Mending Places

by Hunter, Denise

  “No. That’s not it.” His jaw twitched.

  “Then what?” Her pulse raced; her head pounded.

  He looked away, finding the dishtowel hanging on the oven door. “It’s like I said. It’s over, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

  The finality of the words, his deep voice, sent quivers of dread over her. It didn’t make sense. Everything was fine until the night Devon had attacked her. She shook her head slowly, suspicion crawling up her spine. “There’s something you’re not telling me. You’re not even looking at me.”

  His eyes swung to hers and clung. Tiny red veins squiggled through the whites of his eyes as if a toddler had taken a red ink pen to them. “I don’t want to hurt you, Hanna.”

  She resisted the impulse to stamp her foot. “What do you think you’re doing now?” She pleaded with her eyes. “Micah, don’t you know, I love—”

  “Don’t! You don’t know who I am. You don’t know.”

  “Tell me then.”

  “I can’t!” He pivoted away, clutching the edge of the steel sink, his wide shoulders tense. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  She stepped closer to him and grasped his arm, turning him around. Pain glazed his eyes. When she saw the film of tears, her heart caught. She wanted to soothe his fears. She wanted to love him. She lifted a hand to his jaw. His skin was rough with stubble, and his jaw flexed.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Something—she wasn’t sure what—shadowed his eyes.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he whispered.

  “Tell me.” Her hand fell away.

  He stared at her without blinking. She saw love flicker in his eyes. Her heart thrilled for just a moment.

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  She waited for the words that would explain, wished she could pull them from him. His mouth closed again. Tell me. She telegraphed the message with her eyes.

  “It was me,” he rasped.

  Confusion ricocheted through her mind while the adrenaline of dread coursed through her veins. His behavior, more than his words, terrified her. “What was you?”

  Suddenly she recognized the emotion she saw in his eyes. It was remorse.

  “That night. All those years ago …”

  His intensity scared her, and her heart lurched. She couldn’t breathe. Fear kindled a fire in her midsection.

  “I was leaving the bar. It was late. I’d had too much to drink.” His voice droned on as though he was in another place, another time.

  “It was dark. I saw someone walking beside the road.”

  Comprehension ignited the fuse of shock. No! It can’t be!

  “She looked like my mother. And suddenly—I wanted to hurt her. For all the times she—I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Hanna felt her teeth chatter. Her stomach rolled. Through a veil of tears, she saw his eyes narrow with fervor.

  “I followed her. Attacked her.” He blinked, and a tear rolled down his face.

  She shook her head. No! Please, God, no! Her stomach clenched. Bile rose in her throat.

  “It was me.” His eyes closed. He turned his face from her.

  The nightmare slashed like a dagger through her mind. The darkness. The terror. The monster. Revulsion burned like acid in her stomach.

  It was him.

  Micah, whom she’d confided in.

  Micah, whom she’d kissed.

  Micah, whom she’d loved.

  White noise exploded inside her. A great roar, like a jet on takeoff. He was the monster who’d hurt her, left her terrified of the dark, left her terrified of men. Anger boiled, hot and furious. The man she’d feared, the man who’d shamed her and stolen her body, was standing in front of her.

  Her hand lashed out, striking him across the face. The harsh crack seemed magnified.

  Slowly, he lifted his hollow eyes to hers. Do it again, they seemed to beg.

  Something in her shattered like glass, a thousand fragments piercing her soul. The force of it left her dizzy. Blackness closed in around her. The room swam. Her stomach heaved, setting her feet in motion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hanna sat on the cold tile, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms curled around them. She didn’t know how much time had passed since Micah had ceased his pleading. She’d gotten up only once. To lock the door.

  “I’m sorry, Hanna. I’m so sorry.” His words haunted her. They’d seeped through the doorjamb as though he’d had his forehead pressed against the door. “Open the door. Please.”

