—FIVE—
The sole of my shoe taps the linoleum in perfect time with Ms. Katherine’s ballpoint pen.
Ms. Katherine.
Like we’re fucking kindergarteners gathered around the area rug for a riveting rendition of Goodnight Moon.
I wish I could say goodnight.
Goodnight, room. Goodnight to the old lady who smells like mothballs.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck here because the only person in the world I give a shit about wants me to get better.
Yeah. Better.
As if I have an affliction I can cure in a matter of a few months by attending kumbaya classes with a merry band of idiots. Classes that reek of drivel and falsities, packaged neatly in a big ass box of bullshit, tied with glitter-infused ribbon.
As if I’ll suddenly care enough to… care.
The old bat blinks through a thin smile that appears drawn on with a plum-colored pencil. Her pen continues to tap against a leather-bound journal, intensifying my feet to drown it out.
Tap, tap, tap.
It grates me. My jaw tenses, teeth gnashing together until the enamel nearly chips. Eyes narrowed, focused and razor-sharp, I almost miss the sound of my name penetrating the vanilla-scented air.
Vanilla and honeysuckles, to be exact. I saw the empty package of wax melts in the garbage can when I was grabbing a cup of stale, shitty coffee, and I had to scoff.
The fragrance is designed to be calming. Soft and sweet.
Feminine.
Bullshit. The association is equally laughable and infuriating.
“Mr. Denison.”
My scowl is enough to have the portly woman teetering back on her chair legs. Other than the menace in my eyes piercing through the layers of cakey foundation settled between her wrinkles, my face remains expressionless.
This lack of reaction seems to fluster her further. “Mr. Denison,” she repeats, clearing a hitch in her throat that resembles pure terror. “Why don’t you start us off today.”
I try to keep my face stone-cold and stoic, but my left eyebrow arches automatically.
Rebel son-of-a-bitch.
“I can start, Ms. Katherine.”
The timid voice of some emo chick beside me steals my rebuttal. Her hair is black, like a starless sky at midnight. Like mine. Only, mine doesn’t have the ridiculous violet streaks and goofy headband.
Emo Chick scratches at the back of her hand, knuckles red and raw, pinholes of blood dotting the chalky skin around the bones. She is also tapping her feet.
Tap, tap, tap.
“My hamster, Nutmeg.”
Her words are whispered so delicately, I can’t help but fracture them with a mocking huff. I feel the gaze of a dozen horrified eyes on me as I lean against the seatback, arms folded.
A gasp carries over to me. “Parker.”
I’m being scolded by the shrew.
At the beginning of these gag-inducing meetings we’re supposed to go around the room and list off something that matters to us. It’s called a “starting point.”
It’s a reason. A reason to keep us alive another day.
Starting points are intended to be small—trivial, even.
The smell of freshly mowed grass, extra syrup on our pancakes, that first sip of coffee in the morning. Our favorite song.
Things we’d miss if we chose to jump off that building or shove a pistol down our throat.
But a fucking hamster? Hamsters have a three-year lifespan, and they eat their offspring.
This girl is a goner.
See you on the flipside, Emo Chick.
“She’s a good friend,” the raven-haired waif continues, earlobes stretched to a frightening level and decorated with silver skulls. “She makes me happy.”
The shrew returns her attention to my right, her pinched features relaxing as she responds to Emo Chick. “That’s wonderful, Amelia. Animals and pets make great starting points.”
My eye roll is monumental.
But it’s interrupted when the double doors plow open, revealing a disheveled sprite of a woman whose beltless beltloop gets snagged on the door handle, causing her to be yanked backwards, purse falling and dispensing lipstick, coins, and tampons everywhere, while her skinny latte from Starbucks slips from her grip as she tries to catch the fallen purse.
The scene would be amusing if I gave a flying fuck.
Chair legs screech against tile as members rise and jump into action, eager to help the inept stranger. I remain seated, bored, but mostly irritated that I haven’t figured out a way to fast-forward time yet.
I curse my dreadful sister as I wait for the chaos to simmer. She’s my foster sister, technically, but I’ve never been big on titles, and I’ve certainly never put much weight into blood.
Bree is an anomaly. A woman. But it’s different with her—I’ve never really noticed her gender. I only see her heart.
I pull my chin from my chest when I catch a whiff of something girly and citrus. Something like sunshine. The new girl stumbles past me, cheeks stained pink and hair so light it resembles cotton fields. She’s careful not to trip over my outstretched legs as she finds a seat on the opposite side of Emo Chick, then slinks back like she’s hoping it’ll swallow her up.
Looks like we’ve got one thing in common.
Ms. Katherine settles back into her own chair, while the rest of the circus quiets down and we resume circle time. “Let’s welcome our newest survivor,” she says, fisting her journal between knobby fingers. “This is Miss March.”
“Melody,” the woman corrects, voice cracking slightly. “Just Melody.”
Melody.
Yeah, right—a melody she is not.
She is noise, discord.
A sour note.
They all are.
Everyone welcomes her with a warm hello, except for me, and somehow, my silence must be the loudest of all because she turns to me then, seeing me for the first time.
She’s all big green eyes and pale skin. Emerald and ivory. Her frame is petite and willowy, a sundress hanging loose off her modest curves, while a bandage adorns her wrist like a dismal focal point. My gaze shifts from the bandage to her bony collarbone, then skims back up.
She has that kind of face.
Like maybe she was happy once.
I pull away with a crude exhale, tipping my head against the seatback and closing my eyes, zoning out of this embarrassing spectacle. Bree means well, I know that, but I’m only here because she asked me to be here. I know these meetings won’t do jack shit—I’m confident I’ll walk out this door the exact same man I was when I walked in.
