by Jean Haus
Jeff waits for other comments until the stale silence has him giving Jason an exuberant thanks before he asks Gabe to share.
Gabe’s eyes flick to me so quick that I almost miss it, making me wonder if I missed any glances last week.
Though he casually leans back in the chair, his long body is ridged steel. “When I retaliated against my father that first time”—there’s no need for him to elaborate given that we all clearly remember him announcing that he beat his father’s ass—“it wasn’t because I was defending myself. I never tried to defend myself. It was because he hit his girlfriend who had been living with us since I was thirteen. She’d been taking care of me more than my father did the moment she walked through the door. After he hit her, I lost it, snapped, and jumped on him, fists going wild.” He crosses his boots. “He hit me from time to time after that, but he never hit her again.”
Misha looks at him with wide eyes. “And you were only fifteen?”
Gabe nods.
“Did you ever beat his ass again?” Chad asks.
Gabe shakes his head. “He turned to threats more than fists after that.”
“How much?” I blurt out in a demanding tone.
Gabe’s brow rises in question.
“How much d—did he hit you?” I almost said does.
His shoulders shrug. “Every now and then.”
“Well,” Misha sneers at me. “For someone who doesn’t say much, you’re awfully intrusive.”
I actually agree with her. The question had come more from the future counselor in me. I’m betting that Gabe has grown to consider getting knocked around every now and then as acceptable. And as usual when Misha is being aggressive, my gaze finds the floor. I mumble, “Just curious.”
I glance up to find Gabe watching me, most likely wondering why I backed down from Misha and not him. I wonder too—it’s always simpler to back down—but for some reason, I spontaneously responded to him.
Jeff asks Gabe a few more questions about how he felt before and after the confrontation with his dad. Gabe’s one word responses are “angry” and “pissed.” Then Jeff swivels in his chair toward me. “Ready to share, April?”
Dread fills me, but I nod and grab for my purse—some designer brand my mother got from an outlet store—from the floor. I shuffle inside for a few moments, buying time, even though the pamphlet is neatly folded inside my planner. After a deep breath, I yank the folded paper out, then set my purse back on the floor.
“This”—I wave the pamphlet in the air, unfolding it and the thick paper flutters from my nervousness—“is the program from the church service for my…my cousin’s funeral. She—she committed suicide.” I don’t pay attention to anyone just flip the program over. “Her—my aunt had her bucket list printed on the back. I’d like to share that.” Though my voice is even, almost monotone as I read, the paper shakes. I can’t control my voice and my hands.
Speaking low and slow, I somehow get out the first item. “Release a paper lantern, get a tattoo, kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel, get belly button pierced, meet Michael Thomas, ride on the back of a motorcycle, slow dance in the rain, walk through a drive thru, share a bottle of strawberry wine, and sleep under the stars.” I fold the program with trembling hands, my throat tight with the urge to cry. Done, I raise my gaze to find everyone staring at me, even Jason.
Gabe’s gaze is unexpectedly thoughtful.
To my surprise, Misha asks, “When did your cousin…” She lets the question hang in the air like a clap of thunder inside of our circle.
I clear my throat and let all the tangled feelings inside of me go—actually, I shove them deep down like I always do. “Almost four years ago.”
“Four years ago?” Chad echoes. “I mean the whole thing sucks, but four years… that’s a long ass time.”
It’s actually been three years seven months and eight days since Rachel passed.
“Chad,” Jeff says in a warning tone. “You—”
“Need to shut the hell up,” Gabe says, glaring at Chad.
Chad sinks onto his folded chair.
“I’d like to sleep under the stars,” Jason says softly, breaking the tension.
“I’d like that too, Jason,” Jeff says, latching on to the calmness Jason’s soft announcement brought to the tension filling the circle.
