by R. R. Banks
I've been so lost in thought, the hour and a half trip from SeaTac to the outskirts of Sheridan Falls passed in the blink of an eye. I've been gone a long time, but somehow, some way, I found my way back without having to think about it too hard. Apparently, some memories never fade – no matter how hard you try to scrub them from your mind.
I turn off the main highway and followed the directions on my GPS. There's a stop I need to make before I get into town.
It doesn't take long before I come to the site of the accident – a narrow stretch of road with thick forest on either side. Miller's Road. Flowers, candles, stuffed animals, and a wide array of personal gifts are gathered in a cluster on the side of the road. I pull off the road and stop the car. Staring through the windshield, I look at the colorful display. A lot of people paid tribute to Rick. Rightly so. He was a stand-up guy. One of the best I ever knew. And I'm going to miss the hell out of him.
With a sigh and a heavy heart, I get out of the car and walk over to the memorial display. There are pictures, handwritten notes, and little mementoes that marked Rick's life. I sit down next to the display and pull a flask out of my pocket. Twisting off the top, I raise it high.
“I'm going to miss you, brother,” I say.
I take a long pull of the liquor, wincing as it burns its way down my throat. It's a cheap whiskey – not my usual drink of choice anymore. But it's what we used to drink back in the day, so it seemed only fitting to imbibe the cheap old stuff. I smile at the memories that come floating to the surface of my mind.
I've seen Rick a bunch of times over the years I've been gone from Sheridan Falls. We kept in touch and met up somewhere to hang out more than a few times. Even into adulthood, we remained as close as we'd been back in high school. Losing Rick is leaving a huge fucking hole in my heart.
“That's a little disrespectful, ain't it?” he says, shattering my reverie. “Drinking to honor somebody who died in a drunk driving accident?”
I look up and see a man in a Sheridan Falls sheriff's uniform. I'd been so caught up in my own head, I hadn't even heard him pull up – but a quick glance showed me the cruiser parked behind my car. I know I recognize the voice, but it takes me a minute to place the face. And then it hits me.
Arnold Walker.
Arnold and I were in the same grade back in high school. He and I had never exactly been – friends. Truth is, I never liked him one bit. Always thought he was a bit too prissy and stuffy. Arnold was the kind of guy who always thought he was better than everybody else. He was the rule following, brown nosing kid who seemed to live for making others look bad.
Which is why I don't find it all that surprising that he became one of the town's cops. It's just another way for old Arnold to lord his supposed superiority over other people. His voice is slow, high-pitched, nasally, and annoying as hell. Some things never change.
“Just toasting an old friend,” I say.
As I sit there, I wonder if he recognizes me. I know I've changed quite a bit since high school. I've filled out a lot more. I was always a fairly muscular kid back then, but after joining the Corps, I seriously bulked up. I sported a thick, dark beard these days and I thought I just looked a little harder. A little rougher. War can do that to a man.
I know with absolute certainty that I don't look like that fresh-faced eighteen year old that left Sheridan Falls in the middle of the night.
“You ain't been around in a long time,” Arnold says, which tells me that he recognizes me after all.
“Nope,” I reply. “I haven't.”
“Where ya been?”
“Away.”
Arnold nodded as if that answers his question entirely. Although Arnold was always one of the smarter kids in school – something he seemed to enjoy holding over people – he wasn't exactly a deep, critical thinker. In a lot of ways, he's a simpleton.
“Back for Rick's funeral, I assume?” he asks.
I look pointedly at the memorial I'm sitting next to. “Yeah. Looks that way.”
Arnold looks up one side of the small two-lane highway and down the other. There's no traffic coming in either direction – Miller's Road isn't exactly a major thoroughfare.
“I could cite you, you know,” Arnold says. “You ain't supposed to be drinkin' in public like this. Especially not when you're drivin'.”
I shrug. “So, cite me, Arnold,” I say. “Do what you have to do.”
He looks at me as if he's actually considering citing me. But then shakes his head a moment later.
“Nah, I ain't gonna cite you,” he says. “But just cut it out. Put the flask away.”
I do as he says and put the flask back into the interior pocket of my jacket. “Done,” I say.
“Okay then,” he says. “Just be careful on the road now. Last thing I want to see is another memorial on the side of the road.”
“I'll do my best not to clutter up your town, Arnold.”
“I'd appreciate it.”
I shake my head as he walks back to his car. I stay where I am as he drives off, giving me a brief honk and a wave as he goes.
“What a fucking putz,” I mutter.
Taking the flask back out of my pocket, I twist off the top and take one last pull as I look at all the photos on the memorial that show Rick through the years. I get to my feet and dust myself off. It's starting to get late in the day and I need to get a room somewhere.
“Okay, buddy,” I say to the memorial, “I'll see you in town.”
I turn and walk back to my car, climbing in and taking one last, long look at the memorial – and realize I'm simply stalling at this point. I never intended to set foot in Sheridan Falls again, and yet here I am.
