Inside Out
Page 8
As he spoke, he’d pressed her into the brick wall at her back, his hand around her throat. The world dimmed, the darkness at the edges of her vision encroaching more and more until she felt herself let go. For one moment there had been some peace, and then he’d slapped her hard, letting go of her throat.
He’d been conciliatory then, taking her inside, making her tea and coddling her. But she’d never forgotten that lesson, and she’d never been late again.
The dark was a reminder of that helplessness, and so, each time she confronted it, even if she broke out in a sweat at the very thought, she won.
As she shook off the memories, she pulled herself back together again. Mainly she was past it. She had seen Erin’s therapist, a woman specializing in survivors of violent attacks. It had helped immensely, and Ella would be forever grateful for Erin, who made sure Ella’s insurance coverage would pay for the sessions.
Erin had offered to pay at first. Because she had so much and Ella didn’t. Erin’s reaction was part of who she was. That had been touching, of course. But it was always Erin’s insight, the way she seemed to understand Ella’s need to do it herself and the way she helped make that possible—it was that sort of love that made Ella so loyal to Erin. They shared some common history with their past, the violence that had changed them totally. Facing the fear helped. Most days. But the thing about fear was that it ate away at your reason, made you smaller.
It was her mini dare each day to come home to this place. To embrace normal and live her own life on her own terms, even if she was afraid. Her life was her own. She made it, and no one would take it from her again.
This building, this parking spot, her nearby grocery and the Vietnamese restaurant two doors down were her prizes for living and being happy. It wasn’t big or new or even grand, but it was home.
The front doors into the small lobby squeaked when she managed to get the lock unstuck. She jingled her keys, balancing the bag of leftovers as she headed inside. Choosing to avoid the ancient elevator, she took the stairs to the third floor, walking the long hall, loving the creaks in the ancient hardwoods and the curves of the often-painted ceilings and doorways. This had been a home in the months after the attack. The walls; the faded, once-glorious carpets in the lobby; the temperamental lock on the front doors.
Two very sturdy locks unlocked, and her door swung open. She checked the entry automatically, still unwilling to say out loud that she lined up her desk chair in the way just to see if it had been moved. Despite feeling stupid, she put the bag down and locked up, including two additional inner locks. And put the chair back.
It was almost like a tic; she felt safe in the building and in her apartment. She knew her chances of being attacked again were very small, and Bill was doing time. She knew these things and slept well at night most of the time. But still, she found herself putting that chair in the hall.
After changing into fluffy sweats and washing her face, she headed to her bed where her tea and a few cookies awaited in the little alcove she pretended was the same as a bedroom. She considered writing in her journal but stared off into space for a while instead.
As she settled back and sipped the tea, her gaze moved around the room. A framed picture sat on the small table in the corner. Taken just two weeks before at a picnic in Brody and Elise’s backyard. Brody and Elise, two of her favorite people. That weekend, those two wonderful people were having an engagement shindig of sorts, hosted by Brody’s brother Adrian.
Elise was as tenacious as Erin was, and friendship with the woman had been inevitable. She’d been in the periphery of the group, though she’d been invited many times. Had watched Brody fall in love, had watched Elise become part of his life, of his family, and when Elise noticed Ella, Elise had simply been Elise. She’d reached out and in doing so had become her closest friend. Elise and Erin, she’d let in, had felt understood in a way she rarely felt with others.
As if she’d been summoned, Elise’s text buzzed across the screen of Ella’s phone. Call me if you’re awake!
Yes, a phone conversation with Elise would be a good thing. She dialed in the number, and Brody answered, making her smile.
“Hey there, Ella. You looking for my missus?”
“Yes, please.”
“While I watch my lovely lady hop around and jiggle, I’m going to continue to keep you long enough to ask how your hip is doing.” He’d nearly finished the tattoo she’d been getting in bits and pieces over the last year and a half. Each new achievement, and he’d add another piece. For a time it had been her secret. Only Brody knew about it. But after a while, she’d told Erin and then Elise. He’d just completed the last major part a few days before, roots and some drifting blossoms at her hip.
Her first tattoo had been small, a silly little four-leaf clover he’d done on her inner arm, near the elbow. Something about it had filled a need inside, the need to mark her progress in an indelible way. It’s how she’d truly gotten to know Brody. He’d always been her boss’s older brother, friendly, but it never went very deep. He was good at his job, good at listening, and over time she’d poured out her story to him.
She understood, totally, why Elise adored him, why her daughter, Rennie, now their daughter, lit up every time Brody came into a room. There were very few men in the universe who could hold a candle to him.
