Chasing Peace

by Foxx, Gloria

  We’re blocking half the sidewalk with a few straggling students around. Fortunately there’s nothing going on at the Coleman Center tonight or a lot of strangers would be party to this discussion.

  “You know what I think? I think you were scared at that party and you’re running back to safety. I’m not your future. I’m just a security blanket to you. I’m just the guy who’s here right now.”

  “Wow. That’s low and so untrue,” I snap. “Our relationship is different than anything I’ve experienced before. It’s thrilling and compelling … and frightening.” I reach out, stepping toward him, our eyes locked. He steps back, maintaining distance between us as if he no longer cares. “I’m afraid that something bad might happen,” I whisper. “I’m afraid that I might get hurt, but I have to see where this goes. Life is about right now. There’s no waiting for the future or regretting the past. There’s just now.”

  “I’m not afraid and I’ve already seen where this goes. You needed something from me and I gave it, until you didn’t need me anymore. Well I’ve been through this before and I’m not going to be used and then discarded. I’m not going to live like that. I’ll see you around.”

  He turns and walks away. “Boston?” Then he takes off at a dead run, back in the direction he’d come from. “Boston!” I holler. People turn and look, but I don’t care. He runs fast as if possessed. I watch until I can’t see him anymore.

  I look around as if suddenly aware of my surroundings. My legs wobbly and barely able to hold me, I hobble to a nearby bench. Sinking down, I try to catch my breath. People pass by, but I can’t hear anything beyond the blood rushing in my ears. I found him at last after searching for several days, only to lose him again.

  I don’t know how long I sat on that bench, but the sun is gone now and I haven’t seen another person in quite some time. The cold November weather has seeped through my jacket and mittens chilling me, but it’s no more chilling than my failure to make Boston understand.

  * * *

  ‘Sterling? Is that you?”

  The voice came out of the darkness. I didn’t recognize it, but it recognized me and came closer.

  “Yes?” I croaked, the cold making my voice raw and my tongue thick.

  “It’s me, Luke. Are you okay?”

  “Oh hi.” I try to smile, glad for the cover of darkness. Moving my cold cheeks is difficult and the resulting smile feels more like a grimace.

  “Why are you sitting here in the dark, in the cold?”

  I try brushing him off, making light of my moment of weakness. “I’m fine, just thinking.” Instead, my response is anemic, telling far more than my words.

  “You’re not fine. What’s wrong?” He sits next to me, warmth rolling off of him, steam rising in the cold lamplight.

  “You’re wet. You’re going to freeze out here.”

  “I just finished practice, like every other day, but if you don’t start talking, I might freeze out here.”

  The heat rolled off him, not quite warming, but offering comfort. Luke is nearly a stranger and I don’t want to confide in him, but sometimes we find ourselves spilling our darkest secrets to outsiders. That’s what happened as his warmth began to surround me.

  I told him about my commitment to avoid personal relationships and focus on my education. I explained how Boston distracted me from that goal. I even confessed to ditching Boston when I realized how serious our relationship had become.

  “Wow. So now you need to fix it?”

  “That’s the problem Luke. I tried to fix it and he wants nothing to do with me. He accused me of using him and then cutting him loose when I didn’t need him anymore, but I wasn’t using him. It just took me some time to realize that relationships are worth the risk.”

  “Ah. Perception is reality.”

  “Huh?”

  “He doesn’t understand why you broke up. He thinks you used him, so that’s his reality.”

  “So I don’t have to convince him I care. Instead, I have to show him that I wasn’t using him.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “Thanks Luke. I’ll keep working on him.”

  “Give me your phone. I’ll give you my number in case you need to talk.”

  I handed over my phone. “Hey. You’re not steaming anymore.”

  “Yeah. It’s getting kind of cold out here.”

  “Sorry. You should go.”

  We stood, Luke smiling as he handed back my phone. “I’ll be fine. You’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine too.” I felt my smile lift my icy cheeks, the corners of my eyes crinkling as I waved. We went our separate ways, my toes aching with cold and making my gait stiff and uncoordinated.

