Stepping Into Sunlight

by Sharon Hinck

  “So, Bryan. Which gas station should we try?”

  “That one?” He pointed to a Quick Corner on the other side of the intersection.

  I drove past. “Let’s keep looking.” Mile after mile, each gas station glared at me. They all looked too much like the Quick Corner.

  Wait. That was my old way of thinking. I’d experienced God’s peace at the beach. I was going to be fine now. Gas stations didn’t need to frighten me.

  Dusk deepened the cloud cover to a slate gray, and some of the drivers turned on their headlights. I spotted a CITGO and pulled in to the pump. Overhead fluorescents made the station glow with a halo of humid air.

  I took a few deep breaths.

  You can do this. Nothing to be afraid of. Remember the strong God of the ocean washing over you.

  “Mommy? Who are you talking to? Why are you making funny faces? Mom?”

  Turn off the engine. Get out the credit card.

  “Can we go in and get candy? Know what? I used to like Tootsie Rolls, but now I don’t. Now I like Laffy Taffy.”

  A boa constrictor wrapped around my rib cage and squeezed. I couldn’t draw a deep breath. Go inside? The credit card pump with the Swipe & Go feature was difficult enough.

  Get out of the car. You can do this.

  Pressure swelled inside my head as a hangman’s noose closed around my neck. Maybe I was having a stroke. I gripped the steering wheel and leaned my head back. If I passed out, Bryan would be on his own. I had to push through.

  “Mom, can I get Laffy Taffy if I pay you back? It’s a good idea. I have millions of quarters at home.”

  “No.” I fumbled for the handle and pushed the door open.

  The warm air closed over my face like a wet washcloth. With one hand on the car, I felt my way toward the gas tank. Each breath seemed to strangle me, but I got the nozzle into the tank.

  I doubled over, resting my hands on my knees. The dizziness receded for a second. Then gasoline fumes pushed my stomach up to my throat.

  Almost done. Hurry.

  I straightened and fixated on the numbers spinning past on the pump, willing them to click ahead more quickly.

  Good enough. Enough gas to last me for a while.

  My hand shook as I reached for the automated receipt.

  “There. Okay. Now we can head home,” I said in my bright, Mom’s-in-charge voice, as I slid into my seat and turned to smile at Bryan.

  His seat was empty.

  chapter

  8

  “BRYAN? BRYAN!” WAS THAT shrill, hysterical voice really mine?

  A quick search confirmed that he’d left the car. The backseat passenger door hung open a few inches. What had he been babbling about when we pulled in? Candy.

  I ran for the convenience store. The door’s bells jingled and brought a sudden flashback. That same sound—No! Concentrate. “My son. Is he—?”

  The oily-faced clerk pointed to one of the aisles. My beach shoes slapped the linoleum as I ran.

  Bryan squatted midway down the aisle. “Look, Mom. They have Laffy Taffy in four flavors. Can I get some?”

  “Bryan Patrick Sullivan, get back in the car now.” Clint Eastwood never issued a tougher clench-jawed ultimatum.

  Bryan’s eyes widened. He threw one more longing look at the candy shelves and then trudged toward the door. I grabbed his arm and marched him to the car.

  “Don’t ever do that again. Do you understand? No! Don’t say anything. You listen to me. When I tell you to wait in the car, you wait in the car. What were you thinking?” Angry words continued to spew.

  He scampered to keep up. “Ow.”

  My grip on his arm was tighter than necessary but not as tight as my anger craved. Rage burned through my veins and built into a swirling pressure in my head that made me feel as if my skull would fracture from within.

  “Don’t say a word. You are grounded.” I snapped his seat belt into place and slammed the door.

  “That’s not fair. All I did was—”

  “Shut up!”

  I’d never shouted at him like that before. A rational part of my brain knew Bryan didn’t deserve such rage. Yet I couldn’t push it back.

  His chin trembled. “How long am I grounded?”

  “Two years.” We pulled out of the gas station, and I fought to keep the car steady when my whole body shook with white-hot intensity.

  After a long silence Bryan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  I didn’t answer.

