Protecting Abigail

by R. R. Banks

  "I won't ever be able to pretend nothing happened," I say.

  Suddenly there are tears in my eyes, and I turn away, hoping Evan won't see them.

  "It's alright," he says. "You can cry."

  "I don't want to," I say, shaking my head. "I've already cried enough tears over him." I try to brush the tears away, but they rush back as my head drops down. "I'm just so scared."

  "I know you are," Evan says, wrapping his arm tightly around my shoulders and hugging me to him. "I know you are. But I'm here. You're safe. I won't let him get to you. You took the hardest step leaving him. Now all you have to do is look ahead and put one foot in front of the other. That's all."

  I lean my head against my brother's chest and try to catch my breath.

  Just one foot in front of the other.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail

  Two years later…

  The August heat makes the tiny hairs I wasn't able to sweep into my ponytail stick to the sweat on the back of my neck, and I'm tempted to stick my head in the freezer to cool down. I've been listening to the sound of Evan chopping wood outside his workshop for the better part of two hours, but the sound suddenly stopped. I'm briefly concerned he might have gotten heatstroke and is now sprawled out in the grass, passed out. As I reach into the freezer to grab a banana popsicle, I tell myself I really am concerned about his health, and not about the possibility that I'm going to have to haul him up off the ground and start performing emergency maneuvers.

  Maybe both. 80-20. I close the freezer and immediately feel the difference in temperature. 60-40.

  A second later, the door leading from the kitchen out onto the deck swings open and Evan walks in. He's grimy from head to toe, his face is bright red, and his clothes cling to him with enough sweat it looks like he emptied a bucket of water over his head. It's not a pretty sight, but at least he's alive.

  "Explain to me again why you're out there channeling your inner lumberjack," I say. "I've never seen you put in this much work with lumber in August."

  Usually, Evan reserves the chopping and breaking down of trees and reclaimed wood to use for his furniture business for later in the season when it's cooled down a bit. This year, though, he dove in head-first two weeks ago and has been going full tilt ever since.

  "I have a massive order I'm trying to finish for a bed and breakfast that's opening in two months. My friend Xavier has been trying to persuade me to make a few pieces for him. And I've been coming up with a lot of ideas for new designs and want to be able to make some mockups before the slow season. To do all that, I have to get the wood ready."

  The frigid winter months are always slower for Evan than other parts of the year, but he's certainly not sitting around swinging his feet or sleeping all day because he has no work. Even during the slow season, he has a challenging amount of work to keep up with. As he reaches around me into the freezer, he eyes my popsicle and makes a disgusted face.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Those things are disgusting," he says. "No banana is that color or has ever tasted like that."

  "They're delicious," I defend. "And refreshing, by the way, in this sauna you call a house."

  "Every summer," he says. "Every summer you complain about how hot it is in here."

  "Yes. Every summer. It’s hot as hell."

  "It's not hot. The air conditioner is efficient and set on a perfectly reasonable temperature."

  I narrow my eyes at Evan.

  "When did you get old?"

  Evan grins at me and drops a handful of ice into his water bottle.

  "Back to work," he says.

  "Speaking of, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

  I feel strangely nervous starting the conversation. I've been thinking about how to tell my brother for the last two weeks but haven't been able to figure out the right words to say. Now that I've started, I guess I have to go with it.

  "That sounds mysterious," Evan says.

  "Not mysterious. Nothing that dramatic." I take a breath. "I'm ready to move out."

  The smile on Evan's face disappears.

  "What?"

  "I'm ready to move out," I repeat. "I've been here for two years, Evan. We've gone past me being in hiding, to settling into a new lifestyle here."

  "Is it so horrible?" he asks. "I thought you liked being here, and I like knowing you’re safe."

  "I know," I say. "I do like being here, and I appreciate you letting me stay here with you. But I feel like I've been on pause. It's time to start my life again. You've helped me feel safe, and gave me the confidence to do this."

  "When are you planning on leaving?" he asks. "It's got to be at least a couple months out. You have to find a job, and somewhere to live."

  "Well, actually, I've already done both."

  "What?"

  "As soon as I got through the online classes to finish my degree, I got my teaching license. I didn't tell you, because I didn't know if I was actually going to be able to do it."

  "You're brilliant," Evan says. "Why wouldn't you get it?"

  I shrug. I don't want to admit to Evan that I was struggling with insecurity issues and constantly questioning myself until recently. Over the last two years, I've spent virtually all my time right here in Evan's house, taking online college courses, and picking up freelance work when I could. Now that I finally have a little bit of savings built up, the degree I worked so hard to achieve, and my dream job lined up, the lack of confidence has gradually disappeared. Rather than being afraid of going beyond the house, I'm now ready to pursue the type of life I've always wanted but thought for a long time I'd never get to have.

  "Once I got my license, I started looking for a job. I got hired by a small private academy in the city. The pay isn't amazing, but the position comes with an apartment in a building left to the school by the grandmother of an alumnus. I'm really excited about it. I'm nervous, but I think it's going to be amazing."

