by Matayo, Amy
“I’m not a guest.”
She brushes past me to check her teeth in the bathroom mirror. I lean against the counter and curse the glass for not yet fogging over.
“What are you doing here so early?”
Satisfied, she straightens. “The counseling center called. You didn’t show up yesterday.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look at the floor. “Why did they call you? They have no right to just—”
“I’m paying the bill, so of course they have a right. More importantly, I have a right to know if my daughter is shrugging off her mental health at a time like this. Do you know how high your odds are of slipping into depression after a trauma like you’ve been through? Do you know that suicide risks increase after being held at gunpoint? After being forced against your will to...”
“Mom, you do know it’s my job, right?”
She sighs, long and loud, the way mothers have perfected over centuries of helicopter parenting. I wonder if Jesus rolled his eyes when his mother sighed. Hey Mary, did you know that you sometimes drove the Savior of the world absolutely bonkers? Now there’s a line in the Christmas song no one ever sings.
“It’s your job to protect people, but not at your own peril.”
And this is where I tune her out, because that is the exact definition of my job. And of course, I know the odds. She’s recited them to me word for word no less than one hundred times since I walked out of that arena. I’m so sick of hearing about the odds that part of me would like to shut myself back inside that closet and spend the next twenty-four hours in darkness and solitude.
What’s worse, my mother is a yoga instructor at the local gym. With about ten loyal clients. All of her supposed knowledge? She got it from Wikipedia. What’s worse than that? I should have known agreeing to let her pay for my sessions would come with thick black drawstrings attached to the arrangement. My mother never does anything just because.
“Are you even listening to me?” She does that thing. That mom thing where one eyebrow raises slowly like a knife, just before it cuts you down the middle.
“I heard every word,” I lie. “I’ll go today. If they call you back, tell them I’ll be there at four.” I might as well be agreeing to have all my teeth pulled, that’s how enthusiastic I sound.
She gives a single nod. “That’s what I like to hear.” She eyes the towel, my dirty hair, my make-up free face. “Don’t you need to be at work?”
I do. But this is only a cursory question for my mother; she doesn’t give me a chance to respond.
“Jane, get in the shower.” She sighs and walks out of the bathroom, calling behind herself. “You’d never get anywhere on time if I didn’t show up to see to it.”
I bite my lip. Drop the towel. Wait, stark naked, for the pause at the kitchen counter as she rifles through my mail. The suction of the refrigerator as she helps herself to a water bottle. The squeak of the front door as she opens it. The turn of the lock as she leaves.
And after I hear those things?
The four-letter words start flying.
* * *
Teddy
“You can’t have her.”
My menacing words are a command, but they don’t elicit the reaction I expect. The man laughs, just laughs, while I stare him down onstage. Spotlights blind me, but I can see his face clearly. He has the oddest beard, shaved close at the sides, long and pointed at the front, three inches...four inches in length, and I can’t stop staring at it. I want to reach out and pull it off, but I can’t move my arms. They’re weighted, numb like I’ve slept on them all night. I drop the microphone I’m holding and watch it roll across the floor. But I don’t care about it; Jane is behind me, and this man is trying to take her.
“Did you hear me?” I say again. “I said you can’t have her.”
The man just grins like a man who shares secrets with the devil.
Raises a gun.
And shoots Jane in the head.
The bullet exits and whizzes right over my left shoulder.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I’m underground. I have no voice. My body starts shaking. Shaking and shaking and shaking while my mouth fills with cement. This is how I die, alongside Jane, too powerless to save either one of us while the crowd watches it all unfold. I try again to cry out, but my voice no longer works.
“Teddy! Stop punching me! Stop punching me and wake up!”
I open my eyes and jerk upright. I’m in bed. I’m in my bed. This is my bedroom. There is no man, no gun, no cement.
No dead Jane.
