It Starts

by Avery Kirk

  Constant Pull

  For Jen Jen

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-4935983-4-2

  Copyright © (2013) Avery Kirk

  All rights reserved

  Cover design: Avery Kirk

  Photography: Boogich | istockphoto.com

  Printed in the United States of America by CreateSpace

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  Contents

  Chapter 1: Harry

  Chapter 2: I Tell Kevin

  Chapter 3: Nearly Fired

  Chapter 4: Dreams and Dinner

  Chapter 5: Dave

  Chapter 6: Escape

  Chapter 7: Consultation

  Chapter 8: Unexpected

  Chapter 9: Unglued

  Chapter 10: Disapproving Support

  Chapter 11: A Change in Plans

  Chapter 12: Two Signs

  Chapter 13: Loose Ends

  Chapter 14: California

  Chapter 15: After

  Chapter 16: Lightness

  Chapter 1: Harry

  He handed me a piece of paper with ‘Tell me everything’ written on it.

  A round-faced young woman walked into the room. She asked the man how his day was going. She was a very pretty girl with deep dimples that showed when she said Ps and Ms. The wizard blue room where we sat was an overdone nautical theme. Many framed pictures sat on a laminate oak chest against the wall. This medical center, or whatever it was, made me feel edgy.

  I hesitated, looking her up and down as she very cheerfully made small talk with the man. I eyeballed him as he smiled and nodded at her chirpy commentary. He seemed harmless enough. As the girl walked over to check on his roommate, the man looked over at me through a pair of thick glasses. He had kind eyes and a three-day stubble on his face, entirely gray. I sat across from him in a pilled burgundy fabric chair.

  I gave myself a moment to decide where to start—or even if I should. The room smelled Pine-Sol clean with a rubbing-alcohol edge to it. The view out the window was of a courtyard where a few people sat, trying to enjoy the sunny day. We had unreliable weather here so you had to take advantage of all the sunny days you could. Yet, there I was, inside this room.

  I shot a quick glance at the man next to the one who had handed me the note and then looked down at my rough, calloused hands. A little bit of pale-pink nail polish was still on them, left over from a few weeks before. The man coughed, or maybe he laughed—I wasn’t sure. He handed me another piece of paper. It read, ‘Maybe you should tell me your name first? I’m Harry.’

  I smiled and looked over at him. He was smiling back with his chin slightly tilted up so he could see me squarely through his now falling-down glasses. He gave the glasses a quick shove with his finger to get them back where they belonged in the grooves on his nose. I finally decided to speak.

  “I’m Rita,” I looked down quickly. I wasn’t Rita. I didn’t even like that name. “It’s short for Margarita,” I added, still looking down.

  Oh, God. Shut up. I wasn’t Rita. My name is Amelia, but most people call me Mel. Well, except my mother, but she’d died. I didn’t say any of that part out loud. I just left him with the Rita lie. There I was, lying to this nice old man who was curious about me for no good reason. Well, maybe out of boredom. The dimpled girl laughed gently, stopping short. She glanced at me again and left the room.

  I looked back over at him, and he had an unusual smile on his face. His head was tilted. He seemed to not be too sure about my answer, or maybe he liked my fake name. I doubted he’d take the time to write out the details behind his expression.

  He handed me another note. It read, ‘I think you need to talk, and I’m fine listening. But until you’re ready, can I ask a question?’ His writing was in all capitals with a bit of a slant to the right—very easy to read.

  “Sure,” I responded. The word came out sounding odd—deeper than I usually sounded to myself. I sat leaning forward, with my elbows on my knees, fingers interlaced. I swallowed hard and looked out the window again while he wrote. Outside, a little girl with dark, curly hair in a fluffy tutu was spinning in circles until she fell onto the grass. I listened to the sound of the man’s mechanical pencil squeaking across the paper. He stopped writing and looked hard at the paper. Then he erased and wrote again. He handed me the page.

  It read, ‘What do you do for a living?’ I could faintly make out the words “why” and “here” among others that had been erased. I realized that he might have previously written Why did you come here? If he had, he must have thought asking that would be rude. I ignored the erased question.

  “I’m a finish carpenter,” I said, sitting up. Finally, something I could easily talk about. He pointed to my hands and smiled and winked.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I laughed a little. He put his pencil down and folded his hands across his belly, smiling. It wasn’t that obvious. I could’ve been a gymnast or something. Their hands were callused. Although, odds were against me; there aren’t many professional gymnasts. I couldn’t think of a single one who came from Michigan. But really, I didn’t follow the sport. I let my mind wander for a minute, thinking about gymnastics, and the strength it required. I was silent for a few minutes as I mentally clapped chalk off my hands after an excellent dismount.

  I sat silently long enough that Harry held up a paper, which read, ‘How?’ and waited for me to look over.

