For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  My stepfather isn’t exactly royalty in Osbury Beach, an uppity seaside town just outside of L.A. But with a string of luxury hotels lining the West coast along with his deep pockets, he’s damn near the equivalent. And keeping up appearances, presenting the perfect nuclear family to the public, is of the utmost importance to Cliff and my mother.

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.” Ben’s voice is more gruff than usual, and it sounds as if, at thirty, he’s still biting back emotions from that day.

  “Isn’t that a little young to be hunting?”

  “Not around here. Most start out around that age. Maybe even younger, depending on the game. Steve and Tina—that was the couple I was living with at the time—both liked to hunt. They were real diehards, had animal heads all over their trailer. And since they didn’t want to shell out money for a sitter when they went on their trips, I had no choice but to go along. This,” Ben taps the photo, “was my last time out with them.”

  “Why was it your last time?”

  “I gave ‘em too much hell afterwards, and they swapped me.” When he sees my expression, he laughs. “It’s okay. I wanted them to. I hated those trips. The crack of the gun, the way they whooped and hollered when they shot something. And Steve…” He swallows hard, and a shadow falls over his eyes. “He wouldn’t shoot to kill. No, the bastard liked the chase. He’d shoot to injure, wait a few minutes, and then go after it. Sometimes he’d maim it further. Not too much; he still wanted it to be mobile. Still wanted the challenge the chase provided.”

  Aside from the deepening of his voice, Ben shows no emotion. But when I look in his eyes, the turmoil is there, rolling waves of pain and fury and resentment. His gaze practically flickers with it—the brutality, the ruthlessness. Being the healer that he is, witnessing something like this—over and over again—had to have left a mark.

  I mean, my heart is breaking for the poor animals this man tortured and I wasn’t even there to see it. To hear their cries, their frenzied footfalls as they staggered, desperate, through the brush…

  “Ben.” My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, to place my hand over his, to soak up some of his memories so he no longer has to bear the weight of them alone. I want to crawl right into his lap, draw his head to my chest, wrap my arms around him, and squeeze every last drop of pain from his body.

  If I could, I’d steal the images straight from his head so they’d never be able to play on the screen of his mind again.

  My mouth twists. “And the asshole made you pose with them when he was finished? Is that what the photo is about?”

  For the first time since starting this story, Ben’s expression falters. It’s just for a moment, the beat of a breath. But in that short lapse of time, I see Ben not as he is now, but as he was then—a traumatized kid with nowhere to turn. Back then, he was just as desperate as those animals, the only difference being that his torture continued beyond the hunt. Beyond time.

  For him, it’s never-ending.

  “That photo,” Ben says, and then stops. Clears his throat. “That photo was taken because…it was my deer. I was the one who shot it.”

  My mouth drops as Ben continues.

  “One of the things Steve and Tina liked more than hunting, was drinking.” He flashes a smile, but the bitter laugh that follows fails to lighten his words. “You know how when most people go out camping, they fill their packs with things like protein bars and beef jerky and bottled water? Well, my foster parents filled their coolers with beer and whiskey. The only water we carried during those weekends trips was in the ice that chilled their booze.”

  “How in the hell did these people ever become foster parents?” I ask, appalled. “Aren’t there screening process that are supposed to, oh I don’t know, screen assholes like this out?”

  Ben shrugs. “They looked good on paper. On the surface. No one checked to see what was crawling beneath.”

  I fold my arms and huff. “I’ll say.”

  “Anyway,” Ben continues. “I’d gotten by on each trip not having to do much but carry their gear from one spot to another. Once in a while, when they were really lit, they’d line up their empties and teach me how to shoot. I didn’t really get the appeal, but it was the only time I ever really seemed to connect with them, so I kept it up. Got to be a pretty good shot, too. Earned myself a few bottled waters and candy bars on the way home, so I figured what could it hurt, you know?” His jaw tightens. “Until that last trip, when Steve started egging me to shoot something other than bottles and cans. I didn’t want to, didn’t even care what he thought of me. It wasn’t about ego or anything like that. But the more he drank, the more he pushed. It was like he was taking my brush off as a personal affront or something. He started pointing his gun at me, jabbing me with it while it was loaded, telling me that I was acting like a queer and maybe he’d just do society a favor and take me out of it. And that’s when I started to get scared. So I…” He sucks in a breath and pauses, a subconscious stall as he works over the memory. The muscle in his jaw ticks, and his exhale holds a quiver, a tremble that shoots straight to my heart. “I shot the next thing he pointed at.”

  “Jesus.” I can barely speak. Just picturing that sort of bullying—from a man to a child, no less—is like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath along with my voice.

  “Yeah, well. Anyway.” Ben sighs. “It haunted me for, hell, years. Not what Steve did to me; that didn’t matter. It was what I did to that deer. That doe who, for all I know, had a fawn out there, maybe even close by.”

  “You were a kid, Ben.”

  Ben’s smile is drawn. “I know.”

  “A kid who was defending himself in the only way he could.” I’m wild with pain for that boy, for this man, and I’m desperate to ease his guilt.

