right now.”
Isabel steps closer. I turn away, focusing on the palms across the hillside, feeling the presence of the gun behind me.
She spits in my hair.
After a moment of excruciating silence, she walks off and locks the door behind her.
I wipe my hair with my shirttail. I hang my head between my shoulders and weep, my fingers clinging to the bars. Oliver is a two-year-old running into traffic all over again, but this time I can’t reach him. This time Jonathon is driving the oncoming car.
Benicio puts his hands on top of mine and slowly pries my fingers from the bars. He draws me against him, pressing my cheek to his chest and closing me inside his arms.
I realize just how different truth sounds from lies. It isn’t the words that are used. It’s the sound of them, a frequency, a vibration, chords striking deep within the chest. I imagine trying to explain such a thing to Jonathon: “But the frequency of your words is all wrong when you tell me you want to make everything better.”
I start to snicker. I haven’t been crazy after all. All along my intuition has been gnawing a tunnel inside my head to let the truth in, and until this moment I’ve tried blocking it with everything I have, including my own sanity.
How long has it been since I’ve cried like this while someone held me? How long have I needed this? I sob until the front of Benicio’s shirt is soaked in tears and snot. It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing. I don’t even know this man, and yet he feels more familiar to me than my own husband. “I’m sorry,” I croak, wiping my face with my hand.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” he asks.
“Your shirt, for starters.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s warm in here. Nothing like a pool of tears to cool you off,” he says, stroking my back.
I let go a small laugh and look up into his eyes. “I need to know about Oliver,” I say. “Have you heard them say anything at all?”
He shakes his head. “I wish I had something to tell you.”
I close my eyes. The room closes in again. It’s hard to breathe. I wrap my arms tightly at Benicio’s back and hold on to the solid feel of him, the ropey muscles beneath my fists. His heart beats inside my ear.
I’m well aware that novel experiences bring people together in ways nothing else can. Trauma bonds the hearts of those who experience its suffering together. I also understand that shock and pain make people do and believe things they otherwise aren’t capable of. I don’t know if this is what’s happening to me. But as Benicio strokes my hair, the sandy smell of his skin, the strength of his arms, the touch of his breath down my neck make me feel safer than I’ve felt in years. Safer than living in my own house where the biggest challenge I might face in a day is what to make for dinner. I’m not foolish enough to believe I’m out of harm’s way, and yet the thought crosses my mind that as long as he’s here with me everything will be all right.
The rhythm of his heart lulls me into a warm, stunned, daze. “You should finish your Danish,” he whispers into my hair.
I stay where I am for as long as he lets me.
10
Hours go by and no one comes for us. During that time Benicio and I move apart and barely speak. He chews his nails at the window and gazes back and forth between the outside and his shoes. I flop across the blanket and stare at the ceiling, my hands linked across my middle as if I’m dead.
The truth doesn’t necessarily equal relief.
Fourteen years ago I couldn’t bear to lie anymore to Jonathon. I had set my wineglass down on the dinner table and confessed that I was having an affair. Jonathon lowered his fork next to his plate. He squeezed his linen napkin in his fist. I braced to be hit with the piece of cloth, not that it would have landed a heavy blow, but still, I blinked in anticipation. It seemed a whole minute passed with nothing but the gloppy sound of Oliver creaming his peas in his highchair,
Isabel steps closer. I turn away, focusing on the palms across the hillside, feeling the presence of the gun behind me.
She spits in my hair.
After a moment of excruciating silence, she walks off and locks the door behind her.
I wipe my hair with my shirttail. I hang my head between my shoulders and weep, my fingers clinging to the bars. Oliver is a two-year-old running into traffic all over again, but this time I can’t reach him. This time Jonathon is driving the oncoming car.
Benicio puts his hands on top of mine and slowly pries my fingers from the bars. He draws me against him, pressing my cheek to his chest and closing me inside his arms.
I realize just how different truth sounds from lies. It isn’t the words that are used. It’s the sound of them, a frequency, a vibration, chords striking deep within the chest. I imagine trying to explain such a thing to Jonathon: “But the frequency of your words is all wrong when you tell me you want to make everything better.”
I start to snicker. I haven’t been crazy after all. All along my intuition has been gnawing a tunnel inside my head to let the truth in, and until this moment I’ve tried blocking it with everything I have, including my own sanity.
How long has it been since I’ve cried like this while someone held me? How long have I needed this? I sob until the front of Benicio’s shirt is soaked in tears and snot. It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing. I don’t even know this man, and yet he feels more familiar to me than my own husband. “I’m sorry,” I croak, wiping my face with my hand.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” he asks.
“Your shirt, for starters.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s warm in here. Nothing like a pool of tears to cool you off,” he says, stroking my back.
I let go a small laugh and look up into his eyes. “I need to know about Oliver,” I say. “Have you heard them say anything at all?”
He shakes his head. “I wish I had something to tell you.”
I close my eyes. The room closes in again. It’s hard to breathe. I wrap my arms tightly at Benicio’s back and hold on to the solid feel of him, the ropey muscles beneath my fists. His heart beats inside my ear.
I’m well aware that novel experiences bring people together in ways nothing else can. Trauma bonds the hearts of those who experience its suffering together. I also understand that shock and pain make people do and believe things they otherwise aren’t capable of. I don’t know if this is what’s happening to me. But as Benicio strokes my hair, the sandy smell of his skin, the strength of his arms, the touch of his breath down my neck make me feel safer than I’ve felt in years. Safer than living in my own house where the biggest challenge I might face in a day is what to make for dinner. I’m not foolish enough to believe I’m out of harm’s way, and yet the thought crosses my mind that as long as he’s here with me everything will be all right.
The rhythm of his heart lulls me into a warm, stunned, daze. “You should finish your Danish,” he whispers into my hair.
I stay where I am for as long as he lets me.
10
Hours go by and no one comes for us. During that time Benicio and I move apart and barely speak. He chews his nails at the window and gazes back and forth between the outside and his shoes. I flop across the blanket and stare at the ceiling, my hands linked across my middle as if I’m dead.
The truth doesn’t necessarily equal relief.
Fourteen years ago I couldn’t bear to lie anymore to Jonathon. I had set my wineglass down on the dinner table and confessed that I was having an affair. Jonathon lowered his fork next to his plate. He squeezed his linen napkin in his fist. I braced to be hit with the piece of cloth, not that it would have landed a heavy blow, but still, I blinked in anticipation. It seemed a whole minute passed with nothing but the gloppy sound of Oliver creaming his peas in his highchair,
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