  “Oh, you mean, how did I learn to—to be a finish carpenter?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Well, my grampa always had projects going on in the garage. Model boats, dune buggies, that kind of thing. He was working on this entertainment center as a gift for my gramma. Up until then, their television was on a little round table in the corner of the room. It was the kind that had wood grain sides and antennas on the outside. ” I paused as I remembered the yellowed tablecloth with the embroidered flowers under the TV set.

  “He was surprising her with the piece he was working on. I had been arguing with my mother that day, because I was a teenager and that’s what I did.” I felt a mild wave of shame roll over me. “So when we would fight, I’d ride my bike over to my grandparents’ house. I’d make up random reasons to stop over. Most of the time I’d bring things to give to them and tell them we didn’t like them. Like a new kind of cereal or an extra box of cake mix that I’d say we didn’t need. They always thanked me and never asked. I just liked going there because it was always so mellow, you know? Just a lot of tinkering going on. Maybe a trip to the grocery store here and there. Just general contentment. It was great.

  “Well, anyway, he was working on this entertainment center, and his friend Murray would stop over. He’s a carpenter. He helped my grampa build the thing because it was a big job. I was interested. I liked watching the piece come together. I started to come over daily and watch them work on it. I got to know Murray, and he showed me how to make the top cornice an
d get the miters right. He didn’t like doing that part of it. He said he preferred what he called ‘big work.’ Framing walls, building stuff—big stuff. He and my grampa were impressed with the job I did—especially when I made them redo a miter because it didn’t match perfectly.” I laughed at the memory.

  “So, I asked if I could stain it, you know, by myself. I couldn’t believe my grampa said yes, but he did. I was overcome by the detail—but, in a good way—which surprised me. I loved the repetitive nature of the work and the exactness and patience it required to do it well. It relaxed me.

  “So, anyway, it came out great after I stained it and gave it a coat of poly. I wasn’t big on hobbies, but Murray started talking to me about doing work with him for money. You know, coming with him on jobs and stuff. Said he dreaded the details—always had. I’ve been following him around for the last four years now. I like the work, but I keep wondering if I should’ve gone to college. You know, just something to fall back on.”

  I felt myself getting a little too far off-track. I was stalling. I looked over at Harry, and he had a patient look and locked his eyes on me, as though he was expecting me to go on without him asking me to.

  “I guess I just wanted to talk about my crazy dreams—you know, out loud,” I finally said. “I’ve never been the type to remember dreams. Or even remember having them. It’s been bizarre…for me.” I looked across at him. He moved his eyebrows together with a sort of concerned interest on his face. He moved his right hand toward himself in a motion to encourage me to tell him more.

  “I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how much you want to know or why I’m even telling you,” I said.

  He gave a wispy laugh. Then he picked up his paper and pencil again. The paper said, ‘Not much going on today. I’m happy to listen if you would like me to. OK with me if you choose not to.’

  “Well, OK then. I will tell you,” I said with a half-smile. I felt a little lighter for whatever reason. “Like I was saying, I never dream. Well, maybe I do, though I never remember it. But lately I’ve had these very vivid dreams. And I feel as if I have time afterward to review every single detail.

  “For the record, I’m not a huge fan of dogs. I got bit when I was a kid. It was the neighbor’s dog. He had already bit two other kids, but I guess I was the last straw because they put him to sleep afterward. I was just standing there talking to my friend, and he came up and bit me on the back of the leg. I didn’t even cry until I saw my mom.

  “But, my dream had this dog that kept following me around. He was a shaggy, tan-colored dog, and he was dirty. I kept trying to get him to come over to me, which felt strange because I don’t really like dogs, so I don’t know why I was so interested in him. I found some tacos on a park bench, and he came over to me and ate the tacos. He ate them like he hadn’t had anything to eat in a week.

  “After he finished, I was able to pet him, but he was very dirty. I asked him if I could give him a bath, and he nodded. The dog nodded—the way a person would. I felt around his neck and found a tag. It was pointy and jagged and oblong, and I couldn’t read what it said. Then the metal cut my finger. The dog licked my cut, and when I looked at him again, he was completely clean. We were in a different place, and he had a leash on him that I was holding. Then I woke up.

  “So that one isn’t that weird. But then about a week later, I had another dream. The same dog. He was clean now and a golden color. But he was larger, and this time he stayed by me without a leash. Hills appeared in the distance, and a person was waving to me. Telling me to come nearer, I think. But I couldn’t make out who it was. In my mind I knew this person.

  “I tried to wave back, but my arms were slow. I realized that I was smiling. Palm trees appeared everywhere. I felt as though someone was behind me. The dog must have thought the same thing because he started barking like crazy. I looked behind me and all around, but I couldn’t see anyone. I just had a creepy feeling as if someone was there. Then the dog bit me, and I think that’s when I woke up.

  “I thought maybe the person waving was my mother. She died—in real life, I mean. A few years ago. I lost both my parents in a boating accident.” I was looking out the window now, and a feeling of nausea washed over me—probably because I’d lied. It was actually a car accident.

  “I don’t know if it was my mother, but from a distance what she had on looked like the kind of dress she used to wear. It might have been. Not that it would matter.”

