7. HeadsTails
Heads or Tails
Isla
Two emails arrived today. The closest thing I've had to human interaction outside of work since I arrived. Not that it's anyone's fault. I've avoided Bel like the plague, even ignoring Fritz's stupid attempts at distracting me from my fucked up life with reality TV clips and commentary.
Staring at both emails sitting there in my inbox, I can't decide which one will cause me more turmoil.
Selfish. The ugly word reverberates through my head again. Avoiding both of these emails reminds me of my selfishness. Too selfish to be happy for my friends. Too selfish to give my parents the kind of daughter they prayed for.
Maybe I'll flip a coin to decide which to open first.
My phone buzzes on the table next to my dimming laptop, and I know who it is before I even look.
Michael's email came through first thing this morning, which means Bel waited until the exact millisecond she knew my work day would be over.
I paint on my brightest smile, my fakest mask. Even if she can't see it, she'll hear if I'm not wearing it. "Hi Bel."
"Did you get the email?" she practically squeals from the other end.
Pure joy fills her voice, and I can't begin to articulate how much better that makes me feel. If I have to be out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, Alaska, at least I know there are two people making Bel so happy she hasn't even noticed yet.
I sigh, feigning exhaustion, "I saw it come in and I haven't even had a chance to read it yet. I've been so slammed lately."
"Well, that's great, isn't it?" she asks, probing for more information.
It is great. I have been slammed. Even here, my client list is growing, andthe money that I can't use on anything is rolling into my account. If I ever make it back home, I'll be far richer than before.
Who am I kidding? I'm not going home after this. Where is there to go? An empty apartment, an empty city, one I'll have to flee again if the other email is any indication.
"Hello?" Bel's voice brings me back to the present.
I blink away the errant anxiety growing at the thought of what might come after all of this. "Yes, it is great," I assure her. "Sorry, I just got a text about a possible new client out of Awhatukee."
"Where is that?" she asks.
"It's basically Phoenix," I answer, trying to recall the only thing I know about the strangely named town. I'm not lying to her. I did get a message earlier from a business there, and I did look it up just to get an idea of who I'd be working with.
A beat of silence passes before she pries, "Are you okay, I?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, you're not posting on anything like you normally do. You're ignoring half of my calls and apparently all of Mike's. Even Fritz dodged the question when I asked him if he'd heard from you. Are you," she clears her throat, "Are you mad at me or something?"
Sweet Bel. Of course, I'm not mad at her. But what can I say? No, babes, I'm not mad. I'm on lockdown in an underground dungeon on an uninhabitable island in Alaska with the biggest pain in the ass on earth. I'm spiraling and only barely holding on because if I fall apart, then the Sanctatitties and my parents and my stupid fucking family win. I'm drinking more than I ever have in my entire life, barely making it until the end of the workday most of the time. I'm thinking about just offing myself so that nobody can get to me, that sick version of victory seeming more appealing by the day.
"No, I'm not mad at you." I sigh. "I'm just... things aren't easy for me right now, Bel." Still not a lie.
"Is it because of the baby news?" That's certainly part of it. "If it's too much for you, we don't have to talk about it, ya know? I'm sure they would understand if you can't make it. Do you need to come to Vegas and party again? Or we can always-"
"Bel," I stop her rambling before her endless love and empathy can make me sick with the knowledge that I don't deserve it. "It's none of that. I'm just really busy with work, I'm not feeling well, my parents emailed me, I-"
"They did?" Outrage fills her tone. "Again?"
Fuck. I really hadn't meant to tell her that. "Yeah, I haven't opened that one yet either but I'm guessing it says much of the same. Come home and repent. We still love and pray for you. There's still time. We've found a nice boy from your grandfathers church. "
She makes a disgusted noise that I'm inclined to agree with. "At least now you know why they're so... like they are," she comments. "Brainwashing like that goes deep."
How I wish that was a comfort to me. I know it's not entirely their fault. It's all that my parents know. But is some strange church really more important to them than their living, breathing daughter? The answer, I know, is yes. And while Bel has her own issues with her parents, there's no way she could understand these ones.
The only person who might understand the extremities of my parents' beliefs is currently in the living area watching hockey and screaming at someone to "check that bitch". A chuckle escapes me, and Bel catches it before I can stop it.
"What's so funny over there?" her sly tone sneaks through, happy to change the subject for me.
"Just some idiot screaming about hockey," I smile again. "Hey I'll call you back later."
A beat before she covers her obvious disappointment with too much cheer, "Oh! Okay! Yeah, we'll talk later."
