I’m so distracted that I only now identify the low hum as voices. Only a few steps and a corner separate me from the packed hive of people out there. After this morning's events, I'm more anxious than normal, more exposed. I feel insane, locked in this reel of reactions that I can’t seem to cut or unspool. I’d gotten a taste of how it could be while with Emma, and now that it's ripped away I’m close to a breaking point that’s been coming for years.
Anyone else could walk out there and be oblivious to the possibilities and potential danger. I would give anything to be ignorant. My fists clench at my sides, ready to let out my frustration on the nearest wall, but it wouldn’t do me any good to fuck up both hands. Instead, my back hits the wall, and I slide down until my ass connects with the floor. My hands, grabbing my bag in front of my bent legs. Closing my eyes, my head thuds against the wall, and I try to regulate my breathing.
“Wh...”
My eyes jerk open at the same time I press myself harder into the wall.
“Darn it all. I did it again.” That older woman stands over me, and her lips twist as she stares. “I’m sorry, hun, I don’t ...” She gasps, the extra skin on her neck trying to follow the sway of her head as she shakes it. “What happened to your hand?” She reaches, but I hold onto my luggage harder.
“Nothing.” My voice hardly sounds like my own. It’s rough like sandpaper against my eardrums.
She stands tall again, her hands going to her hips, and my chest aches, remembering how Emma had done the same thing. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. That, young man, is not nothing.”
She gives me her back as she starts to walk away. Before she disappears around the corner, she calls over her shoulder, “Get up and follow.” I debate brushing her off. I’ve had many years of practice doing that to others.
A giggle interrupts my inner debate, and I look up to see the little girl again. How I would love to be carefree like that? Her mom has her pressed up against her side. Fear appears in her eyes as she looks between me and the hall that will lead her to the crowd. I’ve never struck a woman in my life, but the way she’s watching me, it’s something she believes me capable of. The bruising on her slender arm and the fading grey under one eye is evidence enough why.
She understands what’s going on in my head because she too knows the world is cruel.
She flinches and curls away, shielding her daughter as I stand. Waving a non-threatening hand, but when her eyes grow even wider, I realize it’s my scrapped one and know what she must think.
“Look, I’m sorry if I scared you back there. I’ve had a rough morning.” I grab the back of my neck and rub at the muscles tightening there. “I can tell you’ve had it rough too.” My hand glides over the top of my head and drops at my side. “I’ll get out of your way.” I shouldn’t, but it needs to be said. “If not for you, but for your daughter, I hope you’ve left him.” In the second I say ‘him,’ her eyes see me. There’s a lifetime of pain in those whiskey eyes. We may not share the same pain, but pain is universal. She gives me a small nod, and I give her a small smile.
As I promised, I walk down the hall and out of their way. My body grows stiff with awareness as I get closer to the lobby. My goal, however, is already standing at the end where the wall falls away into the lobby—her wrinkled hand holding a small floral bag.
“Glad I didn’t need to grab you off the floor. I’m too old to do that now. When I say follow me this time, I mean it.” She stares up at me like she’s the one that’s taller and waits for my nod before walking off again.
We step inside the conference room they set up for Subway the first day. After she takes a seat, she gestures for me to take my own. She grabs my injured hand before I’ve even sat all the way in the chair. “Figured you’d be more comfortable in here. You’re as guarded as my husband when he first came home from the war.”
“Where is your husband?”
“I could ask the same about your wife. You didn’t do this by hitting her, did you?” Her grip tightens, and my mouth twists in pain. She peers up at me with no remorse, and it’s now I find she has eyes of faded blue jeans that have more steel in them than most men.
“I’d never hit a woman. As for where my wife is, I don’t know.” I say honestly.
The wrinkles around those blues increase with her smile as she loosens her grip but then pokes a few more times around my knuckles. It's possible her husband showed her some techniques for torture.
