Walking Through Needles

by Heather Levy

  “You were right…about my mom,” he said so low she barely heard him. “It’s different from your dad. It’s different, seeing someone die.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say, what to do. She wished the tingling in her body would go away. It was too incongruent with what Arrow was saying.

  “I hate it here,” he said, pausing to look at her. “I hate being a stranger all the time.”

  Sam remembered her words to him earlier in the car.

  “You aren’t a stranger to me.” She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that he would make more friends at school and the rumors would die away like they always did.

  His eyes were pink as if he would start crying. She didn’t do well when people cried, so she reached for his hand, held it tight.

  “I’m sorry you lost your mom,” she said.

  He took her other hand. “I’m sorry you lost your dad.”

  She didn’t know if she had pulled him closer to hug or if he did, but her arms were around him, her face pressed to the side of his face, his hands tentatively touching her upper back. The hug seemed to last forever, his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer. Her heart was in her ears as he reached up and touched her hair, then her cheek. It was like her daydream. Maybe this was a dream because it didn’t feel real.

  He turned his face and their lips brushed, soft at first and then harder. She would never tell him it was her first real kiss and she could tell it wasn’t his.

  This was so wrong, she knew it. She shouldn’t be kissing him, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

  She didn’t want to stop it.

  They kept kissing, Sam mirroring Arrow when he pushed his tongue against hers. She couldn’t say how long they stood pressed to each other or what song was playing now. She only wanted to be closer to him, to feel the growing tickle explode throughout her body. She pictured his hands on her throat, and the pulsing in her grew faster.

  Part of her was scared of what could come next, the thing her friends told her about, giggling and exchanging knowing glances, but Sam could never picture it as real for herself.

  Arrow’s hands lowered, slipped into the back of her pajama shorts, and all she could think about was where she wanted his fingers to touch, so close her abdomen tightened, the ache between her legs almost too painful but, no, that wasn’t it, her period, the string—her stupid tampon—and her face was on fire and she wanted to slap his hand away but she couldn’t force herself to move.

  “Eric,” she breathed out, “stop.”

  Arrow stopped and got quiet before whispering, “Please don’t tell.” Then he went to her door, unlocked it, and left her room, but not before looking back at her, his eyes full of the same anxious excitement Sam felt shimmering in her chest.

  Chapter 4: Sam, 2009

  Sam waited until the new teller she was training balanced out her drawer before she went back to her office, shut the door and pulled the wrinkled invoice sheet from her purse. No matter how many times she read Eric’s note, it kicked the breath out of her.

  I’m sorry I wasn’t ready to talk before, but I’d like to see you. Please call me—Eric.

  When she saw him the day before, it was like watching a ghost floating her way. He was staring at a dark-headed toddler waiting in line with her father. Eric’s expression was so tender and sad Sam almost jumped over the teller wall to hug him, but that was the sixteen-year-old in her. The thirty-one-year-old woman told her to stop looking his way before he would inevitably notice her. But, Jesus, he looked the same. Any boy left in him had been shaved away, making the angles of his tan face sharper. The honey waves she had once run her fingers through were cropped closer to his head, but he was the same Eric—taller and filled out with more muscle, but the same. She had forced herself to help one of the tellers, sensing when Eric’s coffee-colored eyes found her. Her nerves marbled her skin with pink, sweat pearling on her skin, but she carried on working as if he really was a ghost.

  Her heart slowed some when she saw Eric run out of the bank, but it raced again when she later watched him in her rearview mirror as he trailed her home. She couldn’t believe he followed her, and she thought about confronting him after she parked her car, but she had no idea what to say to him. She could ask him why he disappeared fifteen years ago, why he never once tried to contact her, but she knew whatever answers he gave wouldn’t be enough.

  As soon as she had stepped inside of her house, her little white Bichon Frise, Zeus, yipped at her feet. He stood alert and growled, and she cracked her window blinds enough to see Eric tuck a note into her mailbox and hurry back to his truck parked across the street. She knew he was scared to talk to her.

  When he left, she went and got the note. After she read it, she threw it away. A minute later, she dug it out of the trash and pressed it to her heart, unable to hold in her tears.

  And here she was the next day, still rereading the note, his phone number now memorized but she couldn’t bring herself to call him. It wouldn’t do anything but dig up memories. Bad memories—too many for one person. Good memories stirred in her too—of sneaking out to the barn in the middle of the summer nights, fresh hay cool against their skin, talking until the sun bled orange onto the surrounding fields.

  Sam traced a finger over the white scar on her right hand, her fate line severed by it. She thought of Eric’s left leg, the long scar marring his calf.

  She took out her cellphone and entered Eric’s number. Her finger hovered over the button to call him. Her phone vibrated in her hand and she nearly threw it down from the jolt of fear it sent through her chest. She saw who was calling and suppressed a sigh.“Hey, Mama. I’m at work.”

  “I know. I just want to make sure you know about the storms that are gonna hit tonight.”

