Damage Done (9 page)

"I always had a hard time socially, coming out of my
shell and talking to people. A friend of mine suggested I get online and start
meeting people who had the same problem, and I stumbled into a chat room with
these amazing people who understood what that felt like. Behind the computer, I
was able to overcame my social anxiety, and I didn't worry as much about
feeling judged, or being afraid that people would run and gossip about things I
shared in confidence. Then I met some people who experienced domestic violence
and they were terrified of being found out in the real world, so they only
shared anonymously with people on the internet. There weren't really any
websites that offered web-based support to that particular demographic, so I
got with a friend and we decided to create one. And when we realized people
needed real material assistance, like money to leave and places to go, we
started to expand our services. And it grew organically from there."

She took another breath and reached for her tea.

"I love what you're doing," Nancy said suddenly,
"Will fifty thousand cover the expenses for the fundraiser? And leave some
leftover to use for your direct services?"

Rachel knocked over her iced tea, Edward never even looked
up from his cheesecake.

She reached to wipe up the mess, stammering, "Oh, wow,
that is, that is so generous... of course, that's an amazing level of support.
Wow. That would be amazing. Thank you."

Jake would have been mortified to see her. Graceful under
pressure, she was not.

They said their goodbyes and Rachel pulled out of the parking
garage, her head buzzing. People didn't just cut checks like that to piddly
little non-profits like hers, not without wanting something huge in return. She
knew a lot of wealthy people who threw money around, but none who would write
her a fifty thousand dollar check after a forty-five minute lunch meeting. She
told herself not to be surprised if the check never showed, and stifled the
passing glimpse at what a fundraiser would look like if they had that kind of
money to spend on table linens, flowers and fancy invitations.

She dug through the suitcase she called a purse and found
her cell to call Jake. He picked up right away.

"Hey Honey! How'd it go?"

"Well, big man, I might just survive without you, I
scored a pledge for fifty thousand dollars!"  she exclaimed, taking her
time to enunciate the last bit for dramatic effect.

"Get outta here! It must have been my handsome face in
the Courier article. Was he gay?"

"No, he wasn't gay, you egotist. He spent most of the
time picking over his lunch and looking at his phone, she's the one who offered
us the check. Can you believe it? What if they don't come through? What kind of
a follow up should we do?"

"We'll send them a hand-written note as soon as I get
home tomorrow. I'll see you around noon. That's so exciting, Honey. I'm
thrilled to the moon for you!"

"Thanks, Jake. I'm trying to be upbeat about it, but
you know- " she trailed off, she didn't have to explain.

Jake understood how difficult it was for her to stay
focused on the positive.

"Hey, this is a big deal. You did good, Rachel. Go
home and celebrate it, we'll start planning tomorrow. This is exciting! We're
going to have the best time! Kenneth might even tell you he's proud of
you!"

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow, drive safely," she
cautioned, already imagining him having some horrible accident before he made
it home. She'd have to call Mark and give him the news. She wondered how she
would manage without him.

"Rachel!" Jake yelled, reading her mind like her
husband never could, "This is awesome, you're making it happen! Get home
and pour a glass of wine. I'll see you tomorrow."

They hung up and she turned the ringer off on her phone,
needing the rest of the drive to process everything that happened that morning
before she returned to the house of immortal chaos.

Would Kenneth show the same kind of excitement for her that
Jake had? Maybe he would give her a hug and tell her he was proud of her,
they’d take the kids out somewhere nice for dinner and have wild all-night
make-up sex. After she’d shaved her legs and had enough to drink.

Rachel tried to pretend she'd never seen Dylan that
morning, shoving the image of him reaching for her elbow far into the back of
her brain. She was a master at pushing away the things she didn't want to think
about, she'd learned even as a young girl to close the curtain until she was
ready to deal with anything particularly troubling.

Growing up she’d escaped into her books about young love,
or she’d sit in her attic studio and paint the days away, she took Icarus
through the practice course at Miller’s. She'd loved Dylan. He'd been her
greatest escape.

