Ten Thousand Points of Light

by Michelle Warren

  I tense, still coming out of a haze. Unprepared to answer him, I remain quiet. If I forget this, forget him, everything will return to normal. He’ll just be another neighbor to endure until I move out. He should be okay with that. This is what he wanted from the beginning. What I wanted from the beginning.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Cait, open the door. We need to talk.”

  He jiggles the handle, and I scramble more. I’m not afraid of him, only what he represents. Will he let himself in? Will he use his landlord key?

  He releases the locked handle and silence returns. I know he hasn’t budged because the pressure of him remains. There’s a thickness that surrounds me whenever he’s near. I didn’t realize it existed until this very moment when I wished it away.

  “Listen,” Evan’s tone lowers. “I don’t want to talk through a door, but if you’re here, make some time for me. Okay?”

  It takes a few moments, but he relents and leaves. Heavy footsteps descend the stairs until his apartment door opens and closes. It’s then that I release a breath, and the stress I held dissipates.

  I rise, relying on the sofa’s back to lift me. A shadow veils the apartment, or perhaps it’s covering me. This place has never been this lonely, now that I’m positive I can release Evan and the hold he’s had over me. I do it because I must. This is how I survive. I did it with my parents, shutting them out, and I’ll do it again. And if I can’t come to terms with sharing with Aggie, I may do it with her as well. All accounts are crippling. The pain of this acknowledgment shoots through my limbs and eats at my desolate soul.

  The wall I built to protect myself returns. It may have faltered for a brief time, but I fortify it again. I tell myself this vulnerability is okay. To keep watch and protect it takes energy. It’s exhausting. This time I only let my guard down for a short time. Next time this mistake will serve as a lesson to keep my personal life private and emerge for acceptable escapes—like work and running. They’ve kept me sane and will again.

  Weakened, I head to my bedroom and lie on my bed. Nestled between the sheets and locked in my bedroom, I’m safe. It’s my cell and personal hell. My eyes close, and I allow myself to drift to shut off my mind.

  ***

  Sharp angles of light give way to a grass. It’s bright green, new, and beautiful. The sun shines, warming my skin. I close my eyes and lift my chin to soak it in. Heat radiates behind my pink eyelids and burns my cheeks. Sunshine and pleasant temperatures are a rare gift in a Chicago, even for late April.

  When I find an empty spot among the sea of lounging students, I shrug out of my backpack and open the zipper. Inside there’s a colorful serape blanket, schoolbooks, and a cell phone. I spread the items on the ground and kick off my sandals, using them to anchor the edges of the blanket in the cool breeze.

  A group of girls giggle about a recent frat party. A football slices the air, crossing the park. One boy catches it but another tackles him with an omph. They tumble to the ground, and a group cheers for them. Another person plays a guitar in the distance. The song is a peaceful soundtrack, which matches the day.

  I have to finish my thesis this week, but I’m having a hard time focusing. I lie on the blanket and roll on my back, staring at the sky. Inside I’m bubbling with happiness, but I can’t grasp the exact reason. But it’s there, a tangible thing growing inside of me. The buildings of Northwalton University frame the blue sky. Gentle white clouds plume and roll. This day is perfect, but not because of the weather, it’s something to do with my happiness.

  My cell chirps with a message.

  I reach for it but can’t find it. It chirps several times as my hand digs into my backpack and under my books. Where is it? Where is it? My need to find it grows furious. The sound is driving me mad. With every option searched, I stand and rip away the blanket, but all I find is a large, rectangle hole. It’s the same size as my blanket but resembles a grave.

  At the sight of it my cell’s forgotten. The day turns cloudy. The people around me fade. My gut tumbles. I should step away, but I’m drawn closer to the hole. I peek in. It’s so dark I can’t see the bottom.

  Someone pushes me, a forceful punch on my shoulder blade. I hurl forward, plunging into the darkness. I scream. The piercing sound drags on as I fall. Panicked, I reach for the walls crumbling with dirt, but I’m unable to grasp them. My legs kick frantically. My T-shirt lifts, exposing my chest, while hair tangles around my face. Looking down, I find light at the end of the tunnel below my feet.