She nods as she shifts through her little bag of who knows what. “My husband is at home. We started to take one vacation a year without one another. It all started when we couldn’t decide between France and Ireland.” She puts some Neosporin on the table, then a whole roll of white bandage gauze. This lady comes prepared. This lady …. I frown.
“What’s your name?”
She looks up, and her brows scrunch together. “Lord, you’re right, how rude, we’ve never introduced ourselves. I’m Mavis, but everyone calls me Mav. I already know your name, though. I knew it the first day; that’s why I never thought to do this properly.” Shaking her head, she looks back down. She dabs the dollop on her finger onto the cuts.
“You know what else is rude?” She asks.
I shake my head.
“Interrupting someone when they are speaking. Now, as I was saying.” I shut down the snort that tries to burst out at this sassy old lady. What spunk, but didn’t I already know that? Her and Emma could be related. That thought sobers me, and I pay closer attention to what Mav is saying to distract me from my lungs burning with every breath.
“After that, we found what worked for us. The best part of having separate trips is when we come home. It’s a good reminder. We find appreciation for the small things we lived without for a week that got brushed underneath the rug of everyday life. You hear what I’m saying?” She peers up over her glasses but continues to wrap my hand with the gauze.
I nod, but in truth, I have no idea what she’s trying to say. Her eyes squint, and they are quick as they assess me. Sighing, she leans back in her seat and starts to put the supplies away.
“I’ve already said I’m not blind. You’re apart right now, but that doesn’t mean you’re over. Whatever you did, after you fix it, you’ll both have a better understanding of how you’ll go forward.”
“And if I wasn’t the one that caused this?”
She zips her bag closed and sets it in her lap, clutching it with both hands. Again she squints her eyes. “When someone leaves, it’s never one person’s fault. Take that advice from someone that knows what she’s talking about. Though I wouldn't worry, a woman wouldn't leave a man that views her as his whole world. And son, the way you look at her, I know that's the way you feel, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. So, whatever you need to do to get her back, I suggest you do it now and do it quick. Life is too short for the amount of bullshit it throws at us to go through it alone.” She smiles. “Excuse my language; quoting my husband rarely excludes foul language. It’s the marine in him.”
“Cussing has become an integrated part of language. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Thanks for bandaging me up.”
“Someone needed to do it.” She smiles, releases one hand from her bag, and extends it to me. “Be a dear, and help an old lady back to the airport.”
As I take her hand, there’s not a doubt in my mind she understands my need to protect is stronger than my paranoia. It’s only when we are in front of her terminal that we part ways. She hands me a piece of scrap paper she grabs from her luggage. “I’m a sucker for romance stories. Call me with yours when you find your Emma.” She pats me on my face before walking through the gateway.
When she disappears around the curve, I head towards my own gate. I’d collected my ticket information in the cab on the way in. The knowledge of being a few hours of standing back in my hometown has unclassifiable and unchecked emotions entering my bloodstream. If I were to guess, it’s a combination of coming up and down from a high all at o
nce. The inevitable crash of it without diazepam and no amount of recovery time will be long enough to repair the internal damage.
Taking my seat at the back of the plane settles my body but does nothing for my mind. We’re packed in here like sardines. On the original flight, there weren’t as many people wanting to get to Georgia.
“Can’t believe how peaceful it is out there compared to how it’s been the last few days,” the girl says in the seat next to me on her phone. “I expected more trees down or something.” She must be blind. Everywhere I looked on the way here, it was clear that crews were working on getting debris off the roads. She nods. “Yeah, it shouldn’t take long for us to take off.” Looking past her and out of the window, there are still crews in the distance hauling what is left of trees, and pieces of metal.
Standing, I grab my bag from the overhead and pull out my earbuds along with my phone. I know her type. As soon as she gets off that call, she’ll look over and try to start a conversation with me. With what’s turning inside my head, I can’t count on not snapping at her.
