Storms Over Secrets

by J. A. Derouen

  Not one fucking time.

  Move on, Cain.

  So I give in to the memories. I put my money on nostalgia. Relationships have been built on much less. History has a way of binding people, and tonight, I’m willing to take a chance on the past.

  Move on, Cain.

  I wrap my arm around her waist and give it a squeeze, smiling. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot, babe.”

  And here I go, jumping in with both feet … moving the hell on with my life.

  “Rusted From the Rain” by Billy Talent

  Present Day

  “ARE YOU GOING to keep your promise?”

  “I’m doing the best I can, Lucas. I want to keep my promise, but between you and your parents, it’s very difficult.”

  At the mention of his parents, his expression goes hard, and he leans back and crosses his arms. “They won’t take my calls anymore. I called twice this week, and they wouldn’t talk to me.”

  I wish I could knock some sense into Mrs. Cindy and Mr. Gene, but I know they aren’t the only ones to blame in this instance. Lucas and his parents have developed a wildly dysfunctional cycle of pushing each other’s buttons to get what they want. Sadly, it doesn’t work for anyone, but they continue to bang their heads up against the same concrete wall.

  “Did you threaten them?”

  When his eyes dart away from mine, I have my answer. I release a sigh and pray for patience. I don’t have the strength to fight this never-ending battle, so I choose to change the subject.

  “Are you hearing voices today?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Do you see hallucinations?”

  “You know I do.”

  Lucas’s jaw tenses in frustration, and his voice is tight and irritated. He prefers to ignore the illness, pretend any type of treatment would be futile.

  “Will you elaborate? Please?”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why do we do this? Why does it matter?”

  “Because one day, something will change. Either you or your parents will bend, and the more I know about your struggles, the better I can help you,” I explain for what feels like the hundredth time.

  His shoulders visibly relax, and he stares out the window. “The voices are quieter this week. Sometimes they yell, and I can’t think … I can’t sleep … it’s more than I can stand.” He shifts forward and rests his elbows on the table and meets my eyes. “For the last few days, it’s more of a whisper over my shoulder. When they whisper, the headphones help.”

  I reach out and squeeze his clasped hands. “That’s good to hear.”

  “When I listen to the music and close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m at home, sitting at my desk, working through the numbers.”

  I don’t miss the longing in his eyes, and I silently curse his parents for their part in all of this. I’m in no way innocent, but dammit, I’m trying to make up for my mistakes. I’d do anything to make his life easier.

  “And the hallucinations?”

  Lucas pulls back, breaking contact with me. He shuts his eyes and scratches his scalp. “Now, the hallucinations are a different story. Lately, the rats are the size of small cats, with pointed fangs dripping with drool. They have thick tails slithering behind them, and their greasy fur is black and patchy, like they have the mange.”

  My guts rolls with every word he speaks. His description alone terrifies me, so I can’t imagine how frightening it is for him.

  “They’re not always so scary. Sometimes they are tiny, rainbow-colored mice, flitting around the room. It’s not so bad then. But I always know the rats will be back … the shouting will return … it never ends.” He stops talking and chews his lip, deciding how to continue. “There’s an ebb and flow to my mind, but I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t figure out what makes one day different from the next. I rack my brain, looking for the trigger in all of this. I work harder on the numbers, spend more time with the equations, like the voices tell me to do, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  I sigh and give him a grim smile. “It’s all chemicals, Lucas. There’s nothing you can do differently. You aren’t being punished for working more or less. There are medications that can alter the chemicals in your brain, because they are the trigger.”

  I wish today would be the day he relents. I imagine him looking at me and saying he’s willing to try anything. I will it to happen. But his lips turn into a familiar frown, and I know I’ve lost another battle in this fight.

  “The day I allow them to pump poison in my body is the day I lose control of everything. I won’t live my life in a hazy fog, Celia, shuffling around here like a fucking zombie. That’s a sentence even worse than death.”

  I wish I could write a different story for him. I wish I could take an eraser to the page and pencil in happiness … peace … contentment. But that’s more than I can hope for—at least for today.

  I peek my head into Caroline’s office, my purse hanging on my shoulder, ready to head home. “Hey, I turned off all the computers and locked up the back. I’m gonna lock you in when I leave, okay?”

  Caroline looks over her cat-eye glasses and watches me in silence. My cheek twitches under her scrutiny. I shuffle my feet and look off into the distance. I avoid her “shrink ray eyes” at all costs. I know better than to underestimate the power of Caroline. She sees all things.

  “Where have you been lately?” she asks, tapping her pen in the direction of her guest chairs.

  I’m being summoned. I trudge into the office and fall into the chair. Caroline cocks an eyebrow at my dramatic entrance. She’s a no-nonsense kind of woman. Her blonde hair is always tied up in a high bun, usually by old paintbrushes, and her clothes and skin are often covered in paint spatters. As a counselor, she practices many different types of therapy, but art therapy is where her heart is. I couldn’t ask for a better mentor.

  “Oh, you know, around … busy. My patients are keeping me tied up. What, with group, individual sessions, and crisis call, I’ve been swamped.” I shoot her a nervous smile and break eye contact as quickly as possible.

