Stepping Into Sunlight (25 page)

Why were they turning on me? I shouldn’t have come. My online forums had begun to serve the same purpose and were a lot easier. However, the call from the police station had sent me into a tailspin, and suddenly I needed the flesh and blood presence of the victim support group. I’d unplugged my phone and waited out Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. When Tuesday arrived, I raced to the victim center as if reaching for a life preserver. Why weren’t they giving me the support they were supposed to give? Of all people, they should understand that I couldn’t handle helping the police.

Camille reached over and patted my arm. Another week away from abuse and she carried herself with more confidence, although a haunted sadness still flickered across her eyes at quiet moments. “Penny, you can’t run from your fears. Do they need you to testify?”

Tension tightened the skin around my mouth. “I haven’t asked. I didn’t call back yet.” My breathing grew shallow at the thought of a mangy police station lineup, intimidating courtrooms, and a face-to-face encounter with the man who tried to kill me.

Dr. Marci leaned forward. “Take a deep breath.”

I obeyed with a shaky exhale and inhale. “I was just getting over it. I’ve been able to shut out the memories more. If I talk to the police, it’ll all start up again. The nightmares, the panic attacks.”

“Someone from the victim center can go with you.” Dr. Marci passed me a cup of water. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“The guy was seriously whacked out.” Ashley sniffed and rubbed her nose. “You don’t want to be the reason he’s running around free, right?”

My shame meter had been stuck on full for so many weeks, I hadn’t even thought about the added culpability I’d feel if the murderer walked because of me. I chewed a cuticle and sent a beseeching look in Dr. Marci’s direction. “Would you come with me?”

“We have another staff member who . . .” Sympathy washed over her face. “Sure. I can go in with you tomorrow morning. I had a regional conference that was cancelled.”

“There you go, then.” Henry grinned.

Camille nodded.

I wanted to scream. What right did they have to pressure me into this? Should I confront Henry about all the sugar packets he’d stuffed in his pocket from the tray of coffee fixings? How would Camille like it if I scolded her into dating someone new and used the whole “face your fears” argument on her?

“Any breakthroughs this week?” Dr. Marci asked. Perhaps she suspected the rebellion swirling in my mind and wanted to move the discussion along before I went on the attack.

Henry’s fingers drummed the table. “I made a list of old friends I could do something nice for.” He shot me an apologetic glance. “I figured I’d start with that. I’m not quite ready for helping strangers.”

I shrugged. “There’s no rule against that.”

He nodded and tugged his watchband. “So each day last week, I called up a different old friend and met him for lunch.”

“How did it go?” Dr. Marci asked.

A quick smile lifted his features, revealing a glimpse of the energetic investment broker he’d once been. “I heard a lot about grumpy bosses, insane workloads, cuts in benefits, and one guy is going through a divorce and another has a sick kid.”

Henry’s basset hound eyes looked compassionate instead of miserable. “I mostly just listened. But something weird happened. By the time we’d finished eating, they’d ask about me. I didn’t say a lot, just that I’m out of work at the moment. And every time . . .” He swallowed and fought back some strong emotion. “They offered to ask around.”

He lifted his eyes to the table. “They wanted to help.” He looked at me again, as if confessing that he’d cheated on an assignment. “That’s not why I asked them to lunch. I promise.”

I wasn’t the only one grinning.

Dr. Marci spoke for us. “Henry, what a marvelous experience. There’s nothing wrong with accepting the support and concern of others if it comes. You didn’t go into those encounters with expectations. Ashley, how about you? Last week you were feeling frustrated by people’s lack of appreciation.”

A faint blush painted her ghost-white cheek. “Last Friday, I was sweeping the floor at work. A little girl was crying in one of the booths. I winked at her to try to get her to smile. Her dad didn’t freak, so I came closer and asked her what was wrong. She said her mom was sick. So I used my employee discount and bought her a little ice cream sundae and gave her a couple extra kid’s-meal toys we had in the back. When they left, she ran across the store to where I was wiping tables, and—” Ashley twisted one of the many bracelets on her wrist. “She hugged me.”