  At home, I sent Bryan to his room. He hurried down the hall with a worried glance over his shoulder, while I followed close on his heels. His door closed safely between us. His bed creaked, and he cried with the same despair and pain he had two years earlier when he’d broken his arm.

  Instead of going to him, I ran for my bedroom. I’d tried to control the shakes, but now they grabbed me. The bedroom was too exposed, so I slipped into the closet, pulled the door shut, and sank to the floor. Sobs broke free from deep in my gut, and even with a sweatshirt pressed against my mouth, keening sounds of misery burst from my chest to fill the tiny dark space. I was lost. Memories burst free. A horrible muddle of images, sounds, smells.

  I cried until exhaustion lowered me back to the numb place where I’d existed the past weeks.

  “What’s happening to me?” My whisper met black silence.

  I couldn’t fight the despair alone any longer. The screaming harridan dragging her child through the gas station, the irresponsible mother who wasn’t returning phone calls, the broken woman huddled in her closet—she needed help. The past weeks had changed her.

  No, That Day had changed her. The last few weeks had solidified the process like slowly drying concrete. I didn’t have the energy to chip at the cement. Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t find my old self inside. That person didn’t exist anymore.

  That Penny was dead and buried beneath a granite slab of fear.

  The peaceful interlude at the beach had teased me with a reminder of normality. But the gas station had shaken loose my bundled fears and shown me my healing was far from complete. I huddled into a tight ball, wanting to shrink smaller and smaller until I could disappear.

  The closet door swung open. A tiny hand touched my shoulder.

  I jerked upright and swiped my face with the back of my hand.

  “Mom? I’m sorry I was bad.” Bryan shifted from foot to foot.

  Remorse crushed my ribs into shards that pierced my heart. “Oh, honey. It’s not your fault. I’m just . . . I . . .” More tears stole away my words.

  Bryan held out his arms. I rose up to my knees and hugged him, and let him pat my back. My hiccupping breaths gradually slowed while I soaked in the comfort of his arms. I fought for control I couldn’t find, and all the while I knew this was so wrong, so unfair to Bryan. He shouldn’t have to parent me while I fell apart.

  I needed help.

  “I love you, sweetie. I’m okay. Really I am. Could you get my purse?”

  He pulled back, his eyes wary and too old as he studied me. A terse nod and he ran from the room.

  When he returned I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember how a responsible adult should behave. I took the purse and pulled out the card for Victim Support Services. “Honey, I promise I’m going to get help. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

  The next morning, as soon as Bryan left for school, I reached for the phone. My fingers fumbled so much it took me three attempts to dial the number. The victim support staffer’s voice was reassuring but firm. Within a minute she had me agreeing to attend a support group.

  I raised a token resistance. “I always thought of myself as a strong person.”

  “It takes strength to ask for help,” she said calmly. “Tuesday nights at seven. Our offices are just off Princess Anne Road in Norfolk. Do you know where that is?”

  Noncommittal murmur.

  “How old did you say your son is? Can you find a babysitter?”

  I rubbed my forehead,
overwhelmed enough by the thought of driving to the center. How could I think through all the steps involved in finding a sitter? “He’s seven. Second grade.”

  “Well, you could bring him and let him play in the lobby. The group meets in the conference room, and you’ll be able to keep an eye on him through the glass doors.”

  Sure. Sounded easy as pie.

  A pizza supper went a long way toward securing Bryan’s forgiveness for my latest meltdown. After wolfing enough pieces for three grown men, Bryan bounded out the back door to play. With neighbor-boy radar, Jim-Bob’s towhead appeared in his backyard a few minutes later. After a brief negotiation, Jim-Bob hopped the fence and the boys began a soccer game in our yard.

  Jim-Bob was a year older than Bryan but seemed twice as big and twice as savvy about boyhood lore. I wasn’t sure I wanted Bryan playing Tom Sawyer to Jim-Bob’s Huck Finn. But Bryan had too much energy to stay caged in the house.

  While they romped and shouted outside the window, I turned on the computer.

  How’s my favorite husband? We prayed for you tonight at supper. Bryan misses you a lot, but he’s doing well. Right now he’s playing soccer with Jim-Bob from next door.

