Begin with You

by Burgoa, Claudia

  I’m not sure why is it that I’m not talking. Is it because my body continues to tremble in fear? Maybe it’s because I’m afraid that I’ll tell Wes more than I want to confess. I’m on the verge of breaking down and this time I might say more than I should. There’s nothing coherent I could share with him that doesn’t involve my old life. My mind is stuck in the past.

  It’s like a horror movie continues to play in my head on repeat. No one is there to push the stop button, to take the disc out of the player or to unplug the cord. I relive every day, every scene, and every word. Every night I fought, and once I lost the battle, I tried to disassociate. But most nights it was impossible.

  The road lies before us like an asphalt ribbon. One that has been worn over time. A white line runs down the center, relatively unbroken. I admire the evergreens and whitewashed boulders. Ponderosa pines, California redwoods, and Douglas firs tower over us. For a moment, I wish I could be like either one of them. An unmoving rock that withstands seasons and disasters. But if given a choice, I’d rather be one of the trees. No matter the season or the circumstances, they retain their foliage.

  Most evergreen trees lose their leaves, but they do it gradually—not many notice those changes. I’m more like a seasonal plant that dries if it’s too hot and loses her shit with some gusty winds.

  We continue going forward. I fiddle with the radio, finding the 90s alternative station that Wes loves. I close my eyes, holding onto the quartz bracelet he gave me, counting while listening to “6th Avenue Heartache” by The Wallflowers. The guitar screeches while Jakob Dylan talks about the homeless guy who used to live right below his window and life in the big city. It goes on about how the weight of the world is crushing him.

  The singer sees people around him, yet he’s alone. This isn’t the kind of song I was expecting to hear while trying to find my footing. I can relate so much to it. I’m surrounded by evergreens, yet I feel like the last dandelion that’s about to lose its seeds. Even when I have Weston Ahern by my side, there are days that I feel lonely and out of place.

  If I could, I would stay in Tahoe for the rest of my life. It’s surrounded by everything that I love. The clarity of the lake that’s nestled amidst the Sierras where I can stay hidden forever. With the log cabin architecture and the mom-and-pop businesses, the inviting small-town feel makes me want to stay here forever.

  “Enough with the sadness,” Wes changes the radio station.

  I snort as “I Feel Like I’m Drowning” by Two Feet begins to play. It’s as if the radio stations know my mood. He ends up finding some electronic tune I’ve never heard on one of the pop stations that I always avoid because they keep playing the same popular songs over and over again. They remind me of Shaun, that was his favorite music. He liked to listen to it while … my stomach becomes queasy.

  “Stop the car,” I order. “I can’t breathe.”

  I hold my stomach gasping for air. His voice, the music, her pleas. I can hear them all inside my head.

  “We’re almost there,” he pushes the pedal lowering the windows and turning on the air conditioning to the max. “Breathe, Abby. You’re with me, remember.”

  As we arrive at the house, I open the car door and end up throwing up in the grass.

  “Abby.”

  Wes holds my hair back while I heave.

  “Sorry,” I say. Tears pour down my cheeks.

  I sit back in the grass, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and Wes drops right by my side.

  “This isn’t normal,” he mumbles. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m fine.” My voice is shaky.

  His fingers are in my hair, and I flinch from the pain and embarrassment. He touches my scalp, and I’m sure he can feel the scabs. I close my eyes, bend my legs, and rest my forehead on top of my knees, hugging myself tightly. Wishing I could disappear. Now he knows that I’m back to hurting myself.

  “Abby.” His voice cracks.

  He’s hurting; I can feel it in my heart. I want to channel some courage, find the brave Abigail Lyons who could withstand any pain, but I remain motionless.

  “Are you two okay or just making out on the grass?” Sterling’s voice comes from somewhere around us. It has a hint of mockery.

  “Fuck off,” Wes says, his voice shaking with fury.

  “That’s disgusting, Terry, stop,” Sterling says. “You don’t eat human puke!”

  I lift my head opening my eyes to find a tiny gray dog with pretty blue eyes who is fighting Sterling’s hold.

  “Hey,” I greet him.

  He stares at me and then looks at Wes.

  Wes’ eyes narrow and his eyebrows pull together. “Since when do you have a dog?”

  “It’s a long story,” he answers, extending his hand toward me. “Come on, Abigail. You look like shit. I’ll get you some Perrier water.”

  Hesitant, I allow him to help me off the ground. I stare at the grass, trying to figure out what is happening to me. I swallow the bile in my throat, take a deep breath, and finally find my stupid strength.

  “I’m just going to take a shower,” I announce, walking ahead of them.

  This time Wes walks right behind me. My plan is to close the bathroom door to avoid talking to him.

  “You’ve never been this …” his voice trails as I speed to the bathroom.

  But the man whose long legs are used to running five miles a day catches up to me and holds the door open.

  “We have to talk about what happened, Abigail,” he says firmly. “It’s killing me to see you like this. You’re hurting yourself again.”

  Am I supposed to tell him that I feel like someone is following me? That’s delusional. If he finds out what happened to me he’s never going to see me in the same way.