  Chapter 17

  Annie and I are leaving class. Philosophy has turned out to be my favorite, partly because of Annie, partly because the material challenges how I look at life.

  There’s bluster in the cold November air, but it’s refreshing on my flaming cheeks.

  “What happened with you and Boston?”

  “I’ve tried to talk, but he’s pretty good at ditching me.”

  “Keep trying. Emotions aren’t like magnesium. They don’t burst into flame only to disappear in a wisp of smoke.”

  “He won’t let me explain.” I’m stonewalling, trying to save face with Annie. I’m holding my composure tight like it’s a loose cloak that might fly away with a sudden gust of wind.

  “I haven’t seen him at breakfast either, but I’ll work on him if I get a chance.”

  “Ms. Adams?” A man in a suit approached. A trench coat perfect for a gloomy autumn day flapped around his knees. He led the way while another came alongside wearing a cheap chamois jacket with navy pants and no coat. Cheap jacket reaches toward me, something shiny in his hand and I startle, ready to run.

  He’s holding a wallet with a shiny badge that reflects glints of light, but not sunlight. I’d seen one of those before, the night Emma died.

  My breath disappears as if I forgot to breathe while the black wisps of panic swirl up within me. Dread dark and oily coagulates in my gut. This will be bad and Annie is here, sure to be caught in the middle.

  “Rand. What are you doing here? Did you find the guy?” Before he could respond, she turned to me. “This is my friend Rand from the DA’s office. I called him after that party.”

  She raised her eyebrows, silently asking whether I understood.

  “Annie.” The man in the suit smiled a warm, friendly smile and became imminently less threatening, the other, not so much. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there. I’ve been looking for Ms. Adams on another matter.”

  “Sterling?” she says, turning toward me, questions in her expression and tone.

  I have questions too. “You know Mr. Hawthorne?”

  “Rand is a friend. Actually,” she corrects herself, “Rand’s father and mine have been friends for ages. We go way back.”

  The panic begins to ebb, the oily oozing away but leaving a gritty rawness in its wake that makes my voice come out in a croak. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Sterling. We need to talk. Here. Have a seat.” He ushers me over to a bench along the sidewalk, sitting down next to me, his knees turned toward me while the other guy stands alongside Annie.

  He’s here about Emma and I’m positive I don’t want Annie to know anything about it. Sliding one hand over the other, I massage the back of my wrist, ready to press down.

  “Brock Dane is out on bail.”

  “What? How?” I’m surprised and disheartened, but not at all afraid, the need to relieve the pressure in my wrist all but forgotten.

  “His attorney petitioned for reduced bail arguing that holding him because his family can’t afford bail is unjust when others on similar charges are free awaiting trial.”

  Unjust? I roll the word around in my head, wondering what justice really means.

  “We have an order of protection for you. You won’t need to appear.” I raised my eyebrow in question, not q
uite understanding. “Brock can’t come within 500 feet of you, at school, home, work or really anywhere except court. The judge granted it based on the facts of the case. He can appeal if he’s found not guilty, but until then it stands.” He watches me, earnest and eager. “I just need your signature.”

  I sign, my name jagged, my movements wooden.

  “I’m Detective Dillard.” I look up. The man in the ugly jacket hovers above me. “If he comes near you, call us.” He hands me a business card. Up close, Dillard appears older than I’d thought, and he has compassion in his eyes as if I were the victim. “If you see him, call nine-one-one.” He became gruff and stern, his eyes going flat, lips compressed.

  “Am I in danger?” I had first-hand experience with Brock’s rage, but I also knew how sweet he could be.

  “We don’t think so. He had to agree to electronic monitoring in place of bail so we can see where he is at any time,” says Dillard.

  “Okay. Good. Thank you.” I want them done and gone. I don’t want Annie to hear anymore. She’s already heard too much.

