Stepping Into Sunlight (11 page)

The closet door swung open. A tiny hand touched my shoulder.

I jerked upright and swiped my face with the back of my hand.

“Mom? I’m sorry I was bad.” Bryan shifted from foot to foot.

Remorse crushed my ribs into shards that pierced my heart. “Oh, honey. It’s not your fault. I’m just . . . I . . .” More tears stole away my words.

Bryan held out his arms. I rose up to my knees and hugged him, and let him pat my back. My hiccupping breaths gradually slowed while I soaked in the comfort of his arms. I fought for control I couldn’t find, and all the while I knew this was so wrong, so unfair to Bryan. He shouldn’t have to parent me while I fell apart.

I needed help.

“I love you, sweetie. I’m okay. Really I am. Could you get my purse?”

He pulled back, his eyes wary and too old as he studied me. A terse nod and he ran from the room.

When he returned I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember how a responsible adult should behave. I took the purse and pulled out the card for Victim Support Services. “Honey, I promise I’m going to get help. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

The next morning, as soon as Bryan left for school, I reached for the phone. My fingers fumbled so much it took me three attempts to dial the number. The victim support staffer’s voice was reassuring but firm. Within a minute she had me agreeing to attend a support group.

I raised a token resistance. “I always thought of myself as a strong person.”

“It takes strength to ask for help,” she said calmly. “Tuesday nights at seven. Our offices are just off Princess Anne Road in Norfolk. Do you know where that is?”

Noncommittal murmur.

“How old did you say your son is? Can you find a babysitter?”

I rubbed my forehead, overwhelmed enough by the thought of driving to the center. How could I think through all the steps involved in finding a sitter? “He’s seven. Second grade.”

“Well, you could bring him and let him play in the lobby. The group meets in the conference room, and you’ll be able to keep an eye on him through the glass doors.”

Sure. Sounded easy as pie.

A pizza supper went a long way toward securing Bryan’s forgiveness for my latest meltdown. After wolfing enough pieces for three grown men, Bryan bounded out the back door to play. With neighbor-boy radar, Jim-Bob’s towhead appeared in his backyard a few minutes later. After a brief negotiation, Jim-Bob hopped the fence and the boys began a soccer game in our yard.

Jim-Bob was a year older than Bryan but seemed twice as big and twice as savvy about boyhood lore. I wasn’t sure I wanted Bryan playing Tom Sawyer to Jim-Bob’s Huck Finn. But Bryan had too much energy to stay caged in the house.

While they romped and shouted outside the window, I turned on the computer.

How’s my favorite husband? We prayed for you tonight at supper. Bryan
misses you a lot, but he’s doing well. Right now he’s playing soccer with
Jim-Bob from next door.

We went to Virginia Beach yesterday. Not the boardwalk part. A
nice empty stretch of beach. It’s so beautiful. I could watch those waves
for hours. I suppose you’re getting sick of seeing nothing but water.

Oh, I’m going to the victim center tomorrow night. Just to check it
out. I’m really doing fine, but who knows? Maybe I can offer some help
to other folks who are struggling. Sorry that my mom keeps e-mailing
you. I’ll e-mail her tonight. She gets all worried if I’m too busy to return
her calls right away. She forgets how busy things can get.

Thank you again for the DVD. Hey, why didn’t you just give it to
me the day you left? What if I hadn’t found it?

Hugs and kisses, Pen

I sent chipper e-mails to my friend Sonja, and to my mom, then sat at the dinner table nursing a glass of lemonade. Pizza remnants littered the table, but I couldn’t work up the energy to clean up.

“Mommy, can Jim-Bob sleep over?” Bryan charged into the dining area at the same time the screen door slammed shut behind him. Grass and leaves matted his clothes.

“No. You’re too young for a sleepover.”

He planted grubby fists on his hips. “Mo-om. I wouldn’t be sleeping over.
He
would.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d studied philosophy in college, but nothing had prepared me for the logic of a seven-year-old. “Time for your shower. Go tell Jim-Bob you have to come inside.”

