Undone

by Rebecca Shea

  “That’s when I came to get him,” Matt recalls. “Continue.”

  “After I cleaned up, I went over to confront him about leaving. To finally force some answers out of him, and he snapped. He jumped up from the couch and ran over to me. He didn’t hit me, I swear. He was holding me by the shoulders and I backed myself up against the wall. He was just yelling at me and he moved his arm so that it was pressing against my neck, but I don’t even think he knew he was doing it. You should have seen him, the look in his eyes; it was like he wasn’t even there.”

  “I’ve seen it before,” Matt acknowledges.

  “Anyway, Lindsay comes around the corner and immediately starts screaming at him and pushes her way in between us. It took me a few minutes to catch my breath, but I’m okay. Really, I am.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at your neck?” He points at my neck. I ponder his question, but I know if I tell him no, he’ll think it’s more serious than it really is.

  “Sure,” I say as he stands up from the chair in front of my desk. Sitting on the edge of my desk, he tilts my head back just a little. His fingers brush over the mark across my neck.

  “Does that hurt?” he asks, his touch gentle.

  “Not really. It feels more like a burn. I don’t think it will even bruise.”

  “Reagan, I don’t know what answers you got, or what answers you’ll ever get from him. Just know that he would never intentionally hurt you. I know him, probably better than anyone.”

  “I know,” I say as I nod. Matt still sits on my desk, lost in thought.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He told me what happened to him, last night when he was yelling at me.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “About the abuse, his dad, the beatings.” He nods his head. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have pushed for answers like I did.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Reagan.” He pauses. “He’s just never cared about anyone like this before. These feelings are new, and I’m sure he feels vulnerable, exposed, and honestly—I can guarantee he’s fucking scared to death.”

  “Why?”

  “That you’ll leave him. That’s his biggest fear—rejection.”

  “Is that why he does what he does? The sex? The women?”

  Matt sighs and his head drops back a little. “Yeah, better to leave than to be left. Better not to get attached,” he admits quietly. “That’s Landon’s motto in life.” I let the information he’s just shared with me about his best friend settle in.

  “Would he kill you if he knew you were talking to me and telling me this personal stuff?”

  “Yes. But I know you need to know this, or he’s going to lose you, and Reagan—he needs you,” he says, raking his hand across his chin. “But this conversation never happened, got it?” He smiles at me.

  “You’re a good friend to him, Matt.”

  “And he’s a good friend to me. Lindsay and Landon are my family. I’d do anything for either of them.”

  “Speaking of Lindsay, will you let her know I’m okay and thank her for me? Tell her I’ll call her later.”

  “Of course,” he says, standing up from the edge of my desk. I stand up from my desk chair so I can walk him out.

  “Thank you for coming by, Matt. It means a lot.”

  “Give him some time, but not too much time. He won’t come for you,” he says. “If I know him, he hates himself right now, but he won’t come for you.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Fight for him.”

  “I’ve been fighting, Matt.”

  “I know, but fight harder.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh and roll my neck. “I don’t have much fight left in me,” I mutter as he offers me a tight smile.

  “Bye, Reagan,” he says as he exits my office. I follow him out and the office is buzzing with employees. Checking the time on my watch, I see that it’s almost nine o’clock and patients will be arriving shortly. I grab my cell phone from my pocket and send a quick text message to Landon, wishing him well on his first day as a detective.

  The morning drags on at a snail’s pace. By noon, my body is shutting down from lack of sleep. “Melissa, can you rearrange my afternoon clients? Split them between the two nurse practitioners, or reschedule them for tomorrow, if you could?”

  “Sure, is everything okay?” she asks, concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m just not feeling well. I need to go home and get some rest.”

  After a quick nap, I drive myself to the WXZI studio. Pressing the call button on the side of the building. I offer my name and I announce that I’m here to see Lindsay Christianson. With a long buzz, the automatic door lock clicks and I enter the stark lobby. I hear her heels click down the travertine tile hallway as I hear her announce my name. “Reagan.”

  “Thanks for letting me stop by,” I say as she reaches out to hug me as she approaches.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, pulling away while she looks me over—honing in on my neck.

  “I’m fine. Tired but fine. But I have a couple of questions for you. Do you have just a couple of minutes to talk privately?”

  “Sure, but just a few. I’m about to go shoot a segment for tonight’s newscast,” she says as she leads us into a small glass-walled conference room that sits just off the lobby. It feels like a fishbowl where everyone can watch us.

  “Please sit down.” She gestures to a chair at the large rectangle conference table. “So what’s going on? Is this about last night?” she questions as she takes a seat across from me at the table.

  “No, it’s not about last night. Do you happen to know Adam Gerard?”

  “Never heard of him. Why?”

  “He works with me. He’s a partner in the practice. He went to high school with Landon, and is aware of everything you two went through,” I inform her and she gasps quietly.

  “What do you mean, ‘aware’?”

