by Rachel Hanna
Except my past, which leads me to expect the worst any time anything I'm not expecting happens. I hate surprises. I hate suspense. Reed was right – now I've had one meeting with the station team, I know what to expect. He probably didn't know the reasoning behind it, but he's not wrong that now I know what to expect, I can do it on my own.
If I were going through therapy the therapist would call this PTSD or some other official name like that. All it means, basically, is that my own father tried to kill me. All those nights I spent back in Seattle, sitting at home, 14, 15 years old, waiting for him to come home and never knowing exactly which father would come home. At the time the investigation happened following his death, the police assumed that every single night my mother worked, my father went out and got drunk and furthermore, that he came home combative and abusive and hit me.
Not true. Sometimes he came home morose and weepy and cried at the kitchen table for hours about letting down the family, letting me down, how much I deserved, how wonderful I was, how much he loved my mother and me. Small wonder that people telling me I deserve something makes me edgy and anxious.
Other nights he'd come home so drunk I was afraid he'd asphyxiate on his own vomit before morning. I'd help him in the bathroom, help him clean up, leave him to shower as soon as black coffee and cold water on his face got him conscious enough to do so without my help, a step farther than I was willing to go.
Then some nights he came home bellowing, slamming doors, stomping around, hitting me, and those at least the suspense was over the instant he got home. Unlike the nights he came home so quiet I'd hope he was sober. Only to turn on me the instant he found something to turn on me about. Because he'd be looking. Shoes left on the foyer floor rather than the shoe rack my mother had beside the front door? Instant outrage. A coffee cup in the sink, never mind if it was his from that morning? Cardinal sin. There was no way to win, no way to be perfect enough he couldn't find something to lose his temper about because he was looking for something to lose his temper about, and eventually he'd find it and then he'd explode.
That's why suspense and I don't get along well. Want me to enjoy a birthday? Do not throw me a surprise party. My fight or flight will probably mean flight, but there's no guarantee.
Like so many abusers, my father had an instinctive ability to keep just enough sanity in his rage to hit where it couldn't be seen. It wasn't like he was slapping me across the face, leaving bruised lips, broken noses, black eyes. I had bruises on my upper arms, my wrists, yes, but those were easy to hide, like a cutter friend I had in high school, I became the master (or maybe the mistress) of the floating diaphanous long-sleeved garment in summer; in winter long sleeved t-shirts were my best friends.
That's why as I watch the dance floor, every second I don't see Emmy compounds the terror. Because I know what people can hide in plain sight. She could be shoved into a corner, the hot but inoffensive looking guy I'd seen her dancing with just instants ago traded in for some enormous hulking guy or one of those lean wiry dudes whose strength is deceptive, more than it looks like and when they grab your wrist, it's like hundreds of pounds of pressure brought to bear.
Scanning the crowd, panicking over Emmy, I've lost track of my own surroundings. That almost never happens. Vigilance, that's my watchword. I've just gone up on tiptoes, her name on the tip of my tongue, as if anyone in here is going to hear me however loud I shout, when someone touches my arm at the same time a voice says directly in my ear, "Willow!"
Hands turn to fists at the same time they tuck around my ribs, hands fisted but buried in my armpits. Protection position. Doesn't help. It's just nature.
Instants later it's not necessary. I'm face to face with Reed Miller.
"Hi!" I blurt out. Ever the original, Willow.
"Great to see you here," he says, as if we didn't just see each other a few hours ago. "Who are you looking for? Kellan?"
I blink at him. He knows what Kellan did, but maybe I never told him about Kellan's parole. Actually, most people probably don’t think about it, or associate not being able to go to a bar or drink with not being able to go dancing because there will be a bar on the premises.
I hadn't, a slight flush of remorse that I'd made Kellan tell me that again when I'd asked if he wanted to come with us. I could have spared him that, especially since I didn't even want him to come with us since he and Emmy are so uncomfortable around each other.
