Stepping Into Sunlight (26 page)
“Breathe. Hey, look at that. They’re opening a new Starbucks near the library. Have you visited this library? They have a really cute children’s reading room.”
We cruised past a cheerful building. Even though I knew Dr. Marci was trying to distract me, a spark of interest interrupted my panic, and I made a mental note to take Bryan to this library one day. My hands were shaking too much to pull out my actual notebook, though.
A few blocks farther, and we turned into a small parking lot. The building in front of us looked more like a school than a set for
Law and Order.
“This is it.” Dr. Marci turned off the engine.
The innocuous building should have eased some of my terror. Instead I glared at it in suspicion. The Quick Corner had looked safe and innocent, too, and look what happened there.
I
HITCHED UP THE
strap of my shoulder bag and marched toward the door. Though I was a wreck, I had too much pride to dissolve into a quivering puddle of jelly on the sidewalk in front of the precinct office. I yanked the door handle and stepped inside. Maybe this was my chance to take back my power. Confront the man who had tried to kill me and feel triumph that he’d failed. Maybe today would be the ultimate turning point.
The lobby was small and neat, like a dentist’s office. I pulled up, confused. “Are you sure . . . ?”
Dr. Marci stepped past me to a counter. She pulled out a card. “Dr. Crown from Victim Support Services. We’re here to meet with Detective Ramirez.”
The young man in uniform at the counter carried himself with military posture. “Yes, ma’am. Have a seat, and I’ll page him.”
I perched on the edge of a cushioned chair and looked at the landscape print on one wall. Where were the screaming suspects wrestling against handcuffs or the world-weary detectives in rumpled coats? I heard the soft trill of a phone and murmured voices, way too benign to fit my image of a police precinct. Colorful characters arrested for nefarious activities should be slouched in a crowded cell nearby. When I threw a sidelong glance to the room behind the counter, I couldn’t spot a barred cage anywhere—only bland desks.
Twisting my hands in my lap, I felt a rough edge on a fingernail and picked at it. Finally, I pried the thin line of white off and began nibbling the edges to smooth them.
“Mrs. Sullivan? I’m Detective Ramirez.”
I shot to my feet. When had he walked into the lobby? I was really out of it if I didn’t notice someone of his size enter the room. He was well over six feet and had a linebacker’s bulk—pure muscle. The citizens of Chesapeake would sleep better at night if they all knew this guy was working to protect them.
“Thank you for comin’ in, ma’am.” His liquid drawl evoked the same melted honey and pecan as his dark skin.
I gave a halfhearted smile and nodded.
“I’m Dr. Crown from victim support.” Doc Marci held out her hand. I suppose I could have done that. They shook hands and exchanged a little small talk. My feet still hadn’t budged. I wasn’t betting on his chances of making them move.
The buzz of the security door jarred me back into the present. The detective had swiped a keycard and was holding the door for us. “Let me bring you both back to my office.”
Office? That didn’t sound too frightening. I’d steeled myself to face the ravening suspect through cell bars, or imagined shivering behind a two-way mirror as hardened men lined up by a measuring-tape wall. Still, I stared at the open door and wavered.
With Dr. Marci’s light touch on my back, I convinced my legs to move and followed the man past desks and cubicles, then a short way down a hall that screamed grade school. The water fountain was even at child level. The only things missing were tempera paint art projects taped to the walls.
Detective Ramirez followed my gaze to the water fountain and sighed. “Saving tax dollars. When they okayed expanding the division’s precinct offices, they bought a vacant elementary school. We haven’t completed the transition yet.”
A nervous giggle left my throat. Then he led us into his office, waved us toward some chairs, and settled behind his desk.
“How y’all doing?”
I murmured noncommittally.
His eyes softened. “It was a tough scene. I’ve had men in my department fall apart seeing the kind of thing you saw. I’m glad you’re okay.”
His quiet validation almost undid me. I cleared my throat and clutched my shoulder bag tightly. If we didn’t get this over with fast, I might lose my breakfast. “So where is he?”
His eyes widened. “He’s at the county lockup. I only need you to do a photo ID. The D.A. is working out a plea agreement, so it most likely won’t go to trial. But we like having our ducks in a row in case anything falls through with that. We already have the security tapes and the clerk’s eyewitness testimony. You’re just part of dotting the i’s.”
