hands over my belly button. “This body is ready. Honestly, Carter. I didn’t know how ready it was until I saw the results of that test. But it’s ready. So ready.”

  Chapter Six

  Carter ~ Seven Years Ago

  Twenty-four hours. That’s how long it took. I haven’t been away from her since our little collision in front of our Astronomy class and now, I don’t think I can ever be apart from her again. Like right this second, I’m barely three feet from her bed, where she’s lying tangled up in her sheets and watching me while I struggle to put one foot into my pant leg before the other, and somehow I can’t remember how to do it. My brain is literally drawing a blank. Then I turn around. I look at her. And it all comes back me. I drop my pants and they land back on the floor and I do a ridiculous dive for her mattress. Because taking the three steps required to get to her would take too long and flying through the air like superman is faster.

  She’s giggling hysterically. “What are you doing? I thought you had a class to get to.”

  “I did. That was before you. Everything was before you.” I squint at her, thinking about how spellbound I’ve felt since she smiled at me. “Did you hex me or something? You can tell me if you did. I can think of worse curses than being magically programmed to follow you around for the rest of my life.”

  Her face turns suddenly serious, and for a second I wonder if she’s about to tell me that it’s true. I’m a little scared when I realize I kinda want her to. Because then at least all of these feelings I’m having make some kind of sense. But then I notice a sadness in her eyes I didn’t see before and I realize my joke, innocent or not, isn’t all that funny to her.

  “You do understand that I’m not really a witch, right?” She’s shutting down on me. I can see it. She isn’t getting up or walking away yet, but something shifted because the parts of me that were touching her a moment ago, are bare now, chilled by the cold air sinking between us.

  “I was just...shit, Es, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. You...well, you never act like it bothers you. I assumed you were okay with it. I won’t do it again.” I shake my head, looking away. Then I remember I didn’t actually answer her question and I raise my gaze again to meet hers. “And yes, I know you’re not really a witch.” I trace her soft cheek with my thumb and the sensation of her skin on mine still blows me away. All I want to do is touch more parts of her with more parts of me to feel more of what I’m feeling. Her green eyes are glowing and I know I’m not the only one experiencing this. Slowly I lean in to kiss her. “I still think you might be magic though.”

  Chapter Seven

  Esi

  Three days later and I’m back at work, the Thomas Richards Crisis Center. Originally a privately funded counseling center opened by the Richards family, the T.R.C.C. has since been taken over by the state, expanding the original facility which was initially intended to counsel crime victims, as well as family members, to also offering drug and alcohol abuse counseling along with suicide prevention.

  I love my work. It’s hard and heartbreaking at times, but in the end, it’s always worth it.

  “You’re back.” Dara peers over at me, her glasses slipping down the tip of her nose as she shuffles through an armful of files, trying to get organized.

  As was the case with most of the people who worked here, Dara didn’t land in this line of work by accident. She was a professor at a very prominent university teaching law when her husband was killed during an armed robbery. Aside from leaving her widowed at a young age with two small children to raise on her own, the event naturally turned her entire life upside down. Between picking up the broken pieces of her family and attempting to seek some sort of justice, somewhere along the way she realized just how unaddressed her own healing had been. Before she knew it, she was back at the university taking classes herself and changing careers.

  She’s been running the Crisis Center for nearly ten years now, out of those I’ve been working for her for over three, starting right after getting my master’s degree. I can’t imagine ever working anywhere else.

  Her files finally in order, Dara uses her free hand to put her glasses back into place and recaptures some of the breakaway strands of her wavy blonde hair, tucking them neatly behind her ear. “Well, I’ll spare you the speech about coming back to work too soon, since I’m guessing you’ve already heard it, and I’ll just go with, I’m glad you’re ready to get back to business.” She gestures toward the waiting area. “Cynthia’s here. Been coming in every day for the last week. She won’t see anyone but you, so she just sits in the waiting room from open to close, even though we’ve all told her you were out due to your accident and we didn’t know when you’d be back.” She shrugs. “She just smiles and says ‘That’s fine. I’ll wait.’ Guess it paid off for her today.”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling I’d find her here.” I readjust the strap of my messenger bag on my shoulder. Considering the weight restrictions I’m dealing with, it’s practically empty. “I’ll just go set down my stuff and I’ll be right out to grab her.”

  Cyndie’s only nineteen and she’s been coming to see me once a week for almost as long as I’ve worked here. Her mother, Margaret, was the victim of domestic violence, up until three years ago, suffering in silence for nearly a decade. I started seeing Cyndie, as well as her mother, shortly after the truth finally came out.

  “Hi, Margaret.” Even now as I look at her standing there in the center of my office, her dark, deeply set in eyes are the most prominent thing about her. She isn’t ready to move on. Isn’t ready to let go of the past. And I know it’s part of the reason Cyndie can’t either. “Cynthia’s here. Is there anything you’d like to share with her today?” As always, her response is the same and she remains completely silent, sitting down on my sofa and staring off into the opposite direction. I’ve wondered a thousand times over why she bothers showing up at all anymore, but in the end I suppose being present, if only for some sense of support for her daughter, is still better than nothing, until both women find a way to heal and move on.