  “Girl, that’s not what I mean and you know it.” Caroline crosses her arms and levels me with her knowing glare.

  “Hmmmm?” I meet her glare with wide, innocent eyes, and she scoffs.

  “You leave me no choice, Celia. I’ve waited for you to come to me—it’s been months, child. Well, I’m done waiting, and if you don’t want to talk to me about what’s going on in your life, I’ll just have to talk at you.”

  “I’m fine, Caroline,” I whisper with a shrug.

  “You most certainly are not. But we’ll play this your way. Have I ever told you about my Robert?” At the mention of her late husband, her expression softens a bit.

  “Only the basics. I know you have a son together, and he died of a heart attack years ago. I don’t know much else.” I curl my feet up underneath myself, and smile, welcoming the change of subject.

  “He was larger than life, my Robert. Whenever he walked into a room, that’s when the party started. And he loved me the right way. He loved all the things about me that are quirky and off balance—my wild hair, my paint-encrusted fingers, my inability to cook anything even remotely edible.” She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in the air. “What can I do? I can mix paint colors and mediums and create a masterpiece. Give me some cake batter? I’ll make toxic paste.”

  I giggle to myself, picturing a flustered Caroline bathed in flour, batter smudged on crooked glasses. I have to admit, the thought makes me love her a tiny bit more, too. Love is a funny thing—the good, bad, and peculiar roll themselves up into the emotion, making the relationship and the person unique and irreplaceable.

  “Thank you for keeping your cooking abilities to yourself. Let’s leave the baking to Marlo, shall we?”

  “That’s an outstanding idea.” Caroline nods with a laugh. Her expression grows cloudy, and her mouth turns down at the edges. “I’ve never considered remarry
ing. That part of my life ended when Robert left me. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

  I unfold my legs and reach across Caroline’s desk, squeezing her clasped hands. She squeezes back and draws away. She clears the emotions from her throat and eyes me expectantly.

  “Did you catch the message in my story? Did you pick out the part I wanted you to hear?”

  I search my brain, but come up empty. “The whole story is important, no? It’s about love that stands the test of time—what could be more important than that?”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but it’s not the message I’m trying to get across to you. I told you I never wanted anyone else. And isn’t that the key?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” I sigh in frustration. Caroline stands up and sits across from me.

  “What I mean, Celia, is if there ever comes a day where my heart wants to try again, I have every intention of letting it. Robert would want that for me, too. He would want happiness for me. And that, my dear, is the difference between you and me.”

  I pull my keys out of my purse and get ready to leave. I see where she’s going now, and there’s no use in exploring it any further. She’s right, there is a difference between us, but she’s got the details all wrong. Her husband’s death was decisive. His life ended. I, on the other hand, am stuck in limbo. The finality of her situation makes us as different as night and day.

  “Sit down, I’m not done yet.” Her harsh tone surprises me, but I do as she says. “I don’t know the entire story here, about Lucas or Cain, and I don’t want to know until you’re ready to tell me. But don’t lie to me, and don’t lie to yourself. There is want in your eyes, girl. You need to know it’s okay to move on.”

  “Except that it’s not,” I say.

  My words are strong and decisive, leaving no room for argument, but when has Caroline ever cared about that? She loves me and all the other volunteers like we are an extension of her family, and she wants to see us happy. I wish for the same thing, but it’s just not possible right now—at least not in the way Caroline is talking about.

  Caroline huffs and leans back in her chair, eyes full of disappointment. “I’m not in the habit of changing stubborn minds. I find that time and heartache are the only sure fire remedies for that. But let me say one more thing before you go. Your feelings for Cain have nothing to do with how you feel about Lucas. One does not overshadow the other—both are important and needed. First loves aren’t always last loves, but they can certainly pave the way for the truly great ones. I’d hate for you to miss out on greatness while trying to turn back time.”

  Her words hit home, and quite frankly, I don’t think I can take one more pep talk from my friends. I know they mean well, but I don’t need to be reminded of what I’m losing. I know all too well.

  I smile graciously and stand. I lean in and hug Caroline, staying in her arms a little longer, squeezing a little tighter.

  “Thank you, Caroline. I appreciate the advice.” I walk to the doorway and turn with a smile. “Lock you in?”

  She presses her lips together and shakes her head. She sees right through me. “Sure, Cece. That will be fine.”

  “Good night.”

  As I walk to my car, I’m flooded with thoughts of first loves, last loves, and true happiness. Before all of these new feelings, before Cain, I felt content in my life. I cared for my patients and helped them lead fuller lives. I made a makeshift family with friends I adore. I made the most of what little time I had with Lucas. It was enough.

  But now, in the wake of greatness, those things seem less fulfilling, less satisfying, just … less.

  I have to come to terms with my new old life. Patients, family, and Lucas will fuel my days, and the occasional glimpses of Cain will feed my heart and soul. It will be enough.

  Because it has to be.