  “I need to take a shower,” I say in a frail voice I barely recognize.

  “Change your clothes. Let’s go swimming,” he orders. “In the meantime, I’m calling the office. We’re staying here for the next couple of weeks.”

  “We don’t have to stay longer than the weekend,” I say, but in reality, I want to thank him and ask him to make this my permanent address.

  “You have a company to run,” I protest, knowing how hard it was for him to move his schedule for today and Monday.

  A part of me regrets this trip while the other is already relaxing knowing that I’m physically safe. If only I can convince my mind that I’m not in danger.

  “You’re more important than the company,” he says softly. His hand caresses my face and I close my eyes for one moment, letting my guard down.

  Suddenly, his muscular arms envelope my body. Those big hands draw circles on my back, he whispers in my ear loving words. “I will never let anything happen to you again,” he assures me. “No one will hurt you—not even yourself. We’re going to work through this, Abby.”

  I let myself believe that he can fix it the way he does with everything else. Will he be able to erase those bitter, painful moments?

  “We should rest,” he offers.

  I don’t fight him. We walk toward the bed, and we lay on top of it. He taps my arm rhythmically as he counts. My head rests on top of his chest. I listen to his heart and close my eyes, concentrating on the soothing sound and his voice.

  “Tell me what you want from me,” he mumbles, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll give you all I can. My soul, if that’s what you need to be whole.”

  The sadness in his heart breaks me a little more, and it upsets me too, because I know I’m the one bringing him down. For him, I should stop this nonsense. As my eyes begin to close I promise myself to be stronger for him. I want to be a redwood tree or a big boulder that he can lean on.

  23

  Wes

  It’s always hard to leave Abby’s side after she’s had a panic attack. I stayed with her for as long as I could, but I needed to shower and arrange my schedule for the next couple of weeks. I sent an email to the board informing them that I’d be working away from the office
for the next month. After pressing send, I regretted offering to go back if there’s an emergency. In their minds, everything related to the company is urgent. That’s not the truth. They just like to get paid for the hours they clock in during the meetings.

  An email pops up almost immediately. One of the members reminds me that we’re shopping for an investment bank and preparing the initial public offering. I should be in the office, working on the documents we have to send to the banks and to the NYSE. These men are pushing me over the edge. I send an email to my lawyer. We should revise the contracts of the board members and change their roles and payments.

  Mom and I argue about the company and the initial public offer every time we’re on the phone.

  “If you don’t want to sell, at least stop the IPO,” Mom suggested. “The stress of going public killed your father.”

  “He had a heart condition, ate poorly, and never exercised, Mom.”

  “Either way, I don’t see the point of continuing something you’re not passionate about. Fire the board and put a stop to that nonsense.”

  “I thought you stopped this nonsense. Why restart it again?”

  After he died I put the idea on hold. There were other pressing matters, like Mom’s emotional health and a few mergers that required my immediate attention. But it’s time to continue Dad’s vision. He wanted to see his company on the market. The morning we fought about my future, he told me.

  “One day, I want to turn on my computer and check the New York Stock Exchange. See those initials going to the top.”

  He assured me that without me he couldn’t take Ahern Inc. where he wanted it to be. He’d never be capable of achieving his dream. This time, I won’t let him down. At any cost, this company will become what he dreamed it would before he died.

  “You’re complicating everything and letting yourself down, Weston,” Mom said yesterday morning.

  She’s right. It’d be easier to fire the board and transition the company into my own vision. I click on my document files and open my personal folder where I saved the drafts of the company I planned to open a couple of years back. Slowly, I open each document. The mission statement was ready, along with the competitor analysis, the financial planning, and the market research. An entire business model that took me almost a year to create sits in the cloud waiting to be deleted.

  “You’re a control freak.” Sterling who is a petulant twenty-five-year-old man-child takes away my laptop.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I arch an eyebrow crossing my arms.

  He sets the computer close to the sink, and I pray to God that he doesn’t do anything stupid because I will make him pay. But instead of turning on the water and drowning it like he did to my Game Boy when I was nine, he just leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

  “I assume that you’re here to relax—with Abby. Why in the fuck are you working?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I answer and point at his dog. “Why do you have a dog?”

  He can barely take care of himself. I don’t see how he can take care of another living creature.

  “I’m puppy sitting,” he says, watching the chubby pup walk around the kitchen searching for crumbs. “That’s why I decided to come here for the week. My house is too dangerous for this little guy.”

  Well, at least he’s responsible enough to know that his home is dangerous with all the pieces of metal he acquires at junkyards, the dried clay lying around on the floor, and the tools that are everywhere. That place isn’t safe for anyone, not even my brother. I’ve told him several times that he needs to find a studio or a new apartment. He doesn’t care one bit and just rolls with what he believes is right.

  Some days I wonder what it would be like to be him. He isn’t the brattish asshole I grew up with, but he’s still selfish. He doesn’t follow the rules. Unlike me, he does whatever he wants regardless of the consequences. Live and let die is his motto. He has the means to do whatever he wants to, and for the most part, he does.