  Sam held in another sigh. “They’re not coming anywhere near Oklahoma City.”

  “But you know how storms can shift and with you living in that tiny house with no storm shelter, I just think it’d be best for you to come on down here where you can be safe.”

  Sam gave up and the sigh broke free.

  “Mama, I’m not driving out to Blanchard for the possibility of a storm that’s already northeast of here.”

  She left out the fact that her mom’s access to a storm shelter was through the assisted living complex where she now lived. Her mom told their extended family in Texas it was a condo, made it sound like a luxurious suite, and Sam never corrected her.

  She glanced down at the note in her hand and decided to change gears with her mom. “Eric Walker’s living in the city. He wants to meet up with me.”

  Rarely did Sam ever hear her mom cuss unless her lupus was hitting her joints hard, but she caught a whispered, “goddamn fool.”

  “What’s that, Mama?”

  “You heard me, girl. What on earth does he want?”

  Sam had an idea of what he wanted—forgiveness—something she wasn’t sure she could give him.

  “I think he just wants to talk.”

  “You know darn well that’s not all he wants. I say let sleeping dogs lie if you know what’s best for you.”

  Sam knew the conversation, as usual, would go nowhere with her mom. She could never tell her mom everything that happened so many years ago.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You know I am, Sammy. He has a darkness in him, just like his father. You know he does.”

  Sam did know, but she knew it was in her too. Maybe more so.

  She ended the call and stared at the invoice sheet, at Eric’s neatly printed handwriting. She always had horrible handwriting, as Eric had told her many times.

  She hadn’t forgotten Eric. Most days, memories of him interrupted her thoughts. She could never forget him, but he had forgotten her, had left her after the worst time in her life. That part she could never forgive.

  She fed Eric’s note to the shredding machine under her desk, watching the con
fetti come out the other side and feeling relief and regret in equal measure.

  “Excuse me, Sam? There’s someone here for you.”

  Sam looked up from the shredder under her desk. Her newest teller stood at her office door next to a stocky man with a senator’s haircut, all close-cropped and plastered down with pomade. He already eased inside the office, blocking the teller’s confused face.

  “Are you Samantha Mayfair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Chad Eastman,” he said, holding up his badge in one hand while offering the other to her as she stood. His palm was warm and dry.

  “How can I help you, detective?”

  Detective Eastman shut Sam’s door and sat in her guest chair.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your stepfather, Isaac Walker.”

  Sam sat down, too fast, her vision blackening at the edges. Isaac. Hearing his name after so many years made her stomach tighten, her lunch pushing up into her throat.

  Detective Eastman leaned back in the chair, cool and confident as if he were inside his own home. Like Isaac. She instantly disliked him.

  “I also have some questions about your stepbrother, Eric Walker.”

  “Eric? Why? Is he okay?”

  The detective’s expression changed from businesslike to acute awareness, a cat ready to pounce. “We have no reason to believe he isn’t. We’re trying to reach him for questioning.”

  Sam repressed a cry of relief that immediately turned into confusion. “Questioning over what?”

  Detective Eastman leaned forward, his cold blue eyes piercing her.

  “Well, you know we’ve had a bit of a drought, especially down south.”

  Sam couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t in a drought.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “A couple of men were out fishing in Blanchard, a pond out near Morgan Road. They noticed a side mirror poking out of the water. Turned out to be a white Chevy pickup, so they called the local police.”

  Sam swallowed, the questions she had formed sandpapered into nothing from her dry throat.

  “The truck’s registered to your stepfather. We didn’t find a body. Not yet anyway.”

  The detective smiled at her, and Sam couldn’t decide if he was trying to be reassuring or intimidating.

  “Miss Mayfair, when was the last time you saw Isaac Walker?”

  Chapter 5: Sam, 1994

  Almost a week had passed since the night Sam and Arrow kissed while tornadoes ripped through the next county, destroying a church and four houses. It was like the storm had destroyed Sam’s concentration too, and she was glad school was almost out for the summer. All she could think about was Arrow and she hated herself for it, for how wrong she knew it was.

  She didn’t know if Arrow felt guilty, but she knew something had changed in him that week. After he kissed her, he barely looked at her. At first, she thought he was just scared of their parents or Grandma Haylin finding out about what they had done, but then she wasn’t sure.

  She had to get him alone to find out, so she waited and watched for him.

  She saw Arrow walking into the barn to get feed for the chickens. No one was around, she made sure of it. She wanted him to be his usual self with her again, not be so serious and weird.

  She entered the barn as quietly as she could and snuck up behind him. She playfully ruffled his hair. He swung around fast, fist aimed to land, and Sam had to jump back so as not to get hit.

  “Jesus, Arrow, it’s just me!”

  His eyes were wide and fearful, which confused the hell out of her.

  “Sorry, I thought—I thought you were—”

  “What? The fucking bogeyman?” Sam’s words rushed out breathless from almost getting punched in the face. “God, you’re such a kid sometimes.”

