Shackled (7 page)

Mom waved him off. “Oh, take your time,” she said. “I'm just glad—”

Mom paused, took a breath, then finished, “Glad to get her out of my hair for a night.” She rubbed my back in rough circles.

“Ready, then?” I said to David before Mom came any closer to being a total embarrassment.

“Yeah, let's go,” David said. To Mom, he said, “Nice to meet you.”

Mom said good-bye and followed us to the door. I felt her eyes on us the entire walk to his car.

“So, was that a thing?” David asked as we reached his car. “With your mom?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“Are you, like, in trouble now? Because I don't want you to—”

“Nope,” I said. “Everything's fine. Where did you say we were going?”

NINE

We didn't talk much on the drive. I kept folding and refolding my hands in my lap, chewing my lips raw, hating that I'd left my smokes at home, wondering when the next big meltdown was going to arrive.

Yet somehow I made it to the restaurant without getting kidnapped or killed. For once, I felt my heartbeat slow down a bit. It still raced along; I still kept swiveling my head in every possible direction to look for threats; my stomach still rolled and jolted.

But I was
here
.

David guided us into Orange Table, where I ordered a dinner sandwich and Italian soda. David, sure enough, got his enormous hamburger. I had to admit, it did sound pretty tasty. The small restaurant reminded me of the Hole in the Wall in that it wasn't one link in a long chain of look-alike
restaurants. But it was also more upscale than the Hole ever could or would be. Or probably even wanted to be. A woman kept rushing around to all the tables, saying hellos, making sure everything was good. She had this bright orange-dyed hair that would've seemed out of place anywhere else. Here she became part of the décor. Her hair matched the color of all the tabletops.

David and I chatted lightly about work for the most part. It was easy enough. But I could feel weight underneath. Like we were skimming the surface when there was more to be had if we'd just dive down. When our food arrived, it took only a couple of minutes to notice neither one of us was eating very earnestly. David seemed nervous. Or maybe bored. Hard to tell. Either way, I wished he'd eat more so I could at least tell myself I'd paid him back.

As his burger cooled and my sandwich warmed, David cleared his throat and said, “So, um . . . I hate to ask the obvious, but are you absolutely a hundred percent sure it was Tara the other day?”

Good thing I already didn't have an appetite.

“Why would you ask me that?” I said.

David said, “Because for some stupid reason, I still want to help. I mean, if you want.”

“Help
how
?” I pushed my plate away. “I've gotten all the professional help I could ever use.”

David raised an eyebrow.

Great job, Pelly,
I thought.
Why don't you just hand over
your medical file while you're at it, so he can see how stupid he is for wanting to help out the local nut factory?

“Never mind,” I said. I took a sip of my vanilla soda. Which was incredibly tasty, with thick cream poured in it and everything. But it didn't help.

So we sat for a while, with David shifting in his seat every other minute. I sat with my shoulders rolled forward, trying to tuck my chin into my throat.

“So,” David said. “This is . . . fun.”

“Yeah,” I said helplessly. “That's me. Tons of fun.”

“Your hair looks, um, nice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I don't think I've ever seen it . . . you know . . .”

“Brushed?”

“I was trying to say styled, but. Okay.”

David finally took another bite of his burger. His eyes widened for a moment. “So that's still the best burger ever,” he muttered. But didn't take another bite.

“So in a weird reversal,” I said, “it's my turn to ask you. Are
you
okay?”

“Yeah. Tip-top. You?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good. That's . . . good.” He paused, then spoke to the tabletop. He said, very quietly, “This isn't working.”

“I'm sorry—” I began to say, but he cut me off.

“No, it's me, I shouldn't have made you do this.”

“I asked you.”

“Yeah, but you didn't mean, as in, like . . . like a . . .”

“Like a date?” I whispered.

“Yes. Yes, like a date. That's not what you meant.” David lifted his eyes. “Is it?”

“No,” I said quickly, so he wouldn't be mad. Or grossed out. “No, I just really wanted to say thanks and apologize and all that.”

His eyes lowered again. “Right,” he said.