  I stand there for a moment, watching her. I close my eyes and imagine what she might have looked like once upon a time, before all of the anger and hurt. A beautiful, vibrant version of herself. Strong and unmarked by pain or violence. It doesn’t matter how often I picture her this way if I can’t get her to see it herself. But for reasons I can’t understand or argue, she is determined to hold onto this past physical pain even in the present, living her own version of purgatory until she’s ready to forgive and let go.

  I sigh and leave my office to go and find Cynthia and have her join us.

  “Hi, Cyndie.” I squeeze her shoulder lightly to get her attention.

  “Esi, you’re here. They said they weren’t sure when you’d be back. I heard you were in an accident,” she rambles on as she stands and follows me down the hall.

  “I was, but I’m doing much better.” I smile. Because better now includes baby.

  “Oh, good. And you got married, too. With the accident I completely forgot. Congratulations.” In spite of her constant state of underlying sadness, I know she’s genuinely pleased for me.

  ”Thank you.” I gesture toward the olive green sofa along the wall. “Go ahead and have a seat, Cyndie. Tell me, what have I missed since I’ve been gone?”

  Without even acknowledging her mother, she has a seat and pops her knuckles several times, her usual routine, then twines her fingers, twisting them back and forth as she speaks. “I got a call from my father’s lawyer. He wants to appeal the ruling and they want me to testify. Apparently, he feels that beating the crap out of my mother was some sort of act of self-defense. According to the at
torney, they’ve discovered new evidence suggesting my mother was mentally unstable and therefor prone to violent outbursts.”

  I watch Margaret out of the corner of my eye. She’s displaying the same nervous behavior with her hands as her daughter, still saying nothing. “And what did you tell him?”

  Cyndie glares at me, but I know I’m not the intended target. “I told him to go to hell.”

  I nod. I expected as much. Where her two brothers had sided with their father, Cynthia was fiercely loyal to her mother. I suspect it’s played a considerable role in the fact that Margaret hasn’t once requested I seek out either of her sons for therapy.

  “How have you been handling the whole situation? Are you journaling?”

  She averts her eyes. “I tried.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “I’ve been going back to the house. I haven’t tried to go in or smash any more windows or anything. I just go there and sit in the car. I park across the street so no one sees me. Then I just stare at it for hours. That’s why I’ve been coming here every day for the last week. To keep from going there. I’m afraid of what I might do if I see one of them.”

  Them. Her father’s family. Her brothers.

  “Cyndie, we’ve talked about this. Your anger, while completely justified, is hurting only you. No matter what you do. Even if you do the unthinkable and attempt some sort of vengeance or act of revenge, who will be the one to suffer for it?”

  She lifts her head, tears in her eyes. “Me. I suffer. But what difference does it make? I suffer either way.”

  I take a deep breath. I get it. I so get how she’s feeling right now. I’ve been there. Felt what she’s feeling. And after everything I’ve studied and learned to take on this job, the simplest, most true things I can say are never from any text book.

  “Listen to me, Cyndie. Revenge. Anger. That’s not the kind of life you deserve. You may be doomed to bear this burden, this intimate knowledge of pain and violence, but you choose how you carry it.” I lean forward and place my hand over hers to hold them still. “Choose wisely. Because you’re about to pick up a heavy load you won’t ever be able to put back down. And aren’t you tired enough?”

  Tears are rolling down her cheeks and her lips press together in a straight line. “But it’s just so wrong. The whole thing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to accept it. How I’m supposed to move on. There’s no justice. How will it ever be right when there’s no real justice?”

  The pain in her eyes is overwhelming and I try not to succumb to my own hurt. “There’s no such thing as justice. Believe me. The man who shot my father. He got justice. Hard justice. This system doesn’t go easy on men who gun down police officers. He got justice. But I didn’t. My mom and sister didn’t. My dad didn’t. And neither did the shooter’s family. Two sons he had. And a wife. No justice for any of them. Because some things we can never make right. We can just make them count.”

  She sniffs. So do I, because in spite of my best efforts, and the nineteen years I’ve had to deal with it, this shit still gets to me.

  “So, my dad was killed as the result of a violent crime. And I make it count. I make my own justice, by coming here, every day so I can tell someone else what I learned back then. Life is not a perfect picture. Life is not still. It is in motion every second of every day. Even as we sit still we move, breathing in and out.

  “Your life, my life...our journeys. They’re no different than taking a trip across the country. Would you stick to the highways, stop only for gas, food and sleep? Or would you take detours? Would you stay on the safest - and incidentally boring - path, or would you throw out the map and seek out adventure? Lucky for you, and me, we don’t get to decide. If there is a map, we don’t get to see it. The boring path is reserved for the weak and unwilling to learn. We, my friend, are neither. We are strong and we are warriors. We pick up the pieces and we put them back together. When you get really good at it, you put them back together wrong, just to see if you can make something new and even cooler. That, my dear Cynthia, is what you have control over. Yourself and how you handle what life throws at you. Nothing else.”