No trial? Before I could absorb the relief, the page of six mug shots was in front of me. None of the young men looked particularly happy. I spotted the snub nose and hollow eyes of the boy from the Quick Corner right away.
“Him.” I pointed.
I waited for rage, loathing, or fear to jolt me. Instead, I felt cold and empty—as dead and lifeless as the plain white sheet of fax machine paper with the row of faces.
“Okay. Sign here and date it.” The detective pointed to a line on the page of photos.
I scrawled my name and suddenly Dr. Marci was ushering me down the hall and out of the building. As we stepped outside, I drew big, gasping breaths, as if I’d just escaped a burning building and needed to clear smoke from my lungs.
With a gentle hand on my arm, she guided me to a nearby bus bench.
I sat and doubled over, hugging my stomach.
“You did it. How does that feel?”
When the waves of dizziness passed, I laughed. “I was so worked up. Lineups and courtroom confrontations and defense attorneys badgering me. It’s almost anticlimactic.” I lifted my head. “Not that I’m complaining.”
I waited for the splash of emotions to settle, so I could assess what I actually felt. Dr. Marci waited with me.
“Does this really count?” I said at last. “Do I have to see him face-to-face in order to heal?”
“Penny, only you can figure out what steps will help you move past this event. Do you want to see him?”
I shuddered. “No.” I was uncertain about a lot of things, but I had great clarity on that issue.
“Then trust that instinct. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your anxiety begins to ease after today. You may have subconsciously feared seeing him again, as long as he hadn’t been arrested. Now that you know he’s going to prison, some of your hyper-vigilance might ease.”
I did feel better. Calmer.
The achievement deserved a celebration.
Dr. Marci stood and smiled. “Well, I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, so I’ll drop you at the center. We can talk about this tomorrow during your appointment.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
After picking up my car at the victim center, I decided to commemorate my courageous act with another. I stopped at a gas station to fill the car. That errand drained me, but I didn’t have a panic attack. I’d probably always hate the smell of gasoline, but maybe it wouldn’t always cripple me. On the way home, I took care to avoid the street that passed the Quick Corner where the crime had occurred. I’d been able to confront a photo of the man who tried to kill me, but I was never going to set foot in that store again.
More than anything, I wanted to drive to a friend’s house to share my small victory. With a pang of loneliness, it hit home that I’d made no new friends. I’d been in Chesapeake for over two months. By now, I’d expected to be woven into the fabric of church, school, and Navy base.
Back at home, I prowled the empty rooms, and finally sat on Bryan’s bed and talked to Gimli as he burrowed into his cedar shavings. Since telling him about my milestone didn’t bring much satisfaction, I heated a microwave dinner and brought it over to the computer. While I picked at lasagna, I checked in on a Navy spouses’ forum.
Loads of new messages since my last visit. I opened the most recent topic.
It’s my greatest fear.
One woman had posted.
I’ve tried to prepare
for my husband being injured in combat. But I couldn’t face this.
I scrolled back to see what she was replying to.
Helicopter Accident During Carrier Maneuvers. Three Injured
.
Pasta and cheese stuck in my throat, and I swallowed hard. The message quoted a news bulletin about a serviceman who was being lowered from a helicopter onto a ship’s deck in rough seas. The deck rose unexpectedly and the man’s spine was injured as he slammed into the deck. Two sailors on the ship were also injured as they ran forward to assist.
Tom had learned maneuvers like that at his basic training. He made lots of Holy Helo trips.
Oh, Tom. Please be safe.
Memories flooded me of the day he left for his deployment. I had pleaded a cold, and we decided to say our good-byes at home. I really didn’t want to face the crowds or the drive home alone afterward. I wanted to get the whole thing over with before I fell apart.
Sitting tailor style in the middle of the bed, I drank in every detail: Tom’s tawny eyebrows, his hazel irises with their flecks of amber; the stubble on the back of his neck beneath his too-short buzz cut; the small crease on his earlobe that I loved to nibble; the lean muscles that stretched as he reached for his bag from the top shelf of the closet.
He rechecked his kit as if he were a Boy Scout packing for his first camping trip. “You’re sure you’re okay saying good-bye here?”
