The Leading Edge of Now

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  I walk back into the kitchen, where Eleanor is now flipping through a magazine. “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Clean the house. Pick up. Make the place look presentable for Sarah. Did you do it?”

  She raises an eyebrow at me and turns the page in her magazine. Her nonanswer is her answer. Yes, she cleaned it. I open my mouth, only to shut it again.

  Eleanor has done something … nice.

  I don’t even know how to process this information.

  Rusty shows up forty-five minutes late. By the time he arrives, I’ve gone through about twenty mock-up mind-conversations with him, where I ask him about a tall, dark-haired college kid who used to work with him, without actually asking him about a tall, dark-haired college kid who used to work with him. And Sarah and I have exchanged a half hour’s worth of vague pleasantries about the weather and about New Harbor and about my upcoming school year. And then Sarah taps her fingers on her briefcase, I brush a bit of imaginary lint off my clothes, and the room falls silent.

  Now, though, as Rusty comes tromping into the house, Sarah is speaking rather loudly. “You’re late,” she says. No Hello. No Nice to see you. Just You’re late. That’s how I know she’s angry. I’ve never seen Sarah angry, and I find it extremely disconcerting. Even Eleanor, who’s been banging around in the kitchen cabinets, grows strangely quiet.

  I try to imagine my sunflowers.

  Rusty smiles at Sarah as though his grin is all it will take to defuse the situation, as though he’s a celebrity arriving a couple of minutes late to a movie premiere. “Right,” he says. “Well, I met my wife for lunch, and then —”

  “Your wife,” Sarah says, her lips tight. She yanks a file folder out of her briefcase, scratching quick, furious notes inside, sticking one forceful index finger up in the air when Rusty opens his mouth to speak. Surprisingly, Rusty’s lips drift back together, and he sits beside us on the couch.

  He looks profoundly uncomfortable.

  That makes two of us.

  After several long seconds, Sarah stops writing and looks up at him. “What is going on here, Mr. Cochran? Grace has been living here for a month. A month. I’ve left you a dozen unanswered voicemails, you’re nearly an hour late for this meeting, I assigned Grace a new therapist here in New Harbor and she has yet to even see him, and now you’re telling me you’re married? Don’t you think that a change in your marital status would be something we’d need to know?”

  Rusty removes his hat, spinning it in slow circles in his hands. I’m suddenly terrified that Sarah is going to make me pack up my things. That she’s going to order me to get into her car and leave. “Right,” Rusty says. He clears his throat. “Right. Well, I can explain all of that.”

  Sarah holds up her index finger again.

  I put a tall fence around my sunflowers.

  The kitchen is still freakishly silent. For some reason, it bothers me that Eleanor is listening.

  “This relationship,” Sarah begins finally, waving that same finger, which now feels vaguely like a weapon, between Rusty and me, “is being overseen by the state of Florida, and there are rules, Mr. Cochran.” She sighs and then glances at me. Her expression softens, like she knows that Rusty is all I have, maybe even like she feels sorry for me, and then she places her hand on top of mine and squeezes.

  Something about the gesture blows my fence apart.

  In a softer voice, Sarah says, “I know it’s been quite an adjustment for all of you. I’ve given you a wide berth the past several weeks, so you two can get into a routine. But the state runs a tight ship.” She pauses for a moment, staring out the window before letting her gaze trail back to Rusty. “We have a system to follow, Mr. Cochran. This is serious business, and if you can’t take it seriously — well, maybe this isn’t the best place for Grace.”

  I didn’t realize how much I’ve feared this happening until today. My entire body feels brittle, like if I move as much as a pinkie finger, I’ll shatter all over the floor.

  The only sound is the ticking of my watch.

  I close my eyes. Sarah is still gripping my hand, the pressure getting tighter and tighter.

  “I’ve got this,” Rusty says finally. I’ve never heard Rusty speak so quietly in all my life. I can’t bear to look at him now. A searing wall of tears collects behind my eyes, threating to spill out.

