Considerable Destruction Series (Book 1): Evasion (

by Hernandez, Erica

  Evasion

  Considerable Destruction Series

  Erica L Hernandez

  WarPony Publishing

  Copyright Page

  All characters and situations are fictitious creations of the author. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, events, incidents, and places are developed in the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.

  All medical decisions are solely the opinion of the author and not meant as medical advice.

  C 2018 by Erica L Hernandez

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher.

  Published by: War Pony Publishing

  Eugene, OR 97405

  USA

  Book design by Erica L Hernandez

  Cover design by Erica L Hernandez in consult with Roseanna Smith

  Cover photographs by Roseanna Smith

  ISBN # 978-1-64669-676-5

  ISBN # 978-1-64669-522-5

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Eliana

  2. Simon

  3. Eliana

  4. Sam

  5. Eliana

  6. Eliana

  7. Sam

  8. Simon

  9. Eliana

  10. Eliana

  11. Eliana

  12. Jose’s Perspective

  13. Eliana

  14. Simon

  15. Sam

  16. Eliana

  17. Eliana

  18. Eliana

  19. Simon

  20. Eliana

  21. Sam

  22. Eliana

  23. Simon

  24. Eliana

  25. Eliana

  26. Eliana

  27. Sam

  28. Eliana

  29. Sam

  30. Eliana

  31. Eliana

  32. Eliana

  33. Eliana

  34. Eliana

  35. Eliana

  36. Simon

  37. Eliana

  38. Eliana

  39. Simon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In memory of

  Shawheen Shomloo

  1985-2015

  I will always love you…

  My husband and children

  Homeless and Suicidal People

  Everywhere

  Five percent of the proceeds of this book will be donated to organizations which help the homeless population of America

  An additional five percent will be donated to organizations which help prevent suicide

  One

  Eliana

  At Work

  On a brisk October day, I park my car, watching a laughing young couple go by hand-in-hand, their eyes sparkling with young love, complete focus on each other. My chest aches watching them, wondering if my husband and I will ever get back together again as a heavy, melancholic nostalgia descends. My dog, Sheba, follows me up the flights of stairs that lead to my south-facing suite of offices which I share with a few fellow therapists. She’s a devoted, therapy dog, stopping people who remark on her glossy tan coat, dark markings, and Egyptian eye liner. Most are familiar with Shepherds but they’ve never seen a Belgian Malinois. “Good morning, Jack!”

  “Good morning, Eliana. What a beautiful day!” Jack ambles, penguin-like back to his office in his batik, purple and blue print shirt over his barrel chest.

  “Isn’t it? It’s so sunny and crisp.” I step into my empty office. One of my neighbors is out, probably getting coffee, and the other is in her office. I love the sun shining in. I sit down to get my files out for the clients I’m seeing today, checking my messages.

  Looking at my children’s high school graduation pictures from last year, Eli’s wide grin with bright blue eyes, Gracie’s coy smile under soulful eyes, reminds me of my husband, Jose. We never got divorced, but have been separated for years. He’s a good man, decent, kind, and a hard worker. My melancholy feels heavy in my gut. We were together for about eighteen years, during which time we struggled with our cultural differences.

  He’s from Guatemala, immigrating to the United States during a period of guerilla warfare. He resisted as the guerilla’s tried to recruit him to fight their cause, refused their requests, yet developed a trauma reaction from seeing severed heads in the street during the war.

  I always struggled with the division of labor his conservative ideas implied. At first, our division of labor made sense, he’d maintain the cars, the house, and the yard during his evenings and weekends, while I would do the grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning since I was home. But then, we had babies. My work load increased exponentially, while his didn’t. I began to realize that most of his work was occasional, while mine was daily. It still seemed okay, until I went back to work, my profession developing to full-time, making it too much to manage with all the domestic duties on top. From his Latino perspective, it was the woman’s job to do those domestic duties and anything he did inside was helping me.

  I go to the restroom, checking my curly, blonde ponytail in the mirror to make sure my fhair is somewhat smooth. I’ve always liked having long hair for the styling flexibility. I look at my blue eyes and pug nose, smiling at myself to examine my wrinkles as dimples mark my cheeks. I’m comfortable in black oxfords, black slacks, and a print shirt.

  Thinking of Jose, I return to my office, sagging in my chair, missing him. Raising two children close in age made it difficult for us to work on our relationship as we both prioritized our children’s needs. He never strayed, never had problems with drugs or alcohol and was never violent. We fought, helplessly, pointlessly, and I began to emotionally distance myself from him. Remembering him, my chest constricts. I pull myself up, ramrod straight, remembering how he struggled with the winter blues in the Willamette Valley, as the weather is predominantly cloudy, sun is scarce, and the days get pretty short. I realized how much that affected him, but struggled to remain patient. I remember him cranky and critical of me in the winter. Every spring in those early years, we would fall in love all over again as he regained his good humor. I lean over, pulling files out of my bottom drawer, my pony tail tickling my cheek, making me flick it back.

