by Freya Barker
“He has a tendency to see more than he should, and he likes to stir shit up. Never you mind him,” Viv says on a laugh.
“Ha,” he scoffs, “he’d be stupid not to.”
I pull out a chair and sit down beside Viv, facing a smiling Pam.
“Knight in shining armor, again. Gonna make a career out of this?” she mocks me, but with a warm smile on her face.
“I might for her,” I fire back with a smile of my own, tucking my arm around Viv’s shoulders.
“You good, girl?” Pam directs at her. “Gotta say, even bedraggled and just fished out of the water, I saw the fight in you. Not what I was expecting to find.”
“I’m good. Well, I should say I will be good. I’m thinking I’ll need a lot of pep talks from you because it’s bound to get ugly first.”
I see Pam’s eyes shoot open. “You’re ready to talk?”
“I’m always ready to talk to you,” Viv’s evading a direct answer, but Pam eyes squint sternly in response.
“You give me smartass, girl? I wanna know if you’re ready to dig up whatever you’ve tucked down so deep, it’ll take a fully rigged excavation team to unearth.”
“Ready,” Viv answers with a little stumble in her voice. “If you guys’ll be my excavation team,” she says, looking at all of us in turn. I just answer with a squeeze on her shoulder, she already knows I’m in. Pam just sits back, her arms folded over her chest, and a smile so wide it looks like her face will crack right open.
“‘Bout fucking time,” Dino rumbles without turning around, causing Pam to swing her head around.
“What do you know about it?” she challenges him, and this time he does turn around, scanning her from top to toe.
“Enough,” he says before dismissing her by cracking a few eggs over a hot pan.
Pam humphs, muttering under her breath, “Everyone’s a fucking therapist these days.”
Viv chuckles and leans back, resting her head on my shoulder.
Hard to believe that less than two hours ago we were fighting for our lives. Even the wind seems to have died down.
-
“Is David in?” I cut to the chase when I walk into the office and am accosted by whatever her name is. Amanda?
“I thought I saw him go into the lunchroom. I can check for you, if you like?” she chirps, batting her eyelashes.
“I know my way around, Amanda. Thanks, I’ll find him.”
“Oh, it’s Samantha.” She feels the need to correct me, like it matters.
I stick my head into David’s office as I pass by, but it’s empty. I find him having lunch in the small kitchen in the back.
“You made it,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, and now this.”
“Not aware of having complained,” David says with his eyebrows raised. “I know you’re used to keeping your own hours when you’re on the road, I wasn’t really expecting you to slip into a nine to five that easily. As long as the work gets done, I don’t particularly care. But just to satisfy my own curiosity, who is she?”
“Sorry?”
“The woman who’s got you preoccupied?” he clarifies, a knowing smirk on his face. Figures he’d be nosy. He’s only been on my case to settle down since he got hitched a while back.
Pouring myself a coffee and pulling out a chair, I find myself telling him about Viv, a little about her asshole ex and her family. I even give him a rundown of this morning’s events, which leaves him leaning back in his chair, hands folded behind his head.
“I can see why you were a little distracted this morning. Holy hell. She okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” At least she was when I left her sitting at the kitchen table with Pam earlier. I hadn’t wanted to go, but they virtually pushed me out the door, Pam reassuring me that she would take Viv to her apartment for clothes before heading to Florence House. I still felt uneasy about leaving her, but the storm had died down substantially, and she wanted to at least help Dino get through the lunch crowd. Gunnar had come back earlier from dropping his kids at school and hadn’t wasted any time telling Viv to get herself home, but with limited success. The two of them went toe-to-toe and ended up compromising: he’d already called Tim in to help with the Friday night crowd, but Viv wanted to stay until after lunch. Not like I wasn’t leaving her in good hands.
“Am I out of my depth?” Not sure myself where that question came from, let alone why I’m talking to my boss about all this.