  Sarah exhales and lets go of my hand. “I’ll be sending you the required paperwork for your wife. If and when you bother to check your voicemail, you’ll find that I took the liberty of scheduling a therapy appointment for Grace. Please see to it that she doesn’t miss it.” She stands and strides toward the door, pausing for a moment with her hand on the doorknob. “Taking care of your niece is a privilege, Mr. Cochran. Don’t ever forget that.”

  #

  The room is dead quiet after Sarah walks out, and then Rusty bolts to his feet and says, “Sorry! I’m sorry, G. That was —”

  “You,” I supply in a whisper, closing my eyes. “That was you, Rusty.”

  “Grace —”

  “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” I say, the words coming out before I can even think them through. “Whenever I’ve needed you, whenever you should’ve been there for me, you’ve been nowhere to be found, only to show up late with a smile and an excuse.” It’s sort of shocking, being so honest with him, but what I’m saying is true, and both of us know it. For as long as I’ve known Rusty, he’s gone through the motions of being an adult without actually being one. I open my eyes, blinking several times to clear my vision and staring at Rusty, who’s standing with his back to me, hands crammed in his pockets and head low. “What you did when Dad died,” I go on, twisting my hands in my lap, “disappearing on me like that, leaving me alone for so long … it was wrong.”

  Rusty turns around and meets my stare. His face looks droopy and old, lined with wrinkles that I’ve never noticed before. He says, “He was my brother, I loved him and it hurt like hell when he died. I wasn’t in any shape to take care of you.”

  “He was my father,” I say, sort of loudly, my voice shaking, “I was fifteen, and I wasn’t in any shape to be alone.”

  Rusty stares out the window for several moments, silent. And then he says, “Even so, you were stronger than me. I spent a damn year in a bottle of jack. Was so drunk at the funeral that I barely made it past the front door before they kicked me out.”

  I look down, running a finger along the frayed hem of my shorts, remembering the funeral pamphlet I saw in his room. So Rusty was there, briefly. I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d seen him that day — if we’d be in a better place than we are right now.

  “It’s just,” Rusty goes on, his tone elusive, like he isn’t giving me the whole story, like maybe he never would, “I knew you’d be okay. You were always so strong-willed. What could I have done for you? Nothing.” He squeezes his eyes shut with his palm. “And I know — I know — that I should’ve been there for you, but I couldn’t even be there for myself. Sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. This is me, Gracie. I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes in my life, made mistakes with you, and I’m real sorry.”

  I’ve waited so long for an apology, and now that I have one, I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. Does it matter to me? Yes. Does it make everything all right? Not really. I will myself not to blurt out It’s okay or I understand, because neither of those things is true, and I don’t want to shove empty words between us right now.

  Knotting my hands together to keep them from shaking, I watch Rusty as he walks back to the couch, sits down beside me and puts a weighty palm on my back. Clearing his throat and straightening up, he says, “I want to make it up to you, if you can find it in your heart to give me another chance.”

  Thing is, I feel like I’ve already given him another chance. And another. And another. Time and time again, he’s wed
ged a lit stick of dynamite inside me, blowing me apart. I wonder if there’s enough of me left to do it again. I wipe my hands on the couch and meet his stare. His eyes are hopeful but despairing. They’re devastated yet eager. They’re my family’s eyes, and they’re begging me for another chance. I take in a breath, and in my exhale, I say, “Okay.”

  Twenty-Nine

  It was the Marios who taught me how to parallel park. They had two college-aged kids — the oldest would probably become a lawyer, and the youngest would probably need a lawyer — and had hosted dozens of foster kids, so by the time I arrived at their house, they were pretty easygoing about the whole driver’s ed thing. We’d go out every Sunday to practice parallel parking in their dented-up Chevy Impala, so old it was practically biblical, not at all unlike Eleanor’s three-bedroom Cadillac, which I’m currently parking in front of my therapist’s office building.