The longer hours of sunlight here in Virginia were a bit of a curse. Bryan wasn’t convinced bedtime was near when he could still see his hand in front of his face outside. He stomped through the kitchen. The screen door slammed, boyish voices hollered, and the screen door slammed again.

Bryan pulled his socks off and dropped them on the kitchen floor. “So, can I have a snack?” He started to open the refrigerator door. “Oh!”

Pulling a crumpled letter from his pocket, he passed it to me and returned to his snack search. “I kind of forgot.”

Dear Mrs. Sullivan,

Thanks for your phone message. And yes, your e-mail helped me
understand Bryan’s situation. I’m sure that part of his distraction comes
from missing his father. By the way, Bryan said that you’re eager to
get involved in the PTA and be a room parent, and that you were
very involved at his school in Wisconsin. I’m so delighted to hear this. I
always struggle to find parents willing to help. Could you stop in after
school tomorrow so we can discuss the Thanksgiving play? He said
you offered to fill the role of the Pilgrim mother. Thank you so much,
Sarah Pimblott.

I cleared my throat. “Bryan, you need to talk to me before you volunteer me for things.”

His eyes darkened. “But I did tell you. Remember?” His pleading expression begged for more than just my help with the play. He wanted his old mom back again.

“I told you I’d think about it. Honey, she wants to meet with me tomorrow. I . . . I can’t. But I’ll call her. Okay?”

He met my eyes and waited.

He needed a commitment from me. No more waffling. My withdrawal from life had hurt Bryan too much already. “All right. I’ll call and tell her I’ll help with the play. It’s two months away. I’m sure I’ll feel better by then.”

A grin split his face. The gaps waiting for his permanent teeth never looked better to me. I even smiled in response.

Tom would get home from his first deployment to find an active, well-adjusted wife appearing with his son in the school play. Two months should give me enough time to recover from this . . . thing . . . that had its fist around my throat. Even if I had to suffer through some group therapy. Even if I had to confront the memories I’d worked hard to forget. Even if I had to fill each page of my notebook with action points and tiny goals. It was a great plan, a great target for me to aim for.

So why did the few bites of pizza I’d managed suddenly congeal in my stomach?

chapter
9

T
HE LONG TABLE AND
folding chairs barely fit in the cramped conference room at Victim Support Services. A girl with Goth eyeliner slumped in a seat near the door. She shot me a sideways glance and then went back to gouging a pattern into the table using a paper clip. A man with sagging jowls and deep eye pouches sat beside her and tugged on his suit sleeves. He appeared to be about my age, but with the world-weariness of someone much older.

“Hello.” A plump woman in her fifties followed me into the room and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Marci Crown. I’m the psychologist on staff here, and I facilitate this group. I saw your son out there. He’s adorable.” She pulled out a chair for herself across from Goth girl and Basset-hound man. The seats closest to the door were taken. I squeezed my way to the far end of the table. The others avoided eye contact.

A crowded room with only one door. Couldn’t they see this was a fire hazard? A trickle of sweat ran down my rib cage. Panic attacks were bad enough, but this place was going to give me claustrophobia on top of it. I’d have to crawl over the raccoon-eyed teen and the businessman to escape. Why had I agreed to this? The drive to the victim center had drained me, and now I wanted to find an excuse to leave. I half hoped Bryan was upset about being left in the lobby to play on his own—what kind of mother was I to hope my child was upset so I could make a quick exit? But as I expected, my oh-so-resilient child was calmly coloring at the receptionist’s desk.

Dr. Marci glanced at her watch, holding it out far from her face and squinting. “I was hoping Daniel would make it, but he asked me to tell you all that he’s having a bad day.”

“He’s agoraphobic.” The Basset-hound man tossed the explanation to me.

“Henry, let’s not use labels,” Dr. Marci interrupted. “Daniel is a lot of things beyond his hesitation to venture out. Let’s start with some introductions.” She zeroed her gaze onto Goth girl.

