BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

  Sarah has six inches and maybe twenty pounds on Phoebe, but she screams like a wounded animal as Phoebe roughly wrestles her into the back of the Tahoe and locks her inside, then grabs her radio and runs over to me, barking orders at someone.

  “Sit down,” she tells me.

  “Phoebe, it’s just a cut. I’ve had worse.”

  “I said sit down!” she screeches, and I sink into a crouch and then plant my butt on the asphalt. She runs to the Tahoe and then back to me with a first aid kit, pulls the blood soaked T-shirt off my arm, and starts wiping it down. The disinfectant stings like hell.

  “It’s not even a deep cut, Phoebe.”

  “It could get infected. I called paramedics. Called for backup.”

  Within ten minutes, I’m surrounded by more cops and paramedics working on my arm. A heavyset EMT looks over my wound.

  “You’ll need stitches. I can handle it here.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I don’t watch as he runs the hooked needle through my arm and closes up the wound. A clean bandage wraps around it, and I finally stand.

  “It looked worse than it is,” I tell Phoebe. “I’ll get a wicked scar. Chicks dig scars, right?”

  She glares at me while Sarah furiously pounds the metal grating over the Tahoe’s back window with her grimy sock-clad feet.

  “She’s going to be charged with aggravated assault. I’m going to need you to give a statement,” Phoebe says.

  “Sure, hon.”

  She leans in close. “Not now. I’m on the job. Please treat me like I’m a cop, damn it.”

  I sigh and nod. “Yes, Officer.”

  “Jim is going to take you to the station. I’ll be down after they finish taking my statement, to pick you up.”

  “Your chariot awaits,” Jim announces.

  I snort, and get in the back of his car. It’s a short ride to the station, a squat single-story brick building that looks like a post office. I step into an office with an older guy with a more elaborate uniform, sit, and answer a bunch of questions while he writes it all down.

  “Should I call a lawyer?”

  He looks up from his paperwork and snorts.

  “You’re not exactly in trouble, champ. Sounds pretty reasonable to me.”

  Phoebe arrives maybe half an hour later, and runs into me while two others lead Sarah into a holding cell and slam the door.

  “She hurt my arms!” Sarah screams.

  Phoebe ignores her.

  She stops herself just short of throwing her arms around me, skidding to a stop instead. My blood has soaked into her uniform on the sleeves and chest.

  “Maguire,” her boss says, stepping out of the office. “Paperwork can wait. Change out of that uniform, put it in an evidence bag, and go home. You’re on paid leave for the rest of the day.”

  She nods. “Yes, sir.”

  She glances at me. “Wait here.”

  Phoebe locks herself in the locker room and emerges a few minutes later in regular clothes, carrying her uniform in a big plastic bag. She tosses it in a bin and gestures for me to follow her.

  Once we’re outside by her car, she hands over her keys. Her hand is shaking like a leaf.

  “I really need you to drive.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  She doesn’t say a word the whole way home, not even in the driveway.

  Once we’re inside, she slowly walks to the kitchen table, drops her gun and belt and badge on it, sits down in the chair, and starts sobbing.

  I freeze. What the fuck do I do?

  “Phoebe?”

  I pull up a chair next to her and put my hand on her trembling back. She shakes her head and twists her fingers in her hair.

  “Hey. It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right,” she says, her voice strained. “I can’t break down like this. I can’t.”

  “It’s okay. Just let it out.”

  “I can’t,” she moans, but she only cries harder.

  I put my arms around her and pull her to my chest. She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs.

  “I’m trying to stop.”

  “I know.”

  “I shouldn’t have let her cut you. That was my fault. I should have done something.”

  “You did everything you could. I’m the one who jumped in and grabbed her while she had a knife.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  She sits up, and looks at me with pained, reddened eyes.

  “I couldn’t let her hurt you.”

  “I don’t need a protector.”

  I rest my hands on her arms and rub her skin lightly, but she pulls away, grabs her stuff, and darts up the stairs. I sit there for a moment and huff, then follow her.

  When I reach the bedroom, she’s unloading her gun. She sticks it in the safe with her other stuff and slams the door, then leans on it, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding back tears.

  I lock my arm around her waist and drag her onto the bed with me. She curls up in a ball.

  “I froze,” she says.

  “Didn’t look like it to me.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. She had a weapon.”

  “You did fine.”

  “What do you know about it?” she snaps.

  I pull her to me and run my fingers through her hair. I press her body tightly against mine and hold her until she stops shaking.

  When she starts to sit up, I let go, but rest my hand on her hip and keep her against my side.

  She hugs her legs to her chest.

  “I’m sorry. I just needed…” she stares at her shaking hand and makes a fist.

  I sit up next to her.

  “You’re not a robot. That was intense. I’m sure you weren’t planning to confront a knife wielding lunatic when you woke up this morning, honey.”

  She flinches when I call her by a pet name and gives me a dreamy look, half-smiling before she frowns softly again and rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Who was that woman? I know her name, but who is she?”

  “She’s obsessed with me. Has been for years, since I was traded to the Corsairs. She used to try to follow me to my place when I was in Ohio. I thought she’d lost interest in me after I moved, then here she shows up again.”