  Her mouth had felt thick like it was stuffed with wool. After her stomach had emptied, she’d dry-heaved until it cramped in painful knots. “Are you all right?” Silence met his concern. She wiped her nose on a square of toilet paper. “Hanna? Are you all right?”

  What right did he have to be concerned? He’d done this to her. “Go away.”

  And finally he had. Her buttocks had gone numb long ago, but she didn’t want to leave the safe cocoon of the bathroom. She stared at the square pattern on the floor. Each one had marbling through it and gleamed with yesterday’s fresh cleaning. Even now, the pine scent lingered, mixed with the acrid smell of regurgitated chicken salad. Her stomach rolled again.

  A knock sounded at the door, startling her. “Hanna, are you all right, child?”

  Gram. Had she been in here through Gram’s nap?

  She pulled herself up, catching herself on the vanity when her legs trembled like leaves on a tree.

  She opened the door. “I’m fine.”

  Gram took her hand and tried to pull her from the room. “No, I don’t want—Micah—”

  “It’s all right; he’s in his room. Come on, we’ll go to our room.”

  A barrage of emotions coursed through her. She wanted to see him again so she could finish what she started. She wanted to strike out at him. To hurt him the way he’d hurt her. She wanted him to go someplace far, far away. Her pulse accelerated again, making her dizzy and lightheaded. She put her hand on the wall beside her as she walked.

  The fear was still there. Hiding like a cougar, ready to overtake her when she was least aware. The man who assaulted her was here. In her home. But was it the same man? Was Micah the man who’d attacked her, or was he the man she’d grown to love? He couldn’t be both. It was a contradiction. She felt betrayed by him. As if the man he was now, the man she loved, had done this to her.

  They entered the suite, and Hanna sat on the couch. How much should she tell Gram?

  Gram poured her a glass of water and brought it to her. It felt good to swish the water around her mouth.

  “Micah woke me. He was worried about you.”

  She clenched her teeth. Gram wouldn’t feel so kindly toward Micah when she heard who he was.

  “You must feel terribly shocked,” Gram said.

  Hanna looked at her. Why would she say that? There was sympathy in her small, glassy eyes.

  “He told me, child.” She drew Hanna into her arms.

  Hanna went willingly. Grief erupted within her and manifested itself in the form of hot tears. She sobbed in wrenching jerks, crying for the pain she’d endured that night, for the fear she’d fought all these years. The fog of anguish covered her, blinding her to everything else. Time was lost, almost standing still.

  Gram’s gentle voice penetrated the haze, and Hanna realized she’d been talking all the time. Murmuring words of comfort with little meaning.

  Suddenly she remembered what Gram had said. Gram knew who Micah was. Words spilled from Hanna’s mouth. Her feelings, her thoughts, in a tumble of confusion. She hopped from the past to the present and back to the past again with no coherency or order. As thoughts came to her mind, they flowed out of her mouth. The hatred and bitterness she’d buried for years revealed itself with harsh words and savage tears.

  And Gram listened quietly. Just listened. And it was as soothing as salve on Hanna’s wounds.

  Something stirred Micah from his sleep. He opened his eyes.
Light filtered in from the night sky, bathing the room in gray.

  Then he remembered.

  As it had each time he’d awakened during the night, the harsh reality crashed over him like a merciless tidal wave. He closed his eyes, trying to sink back into that blissful state of oblivion called sleep. Trying to escape reality for just a little while longer.

  He wondered if Hanna was sleeping. He longed to go to her. To comfort her. The urge was almost too much to resist. But truth kept him pinned to the bed. She didn’t want his comfort. She didn’t even want to see his face.

  And he couldn’t blame her. He shouldn’t have told her. It would’ve been better to leave. It would’ve been better for Hanna to feel confused and rejected than this. Anything was better than this. What had he been thinking when he’d let the words spill from his mouth?