  “Be careful though. We’re not watching him. The monitoring will only confirm where he’s been after the fact, if we check.”

  I nod, my neck stiff, my movement wooden.

  “Ms Adams?” said Rand. My head snaps around. I’m acting nervous and guilty and embarrassed. “I also have a subpoena compelling your testimony.” Somehow I knew this was coming. “The trial is set for December 7 and you’ll need to be there beginning Tuesday after jury selection.”

  “I don’t want to testify. I want to move on with my life.”

  “That’s why I got a subpoena. If you don’t show up, we’ll issue a warrant.”

  “Why can’t my mom do it,” I plead.

  “She’s not reliable. We can’t be sure she’ll be there and the jury won’t be compassionate. We need you in order to get justice for Emma.” He looks at me, his soft brown eyes encouraging and warm. “Isn’t that what you want?” He makes me want to say yes, even when I don’t want to.

  “What good is justice? It doesn’t fix anything. Justice won’t bring her back,” I snap, tears like memories flooding my eyes. I dash a knuckle across my cheeks, sniffing as if that might retract the tears, although the memories are here to stay.

  A gaping hole yawns within me, bigger than me, bigger than the sky and justice won’t even begin to fill it. Compartmentalizing, moving on, and keeping it at bay. That’s the only thing that has kept it from swallowing me whole. My eyes refill with water as I sink beneath the weight of that void. I can feel my posture changing as I shrink in on myself, my hands limp in my lap. I can’t hear it over the roaring in my ears, but I feel the pop, relieving a bit of pressure in a tiny burst.

  Annie takes charge “I’ll make sure she’s there.”

  “Thank you Ms. Oakes. Is that alright with you Sterling?” Rand looks my way, but I don’t make eye contact. Instead I nod, agreeing to anything, if only so they will go away.

  * * *

  “Sterling?”

  I have no idea how long I’d been sitting there, but the detective and attorney are gone. Annie is sitting beside me, the light dim as if we’d been here awhile. It’s overcast and autumn so maybe it’s been only minutes.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Go where?” I can’t remember what we were doing when Rand and the detective interrupted.

  “I thought I’d take you home. You don’t work on Thursdays, do you?”

  “No.” I’m not sure whether I respond to the question or object to Annie taking me home.

  “Well we can’t stay here. We’re going to be frozen soon. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  I let her usher me along, still feeling disconnected, the restraining order and subpoena clutched in fingers turned red from the cold. I try desperately to keep my old life and my new life apart, but to no avail. My worlds have collided and now I need to make sense of this new reality.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Sixth Street.” I respond without awareness, a gloom surrounding me.

  “Do you have something for dinner at home or should we stop?”

  “I don’t know what I have, but that’s okay. I’m sure I have something.” My lips are numb and I mumble, but Annie understands.

  “No worries Sterling. We’ll stop here.” I look around, not quite aware of my surroundings. We’re at the sandwich shop.

  Annie orders for both of us and pays with her meal card. We’re back on the street in only minutes. The cushion that has kept me insulated is fading, becoming gauzy. My thinking is clear one moment and fuzzy again the next, but I’m making progress. By the time we reach Sixth Street, my awareness is finally sharp, at least as sharp as can be expected.

  “Keys,” Annie demands.

  “I can drive.”

  “Drive? Hell. I needed them to find your car.”

  I laugh. “It might take awhile to try them in every car on the street.”

  “Well not the keys exactly, the clicker.”

  “As if my ratty old car has one of those,” I snort.

  “You know where you’re parked?”

  “Of course I do. C’mon. I’m this way.”

  I feel better now. I can drop Annie at her dorm before heading home. She follows me to my car and I rummage in my bag for keys as I reach the driver’s door.

  “This is your car?”

  “Just think of it as an adventure.” I’m not bothered by her look of horror. I know exactly how my car looks.

  “I’m not thinking aesthetics,” she says. “I’m worried it’s not safe.”