I fall back and blink up at the ceiling as pain and prickling work their magic to return my arms to normal. I must have slept on them all night again. That’s the weirdest thing about the last four days. I used to be an insomniac who tossed and turned and thought a good night’s sleep consisted of three straight hours. Now I sleep all night in an unmoving position, my subconscious plagued with so many flashbacks and wild scenarios that I feel like I’ve run a marathon each morning when I finally wake up.
I’m drenched in sweat, and my heart clocks a thousand beats a minute. The marathon isn’t just a metaphor.
“When did you get here?” I blink up at Dillon and squeeze my eyes shut to clear them. “And what time is it?”
“I got here a few minutes ago, and it’s eight o’clock. Liam’s in the shower, getting ready to help me register for wedding gifts. I could hear you hollering when I walked in the front door. You’re still having nightmares?”
“I’m still having nightmares.” I tunnel my fingers through my hair and look at her, working up what I hope passes for an unaffected smile. “They’ll stop soon, don’t worry.” Dillon may be my cousin and best friend, but half the time, she’s also my mother. It’s an odd dynamic that works for us, even though everyone outside our family thinks it’s weird.
Her expression is lined with worry. It’s a look I’m getting used to from her...one I’ll learn to live with. I’m tired of the questions, and I’ll do anything to keep her concern at bay. Even lie straight to her face. I don’t think they’ll stop anytime soon. It’s the reason I can’t bring myself to get back onstage.
She sighs and pulls at a loose thread on my comforter. “Your manager wants you to go to counseling today. I’m not sure he’s right, but I do know you’re not going to get back to normal if you keep pushing it all down. You need to talk to someone about these dreams, even if it’s just Chad or Liam.”
“Is my manager calling you?”
“Only when he can’t get ahold of you. He said he’s been trying since yesterday morning, and you won’t answer.”
“That’s because I don’t want to talk. What I want is to be left alone for a few days.”
“He says it’s been four days since the incident, Teddy. I don’t know what to tell him.”
It’s been four days. I saw dead people lying prone on the floor and took sub-par care of a young kid who only has one functioning eye because I missed that particular wound in the dark when I was focusing on his shoulder, and all of this happened at my concert, which means all the blame lies with me…but it’s been four days. Nothing prepares you for that kind of disaster. And the worst part? I’m fully aware it could happen again inside any random arena.
How am I supposed to risk that again?
“Do you think I should go?” Dillon is a counselor. Her expert opinion is the one I’ll follow. If she tells me no, my manager can screw himself, at least for the next few days.
She looks at me, her shoulders sagging with weighted concern. “Right now? No. I think you should take a few days to process things by yourself. It will be hard to talk to someone before you know how you really feel about it. But later? Say, next week? Yes. You should go at that point. I know you. You’ll close off and push down, and that kind of reaction isn’t good for anyone.”
“You don’t know me that well,” I mumble.
“We swapped pacifiers in the crib, dude. And we took a blood oath w
hen we were seven. I know you better than anyone. But if I ever find out you told Mrs. Peterman about the baby chick I stole out of her henhouse…”
The memory makes me smile. “Never. Blood’s blood, except I still think you should’ve let me cook him when he got older.”
“Henry? He was my pet, and that’s just cruel.” She shoves me on the side. “Wait a few days on counseling, but then go. At least once, so Mike will stop calling to ask.”
I turn her words over in my mind, then nod. “I’ll go next week and talk to him about the dreams.” I’ll do whatever as long as the worry in her eyes will go away. “But right now, you need to grab your lazy-butt fiancé and go pick out a toaster.”
She laughs and reaches for her purse, then slides it over her shoulder. “I think he’s still in the shower.”
“That’s because he takes the longest showers in the history of mankind. Uses all the hot water, too. Want me to kick him out?”
“No, I’ll yell at him to hurry.” Dillon looks down at me, her light smile fading into a weighted frown. “Get some rest, okay? I’m worried about you.”
I reach for her hand and give it a gentle shake. “I know you are. I’ll try.”
“What about your concert?”
I sigh. “I already canceled it.”