  “Guatemala o guatepeor?” he would joke, always ready with humor to lighten a moment. His eyes would sparkle with jokes I struggled to understand. Guate-bad or guate-worse? He worked hard, remodeling much of our home himself. He created beautiful flower gardens in front with well producing produce gardens in back, using his knowledge of farming and food production. When my eldest son, Rasheen, died, I lost patience with anything that hurt me. I just couldn’t tolerate any more pain. For three years, I cried every day, many times a day, aching and agitated with grief. I remember my brilliant son, on one hand accepted to medical school first cut, on the other the addictions that killed him. I tried to hide my emotions, take care of my children and manage my career. Stuck in his own cultural expectations and knowing Rasheen as a step-father, he was unable to understand my hurt and confusion. The problems we had pushed us further apart, until we finally separated.

  I have a strange feeling that something isn’t right with the world, as my chest aches with a knowing sensation. I’ve learned to listen to these sensations, since every other time they’ve been right. I remember the time I was told to stop at a green light as seconds later a speeding driver barreled through the intersection. While the feeling gnaws in my chest
, I must set it aside to focus on my role as a psychotherapist.

  My first client comes, breathing heavily from hiking the stairs, her white hair in a bun, her face covered with a white mask.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should come in today, but I needed to see you. I’m feeling sick and I don’t want you to get it so I wore this.” She sounds hoarse as she points to the mask, her skin pasty and moist with sweat.

  “Do you have a fever?” I ask, concerned at her appearance, wanting to touch her forehead, but therapists don’t touch their clients without being asked.

  “Only a small one,” she replies. “It’s probably nothing.”

  The feeling in my chest tugs at me.

  “What’s on your mind?” I probe.

  “You know I’ve been working on attracting men my own age. I was making progress, wasn’t I?” Her eyes fill with tears. I frown slightly at her unexpected tears.

  “Yes, absolutely. Just a couple weeks ago you talked about that gentleman in your yoga class!”

  “Exactly. That was a real step in the right direction,” she sighs. Up until then she was using money to lure young men. “Saturday evening, I went out to a nice restaurant and bar, saw a handsome young man with a couple friends, probably college students…” she sighs again, slumping in her seat, coughing deeply. “I started buying him drinks, then for all of them, and soon I was sitting with them, inviting them back to my place for a party! I got them all high, offered them money, and asked if we could play sex games. It was so exciting. They got into it and started undressing. Their tight abs and firm chest muscles, ooh, It’s like a drug. It made me high and I wanted more. I woke up in the morning, they were gone and… I knew I wouldn’t see them again. I felt so ashamed of myself, God, forty years older…” she begins to cry. “I don’t know if I’ll ever have a normal, healthy relationship!”

  She starts coughing. The cough is deep and wet, almost growling as I notice fresh sweat break out on her brow. I get her a cup of water. “All progress includes setbacks. Prior to Saturday, you had been doing really well. Are you going to be okay to continue? It looks like you’re struggling to breathe.” I recognize her efforts to work through her sexual addictions and try to help her release her shame during her relapse. “What might have helped you feel excited without needing to indulge in this addiction?” I ask.

  She dismisses my question, continuing, processing the last one.

  At the end of our session, I usually walk my clients to the door, but today I keep my distance, watching her stagger out. That gnawing sensation comes to the foreground and I wonder if it’s related to her illness. I use the restroom to wash my hands again.

  Zeke pops his head out his door, “No client?”

  “No sign. What about you?”

  “None. They’re all flaking out.” He leans against the door frame in a laidback manner, his short, husky frame relaxed with greying curls resting on his shoulders.

  Just then Sally opens her door. “Is the party out here, because there ain’t nobody in there!” Sally is casual, a hippy, with long dreadlocks wound up in a blonde bun, black leggings and a tie-dyed dress with Birkenstocks.

  “I guess so!” I laugh. These people are great to visit with when clients don’t show up.

  “Hey, I’m in the same boat.” Jack looks out of his office. “It’s pretty bizarre that none of us has a client.”

  “No clients, huh?” Sally leans towards his office.

  Jack laughs, opening his door wider, “Nah. I haven’t had a client show up yet and I can’t seem to reach them by phone so I’m playing Mah Jong.”

  “I heard there’s a flu going around, but this is bizarre,” Sally adds. “I wonder if that’s the problem?”

  “What’re they saying about the flu?” I ask. “I don’t pay attention to the news.” I’m interested and that gnawing sensation flutters, connecting with the flu talk.

  “They’re saying it’s pretty bad,” Sally says. “They’ve got it under control but it’s been a problem up north.” She points in that general direction.

