by Vivian Wood
“Good juice,” Sarah says, pointing to her cup.
Charlie glances at her, smiling faintly. It’s the first time I’ve seen any kind of positive feeling from him, that’s for sure.
“So, you’re trying to… like, reconnect with your family?” I ask.
There’s that pause again, that furrowing of Charlie’s brow. “I guess so. Sarah’s never really spent any time around this side of the family.”
So that meant that she had spent time around the other side? My brain does gymnastics, trying to figure out what their story is.
Sarah tips the cup over on the floor, and makes a comically sad face. Charlie is already moving to grab a bunch of paper towels to wipe up the tea.
“Mine juice!” Sarah moans, grabbing the cup and managing to spread the tea around.
“Hold on,” Charlie says, squatting beside her and trying to sop up the mess.
“Come here, Sarah,” I say, beckoning her. “You can have some of mine, okay?”
Sarah drops her cup and runs the few steps to me, clasping her arms around my legs. “Fankku!”
I’m guessing that’s ‘thank you’ in two year old. “You’re welcome.”
I kneel down so I’m closer to her height, carefully allowing Sarah to have a few sips of my tea. I notice Charlie stealing glances at us as he cleans the last of the tea, then rises to throw the sodden paper towels away. I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that he doesn’t want to get caught looking openly.
I can see that he just wants to be left alone. If Sarah didn’t exist, maybe I would leave him be. But I have the sense that while Charlie wants to hide and be by himself, Sarah wants to meet new people and do new things.
I want to help her do those things. And the fact that her father is a sexy mystery man? Just a bonus, the cherry on top of the sundae.
There is nothing that I love more than a puzzle.
In order to bond more with Sarah and slowly find out more about Charlie though, I’m going to have to prolong this interaction. I need to ask him for a favor, have him do something.
My mind flashes to the cleaned and fixed machines from the backyard. The words are out of my mouth before I’ve really thought them through.
“Hey, would you look at my dishwasher?” I blurt out.
He gives me a look that is nearly disgruntled. “Your dishwasher?”
“Yeah,” I say, growing nervous. I can feel my palms start to sweat and my face start to heat. “I noticed that you cleaned and fixed up the machines in the back yard…”
I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, as if my explanation makes anything clearer.
His mouth turns down, but he doesn’t say no. “Yeah, all right.”
“Do you mind if I carry Ms. Sarah?” I say, turning to her. She starts chattering at me, her words mostly baby babble.
Charlie hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
As I scoop Sarah up, I can’t help but feel like I’ve unknowingly passed some kind of test. Charlie doesn’t seem to trust or like many people, but he allows me to carry Sarah next door without issue.
I let us in through the stained glass front door, and Sarah is immediately delighted by my collection of animals. Morris and Zack are right at my feet, sniffing Sarah and Charlie carefully. The dogs seem enthusiastic enough, though, because they wag their tails after a second.
“Doggy!!” she squawks, reaching down to Zack and Morris’s curious noses. She looks at Charlie. “Daddy, doggy?”
Charlie looks to me, unsure. “Are they okay with a two year old?”
“Definitely. But just to be safe, I will hold Sarah the whole time,” I promise. Sadie presses her nose under my hand, and I pet her. “This is Sadie. She can’t see or hear. And that’s Morris, and that’s Zack. They’re all special needs.”
Sarah holds her hand out to Sadie, who sniffs her. Sarah lets out a peal of laughter, and snatches her hand back.
“So… about the dishwasher?” Charlie reminds me.
“Oh! Right. Come on through to the kitchen.”
I carry Sarah through the living room and around the U-shaped kitchen counter. I point to the dishwasher.
“Right there,” I say with a sigh. “I’ve been using it as a dish rack since I moved back here.”
Charlie looks at the dishwasher, which is probably at least as old as me. He crouches down with a frown, pulling the door open, and pulling the bottom rack out. I can’t help but notice how enormous he is when he’s next to the counter; he’s easily a head above the countertop, even crouched.