She doesn’t respond, which is definitely a response.
“I’m not ready, Dillon. Eventually, I will be, but not yet.”
She sighs. “I don’t blame you. Take some time off and rest. Maybe you’ll feel better about things next week. Maybe by Flagstaff, especially since you’ve been so excited about it.”
“Maybe.” It’s the closest I can bring myself to agree with her. I smile up at her to make my one-word lie more believable.
But when she walks out, the smile slips.
Flagstaff. I don’t want to perform in Flagstaff or Denver or anywhere else for that matter. It won’t make me feel better. How can it when all I can visualize is that kid slowly losing his sight in the closet? What could possibly make me feel better about that?
The thought of being onstage…putting all those people in danger…putting myself in danger.
I know I promised, but some promises are made to be broken.
Chapter Thirteen
Jane
“Jane, your hand is shaking. Do you want to take a break?”
I startle, then feel my false bravado slide away at the look on Andy’s face. He’s worried, his freckles darkening the way they sometimes do when he’s sleep-deprived and anxious. He was in the arena as well, and he’s having nearly as much trouble as I am at night, so much so that his wife has taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom for now. All his tossing and turning apparently freaked her out; though, in my opinion, she’s working the victim card a bit much. I don’t like people who make things about themselves when they weren’t involved. Sweet Andy hasn’t said a word, making him the far better man than I would be in that situation.
“Ah, she’s doing okay,” Ben answers for me. “The faster she gets her routine back, the faster she can put this behind her.” He aims and shoots a perfect bullseye. He’s trying to help, trying to put a positive spin on my state of mind. I know he is. But he’s wrong.
Andy cuts a glance in Ben’s direction. “I kinda doubt she’ll be able to fully put it behind her. I won’t be able to.” He turns to me. “But right now, I’m worried about your hands. They’re all over the place.”
I look at my hands and see the evidence of his claim; they are shaking badly. So badly that I haven’t come close to hitting the target. Worse, I don’t even recall shooting the gun at all, a definite danger considering my profession. Daydreaming on the job won’t get me promoted. Or trusted.
“I think I need a break.” I study the target hanging on the wall a hundred feet in front of me and set down the gun, feeling nothing but numbness. My heart isn’t here, and neither is my mind. Truthfully, I’m not sure they ever have been.
I fought hard to move up the ranks as an officer, even harder to work a big arena. After I lost my daughter, after I lost my boyfriend, after I lost my innocence—let’s just call it what it was—the need to be in control was a strong one. You can only lose so much before you decide to start taking things back. It seemed the best route to self-defense was to become an expert in it. One bullet. Two. Ten thousand. Shooting at the memories, shooting at the failures, shooting at the losses, shooting my demons one by one, hoping they might one day be obliterated. Turns out, there’s a wrong way to confront your problems. You can fight them, defend them, grow physically stronger to combat them, even imagine them as paper targets that you fill with holes day after day after day.
But until you talk about them and face them and call them out for what they are, they’ll just grow in size and shape. While I was actively busy not looking, my problems spent the past decade lifting weights until they’re now stronger than me. I didn’t realize how strong, until I shared them with Teddy inside the confines of that closet and broke down from the confession.
I’d never shared that story with anyone until I shared it with him. Not even with Ben. Even now, I don’t want to talk about it.
“Alright, I need coffee,” Andy says, slipping off his goggles. I follow suit, jumping when Ben shoots twice without breaking stride. My pulse ricochets to my throat, making it hard to breathe. It’s one thing to shoot your own gun. Now, what once sounded like power sounds like fear of the worst kind, especially when someone else is pulling the trigger. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break, and then we’ll get back to it.”
“I could use some coffee, too. All this shooting is making me nervous.”
I feel his side-eye without turning my head to look at him. “You’re having trouble moving on, aren’t you?”
“Says the man who’s currently sleeping solo.”
“I know. Apparently, I yelled in my sleep last night. So loud, my wife heard it from across the house.”