  “You have a stalker,” Phoebe says. “Why don’t you have a restraining order?”

  “My agent shot me down when I wanted to get one. Said it wasn’t alpha.”

  “Alpha? Alpha? What if she shows up with a gun next time? Are you going to alpha your way out of that?”

  “She’s not going to show up again, right? She pulled a knife on a cop. She has to go to prison for that. Won’t she?”

  Phoebe nods, and bites her lip. She rubs her arms, and suddenly she looks small and vulnerable, her fire muted.

  I fucking hate that woman for doing this to her.

  “You’re strong. You’ll be back from this.”

  “Yeah. She’s not why I’m worrying. I lied to you, Alex.”

  My stomach twist into a cold ball. “Why? About what?”

  “I lied to everyone, including Carrie.”

  She picks up her wedding band from the nightstand. I didn’t even notice she’d taken it off. She turns the band of gold in her fingers, examining it.

  “I decide to tell Carrie her father was dead. I made something up to make him sound innocent. I didn’t want her to know what kind of a piece of shit her father was and what he did to me.”

  I rise from the bed. “Wait. You told her he’s dead. That’s part of the lie?”

  She nods, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.

  “Yes. Her father is alive.”

  I rock back on my heels like I’ve been hit. “You… you divorced him right?”

  She fingers the wedding band.

  “We were never married, just told people we were. I… I had a rough time when I was in my late teens, until Carrie was born and I moved back into the house. I don’t like to talk about it. If the oth
ers knew, I mean the other cops…”

  She hugs herself harder and starts shaking.

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. Please. I don’t want to. I just want all that to go away. He’s gone and it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll never see him again and…”

  She’s breathing so fast she can barely get the words out. I wrap my arms around her and rest my chin on her head, sheltering her.

  “I ran away a lot when I was a teenager. I was acting out. I was so jealous that Hailey got all the attention, and Mom was dying. I would be gone for weeks, months at a time. I met David at a party. He was the source.”

  “Source?”

  “Drugs,” she hisses. “I started off with pot, but he got me hooked on pills, had me following him around like a puppy dog.”

  “What did he do?” Anger flares in my chest and I feel my muscles tense.

  “Nothing at first, he was just my sleazy boyfriend, but he kept pushing me. He got into some trouble and needed money. He took me to a hotel… he put an ad on the Internet. Advertising me. For,” she swallows, hard, “for sex. To be paid for sex. But he’d keep the money. He wanted me to be a hooker. He was going to pimp me.”

  “What did you—”

  “I got out. I went out the back window and almost broke my leg, but I got away. I ran until I found a phone and called my dad and went home. I was already pregnant, I just didn’t know it. I never saw him again and I don’t know what happened to him.”

  I hug her tighter.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. Kids get talked into things. He’s the one who hurt you.”

  “I went with him. My mom went into a coma while I was gone. I never got to talk to her again.”

  Phoebe breaks down into sobs, shuddering into my chest.

  “I don’t care what you did when you were a kid. You’re a wonderful person now. You’re a good mom, you’re beautiful, and you deserve better than a shit heel like me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You thought I was a dick, admit it.”

  “I did, but you’re not.”

  Phoebe sniffs and rubs at her nose. I grab an old shirt from the hamper and hand it to her, and she blows her nose and scrubs at her eyes.

  I let out a long, rasping sigh. “I’ve got to go to the field. Practice.”

  She nods. “Go. I don’t want you to get in trouble. I’ll be fine here.”

  I make sure she’s lying on the bed and relaxing before I leave. I don’t want to go, but they’ll arrest me if I don’t show up. I trudge across the yard to get my car and head over.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  It’s Lou. I sit in the car and rest my arm on the steering wheel while I press my phone to my ear.

  “What?” I snap.

  “I got great news, big guy. The whole thing with dating the cop is going over great. It’s going viral all over social media. The photographer--”

  “What?” I snarl.

  Chapter Ten

  Phoebe

  I have to get Carrie.

  Finally, I give up on waiting for the end of the school day. At two fifteen, I get in the Tahoe, drive to the school, and head into the office to sign her out. Rather than wait for them to call her down from her class, I walk down to get her, stand with her while she grabs her things, and lead her out of the classroom.

  She holds my hand as we walk down the hallway. Her fingers are tiny and delicate in my grasp. As she limps down the hall with me, I realize how fragile she is and want to pick her up and carry her with me. I can’t do that. I have to let her go on her own.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” she asks me, once we’re away from her classroom.

  It takes me a moment to answer. I don’t want to tell her the truth, that I’m so goddamn mentally weak that I need to cuddle my daughter. I don’t want to tell her that I can’t suck it up and deal with my job. I’m supposed to be this rough, tough, strong protector type and I can’t handle a lunatic with a pocket knife.

  “Nothing, honey. I just…”

  I can’t even think of an excuse.

  As she’s climbing into the car, I finally relax a little. The car feels safe. This thing is built like a tank. I pat her head and ruffle her hair.

  “I just needed some time with you. Mommy-daughter time. Why don’t we get some ice cream?”

