Echo of Redemption (15 page)

“I didn’t expect you back so early.”

I’m sure he didn’t mean it sarcastically but I take it that way. I feel bad enough spending so many hours away, but it’s taken time to convert the loft into an armed fortress. “How soon will he be able to function in society?”

George looks at me like I just asked him the meaning of life. He shakes his head and answers my question with one of his own. “Are you or I fit for society? We’re damaged. We deal the best way we can. Do I think your brother will ever be able to have a quote-unquote
normal
life? Normal job? Normal commitments? Normal relationships?” He shakes his head, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “Not a chance in hell. I think in time he will be able to create a new life for himself and whether or not that will fit into the confines of civilized society is yet to be determined.”

“I bought him a place, one of the artist lofts on Mission. When can I expect to get him settled in there?”

“His body is healing. Physically, he could go there today. Mentally?” He shrugs. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe never. I don’t think he is a threat to himself or others, but anything could trigger something deep inside his mind and he could experience a psychotic break.”

“But that might not happen? He might be fine?”

“I would expect it.” He goes to the refrigerator, retrieves two small bottles of juice and hands me one. “He doesn’t need institutionalized. He can live in society. Just expect the worst.”

“Then let’s ramp up efforts to get him to the point where he can
exist in society
.”

I can’t believe I am rushing this. I should be hiding him deeper, not forcing him back into the world. My gut tells me to hide him in plain sight. I just hope my instincts are trying to protect him and not just focused on being near Sophia and
our
babies.

I hide my fears behind a swallow of juice. If George senses I am mentally or emotionally torn, he will be like a dog with a bone and I do not want chewed on.

“So, what was the emergency at the club?” he asks. He has turned his back to me and started rummaging in the refrigerator for a snack.

“What is always the emergency? Too many customers, not enough workers.” It isn’t the true reason behind Jackie’s call but it isn’t a lie. “
We
need to be there. I owe Garrett a huge debt.”

Pulling out several types of cheese and fruit, he meets my gaze. “Or he could hire some people.”

Glad he hasn’t picked up on my distress, I nod, agreeing, “Or he could hire some people.”

“If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”

Charlotte Bronte

Nikos

Thomas finds me playing chess in the basement with Doctor Psycho. I like this crazed doctor; he’s highly intelligent, geeky to the extreme, and not a bit insane. I call him Doc and that does trip his synapses a bit. He likes control and by being unable to manage me…that makes him a bit nuts. We’re at an impasse. He could beat me to death, strip the skin from my body, cut off my fingers and toes one by one, and still I would spit in his face and call him Doc. I find great joy in my ability to leave him slightly unsettled.

He made tea just before my brother arrived and I lift a too dainty, antique china cup to my lips. Black tea. Cream. Two lumps of sugar. Did he think this would somehow intimidate me? Or is his
very
ritualized tea service a part of his every day? Who knows? Not me. Occasionally, I’ll pick up on words he says with an English pronunciation, making me wonder if his mother or father grew up in the UK. It is this constant mental guessing game of him analyzing me, me analyzing him that has made my time here bearable. I still
ache
. I walk with a cane and crave meth. I’m bored out of my mind and for me boredom has always led to dangerous activities.

Chess was today’s answer, but the good doctor must know that he will not be able to keep me here forever.

“Who’s winning?” Thomas asks, pulling up a chair.

He is being polite, making small talk. It is fairly evident from the playing field we are at an impasse and it is merely a matter of calling a draw. Doc’s stubborn. I equally so. We may be sitting, sipping tea, and staring at the board for a magical solution for hours yet. Neither of us answers.

Sitting, Thomas asks, “Whose move?”

I answer, “His.”

Hearing so, he stands. “Good. You have time to walk with me.”

