by Ellen Smith
Under the table, Will nudged Mara back with his foot. Hey, it’s going to be okay, he wanted to tell her. If we told them about the time wreck, they’d understand. They’d be on your side.
Even Will knew that was a lie.
* * * * *
Sitting next to Mara on the Metro ride home was like approaching an active volcano. Will had seen a documentary of that once—Mara had made him watch it, actually—and he had held his breath the entire time the scientists circled closer and closer to the mountain, measuring the activity underground with instruments and predicting how fast and how far it would erupt.
That was Mara right now. She looked normal enough. Certainly the other passengers on the train weren’t edging away from her. She’d been body-slammed three times since they got on the train.
But underneath the surface, something was simmering. Something big.
Mara erupted the second the door to their apartment closed behind them. “I swear, after that I’m actually looking forward to Thursday,” she said.
Will tried to follow. “Because of the neurologist appointment?”
“Because of the time wreck appointment. The meeting with the time counselor or rehabilitation specialist or whatever. Let’s hear what she has to say.”
For a long, terrible moment, Will wasn’t sure if she was serious or joking. “I didn’t think you were sold on the idea.”
“I don’t love it, but I don’t love the way things are, either. Seriously, why are they like that? To hear people talk, you’d think getting shot was the best thing that could have ever happened to us.”
“People like your parents,” Will said, connecting the dots.
“It’s not just them. Whenever someone hears about what happened, they have to give their fifty cents worth of philosophy. You know? ‘At least he didn’t kill anyone. Most school shootings end so much worse.’ Or ‘At least you can still use your arm. What if they’d had to amputate it? Think about that.’ Or—oh. What about when people say, ‘You’re so strong. Such an inspiration.’ I hate that one.”
“You don’t want to be an inspiration?”
“Not for this. What are we inspiring people to do? Keep existing if they ever get shot? Act like nothing hurts? Take the most crap with the biggest smile?”
“I’m sure that’s not what they mean,” Will said.
“At least the time wreck people are being honest that this sucks. Because it does suck. And they’re actually willing to do something to make it not suck instead of just trying to convince me that this was all a big character-building exercise.”
“I know,” Will said. Mara was willing to go to the meeting on Thursday. He’d wanted her to be open to the idea, hadn’t he?
But he hadn’t wanted her to feel like this. He never wanted her to feel like this.
“Hey,” Will said, catching her up in a hug. He tried to be extra careful of her right side, but he still felt her wince a little. “So, we’ll go to the meeting and we’ll see what they say. But we’re going to be okay with the time wreck or without it.”
Mara pulled back enough to look up into his face. “I thought you wanted the time wreck. I thought you were excited about it.”
“I thought it was a lot better than getting a letter saying Jason had filed another appeal. There’s only so many times I can stand to hear him say it wasn’t his fault and he shouldn’t be blamed and blah blah blah.”
“No. Uh-uh. You were all gung ho about it, like a time wreck was going to solve all our problems.”
“I wasn’t trying to be. You were acting like he was going to shoot us all over again. I just wanted to see what he had to say.”
Mara sighed so deeply Will thought he could see her shoulder hitch. “It sure sounded like you were ready to throw in the towel.”
“I don’t think a time wreck is throwing in the towel,” Will said. They were edging closer to an argument he didn’t want to have, but he wasn’t sure how to pull back, either. “Jason’s admitting he did the wrong thing. He’s offering to fix it. What more can we ask for?”
“I don’t know.” Some of the fire had gone out of Mara’s voice. “It just feels like another hoop to jump through. I’m so tired of going back and forth with the legal system over a guy who never seems like he’s even sorry. That’s all. I wish I could just say I’m tired without people jumping all over me for not being more positive.”
“You can always tell me you’re tired,” Will said. “You can always talk to me.”
He was relieved when Mara leaned on him again. He held her even more gently, barely touching her when he felt for the tender muscles that knotted themselves up around her shoulder blade. They felt like a kind of self-made armor, tightening up around the scars and the flaring nerve underneath. If only those knotted muscles really did protect her instead of hurting her more.
At least there was something that could protect her now. Something that could even keep her from getting hurt in the first place. Will tried to feel hopeful but realized he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach instead.
Chapter Five
MARA
Mara’s phone vibrated with a new text message just as Elliott walked by her desk. He came to a full stop and shot her an accusing look.
Mara didn’t even glance at her phone. She held Elliott’s gaze and smiled with what she hoped was icy politeness.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I just thought I heard something,” Elliott said. His eyes lingered on her desk for a beat before he asked, “Still typing those reports?”
“Yes,” Mara said. “They’ll be done well before the deadline to submit.”
Elliott harrumphed and walked away. His lab coat flapped behind him like a superhero’s cape. He probably did think he was some kind of superhero. Wonder Elliott, saving the office from frivolous distractions while Dr. Olivier was away at a conference. The knee-length lab coat did little to disguise the fact that he was just a regular lab tech, whose beige hair and beige skin matched his beige voice and beige personality.