Unexpectedly I heard Mom's voice echoing in my head. How she insisted this was, in fact, a date. That hadn't been my intent at the Hole in the Wall, when I asked him. But it was one thing for David to misconstrue it. It was another for him to have wanted it.

So in a stutter I asked, “Did—you—want it? To be? A date?”

David didn't answer right away.

“Thing is,” he said finally, “yeah. Kind of. I mean, you're so . . . you're just . . .”

Then he sighed. “Okay, the hell with it. You're cute. Okay? You're cute, I said it. I think you're cute. You are so . . . fucking . . . cute. But at work you're just—you're always so . . .”

“Bitchy.” I didn't look at him. Couldn't. I knew what was what. And besides—

Cute?
Whatever. Not in this lifetime.

Right?

“Yes!” David said, like it was relief. I had to shake my head to focus back on what he was saying. “Yes, bitchy! Thank God, yes. Yes. Sorry. I don't mean to drive it home or anything, but
God, yes. Bitchy or just ice queen, and there were so many times I thought about asking you out or something, but when I got up the guts, you'd have this evil glare or whatever, so I never did.”

“Oh,” I said softly.

“But then sometimes,” David said,
his
voice also softening, “I'd catch you just sort of staring off, and your face wasn't all tight. I always wondered what you were thinking about, because you'd look so relaxed. But it never lasted. As soon as someone walked in, or I said something, you'd tighten back up again.”

I didn't want to believe I knew what he was talking about, but I did. I knew exactly. Those times I looked relaxed must've been the times I let myself think about what life would be like if I was normal. If I could go places like a regular person. Go on dates, for instance. Or school.

How many kids actually dream about that? Probably just the ones who can't.

In any case, I had pressing matters to attend to here.

“Could you back up a bit?” I said. “To the whole ‘cute' part? Because I have to ask, are you serious?”

David met my eyes. Held them. Nodded after a moment.

“Yeah,” he said.

And that was all for a minute. We sat there silently until David thumped his fingers on the table and said, “So, there, it's out, no taking it back. If you don't feel the same way, and honestly, I don't think you do, then . . . okay. Cool. I can handle
it, and I won't be a creeper about it. I'll even quit the Hole if it bothers you. I don't actually need the money all that bad, I was kidding about that yesterday . . . but honestly, Pel, this kidnapping thing, that must've been a huge deal, right? I'm sorry if I'm prying, and you can tell me to back off right now, and we'll talk about something easy like the weather, or politics and religion, whatever. But I want to know everything. I do. That's it. Glutton for punishment, I guess.”

He took a deep breath and chased the words down with a long drink from his raspberry Italian soda.

I sat still, arms stiff at my sides, gripping my chair seat in sweaty fingers.

“Could you repeat that?” I said.

David hesitated, then burst into laughter.

And I . . . smiled. It was the last thing I expected to do, trust me, but it happened all the same.

I reached out and took a bite of my sandwich as my appetite came roaring back. I don't know if it was just the food or not, but it tasted fantastic.

I took my time chewing the huge bite while David fiddled with his drink. I wondered if he was sweating as much as the glass. It wasn't as if I hadn't
ever
kind of considered how he felt about me. I'm not a complete social idiot. Not completely. But what he said wasn't what I'd expected. Now that it was out, I sort of waited to feel awkward or embarrassed for him.

I didn't.

I felt . . . sorta good.

“Pelly?”

“Huh?”

“You haven't said anything for twenty minutes.”

“Are you serious?” I said. It wouldn't have surprised me.

“No,” David said. “It's probably been, like, thirty seconds. I'm just really impatient.”

I felt myself smiling again, and he smiled back. It wasn't forced, either.

I folded my arms on the table and pressed myself against its edge, leaning toward him. “Pardon my French,” I said, “but you have to understand that I'm really well and truly fucked up in the head.”

David imitated my stance, leaning closer. “Wow,” he whispered. “And you're the
only one
on the planet. Incredible.”

“I should slap you.”

“But it might turn me on, and then what?”

I groaned. “Are you like this at work and I just never noticed?”