“Why? Because she comes with baggage? Everybody does. Some heavier than others, but that’s not really the question, is it? Do you care about this woman?”
The answer to that is simple. “Absolutely.”
“Then what does it matter if you’re out of your depth? You fucking jumped right after her into an angry ocean, without blinking. That should tell you enough.”
“Right.”
I’m already in deep, so deep I can almost see bottom. That’s probably what scares me most. The last time I felt this kind of overwhelming responsibility for anyone, he died right in front of my eyes. I’ll never forget my father pulling me aside before we shipped out, asking me to look after Benjamin. I never considered the weight that came with that responsibility. Not until he was killed, and I was powerless to do anything but hold onto his lifeless body to prevent it from being washed out by the endless ocean. It felt like hours, hanging onto the mangled steel of the hull while the constant pull of the water tried to suck us out of the hole. I wasn’t going to let him go, just like there was no way I would’ve let go of Viv this morning. I’m falling in love with her, and it scares me to death. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to help her battle her demons, when I can’t even seem to get rid of my own.
“Look,” David says interrupting my heavy thoughts. “Why don’t you take a couple of days off? I talked to the shipyard this morning. The storm has done some damage to the rigging on the ship. The launch has been delayed until they’re repaired and the weather settles down some. Likely not before next week. Nothing else is pressing. Go home, take Monday as well, and check in Tuesday.”
I drop my head in my hands, suddenly feeling old and tired. My body had taken a beating by the raging water and with the adrenaline worn off, I can feel every last bit of it. Still, I’m reluctant, until David slaps his hands on the kitchen table, making the decision for me. “There. That’s set then. Don’t want to see you in here until Tuesday at the earliest. Get some fucking sleep, you look like death warmed over.”
I manage to mumble an ungracious, “Thanks,” as I walk out of the lunchroom and straight out through the reception, where whatever the hell her name is, jabbers on about something. I don’t hear a word she says and simply walk past her and out the door.
I can’t quite remember how I get there, but I pull my bike on the stand behind the pub, tucking my helmet in the saddlebag. The rhythmic sound of metal hitting metal draws my eyes to the end of the wharf. The water is choppy but no longer washing over the surface with the churning crush of waves like it was this morning. An involuntary shiver runs through my body. God, we’d come close.
The insistent clanging pulls me from my morbid thoughts. A flagpole at the end of the dock, an American flag, or what’s left of it, tugging in the breeze making its rope slap into the metal pole, the source of the sound. The flag is tattered and ripped, but still waves bravely in the remaining wind. The reminder of almost losing another life under a waving flag is suddenly too stark.
I walk into the back door, down the hall, and into the kitchen, where I pull a stunned Viv around and wrap her in my arms, burying my face in her neck.
“Ike, what—” she says surprised, trying to pull back but I don’t loosen my hold.
“Just let me...” I swallow hard against the ragged sound of my voice. “I just need to hold you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Viv
“You ready to talk?”
I
should’ve known Pam would cut right to the chase the moment I sat my ass down at the kitchen table at Florence House.
I’d waited until the lunch crowd dissipated before hanging up my apron, and after saying goodbye to the gang, I walked home to get my car and went straight over. She’d made me promise, before she left this morning, to come to her after. She’d wanted me to come with her right away, but I guess she quickly realized I needed some time to process before talking. Puttering around in the kitchen with Dino, who never says more than is absolutely necessary anyway, was the perfect way to let my mind go. And it went, on and on, and round and round. With this morning’s decision to open the door further, rather than trying to shut it again, it wasn’t so much whether I was going to talk, but rather how I would go about it. I sensed that Pam was far enough in my head to be ready for me, but I was crapping myself thinking about what this might do to my family. It had been ingrained in me from a young age that family sticks up for each other. No matter what. Well, when you need protection from someone who’s part of that family, things become a little complicated. Part of me wants to just see what happens, since I’m convinced the wheels are going to come off at some point regardless. The only way to have any control over when, where, who, and what, is to tell the truth myself.