I bounce Sarah on my hip, trying to hold her carefully, but she doesn’t want to be held. She has figured out that Sadie will let Sarah pet her indefinitely, so she wants to be put down.
Charlie glances at us while he sticks his arm inside the dishwasher, pulling out several plastic pieces. I see the gears inside his head turning as he feels around in there.
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, yours is broken. It’s a super cheap, simple fix. You’ll just have to order the part off of Amazon or wherever.”
“Want down!” Sarah insists, kicking her legs and banging her tiny fists on my chest and arm. “Doggy!!”
She’s turning red with the force of her sudden anger.
“You can let her down,” Charlie says, using his hand to indicate down. He stands up, dusting his hands off. “She’s about to have a meltdown otherwise.”
I put her down, and she goes tearing off after Morris, who is drinking from his water bowl on the other side of the kitchen. I am right there behind her, ready to defend her from the dogs. Luckily, though Sarah grabs Morris’s side hair, Morris just pants and tries to lick her.
“Your dogs are good with kids,” Charlie says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Well, Sarah’s not the first kid they’ve met.” I lean down and pet Morris as I talk. “Zack and Morris are actually certified therapy dogs. I take them to the library sometimes, to listen to the kids read. It’s Sadie that I was worried about, even though she’s met kids a little older than Sarah and been fine.”
He nods, watching Sarah keenly.
“So you adopt dogs that need help?” he says, leaning on the kitchen counter.
“And cats! I have a cat around here somewhere, but she’s super shy.”
“I imagine Sadie needs a lot of your time,” he says, nodding to her.
“In the beginning, yes. I got Sadie when she was just a puppy, from a breeder that didn’t know what to do with her. But once Sadie got the commands down…” I pause, double tapping my foot on the floor. Sadie immediately sits. “Pet her, will you?” As I look on, Charlie affectionately rubs her behind the ears. I smile. “Anyway, now that she knows the signals, we live a pretty easy life. Don’t we?”
Zack has come over, jealous of the attention that Morris is getting from Sarah. Sarah is about as happy as any two year old can be, petting one dog with each hand and grinning.
I watch Charlie as he watches her, making note of their physical characteristics that are alike. Their cheekbones are similar, and their bright green eyes. I can’t help but wonder about the missing piece, the mother whose coloring Sarah so clearly has.
Sarah pats the dogs, happy. I see that Charlie is almost smiling again, his face smooth and free of the wrinkles that come from worry. I wonder if he realizes that he’s a thousand times more handsome when he’s almost happy.
I should know better than to find Charlie so attractive. I really should. On my part, I am supposed to be passing through Pacific Pines, fixing up my mom’s house and then getting out of here.
And Charlie… whatever strange problem he has that robbed him of his companion and left him a dark, withdrawn mess…
Yeah, I should want nothing to do with that. But I can’t help myself, I have to at least know why he and Sarah are here on their own.
“Do you mind if I ask a personal question?” I say. Charlie’s attention snaps to me and his frown returns.
“Depends,” he says, low enough that it’s al
most a growl.
“Where is Sarah’s… M-O-M?” I say, spelling it for Sarah’s benefit.
Instantly his expression goes black. “We should be going.”
He sweeps Sarah off her feet, looking murderous. The answer to my question must be really bad, then. Charlie starts to leave, heading for the living room.
“See you later?” I ask, following them.
“Yeah,” he says, stalking to my front door.
He opens it, and then they’re gone, the door slamming behind them.
I lean against the living room wall, uncertain what exactly I’ve done.
Chapter Five
Charlie
Damn Larkin, I think, tossing and turning in my bed. I’m somewhere between awake and asleep, hovering just out of reach of consciousness.
I think of yesterday afternoon. I was in the kitchen, settled against the counter of a kitchen that was almost but not quite mine, arms crossed. I watched Sarah, her dark hair against her white longsleeve shirt, her chubby hands sunk into both the dogs’ coats.