But she asked me.
She begged and pleaded with tears streaming down her freckled cheekbones: “Please, Parker. If not for you, then do it for me. I can’t lose you.”
So, I did.
I’ll do anything she asks me to because she’s the only person who’s ever had my back. She was the only one to give a shit about me, to pull me out of that black hole, and there’s no favor in the world that can compensate for one small act of compassion in the midst of brutality.
The starting points have transformed into sob stories now, and I heave out another jaded sigh when Robert starts rambling on about his shitty day at the car dealership, and how a customer was going to buy a car but didn’t, and now he feels worthless.
Go play in traffic, Robert.
Just when I don’t think it can get any worse, the woman to his right speaks up with her own tale of distress.
“He won’t talk to me,” she sniffles, nose red and blotchy, her fist coiled around a well-used piece of tissue paper. “I just don’t understand why he won’t talk to me. He sees me so upset, so hurt by his avoidance, and I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure what else to say to get him to hear me, to look at me, to see me, and it’s just so painful that we can’t have a normal conversation because he won’t even talk to me—”
“Maybe because he can’t get a word in.”
I’m still slouched down in my chair, head tilted back with my eyes shut. The words just slipped through without warning, as they often do, because it’s easy to have no filter when you don’t give a shit. The silence is deafening, but that’s not what has me twisting in my seat, eyelids popping open.
It’s a laugh.
It’s a quick, genuine burst of laughter that seems to have been expelled as unintentionally as my own outburst.
The new girl.
She glances at me briefly before clearing her throat, then inching back into her seat, head ducking downward. She’s a contradictory mix of sunshine and sadness as she becomes engrossed with the dirty linoleum beneath her shoes.
I keep my eyes on her another minute, more curious than interested, before Ms. Katherine breaks the awkward lull with a light humming sound.
“Melody, why don’t you share a little about yourself? What brings you to Loving Lifelines?”
I hold the groan in the back of my throat. Stupid fucking name.
My eyes narrow as I watch the new girl fidget in place, toes tapping in opposite time, hands gripping the handbag in her lap. She sweeps trembling fingers through her hair, still looking down.
“I, um, lost someone,” she replies, her voice no more than a shaky whisper. “And then I lost myself.”
Ms. Katherine bobs her head slowly, brimming with artificial sympathies. “What brought you back from the point of no return?”
“Hope.” Her response is swift and pointed. “I had a glimpse of hope in that dark moment.”
“It’s a lie, you know.”
There I go again, running my mouth. I feel their offended stares on me, but I pay them no mind. Arms still folded across my chest, legs sprawled out in front of me, I keep my gaze on little miss sunshine as she turns to look at me with a slow, languid crane of her neck.
Wide, searching eyes meet my cool indifference as I continue. “Hope is a toxic false sense of optimism created to keep us going, but all it does is prolong the inevitable,” I say, unblinking and unemotional. “Hope is for the weak.”
I’m ambushed by a collective round of murmurs and gasps, but I don’t flinch as my sights stay fixed on the frail woman across the room, frail in both body and spirit. She looks breakable in every possible way—the counter to my stone walls and steel truths.
“Parker, I know this is an open forum, and we encourage healthy discussion,” the shrew cuts in, stealing away whatever objection may have escaped the new girl’s lips. “But let’s try to keep things positive.”
I sniff, shrugging my shoulders and pulling myself to my feet.
Works for me.
Without another word, I see myself out, feeling the heat of her stare burning into my back like fiery rays of sunshine as I walk out the door.
The gravel crunches beneath rubber tires as I pull into the driveway, scanning all the unfinished projects that litter my front yard.
I’m busy as hell this season, my job being a one-man contractor specializing in building renovations and home improvements. I was employed with a larger construction company for most of my career, but found that I don’t work very well with others.
Not exactly a revelation.
Bree suggested I start my own business, which sounded awful at first because self-employment involves shining customer service and fake-ass smiles, but when she volunteered to take the reins in the people department, I was sold.
I’m not sure how she does it. She works crazy long hours as it is, lots of overnight shifts, yet still finds time to keep my business up and running, securing new jobs and handling the customers. She even stops over to let my dog out for bathroom breaks as often as she can, occasionally leaving home-cooked meals or freshly baked desserts on my counter with a cutesy note.
Today is no different when I walk into the modest house I built from the ground up in my early twenties. I’m thirty-two now, so I’ve had this place for nearly ten years. It sits partially off the grid in a secluded, heavily wooded area on the outskirts of Delavan, suiting me just fine. I hate a lot of things, but neighbors are at the top of that list, right along with football and hipsters.
Walden lifts himself to unsteady legs as I push through the front door and toss my keys to the side table with a jarring clatter. He’s a Border Collie mix, older than dirt, and I get the feeling that the mutt enjoys life just as much as I do—which is not in the least. His black and white tufts of fur have been falling out since the day I found him wandering on the side of the road a mile from my house, feeble and malnourished. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wag his tail.
But every time I walk through the door, he stands and hobbles over to me. He doesn’t beg for attention or bark or lick my hand. He just kind of lurks a few feet away until I notice him, and then he shuffles back over to his dog bed with a sigh.
I blow out my own sigh, scratching my head and tousling my mop of hair as I venture into the cramped kitchen. A plate of lemon pound cake rests on the portable island, covered in plastic wrap and taped with a note:
Eat up, little brother. Lemon cake is the happiest dessert, and if anyone needs a bit of sunshine in their life, it’s you.
And your dog.
Please give that dog some damn lemon cake.