As Gabe sits back, Jeff turns to me. “Thank you for sharing, April. That took a lot of courage. And whenever you’d like to share more, we’re here waiting to listen.” He then starts his closing monologue, a long explanation of how sharing and listening to each other helps us understand and respect others. I liked it better when I tuned him out, but I’m determined to participate. He ends the session with not only telling us that we need to think of something to share again for next week, we also need to think of someone we could do an act of kindness for. Merely decide on an act kindness at this point, worry about the doing later.
Two assignments for next week. Great. Let the healing begin.
I grab my purse and make it out into the hallway in record time. Passing the receptionist, I offer a quick goodbye, then step outside. On the sidewalk, I ask Jason, “Would you like a ride?”
“No thanks,” he says, pulling his hood over his shaggy black hair.
“All right, see you next week,” I say, moving into the parking lot. After last week, I practically run to my car. I’m pulling out when I notice Gabe marching across the lot toward me.
I’m not sure if he’s going to his car or coming to demand I quit again, but I drive past him without looking, staying calm, cool, and collected.
Well, except for the tremor in my hands.
Chapter 6
~April~
Since the warm weather is holding out, Riley decided to have dinner on the patio in her backyard. Her mother took her little sister to a movie, so we have the house to ourselves. Riley made chicken enchiladas, while Allie—Justin’s girlfriend—and I cut vegetables, like a million tomatoes, onions, and peppers, for fresh salsa. Peyton—Sam’s new girlfriend who I just met this evening—brought dessert: spicy chocolate cupcakes. Sam and Justin brought stuff for margaritas—I stick to water. And Romeo brought the entertainment in the form of a fiddle, an acoustic guitar, and a thin drum or precisely a bodhrán.
Though being in close proximity to Gabe puts me on edge, especially after he claimed I hit on him and my revelation in therapy, the night has gone smooth. The discussion about Luminescent Juliet signing with a label dominated most of the dinner conversation. Plus I made sure to sit on the opposite end of the table from Gabe. Then I spent as much time possible clearing the table.
Now the band sits across from us on the stairs connected to the deck for the above ground pool. Surprisingly, Gabe has been pleasant and easy going. But after quietly arguing—I’m guessing about who would play—with Riley off to the side of the patio, his expression is rigid and intense as he holds the thin drum. Actually, if memory serves me correct, Gabe is always intense when he plays the drums.
Riley comes over and plops in the chair next to me. “Ah, Romeo playing the fiddle,” she says with a wistful smile that has me smirking. Riley is whipped but then so is Romeo.
They start “In the Pines” by Nirvana. Actually, it is Led Belly’s version of an American folk tune that has been done by numerous artists. I’ve heard the band play it in an acoustic version—and each time they play it, the sad song brings on memories that I strive to forget about —yet this is slower, sadder, somehow more melodic with the fiddle added to Sam’s guitar playing and the slow booming beat of the antique drum.
As Justin lowly sings, “Don’t lie to me, where did you sleep last night. I stayed in the pines where the sun never shines, and shivered the whole night through,” a shiver inches along my spine. This new version is stunning. It’s a mix of rock and folk that’s deep and dark and soul touching. My favorite kind of music.
Or at least it once was.
And though I try to ignore its melancholy appeal, I can’t
help being transfixed as the music tries to fill the hole inside of me left from the absence of it. As Justin’s voice rises, the dark space within me lightens a touch. Romeo is in deep concentration with the fiddle stuck under his chin. Sam strums and watches Peyton. Sitting on the top stair, Gabe looks at the ground, the drum between his spread knees. Suddenly, he does glance up and I’m caught in his intense gaze until I have to look away.
The song ends and Riley elbows my arm. “Didn’t Gabe do great?” she whispers.
“Yeah, great,” I slowly say, bewildered at her asking me about him.
“He’s gotten really good this past year,” she adds in another whisper as they begin another soft melodic tune.
This time I keep my eyes from Gabe. Across the table, Peyton and Allie sway to the rhythm. I don’t know the song—it must be newer—but Sam’s light strumming combined with the melancholy tone and the refrain, “My heart’s on fire,” has me wishing the song would end, though they play it beautifully.