With a sigh, I start the car and pull back out onto the road. It's not far from town now, so I need to suck it up and get my head right. I take a deep breath and do my best to steel myself as I emerge from the wooded road and get my first sight of Sheridan Falls in more than a decade.
Chapter Nine
Abby
Finished with my last client of the day, I lock up my office and head down to the garage. It's only two, so I figure that I'll swing by the shop and check in on Brooke. I hop in my car and head over to Greenwood's, the old family store started by my grandfather and passed to my father. And now, it belongs to my sister and me.
Because I have my practice, Brooke ends up doing most of the day to day work in the store. But she seems to enjoy it. In fact, most days when I show up, she shoos me out the door. It's a completely different Brooke than the one I'd left when I went to school and live in New York.
Back then, Brooke had been something of a party girl. A wild child. She liked going out, getting drunk, and screwing around with whatever boy tickled her fancy at the time. But when I came home, I came home to a whole new Brooke. One who is responsible, works hard, is pretty straight-laced, buttoned down, and serious about the business of running a business.
Sure, she still likes to go out and have some fun from time to time, but her idea of a good time these days is completely different than it was back in the day. She's happy to go out, have a couple of drinks with a few girlfriends, and call it an early night.
The turnaround in my sister is shocking to me. But I actually kind of like the change. I like seeing her grown up and mature. I like seeing her shed her good time girl skin and be something more. I think it suits her.
I pull into the parking lot behind the shop and punch in the code that unlocks the door. I make my way inside.
I greet Rhonda – one of our three part-time employees – on my way to the back office. I have to admit that Brooke is really on top of things at the store. She's hired our staff and I love them all. They're hard workers, great with the customers, and genuinely nice people. The store is always clean and orderly, well-tended to, the shelves always stocked, nothing in disrepair.
It's a testament to my sister. As much as I love my father, he tended to let things slide and the store
didn't always look its best. But under Brooke's surprisingly steady hand, the store looks great and is flourishing.
And though we're both technically co-owners, the store doing so well is all Brooke.
“Hey,” I say as I step into the back office.
Brooke looks up from the computer screen and gives me a wide smile. “Hey there,” she replies. “I didn't expect you in today.”
I drop into the seat across the desk from her. “Light day,” I say. “I only had a couple of clients. Thought I'd come in and help you out.”
She leans back in her seat. “Kind of a quiet day here too,” she says. “I don't know that there's much for you to do, honestly.”
I give her an even look. “Come on, sis,” I say. “You're making me feel bad. You do all the work around here and I just sit back and collect checks.”
“You've got your practice to concentrate on,” she says. “You're doing important work and lots of people need your help. Besides, you do a lot around here.”
I laugh. “Yeah, not really. I'm hardly ever here,” I reply. “Maybe we need to think about changing how the profits are split.”
She waves me off. “You want to do something?”
“I'd love it,” I say.
She slides a clipboard across her desk to me and smiles. “Okay then, go inventory the beer and wine, please,” she says. “I've got to place an order soon.”
“Done,” I say as I pick up the clipboard. “And I expect that you'll have some other tasks for me when I'm done. I'm not above sweeping the aisles, you know.”
Brooke laughs. “Okay, I'll come up with something for you to do then.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I appreciate that. It's about time I start contributing around here.”
I look at my sister and smile, still struck by the difference in her. She looks down at her desk, but not before I can see the color rising in her cheeks. She's not comfortable with me staring at her like I am.
“What?” she finally asks with a nervous giggle.
I shrug. “Nothing. I'm just proud of you, Brooke,” I say. “Can't I be proud of my little sister?”
“There's nothing to be proud of,” she says. “I'm just doing my job.”
“And you're doing it incredibly well, sis,” I say. “Better than me. Hell, better than Dad ever did.”
“That's not true.”
I nod. “It's absolutely true. And he'd be the first person to say it,” I say. “You know that.”
She didn't dispute the statement any further and judging by the look in her eye, she knew it was true. Our father was definitely aware of his shortcomings and was honest enough about them. He would have absolutely no problem praising Brooke for the job she's doing.
“I – I guess I just want to make them proud,” she says softly. “After they passed, I...”
Her voice trails off, but she doesn't need to finish her statement. I know what she's going to say. It's a feeling I know all too well. And ever since my marriage fell apart and I came back to Sheridan Falls, I felt like I'd been living under a cloud of shame and failure. I felt like I'd somehow let them down and that if they were alive, that they'd see me – differently.
Once upon a time, I'd been the Golden Child. I was the one who could do no wrong. I was a good student. Didn't get into trouble. Had a plan for my life and was working hard to achieve it. And somehow now, it felt like the roles had been reversed. Brooke was the responsible one. The hard worker. I had no doubt that if they were alive, they'd be beaming with pride when they looked at her. And it's a thought that makes me happy.
My only fear though, is that if they were alive, they wouldn't look at me that same way anymore. That they'd see me as less than. Or maybe I'm just projecting my own feelings about myself onto them. I have no idea.