First, though, I have to test myself and see how I do discussing any of it with Pam.
“No,” is my honest answer, but I quickly follow it up with, “but I will anyway.”
I start hesitantly, trying to explain the dynamics in the family when I was younger. The slow indoctrination of my young and easily manipulated mind to a point where boundaries were blurring, and I no longer trusted my own sense of right and wrong. The gradual escalation to a point where I finally voiced my discomfort and was countered with a threat that seemed so real, I was afraid to doubt it. Not even when I finally did try to tell someone, was I heard or believed.
Pam says little—asks even less—she mostly listens, and at times I see her surreptitiously wipe at her eyes. Mostly when I lose it and have to stop to gather myself. I have to force the words out at first, and wince when they hit the empty air, recreating a reality I have buried and denied for most of my life. But gradually they start flowing, tumbling faster and faster, creating a verbal diarrhea that continues uninterrupted until I am done. I’ve not gone into too much detail yet, but I managed to lay out enough of the story, so she can easily fill in the blanks. I’m sure she’ll drag them from me at some point.
Without saying anything, Pam gets up and opens a cupboard above the stove, and pulls out a bottle of scotch. She then grabs our mugs from the table, pours a healthy shot in each and tops it up with tea. Putting one in front of me, she takes a hefty swig from the other and drops down in her seat, eyeing me from under her brow. “Don’t look at me like that. We need it.” Another generous drink goes down before she puts the mug down. “I fucking hate that for you,” she says, her eyes dark with emotion. “I knew there was something, you’d even told me as much, but it still shocks me. Don’t get me wrong,” she hastens to add when she sees me flinch, “it’s not the first time I’ve heard a story such as yours. But what surprises me—shocks me—is how it was able to continue undetected for as long as it did, in a house full of people. Not to mention that the person you probably trusted most, seemed to turn a blind eye.”
“She just didn’t believe me,” I offer, but Pam is not impressed.
“Bull crap. That’s utter baloney and you know it. At the very least, it should’ve raised a red flag, because let me tell you, deep in her heart she knew. She must’ve. No way that goes on and she not see some evidence. Think about it.”
She’s stern and my instinct is to jump to the defense, but I realize that’s what I was conditioned to do. Family over everything: all for one and one for all. I’ve heard every last one of those clichés, to the point where I still get nauseated when someone uses one in my presence. Pam’s right. As an adult I can see things clearer. It started after leaving an abusive relationship and wrestling through the feelings of self-recrimination, guilt, and doubt. I realized in the process of working through it, that what I had taken on as something I’d brought on myself was exactly what an abuser wants you to think. They take no responsibility and lay it all on the victim. I can also see how those changes in me should’ve been visible. Hell, they were visible, I know they were. Not in the least the dramatic change in my personality. I’d gone from a chatty, outgoing, happy adolescent to a moody, dark, and rebellious teen. Where before I got along with my brothers, although at times we could fight like cats and dogs, normal sibling stuff; I withdrew and avoided interaction with them as much as I could. Dorian was most affected by my dark moods, mainly because he kept seeking me out, and I’d be surly and mean trying to chase him off. It wasn’t until I finally turned eighteen, graduated high school—barely—and left home, that I was able to patch things up with Dorian.
“I just feel guilty for letting it happen.”
The sharp slap of Pam’s hands on the table startles me. “You wanna go there again with this? Didn’t we just spend years working through the guilt you felt over what you let your crazy ex do to you? Please. Don’t insult yourself or me. You were a child. You were at your most vulnerable, and you were being taken advantage of!”
When five o’clock is announced with the arrival of a therapy group, I’m shocked at the time. Two and a half hours we’ve talked and my voice is hoarse. Not to mention the condition of my face after spending most of that time crying.
“I need you back here tomorrow,” Pam decrees, clearly not intending to take no for an answer. I wouldn’t say no anyway, I am sitting down with my family on Sunday, and I need help preparing for that showdown. Even though I will just be telling them about Frank ... for now.