  He ran a hand over his swollen eyelids and down across the bristled plane of his jaw. His stomach rumbled, protesting the fast he’d unintentionally started the previous day. He’d wanted to stay out of Hanna’s way, so he’d holed up in his room like a badger. Dinner had been three mints he’d gotten from a restaurant where he and Hanna had eaten a few weeks ago. He distinctly remembered scooping up the mints from the bill tray on the table. He’d offered them to Hanna, but she’d winked and said, “You’re the one who had garlic.”

  Never could he have imagined the disastrous turn their relationship had taken. Who could have imagined this? It was over now, of this he was certain. How could he expect her to forgive him? He couldn’t even forgive himself. And who was he to deserve someone like Hanna? What had she ever done to hurt anyone?

  Unwelcome pictures from the past surged into his mind. He closed them off, unable to bear it. His bones ached when he thought about what he’d done. Could he have done anything more depraved? What kind of a person did that to a woman?

  He remembered the thoughts he’d had about Devon after he’d attacked Hanna. He’d wanted to hurt him. He’d thought Devon deserved to be hurt. Deserved worse. The memory of his thoughts haunted him. Hadn’t Micah thought Devon a despicable brute?

  What a hypocrite. He’d done worse himself. And now he was paying the price. He remembered vaguely something in the Bible about the consequences of sin not being removed. He’d done something evil, and now the price was his to pay. His and Hanna’s.

  He rolled over and buried his face into the pillow. All these years he’d avoided love, afraid of losing his heart, afraid of not being loved in return. But that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. He’d known it when he’d seen hurt and betrayal eclipse the shock and disbelief. Hurting the one you loved, hurting her down to the soul, was worse than losing her. Why hadn’t he known that before?

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the clock. Four thirty-two. A time that hovered between night and day. He sat up and reached for the remote, flicking on the TV. The national map covered the screen on the weather channel. Maybe the snow would let up today, and he could leave. His emotions teetered between relief and despair at the thought. Leaving was a necessity. A kindness. He owed it to her.

  Where he would go was not a question. He’d decided sometime in the middle of the night what he would do.

  The local weather flashed on the screen. Blizzardlike conditions over the next several hours, and the snow emergency was still in effect. The air left his body like a deflating balloon. At least it was going to taper to flurries later. Perhaps by lunch, then he could slip out and clear the drive while Hanna was eating.

  His stomach constricted, and the hunger nudged him from the warm bed. Cold seeped from the planks through the soles of his feet. Quickly he dressed and left the room.

  The air in the corridor felt thick with a heavy chill. When he entered the main room of the lodge, he flipped on the lamp and stacked the last three logs in the grate. After wadding up sections of newspaper, he stuffed them into the crevices. The lighter faltered, the grating sound of the switch echoing up the hollow chimney.

  Finally, a fire lit the tip of the lighter and caught the wad of paper. Brown charring spread rapidly, consuming it until its edges were lacy and gray. The log above it caught the flame, leaving the paper a brittle skeleton.

  Micah rose and went to the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and the florescent lights flickered on. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out several Rubbermaid containers, last night’s dinner, he presumed.

  By the time he’d eaten, faint rays of light teased the distant sky. Snow blew and swirled in front of the windowpane, blocking everything but the approaching daylight. The fire popped and hissed in the lodge. He plucked his coat from the rack and went outside to gather more wood. Hanna would be waking soon, and he wanted to be out of the way when she did. He hoped she might come to him today. If only to curse him and vent her anger.

  The fury had been a surprise. He’d expected disbelief. He’d expected hurt. But he hadn’t expected the rage that radiated from her like steam off a hot spring.

  With the last of the wood in his arms, he kicked off his shoes and took the load to the hearth. As they thudded onto the pile, he heard a door click open in the distance. There was a pause as the pneumatic closure caught, then a louder click as the door shut. It was too late to slip into his room.

  Somehow he knew it was Hanna. His breathing constricted, choking off the oxygen. Something coiled in his gut. Fear, he thought. It sucked the moisture from his mouth. He heard no footsteps.

  He added a log to the fire. Sparks danced upward, hissing as they went. When he turned, she was standing in the doorway.