  “Okay,” Carrie says, never being one to turn down ice cream.

  Instead of the Dairy Queen in town, I take us out to the Dairy Freeze on Route 9 for the real deal. I don’t even really care about ice cream, I just need to see Carrie safe and happy. I get a small milkshake for myself and let her indulge in a banana split. We sit out in the sun behind the place at one of the worn picnic tables. Carrie kicks her feet under the bench as she eats, too engrossed in the sweets to speak.

  I prop my cheek on my hand and watch her, sipping from my own shake.

  “Practice is soon,” she says.

  “You’re not ready yet,” I sigh. “Your leg, honey.”

  “We can still watch.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I simply can’t deny her.

  After she finishes, we head to the high school. The kids are on the field. Alex is with Eddie, doing his thing. He spots me and gives me a little wave, and I wave back, and take a spot on the bleachers with Carrie.

  It’s a nice day with a good breeze, and watching the kids settles my nerves. The last time I saw Alex out here, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but now he talks animatedly with the children, gesturing and bellowing. When they start wind sprints, he runs alongside them.

  Carrie is itching to join them, I can see it. She wriggles from side to side on her seat and watches as the kids toss the ball around. They can’t really make forward passes very well, but when they do, it’s hilarious to see them grabbing a ball as big as their chests from the air and running along with their big goofy pads and wobbly-oversized helmets.

  Alex is so good with them. They all crowd around him, and even Eddie is smiling. Alex finds a moment to slip away and sit next to me on the bleachers.

  I fight the urge to rest my head on his shoulder. I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of public display yet.

  He doesn’t give me a choice. He throws his arms around my shoulders and pulls me close. Carrie scoots up next to my hip and puts her arm around me, too. Tears well in my eyes, and I tense with the strain of holding them back.

  “How are you holding up?” Alex asks.

  “Holding up from what?” Carrie says.

  I sit up. I’m not angry with him, surprisingly enough. I turn to her and put my arm around her, take a deep breath, and tell her the story.

  “I don’t understand,” she says.

  I sigh. How do I explain this?

  “The crazy lady thinks Alex is her boyfriend, but he’s not.”

  “He’s your boyfriend,” Carrie says, nodding sagely in the way only a six-year-old can.

  “Yes, I am,” Alex confirms, giving me a little shake as he squeezes me.

  I can’t help it, I blush in front of my daughter.

  Alex’s fingers brush my chin and suddenly he’s turning me to face him. He gives me a chaste, soft kiss on the lips right in front of my daughter, her coach, the peewee team, and a couple of teachers from the high school who came outside for coffee breaks on their planning period.

  I stare at him wide-eyed and just work my mouth, unable to speak. My cheeks are burning so hot, I should be singeing the collar of my shirt. I crack a smile in spite of myself and try to be angry at him for embarrassing me like that, but I feel like I’m floating right off my seat and he’s holding me down.

  “I have to get back to work.” He sighs. “Another twenty minutes.”

  I laugh. “There’s no rush.”

  After the kids are dismissed to go change, Alex meets us at the bottom of the bleachers. Carrie yawns loudly, and Alex scoops her up and carries her as easily as I did when she was a toddler. Swaying on his shoulder, her head d
roops just like it did when I used to carry her.

  He lowers her into the front seat of the Tahoe and kisses my cheek.

  “Follow you back to the house?”

  I nod and pull out of my spot first. Alex follows me in his old car and pulls into the driveway next to me.

  Once we’re inside, I fish one of the spare keys out of the junk drawer in the kitchen and tuck it in his huge hand.

  “You should have a key,” I tell him.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “You’re staying tonight.”

  It’s not a question.

  “Yeah.”

  He throws his arms around me.

  I slip mine around him and squeeze hard, until I feel his heartbeat and his ribs expanding.

  Can I do this? Can I let somebody else make me feel safe? For the last several years, I’ve had to rely on myself. I had to be the strong one, the one who gives out reassuring hugs. I blink my eyes when I realize my face is wet, that I’ve been crying into his shirt. I try to pull back, but he refuses to let me go.

  “Why don’t you lie down while I make dinner? Get some rest.”

  I turn to head upstairs, and he follows me. Alex turns on the ceiling fan over my bed and lays me down, smoothing my hair back from my face. I roll over on my side and curl up, and close my eyes. My arms and legs feel like they weigh a million pounds. It’s like I just noticed the weight, but it was always there.

  I sleep.

  Then I wake, to a the warm buttery smell of cooking dough. When I step into the kitchen, I find Alex and Carrie both wearing aprons and chef’s toques, slaving over the oven. A big pot pie sits in the oven, gravy bubbling up through the cuts in the crust.

  “Where did you get those hats?”

  “Alex had them,” Carrie tells me.

  I shrug. Just go with it.

  “Have a seat, we’ll serve.”

  Alex carries out the pie while Carrie rushes behind him, carrying the side dishes on a tray. I feel almost dizzy. We’re having a family dinner. A real family dinner with no sniping, no weird arguments, no judging looks from my sister Hailey or strange comments from Grace.

  It feels normal, but normal has always felt strange to me. I never thought I could be in a place like this, living a life like this.