  “I have a feeling they’re not telling us everything. I’ve got good herbs, I think I can fight off just about anything!” I’m already thinking about what I’ll do when I get home.

  “You’re into herbs,” Zeke chuckles. “Whatever it is, I’m doing it too!”

  “You’d do whatever Eliana was doing!” Sally teases.

  “Oh, I just like to follow her advice. She knows her stuff!” Zeke’s snorty chuckle bubbles forth.

  “I’ll make my cold fighter tea with elderberries and take Lysine for sure. I’m not worried,” I laugh. They tend to tease me about my herbal interests, but with this flu and my gut feeling, I’ll definitely be preparing some immune boosters. I wonder what my kids are seeing on the University of Oregon campus.

  We hang out for a while, then stroll back to our respective offices. I start to text my missing client, but he beats me to it. “Sorry I’m late, almost there, but feeling sick. Is it okay if I come?” He texts. I text back that he should. While I wait, I get done what I can; filing, billing preparation, and checking insurance. I was glad I got licensed before my third son was born. It was so much harder with the other two when I only had my bachelor’s degree. I love this work; the helping people improve.

  There’s a knock at the door. Sheba barks and I tell her to sit, opening the door for my client, Walt.

  “I was so tired, dragging with this flu, that it was hard to get moving.” His breath rattles in his chest as he leans on the door frame for balance.

  “Do you think you have the flu that’s going around?” I ask, concerned.

  “I don’t think I’m that sick. There’s some crazy shit on line about people getting violent with the flu. I’ve just had a headache, a sore throat, and I’ve been really tired.”

  “Violent? Are you stressed about that?”

  “No. I’m just trying to stay away from that shit.” He goes on to talk about how long he’s been sick, how much he’s been sleeping, and describing his physical symptoms. I realize he’s much sicker than he thinks he is.

  “I have these painful lumps in my neck. I went to the doctor and he wouldn’t give me anything.”

  After a while, I notice that he’s getting agitated, sweating and shivering, getting quieter, even dozing off briefly in my office. I’m wondering if he’s experiencing depression with the flu, when he jolts awake. “Where the hell am I?” he yells, his head jerks left and right, looking all around my office, like he’s in a strange place.

  “You’re in my office for therapy,” I tell him, a forced calm, trying to ground him with my voice. Sheba begins to growl at him, standing up on the couch, her fur up in spikes down her back. I observe her bizarre behavior out of the corner of my eye, keeping my focus on my sick client, while my chest tightens. This is very unlike the easy-going Walt I know.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He jumps up, climbs on the coffee table, weaving back and forth. He begins kicking things to the floor. “Who the hell are you. You can’t keep me here!”

  Sheba crouches slightly, beginning to move slowly towards him, growling. She edges her body in front of me, making a barrier between him and myself. My chest tenses further, while I go into professional autopilot mode.

  “Of course, you’re welcome to leave,” I say with quiet intensity, getting up, moving towards the door, and opening it, but never turning my back on him.

  He leaps off the table, swinging his fists at me. Sheba jumps up, grabbing his arm in her mouth as he draws his fist back to hit me.

  “Your fucking dog bit me!” he screams.

  “You need to leave now!” I say shakily, my chest tight, controlling my breathing, while holding the door open for him. He hurtles out the door into the waiting room, but instead of leaving, he barges into Zeke’s office. I run after him, “Zeke, I’m sorry. He’s….” Zeke leaps to his feet, pulling his client behind him. Walt sweeps things off the shelves onto the floor, trashing Zek
e’s office.

  “Hey, man,” Zeke thunders at Walt. “Get out! Get out now!” I never realized Zeke could sound so forceful.

  Sally bursts in. “I called the police but the line is busy!”

  Walt begins to scream, tearing at his hair. He falls to his knees, crying, “They locked me in the office, a gang was tying my hands behind my back. They called their dogs to kill me… They’re going to get you too!” He’s delusional, making no sense at all. I surreptitiously call 911 on my cell.

  “When did you see the gang members,” I ask, forcing my voice into a quiet timber, not getting an answer from 911. He’s never been like this before. Zeke gives me a questioning look and I shake my head, letting him know this is something totally new.

  “They were right there!” he sobs, beginning a wracking cough like I heard in my earlier client.

  “Walt, I think you’ll be safer out in this spacious room,” I wave out into the waiting area. “There’s no one there. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Walt jumps up, lurches toward Zeke’s window, looking down on the roof below us, then turns, streaks out the door, through the waiting area, and is gone. Sheba’s hackles begin to smooth down and she stops growling.

  “I’m so sorry!” I apologize to Zeke and his young client who is white as a sheet. She is visibly shaken, cowering behind him. Sheba walks over to her, nuzzles her gently with her nose and licks her hand. She crumples to the floor, crying, and hugging Sheba.