“It’ll have to be before eleven or between three and five.” Pam’s eyebrow lifts. “I want to stick to my regular routine, Pam. I’ve gotta work.” That seems to appease her.
“You planning on talking to anyone else?” she asks cautiously, making me smile a little. Pam is generally not in the habit of tiptoeing around. “You know you could benefit from some of the groups. The more you share, the easier it becomes,” she suggests.
“I’ll think about it. I feel a little wobbly on my feet right now. A bit unbalanced. I need to find my feet before I’d feel comfortable in a group.” I lift my eyes to look at her, before I continue. “Ike suspects. Not sure how, but he’s sensed something right from the start. He ... he seemed a little shaky when he showed up back at The Skipper not two hours after he’d left. Said he took some time off work, and was gonna make dinner for me at his place.”
“He seems like a good man. A solid man. The kind you can lean on, from time to time, to take the weight off.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking we’ll do a bit of talking tonight.” I smile at Pam who stands up with me and folds me in a hug.
“See you back here for nine?”
-
“How did it go?” Ike asks me, as he pulls the door open to let me into his house, his eyes scanning my features.
After agreeing to see Pam tomorrow morning, I’d pulled out the directions he’d written down for me and quite easily found my way to his place. A regular two-story, family home, not too big, on a street surrounded by similar houses. Not really what I’d expected. It seems almost too suburban for the man I’m getting to know.
I chuckle lightly at his rather loaded question. “Like lancing a painful boil,” I offer him on a tentative smile.
“I bet,” he rumbles, grabbing my purse from my hands and dropping it on the bench along the wall in the small entrance way. Taking hold of my hand, he pulls me into the living room, where he stops to tug me to him and leaves the lightest of kisses on my lips. “Have a seat,” he says, directing me to a large sectional couch with a comfy chaise on one end. “I’ll grab us a drink. Beer? Wine? Or do you want something warm?”
“Beer would be good,” I answer, taking in what looks to be a new
ly decorated house. I detect a hint of fresh paint through the mouth-watering smells emanating from the kitchen. “What are you cooking? That smells amazing.”
“Only thing I can do decently,” he admits. “The poor man’s version of shepherd’s pie. Mom used to feed us that a few times a month and did her best to teach us, but I still can’t seem to get it to taste as good as hers used to.”
The unexpected opening he gives into his family history surprises me, as I happily kick off my shoes and crawl onto the chaise and tuck my legs under me. “Why a poor man’s version?”
“Not because we had no money,” he smiles indulgently. “But more so because Ben and I would consume massive amounts of the stuff. Mom didn’t want to spend hours in the kitchen making the standard version. This one is done with ground beef, onions and potato. Simple, fast, and even better the next day.”
“Sounds interesting, I can’t wait.” I throw him a glance before I carefully ask the next question, but he seems to have anticipated it. “Was Ben your brother?” I watch as a hint of pain flits over his face before he evens it out.
“Ben was my younger brother, yes. He uhh ... he died overseas.”
Ike
Evidence her afternoon had not been easy is all over her face when I open the door. Her eyes puffy and red spots high on her cheeks, making it clear she’s been crying. A lot. I feel like a fish out of water, not knowing whether to acknowledge what I know must’ve been gut wrenching or just pretend I don’t see. But my mouth just goes ahead and asks bluntly, without any benefit of fine tuning. Then again, Viv is not quite a wilting flower having shown her amazing strength on a few occasions, not the least of which was just this morning. She answers just as direct, and the metaphor she uses illustrates precisely what I would imagine it’d be like.
I indulge in a little taste of her mouth, resisting the urge to maul her on the spot. Now’s not the time. Sensing a little uneasiness, and without too much conscious thought, I open the door for her to ask about my family. She’s careful, tentative, but as I expect from Viv, direct. Still, I can’t escape the stab of pain at the mention of my brother’s name from her lips.