"No," I tell Reed, looking past him onto the dance floor. "I came with Emmy. Have you seen her?"
Reed looks surprised for no reason I can think of and says, "No. Hey," as the lean beautiful blond appears at his side, flushed and smiling. She flicks her hair over her shoulder in a notice me move that I can't help but notice. Strawberry blond hair like mine is a great color but it's lightweight hair – lousy for flicking.
Of course, I'm not in competition with her, I remind myself. Though sometimes it's hard to remember when Reed's around me. I didn't back out of a relationship with him because of him but because of me and everything that's happened. If I'd been the same as any other college freshmen, by the time Kellan arrived I'd have already had a boyfriend.
"Come dance with me," the blond says, tugging at Reed's hand. Her blue eyes flick to me. Definitely wants him somewhere away from me.
"In a sec," Reed says to her without looking away from me, which is complimentary but not good: he deserves a relationship. I'm not trying to stop him despite that momentary lapse of reason and flash of jealousy. To me, he says, "Is something wrong? You look upset. Is Emmy in trouble?"
The blond huffs loudly enough to be audible over the music and goes back to the dance floor by herself. She really moves well and within minutes she's got a willing partner. This part of South Carolina apparently breeds beautiful men.
Reed doesn't even blink at his date having gone off with some guy. Whatever. I have to find Emmy.
"I don't think so," I answer him, still scanning the crowd. "It's just that we came together and promised to keep our eyes open for each other and I haven't seen her in – " two songs, it's been two songs now – "a couple minutes."
Reed looks at me not like he thinks I'm crazy, but maybe like I'm overreacting a little. Y'think? I ask myself. And then there's Em, moving our way, coming back from the bathroom, and I'm relieved and embarrassed, all at once. She sees us, waves, winks at me as soon as Reed turns back to me, and disappears in the direction of the bar. How is this keeping me safe, Emmy? I ask internally, laughing at myself.
"So would you like to dance?" Reed asks. He's already holding out one hand to me.
Ever the smooth one, I ask, "Didn't you come with that girl over there?" and nod towards the dance floor.
Reed doesn't bother to follow my gaze. "I did, but we're not Siamese twins or anything." His hand is still held out, invitingly. My mid-year resolution, ever since showing the forgiveness videos to my family and Moving On with My Life in capital letters is to do the things that make me happy.
I take Reed's hand and allow him to lead me to the dance floor. He can really dance! I'm not bad even if I haven't danced much since high school. All those nights alone when I wasn't dating or going anywhere with friends I still danced at home, alone, sometimes. I don't recognize the song the band is playing but the girl singer's voice is throaty and the song is fast. Reed and I move together like we've been doing this just about forever.
Two songs, then three, and I look over to see Emmy is sitting at one of the bars now, drinking a Coke, and Reed's date is nowhere to be seen. I signal him I need a breather and we go over to join Emmy.
"I think your date ran away," Emmy says. Perhaps it's the fact that she never even contemplated having a date with Reed but Emmy is perfectly comfortable with him. Still, I've seen her looking his way from time to time. That would be a great match, my two best friends. Plus she can talk comfortably to him. Me, I'm constantly sure I'm putting my foot in my mouth or making a fool of myself. So I either don't talk much or I talk in nonsense bl
urts. Or I talk about the station. I catch myself just as I'm about to start that.
There's no need anyway. Because Emmy's asking Reed a couple dozen questions about Boston and his job and who the girl was and how they met and what he's doing in Charleston, did he come to visit his father? And so on and so forth and I'm surreptitiously catching my breath from all the dancing and just starting to wonder what Reed is doing here.
He wouldn't have come to visit his father. Henry Tate Miller isn't the type of father you come home to visit with. He's the type of father you send clippings to, as long as you were number one whatever in the clipping. First in your class at law school? Send the clipping. Second in an Iron Man triathlon? Don't bother. Besides, Reed's brother Evan, who'd tried to commit suicide right after school started, he's the one in law school. Reed's the black sheep of his family, the one pursuing the non-prescribed path.