When Elliott was a safe distance away, Mara sneaked a peek at her cell phone. The text was from Will.
Hope your Monday is off to a good start. Love you.
Mara smiled and slid the phone into the drawer of her desk. With her left hand deep in the desk drawer, Mara texted back quickly.
Love you too!
The phone buzzed a little when the text sent, clattering against the metal drawer. From the desk beside hers, Colleen grinned. She looked meaningfully at Elliott’s retreating back and shook her head at Mara. Keeping her voice low, she asked, “What are you doing for lunch? Want to walk to the food trucks and grab something?”
Mara smiled back. Colleen was probably old enough to be her mother—she’d mentioned approaching her fifties once before, and her short, dyed-orange curls revealed some gray at the roots. Despite the age gap, in the six weeks they’d worked side by side, Colleen had proved herself to be something like a friend.
“Wish I could,” Mara whispered back. “I’ve got to work over my lunch break to get this data in, though.”
At once, Colleen’s expression switched from friendly to motherly. “Elliott is harder on you than anyone else. You should really say something to HR. You can, you know. It’s harassment.”
“It’s fine,” Mara said, looking straight ahead at her computer screen.
Colleen didn’t seem interested in getting back to work. She leaned back in her desk chair and examined her long, fake nails. “It’s not fine. You should say something.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mara said.
Colleen made a noise in her throat and smoothed the edge of one pink nail with a file. She would say something, if it were her. The expression on her face said as much.
Well, I’m not making waves after two years of unemployment. Mara looked back at her computer monitor, scrolled until she found her place in the spreadsheet, and continued typing.
>
“Honestly, HR guaranteed you extra time to type because of, you know,” Colleen said. “He’s got no right to hound you. You should let them know.” She examined her nails again. This time, she seemed satisfied.
“Yeah,” said Mara. “If it goes on longer, I guess I will. Don’t want to be a nuisance right after I was hired.”
“I’m telling you, nip it in the bud,” Colleen said. “But I can pick something up for you when I get lunch. Just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Mara said. “I really should get to work now. I’ve got twenty minutes until my next appointment.”
“Right, right,” said Colleen. “Of course.”
Mara sighed as quietly as possible. In a perfect world, she would take it up with HR. Unfortunately, she didn’t live in a perfect world.
But if the time wreck was approved, maybe I could live in a better one.
Mara tried to push that thought out of her head. She didn’t want a time wreck. She was going to the appointment on Thursday with an open mind, but that was it. Jason was the one who had applied for the time wreck. Jason was the one who needed to go back and fix his life. She wasn’t asking anyone to fix her life.
But if Jason’s offering to take back what he did . . . maybe that’s good for Will and me too.
* * * * *
Five minutes before her appointment, Mara admitted to herself that she wasn’t going to finish typing the data before lunch. She’d have to add it to her ever-growing to-do list for the afternoon. Mara saved her work and tried to put it out of her mind. There would be time. She would catch up.
For now, she needed to prepare for the interview. Mara glanced down at her notes. Female, early thirties. Single-vehicle accident, rainy weather, no alcohol involved. Spinal injury. Mara grimaced in sympathy. It was the woman’s third interview, so she was at least two years out from the accident. Dr. Olivier liked to do an intake interview as soon as possible after the trauma, and then a follow-up interview each year afterward.
Even after glancing at her notes, a quick jolt of surprise coursed through Mara’s body when the woman rolled in. “I’m your eleven o’clock,” the woman announced, thrusting the wheels of her wheelchair forward with quick, forceful bursts. She was wearing black sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. The gaping collar revealed intricate tattoos down her collarbone.
“Welcome. I’m Mara Sterling. I’ll show you in.”
It happened. The woman held out her right hand for a handshake.
Mara clasped it with her left hand and gave an extra-wide smile. Please don’t say anything.
No such luck. The woman eyed Mara’s limp right arm. “What happened to you?”
“Just an old injury,” Mara lied.
The woman offered a harsh laugh. “Uh huh. That’s how everyone ends up dealing with people like me. No one wants to work with trauma unless they’ve been messed up themselves.”
Mara stiffened her back and chose not to look at Colleen as she walked past. Not everyone. She showed the woman to the interview room instead, matching her steps to the woman’s pace down the long hallway. As she opened the door to the interview room, Mara began her rehearsed speech. “Thank you for participating in our study today. The interviews help us track long-term data on the effects of trauma. Your time and honesty are appreciated. There are no right or wrong answers.” She couldn’t help adding, “Dr. Olivier hired me because of my background in the field of psychology, not because of my injury.”
“Of course she did.” The woman wheeled past Mara into the room.
Mara took a deep breath. She’s hurting. She’s angry. Be kind. Mara followed the woman in and closed the door behind her.
The woman had already parked her wheelchair, so Mara chose a chair close by—but not too close. The side table held a clipboard filled with paperwork and a cup full of pens. Mara took one pen and passed another to the woman, along with the clipboard.