  Everything in him locked up, the way brakes do on ice. He might have thought she looked small, vulnerable, standing in a pair of pink, fluffy socks, wearing cow-spotted flannels. But the starch in her jaw, the way her eyes raked over him, told him differently. The air chilled in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Taut silence stretched between them. She hated him. Loathed him. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her reddened nostrils flared.

  He looked away. Staring at the naked rage was like trying to stare at the sun. He couldn’t bear it.

  He sensed when she left. His lungs filled with air again; his heart came to life. But something else in him died.

  After lunch Hanna and Gram began cleaning again. Their suite and Micah’s room was overdue, and the stall in business was the perfect time to catch up. Hanna tackled the chores that hurt Grams back while her grandmother handled the dusting. Mentally, Gram seemed to be doing better now that she was on medication. Hanna had only noticed one or two times that a word had slipped out of her grasp. They had agreed to take one day at a time and appreciate each one they had together.

  She attacked the soap ring on the tub with vigor. The activity was a welcome release for the emotions locked away inside. She was tired of dwelling on Micah. Tired of trying to evade Micah. He seemed to be avoiding her too: a smart move on his part.

  She would’ve vented her anger that morning if not for the way it had exploded in her mind when she’d seen him by the fire. The fragments had spurted in all directions, and she hadn’t known which piece to chase first. Eventually they would settle into an ugly mosaic, and she would examine it in detail until the colors grew dull. By then Micah would be gone, and she could get on with her life.

  She’d thought she’d forgiven the man who’d done this to her. Thought she’d forgiven him years ago. But apparently, the wound had never been cleansed, just crusted with a scab, healing on the surface while infection festered inside. How had she managed all these years thinking she was all right, when deep inside her was this hideous mass of bitterness?

  She turned on the faucet and rinsed the cleanser down the drain. After stacking fresh towels, she gathered the sheets and carried the cleaning supplies into the living room.

  “Gram, I’m finished. I’ll be in Micah’s room.”

  “All right.”

  Hanna set the carrier in the cart and pushed it down the hallway. She wished she could ask Gram to
do Micah’s room. But Micah was probably outside, anyway, still clearing the drive. And if she hurried, she would be finished before he returned.

  She tapped lightly on the door. The wood felt cool on her knuckles. Her heart pushed against her chest in rapid spasms. She looked both ways down the hall, then knocked again, louder.

  Only the buzzing fluorescent light interrupted the silence. Her ears strained for sounds behind the door. Hearing none, she inserted the master key in the door handle.

  Micah stood still letting the hot water wash over him. His fingers, half frozen from being wrapped around the snow blowers handle, were finally starting to tingle with warmth. He’d finish clearing the drive later, and this time he’d remember his gloves.

  He shut off the water and stepped onto the tile. Steam hung in the air, and he opened the door to clear it. After toweling off he donned a pair of jeans and plugged in his electric razor. With his fist he wiped away the film of moisture on the mirror.

  The man who stared back looked a lot like the man he’d been eight years ago. Three days’ worth of stubble coated his jaw, and his hair almost reached his bare shoulders.

  He flicked on the razor, and it came to life with tiny vibrations. Why had it happened? Why had he done what he’d done all those years ago? He noticed he avoided the word. Even in his thoughts, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  Why God? Why? Anger infused itself in the words. Of all the people in the world, why had it been Hanna on the road that night? Why had it been him leaving the bar at just that moment? Why had it been Hanna he’d fallen in love with? The “whys” were always there, like a mosquito that refused to be swatted away.

  He flipped off the razor and set it on the counter, then opened the medicine cabinet at his side. He withdrew the toothpaste and shut the cabinet.

  When he looked in the mirror, he saw her. Standing behind him, frozen.

  His heart kicked in his chest. He watched as she slowly lowered the cleaning caddie to her side. Her gaze was fixed at some point below his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the bright fluorescents shining overhead.