  The light swallows me whole and encases me. I squint. I can barely see. Am I still falling? I have no sense of speed. Blaring light becomes hard angles. Large shards of glass twist and spin around me. Mirrors reflected on mirrors reveal images that make no sense. They bend my reality in a confusing kaleidoscope of emotions that have colors.

  A mirror halts before me. I see myself and stare. Blood covers my abdomen. I reach down to touch it. My hand rises, dripping and stained red. Confused and losing consciousness, I stumble back, arms and legs scrambling, but smash into a wall. Frightened and heart pounding, I pivot to a new mirror. I place my hands on the glass, leaving two bloody prints. In the reflection, an inky crimson spot plumes like watercolor across the gut of my white shirt. Then a new spots form. My leg. My arm. Blood continues to seep, converting my clothes in a gruesome tie-dye.

  It’s everywhere, and I can’t stop it. My heart wretches into my throat, bobbing in a painful ache that’s splitting me from the inside out. A rumble wells inside, and I release another scream.

  ***

  I wake from the nightmare. Screaming.

  The sound lowers to heaving. My stomach lurches. I leap from bed and sprint across the room to the bathroom. With hands clenching the chilled seat, I vomit into the commode. Muscles still rigid, the contents of my stomach release until nothing but an achy hollowness remains. I slide to the floor, my body a wet noodle, back against the nearest wall, legs and arms slack, feeling like I could rip in half at my core. The tile cools my perspiration-covered skin, and I breathe heavily.

  Still panicked from the images, my gaze darts from my bathroom and out the door to my bedroom. I reassure myself it was only a dream, and I’m safe. But my sense of safety is fleeting. When I replay the vivid images from my dream, there’s one thing I’m sure of: the parts that made sense were true. A few memories of that awful day have returned.

  CHAPTER 22

  Curled on the bed crying, I remind myself this is what I wanted. This is part of the reason I returned to Chicago. To see if any part of my past might find me, sparking my memories to life, especially of that day. I believed knowing and understanding might allow me to move forward and heal. But how can I heal with only bits of my previous life trickling in? Will I be ninety and still suffering from nightmares?

  My phone buzzes, rattling my nightstand. Needing an escape, I reach for it. I swipe through, finding a missed text.

  EVAN: Can we meet up? Need 2 talk.

  Why is he pushing this? I blow hot air and set it aside before turning my back on it. My hands are tucked under my head, resting on the pillow. I bite the dry skin on my lip, peeling a dead piece away with my teeth.

  Nightmares haunt me every night for days. Though there’s nothing too telling or detailed, they’re a confusing mix of before and after images: young and old, elementary school and high school, a first job and summers spent building sand castles at the ocean, family trips to the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, holidays with families and barbeques with friends. Some faces I recognize from the after and some I can’t put a name to. It’s both frustrating and hopeful. I start a journal to catalog each memory and try to make sense of the puzzle.

  As the week progresses, Evan’s messages pile up. I can’t understand his sudden urgency to talk. Yes, I’ll talk to him, but not right now. I need to center my bearings. I have too much on my plate and refuse to face him before I’m ready. We’ve already done things on his terms, now it’s my turn.

  At work o
n Friday, when I step out of my office on my way to meet Linden, Evan strolls into the lobby. When I spot him, I swivel a new direction and shuffle on heels into the copy room for cover.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Aggie asks from her nearby desk.

  “Evan’s here,” I mouth and point down the hall.

  She peers in his direction but snaps her attention back, spine ramrod. Her eyes grow wide. “He’s talking to Lou.”

  I cringe. Great. Just what I needed, my hookup and fake-ex chatting it up and becoming friends.

  “You aren’t talking now?” she whispers back.

  I shake my head. It’s too long a story to explain. “Can you get my purse?” I point toward my office, which sits behind her.