  “Let me back up for a minute. Landon dropped me off at work the other day and Adam saw him leave in my car. He questioned me as to who was driving my car, but I ignored him. I blew it off as him being a concerned co-worker. I mentioned Adam to your brother and he admitted that they went to school together and they never liked each other.” I pause for a moment to make sure I’m not leaving out any important details.

  “This morning, Adam saw my neck and immediately starting spouting off shit about your family. About your dad and what he did.” I find myself gently rubbing over the sore spot across my neck as I mention it. “He mentioned that I had better be careful, that Landon was just like his father.”

  “Fucker,” she mutters under her breath. “He’s not.”

  “Lindsay, I know he’s not. I’m just curious… does everyone know about your dad? What he did?”

  “No.” She startles. “At least no one ever said anything before.” She wraps her arms around her waist. “And if they did, no one helped us.” She pauses.

  “Lindsay, I’m so sorry,” I whisper. She nods at me with a sad smile on her face.

  “So what about this Adam Gerard has you concerned?”

  “He knows so much. He knew about Landon, your mom leaving and playing ‘stepmom’ to a new family. He even knew about your dad. He mentioned him being an alcoholic, and that he was killed seven years ago. It just seemed odd how much he knew.”

  “Back up. What about my mom?”

  “That she left, and played stepmom, but never went back for you,” I mumble quietly.

  “How would he know that?”

  “I don’t know, Lindsay. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “We never heard from her after she left. She literally packed her suitcase, walked out, and disappeared from our lives. She hasn’t been seen from or heard from since.” Lindsay looks out through the glass conference room and stares straight ahead at the small cubicles that circle the room.

  “You have no idea where she went?”

  “No,” she whispers. “Look, hey, I
have to get back to work. But if I can place Adam Gerard, I’ll be sure to let you know.” She stands up quickly and walks to the door. Holding it open, she waits for me as I gather my purse and stand to leave.

  “Sorry to bother you about this at work, Lindsay,” I say sympathetically as I follow her out of the conference room and into the main lobby.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m glad that you know now,” she says as she hugs me. “Don’t let him push you away,” she says quietly as she pulls out of our hug and walks down the hallway, leaving me with more questions than answers.

  My first day as a detective has been anything but exciting. I perused the local online classifieds, looking for anything suspiciously criminal. I searched online ads for guns, drugs, and stolen goods, or sex for sale. Today, I’ve come up empty handed. While I’m excited for this new position, my thoughts are never far from Reagan. I ache inside, a foreign feeling for me. I hate myself for the way I treated her last night, for scaring her, for pushing her away—but it’s for her own good.

  My first day comes and goes with little fanfare. Detective Weston, another narcotics detective, passes by my desk on his way home. “How was the first day?”

  “Everything I thought it would be,” I joke with him.

  “That exciting, huh?” He laughs. “Trust me, there are very few days like this. Enjoy it now. See ya tomorrow, buddy.” He waves on his way out.

  I sit at my new desk and look at the stark walls that surround it. My desk holds nothing but a note pad, a grey phone, and a computer. That’s it. There is nothing personal here. I don’t have a dog, a wife, kids, or even a fucking hobby to display proudly. What does that say about me? I scan the rows of desks in the room and directly across from me sits Weston’s cube. His desk and cube walls are full of family pictures and drawings from his kids—and, for the first time ever, a pang of envy runs through me. I want that.

  Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I swipe the locked screen to check for any missed calls or texts. I see a text message from Reagan and tap it. “Hope you have a great first day,” it reads. I close the message. Grabbing my keys, I zigzag through the rows of cubes and out the door of the police station to my car. Minutes later, I sit in her driveway, staring at her front door, my heart racing. Never in my life have I been so afraid of losing anything, or anyone. I used to fear the physical pain my father would inflict on me, but the pain of loving her and losing her because I was too fucking selfish to admit it hurts more than any punch, kick, or broken bone.

  Opening the car door, I step onto the concrete driveway and contemplate what to say. I run through every possible scenario in my head, except for the one that unfolds in front of me. There she stands, staring at me, her headphones in her ears and her body covered in sweat. I watch the beads of sweat roll from her temples and down her cheeks to her neck. I cringe when I see the pink mark spread across her throat.

  “Landon,” she says quietly, pulling the ear buds from her ears.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here.” Her voice is quiet. She walks around me toward the front door and pulls a key out from under her doormat. She unlocks the door and looks back at me, waiting for me to say something.

  “Can we talk?”

  “About?” she says quietly as she unlocks the front door.

  “Everything.” I mean it; I will answer any question she has. I will apologize a million times. I just need to talk to her—I just need her. She nods and holds the door open for me as I step into her house. Kicking off her shoes, she walks to the fridge and pulls out two bottles of water, handing one of them to me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble and follow her into the living room, where we each take a seat on her couch. She pulls her long legs and feet up onto the couch and curls them underneath her. She plays with the bottle of water, twisting and untwisting the lid on the bottle nervously.

  “Where do I even start?” I say with a sigh as I set my water bottle on her coffee table. “Bear with me; I’m not used to talking about what I’m thinking, or how I’m feeling,” I admit. She offers me a small, reassuring smile.