“Understandable. I’m still sleeping with the light on when I even sleep at all.”
We both laugh, but as it fades away, my insides slowly grow numb again. Is there a point to any of this? Life is short, too short. It could end tomorrow, and all I can think is...is this the way I want to live mine? Is this how I want to spend my time? And why can’t I stop thinking about Teddy? Even now, as my boyfriend practices target shooting twenty paces away, I miss Teddy. I miss him, but I can’t call him, even if he did give me that card. It’s inappropriate, which means the only person who can relate to the way I’m feeling is either married, or a thousand miles away and off-limits completely.
We reach the coffee cart, and Andy hands me a cup. Here I am surrounded by co-workers, doing what only last week I considered to be a favorite part of the job. But as the sound of gunshots explodes in the background, gray loneliness settles around me. Familiar tears prick behind my eyes, and I sniff to chase them away. Maybe my mother was right. Maybe I won’t skip that counseling appointment after all.
* * *
Teddy
Counseling is for the weak, even if Dillon is the one who recommended this particular one.
I’m embarrassed, and more than a little angry at his line of questioning, but I can’t think of a good lie to redirect his scrutiny. I glance at my arm and resist the urge to cover up the scar. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m certainly not going to let him think he’s beaten me. I’ve been here all of five minutes; if he is going to start with this crap, I’ll finish with it. I put this behind me in middle school; I’m not interested in dredging it up now.
“I got it when I was thirteen during a football game.” The scar is ugly, two inches in length with a knot in the middle and a thin red line that still runs the perimeter of it. For years, I waited in vain for the stripe to fade; now I welcome it, a reminder to never back down, to fight back, to never put myself in that kind of position again. The irony that a gunman had me cowering inside a windowless closet isn’t lost on me.
“Want to tell me wha
t happened?”
I shift in my seat to make room for hostility to join me on the sofa. “I already told you. A football game. In the middle of the third quarter.” Yep, I hear it in my voice. Hostility and a fair amount of bitterness, but I don’t give a damn. Who does he think he is, asking me these kinds of questions? I’m too old for this. The time for psycho-analysis came and went a long time ago.
“That doesn’t look like any football injury I’ve seen before. You sure that’s where it came from? You sure it wasn’t a cut of some kind?” He looks down at his notebook, picks up his pen. I’m a statistic, and he knows it. And the scratch of a few words on paper is all it will take to make things official after all these years, unless you count my middle school counselor. Even she never came out and asked—just looked at me with pity and asked over and over and over if there was anything I needed to talk about.
I don’t count her. Never have.
“Football game. Third-quarter.” I recite the words on automatic, like the robot I’ve been trained to be for the last sixteen years. Where’d you get that cut? Football game. Where’d you get that black eye? Ran into a door. Why’s your hair wet? Washed it. In the bathroom? Yep.
“Looks more like a knife blade caused it. Maybe a piece of glass.” He’s still looking at my arm. The guy won’t let up, and I bristle. I made peace with my anger a long time ago, but he’s intent on digging it up and I want no part of it. He tents his hands and looks up at me through hooded lashes, the ballpoint pen threaded between his fingers. “Or something else.”
I rub the bump on my scar and look away, then curse myself for the tell. Eye contact is essential when trying to convince someone they’re wrong, and I just failed the challenge. The worst part is, he guessed right. Bingo. Ding ding ding. Grab your door prize on the way out.
I remember the way my arm bled, the way Blake Jennings denied any wrongdoing. “He tripped, Coach, like he always does. I didn’t mean for it to happen.” I remember the laughs. The taunts from my teammates and the opposing team. I remember my coach’s pat on the arm, his “there there, you can’t help being small and uncoordinated” attitude as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around my arm with a flippant “he lasted twenty seconds this time. Is that a record?” comment to the assistant coach as I walked away with the team manager and listened to both men laugh. I remember my mom’s tears, my dad’s outrage, my denial of the truth even as I stuffed it deep inside.