Connecting them together, I slip in the earbuds and lean my head back on the seat, closing my eyes. My phone is off, the buds only muffling the sounds around me, so I know when she gets off her phone. Surprisingly, she’s quiet, and I sag further into my chair as we take off.
Right before the plane levels out, there is a brief lightness in my body after the pressure of the ascension. Emma appears behind my eyelids, and they snap open. How can my body still associate the small excitement of weightlessness after what she’s done?
Brushing my sweaty palms against my jeans, I take one last breath in. On its exhale, I knock on my sister's front door.
She chose a nice neighborhood, one far away from where we grew up. There are kids playing off to my right, someone planting flowers at my back, and to my left, an older woman sits on her porch drinking her sweet tea. Her eyes trained on me like a hawk and its next meal.
The grip on my bag grows tighter as I hear footsteps on the other side. My heart pounds in my ears, and I look around for one last escape. The cabbie that dropped me off is long gone, and now I know it was a mistake to let him leave.
My sneakers peel from the pavement, heavy as cement blocks, as I take a step back, but then the door swings open, and I freeze in place.
Older reflections of my spring eyes look back, my bag thuds, and something shatters at its impact to the ground, but I can't tear my eyes from the tears making tracks in the woman's face before me. She's older, and lines crease around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there last time. Her blonde hair is grey at the temples. It's pinned up, but that little bit dangling on her forehead is still the same.
My hand, without permission, moves forward and tugs the end of it before pushing it back as my father did for her.
She grabs my hand, and she presses a kiss to my palm, her mouth opens, but only a strangled noise comes out. Her body shakes as her eyes close, and more tears fall from the edges. Her lined hand presses mine to her face, and her body leans in as if trying to curl herself around it, to cradle it.
My voice cracks, her eyes search as I clear my throat. "Mom?"
If it were possible more tears come as she nods, she holds her free arm out, and as if no time has passed, I walk into her embrace.
"My boy, oh, my sweet boy," she whispers as she grips me tighter.
My vision goes blurry. Memories flood and I’m ten again. Small, vulnerable, and know my mother’s arms, the only place I am safe. All those years, not one of them with my gun by my side could compare to this feeling of peace.
"Where have you been?" Her voice cracks as she grips me harder.
Taking a deep breath to tell a version of the truth, I catch the scent of my mother buried deep under the sterile scent of the hospital in her cardigan. Vanilla so warm you could swear she’d been baking. That, however, is farthest from the truth. My mother stopped baking after she burned too many layers of cakes and created too many hockey puck cookies. Yet, she still smells like walking into a bakery.
The truth spills from my lips. “I needed to get as far away as I could and take even fewer reminders with me.”
“Did you succeed?” Even with the proximity, I hardly hear her, the hint of our shared ghost in her tone. Shaking my head, her weight sinks further into me, and I grip her tighter. “Me either, sometimes it’s hard to realize it wasn’t a horrible nightmare, that when my eyes open, I’ll have my life back.”
“I know...I’m…I’m sorry.” The pain splits my chest, and the force of it jolts me from my dazed state since seeing her. Cursing under my breath, I straighten and look around.
Her fingers tangle in my shirt, and I can feel her eyes on my face. “Liam?”
I’ve been an idiot, caught up in the reunion. Not letting go of my mom, I leave my bag and lift her up only enough for her feet to dangle.
"What-" Before she's able to finish her sentence, we are inside the house, the bolt secure behind us. My shoulders ease, and I release her. I take in the twist of her mouth and feel the guilt twisting my stomach.
“I almost let it happen again.” Squeezing my eyes shut, my body already trying to curl inward, but then her hand is there, feeling the curve of my face.
When I open my eyes, her expression isn’t the one I knew from my childhood when I’d been caught doing something bad; instead, there is confusion. Her mouth twists again. As she starts to speak, a gasp has her dropping her hand and turning to look over her shoulder.