  “Where I Stood” by Missy Higgins

  Present Day

  I PULL INTO the driveway, and my heart stutters at the sight of Cain’s truck parked in Adam’s driveway. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him. I crave him, even if it’s just for a moment, even if I know the aftermath will be crippling. A small reprieve from the constant ache is worth the hurt I’ll endure later.

  I walk to my mailbox at a snail’s pace, hoping he’ll step out of the house. I flip through the mail and mentally fist pump when I see Adam’s electricity bill in my mail pile. Now I have a reason to walk next door—it’s fate, really.

  There’s pep in my step as I cross the yard, and I hum to myself with a silly smile plastered on my face. I tap three times on the screen door before peeking my head in.

  “Adam? Sara?”

  Sara flies through the kitchen door, her eyes wide and her mouth shaped in an “O.” I giggle at her surprised look and bound through the screen door.

  “Hey girl, I come bearing mail,” I sing-song, waving the envelope in front of me and walking farther into the kitchen.

  “Oh, thank you.” She grabs the envelope from me and walks toward the door. “I’ll be sure to give it to Adam.”

  She stands in front of the door and opens it, and if I didn’t know better, I swear she’s trying to get rid of me. I eye her suspiciously and wait for another explanation, but she remains silent.

  “Sara, can I grab another beer for—oh, hello.”

  Sara visibly tenses as I turn around and check out the new voice in the room. Her appearance matches the screechy quality of her voice. She’s pretty enough, but all of her features are a bit … larger than life. Hair blacker than nature intended, lips much too big for the face they inhabit, and boobs pointy enough to give Madonna a run for her money. I snap out of my rude and judgmental daze and offer her my hand in greeting. If she’s a friend of Sara’s, I’m sure she’s a sweetheart, and I instantly feel guilty for my silent insults.

  “Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt. I’m just being neighborly and dropping off some mail that was delivered to my house in error. I’m Celia, by the way.” She takes my hand and gives it a limp shake before wiping it on her stretched-to-the-limit skinny jeans.

  “Kimberly,” she offers with a curt smile. Her attention reverts back to Sara, making me feel a like a child who’s been dismissed. “I wanted to grab another beer for the boys.”

  For the boys?

  “No time for beer, babe, the movie starts in twenty.” His voice booms from the living room. While Kimberly’s face lights up with a smile, the breath is robbed from my lungs.

  Cain rounds the corner into the kitchen and wraps his hand around the back of Kimberly’s neck. “You know my favorite part of the movie is the pre—”

  Cain looks as horrified as I feel, but it does little to comfort me. My fingernails dig into the palm of my hand as try to erase the image in front of me. I want to wipe it away, along with the gaping hole in my gut.

  Kimberly looks back and forth between Cain and me, visibly adding up the situation, and looking less than pleased with what she finds. She wraps a territorial arm around Cain’s waist and smirks.

  “I’m just gonna …” I mumble softly as I stumble to the door.

  The house is eerily quiet as my footsteps echo through the room. The screeching of the screen door pierces the silence, making my ears nearly bleed. I grip the porch railing as I lower my heavy feet one by one down the steps. When Sara calls my name from the doorway, I turn and face her. I notice the pity in her eyes, and it doesn’t come close to matching the intense pain in my heart.

  “I’ll stop by later, okay?” She gives me a sad smile and shrugs.

  “No, it’s getting late, and I’ll be heading to bed soon,” I say, ignoring the setting sun warming my face, saying it’s way too early for bed. I call out a hasty goodbye as I run to my door and fumble with the lock.

  Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.

  The key thankfully turns just as the first tear falls. I push through the door and slam it shut. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to keep the tears in and push out the image of Kimberly and Cain. My ba
ck slides down the door, and I lay my heavy head on my bent knees. The silent tears slide down my cheeks without much fanfare, as if my body refuses to give in to the act of crying. The tears may come, but I refuse to take part in them.

  Car doors and laughter filter through the door, and I punish myself by picturing their cozy double date. Tubs of popcorn, shared sodas, a terrifying horror flick that will have Kimberly jumping into Cain’s lap. I smirk at the thought of her splitting her painted-on jeans or her pointy boob poking out Cain’s eye.

  Eddie pads into the kitchen and winds her way through my legs, purring softly. I lower my knees and help her into my lap. She kneads her paws in my belly as the sound of vehicles fades into the distance.

  “We’ll get through this, Eddie. I promise, we will,” I whisper, hoping I can convince myself in the process. “He deserves to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

  “Between the Lines” by Sara Bareilles

  Present Day

  INFECTIOUS GIGGLES FILL the kitchen as I wrangle Lily and Gage and fill the silver platter with mini quiches. A flustered Adam takes in the hectic scene with frantic eyes. Lily tugs the furry tail peeking out of Gage’s dress pants, and he pulls the ribbon of her dress, trying to unravel her perfectly tied pink bow. Dressed impeccably for the special night, they remind me of mischievous angels.

  “You got this, Celia? Everything has to be perfect.” His nerves are radiating off him, turning the cheerful tone of the room.

  I pull a peony out of the crystal vase on the edge of the counter and slap him on the head without ever looking up from my task.

  “What the hell?”