Finally, the song does end, and as soon as Romeo sets his fiddle in the case, I grab the remaining dishes on the table and head into the house. We had left all the dirty dishes on the counter per Riley’s instructions. Now I’m a dishwashing loading machine.
Through the window above the sink, the energy around the table as everyone talks and smiles and laughs is nearly visible. The music leaves me melancholy and wistful at the same time. I wonder if I’ll always be stuck on the other side of the glass, left alone. Shaking the water from a dish, I shake the thought off.
I belong on the other side of the glass.
I’m rinsing a plate when I notice Riley bending toward Gabe and gesturing toward the house. Brows low, he nods at her. Recalling her elbow and words earlier, I’m suddenly suspicious the girl is playing matchmaker. Once the suspicion settles, I almost laugh. Other than a few dates, anyone and me is a stretch. I went dead to romance a long time ago, but Gabe and me is preposterous. Whatever Riley has got going on her head, it’s a waste of time. He obviously doesn’t like me, and I’m not much of a Gabe fan.
Unsurprisingly, within minutes Gabe is in the kitchen. “Getting a little too gushy out there,” he nonchalantly says, reaching for a bottle of hot sauce and sour cream. Face impassive, he opens the fridge. “Thought I’d come in and help.”
I turn toward the sink and pick up a dirty pan along with a sponge. “No need. I’m almost done.”
The fridge shuts and I sense him leaning on the island counter.
“Listen, April,” he says in a wary tone. “I shouldn’t have demanded you quit therapy. It was a dick move. I was just shocked at you being there. I tend to get pissed, let off my steam, and think later.”
He wasn’t the only shocked one.
“Honestly, I still don’t want you there.” He lets out a sigh of frustration. “After this Tuesday, I get that you probably need to be there but…”
The pan in my hand bangs against the sink as I stare at the loving couples outside.
“I would think we’d both be uncomfortable, especially after you—”
“I didn’t hit on you.” The words come from behind clenched teeth. “I rarely drink, and obviously drank too much. I was just being silly.”
“Okay, maybe I should have said because we share the same circle of people or some shit, but come on, you have to be uncomfortable too.”
Now I let out a sigh and start furiously scrubbing the pan. “You don’t seem to take it serious. I have a hard time taking that therapy group serious. What’s the big deal?”
Dang. Why am I so honest with him?
“It is hard to get serious with Jeff and the clowns in that group”—I hear him shuffle along the island behind me, then tap on the counter in a quick roll that echoes a drum fill—“ yet this label thing is big. Big enough that I want to get my shit together. I need to get my shit together.”
The plea in his voice has me turning around. His eyes are pleading too, his expression so desperate I want to reassure him.
But I cannot.
I slowly shake my head. “I can’t quit. I would if I could, but the head of the psychology department has made group therapy an unofficial hoop to get in the graduate program for Clinical Counseling.”
His jaw tightens as he runs a hand through his hair dragging it back and revealing black barbell hoops in both of his ears. “Funny, how you can’t take it serious, but it’s what you want to do.”
I can’t help a scowl from forming on my lips until I finally nod. “I want to help people but it’s probably easier leading, easier helping—you just have to have patience to help. With the other you need…courage.”
Gabe is studying me with what appears to be speculation and I’m gnawing on my lip, trying to overcome a wave of guilt, as Riley bounces into the kitchen.
Her smile stiffens at our expressions, mine tense, while Gabe’s is still contemplative, but she cheerfully says, “All right, enough with the dishes. I can finish later.” She shuts the dishwasher.
Gabe continues staring at me with that weird speculation as Riley drags me by the elbow outside.
His look sends a tinge of nervousness running through me.
Chapter 7
~April~
Jeff has done his monologue. Misha has announced she will be helping her current boy toy become a better lover. Chad is going to help his mother with the dishes. Jason is going to help his neighbor with yard work. Now it’s my turn.