  “Lenny,” he says, and his usually rough voice is surprisingly smooth, gentle. “I know.”

  The coffee maker gurgles, the heat clicks on with a deep groan, and Ben slides the photo to the edge of the table before palming it and dropping it into the pocket of his flannel. Asha pads into the kitchen, lightening the mood, and props her head on Ben’s knee.

  “My point in showing you this,” Ben says, running his hands through her fur, “is that closure is kind of like that thing they say about forgiveness. It has nothing to do with the other person. For me, closure was taking that experience and learning from it. Extracting what I could from a horrible situation and sort of…” He pauses, searching for the word. “…transmuting it. Turning a negative into a positive. It was the reason I started volunteering in an animal shelter back in high school. Which led to a job as a kennel tech at a veterinary clinic down in the cities. Which turned into an assistant position, which turned into college, which turned into vet school. Et cetera, et cetera.” He rolls his hand as he speaks. Then he dips his chin, looking at me from under raised brows. “And none of that, absolutely none of it, had anything to do with Steve.”

  The fact that he’s sharing this with me, such an intimate part of his himself when he’s normally so reserved about his past, is huge. This is so much more than, ‘Oh, I went to college at XYZ school and decided to become a veterinarian because I like puppies.’

  This is, ‘Oh, let me rope the moon, roll back the tides, and show you my soul.’

  I suddenly feel silly. My need for closure is cracker jack compared to Ben’s.

  “I don’t know, Ben. My situation is a little different. Not that I’m diminishing yours in any way. Compared to yours, my story makes me sound like a spoiled brat who didn’t get her way and is still throwing a tantrum about it.”

  Ben cocks his head and gives me a whatever look.

  “What I mean is, you had this cut and dry solution. You took an animal’s life, and now you save animals’ lives. Full circle. But as for me? I don’t even know where to start.”

  “What you said about me coming full circle. That,” he chuckles softy. “That’s sort of brilliant, actually. I’ve never looked at it that way
. Healing the loose ends, the ones left dangling from so-called traumatic experiences. Coming back together. Whole.”

  I just stare at him. “And?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you finding closure has nothing to do with Lenora turning you away when you needed her most. Maybe it’s just about finding something that makes you feel whole. Period.” He glides a finger through the air between us. “Full circle.”

  “Feeling whole.” I shift back in my chair, considering it. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  Asha, having gotten her fill of Ben’s attention, slides her head from his knee and trots over to me, assuming the same position on my thigh.

  A small smile plays on Ben’s lips as he watches her. Then, looking up at me, the grin widens.

  “When in doubt, help.”

  “Pink or red?”

  I purse my lips and study the woman sitting before me. I’ve already done her eyes up in a smoky shade, bringing out the blue that before had been vibrant but now, with the right shadow and liner and mascara, positively dazzle. “Let’s try the pink. If we go too bold, it’ll detract from your eyes.”

  Gloria, the eighty-year old woman I’m making over, nods. All business, but with a personality that belies her age, she purses her lips, allowing me to first line them with a lip pencil before filling the rest in with a color called Pink Champagne on Ice. When I’ve finished, I pass her a handheld mirror and grin. “You, my dear, are perfection.”

  Gloria turns her head from side to side, her jaw dropping. With one hand, she reaches up and lightly runs her fingers through the curls I ironed in her silver hair before starting her makeup. “I can’t believe this is me. I haven’t looked this fancy since, goodness, my last wedding!” Dropping the mirror, she closes her eyes, losing herself in memory. “You’re a miracle worker, Lenny.”

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling too wide and begin gathering together the jars and cases of cosmetics that I used to transform Gloria—along with eight other women—from drab to fab. The common room in the senior living community has been my studio for the past three hours, and the scattered mess of curling irons and facial wipes and makeup compacts strewn across the oval table in the center of the room showcases just how busy the afternoon has been. “I just know makeup.”

  “Well,” Gloria says, “the timing couldn’t be more perfect, what with it being Valentine’s Day. I’m not quite sure the fellows will know what to do with themselves when they see us at our community party tonight.” Her smile turns impish. “Rather, I know exactly what they’ll want to do.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Gloria!”

  “What?” she asks, the picture of innocence. “This is an active senior community, Lenny. And I’m eighty, not dead.”

  “True that,” I say, zipping up my giant makeup bag. “So, is there a particular gentleman you’ve got your eye on?”

  Gloria’s smile speaks volumes. “There may be one.”

  I pretend to think. “Would his name happen to be…oh, I don’t know…Garrett, by chance?”

  Gloria sniffs, feigning shock. “Whatever makes you say that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Only the fact that you’ve been talking about him nonstop since you sat down.” According to Gloria, Garrett is the newest resident at Lost Bay Estates and, with a full head of silver hair, ripe for the pickings.

  “Oh, well then.” Gloria fiddles with the hem of her blouse, carefully smoothing creases that don’t exist. “In that case, I assume that you fancy Dr. Sloane.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded, as I sputter a response. “What? I don’t… No, absolutely not… What makes you say that?”