It’s not like I didn’t notice Larkin, though. How could I not? She’s obviously beautiful, with her long blonde hair and her enchanting toffee-colored eyes. I’m still a red-blooded male, and she has a picture perfect hourglass figure.
I’m not immune to her charms, is what I am saying. I hadn’t forgotten about Britta. Who could? But I wasn’t thinking of her right that second. I was thinking that it was nice that Sarah had decided to warm up to the neighbor, and I was also thinking that it didn’t hurt that the neighbor was pretty.
That was my downfall.
Then Larkin asks, “Where is Sarah’s… M-O-M?”
And the bottom falls out of my whole entire world.
I shift in the bed, going a little deeper into sleep.
I dream that I am in the passenger seat of a black Humvee, jolting along the war-wrecked road outside Damascus. Everywhere I look outside the Humvee the landscape is the same bright sand color, endless sand dunes as far as the eye can see.
We’re on a single-lane road that leads directly to the north of the city. Here and there we pass little turn offs, and occasionally a single figure in dusty robes, hauling something on their back.
Otherwise, it is just endless sand dunes. Damascus is just now visible.
It’s as cold in here thanks to the A/C as it appears to be outside. I feel goosebumps on my arms under my long-sleeve white linen shirt.
Everything inside the Humvee is black or camouflage green and brown. I glance at the faces of the three men escorting me to Damascus from Rayak Air Base in Lebanon. They are all the same, scanning the desert outside the Humvee for any situational updates that might impact the mission.
I take special notice of the driver, Sergeant Ellis Jordan. His flat, compacted features are smooth and dark, interrupted only by his wide, easy smile and bright eyes. He’s been smiling since he picked me up. At this point, on such a dangerous run to Damascus, I’m pretty sure that Sgt. Ellis’s smile is a permanent fixture.
I look down at my plain brown satchel, rubbing the rough canvas between two fingers nervously. The satchel holds some mysterious important papers; I’ve been instructed to burn them if I am captured, rather than let them fall in enemy hands.
I squint into the sunlight through my sunglasses, anxious to arrive in Damascus. I am part of a team of CIA operatives who have been brought to Syria’s capital for some kind of black ops, off-the-book mission. I’m nervous as all get-out, and the men accompanying me seem to feel the same.
I catch the faintest glimpse of several men, dressed in dirty thoub robes, their heads and faces obscured by their keffieyeh. In another place, at another time, these men would be brigands or marauders; today, they’re exactly what I don’t need.
The fact that we are a Humvee should’ve tipped them off that we are foreign-backed; no one in Syria is driving these around, except royalty… and those come in fleets.
Maybe the men are desperate, or stupid — you would have to be to think that robbing a vehicle was a good idea.
“Shit,” Sgt. Ellis says, glancing in the rearview mirror.
I turn and see a few more men emerging from sand dunes behind us. Then I turn back the the front, and my eyes widen. One of the men hoists a long, heavy-looking weapon onto his shoulder.
“Fuck!” I breathe. The next second, he fires the weapon, and a rocket is headed straight for us.
It’s unavoidable. We’re going to hit the rocket, head on. Time slows down.
I turn to the driver, but Sgt. Ellis has been replaced. In my dream, it’s Britta driving, her shiny brunette hair bouncing as she grins maniacally. She glances over at me, pursing her lips like she used to do when she teased me.
“Whatsamatter, you?” she says.
“Watch out!” I yell, throwing myself over to the driver’s side, desperately trying to somehow get the Humvee out of the rocket’s sights.
She smiles and reaches out her hand to cup my face. I close my eyes at her touch. My eyes well up. “Awww, Charlie. It’s gonna be okay. You know tha—”
And then the rocket hits.
I wake up, drenched in sweat, panting for air. Where am I? Where is Britta?
It takes a second for Britta’s death to come floating back into the ether of my brain. When I remember though, it’s much worse. My mouth waters, that strange feeling you get before you know you’re about to vomit.
