Scales: Of Justice (Broken But ... Mending Book 3) (7 page)

By the time they were almost done, Jenna called out, “For the next hour, work in pairs on your project.”

She stood up. “Paris and Weaver, come up here please and we’ll discuss yours.”

“Oh finally.” Paris bounded to her feet without looking to see if Weaver was coming or not. She stood in front of Jenna’s desk. “Thanks.”

Jenna smiled. “Take a seat, both of you.”

That’s when Paris noticed Weaver standing behind her. “Oh, sorry.” She scooted to the side and sat down. Weaver sat in the other chair.

“Did you come up with a theme yet, you two?”

Paris shook her head. Weaver nodded.

Jenna smiled. “So one says yes and one says no. Interesting. Okay. Paris, have you heard what Weaver has come up with?”

Paris frowned at Weaver. “I don’t think so.”

Weaver shrugged. “No big deal. I was going to suggest transformation.”

“Oh, I did hear that,” Paris admitted.

There was silence as both women contemplated the theme.

“But what would we do with it?” Paris asked. “I’m not against that, I just don’t understand how to use it for a report. Short of explaining how I’ve seen my life transformed.”

She slid a sideways glance over at Jenna, who was moving a pen between her fingers, deep in thought.

That would be an easier project to do than some and would trigger a lot of memories. Some not so easy to deal with. That can of worms was better left unopened.

“Maybe we should define that more,” Jenna said. “Not your life per se, but how one incident, a huge incident in your life, has affected every day you’ve lived since.” Her gaze was direct, warm, caring and….shit….
determined
as she looked at Paris.

“In fact, I think it needs to be that really big white elephant each of us has in our lives that we don’t want to talk about. That we don’t want anyone in this room to know about.” She waited a beat then added, “But that needs to come out.”

“If we’ve acknowledged this incident as a problem, then sharing it with others is both unnecessary and painful,” Weaver said.

“And can’t happen,” Paris blurted out. Jenna knew she couldn’t deal with this. It wasn’t possible for Paris to talk about it. She couldn’t. The familiar tightening on her chest, her inability to breathe, these were more than feelings. They were real. Her eyes closed and she focused on the next breath. Just one. If she could get that one out – there – she did it. Then the next one, then the next one. By the time she opened her eyes, she realized that there was only silence around her as the others watched.

“It really sends you into a panic attack, doesn’t it,” Weaver asked.

She nodded.

“That’s the big one then. You so have to let that go. The fear will kill you,” he said seriously.

She gazed off into the distance. “But I know what it is, I know what happened, putting that into a project isn’t going to help me – it will traumatize me. And I wasn’t alone. I don’t feel that I can share what happened without breaking a confidence in someone else. They need their privacy too.”

“Use a different name?” Weaver suggested.

“No, he’d still be obvious. You’d know who he was.” She thought about it. “And it’s too big.”

“Big is good,” Weaver said. “It gives you lots to work with.”

“No, like this is huge. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard.” Paris pleaded.

Silence.

Jenna spoke up, her voice warm and fuzzy, “Then deal with a layer on top. That will make the big issue a little easier for you to access, and yet you’ll feel better for having gotten something done. Some level of pain gone.”

“A top layer?”

“Yes.” Jenna waited a moment. “How about the fear of not being good enough. Not deserving enough to get what you want in life.”

That did it. Frozen again, her breath locked down. Jenna was referring to Paris’s outburst this morning, when she’d almost lost it completely, and didn’t it damn well figure that Jenna would pick up on that one horrible, crippling aspect. She struggled to take a breath, that oh-so-very necessary air into her lungs so she could take another breath – one that would allow her to fight the good fight and keep living for another day.

Heat radiated up her arm as she became aware of fingers gently stroking her skin, soothing her panic, easing back the rough edges of her control.

A gasping, raspy breath escaped.

“Sure,” she heard herself mention sarcastically. “Like that isn’t a big one.”

“Good.” Jenna stood up, deliberately misunderstanding her, and said, “That’s settled. Find a way to visually express your transformation.” And she collected her books and walked out, leaving Paris staring after her.

“Visually?” Weaver said. “Really?”

“That’s what she said. Although how does one visually represent the fear of not being good enough? Not deserving enough have to do with anything?”

“I think she left us some latitude in there, but still.”

Feeling more balanced, Paris shot a look around the room, but no one noticed. They were all packing up to leave. She planned to do that too. Just as soon as she could get her body to move.

*

Weaver had seen
several people have panic attacks but hadn’t realized that Paris was crippled so severely by them. Jenna had certainly hit it on the head about what Paris’s big dominating issue was. At least the one that was accessible. And she was right, one had to deal with the little bits and reduce the pain and fear around the big one until it was manageable.

Then when it least surprised you, that one opened up because you came from a position of strength now and it had been weakened. He could hope for such a breakthrough for her. She deserved it.

“What about at your work?” he asked curiously. “Is there anything there that would show you something visual in transforming? You deal with mothers and babies, correct?”

She nodded, a gentle smile on her face. “I do love my work. Helping the women yes, but seeing the babies, working with the ones that have a tough time and seeing them survive and thrive…” Her smile grew misty. “It’s special.”