  We went to Virginia Beach yesterday. Not the boardwalk part. A nice empty stretch of beach. It’s so beautiful. I could watch those waves for hours. I suppose you’re getting sick of seeing nothing but water.

  Oh, I’m going to the victim center tomorrow night. Just to check it out. I’m really doing fine, but who knows? Maybe I can offer some help to other folks who are struggling. Sorry that my mom keeps e-mailing you. I’ll e-mail her tonight. She gets all worried if I’m too busy to return her calls right away. She forgets how busy things can get.

  Thank you again for the DVD. Hey, why didn’t you just give it to me the day you left? What if I hadn’t found it?

  Hugs and kisses, Pen

  I sent chipper e-mails to my friend Sonja, and to my mom, then sat at the dinner table nursing a glass of lemonade. Pizza remnants littered the table, but I couldn’t work up the energy to clean up.

  “Mommy, can Jim-Bob sleep over?” Bryan charged into the dining area at the same time the screen door slammed shut behind him. Grass and leaves matted his clothes.

  “No. You’re too young for a sleepover.”

  He planted grubby fists on his hips. “Mo-om. I wouldn’t be sleeping over. He would.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d studied philosophy in college, but nothing had prepared me for the logic of a seven-year-old. “Time for your shower. Go tell Jim-Bob you have to come inside.”

  The longer hours of sunlight here in Virginia were a bit of a curse. Bryan wasn’t convinced bedtime was near when he could still see his hand in front of his face outside. He stomped through the kitchen. The screen door slammed, boyish voices hollered, and the screen door slammed again.

  Bryan pulled his socks off and dropped them on the kitchen floor. “So, can I have a snack?” He started to open the refrigerator door. “Oh!”

  Pulling a crumpled letter from his pocket, he passed it to me and returned to his snack search. “I kind of forgot.”

  Dear Mrs. Sullivan,

  Thanks for your phone message. And yes, your e-mail helped me understand Bryan’s situation. I’m sure that part of his distraction comes from missing his father. By the way, Bryan said that you’re eager to get involved in the PTA and be a room parent, and that you were very involved at his school in Wisconsin. I’m so delighted to hear this. I always struggle to find parents willing to help. Could you stop in after school tomorrow so we can discuss the Thanksgiving play? He said you offered to fill the role of the Pilgrim mother. Thank you so much, Sarah Pimblott.

  I cleared my throat. “Bryan, you need to talk to me before you volunteer me for things.”

  His eyes darkened. “But I did tell you. Remember?” His pleading expression begged for more than just my help with the play. He wanted his old mom back again.

  “I told you I’d think about it. Honey, she wants to meet with me tomorrow. I . . . I can’t. But I’ll call her. Okay?”

  He met my eyes and waited.

  He needed a commitment from me. No more waffling. My withdrawal from life had hurt Bryan too much already. “All right. I’ll call and tell her I’ll help with the play. It’s two months away. I’m sure I’ll feel better by then.”

  A grin split his face. The gaps waiting for his permanent teeth never looked better to me. I even smiled in response.

  Tom would get home from his first deployment to find an active, well-adjusted wife appearing with his son in the school play. Two months should give me enough time to recover from this . . . thing . . . that had its fist around my throat. Even if I had to suffer through some group therapy. Even if I had to confront the memories I’d worked hard to forget. Even if I had to fill each page of my notebook with action points and tiny goals. It was a great plan, a great target for me to aim for.

  So why did the few bites of pizza I’d managed suddenly congeal in my stomach?

  chapter

  9

  THE LONG TABLE AND folding chairs barely fit in the cramped conference room at Victim Support Services. A girl with Goth eyeliner slumped in a seat near the door. She shot me a sideways glance and then went back to gouging a pattern into the table using a paper clip. A man with sagging jowls and deep eye pouches sat beside her and tugged on his suit sleeves. He appeared to be about my age, but with the world-weariness of someone much older.

  “Hello.” A plump woman in her fifties followed me into the room and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Marci Crown. I’m the psychologist on staff here, and I facilitate this group. I saw your son out there. He’s adorable.” She pulled out a chair for herself across from Goth girl and Basset-hound man. The seats closest to the door were taken. I squeezed my way to the far end of the table. The others avoided eye contact.