David sat back. “Not as much, no,” he said. “My friend Mark's parents own this place. I've been coming here since we were little. It's kind of a home-turf-advantage thing.”

“Ah,” I said. I stalled by taking another bite. So David did too. I looked at the art on the walls. Listened to the low buzz of conversation, the shouted orders to the cook in the back. The woman with the orange hair gave David what would have been an expert clandestine motherly wink if I hadn't happened to be glancing that way. The whole place was enough like the
Hole to make me feel more at home, even if it was David's turf. Even if it was nighttime . . .

My heart cut left, then right, then down, then up. Like a racquetball pinging off my ribs. It was night, nighttime, it was dark out, and—

I drew in a breath. Held it. Stopped intrusive thoughts. Exhaled. Knew what I had to say next as David watched me do all that with a curious expression.

“I'm not sure how I'm supposed to say what I need to say here,” I said, staring in his direction but not at him directly. “So I'm just going to kind of blather and see what happens?”

“Perfect,” David said. “I'll eat, you blather.”

“Okay,” I said. “It's like this. This one morning about a month after Tara was taken, I got ready for school just like always, but then I couldn't leave the house. I physically could not step out the door. Mom let me stay home that day, but not the next, and I—I mean, I just lost it. The bus ride, my first class, I was wrecked. I wasn't even crying, I just couldn't stop shaking and I felt sick to my stomach.”

David nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. “Like the other day at work? When you said someone had been staring at you?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” I said. I felt absurdly guilty for it. “And it's been that way ever since, more or less. My parents put me into therapy, which I guess worked, eventually. My doctor put me on meds, and I was able to at least go outside again after a while. But not at night. And I didn't like how the meds made
me feel. Sort of slow and loopy, you know? It's like, everything is okay when I'm on them, but
only
okay. Never good, or great. Just okay.”

“Isn't that the point? I mean, it's a bummer, I get that, but I thought that kind of medication was
supposed
to make everything just okay.”

“Maybe, but it sucks. It's like, hey, you just won a million dollars!
Okay.
Oh no, your kitten got hit by a tractor trailer!
Okay.
Everything's level. Which I guess is nice, because there's no real lows. Not as much panic or anger. But no highs, either. No joy. You know?”

David gave a little sound, and nodded. I found myself wanting to stop there. Cut my losses. Instead I kept talking. Maybe it was
because
I wasn't on my meds anymore.

“The truth is, I'm scared. My dad's never home, my mom works all the time, and Jeffrey . . . it's like everyone I love is going to leave, or be taken away, and I just can't do that again. What if my dad's plane goes down, what if someone attacks my mom or takes . . . I can't go through it. Can't risk it. I don't even like talking to my own little brother because if something happened to him, too . . .”

A faraway part of my mind realized that David had put a hand on top of mine. I looked at our hands there on the orange tabletop and stared blankly. David blinked and pulled his hand away.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, no, it's okay, it's no big deal—”

“About what you've been through, I mean,” David said. “That's what I'm sorry about.”

“. . . Oh.”

David finished off his burger. I picked at my sandwich. When he was done, he wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin and asked, “So, then, what about Tara?”

“What about her?”

“What do you want to do?” His hazel eyes were more serious than I'd ever seen them.

“What
can
I do? They'll find her, or they won't. Probably won't. And I'll get over it.”

I almost added
again
.

“You sure?” David asked.

“Yes,” I said, though I wasn't. “I mean, maybe I'm a little ‘detached,' as my therapist says. Maybe that's a good thing.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?”

“Sometimes. Yeah. A lot.”

“That must suck,” David said.

For some reason, the simplicity of his statement had never dawned on me. “You're right,” I said, half to myself. “It kind of does. Fortunately, I've got my insanity to keep me company.”

“I don't think you're insane.”

“The voices in my head beg to differ.”

“You hear voices, huh?”

“Not voices, plural. And no, not . . . voices, just . . .” I scrambled for a definition. “Don't you ever feel like there's someone in your head telling you that you'll never be good
enough, or that you're really all alone, or that you suck, or you're ugly, or a failure. Things like that?”