  Sterling doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone. Mom and Dad loved him because he’s theirs. Although they assured me that I was just like Sterling, I tried my best to be what they wanted—and needed. I worked hard to show them my gratitude and, even when I fucked up several times, I tried my best to abide by their rules. It would’ve been so easy to forget my origins and believe that everything I had was mine to take and do what I wanted with.

  “I debated between lending the pup to Abbs or coming to Tahoe,” he says as an afterthought.

  Looking at the pup, I’m sure that Abby would’ve loved caring for him. She’s always saying that it’d be nice to have a dog or a cat, or both if she had more time. I miss that Abby though. The one who was free, open, and always smiling. My mission is to bring her back, and if necessary, I’ll convince her to stay here permanently. It’ll fucking hurt, but it pains me more to see her suffer.

  A feeling of disappointment brews in my chest. Every fucking plan I make goes up in flames for one reason or another. I toss my head back, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Dad, if you’re up there, send me a sign about what to do, please. He always had answers. At least, that’s how I remember him. Would he tell me to stop dreaming and dedicate my life to his company?

  Enough about the company, and Abby’s breakdown. I crack my neck and stand up for a beer, offering one to my brother.

  “Who are you sitting for?” I focus on my conversation with Sterling.

  “For my neighbor. He’s getting married tomorrow.” He shrugs then shoots me an inquisitive gaze. “What’s up with dear Abby?”

  I shake my head because I’ve never seen her this bad before. She had a nervous breakdown or a full-blown panic attack on the plane, and as we were arriving, she began heaving. I’m not sure if she caught a bug or her body is giving up after not sleeping for almost a week.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I answer as honestly as I can.

  The clues she’s been hinting at about her past add to the puzzle, and yet they don’t make much sense. I’m not an expert, but I’m thinking that her mind is finally begging for help after all these years. It’s my understanding that she didn’t have any emotional support after her mother died. Abby didn’t allow mom or any therapist into her mind after Ava died either. Something’s gotta give and now, here we are on the edge. What’s going to happen to her if she doesn’t seek out professional help?

  She never grieved her mom or her stepsister. I still don’t know how close she was to Ava, but if they shared the same room, at some point they must have become sisterly, maybe even best friends.

  “Is she having nightmares?” Sterling asks with a serious voice that he barely uses.

  “They’re back all right,” I nod. “It’s like the Abby from California disappeared and the one who came home six years ago is back.”

  “Obviously, I know shit about mental stuff,” Sterling twists the cap off the beer and takes a few gulps.

  “You surprise us with your knowledge, when you want to share it.” I say teasingly, waiting for some stupid remark.

  “She’s a textbook case of PTSD,” he says ignoring my comment. “That doesn’t go away. It’s a permanent condition. The goal isn’t to forget the trauma because that’s impossible, but instead make it easier to deal with so it won’t affect her life negatively.”

  “In other words, she suppressed it?”

  He nods twice, his face totally serious.

  “She was able to keep it in the back of her mind, but,” he pauses, looking down for a few seconds before his eyes find mine, “The girl returned to the scene of the crime so to speak. Every memory she suppressed rushed back within seconds.” He snaps his fingers.

  I scrub two hands over my face, exhaling sharply. He’s right, I know it in my gut. She told me a few days back that she returned to Denver for me.

  “If it’s okay with you, she might work from here,” I say out loud.

  “It’s fine by me, but for how long?�
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  “What is fine by you, Sluggy?” Abby’s voice resonates through the house. My gaze lifts and I find her coming down the stairs.

  “I heard that you’re taking a long vacation in Tahoe, Absters.”

  “Wow, you haven’t called me that in a long time,” she says, smiling at the puppy who is waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase.

  Abby sits on the first step and starts petting the little guy. “You’re a handsome boy. I should take you away from Sterling.”

  “He’s not mine,” my brother warns her.

  “That explains why he’s alive.” Abby sticks out her tongue and stands up. “If you ever plan on having a pet, try a virtual fish.”

  She marches toward me, rising on her tiptoes and kissing my lips. “Thank you for earlier.”

  I take her in my arms giving her a deeper kiss, before we’re interrupted by my brother’s loud cough.

  “Are you okay, Slugger?” Abby frowns.

  “What the fuck?” Sterling walks toward us and pushes me away from Abby. “What are you doing? She’s like my little sister.”

  “I assume that you haven’t told him yet.” Abby arches an eyebrow, tilting her head to the side and crossing her arms.

  Before I can speak, my brother does, “So, he finally manned up and made a move on little Abby.”

  “Ugh, you make it sound like some weird taboo,” Abby complains sucking on her lip. “I’m not a kid.”

  He looks at her from top to bottom and grins. “You’re right. I should have made a move before this one did.”

  “Sterling,” I warn him.

  “Chill, Weston! I’m just joking. Don’t give me that murderous look.” He walks toward the couch and picks up a leash. “I’m walking Terry while you two make out.”

  As he marches toward the entry, he stops and says, “Stay away from the terrace in the main room. I’ll let you know when you can go out there.”