All I know is that I'm proud of my sister and whether she's comfortable with it or not, I'm going to make sure she knows that every chance I get. Brooke gives me an awkward smile and I can tell that she wants this praise-fest to end. I decide to let her off the hook – for now.
“So,” I say. “I guess I'll get to the inventory.”
Chapter Ten
I put on a sweater and head into the cooler. I figure I'm going to get this part out of the way first and then count what's in the store room later, and give myself a chance to thaw out. I'm nothing, if not practical.
Clipboard in hand, I step into the cooler and start counting. It's cold as hell and my breath is coming out in steamy plumes, but I'm going to suffer through it. Even though it seems to make her deliriously happy, I can't let Brooke do everything around here.
Counting inventory is a tedious and monotonous task – one that I don't really need to have my brain fully engaged in. Which, of course, gives my brain plenty of time and space to wander off.
My brain immediately shifts to the conversation I'd had with Dana at the coffee house. About the mental and emotional block inside of me – or as she so colorfully put it, my orgasmic constipation.
And of course, as I replay the conversation over and over again, my mind immediately goes to – him.
There is hardly a day that goes by that I don't think of him in some form or fashion. It took me some years, but I finally managed to take away the sting and hurt his memory always wrought inside of me. For the most part, anyway.
I know that after all this time, bearing even the slightest sting is probably silly. Most people would have probably gotten over it and moved on by now. And for the most part, I have gotten over it and moved on. But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't still a hole in my heart because of him.
He was my first love. The first man who ever made me feel whole and complete. The man I really thought I'd be spending the rest of my life with. Most people would say I'm ridiculous for actually believing that. Young love never lasts, they'd say. They'd tell me that your first love is usually not the love you end up growing old with.
But they didn't know us. They didn't know our feelings. Our thoughts. They didn't know our bond. We weren't like other young, immature couples when it came to love. There was a connection between us that was deep and abiding. It was the kind of intense, passionate connection that usually only couples who'd been together forever talked about. There was something about the love we shared that wasn't the normal, angst-filled infatuation of teenagers. When we talked about being together forever, we'd meant it.
And then he was gone. Like a ghost. Like he'd never been.
And I was left to pick up the shattered pieces of my heart and my life, wondering what I'd done to drive him off. To make him disappear from my life without a reason, without so much as a goodbye. Why he'd chosen to sever that connection between us so thoughtlessly. So cruelly.
That bond had been so intense and so real, that when he took it away – the way he took it away – I felt myself break. The hole inside of me was more immense than the Grand Canyon. For so long, I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. It seemed like all I could do was sit in a dark room and cry.
As ridiculous as it seems to me now, there were more than a few occasions when I thought about ending my life. I'd gone so far as to steal a bottle of sleeping pills from my mom with the intention of climbing into a warm bath and taking all of them.
But, I obviously hadn't. As painful as life was, I realized that I didn't want to die. But I knew that if I wanted to live, I was going to need to find ways to cope with the hurt and the loss I was feeling. Find ways to overcome my grief and depression. I knew that I was going to have to find a new way to live all over again.
In a way, he was why I'd become a therapist. In seeking to find answers for myself and ways to put my heart back together, I'd come to love the field. I'd come to want to help others in crisis, as I had been. As others had helped me.
As I sit there and think about it, I begin to piece a few things together in a way I hadn't before. This blockage within me – this orgasmic constipation as Dana so eloquently calls it – could
it be because of him? Could he be the source of this holding pattern Dana believes I'm in? Because of the feelings still within me?
Of course, the problem went well beyond not being able to orgasm with a man. It was that I could never let myself fully commit to somebody. I could never give myself over to somebody entirely – heart, body, and mind. Dana was right about me always having one foot out the door in any relationship I'm in. I don't mean to and I really do try to commit myself to them. Sometimes, I've even managed to fool myself into thinking that I had.
But then, reality always sets in and I find myself listless and treading water again. It never fails. I know it's not fair to them. Hell, it's not fair to myself. But, it is what it is. That's where I'm at right now. Deep down, I know myself well enough to know I haven't gotten all the way beyond him. Not even after all these years. But I also know that I've found ways to cope. To deal with it.
Once upon a time, whenever the mere thought of him crossed my mind, it was enough to reduce me to a puddle of heartbroken tears. Now though, there are days when there is still a dull ache in the very center of me – but those have become increasingly rare.
Thankfully.
“How's the inventory going?”
Brooke's voice cut into my thoughts and gives me a start. My pulse quickens and I spin around quickly.
“Sorry,” she says. “Didn't mean to startle you.
I shake my head. “No, sorry,” I reply. “Just lost in my head. I didn't hear you come in. Inventory's good. Just about done.”
I quickly count the last couple of cases and jot it down on the clipboard and hand it over to my sister. She glances at it and nods – and I get the impression that she already knew what she needed to order and was simply giving me some busywork to appease me. But, that's fine.
“Great, thanks,” she says. “Listen, there's really not a whole lot to do here. Rhonda's super-efficient and kind of didn't leave much for you to do. And we close in a couple of hours anyway, so you can go ahead and knock off if you want.”