  As if on a covert mission, Aggie pushes away from her desk, stands, and struts into my office. She opens my desk drawer, tugs out my purse, and rushes to exit. As soon as she steps over the threshold, Evan plods in. They collide, all arms and awkwardness. My purse launches from Aggie’s grip, tumbling through the air and lands at her feet. The contents spill everywhere. I wince and press myself against the wall to hide.

  “Sorry about that. Let me help you,” Evan says.

  On tiptoes I creep to new vantage point. He’s squatting to help her collect the items: compact, sunglass case, tampons, and all.

  “Aren’t you Aggie, Cait’s friend?” he asks.

  “No. I mean, yes. Of course. Best friends... sometimes.” Aggie releases a manic giggle.

  “Confusing, but I get it. So is she here?” He dumps the items he collected from the floor into my purse, and then he glances beyond her shoulder, scouring my office.

  They stand. Aggie loops the bag over her shoulder like it belongs to her. She grips it tight and steps back. “No, she left, like, hours ago. She went home? A run? A meeting? She could be anywhere? Florida?” She frowns.

  I roll my eyes. The longer she talks, the worse she babbles. This is how you know she’s lying. It’s her tell.

  “Don’t these belong to her?” Evan dangles my keys.

  “Nope, they’re mine.” She swipes at them, but he jerks them beyond her reach. She tries again to no avail. Evan is over a foot taller.

  “You see this keychain?” He points. “It says Rush Street Apartments. And this key attached? It’s the one I gave to her when she moved in, which means she’s here, somewhere.”

  Aggie’s gaze darts to mine and back to his. She adjusts her weight from one foot to the other and flaps her arms, slapping them at her side. “Okay, fine. You caught me. I lied. She’s avoiding you.”

  Aggie grits her teeth. I shrink into my spot, praying she won’t rat me out further. I should have known she’d give in.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Evan sounds exhausted.

  A new voice mingles. “Becky from accounting said she took off like a bat out of hell when she saw you,” says Lou.

  I glance around the doorframe to find Lou pointing to the other end of the office. “If you run, you may catch her on the fire stairs,” he continues.

  Evan hurries in that direction, arms swinging with determination. After he clears a few coworkers, he jogs. From over his shoulder he calls, “Thanks, Lou.”

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I emerge from the copy room, grab my handbag from Aggie, and sling it over my shoulder.

  “That’s how you do it.” Lou peers at Aggie.

  “You’re the king of deception,” I tell him. I hold out my cupped hand to Aggie. “My keys?”

  She frowns. “Evan took them.”

  My head falls back, and I stomp my foot.

  “But I have a copy,” she sings. My attention rubber bands back. Aggie drags a long yarn necklace from her sweater. At the end a silver key pops out, swinging.

  “At least there’s hope for one of you.” Lou drops an arm around Aggie’s neck, claiming her.

  She lifts the necklace over her head and drops the key into my palm. On a mission to escape, I’m already marching away.

  “But don’t you want to know what Evan and I talked about?” Lou calls to me, but I wave him off. I don’t even want to think about it, much less know. Turning the corner, I dash across the lobby.

  “Cait, I need to talk to you.” Linden appears, his arms raised.

  “Can’t talk. Late for a meeting.” My feet scurry toward the opening doors of the elevator. I dodge someone stepping out and leap inside. I press the close door key five times before it slides shut, just as Linden calls my name on the other side.

  I sink into the wall, drag my purse off my shoulder, and let it swing low near the floor. Moments later, I’m melting into the chaos of the city: pedestrians, cars, horns honking, and buses beeping. It’s when I’m several blocks away I remember I actually do have an appointment with James. I glance at the clock on my phone. Fifteen minutes, barely enough time to meet him.

  Before I step inside the lobby of the Kinzie Street building, I take several deep breaths. In the reflection of the front windows, I tug at my black jacket and smooth out my hair. Today it’s back in a tight, manageable bun.

  Inside, James stands beside the security desk, scrolling through his cell. I assume a pleasant facade and approach.

  “You’re always early.” I smile.