The young woman lifted her chin long enough to roll her eyes. “Name’s Ashley. Friends call me Ash. Get it? Ash—the debris of destruction.” She waggled her fingers and glared at all of us in what I supposed was meant to be a menacing face.

Good grief. Did she really think the nihilistic role was cool? She looked like an adolescent vampire. A vampire who needed a shampoo.

Unable to force a very warm expression on my face, I dug in my purse and pulled out a stick of gum.

“Are you going to keep that?” Henry stared at the foil wrapper in my hand.

My gaze swung from Henry to the gum wrapper.

Ashley smirked. “He’s a hoarder.”

I almost choked on my gum. This was getting better and better. I handed the piece of foil to Henry and scrunched lower in my chair.

“Penny, I’m glad you decided to join our group.” Dr. Marci poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.

I’m not joining this group. I’m sitting in on one session as penance for
freaking out in front of Bryan.
“Thanks. It’s nice to meet you all.”

Ashley snorted, not faked out by my attempt at sincerity.

“Okay,” Dr. Marci raised her eyebrows in Ashley’s direction. “Let’s get started. Share a little about why you’re here and how your week went, and what you need today. Penny, you can go last so you get to know us first.”

Oh, joy.

The door swung open and another woman scurried into the room. “Sorry. Traffic was awful.”

“Glad you made it, Camille. We’re just getting started.” The others around the table echoed Dr. Marci’s greeting.

Finally, someone normal. Camille wore stylish khaki capris with a striped cotton blouse, a silk scarf, and designer sunglasses. Her hair was clean and styled, and she didn’t look like the type to collect gum wrappers.

Dr. Marci sat back in a pose of relaxed attentiveness. “Henry, why don’t you start us out?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Could I have some water, please?”

Dr. Marci passed him a stack of Styrofoam cups. He pulled off two, palmed one to slip into his jacket, and poured water in the other. No one else at the table even blinked.

I shivered. Bunch of weirdoes. How was this supposed to help me shake off my anxiety? Well, at least it would reassure Tom that I was getting help. If I could endure the rest of the hour, I’d be able to e-mail him all about how much better I was.

Henry was talking about his week. “Well, I’m still having trouble sleeping. I’m . . . well, I hate to say it, but I’m scared to sleep. The nightmares get so bad.”

I leaned forward. Maybe someone here did know what I was going through.

“Can you review why that’s been a problem . . . since we have a new member in our group?”

Henry smoothed his tie and looked at me. “Awhile back I was on the floor of the stock exchange. Hundred-hour workweeks.” His chest expanded. “Top of my game. Then came the dot-com bust. I had a lot of clients deep into high-tech stock.” He seemed to shrink before my eyes, a soggy balloon the day after a party. “Lost my job. Moved back to Virginia to live with my parents for a while. Had some health problems. Then I got mugged one night. Beat up pretty bad. Something in me just . . . broke. I haven’t gotten back on my feet since.” He shrugged. “I lost my temp job and haven’t been able to go out on interviews.”

Wow.
What would it feel like to know you were responsible for people losing their life savings, their retirement funds? And to have invested your life in a career that chewed you up and spit you out? And then to be mugged. Talk about getting kicked when you’re down. No wonder he was struggling.

Henry’s words had grown more and more quiet until he stopped, shoulders caving forward.

Ashley did something odd. She rested a hand on his arm. Long black nails, silver rings on every finger—a strange picture against the sleeve of Henry’s business suit. She turned her dark eyes from Henry and glared at my end of the table. “Yeah, well, I’m so over telling my story. Stepfather couldn’t keep his hands off me. Mom didn’t believe me. When I was old enough I hit the streets. Same old, same old. Did what I could to get by.” She flexed her hand, admiring the metal armor of her jewelry. “A year ago, I decided to get out of the life, but that didn’t go so well. My . . . ex-employer didn’t like that idea. He broke a few bones to make an example of me. Doc Marci helped me find a shelter to stay at. I’m sort of a long-term project.”