My sister stands there at the top of the staircase, her fingers clenched into a fist, her face red and twisted with anger. “You.” The word spit like venom. Her fingers coming up from her side in blame as she starts down the stairs. Her eyes flash when I take a step back; her eagle-sharp eyes catch the movement. My mom stands to my side, glancing between the two of us, looking more confused than before.
“Get out!” she shouts as she charges down the rest of the stairs as quickly as a bull. Then she’s there, closer than she’s been in years, her finger hovering accusingly. I’m looking down at her, but she’s not looking at me, instead she’s taking in the distance between her finger and my chest. A few inches, that’s all that separates us. Her breath comes out in pants, her shoulders so rigid, but her frame shakes, with what, I don’t know. I lost the privilege of knowing since I left. I no longer recognize the signs between the thin line of anger and joy.
“Mia ...” My mother's voice attempts to be soothing.
“No.” My sister snaps back and shakes her head, making her blonde hair whip around her. “No, I don’t want him here.” Her finger is no longer between us; it’s wrapped under her arm as they cross over her chest.
“I know I’ve been an ass, but don’t talk to mom like that.”
Her head jerks up, and her eyes burn into me. “Oh, after six years of running scared and avoiding all your responsibilities, you’re suddenly the caring son? I don’t think so.” Her jaw ticks. “You left.” She unlocks her arms and flings them out. “We don’t even know where you’ve been living. Wherever it is, it’s got to be a shithole not fit for roaches from how much it must have cost you to cover yourself in tattoos.” She gestures with a slash of a hand like a knife. “The one time you come home, it’s after I tell you not to. If I had known reverse psychology would work on your simple mind, I would have done it years ago.”
“So you do want me here?”
Her mouth twists but otherwise continues without acknowledging she heard me. “I wasn’t joking, like I’m not now. Get the hell out of my house, and go back to wherever it is you’ve been hiding.” With that, she spins on her heels and walks out of the room, disappearing around a corner. A second later, I hear a cabinet slam and the tinny metallic sound of a pan.
Mom and I look at one another, and her mouth tips to one side. “Give her a few days; she’ll consider her words and know how to apologize for them.”
“She’s not the only one that needs to apologize.”
“The
re will be time for that. I’d invite you to stay, but this isn’t my house.”
“Why are you here? Did they kick you out of the hospital after all?”
Her expression's puzzled before she smooths it again. “No, your sister signed me out. I went because I felt too...” She swallows, her fingers twitch at her side, and for a moment, her eyes get glossed over as if she were far away.
“Yeah, I know. Did they really put you in a padded room?”
Her clear eyes focus back. “Your sister has a flair for the dramatic.” She rolls her eyes and holds out a hand. My hand is so much bigger than hers. She turns our hands over and pats the top of mine, and I’m glad it isn’t the one in the bandage. “Call me when you’ve found somewhere to hunker for the night, and I’ll soften your sister up for your next attempt.”
“I’m not sure I can leave you here.” My hand tenses in her grip at the thought, and my heart pounds in my ears. Now that I’m here, I don’t want to leave again.
Her smile is sad, but her eyes are smiling. “Only a few more days.” She starts walking me to the door. When she wraps me in another hug, I’m sure I can’t let go, but Mia changes my mind when I see her standing back in the hall, clutching a knife as if I am an unclaimed victim of a horror movie.
“Make sure to lock up and set the alarm. Don’t open the door until I come back tomorrow.”
Mia spins the knife in her hand, and the business end points at me as she barks her reply. “Don’t even bother coming back, Liam, I mean it.”
I catch my mom rolling her eyes as she shuts the door, and my shoulders relax a fraction when I hear the sound of the locks clicking into place.
Turning, I take in my surroundings again and pick up the bag I’d left on the front step. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I pull up Google, and find the nearest hotel, and groan aloud. Ten miles away, add the time it takes for a taxi driver to get here; let’s call this a recipe for disaster. I won’t be able to get here in time if they need me. Checking for traffic, I cross the street and take a seat on the curb facing the house.
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