Jeff looks at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to volunteer at the Child and Family Services.” I already volunteer for their suicide hotline on Sundays, but I have less credits at school this semester. I can volunteer more than one day at the center.
Misha and Chad sneer at me while Jeff smiles—perhaps a bit too wide. “That sounds like an excellent plan, April.”
I force a curt nod. With his constant praise, Jeff sometimes reminds me of my grade school teachers. Problem? I’m not in grade school. Gabe’s only reaction is the slight rise of his eyebrows. Jason stares at his hands clasped in his lap.
Jeff shifts toward Gabe. “And who have you decided to help?”
Gabe stretches his legs then crosses his ankles, his gaze settling on me. “I’m going to help April complete her cousin’s bucket list.”
A loud gasp rings out in the room.
It takes me several seconds to realize the gasp came from me.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Gabe.” Real bone a fide enthusiasm fills Jeff’s voice.
Misha’s lip curls so far the hoop in the center of her upper lip almost touches a nostril. Chad appears stupefied. Jason stares at his clasped hands. I gradually shut my mouth, as confusion rolls around my brain. Why would Gabe want to help me? That he’d announce such a thing is rather presumptuous. Oddly, I’ve never thought about completing the bucket list, and suddenly the idea is very intriguing. But with Gabe? That thought is intimidating, as in shaking hands with the enemy intimidating.
Confused and irritated with Gabe’s arrogance, I work hard to keep my face neutral for the rest of the session. I barely acknowledge Jeff telling us that the assignment next week is to report any progress on our act of kindness. Finally, he does his final monologue and dismisses us.
Still in a fog, I wander out of the building. On the sidewalk, I absently ask Jason if he’d like a ride home. He declines like usual as Gabe passes us. I follow him to a beat up, old pickup truck.
Numerous thoughts, words, and rebuffs swirl in my head, but as he reaches for the door handle, “What are you up to?” comes out of my mouth.
He lowers his hand and turns, cocking his head, giving me a picture of his harshly lined profile. “Up to?”
“Why would you want to help me? You can’t stand me.”
Those full lips turn down as he turns around. “I never said that.”
“And now you want to help me?” I say incredulously, ignoring his response. “Is this your new ploy to get me to quit?” There’s a desperate whine to
my voice that has me internally cringing.
He shakes his head and draws in a visible breath. “I’m truly trying to help… and deal with the issue of you being in group head on. I like to deal with issues head on, and maybe gain some courage for myself,” he admits in a sullen tone.
Though I realize his idea for courage came from me the other night at the party, I’m still confused. “Maybe I don’t need your help.”
“So you don’t want to fulfill your cousin’s list?” he softly asks.
“She was—fifteen,” I say, feeling out of my element more than ever from the gentle timbre of his voice.
“Fifteen year-olds-can’t have dreams?”
“Of course they can.”
“But they’re too immature for you?”
“Seriously, I’m going to meet Michael Thomas?” My tone drips with cynicism due to the fact the man is a famous actor.
“Maybe. Nothing is impossible. The band is going to California over the next few months. Plus most of the list is easy.”
“Several of them are ridiculous!”
He looks over my shoulder. “You might want to tone it down. We have an audience.”
Glancing behind, I notice not just Misha but Jeff on the sidewalk in front of the counseling office, watching us. At this point, I could ignore Misha, however Jeff, the sunny counselor and reporter to Dr. Medina, I cannot.
I turn back to Gabe, drawing in a deep gulp of air.
He spins his keys on his index finger. “You have somewhere to be? Work? School?”
“No,” I slowly say. “Why?”
“I’m heading to Allie’s shop.”
It takes me a few seconds to put two and two together. Allie owns a tattoo parlor. A wild laugh escapes me, a laugh that Jeff will hopefully read wrong. “I’m not getting a tattoo.”
He stops spinning his keys. “You could just check her place out.”
I can’t help an eye roll.
“Just look for something small and hidden?”