I roll over in the bed, scrambling for purchase, until my head is off the bed. I puke up everything in my stomach, retching again and again until I throw up bile and stomach acid. My throat fucking burns when I finally manage to control myself, sinking onto the mattress.
I’m breathing hard, battling with intense nausea. Not only that, but my sweating has soaked my shirt and shorts through, it’s even soaked the mattress. I lie in my own pool of sweat, knowing that any second it will turn colder than ice.
I turn my head towards Sarah’s little bed, only a few feet away. She slumbers on as if nothing happened, but I doubt that. If I was quiet throughout my nightmare, it would be the first time.
Watching Sarah sleep so peacefully helps me calm myself down, and as my breathing slows, the nausea fades. I rise from bed and grab some clean clothes from an unpacked bag, then head for the ensuite bathroom.
The tiles on my bare feet are fucking ice cold. I shiver as I strip down and quickly change into a dark tee shirt and gray pajama pants. I take a second to brush my teeth, then I go out to look at the spot on the floor where I vomited.
I make a face, then grab one of the bathroom towels and cover the vomit up. I can’t face it, not yet.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom and sneak down the stairs. I look at the living room furniture, and shake my head. I need to be outside, to get some fresh air.
As stealthily as I know how, I let myself out onto the little back porch. It’s really cool out here, maybe forty degrees. I shiver again, wishing for my hoodie, but it’s inside.
Too far, in my estimation.
It’s nice and quiet out here, the porch nothing but a dozen feet by a dozen. Both sides of the house share the same rundown back porch and the same big yard. I appreciate that I’m facing the overgrown lawn instead of the town square.
I sit on the back steps, quietly looking at the moon. I realize that everyone I know is asleep; I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as melancholy as I do just now.
I force myself to recount the end of my dream. I can remember her hand on my cheek even now. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel it along my whiskered jaw.
If only I was allowed to feel Britta’s touch, one more time.
My eyes sting. I bow my head and try to breathe. They don’t tell you this about grief, that it comes in waves. And like the waves in the ocean, sometimes you get hit with a big swell, and you wonder if you’re going to live through it.
I sit and let myself dwell for a minute. My tears don’t fall, but they are right there, brimming. I dash them away.
I’
m doing this for Sarah, I remind myself. There’s only one thing worse than losing your mother as a child… and that’s losing both parents.
Without Sarah, I think I would have faced the waves, and let them drown me entirely. Instead, I’m on this numb slog uphill, because I refuse to leave her all alone.
Besides, Britta would hate it if I succumbed to depression.
Then again, Britta doesn’t really get a say anymore, does she? She fucking left me here, to take care of our kid, I think bitterly.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, like my PTSD therapist taught me to do two and a half years ago. As dumb as it sounds, breathing in through my nose and out slowly through my mouth has saved me several times.
The porch light flips on, startling me. A second later, I hear the back door open.
“Is everything okay?” Larkin asks, her voice hesitant.
I turn around and find her peering out at me, wearing black yoga pants and a yellow hoodie. I nod slowly to her.
“Yeah. Everything is fine,” I say. Not exactly the truth, but close enough.
She tuns off the light, surprising me by closing the door and coming out onto the porch. Larkin pads over to me, sitting down.
I look at her, but she looks at the stars instead.
Larkin is fucking pretty just now. Her long hair is down, laying across her shoulders like a blonde mantel. The moonlight hits her face just so, landing on her upturned little nose, shining on the dappling of freckles she has on each cheek. Her eyes are luminous and large, her eyelashes thick and brown. Her brows are arched just a little as she stares up. I trace the curve of her lips with my eyes, the little cupid’s bow as perfect as God ever created.
After a second she notices my gaze and looks at me, her teeth catching her bottom lip.
“Do you want to be alone?” she asks. Then she blushes a little. “Out here, right now, I mean.”
I can see that she’s tense. I raise one shoulder, ambivalent. I was busy brooding, but she’s distracted me from that. “It’s alright.”