"Love you, Bels."
"You too." Just before I can hang up she adds, "Hey, if you needed anything, you would tell me, right? You know I'd do anything for you. Cas and Fritz would, too."
And I do know. Which is why I can't tell her anything. Because even the three of them would be no match for Eamon and his reach. Or his cruelty.
"Of course, Bel. Love you."
I make the line go dead, the silence drowning out whatever my best friend might have said next.
I drag myself out to the kitchen in search of the only thing that might make the next few hours before I can pour myself into bed bearable.
"How's Belissenda?" Eamon's voice meets me in the common area before I reach my destination. Of course, this asshole was listening.
"She's fine," I answer, not at all in the mood to verbally spar with him tonight.
He turns over the back of the couch to look at me, "She suspicious?"
I let my eyes meet his, incredulous and exhausted, "Of course she is."
"You're doing the right thing for her by not telling her where you are. She's an innocent so I wouldn't harm her, but you and I both know she'd drag those two love-struck idiots into-"
"Yes," the S comes out almost a hiss as I hold up a palm. "I fully understand the consequences should I tell her what's happening. You need new threats, they are all falling flat now that I'm being the perfect captive."
He stares at me strangely, watching as I continue my trek. Each step is exhausting, like just being here drains the life from me.
"Do you... wanna come sit?" his unsure voice reaches me again.
"No," the single syllable has no bite, no malice, just a plain statement that I would rather rot silently by myself than sit and watch hockey.
"Oh, come on," he tries again. "These teams are notorious rivals. There's like 100:1 odds that a nasty fight breaks out."
I don't bother responding; he knows the answer. Instead, I walk out of the kitchen with the dinner and tequila he graciously allowed me to access again—as long as I'm eating— heading straight for my room without a second glance.
Settling in before my computer again, quarter in hand this time, I twirl the thing back and forth, looking at all the small details.
I whisper to myself, "Heads, Mike. Tails, mom."
With a swig of my drink to give me the courage, I flip the small coin into the air, holding my palm out and waiting for it. But the damned thing never falls. Where the fuck did it go? I start combing through all my papers, searching under the plate, even getting on my hands and knees under my desk to search for it.
"Tails."
With a jolt, I try to stand, only for my head to collide with the desk on my way up. Eamon stands at my doorway, watching me with mirth in his eyes as I rub the back of my head where it hit the corner. He examines the coin like I did a few moments ago, waiting for something. An explanation, perhaps.
"That's mine," I finally say, not sure what else I could say.
"Well, it's not worth much out here," his brow raises, "Are you going to tell me what you're playing heads and tails for?"
"Probably not."
"Let me rephrase," he smirks, but his expression is completely hollow, as flat as I currently feel. "Please tell me what you're playing heads and tails for."
"I got two emails and can't decide which to open first," I shrug. "Sorry it isn't something more titillating."
With three large steps, he stands between me and my bed, sitting on it and watching me carefully.
"And the contents of these emails?"
I shrug again, "Well I haven't opened them yet, so how could I possibly know?"
"Isla," my name escapes him, his tone a sigh of exasperation. "What's going to be in these emails? Are they something I need to be concerned about?"
I'm tempted to immediately write his worry off and say no. While I don't think he's going to give a flying fuck what my parents have to say or that Charlie and Mike are having a baby shower, there's no telling what he will or won't decide is his business.
"Mike and Charlie are having a baby shower," I tell him, clearing my throat immediately after to stave off the emotion building there.
He purses his lips and nods, understanding. "And the other?"
"My mom has somehow found my email address again."
An ember of fury lifts his lips in a sneer, "That's the one I'm interested in, if we're being honest. That's what you were talking to Bel about. Is that how her emails really sound? Or are they more threatening than you're willing to share with your friend?"
I spin in my chair to face away from him, watching his reflection on the screen of my darkened computer, unwilling to bring the screen back to life. "It's not nice to eavesdrop."
"I can't trust you, Isla. You have to know that by now," his voice is pleading and sincere, and it makes me sick to my stomach, so I take another long drag from the large bottle before me. "Your family is my number one concern. If they're reaching out, you need to tell me."
"And I am."
His head tilts, staring me down, "Only because I'm making you."
"You can't make me do anything," I tell him, turning to face him before he can argue that he absolutely can, as if I need another reminder. "I was always planning on telling you. I just wanted five fucking minutes to go through the emotional turmoil of it by my fucking self before I had to share with you the parts of my life that haunt me. Okay?"