“Good. Soreness is mostly gone, and now it itches.”
“Coming along then. If you need me to, I’ll check it for you.”
He’d been conciliatory then, taking her inside, making her tea and coddling her. But she’d never forgotten that lesson, and she’d never been late again.
The dark was a reminder of that helplessness, and so, each time she confronted it, even if she broke out in a sweat at the very thought, she won.
As she shook off the memories, she pulled herself back together again. Mainly she was past it. She had seen Erin’s therapist, a woman specializing in survivors of violent attacks. It had helped immensely, and Ella would be forever grateful for Erin, who made sure Ella’s insurance coverage would pay for the sessions.
Erin had offered to pay at first. Because she had so much and Ella didn’t. Erin’s reaction was part of who she was. That had been touching, of course. But it was always Erin’s insight, the way she seemed to understand Ella’s need to do it herself and the way she helped make that possible—it was that sort of love that made Ella so loyal to Erin. They shared some common history with their past, the violence that had changed them totally. Facing the fear helped. Most days. But the thing about fear was that it ate away at your reason, made you smaller.
It was her mini dare each day to come home to this place. To embrace normal and live her own life on her own terms, even if she was afraid. Her life was her own. She made it, and no one would take it from her again.
This building, this parking spot, her nearby grocery and the Vietnamese restaurant two doors down were her prizes for living and being happy. It wasn’t big or new or even grand, but it was home.
The front doors into the small lobby squeaked when she managed to get the lock unstuck. She jingled her keys, balancing the bag of leftovers as she headed inside. Choosing to avoid the ancient elevator, she took the stairs to the third floor, walking the long hall, loving the creaks in the ancient hardwoods and the curves of the often-painted ceilings and doorways. This had been a home in the months after the attack. The walls; the faded, once-glorious carpets in the lobby; the temperamental lock on the front doors.
Two very sturdy locks unlocked, and her door swung open. She checked the entry automatically, still unwilling to say out loud that she lined up her desk chair in the way just to see if it had been moved. Despite feeling stupid, she put the bag down and locked up, including two additional inner locks. And put the chair back.
It was almost like a tic; she felt safe in the building and in her apartment. She knew her chances of being attacked again were very small, and Bill was doing time. She knew these things and slept well at night most of the time. But still, she found herself putting that chair in the hall.
After changing into fluffy sweats and washing her face, she headed to her bed where her tea and a few cookies awaited in the little alcove she pretended was the same as a bedroom. She considered writing in her journal but stared off into space for a while instead.
As she settled back and sipped the tea, her gaze moved around the room. A framed picture sat on the small table in the corner. Taken just two weeks before at a picnic in Brody and Elise’s backyard. Brody and Elise, two of her favorite people. That weekend, those two wonderful people were having an engagement shindig of sorts, hosted by Brody’s brother Adrian.
Elise was as tenacious as Erin was, and friendship with the woman had been inevitable. She’d been in the periphery of the group, though she’d been invited many times. Had watched Brody fall in love, had watched Elise become part of his life, of his family, and when Elise noticed Ella, Elise had simply been Elise. She’d reached out and in doing so had become her closest friend. Elise and Erin, she’d let in, had felt understood in a way she rarely felt with others.
As if she’d been summoned, Elise’s text buzzed across the screen of Ella’s phone. Call me if you’re awake!
Yes, a phone conversation with Elise would be a good thing. She dialed in the number, and Brody answered, making her smile.
“Hey there, Ella. You looking for my missus?”
“Yes, please.”
“While I watch my lovely lady hop around and jiggle, I’m going to continue to keep you long enough to ask how your hip is doing.” He’d nearly finished the tattoo she’d been getting in bits and pieces over the last year and a half. Each new achievement, and he’d add another piece. For a time it had been her secret. Only Brody knew about it. But after a while, she’d told Erin and then Elise. He’d just completed the last major part a few days before, roots and some drifting blossoms at her hip.
Her first tattoo had been small, a silly little four-leaf clover he’d done on her inner arm, near the elbow. Something about it had filled a need inside, the need to mark her progress in an indelible way. It’s how she’d truly gotten to know Brody. He’d always been her boss’s older brother, friendly, but it never went very deep. He was good at his job, good at listening, and over time she’d poured out her story to him.
She understood, totally, why Elise adored him, why her daughter, Rennie, now their daughter, lit up every time Brody came into a room. There were very few men in the universe who could hold a candle to him.
“Good. Soreness is mostly gone, and now it itches.”
“Coming along then. If you need me to, I’ll check it for you.”