  “Nope, it’s not safe at all, but it’s gritty and edgy. You’re not going to chicken out now are you?”

  “No.” I can see Annie draw her courage around herself. I have to give her credit for taking on a new experience, for not letting the unknown derail her mission or her dignity.

  “You want a ride to your dorm or would you rather walk?” I should have realized the question wouldn’t matter after watching her prepare mentally to ride in my car.

  “Neither. I’m going to your place. We need to talk and I need to see that you make it home okay.”

  “Suit yourself.” I slide into the driver’s seat and lean over to unlock Annie’s door, muttering. Lyla’s probably right. Annie thinks I need a friend and now I’m some strange humanitarian project. Thankfully my car is spotless. Maybe I can’t afford a luxury SUV or even a middle-class sedan, but at least I can take care of what I have.

  While I’d promised adventure, the five-minute drive to my apartment proves uneventful. We’re quiet at first as I contemplate telling Annie about the massive black hole that sucks in anyone who gets too close to me. I only have to tell her about Emma, the stuff that Rand Hawthorne knows. It might feel nice to share the burden. I’ve been so busy compartmentalizing that I never realized locking away my past has made the rest of my life feel phony.

  Climbing out of my car, I decide I don’t really have a choice. I have to give Annie an explanation. It’s freeing really, to have no choice, no responsibility for decisions, no pressure to hide a secret.

  “Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life and your hearts not in it, like you’re playing a part that isn’t really you?” I ask the question not expecting an answer, but wondering if maybe I need someone in my new life who understands where I come from, understands what makes me who I am.

  “I know all about ennui,” she says as we walk to the door. I’m thankful for the mask of dim lighting that hides the peeling paint and tired persona of my home. Tonight it feels and looks so much more romantic than it is.

  “This is cozy,” says Annie as she wanders through the living room into the kitchen in only five short steps. For some reason, I’m illogically happy that I’d scrimped and saved to make this wasted little apartment a home. I’d done it for Emma, more than for myself, but right now I’m happy that I’d done it at all, with Annie inspecting my little piece of the world. It’s not
the money so much as the dignity.

  “Thanks. Did you wanna drink? I have coffee, tea, orange juice and diet cola. There’s water too.”

  “No vodka?”

  “No. I’m back to not touching the stuff.” It’s true. I haven’t touched the stuff since I found the stuffed turtle in Emma’s bed.

  “I’ll take a diet.” Annie sat down at my tiny bistro set as I set out plates. She unpacked our sandwiches while I turned back for sodas and glasses. I had only one soda, but instead of splitting it, I gave it to Annie and poured myself a glass of water.

  As I sit, I see there’s plenty of room for our knees. They’re not anywhere near touching, like when Boston and I ate together here, yet it’s no less intimate. We make small talk, neither of us interested in bringing up the detective and attorney who just tracked me down.

  When we’re done, I jump up, avoiding the building tension by removing plates and paper wrappings. I lean back against the counter, unwilling to sit back down where I can see the layers building in Annie’s eyes. They reflect concern and question, sympathy and remorse. I hoped to avoid it all, but she won’t let me.

  “You’re going to tell me about it, if not here, then maybe the sofa’s more comfortable.” She tips her head, motioning toward the living room. “You can’t avoid me and I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.” She pauses for a moment, giving me a chance to respond. I don’t so she jumps in, going right to the heart of the matter. “Who’s Emma?”

  Worrying my lip between my teeth, my hands sliding together and pushing the pressure out of my wrist, I consider my options. No. I don’t have any options. I’ll tell Annie, but I’m not sure how to begin.

  Screwing up my courage, I push against my wrist one more time, the pop much more quiet and more painful, but the pain thrusts me into action.

  “I have to show you something.” I shove away from the counter and make it to the bedroom door, but Annie remains sitting, watching me. You can see into the bedroom from where she sits, but looking from the doorway is a better view. “Come here,” I motion with a wave. Annie stands, coming to my side.