“We have just a few consent forms for you to sign. This one explains our privacy policy. The data is encrypted when it is stored, and it is never matched with any of your identifying data. This form gives your consent to be part of the study and for us to use the data gathered today in our research. This form explains your reimbursement. You’ll receive twenty-five dollars for your participation today.”
“That’s why I’m here,” the woman said. She signed each form with a quick scrawl and passed the clipboard and pen back to Mara.
“Thank you.” Mara took a deep breath and flipped to the next pages. The interview questionnaire had thirty questions. Mara already wished it was over.
Apparently, the woman did too. She gave short, clipped answers to the first ten questions. Whenever Mara asked her to rate an experience on a scale of one to ten, the woman quickly responded “one”—the most negative answer she could give.
“Please describe any ways your traumatic experience has led to positive changes in your life.” Mara usually looked forward to this part.
“I found out my so-called family and friends aren’t worth anything. What’s that they say? You don’t know who you can count on until you need them? I’ve got nobody. Guess it’s better to find that out sooner than later.”
Mara kept her hand hovering over the paper.
“What, you can’t write sarcasm? Fine. No positive changes.”
Mara hesitated before writing that down. “Final question: What support do you wish you had received immediately after the trauma?”
“What kind of support?” asked the woman. “I got counseling.”
Mara read the pre-scripted response on her page. “Support can mean anything from professional services (such as counseling) to personal support (such as strong friendships or relationships).”
The woman shrugged. “Even if I had all the support in the world, I still can’t live the way I used to. The only thing I wish for is that it never happened.”
There was a long, horrible silence as Mara painstakingly wrote out each word. The woman couldn’t possibly know that Mara had been contacted about a timeline rectification. Still, the words felt like a personal accusation. Mara’s cheeks burned.
Finally, the woman spoke again. “They have that talk-to-text software, you know. Maybe that could help someone like you.”
“No software is as accurate as I am,” Mara said. Her prep school smile was good in professional situations too. “Thank you for taking the time to participate in our study. You should receive your check in four to six weeks.”
“Four to six weeks? Good God. Last year it took two.” The woman rolled herself out, barely acknowledging Mara as she held the door open.
“Have a nice day,” said Mara, with all the sincerity she could muster.
“Oh, you too,” said the woman, biting off each word.
Mara closed the door again, leaving her alone in the interview room. She sat down again heavily, balancing the clipboard in her lap and tapping the pen against the top. She flipped to the last pages. “Interviewer Questionnaire,” it said across the top. Mara looked at the lines left for her to fill out and sighed.
Mara was glad Elliott and Colleen hadn’t heard her last exchange with the woman. Elliott would have smiled to himself, silently confirming what he already believed: that Mara wasn’t good enough to do this job. She could guess what Colleen would have said. I’m so glad you’re not like that. Some of these people we meet—they just never move on, you know? So angry all the time.
That was the thing that Mara kept buried in the deepest part of her, in the dark corner of her mind where she hid all the thoughts she couldn’t share.
It had been years since the shooting. She had built a whole life since then, a life she was proud of. And she was still angry at Jason Mann for what he’d done to her.
* * * * *
All afternoon, Mara couldn’t stop thinking about the woman she had interviewed. It wasn’t like it was her first time dealing with a negative participant. She was just so brazen about
it. The woman had made no apologetic reference to “being bitter,” “needing therapy,” or “having a tough day.” The accident had made her life worse, and she said so.
Was that allowed? Mara chided herself for the thought. Of course the woman could say whatever she wanted about her own life. She was living it, after all.
That dark space in Mara’s mind wished that she could get away with being so honest. Mara hadn’t even been discharged from the hospital yet when she’d started to learn the new rules. What happened to her wasn’t a tragedy—it was a setback. Having survived a shooting should make her count her blessings. This would build her character. She was an inspiration.
Mara had been exhausted just thinking about it. She still was.
If that woman had gotten the kind of letter she and Will had, she would have had no hesitation. But, Mara realized, the woman wouldn’t ever get a letter for a time wreck. It was a single-vehicle accident. There was no crime to rectify. Just very, very bad luck.
Mara typed up the last of her data into the spreadsheet minutes before the end of the workday. She glanced over it quickly before uploading it to the group folder. Perfect. Slow or not, she was a good worker. Mara hung on to that feeling of pride as she gathered her raincoat and purse.
Elliott was already headed past their desks toward the door. “I see you finally got your spreadsheet in,” he said to Mara. “Thanks.”
“Yes, right on time,” Mara replied sweetly. “Have a good night.”
Colleen interrupted. “Mara, where’d you get that coat? It’s so cute!”
“Thanks!” Mara said, easing the sleeve of her trench coat over her right arm. Her shoulder was starting to seize. She set her jaw to keep her expression normal. “I got it at a little shop in Georgetown. Sorry, I don’t remember the name. I’ll have to look it up for you.”
The coat was a bright coral, dotted with little white flowers, so light and happy. She’d bought it on a particularly gray and rainy day to celebrate her first paycheck. It was a splurge, but Will had encouraged her. “Get something fun, for once,” he’d said. “Get something that makes you happy.” Mara smiled at the memory and cinched the belt around her waist.