  Arrow straightened his normal slouch, his brown eyes glaring at her, and he didn’t seem like a kid anymore.

  “You’re the one sneaking up behind people like a kid.”

  He turned to the feedbags and crouched down, his back to her, and she wanted to kick him right in the ass. He had to know why she followed him into the barn, and it wasn’t to help him feed the animals.

  She kicked dirt on his boots before she crouched down next to him. He opened his mouth to complain, but she nudged him and smiled before he could get any words out.

  “I’m not a kid,” he said, his mouth softening.

  He leaned into her and she thought he’d kiss her, but he didn’t. She pulled in closer, but he abruptly stood up.

  “I’ve got to finish chores before my dad gets back.”

  Sam slowly stood and crossed her arms.

  “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? I’ve got chores to do too.”

  She turned to walk out of the barn and tripped over an open feedbag. Chicken feed dumped out onto the barn floor as she landed.

  “Shit.” Blood dots formed on her right knee, the air burning the scrape.

  “You okay?”

  Sam looked at the hand Arrow offered her. She pushed his hand away as she got up, trying not to let him see her wince.

  “What do you care if I’m okay? You act like nothing happened with us, but it did.”

  Arrow opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, and Sam waited until the air grew hot around them.

  “Are you scared they’ll find out? Is that why you’re ignoring me?”

  His face dropped as if she’d insulted him.

  “I’m not ignoring you.”

  “But, you, you kissed me, and now you act like…”

  She looked down at his red-dusted boots, too embarrassed to keep eye contact. The shame of kissing him, the pleasure of it—she knew it was wrong to like it, but she also knew deep down she wasn’t alone in liking it, and that somehow made her feel less ashamed. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe Arrow decided he didn’t like her like that.

  “Sam,” Arrow said, his gaze trailing down to her right knee. “You’re bleeding.”

  She ignored the growing pain in her knee. The ache expanding in her chest, sucking out the air in her, was much worse. He didn’t care about kissing her or what it did to her. He had probably kissed a dozen girls and she was just one. He was going to pretend like it never happened.

  She could pretend too. She could pretend he didn’t exist, but the thought of not talking to him made tears blur her vision. She wasn’t about to let him see.

  “So, that’s it, huh?” she said.

  Arrow looked away from her. “You should clean your knee.”

  Sam stood for a moment, waiting for him to offer to help her. When he went back to his chores, she left the barn, her face feeling like it’d explode from her need to cry.

  She wanted to forget about the kiss with him and not think about anything. She wanted to draw, one of her few escapes. When she drew, she thought of nothing but the movement of her hand over paper.

  She went back to the house to clean her knee and get her sketchpad and pencils.

  Sam wasn’t sure how long she had been drawing, but she knew it was getting close to dinner. Sketching in her favorite spot in the woods usually distracted her from everything she didn’t want to think about, but it wasn’t working.

  She set her sketchpad down on the elm log she was sitting on and stretched her long legs. She’d been drawing for so long her right hand had cramped. She flexed it and stared at the fallen pine needles around her. She picked one up, touched her index finger to the pointy tip. She pushed the pine needle under her fingernail until all she could focus on was the pain blooming in her hand. She closed her eyes and sank into the familiar sensation.

  “Whatcha doing out here, girlie?”

  Startled, Sam threw the pine needle down and looked around until she spotted Isaac leaning against a thick tree trunk behind her. She didn’t know how long he had been the
re or what he had seen. She was certain her face was red with embarrassment.

  “Just drawing.”

  Isaac moved closer to her, and she noticed he was holding a cigarette in his hand, but she had never seen him smoke. When he stood in front of her, she realized it wasn’t a cigarette but a joint. He took a long hit and smiled as he exhaled.

  “I guess we’re both doing things we shouldn’t be doing,” he said.

  “It’s not illegal to draw.”

  He grinned. “Why did you do that?”

  “Draw?”

  He sat near her on the elm log, took another hit. “What you did to yourself.”

  She looked at the pine needle covered ground and pressed her hands hard into the bark of the log. She didn’t want to talk about this. She had never talked about it with anyone.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “Cross my heart.”

  Sam glanced at him, watched his hands as he held the joint to his lips again and sucked. “Can I draw you?”

  The question seemed to surprise him. He snubbed out the joint, put it in his front shirt pocket.

  “Why would you want to draw some old guy like me?”

  “You’re not that old.” Really, she wasn’t sure about his exact age, but she knew he was a little older than her mama who was thirty-four. “You have good hands.”

  He laughed a little and held up his hands. “Really?”

  She nodded, afraid of saying too much. She didn’t want him to think she was a silly girl obsessing over him or anything.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you draw me if you tell me why you were doing that to yourself.”

  Heat flushed her face again, but she realized she didn’t have to tell him the truth at all.

  “Okay, but you first,” she said, and she directed him to sit still on the log with his hands in full view.

  “This alright?”

  “Yes. Just be still.”

  She began sketching his hands, first tracing their outline, the curve of each fingertip.