Suddenly, I'm actually pursuing this line of thought while Emmy is telling Reed something long, something that allows me time in my own thoughts. Which isn't always the best thing in the world.
If Reed didn't come to visit family, especially since his brother and dad aren't in Charleston, then OK, I can accept that Dexter called him and mentioned I was having a hard time with the first meeting and that Reed came down to help out. It makes sense, it's kind and thoughtful, and it's not even that far over the top: He did kind of dump the entire station on me when he took off so unexpectedly for the job in Boston. Not that I minded, or that I wasn't flattered and happy with it, but that he might come back to lend some guidance past what my broadcast journalism class professor is giving me makes sense.
So why's he here tonight? He didn't have a girlfriend in Charleston. His father would have thrown that in my face too if Reed had had a girlfriend. Is he traveling with her? If so, wouldn't he have mentioned it?
Of course, he could have a whole life before I ever met him, all of a few weeks ago when the semester started, I tell myself sarcastically. I'm swinging one foot from the barstool, starting to let the rhythm of the music catch me up again. Just a niggle of worry though, threading through my thoughts.
That the girl is a front. Because he certainly doesn't seem to mind that she's gone off to dance with other people and isn't coming back. He's happily hanging out with me.
No, I tell myself sternly. With you and Emmy. He doesn't seem to mind at all talking with Emmy. So maybe it's nothing.
And maybe he did come back because of me.
Which I'd be a lot more comfortable with if I knew how I felt about it.
Chapter 5
The three of us go dance after the music catches me so thoroughly I can't stand it. I grab both their hands, drag them with me, we make room and the water eddying under the floor makes me dizzy but I like it. I like the kinetic energy around us, the sound of the music and the sound of the crowd.
It's like dipping back into life. I've needed this.
* * *
After we leave the club we head to a nearby Italian restaurant for food, sharing a large pizza and sodas. We talk about the places we're from, Emmy from a trailer set on five acres, surrounded by goats and chickens, and Reed having grown up in Georgia and South Carolina, and me from Seattle, since both of them now know. I talk about the cold, wet, damp climate that can either energize or kill, about Seattle's suicide rates but also about the incredible neighborhoods and the beautiful parts of it, the energy in the downtown, the youth and art movements, the tech centers. I talk about friends who rehabbed an old Victorian, all of four stories tall, when they were just out of high school, a couple years older than me, but they all worked for Microsoft and Adobe and they could afford it. They rented out rooms to friends and while the cost was expensive for a room, every room had a bathroom and the house was exquisite and all of it was available to everyone living there for parties and get togethers and …
I trail off. Neither of them asks why. They understand. I might have moved into Uphill, which is what they called the house, which was almost a commune, with people growing their own veggies in the back yard and everyone taking care of the four cats and two dogs and each other.
But other things had happened in my life. "So," I say brightly, with no idea what conversational gambit to throw out yet. There's a moment when the three of us avoid each other's eyes and then Emmy sparks up on favorite Charleston restaurants, dives, bars and hangouts and we're off and running, conversationally, again. Maybe a little too loudly and with a little more energy than the conversation requires.
That's OK. I'm grateful.
And then my thoughts dip back again to why Reed's in town. What happened to his date. Whether he was looking for me.
Whether it was a coincidence that he was at the same club we were and that we're all here now, having pizza, something Kellan could more than do too.
Whether this should worry me.
* * *
"When I was growing up in the middle of nowhere, I always used to dream about nights like this," Emmy says. She sounds wistful, even though we've just had a "night like this." Her attention's on the road, and she's driving quite well through the downtown streets, which are still more crowded at this hour than I'd expect, but her voice has that distant quality, the way people sound when they're talking about something that's long ago and in a galaxy far, far away.
I'm content to listen. The moon's out and when she drops me by my house, I'll be able to see it tracking in a glistening arc across the waves. This is one of those times I'm not sure if I should interrupt with interrogatories or agreements, so I stay quiet, looking at her and looking out at the city around us in turns.