  “I know last night I told you some of the things that happened to me.” All of her attention is focused on me, and she nods, encouraging me to continue. “Please don’t think that I’m using that as an excuse for my behavior; it’s not an excuse as much as it is an explanation. I guess I never learned to express my feelings correctly. I truly only ever understood what it was like to feel scared and angry, and when I’m feeling vulnerable, I react by shutting people out, or never letting them in, in the first place.” Her eyes hold their gaze on me and I see the muscles in her neck, underneath the mark I left, tighten as she swallows.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know how to do ‘this.’” I motion between the two of us. “There is no denying I feel something for you, but my head is telling me not to let you in, that when you get too close, you’ll realize just how fucked up I am and you’ll leave.”

  “That’s a risk in any relationship,” she whispers. “It’s a very real feeling for anyone, Landon. You’re not different for having those fears.”

  “Maybe. But that’s why I don’t do relationships. It’s easier for me not to feel— not to care.”

  “But you just said you feel something for me,” she says nervously.

  “I do.”

  “Then let go of the fear. Trust me.” Her voice pleads with me as she pushes herself forward on the couch, moving just a little closer to me.

  “Trust me,” she whispers again. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t leave you.” She reaches out and wraps her fingers around my wrist, giving it a squeeze. Everything about her is comforting. Her words, her presence, her touch. “But we have to be honest with each other, we have to communicate, we have to trust each other.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments as I let her words sink in. Trust her. My heart wants to, but my head says trust nobody. She scoots closer to me, resting her head against my shoulder. “Talk to me. Tell me everything,” she says quietly as she laces her fingers through mine and pulls our tangled hands into her lap.

  My head is flooded with memories from so long ago, most of which I’ve buried into the depths of me, in hopes that I’d never have to relive them either physically or emotionally, yet here I am, ready to pull them to the forefront and share them with Reagan. I struggle with where to actually begin and how much I should tell her. Then I hear her words echo inside my head: trust me.

  I take a deep breath and begin. “For as far back as I can remember, my dad was an asshole. I honestly don’t remember a time where I liked him, or enjoyed being around him, even as a very young boy. It was always my mom, Lindsay, and me. I remember my mom baking cookies, and taking us to the park, and walking me to the school bus every morning.” I pick at the side of my thumb as the dusty memories become clearer, more vivid.

  “My dad was the chief of police and he was never around. Work was his priority. I’m not sure what happened or exactly when, but it was when I was around six years old, he started drinking heavily, to the point where he stopped coming home after work. He’d end up at a bar, drinking himself into a stupor. Most nights, my mom would feed us, and get us to bed before he got home. I used to see the bruises on her arms, or the occasional black eye, but I didn’t really know what was happening.”

  “Once I figured out what he was doing, I learned he was really good about hitting her where the bruises could be easily covered. I will never forget the bruise on her back that matched the outline of his shoe.” I close my eyes at the memory of that bruise. I clear my throat and Reagan squeezes my hand tighter before I continue.

  “Anyway, he used to come home and, damn near every night, he’d beat her. I used to hide in my room and just listen to it happen, listen to her cry. He tormented her.” I shudder when I think of her voice, her pleas begging him to stop. I can still hear her as if it was happening right now.

  “One night, I finally got brave enough to open my be
droom door and peek out into the living room where he was yelling at her. She was huddled in the corner in a protective ball, and he’d just kick her over and over in the ribs and on her back. I ran over to her and wrapped myself around her as best I could, and he just laughed at me trying to protect her. He pulled me off of her with one hand, and flung me across the room where I landed against another wall. It was the first time I believe I had a concussion.”

  “First time?” she whispers, and scrunches her eyebrows.

  “There were so many times, I lost count, but I remember my head hitting that wall, and I’ll never forget how bad it hurt. I blacked out for a while, and had a headache for days.” I see her physically shudder when I say that.

  “That was the night he started hitting me. It was a game to him. He’d come home, and start in on my mom—he’d taunt me by hurting her. He’d see how long it took to get me to try and stop him, and then he’d turn the beatings on to me. When he was done beating the shit out of us, he’d make me clean up any blood, or pick up anything that had gotten broken during the beating. He’d sit and laugh at me as I cleaned up the mess he made.” I take a drink of water to help ease the dryness in my throat.

  “To this day, what haunts me the most is how he’d make my mom sit in the corner and watch me clean up our blood. If I missed any, or if my mom made a sound, he’d continue hitting us, usually with blows to the back of the head. That was his favorite place to hit. There was no visible bruising through our hair.” She gasps quietly.

  “This went on for well over a year. Each night, I’d wonder if this was going to be the night he’d finally kill one of us. The beatings got progressively worse over time, much more aggressive.”

  “Why didn’t she take you and Lindsay and leave, or get help?” Her voice breaks when she asks.

  “She claimed no one would help us because of his position. Who’s going to charge the Chief of Police with child abuse and domestic violence?” I sigh. “This is exactly why I decided to go into law enforcement, because of this—because of him. I want to help those that have no one else to help them.”