  A crowded room with only one door. Couldn’t they see this was a fire hazard? A trickle of sweat ran down my rib cage. Panic attacks were bad enough, but this place was going to give me claustrophobia on top of it. I’d have to crawl over the raccoon-eyed teen and the businessman to escape. Why had I agreed to this? The drive to the victim center had drained me, and now I wanted to find an excuse to leave. I half hoped Bryan was upset about being left in the lobby to play on his own—what kind of mother was I to hope my child was upset so I could make a quick exit? But as I expected, my oh-so-resilient child was calmly coloring at the receptionist’s desk.

  Dr. Marci glanced at her watch, holding it out far from her face and squinting. “I was hoping Daniel would make it, but he asked me to tell you all that he’s having a bad day.”

  “He’s agoraphobic.” The Basset-hound man tossed the explanation to me.

  “Henry, let’s not use labels,” Dr. Marci interrupted. “Daniel is a lot of things beyond his hesitation to venture out. Let’s start with some introductions.” She zeroed her gaze onto Goth girl.

  The young woman lifted her chin long enough to roll her eyes. “Name’s Ashley. Friends call me Ash. Get it? Ash—the debris of destruction.” She waggled her fingers and glared at all of us in what I supposed was meant to be a menacing face.

  Good grief. Did she really think the nihilistic role was cool? She looked like an adolescent vampire. A vampire who needed a shampoo.

  Unable to force a very warm expression on my face, I dug in my purse and pulled out a stick of gum.

  “Are you going to keep that?” Henry stared at the foil wrapper in my hand.

  My gaze swung from Henry to the gum wrapper.

  Ashley smirked. “He’s a hoarder.”

  I almost choked on my gum. This was getting better and better. I handed the piece of foil to Henry and scrunched lower in my chair.

  “Penny, I’m glad you decided to join our group.” Dr. Marci poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.

  I’m not joining this group. I’m sitting in on one session as penance for freaking ou
t in front of Bryan. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you all.”

  Ashley snorted, not faked out by my attempt at sincerity.

  “Okay,” Dr. Marci raised her eyebrows in Ashley’s direction. “Let’s get started. Share a little about why you’re here and how your week went, and what you need today. Penny, you can go last so you get to know us first.”

  Oh, joy.

  The door swung open and another woman scurried into the room. “Sorry. Traffic was awful.”

  “Glad you made it, Camille. We’re just getting started.” The others around the table echoed Dr. Marci’s greeting.

  Finally, someone normal. Camille wore stylish khaki capris with a striped cotton blouse, a silk scarf, and designer sunglasses. Her hair was clean and styled, and she didn’t look like the type to collect gum wrappers.

  Dr. Marci sat back in a pose of relaxed attentiveness. “Henry, why don’t you start us out?”

  Henry cleared his throat. “Could I have some water, please?”

  Dr. Marci passed him a stack of Styrofoam cups. He pulled off two, palmed one to slip into his jacket, and poured water in the other. No one else at the table even blinked.

  I shivered. Bunch of weirdoes. How was this supposed to help me shake off my anxiety? Well, at least it would reassure Tom that I was getting help. If I could endure the rest of the hour, I’d be able to e-mail him all about how much better I was.

  Henry was talking about his week. “Well, I’m still having trouble sleeping. I’m . . . well, I hate to say it, but I’m scared to sleep. The nightmares get so bad.”

  I leaned forward. Maybe someone here did know what I was going through.

  “Can you review why that’s been a problem . . . since we have a new member in our group?”

  Henry smoothed his tie and looked at me. “Awhile back I was on the floor of the stock exchange. Hundred-hour workweeks.” His chest expanded. “Top of my game. Then came the dot-com bust. I had a lot of clients deep into high-tech stock.” He seemed to shrink before my eyes, a soggy balloon the day after a party. “Lost my job. Moved back to Virginia to live with my parents for a while. Had some health problems. Then I got mugged one night. Beat up pretty bad. Something in me just . . . broke. I haven’t gotten back on my feet since.” He shrugged. “I lost my temp job and haven’t been able to go out on interviews.”