  I can see Evan is still worried. His eyes look faintly sad, but he offers me a small smile.

  "I'm so proud of you," he finally says. "I know you can do it. If you feel ready to move on, then go for it. I won’t stop you."

  I wrap my arms around my brother and hug him.

  "Thank you," I say. "Thank you for everything you've done for me over the last couple of years. I can't tell you how much it means to me. I love you."

  "It's my job," he says.

  I shake my head.

  "Seriously, Evan. I don't think I would have survived if you hadn't let me come here."

  Evan hugs me again.

  "I would do anything for you." He lets out a breath and steps back. "Alright. Enough of the emotional stuff. Is there anything I can do to help you get ready?"

  ********

  October…

  I've been in the city for almost two months now, but it still strikes me every time I walk down the sidewalk how different New York City is from the more rural areas outside of the city. I'm not completely unfamiliar with the city. Trevor and I lived here briefly, and I fell in love with the fast pace and the feeling that something exciting is always happening around me. It sounds like a complete cliché, but there is a thrill and sparkle to the city that energizes me and makes me feel like I'm a part of something, rather than just an insignificant presence like in the sprawling areas I grew up in. Leaving the city and moving to the house I fled from two years ago was deeply disappointing to me, but I went along with it, and even tried to feel excited when Trevor told me how much bigger it was than our tiny apartment, and how nice it would be out in the quiet. I remember enjoying it for the first few weeks. Being able to hear the grasshoppers at night and see the stars was calming but I soon found myself missing the life and pulse of the city.

  Now that I'm back, I feel embraced by the city. The rush and brusqueness of the people isn't lost on me, but even that thrills me in its own way. Walking to school every day and adventures to local farmers markets on weekends gives me the opportunity
to play a little game with myself. I try to make eye contact with people, throwing smiles their way, and even attempt to exchange a few words. Most often, I'm greeted with a glare, or even a look of total confusion. Every so often, I get another smile or a quick greeting in return. I take those as tiny victories and add a point to my mental scorecard.

  It’s even more fun because not too long ago, I never would have done something like this. I was convinced, in the back of my mind, that when I lifted my eyes up to the person beside me to make eye contact, it would be Trevor glaring back at me. The morning I walked to the school for the first time and found myself smiling at the first person I passed on the sidewalk was a revelation. I realized I had healed enough to exist beyond the tiny bubble I had created for myself. I feel refreshed and absorbed by the anonymity of the city around me. The sounds and constant movement are comforting. I know I'm never alone. I am one of the countless, fluctuating crowd of people who flock to this iconic city and hope they can survive long enough for the glitter and success to rub off on them.

  Every day I am happier to be here than the last. I eased right into my position teaching and have found delight in the children I instruct and interact with every day. Teaching was something I've wanted to do for a long time, but I always envisioned myself in a public school with a sea of nameless students in front of me. The Primrose Academy is the opposite of that. The classes are as tiny as the school itself. Many of the students aren’t in class full-time, only appearing for a few subjects before returning home to work with private tutors. My largest class has only ten children in it. This gives me the opportunity to connect with each one of them and learn who they are as individuals. The freedom of working at a private school means I can tailor my lessons to each child and work with them on a more personal level to ensure they are getting the most out of my classroom. It's taken me twenty-four years, but I'm finally beginning to feel fulfilled.

  As usual, I'm smiling as I walk through the gates to the school and climb the four brick steps up to the white-painted door. I step through it, and almost immediately the head of the school walks toward me.

  "Good morning, Eloise," I say.

  A tall woman I can imagine an older generation would refer to as "handsome,” Eloise McAllister has been leading Primrose for more than twenty years. I admire her effortless grace and confidence.

  "Good morning, Abigail," she says. "Did you have a good weekend?"

  "I did," I reply. "I got a chance to explore the park a little bit."

  "That's great," she says. "I still can't believe it took you that long to get there."

  There's a hint of laughter in her voice, but she maintains her elegance.

  "I'm making it my mission to discover new things about the city every week," I say.

  "Good," she says. "Have a great Monday." She takes a few steps away before turning back around. "I almost forgot to tell you. You got a message on the school voicemail this weekend."

  I look at her questioningly.

  "A message?" I ask. "From who?"

  "I'm not sure," she says. "They didn’t leave a name. We could barely even understand it. It sounded to Emma like the person was standing near a waterfall or in a tunnel. It was pretty garbled, but we were able to make out your name."

  "That's strange," I say. "I'm not sure who would do that."

  Eloise shrugs.

  "It must not have been very important. It was the only message we got, and there haven’t been any calls this morning. If there are, though, I'll be sure to page you."

  I nod.

  "Thanks," I say.

  I'm thinking about the message as I walk toward my classroom. It seems odd that someone would call the school and leave a voicemail for me instead of calling me directly. Evan and Lilith both have the number for the cell phone I bought a few months after moving in with my brother, as do the other teachers in the school I’ve gotten close with. Troubled thoughts swirl in my mind as I enter my classroom but quickly disappear at the sight of two of my students locked in combat.