Walk with him?
My blood thins and freezes, though I honestly don’t feel he intends to kill me here, now, after so much effort has been spent keeping me alive. I wonder if George told him about our last session when I admitted that I think about meth constantly. The other drugs were just drugs…cocaine, opium, heroine, hashish…I can’t say I miss them. The methamphetamines are another story entirely, and I would have never confessed before that I needed them. That’s what I admitted to the doctor, breaking down. He suggested
we
try adding some mood stabilizers, non-addictive medications to help alleviate my anxiety, depression, and inability to sleep.

What I need is for him to stop saying that “we” need to do things because he isn’t experiencing the urge to start running and not stop. If I could run out of my flesh and bones, I would. So far, I’m playing it cool. I’ll be a prisoner for my brother, because I know he is keeping me here for my own good.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to do this though. The doctor seems to think my long-term recovery will take more than a year. I’ve got news for him…I’m not hanging out in this dungeon for a year.

I stand and follow my brother to one of the many rooms down here, the one he chooses being small, tight, more walk-in closet than room. He pulls a dangling cord from a bare bulb mounted in a low ceiling.
You’ve got to be kidding.
Everything is gray, walls, ceiling, floor, furniture. With the room illuminated, he closes the door. With only two metal chairs and one small metal table for décor my mind fills with images of other interrogation rooms and none of those memories are pleasant. “Short walk. Should I be worried?”

Ari rolls his eyes, taking the farthest chair. He sits, placing his empty hands on top of the table. “I only wanted privacy.”

It’s hard for me to do so, but I remind myself that this is my brother, he isn’t going to hurt me, and I sit across from him. “Privacy is good. So what exactly is on your mind?”

“You’ve been here a month, and we’ve barely talked.”

“What is there to say?” I ask.

“I’ve missed you,” he answers. “I love you.”

Emotion I’ve trained myself to not feel bubbles to the surface, but I push it away. I don’t offer him assurances. He knows I love him. I wouldn’t have done what I did if I didn’t love him. “What’s this about, Ari?”

He flushes, a sure sign he is angry. “I’ve missed an entire decade of your life.”

I chuckle. “Trust me, I wish I could say the same.”

Our gazes collide. He hides it well but he is seething. Sure he’s mad at me, I took his assignment. He hates that I endured what I did to spare him, and he’s thinking now that it would have been better to have suffered as I’ve suffered, done the deeds I’ve done, than be sitting on the other side of the table looking at me. Does he see a ruined man with no chance of rehabilitation? Does he see a rabid dog that needs put out of its misery?

I cover his hand with mine, finding his flesh ice cold, mine barely warmer. I can only assume my gesture is as uncomfortable for him, but I don’t pull my hand away. “Say thank you, Ari, and forget it.”

His jaw grinds tight. “How can I forget when the debt I owe you is so great?”

I tighten my fingers around his hand. “Would you have done everything I did to spare me the pain of doing the things I’ve done?”

He looks away, heartbroken. He doesn’t have to say he couldn’t have—not even if my life depended on it—because we both know it’s true. We may look alike, but we don’t think alike. It is a long moment before he turns back to face me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I smack his face, making an unshed tear fall. “Now, stop dwelling on what was.”

He nods. What else is there for us to do in this moment? There is no going back. There is only a hope we can move beyond the last decade, and neither of us will be able to move on if we don’t forget.

“Tell me about
your
life.”

He smiles and pulls out his wallet. He spreads four small photos in front of me. “You’re an uncle.”

“Huh.” I pick up the first picture, awed when I see a young boy with wild, curly black hair and wide brown eyes staring back at me. His skin is darker, but he could be Ari, or me, at the same age.

“Hektor,” Ari says.

“Hektor,” I repeat, a name shared by both our grandfather and our father. “It is good.” I hate to release the first image, so I keep holding it in my hand even as I add the second photo to it.

“Olympia.”

I smile. “She’s an imp, my God, what mischief in that face.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

The third photograph is another boy child, a chubby baby, but also with a head covered by curls. My heart jolts when he tells me the boy’s name. I repeat it softly, rubbing my thumb over his cheek. “Nikkos.”

“It is good there is another Nikos in the world.”