Later she escaped into marriage and work and her kids,
helping somebody in crisis, researching some new grant opportunity.

But she'd never been able to stop the dreams, and it was
only a matter of time before her mind insisted she stop compartmentalizing. In
those brief periods between when she'd lie down, her mind racing, and when
she'd bolt awake, aware of all around her, she'd often find the crypt in her
mind pushing things towards the surface that she'd rather not remember.

***

They'd already walked the course that morning, and Rachel
stood brushing Icarus in the stable. It was just weeks before high school
started, a Saturday, and she waited nervously for her name to be called. She'd
been show jumping in tournaments since she was only four, but Icarus was her
first thoroughbred and she was jittery about their inaugural performance. She
stood nervously with him in the stable, watching other contestants walk to the
entrance as they were called to the course.

"Hey."

It was a skinny boy with light hair and dark skin sitting
under the gable, his long legs dangling from the wooden gate that led into the
arena. He wore dirty khakis and a blue t-shirt with large white letters that
read SWIM across the chest. His tennis shoes were covered in dirt, but he
smiled at her brightly, unconcerned with his appearance.

"Hello," she said through her nose in her
mother's elitist voice, a skill she'd picked up at an early age. It kept people
from thinking she wanted to talk to them, easier to have been perceived as
snotty than strange.

She turned back to Icarus and continued brushing, her hand
moving in long strokes against the sorrel’s shiny auburn hair.

"What are you doing that for?" he asked, jumping
off the gate and walking towards her, "Aren't you about to take him out
there anyway?"

"I'm grooming him before we go out. It calms his
nerves."

"What's he nervous about?"

"He's not nervous," she said defensively, "I
just mean - it's his first time out. Don't you know anything about horses? What
are you doing in here anyway? I've never seen you around before."

"I'm here with my mom," he said, nodding his head
towards a woman across the dirt lane, "We delivered flowers this morning
for some of the obstacles. She's over there making the wreath for the
winner."

She wore a flowing yellow skirt and a white poet's blouse,
picking leaves from stemmed flowers in a white box, her hair long and straight
down her back. Her skin and eyes were dark, exotic. She reminded Rachel of a
gypsy she'd seen in an old movie her father always watched on cable.

Rachel looked up hesitantly at the boy again, he was taller
than her. She'd always been taller than most of the boys her age, something
that only worsened her feelings of awkwardness. He smiled at her then, his eyes
were almost purple, she’d never seen anything like it. Self-consciousness
overwhelmed her and she tried not to stare, looking back instead towards the
woman in the yellow skirt.

"That's your mom?" she asked skeptically,
"You don't look like her."

"She's Native."

"Native what?"

"Native American," he laughed, "You know,
like an Indian?"

"Oh," she muttered, embarrassed, and turned back
to her horse, "Shouldn't you go help her?"

"I'd rather talk to you. She'll call me if she needs
any help. She only wanted me to come help her carry in the heavy stuff anyway.
I've been sitting around here for an hour."

Rachel looked at her hands as she brushed her horse. Boys
never talked to her, they mostly ignored her or if they did talk to her it was
to tease her about her wardrobe and how her parents never let her wear anything
trendy or revealing like other girls her age, or to laugh that she'd never been
able to see Dirty Dancing or go out with them to the mall.

Of course, none of them had a father in his sixties either.
Frank was old enough to be her grandfather twice over, and his insisting on her
keeping the values he'd brought with him from the 1940's only served to make
her more of an outsider.

"What's your name?"

"Rachel."

"I'm Dylan. We just moved here from Louisiana, my dad
said the schools are better here. My mom bought the nursery on the Orange
Highway. How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Me, too. Are you starting high school this
year?"

"Yes," she said, sounding more annoyed than she
felt, "You sure do ask a lot of questions, Dylan from Louisiana."