  I arrive as planned, at exactly two forty-five in the afternoon, sliding the car into park and just sitting there for several minutes, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and watching people walk into the medical building next to the hospital. Eleanor’s air conditioner doesn’t work for crap, and her car smells like a wet ashtray, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around in a therapist’s waiting room for longer than absolutely necessary. At exactly two fifty-five, I turn off the car, grab my purse and slog inside, trudging my way into the elevator.

  To be clear, I’m not a fan of elevators. Never have been. Something about being in a box that dangles several stories above the ground, supported by only a metal cable, is mildly terrifying to me. But the alternative here is to hike up ten stories of steps.

  So I’m standing inside the elevator, sweating despite the air-conditioning and my flip-flops and my breathable clothes. The woman leaning on the opposite wall nods hi, and I nod hi, and then the elevator comes to a stop at the third floor and the doors slide open, admitting a half-dozen or so men. Now, I don’t know any of these guys from Adam. And I doubt they even notice me. But when they wedge their way into the elevator, squashing up against me and bumping into my shoulders and sucking up all the oxygen, my heart starts banging out of my chest.

  There are too many of them. The elevator reeks of aftershave and sweat and men men men.

  I can’t breathe.

  Time upends, and I start thinking about all the things I’ve been trying to forget. Suddenly I’m sick with the flu, head spinning from Ambien, listening to a living room full of men shout at the TV.

  I need to get out of here.

  “You okay, miss?” one of them asks.

  Valid question. Probably looks like I’m having a heart attack. I nod yes.

  The elevator slows to another stop and the doors open. A tall, dark-haired man squeezes in.

  A scream starts working its way up my throat.

  I mash my lips together as the elevator inches its way up. I can’t seem to draw any air into my lungs. My chest is starting to burn. Seemingly in slow motion, the elevator doors slide open on the tenth floor. “Excuse me!” I basically yell, squeezing my way out. I stand in the hallway for a moment, dizzy and manic, and then I make my way to the restroom to splash some water on my face. By the time I’m sitting across from my new therapist, I’ve erased all traces of my panic attack or mental breakdown or whatever it was.

  My therapist, Dr. Monkton, is short and wide, and he has this gigantic mustache that tends to twitch whenever I speak. Which isn’t a lot, mind you. I’m working on a need-to-know basis right now, and as far as I can tell, this guy doesn’t need to know anything at all.

  Apparently Sarah has given him the gory details of my orphanhood. He already knows that my dad died, it wrecked me, and my only living relative took a long time to step forward and claim me. So I spend a half hour answering his questions about Dad and Rusty. These are the kinds of questions I can handle. Dad’s death and Rusty’s childishness, those two things have always been tall enough and wide enough for me to hide behind. Even so, the way Dr. Monkton sits back in his chair and listens — it’s like he’s waiting for me to admit something tragic. Like he knows very well I’m concealing something.

  That little box labeled rape — it’s been cracked open.

  I wonder whether it smells rotten.

  “I’m sure it’s a big adjustment,” he says as we’re wrapping up. “Being in New Harbor is bound to stir up a lot of memories about your father. How are you coping?”

  I shrug. “As well as I can.”

  He scratches something into his notebook, wrinkling up the skin between his eyebrows. The action makes him look like Yosemite Sam. “Do you feel secure, staying with your uncle?”

  What I want to say is that I don’t know who to trust. That I’m terrified of everyone and everything. That my entire world is crumbling from the foundation up. Instead, what I say is, “Kind of.” As the words twist their way out of my mouth, I’m struck by the clearest memory of Janna, years ago, when she confronted me about whether I had feelings for Owen.

  Kind of.

  I’m still skirting around the truth with her, still afraid of it, not quite lying to her, but not quite telling her everything, either. What happened that Labor Day weekend — it’s wedged between us right now, arms spread wide, pushing us apart. I shut my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, I find my therapist watching, waiting for me to make the next move.