  “You’re always right on time.” We shake hands. His grip lingers longer than it should, but I drag mine away politely.

  It’s clear I’ll have to remind him I’m not interested in anything beyond a friendship or business. I should have been more adamant from the beginning, but I’ve enjoyed his flirtatious attention. Though it was wrong, I know why I did. I was wishing it were from another source. Now I see the oversight for what it was, a useless fantasy I should have never provoked.

  “I think you’ll really enjoy this property. It has everything on your checklist.”

  I stride past him, forgoing any pleasantries. He holds the elevator door open. In the cab, I’m relaying information about the building: there’s a Starbucks on the first floor, a parking garage with fifty designated spots, and a private bike rack room. The elevator dings and the doors spread, leading into the space. As soon as we enter, I know he’s impressed by his general look of awe.

  I continue, “With the exposed natural beams, the high ceilings, and the southern exposure, this space will lease quickly. It’s rumored that Mock and Cohan are considering it.”

  “Mentioning a rival firm to close a sale?” he asks.

  “I have it on good authority. Though I know something they don’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rockford Company, the tenant who occupies the space next door, is vacating soon. Their five-thousand-square-foot rooftop deck will be available, and it could be Lakeman’s if they move fast.”

  “That’s something to consider.” He paces the long length of the space. “I can already see it. The reception desk here; the offices can line the perimeter windows.

  “That’s what I was thinking too. And this area over here for the research library.” I traverse the space, pointing out the features.

  He joins my side at the windows. The view looks out at the Chicago River.

  “The paralegals will never get anything done with this view.”

  “I know a great blackout shade company. They specialize in commercial properties.”

  “You have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “I try.” I rock back on my heels.

  “And humble. The more I get to know you, the more I like you,” he admits and faces me.

  With his words, the pressure of his interest returns. Though this is a good opening to discuss us, I don’t take it. He’ll be disappointed with my rejection, and I don’t want it to affect the deal.

  I clear my throat and step away. “Let’s check out the roof deck. I’m the only agent in town with access.”

  On the roof, James leans over a railing gazing out at the view. “This is pretty spectacular, and you’re right. The partners will love it.”

  “Should we set
a time to bring them over?” I clench my papers to my chest. A surge of relief rushes over me as Ozzy’s house on Astor Street flashes behind my eyes.

  “I’d like to get this in motion. In case Mock and Cohan are serious.” He grins, like he doesn’t believe me.

  “How about Monday morning?”

  “Not soon enough.” He removes his cell, dials, and presses it to his ear. His hair curls around his fingers. “How about right now?”

  He speaks into the phone. “Hey, Jess. Pass me through to Walter.”

  James meanders to the other side of the deck for privacy. While he’s occupied I remove my cell. It’s been buzzing nonstop since I left the office. I’m relieved when I see it’s only Aggie.

  AGGIE: Evan must really want 2 talk 2 u. He’s still here.

  I text her, my fingers racing over the buttons.

  ME: Let him. I’ll b here 4ever. They like this property.

  AGGIE: Really? YAY! But do U want me 2 say anything 2 Evan?

  ME: If he bugs u, tell him I’ll talk 2 him 2night.

  When James approaches, I slip my phone into my purse and give him my full attention.

  “They’re on their way,” he says.

  CHAPTER 23

  The partners of James’s firm arrive an hour later. After giving a lengthy tour of the property, plus answering every question, I’m fairly certain they’ll make an offer. But still, I’m cautiously excited.

  Before they leave, I shake everyone’s hands and wish them a nice weekend. They funnel out of the lobby, appearing pleased.

  “When will you have papers ready?” James rucks his wool coat over his shoulders and straighten his lapels. He secures the buttons.

  “Tonight. I’ll run back to the offi—” My words fade when I remember Evan’s at the office waiting for me. I can’t afford for this day to take a turn for the worse. I clear my throat and continue, “Actually, now that think about it, I left them on my desk at home. I’ll run past and pick them up.”

  “Can I take you? I have a car waiting outside.”