"Yeah, well that's how you make friends, right?"
It was more of a declaration than a question. He ran his hand over Icarus' hind
leg, smoothing the hair over the hard muscle, "I've never pet a horse
before."

"Fancy that," she snickered, "I thought
Indians loved horses."

"Fancy that, smartass, I'm only part Indian and the
other part is more interested in swimming and watching movies than hanging out
in petting zoos."

"Rachel Beauchamp!" her mother yelled from down
the lane, "You're almost up, get moving!"

She'd flinched visibly at Savannah's voice and Icarus
reared back, sensing her anxiety.

"Whoa, boy," she whispered, stroking his mane to
calm him, "shhhhh-"

She slid on her tight black riding jacket, pulled her long
curls from under the coat, and reached for her helmet and riding crop. She
risked a look at Dylan, then grabbed the reins and began the slow walk to the
beginning of the course. Dylan walked with her, his hands dug deep in his
pockets. They neared where his mother stood organizing the flowers and she
looked up, smiling. Rachel had seen the resemblance then, they had the same
smile. But other than the smile, and the amber skin, she'd have never known he
was her son.

"Hey baby," his mother said, "Who's
this?"

"Her name's Rachel."

"Hello Rachel."

"Hello."

"Good luck, maybe we'll see you afterwards, huh?"
she asked before going back to her project.

They continued their walk towards the gate, Rachel's face felt
hot. She'd always been shy, but it was different now, an unfamiliar kind of
nervousness. He was so good looking, she hadn't wanted to stare. And he was
friendly, but she was unsure of herself and it never took long for people to
think she was weird. She didn’t want him to think she liked him, it felt safer
to be mean.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked
snarkily.

"Easy tiger,” he laughed, “Anything better than trying
to be nice to a pretty girl who just wants to be mean to me? No, not really."

A pretty girl. Her chest filled with excitement, a strange
feeling took over her gut. He was nothing like the boys she'd grown up with,
not pretentious, he hadn't tried to impress her or make her feel bad. He'd just
talked to her. And he'd said she was pretty. She tried to think of something
friendly to say, but her nerves held her back and she walked in silence until
he spoke again.

"Are you excited about school?"

"Ummm, kinda," she lied, she'd been terrified of
going back to school and living through the angst and horror of another school
year with people who thought she was dark and creepy, "Are you
excited?"

"I don't know anybody yet. But yeah, I'm excited. High
school is supposed to be awesome, don't you think it will be?"

"I guess? I heard they're super mean to the freshman
at first. Last year they said the seniors made the freshman girls eat shaving
cream during lunch."

He smiled at her disbelieving, "No way, are you sure
that's not just something you saw in a movie?"

"No, I swear, my friend Sarah's sister told us."

"Maybe she was just trying to freak you out. You act
tough enough, I doubt anybody will mess with you."

"You think I'm tough?" she asked, surprised.

"No," he laughed, "I said you act tough.
You're probably just a pussycat."

"That's a dumb thing to say."

He was making fun of her. She slowed to a stop as they
neared the entry gate, and Icarus became increasingly excited when another
horse exited the arena.

She ran her hand down his mane and whispered, "Shhhhh,
boy, shhhhh- almost our turn."

"See?" Dylan asked, walking backwards to leave
her, hands still in his pockets, his smile filling her stomach with
butterflies.

"See what?"

"You're all pussycat. Good luck, Rachel. See you at
school!"

***

He'd  watched her mindfully as she brushed her horse,
soothing him and whispering to him. When he finally got up the nerve to talk to
her, she'd been short, like he was annoying her.

But he couldn't stop talking to her, he needed to be close
to her. She smelled amazing, and he wondered if her skin was as soft as it
looked and what it would feel like against his own. Her face blushed pink when
he'd talked to her, her eyes shing like emeralds under her dark, long lashes.
She was so natural looking, she hadn't worn all of the makeup a lot of girls their
age wore. Dylan thought a lot of girls were pretty, but Rachel was different.
She was more than different, she was- sophisticated, and peculiar, captivating.