"It wasn't just the abuse," Emmy says. Having told me once that her father abused her, Emmy seems comfortable talking about it. I'm still not sure how I feel about hearing about it, but if I'm going to get a handle on this friendship thing, I guess I need to get used to people talking about things they need to talk about, whether or not those topics make me uncomfortable. "It was the money. And where we lived. The chickens." She giggles, throws me a look. "I blame the chickens."
Smiling a little, I say, "Me, too."
Emmy laughs outright. "You didn't have chickens."
"And I blame them for that, as well."
Emmy bites her lip, staring at the road ahead. "Well, in that case, what else can we blame?"
I'm not sure what she's playing at but I'm game to make the conversation light rather than discussing abuse. Some nights I'm just not up for the deep dark. This seems more true since I've started the process of forgiving myself. Brooding just convinces me there's even more to be forgiven for. "Wallabies?" I ask. "Kangaroos. All big cats. All fuzzy creatures. None of them ever did a thing to help me out."
I wince. That cuts a little too close to home. My mother never did anything to help me out. Doesn't matter that she didn't know. It still stands between us.
I see Emmy's face go sad and hard briefly, but she picks up where I left off. "Albatrosses. Is that the plural? Albatri. Albatrax."
"Big birds," I put in, and that makes us both laugh, and then we're both listing every big bird we can think of, including owls and scary pigeons and broken roosters like the one I sometimes hear even though we're on a beach. When I can't sleep, broken rooster wakes me. The bird sounds like it has laryngitis. That makes Emmy laugh so hard she slaps the steering wheel.
When she turns back into my neighborhood, I interrupt the laughter before she turns right toward my house and ask her to take me to the communications building on campus.
"Willow, it's one o'clock in the morning," Emmy protests. "Saturday morning."
"Yeah, but the engineers who volunteer to work Friday nights are suspect," I answer.
"What do you suspect them of?"
"Not having anything else to do." I bite a thumb nail and try to make myself stop it. I should make myself stop this, too. I should ask her to take me home. If I'm going to be operations manager and production person and whatever other hats I end up wearing, I should learn to deleg
ate.
All the while I'm thinking that, Emmy's driving us to campus. When she stops in front of the building, she says, "I'll go in with you."
"No, thanks, no need," I tell her. "I'll walk home. It's five minutes, Emmy, don't give me that face. You look like a mother – " I start laughing again. "Hen," we finish together. Yet another bird to be blamed for something.
"I don't like leaving you here."
"I promise I'll be fine. If I get worried, I'll take a cab back." Though taking a cab makes the trip three times longer than just walking back along the beach in full view of all those houses.
"OK," Em says slowly. "Did you have fun tonight?"
"I did," I tell her and I'm pleased that I'm not that surprised. I'm making friends again. It feels nice.
I step out of Emmy's car, slam the door and walk to the building with my keys out, in my hand. Unlocking the door, I flip on the lights, old fluorescents that hum. Turn and wave Emmy off and she waves and pulls away and for just an instant, I feel very alone as I watch her taillights.
Then I take a look around the empty parking lot, just making sure, go in and make sure the door closes tightly behind me, and head to the office/multipurpose room/reception space that serves as "executive offices" at the little college station.
We're off the air at this hour. Reruns of sitcoms rolled throughout early evening, followed by a couple student documentaries and a rerun of one of the forgiveness series. Ashley or Zach would have been here at 11, doing the editing for the sports while the engineers ran tapes and videos of stories stringers have turned in. Ashley and Zach take turns on Friday nights. This was a Zach night, according to the log. There's a log of the stories covered. There's Dexter's sports log of clips run. After that there would have been the sitcoms, canned laughter attended to by engineers on internships and then off air just a little while ago, at one a.m. I have a feeling our market share on Friday nights is as low as anything can conceivably get.