I reached for a Kleenex and blew my nose. “As long as you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to spread my germs to all the Navy families on the pier.”
He zipped a pocket shut, tossed the duffle toward the door, and leaned down to hug me. “Okay. Look, I know we promised not to get all mushy, but can I just tell you what a great wife you are?”
I rubbed his back. “Sure. That’s always allowed.”
“You’ve had to give up a lot for this.”
“Hey, it’s what married couples do. Support each other.”
He tightened his hug and lifted me.
I untangled my legs and let my feet find the floor. No more casual half hug. Standing in his embrace, the eagerness to get past this moment fled. Now I was desperate to make time stop. I squeezed Tom and memorized the scent of soap on his skin, the warmth of his breath near my ear, the way my head fit perfectly under his chin.
Don’t go. Please don’t go.
“You better get going.” I eased away with a last pat on his back. “I’m betting the Navy doesn’t approve of tardiness.”
He snorted. “You got that right. It’s a whole different culture. Not like working at our church back home.”
I grinned. “When the youth volunteers would show up after evening farm chores—however long they took.”
“And spit and polish meant a clean baseball cap with a tractor logo.”
“Those were good years.” I kept my voice bright, squelching any hint of nostalgia or regret. “But God’s going to use your gifts here, too.”
He stared hard into my eyes. “Do you think so?”
His disarming uncertainty was easy to handle, unlike the demons of my own self-doubt that I had to keep caged and out of sight. I met his gaze squarely. “I know so. Let’s pray.”
We hadn’t prayed with each other much since arriving in Virginia. Too busy. Different schedules. We’d gotten out of the habit. Now we pressed our foreheads together in a huddle of three. God, man, and wife. We whispered our hopes and blessings for each other.
Tears began to run down my face, but they were clean tears, so I let them fall.
With a last kiss, Tom had grabbed his bags and headed out the door. Air had sucked out of the room as the front door opened and closed.
Thinking about Tom today brought the same hollow tightness to my lungs. The computer screen served up frightening statistics of Navy fatalities and stories from wives whose marriages were strained to the limit. I pushed away from the computer as if it had stung me. Loneliness was easier to handle than new sources of anxiety. Online chats might provide a sense of companionship, but I wasn’t ready for the flood of information I stumbled across.
“Lord, I guess it’s just you and me.” I carried my plate to the sink and began tidying the kitchen. “Will you celebrate with me? I did it. I went to the police station and saw his photo. Thank you for giving me the strength. And giving me Dr. Marci’s support. And thank you that it was much less scary than I expected.” From a forgotten place inside me, a song welled up. The youth group kids used to love it. Tom would play bongos when we sang it.
“ ‘Every move I make I make in You. You make me move, Jesus. Every step I take, I take in You.’ ”
I sang loudly while cleaning the kitchen. The end of the chorus included a freestyle of “na-na-na’s,” and I boogied wildly around the space between the kitchen counter and our table.
A discreet tap interrupted me. Laura-Beth’s face peered through the back door window, her gapped teeth flashing in a wide smile.
My skin heated as I opened the door. She didn’t wait for an invitation, but sashayed right in. “Hey, what’s the party about?”
I sighed. Since the floor wasn’t going to oblige and swallow me—or better yet, swallow Laura-Beth—I forced an embarrassed smile. “I had to go down to the police station to identify the guy from the shooting. I survived the trip, so . . .”
“They caught him? Woo-hoo! This is a reason to party!” She marched over to my fridge and pulled open the door. “What’s all this healthy junk? Juice. Juice. Milk.” She shuffled through the contents.
I laughed. “How about if I make us some hot tea?”
“Now yer talkin’. Feels like it’s gonna snow out there.”
I laughed again. Since the time Tom deployed, two laughs in one minute had to be a record for me. “Back home, we’re still wearing shorts when it’s in the fifties. This is nothing.”
She shivered. “No wonder you Yankees do everything so fast. It’s the only way y’all can keep warm.”
I unearthed some Fig Newtons, but when Laura-Beth frowned at them, I poured my secret stash of M&Ms into a little bowl and set it on the table. My neighbor kept up a stream of conversation, peppered with plenty of opinions and advice, while I made the tea.