  And so I do.

  “We good?” I ask. “I need to go see a friend.”

  Thirty

  Janna stands unmoving, a statue lit up in sharp relief by the McAllisters’ patio light that evening, the hum of the living room TV behind her. Me, though — I’m a knot of kinetic energy, pacing from one end of her porch to the other, hands flitting in the air like birds’ wings as I tell Janna what happened that Labor Day weekend.

  I feel strangely as though I’m recounting a book or a movie or a shocking newspaper article. Someone else’s horror story. But it’s my horror story, and as Janna listens to it, as she begins to understand the truth, revulsion and shock pour into her expression. I don’t know where my words are coming from, but they’re coming, alarming and ugly and revealing, getting wrung out of my chest and wrenched up my throat without any assistance whatsoever.

  And once I get all the way through it, I just keep on talking. I’m stalling, hijacking her chance to respond by repeating the same thing about a thousand different ways — “And then after that, Dad died” and “I didn’t really have time to process it, because Dad died” and “I was going to confront Owen about it, but then Dad died.”

  The truth: I’m terrified that Janna sees me differently now.

  It’s silent.

  So silent.

  I can hear her breaths and the spaces between her breaths and even the spaces between those.

  “Grace,” Janna finally whispers.

  I don’t answer her. I don’t even move. My legs are locked in place by an invisible force field.

  It isn’t the sexual assault that’s so paralyzing. It’s the shame.

  I’m so tired of being ashamed.

  Finally, I straighten my spine, draw in a breath and turn around. Janna’s eyes are round and sad and swallowing, and I want to hurl myself into her arms. But I don’t, because her arms are folded over her chest, hands clenched into fists.

  I open my mouth to tell her It’s okay and I’m okay but then stop myself because neither of those things is true and I’m not sure they will ever be true. “I’m sorry,” I say instead. “I’m sorry for keeping it from you.”

  Tears spill down her cheeks, and her chin wobbles. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this happened to you, that you had to go through it by yourself. I’m sorry for acting so stupid and stubborn.” She pauses. “I’m sorry you thought it was Owen.”

  We’re quiet for the space of several heartbeats, the air between us thick with everything.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry for that, too,” I whisper, picking at a loose paint chip in the porch railing.

  “I understand why you’d think it was him, Grace. Really, I do. But it’s just — Owen is Owen. He would never do something like that.”

  I nod and whisper, “I know.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, a lifetime of friendship pulling us together and a couple of years of misery pushing us apart, and then Janna wipes the wetness off her face and walks the length of the deck. When she turns back around, her expression is fierce. “I can’t believe that Rusty could —” She swallows the rest of her sentence, disgusted. “God, Grace. You have to go to the police. You have to get the hell out of that house.”

  It’s the condemnation behind her words that bothers me most. Not once tonight have I mentioned Rusty, yet she’s already convicted him. “Janna,” I say, “Logan told me that he saw me talking to one of Rusty’s coworkers outside. I’m sure he was the one who —”

  Her eyes snap to mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, exasperated and angry. I miss having somewhere to direct my anger. Mine just flies out and arcs right back to me. She leans toward me, imploring, insistent. “Grace, he avoided you for nearly two years. You have to know that Rusty did this.”

  I used to think I knew it all, and it was easier then, because everything was black and white. Yes and no. Guilty and not guilty. I knew exactly who to blame, and it was Owen. Now, though, everything is ambiguous. Maybe deep inside I believe that Rusty is guilty, and maybe I don’t. I can’t even tell anymore. “I don’t know, Janna. I just want —” I stop. Swallow. Wipe away an errant tear. What do I want? To heal? Forgive? Move on? All of those things sound stupid, because I feel like it’s more than that. I feel like it’s everything. “I just want my life back.”