She glared around the table, daring us to mock the sweetness of her story.

Camille spoke first. “You made her day.”

Ashley shrugged. “But her mom’s still sick. I didn’t really fix anything.”

A pall settled over the room. “She’s right,” I said, drooping lower in my chair. “All these little things we’re doing . . . they don’t really solve anything. They don’t make people’s problems go away.”

“So your theory is that unless you can cure cancer, you shouldn’t bother holding the hand of the woman battling it?” A smile sparked in Dr. Marci’s eyes behind the calm, professional demeanor. “These small acts of love are changing things. They are changing you as they pull your thoughts from your fears, obsessions, and tragedies. They change the person you reach out to. Kind acts ease the level of suffering, even when they don’t remove the source of the pain.” She let her smile escape. “Give yourselves some credit. You can’t fix everything. You’re doing good work here.”

“Like the fish and loaves,” I murmured.

“Huh?” Ashley quirked an eyebrow stud at me.

Most of the group stared at me blankly, but Camille nodded. “The boy gave his few fish and a little bread to Jesus, and Jesus multiplied it to feed thousands.”

Dr. Marci smiled. “I like the analogy of that story.”

I wanted to point out it wasn’t a mere story, but an actual example of God’s miraculous provision, but I bit my lip and let her talk.

“If we help in little ways,” she continued, “who knows how it might multiply?”

The discussion continued, and once again I was surprised by how much comfort this ragtag group brought me. The threads of painful experiences wrapped us into a strange sort of fellowship.

At the end of the hour, I stood to leave. “You can meet me here tomorrow morning,” Dr. Marci said. “We’ll head over to the precinct together.”

Shoot.
I’d hoped she’d forget about her offer. Of course if I continued to ignore calls, the police might show up at my door and cause more excitement for Laura-Beth.

“All right. I’ll meet you here.” I tried to sound mature instead of sullen, but my tone came out rather flat.

I couldn’t do it.

That fact swirled around me as I drove home, stealing breath from my lungs and starch from my bones. Hadn’t God asked enough of me? Tom’s career change, a move across the country from family, handling single-mom status while he was on deployment, witnessing a double murder and nearly being killed myself. My mom’s theory was that life’s difficulties were sent to toughen us up, but I hadn’t grown tough through this. I’d lost myself. I’d become one of the broken and frail, like the rest of the victim support group.

Now that I was a physical and emotional wreck, I was supposed to waltz into the police station and see the face of the man who had pulled the trigger?

“God, why?” I whispered the words through gritted teeth, hoping Bryan wouldn’t hear me from the backseat over Go Fish blaring from the speakers.

At the next stop sign, I glanced back to check on him. His head was wedged against the window at an angle, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open. When I turned off the radio, his wuffling snore brought a soothing rhythm to the car. I pulled onto our block and parked in front of the house, tilted my head back, and matched the pace of my breathing to Bryan’s.

“Okay, God. You won’t tell me why. Can you tell me how? How am I going to do this?”

A memory of my brother surfaced, and July sunlight sparkling on unnaturally turquoise water. I could almost feel the tight pressure of my lungs as I had struggled to swim toward him at the city pool. I blew out into the water, turned my head, and gasped in a quick breath—and swallowed a mouthful of chlorine. My hands floundered for the rough concrete edge of the pool, and I hugged the side, coughing and sputtering. “I can’t. I’m scared.”

How young had I been back then? Seven? Eight? I still remembered the terror, the way the water lapped my chin and threatened to consume me.

My brother Alex treaded water ten yards away, his arms beckoning me. “I know you’re scared. But do it anyway. Do it scared.”

A whole summer of Guppy lessons at the pool, yet I’d never braved the deep end. A girl younger than me ran along the diving board and leapt into the air, squealing with joy. She surfaced and paddled to the ladder.