  Gloria’s grin is mischievous, her gaze knowing. “Only the fact that you’ve been talking about him nonstop since I sat down.” Her tone is mocking, but playful, as she throws my earlier words right back at me.

  “I have not.”

  Or…have I?

  I live with Ben. I work with Ben. And now, as of today, I volunteer with Ben.

  My eyes stray to where he’s giving complimentary pet exams to the senior residents who either can’t afford pet care or can’t easily make it into the clinic due to health issues or the inability to drive. It’s work he donates a few hours to every month, a completely selfless act that allows these people to keep their pets with them during their golden years. At his urging, I accompanied him on this particular trip, doing my best to help, to round myself whole again, to find closure in good deeds.

  Right now, he’s cradling a Lhasa Apso against his chest while he listens to its heartbeat through his stethoscope. The dog, for its part, is doing its best to lick Ben’s face. Against my will, the corners of my mouth perk up, like my body has suddenly divorced itself from my brain and is now listening solely to my heart.

  Gloria doesn’t miss my shift in attention, nor my sappy smile. “You were saying?”

  Wrapping the cord of a curling iron around its handle, I let loose a frustrated breath. “I just got out of a relationship. A couple of weeks ago, as a matter of fact. I’m not looking to jump into another one.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” Gloria reaches out and stills my hand with hers. “Really. I didn’t know.”

  I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. I’m not all that upset about it. Which is kind of freaking me out, to be honest.”

  Time has taught her patience, and Gloria listens attentively, hands folded in her lap, as I spill the details of my relationship with Daniel. “So, you see? I thought I was in love, that I was ready to get married for crying out loud. But now? I feel nothing. Which makes me think I can’t trust myself. Trust my own mind, my heart.”

  “How was the sex?” Gloria asks, bold as all get out.

  For a moment, her question leaves me speechless. Then, figuring what the hell, I answer her. “It was amazing, actually.”

  Gloria tsks. “Lust and love. Hard to distinguish between the two.”

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter.

  “From what I can tell—based off of what you’ve told me, of course—it’s highly probable that you did love him, and he loved you. It’s just that the connection broke.” She snaps her fingers and sighs. “Distance does that sometimes.”

  I frown. “Yeah, but shouldn’t love, real love, conquer all? Time and space and distance?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. It sure would be nice if it did, wouldn’t it? If things could always stay the same and we never had to go through the hardships of change. But growing pains are a part of life, aren’t they? We grow, we evolve. We become different people from the ones we started out to be. Sometimes it happens slowly. Or,” she nods my way, “not so slowly. But I believe it’s what we’re here on this planet to do. Become more than we were. Or hell, maybe it’s just waking up to who we really are. And fighting the process just makes it all the more difficult. It’s an impossible thing, going through life without outgrowing at least a few of those around us. As much as it hurts. Or, in your case, doesn’t. Either way, we rarely end up where we plan. Or with whom.” She shrugs. “But what do I know? I’ve had three husbands.”

  I consider her for a moment. “You,” I say at last, “remind me of my grandmother.”

  Gloria beams. “Well, considering how much I thought of your grandmother, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You knew Lenora?” I don’t know why I’m shocked; it’s a small town where everyone seems to know everyone. But for a minute, while talking to Gloria, I lost myself to the moment, to everything but her words, and forgot where I was.

  “Of course. The girls and I were always trying to get her to move in here. The units are quite nice actually, if not a wee bit small. Still, they’re lovely little condos. But she never wanted to leave her house, her land. And I understood that.”

  I’ve only been in Lost Bay for about six weeks, yet it feels longer than that. Like time is warped somehow, as if in traveling from southern California to northern Minnesota I’ve managed to land not just in another time zone
but a whole other universe, where minutes become hours and hours stretch into entire weeks.

  But right now, having just discussed my feelings for Daniel so thoroughly, so openly, I feel like I’m in limbo, neither here nor there, but somewhere in between.

  For a minute there, it was like I could taste L.A., the salty sea air down by the Santa Monica Pier.

  For a few seconds, I could feel the sun’s rays warm on my face, the slight tingle of a sunburn after a long day at the beach.

  For a heartbeat, I could feel Daniel’s arms, wrapped around me as we lay in bed, soft sheets against bare skin.

  Gloria’s words ring in my head: “We rarely end up where we plan. Or with whom.”

  The thing is, I don’t think I ever had a plan.

  My intentions, my aspirations, drifted in dreams as they did in life, never really snagging enough of a foothold to land me in the arms of ambition. Although, for a while, when I was with Daniel, I felt rooted. It was the only time the coloring book of my life was even remotely shaded in.

  But now, the pages are entirely blank. White and empty, with no telltale lines to fill in, no bold strokes to guide the way.

  “Ladies.”

  The flesh along the back of my neck buzzes, triggering a serving of tingles down my spine as Ben’s voice drifts over my shoulder. I compose myself quickly, though not quickly enough; Gloria’s face shines with amusement.

  “Dr. Sloane,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing this lovely young woman along on your visit today.” She fluffs her hair and giggles. “I feel half my age, which may very well prove to be a dangerous thing tonight.”