  Since I am already taking this fieldtrip into my personal life, I decide to take it one step further and dabble in my mother’s teachings. I glance at the door to make sure I shut it all the way, then retrieve something from a small velvet pouch I keep in the drawer of my desk.

  Nothing I’ve done in the last three years has gotten Cyndie or her mother any closer to the closure they both so obviously need. Maybe my own brush with death and the surprise of impending new life has me more motivated to waste less time. Life is short. Love is sparse. Pain is in excess. I need help in leveling the playing field and I only know one place to get it.

  I turn back toward Cyndie and hold out my hand to reveal a small black stone. “This is called an apache tear. It eases and releases pain. Relieves feelings of loss, sadness and even anger. Take it, it will help you heal and go on with life.”

  Cyndie’s eyes narrow and I know she’s skeptical. I don’t blame her. Most people are when I mention this stuff. Which is why I usually don’t. Magic is a lot like God. You can’t force someone to see it. They have to come looking for it themselves. But, in spite of what past experience has taught me, I keep on with my new plan of attack.

  “Go ahead. Just hold it in your hand. I promise, you’ll feel it instantly.” I know just how exceptionally capable this little stone is and I’m selfishly eager to see her reaction when she finally gives in and holds it.

  Slowly, she unties her own fingers from one another and moves her hand out, palm up. I place the stone inside it, closing her fingers around it.

  She gasps and the tears she’s been fighting since she sat down, roll down her cheeks beyond her control.

  “Wow,” she whispers, staring at her own fist, which is still hanging in midair.

  “I know. It’s powerful, isn’t it?”

  She nods. “How long do I hold it?”

  “As long as you want and as often as you need to. It’s yours to keep. I recommend carrying it with you. In your pocket or a small pouch in your purse. You can even make it into a necklace. Wherever you’re most comfortable with, just make sure you can access it when you need to.”

  Still keeping the stone tightly enveloped in her hand, she lowers it into her lap, using her free hand to wipe her face. “What do you call this?”

  “A little bit of magic.” I wink. “We can also call it crystal healing, but I think that sounds like less fun.”

  “I can use a little bit of magic.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I know you can.”

  It’s the first time in three years, Cynthia is actually smiling when she walks out of my office, although the same still can’t be said for Margaret.

  ***

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor.” Wayne’s poking his head out at me from his office while I stand in the hall wrestling with the vending machine. With everything else in the world activating my gag reflexes to the highest degree, of course it would have to be the nasty salami sticks you only get out of a change sucking glass box such as this one, that my stomach would find inviting. I’ve had three packets already since I’ve gotten to work this morning and they’ve all stayed down. This baby is a freaking carnivore and I blame Carter. Before today I haven’t been close enough to meat to even smell it in eleven years. Whenever Carter’s had a beef craving in the past, he’s been on his own. Well, or with Lev. The two have a standing burger date once a month at some place called The Beef & Buns. And no, they aren’t referring to the bread kind. Blows my mind my sister would even eat at a place like that, but she says the burgers are worth the ass cheeks. Before now, I was always willing to take her word for it, but with this baby and its cravings, I may have to find out for myself.

  “Hey, Wayne. How have you been?” Then I remember. Busy, probably. “I heard you got stuck with most of my work load while I was gone. I’m really sorry.”

  He ste
ps all the way out into the hall and comes down toward the end where I’m still struggling with the vending machine. The stupid metal curl thingie has only turned halfway and is holding my meat fix hostage.

  “Don’t be crazy, Esi. I was glad to fill in for you. Although, I can’t say your patients felt the same way.” He smiles wryly, then leans into the vending machine with his entire body weight, lifting its corner and tipping the whole thing so far it finally sees fit to release my salami.

  I barely wait for him to set the thing back down before my hand flies into the little compartment and snatches out the greasy, gross deliciousness.

  “Well, now I owe you a double thanks. You have no idea how badly I wanted this. I was actually about to start crying before you walked out here and saved me.” I peel back the wrapper and take a hearty bite.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat meat before.” He’s scratching the side of his head the same way I did when I first found myself standing in front of the vending machine earlier and realized it was the salami I was after.

  “That’s because I’m a vegetarian.” Who just happens to have a mouth full of processed pork.

  “You do realize those aren’t tofu, right? I mean, there’s no accounting for how much actual meat is in those sticks, but there’s definitely some sort of animal product happening in the encasing.”

  Even though Carter and I have sort of agreed to keep the baby news on the down low until I actually go to see a medical professional for confirmation, the salami bar in my hands is all the proof I need. Plus, I’m basically bursting at the seams with a desperate need to tell somebody. Telling Wayne will easily work in relieving this need, while still kind of sticking with the not sharing the news agreement. Okay, that last part is total bullshit, but Wayne and Carter will never cross paths. No one will ever need to know.