Sympathy drags his features down in a way that makes my eyes water. He must notice the storm brewing, holding his palms up in surrender and standing. "Okay," he finally says. "When you're finished, bring me the laptop so I can try to trace where the email came from. There's a chance it's not even your mom, just someone pretending to be her." It won't be. They all know nothing would possibly sting as much as her meticulous way of tearing me to shreds without any effort at all.
"Would you like to know all the details about the baby shower I'll have to miss, too?" I bite.
He runs a palm down his face, sighing my name, clearly tired of the pity party I'll be throwing instead of attending. "You don't have to share any of the details of your life outside of what is absolutely necessary. Your life is still your own, I just want to... extend it. Preserve it."
"Why?" My voice cracks, "What's so important about me and my life?"
Devastation wracks his features as he searches my face for something. "If you don't see the value in your life, there's nothing I can do to prove it to you. Your life is precious simply because it is."
I squeeze my lips between my teeth, nodding absentmindedly, "And so you kidnap every person who's in danger of the Sancticunties, then? Because all of our lives are so fucking precious?"
He smiles at the nickname, sorrow still clouding his expression, "No, little hunter. You're the first person I've ever met who is so fucking stubborn I've had to resort to this. Most people just listen to me the first time I tell them not to poke the bear."
"It's not my fault Bel got dragged into this," I argue, "She's my best friend. I did what-"
He stands abruptly, running his hands through his hair, "Yes, yes, I know all that, Jesus Christ. You did what you had to do, and now so have I."
We've gone round and round with this argument, and itnever gets us anywhere, so I don't bother responding, gritting my teeth, and watching his shadow move across the floor so I don't have to look at his stupid fucking face any longer.
He sighs again, sinking back onto my mattress so forcefully I fear he might break it. "Please. Take all the time you need to read those emails, then bring me your computer."
As he leaves, the door clicking softly behind him, the quarter hitting my desk draws my attention away from his departure as it sloppily spins across the table, swirling until it finally settles, just as Eamon said. Tails up.
With all the courage I can muster, I move the computer mouse. The screen before me lights up, and the list of unopened emails stares back at me. Maybe I shouldn't read the email at all, save myself from the torment, and just give the laptop to Eamon now. If it says anything important, which I'm almost positive it won't, he'll tell me.
But I can't hide behind him. Won't. This is my family, my burden to carry.
After another long swig of tequila, the previous ones clouding my senses enough that I barely feel the burn on the way down, I click on the damned thing, bringing mothers words into full view like I've done countless times before.
Isla,
I'm reaching out once again to tell you that it's time to come home. It's come to our attention that not only are you still attempting to leave your responsibilities behind, but you've absconded California altogether. After an alarming discussion with your landlord, we have come to find you've left your apartment vacant with no warning at all. Due to this, we and the management company have been left with no choice but to file a police report, considering you a missing person, unless you contact us immediately with your current location so we can come assist you. We've taken care of moving what's left of your items out of your apartment and into your bedroom at home.
Upon your return, we will make an appointment with one of the pastors from the church, who will determine what means of penance will be required of you to be welcomed back into the fold. Once you've paid for your time away and whatever sins you may have committed, a young gentleman named Silas has agreed with your father to have your hand in marriage. We are quite confident that he's capable of taming your wild spirit and helping you transform into the wife and mother you're meant to be. You no longer need to continue running and chasing the pleasures of this world; the plan of true joy is already laid at your feet. All you need to do is return home.
We will be praying for you, knowing that God will provide your way back to us, one way or another.
Love,
Carmen
On the surface, it's a seemingly harmless email. A concerned mom wishing for her child to come back. But knowing what I do about what that "penance' will look like makes me sick to my stomach. Unbidden, flashes of men forcefully touching my most intimate places with holy oil, anointing them to cleanse away the sin appear in my mind, bile racing up my throat. With only a moment to spare, I sprint to the bathroom, falling to my knees before the toilet and puking again and again.
As the retching finally stops, my stomach completely empty, a soft knock echoes on the door frame.
Through bleary eyes, I look up at Eamon, his furrowed brows only making me feel worse.
I wave him away with a weak hand, "Too much liquor."
With a large step, he enters the bathroom, thankfully not calling out the lie for what it is. Instead he wets a small towel, handing it to me and leaning against the counter. Using the towel to wipe the corner of my mouth, I throw it to the floor, letting myself lean back until I'm resting against the wall behind me, Eamon's figure clouded by the tears still stinging my eyes.