I stared at Alex, taking aim. Then I closed my eyes, puffed out my cheeks, and pushed off.

Sitting in my car, listening to the soft tick as the engine cooled, I remembered the feeling of flinging myself away from safety, water embracing my body, flying forward to safety.

I hadn’t drowned.

“Okay, Lord. I’ll do it scared,” I whispered. “But I’m going to need your help.” Then I set about hefting the deadweight of a second-grader out of the car and into the house.

The next morning, I pulled myself from bed and managed to shower and dress. Bryan eyed me over his bowl of Cheerios. “Why are you all dressed up?”

“I have to go in and meet with the police. They asked me to identify the man from the Quick Corner.”

“Cool!” Bryan bounced on his chair. “Do you get to go in the room where they line everyone up? Do you get to see the jail? Will there be lots of bad guys? Maybe I can come, too. Do you need me to come?”

My lips twitched. “Thanks, buddy. I wish you could. But you have school.”

“It could be a field trip.” He blinked his wide hazel eyes and gave me his best pleading look.

“I’ll tell you about it when you get home. Did you give Gimli fresh water today?”

He gulped a last spoonful of cereal and ran from the table to finish his morning chores.

After the bus scooped him up and carried him off toward school, I grabbed my purse and jacket and walked out to the car. From the sidewalk, I glared at it. “You don’t scare me. I’ve managed the trip in to the victim center each week. I can do this.”

That’s what I needed to do—pretend I was going to the victim center for the group meeting or my counseling session and ignore what came next.

My mental trick worked, and I was able to force myself into the car.

Dr. Marci met me in the lobby of the victim center and she studied my face, assessing. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, suddenly mute as my dry throat constricted. I adjusted my purse strap with a hand that trembled.

She smiled gently. “How about if I drive?”

Another nod, and I followed her from the building to her dented two-door Saturn.

“Oh,” she laughed when we opened the car doors. “Sorry about the mess. Just toss everything in the back.”

I picked up sunglasses, two empty Starbucks cups, and a few books from the passenger seat and set them in the back. It took three tries to fasten the seat belt with my fumbling fingers. Dr. Marci made small talk as she pulled out of the lot. I managed a few mumbled responses, but my knuckles grew white on the armrest. I closed my eyes and willed the car to stop. Could I conjure up a flat tire if I focused hard enough?

This was a mistake. It would set me back in my efforts to get back to normal. My neck began to ache from the grip of knotted muscles. My stomach churned.

“Breathe,” said Dr. Marci.

My eyes popped open. “What?”

“You stopped breathing. Deep cleansing breath. Come on.”

I struggled to expand my lungs, but the car was still moving, and we were still approaching the precinct office.

“This is such a bad idea.” I labored to take in more air.

“Why is that?” Dr. Marci’s counseling voice was switched on. She was probably thinking that if she kept me talking it would distract me.

“I’m trying to move forward. I need to put this behind me. Wasn’t what I went through bad enough? Why does it have to keep disrupting my life like this? This is guaranteed to make the nightmares worse again.”

The car’s heater wasn’t doing a good job of fighting off the chill air, and I shivered.

Dr. Marci turned on her wipers and washer fluid sprayed the windshield. The surrounding glass suddenly revealed its grime as two wide arcs of clarity appeared.

“I’ve worked with lots of folk who’ve gone through trauma,” she said. “Most people want to shut out the experience or suppress it, but then it comes out sideways. Sleep problems, physical tics, health issues, depression, anxiety—”

“Okay, I know the list.” This snarly, irritable woman wasn’t me. Again, I mourned the loss of the real Penny—the fun gal who was bubbly and warm, who people enjoyed being with. “Look, I’ve started talking about it. I’m facing up to my feelings. But what if the guy threatens me? Or what if he smirks and makes me feel even more anger? What if I say something wrong, or can’t be sure of the identification, and the case is ruined all because of me?”