  "What are you doing?" I ask as I toss my purse on the desk, trying to keep myself from shrieking in the way I automatically want to. "Where is Amanda?"

  The high school senior who is supposed to be earning college credits by acting as my teaching assistant during the before-school program is nowhere to be seen. I'm tempted to duck down and check under all the desks to ensure she isn't hiding from the two boys, who are now disentangled from each other but still standing close enough to lash out if the compulsion strikes.

  "She wasn't here when we came in," Michelle says from the front row.

  As usual, the pink bow in her golden curls perfectly matches her retro-styled dress. Every time I look at her, I feel like a page from an antique storybook has come to life.

  "Did Mrs. McAllister come in and tell you where she is?" I ask.

  Michelle shakes her head, and I hear a few other students agree with her.

  "I'll find out what's going on with her later," I say. "For now, I want to know what's going on between the two of you, Jason and Roger. You know better than to behave that way."

  "Jason says I'm copying him because I have the same pencil holder he does," Roger says.

  "He is copying," Jason insists angrily. "I brought my pencil case first. He said he liked it, and then he came to school today with one."

  I stare at the two boys, blinking. I'm waiting for something else. There must be some missing part of the story to justify the brawl I just interrupted.

  "Are you kidding me?" I finally ask. "Are the two of you seriously physically fighting with each other over the fact that both of you have the same pencil case? Jason, there are probably hundreds of kids here in the city who have that same exact case. There are probably several here in this school. There is absolutely no reason you should be angry that Roger has the same case as you. If anything, you should feel flattered and happy that he likes something you have so much he wanted one for himself. And, you, Roger. Who cares if Jason says you're copying him? That's not an excuse for you to hit him. Both of you are in the wrong here.”

  Drawing in a breath and willing myself to calm down, I look back up at Roger and Jason.

  "Once you apologize to each other, we will move on," I explain. "We're just going to move past it. I don't want to get Mrs. McAllister involved. I think the two of you had a momentary lack of judgment, and you won't do something like this again."

  "No, Miss Dixon," Jason says as Roger shakes his head in solidarity.

  Thankfully that was over, and I try to relax into a normal morning. The message is still lingering in the back of my mind as a shrill bell announces the end of school, leaving me alone in my classroom for a few minutes as the students stream out onto the small playground. There they'll steal a few minutes of playtime before their parents or nannies arrive to hurry them home. Usually, I step out to watch them from the porch, but today I leave that task to Eloise. Instead, I stay behind at my desk. I’m planning lessons for tomorrow when I hear the buzzing sound of my phone vibrating in my desk drawer. The sound startles me, and my heart pounds as I reach for it. My brother's name glows on the screen, and I let out a long sigh of relief before answering.

  "Hey, Evan."

  "You didn't call me back," he says.

  "Call you back?" I ask. "I didn't get a call from you."

  "At work."

  "At work? You called me at the school?"

  "Yeah, this weekend. I had a little mishap with my car and smashed my phone, so I wanted to let you know I wouldn't be accessible for a couple days in case you needed me. I used the tow truck driver's phone, but I couldn't remember your cell number. The only thing I could think of was to call the school and leave a message. I figured someone would check them over the weekend or at least this morning and let you know."

  I rest my elbow on the desk and press my fingers over my eyes as I let out a breath of relief.

  "So, you're the one who left that message?" I ask.

  "Yeah," he s
ays. "You didn't know?"

  "No," I say. "The head of the school told me I got a message, but we couldn't understand it. Where the hell were you when you called?"

  "Next to the waterfall by my house," he says. "I told you I had a little bit of a car mishap."

  "You didn't fall into the waterfall, did you?" I ask, suddenly worried.

  "No. I'm not that bad of a driver. It was dark, and I drove over something in the middle of the road. It popped a couple tires and made me swerve. I ended up on the bank."

  "Something in the middle of the road?" I ask. "What was it?"

  "A piece of wood with some nails sticking out of it. It looked like maybe a part of an old treehouse or fort some kids made. It probably fell off a truck that was bringing it to the lumber yard. I snatched it up and tossed it in the back of my truck instead. I'm sure I can turn it into something."

  I smile to myself. I can't remember a time in my life when my brother has been as joyful and fulfilled as he has been since starting his career. Reclaiming wood and crafting incredible pieces out of it seems to have soothed him in a way nothing else has. It unlocked a creativity and artistic expression within him, and I no longer see the same anger and resentment in his eyes from when we were young.

  "Well, I'm glad you're okay. I'm sorry I didn't call you back, but they couldn't figure out who you were. Your voice was really garbled, and all the sounds in the background made it impossible for them to understand anything but my name."

  "I'm just glad you didn't need to get in touch with me over the weekend and weren’t worried or anything."

  "Things are going really well here," I reassure him. "I really love the kids, and I'm getting to know some of the other teachers."

  "That's good," Evan says. "I actually wanted to ask if you were busy tomorrow."

  "I'm just teaching," I say. "Why?"

  "I'm coming into the city tomorrow afternoon and thought you might want to grab dinner. It's been too quiet around here without you."