  I looked over at Harry. He was nodding slowly with a patient expression on his face. He rested one hand over the other and rubbed his top thumb on his lower hand. His hands were dark and looked dry. The many lines in them were deep and interesting to look at. I gave him a minute, to see if he was going to go for the paper again, but he didn’t.

  “So, then came the last dream,” I continued. Suddenly I was feeling silly for burdening this poor man with my stupid dreams. I felt my brain starting to leap as if I might elaborate to make my story seem more exciting for him. I suppressed that urge and stuck with the real dream. Harry didn’t seem like a man to need much drama. I found myself shaking my head slightly as I stared out the window, watching a visiting child in overalls chase a butterfly in the courtyard. “The last dream was a little…darker.” Harry raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  I continued. “It started with a storm. I was looking for something but I didn’t know what. The dog wasn’t in this dream. Maybe that’s what I was looking for…I don’t know. But I seemed to be very worried about whatever I couldn’t find. I went from house to house, and I was soaking wet. I saw a person in the distance, but I couldn’t catch up with her. Or him. Whichever. I couldn’t tell. So, I kept going door to door, but no one was answering.

  “I was starting to feel afraid and something seemed to be coming after me. So I flew. I was able to actually fly in the air. Then I knew I was dreaming. I kept falling, but I would remember that the bad feeling was on the ground, so I would make myself rise into the air again. When I was flying, the storm was gone, and the sky was purple. I flew over all the houses and saw Kevin on the ground waiting for me. I felt relieved, as if he would help me find what I was looking for—and then I woke up all sweaty.”

  Harry started writing. “Who is Kevin?” the paper read.

  “Oh, Kevin is my very good friend. He’s actually my closest friend, but not my boyfriend. Most people assume he is.”

  Harry nodded, a little bigger and more slowly than before. Next he wrote, “Do you want to tell me about your parents?” Desperate not to want to make up a boating accident story, I decided to take a different route.

  “Well, it’s funny, actually. That’s how I met Kevin. I don’t mean ‘ha ha’ funny, of course, but weird funny. Kevin is a volunteer firefighter. He was on the scene at my parents’ accident.” I quizzed myself as to whether or not volunteer firefighters helped in boating accidents the way they do in car accidents, and then I decided that the fact was unimportant. I was quiet for a moment. I didn’t look up.

  “Kevin was there when I got there. He’s a little older than me. Couple of years,” I said, with a one-shoulder shrug.

  I paused, remembering the first time I’d really met Kevin. I hadn’t paid much attention to him, but I remembered his hands. I was home alone. This had happened a few years ago when I was just about 21. My grandparents were on vacation. On a cruise.

  “When I learned that my parents weren’t… Well, when I realized how bad the accident was. I…Kevin was there and grabbed my arm when I fell down. I fell. Like on the ground, I mean.” I had started speaking out loud again without meaning to.

  “I was, well I mean his hands were very warm and perfectly dry. It was humid out so that was odd and—noticeable. His hands felt safe. He offered to drive me home, but I wanted to walk. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of my mother’s fancy high heel shoe smashed without her in it.

  “I remembered her deciding which shoes to wear that night. She loved to dress up. I always told her
she was nuts for it, but on her it was super cute, really. That night, she wore a little, white, sleeveless sundress and white heels with navy-blue trim. She grabbed her sunny orange purse because she said it was a nice and unexpected accent color. I mean, seriously, who has an orange purse?

  “I never change my purse. She always bought me different ones, but it’s just too fussy for me. I don’t care if my shoes match each other, so I’m sure you can imagine that I really don’t care about actually trying to coordinate them with other things. My mom said I was more focused on function like my dad.”

  I chanced a look at Harry to see if he was still interested, or if I’d put the old guy to sleep. He had a kind smile on his face and was still rubbing his thumb on his hand.

  “So, Kevin brought my car back to me later on. I had just left it there with the keys and all my stuff in it. He came with one of the officers and brought it to me. I was home, but I didn’t answer the door. I didn’t even look to see who was there. Anyway, he left me a note and put the keys in the mailbox.”

  I thought for a moment how I had hidden in the corner next to the sofa and cried for hours. I managed to tear off the sofa skirt completely by the time my grampa and gramma used their key to come into the house and get me.

  I kept talking, trying to interrupt my memory of it. “So, a couple months later, I was working on a job—one of my first jobs, actually.” Now my hand movements were getting bigger and I felt less awful. “Have you ever had the candy Atomic Fireballs?” I asked him.

  Harry’s eyes got wide, and he nodded even bigger this time. He wrote, ‘my granddaughter’ on his paper.

  I laughed. “Spicy. Yes. Well, I love those. I was refinishing a bar top for a client. I hated the smell of poly back then because I wasn’t used to it. So I’d gotten into the habit of keeping an Atomic Fireball in my mouth. For whatever reason, I learned that I couldn’t smell the varnish quite so bad when I did that. I kept a bag of them in my truck just in case. Worked great. Well, in this case it worked a little too great.