“And the ones that don’t survive?” he asked. How could she deal with the loss of babies like that? That would be too much for him, he was too big a softie.

“I cry,” she said simply. “A lot. But never there. Never at work. I make it through my day – sad but functioning – then I go home and I cry for them. There’s nothing else I can do. In many cases I have to wonder if it wasn’t a blessing as the poor little things were in such pain and it wasn’t going to get much better, but then I remember some that have struggled so hard and have done well…” she smiled, “and I remember that all we can do is fight. Sometimes we win and sometimes we lose.”

“That’s not a bad way to look at life in general.” Weaver smiled. “Even now, today. We have a project to do. Let’s apply that common sense to making it happen.”

“I don’t have a problem doing the work,” Paris replied, “but once again I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s always the hardest place,” he said, “but the good thing is, in this case, you’ve already started!”

It took a moment for a small frown on her forehead to clear, and then she smiled. “That’s true, but not very helpful.”

He laughed. “Hey, whatever works. Sometimes I do the end of the report because I know that’s where I’m going. I then backtrack to the beginning to lay down the steps required to get there.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” Her face brightened. “I’ll have to think about that.”

“Good. In the meantime, how about a walk?” He could see the refusal forming on her face, he jumped in to add, “Nothing long, just out in the gardens or around the dock.” He snagged her elbow. “Let’s go.”

P
aris had no
desire to go out, to leave her safety net. Weaver wasn’t giving her a choice. Before she understood what had happened, she was standing outside the hotel in downtown Vancouver, her jacket on, and staring up at the windy gray skies. It matched her mood. The emotions rocking her today were enough to make her tired, depressed. She hated the toll it was taking on her. It’s like someone took all the stuffing out of her and just when she thought the bad stuff was all gone, she realized it was only a drop in the ocean of bad still waiting for her to deal with.

“I wonder if everyone has something major to deal with?”

“Everyone has
something
to deal with. The term ‘major’ is subjective. Trying to buy a new car and not sure how to could be construed as a major problem in some people’s eyes.”

She snorted. “I wish.”

“Come on, let’s walk.”

It was the last thing she wanted to do, but her feet had a mind of their own and fell into step beside him. The air was cool for a September day. The moist, slightly salty air revitalized her spirits. Normally the spring and fall here were warm and stunningly beautiful with bright blue skies. Today offered the beautiful part, but it wasn’t warm or blue. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and let the world stroll by as she walked.

“We’ll head towards the ocean.”

“Wherever.” She shrugged.

“Are you cold?” he asked in concern. “The breeze has a bite to it.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “It’s cool but refreshing.”

They walked in silence until the first glimpses of the sailboats popped into view. She broke into laughter. “They always look so bright and cheerful out there buffeted by the wind and waves.”

“I don’t know how cheerful they are today considering the beating they are taking.”

The breeze that brushed by them was a strong wind out in the bay, but the people in the sailboats looked to be having the time of their lives. Then she caught sight of the kite surfers. “What a sport,” she exclaimed.

“Looks like fun, but so not for me.”

“Not into dangerous sports?” she asked, feeling shivers sliding over her skin. “I’m not either, but men generally like that sort of thing.” Of course her brother didn’t, but in their house, growing up had been a dangerous sport. She smiled, loving the reminder of her brother, and the shivers stopped.

“Not my style.” He gave a harsh laugh and said, “I survived childhood. That was hard enough.”

Shocked, she stopped all of a sudden, then turned to look at him. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

With an understanding look, he moved closer to her. “Our daily life isn’t like these people.” He pointed out a particularly high-flying kite boarder. “He’s happy to chase after excitement and danger. For most of us who grew up in a violent household, we are looking for the opposite. We want peace and safety now.”

She couldn’t have said it better. The insight into his life, his childhood, made her realize he really had been through the wringer – like the rest of them at the seminar. Holding her breath, she stayed silent, hoping he’d share more. One foot rested on the cement barricade between them and the water, the look on his face distant but calm. As if he’d come to terms with something behind him.

She wished.

There was a world of difference between his childhood and hers, she knew, but for the first time she realized there was also a lot in common.

“Maybe some of those people have been hurt so much they no longer care what happens to them?”

“That’s the other side of the coin, isn’t it?” He glanced at her. “Survival means different things to different people. Some say they survived, but inside they are dead and can’t stand living. Some people do crazy stunts in the hope to kill themselves off because they aren’t strong enough to do it themselves. Sounds horrible, but I’ve seen it.”

“And in some cases, they are so angry inside they turn around and inflict the same abuse on others,” Paris whispered, looking at the black mark his shoe scuffed into the cement barricade. Briefly letting her gaze follow the line of his foot up his leg, remembering how it felt when he had held her.

She didn’t see the same rage in his demeanor or actions she’d seen in other men. He’d never hit anyone for fun. Was she right to trust that assumption? She didn’t really know him. But she wanted to.

“Often those people feel that they have to get their own back. Or feel like if it happened to them, why should you be safe? I knew one male who figured it was his job to go around and attack women because then they wouldn’t be so trusting. They’d take more precautions because now they understood life could be dangerous.”