I shake my head, my hand trembling. “You should have named him Aristotle.”

“That’s your job. Someday you will give me a nephew.”

Surely he knows that day will never come. Hurriedly, I pick up the fourth picture to join the stack. It is an infant, newly born, not a standard hospital issue, but blurred and poor quality.

“Athena-Sophia. I took that one with my phone. She’s almost one by now.”

I can tell by the longing in his voice something is wrong.

“Where are your children?”

“Egypt? Sudan?” He shrugs. “Somewhere on the continent of Africa. They are with their mother. It’s complicated.”

“That’s a very clichéd saying.”

“There is no other way to put it. They are there, I am here, and there is no way for us to be together.”

I return the photos to him and after a moment he pulls another photo out of his wallet and hands it to me, saying, “This is their mother.”

“God, she’s beautiful.”

He smirks. “Yes, she is, but she’s no longer mine.”

His hand lingers over his wallet like he is considering showing me another. He finally decides, withdrawing the photo of another woman. “This is Celia.”

I trade him photos. She seems so average compared to the exotic ebony beauty before, but I can tell by the look on his face that this woman has become the center of his universe. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s my perfect match. Our darkness melds well together.” As an afterthought he adds, “And our light.”

I look at him curiously, realizing the man I once knew as my brother is different, changed. Softer than he ever was before. Gentler. Kinder. Paternal. He became who he is now because of the sacrifices I’ve made and suddenly I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done to ensure his health and well-being.

“Thank you for showing me these.” I hand the photo back to him, and he keeps his eyes trained on the woman.
Celia
.
“I think I’d like to meet her.”

“She’s pregnant. Twins. My children.”

I watch emotion wash over his face.

“Why do I sense this relationship is even more complicated than the one with the other woman?”

“Because it is.” Snorting unhappily, he slides the photos into his wallet. “It shouldn’t be, but it is. I share her with another man, my best friend.”

I whistle, surprised. “You are a changed man. I’ve never known you to share anything you didn’t want to.”

Our gazes collide. “It is only for her benefit I am willing to now.”

“You should be with her tonight, not me. I’ll stay here and entertain the doctor.”

Thomas smiles, his eyes lighting up, and I see how desperately he wants to be with her. He makes no move to leave.

“Go on, get out of here. I have a chess rematch waiting for me.”

“Your wish for me is impossible tonight,” he answers, and the look in his eyes is heart-wrenching. He quickly adds, “And do not worry, I have seen her.” I wonder if the assurance is for my benefit or his. I can tell he’s forcing a smile when he says, “I do have some work I could be doing though.”

“Sure, sure. I’m sick of looking at your mug any way.”

“Hey, this work is for you. I’ve found you a place to live, I’m getting ready to outfit it with some nifty security measures tonight.”

Now
that
gets my hopes up. Excited, I say, “Let me come with you,” betting there isn’t a chance in hell he will. Neither he nor the doctor is convinced I won’t self-destruct the moment I leave my confines. Knowing that, I don’t take his refusal too hard. I’m happy believing my freedom is imminent.

“Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.”

George Eliot,
The Mill on the Floss

Garrett

Tonight I am at the club alone and not at all happy about that fact. Last night Celia slept in the guest room. This morning she was gone before I rose. A phone call to
The Darkness
confirmed she was at work. I spoke to the receptionist, not Celia. It appears we aren’t speaking, and it’s entirely my fault. I just don’t know what to say to her at this point that will make a difference. She wants absolutely nothing about our relationships or living arrangements to change just because of the babies she is carrying, and I think it is absurd to expect anything to stay the same.

I don’t want her to choose between me and Thomas, I think we can continue to be a ménage, but looking to the future there are going to have to be a lot of decisions, and I feel like the first assessment we need to make is where we are going to live.
Her and I.
Not excluding Thomas, but not pretending we can be three in a bed every night anymore either. I couldn’t get her to see past her question, “Why not?” no matter which tactic I took.