Mercifully, he says nothing, doesn't look at me while I attempt to pull myself together, and just waits patiently while staring at the doorway ahead of him.
When I can finally speak, only then does he look at me, watching me warily.
"They got into my apartment," I tell him. His brows raise slightly, waiting for me to continue. "They took whatever was left behind and took it back to their house in Spanish Springs."
A slow nod, absorbing the information, "Good thing we got all your vibrators out."
An ugly snort of a laugh escapes me, thinking of how disturbed my parents would be to have found those.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"They want me to come home," I supply, unhelpful as ever. A sniffle escapes me before I continue, "They're reporting me a missing person. It's only a matter of time before that search turns into them finding my new address. Which is where, exactly? Can't be here."
"A small, obscure village just outside of Homer. It'll take them at least a few days to get in touch with the police there and confirm your whereabouts. Several weeks to find flights and accommodations should they decide to track you down themselves." He shrugs, "More likely, they'll send scouts. And one of my men will track them back to their closest hideout."
Folding my arms across my knees, I let my forehead fall against them, staring at the deep green bathmat on the floor.
"You'll be fine, Isla." He sinks to sit on the floor, his comically long legs stretching out almost into the hallway. "They won't find you here."
Maybe they should. That small part of me wonders if I would be better off if they did find me. Maybe they're right , a cruel voice whispers in my head. If you were living the way you're supposed to, you wouldn't be suffering so much.
Even though I know better, those whispers cloud my thoughts in the quiet nights when I'm wishing for something more. If I lived the way they claim brings joy, would I be happier? Would I find peace? They seem so sure of it.
I physically shake my head, trying to clear away those claws they dug into my brain during childhood.
This is the only way to have true joy.
You'll have nothing without us.
Where will you go?
And if they did find me, I'd be guaranteed a family.
Unwilling to face the route thoughts of a family will take me, I distract myself the only way I know how. "They've found me a husband," I chuckle.
"Have they?" Eamon indulges me, false humor filling his voice. "And what is this Prince Charming's name?"
"Silas."
"Does Silas have a last name?" he knocks my foot with his knee.
The playful touch does nothing to bring me out of my self-pity, but I appreciate the gesture nonetheless. "I'm sure he does, but I'm not permitted to know what my new surname will be, probably not until my wedding day. Lest I look the man up and decide to bolt. Again."
He hmms in thought. "Again?"
"I'm a fast runner," I laugh, thinking of the weekend I fled from my first wedding at 19.
He laughs, too, "Was your first betrothed not to your liking?"
"He was fine. Handsome enough, but there was something evil behind his eyes. Like he enjoyed that I wasn't pure because it gave him an excuse to—" I clear my throat, the words refusing to come out. The humiliation of him standing there, demanding cleansing rituals before the wedding could proceed, the memories of it nearly made me throw up again.
A loud crunch brings my attention to Eamon, and he drops his phone into his lap, the shattered thing clattering uselessly across his legs and onto the floor. His jaw clenches, eyes not meeting mine as they bleed red at the edges. All at once, he jolts to his feet, storming out of the bathroom.
In my inebriated, weakened state, I attempt to follow him, tripping over my feet as he speedwalks into my room, grabbing the laptop roughly from its perch on my desk.
"Hey! Take it easy. I still haven't read the invitation from Mike and Charlie," I argue, trying to take the computer from him.
"It's in ten weeks at their home in New York." He slams my laptop shut, tucking it under his arm like a football. "They'd love to have you but understand if you can't make it, which you can't."
My eyes threaten to water again, rage and sorrow and defeat bubbling up in my throat as he storms past me, disappearing down the hall the opposite way of the kitchen.
Whatever kindness he seemed to offer me disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving me alone with nothing but horrid memories and the taste of vomit in my mouth.
A quick trip back to the bathroom to brush my teeth brings me face to face with his shattered phone, smeared with black blood from where the broken pieces cut his hand. I can't imagine what it was that made him react so harshly. He didn't even get to hear how the story ended.
I pick up the discarded pieces, careful not to hurt myself, and carry them back to my room. Why, I'm not sure. Maybe knowing that some of his rage was directed at someone else on my behalf instead of at me was a slight balm over the ache in my chest. Maybe I just get a rush at his destructive nature, how easily he could destroy anything in his path. Either way, the jagged pieces of metal and plastic are a work of art now displayed among the empty bottles of tequila atop the steel dresser.
The proof of his strength, knowing he'll use all of it to protect me, even if we hate each other, helps me sleep without nightmares for the first time in years.