Till It Hurts by Cora Brent
Tori
Now
The sixty five mile drive to Midland is traffic free and uneventful, which is good because my brain needs some time to cool off. Every mile that’s put between me and Jace right now feels like a positive development.
I’m not in the mood to fiddle with the radio and the whereabouts of my phone adaptor are unknown so I retrieve my old book of compact discs from under the seat and push one into the stereo slot without looking to see which one it is. The Beatles announce that they want to hold my hand. I’m glad someone does.
I really wish I hadn’t crumpled up and cried in front of Jace.
“You’re nothing to me.”
Brutal words. They were brutal when I first uttered them and they still are.
I’m so sorry I ever said them. I must have really hurt Jace. I didn’t see that at the time but I see it now. I was consumed by my own suffering and I’d already lost him. I thought he’d grab any excuse to be rid of me for good. But he wouldn’t have echoed those words all these years later unless they had penetrated deeply.
So yes, I hurt him. I must have. Perhaps that’s why he’s here now, because he sensed the opportunity to kick me when I’m down.
If so, he’s doing an outstanding job so far.
The Beatles keep singing and my destination draws closer. Midland is far more metropolitan than Arcana. This is Rochelle’s hometown and it’s where she returned after my father’s death.
Funny, but when I first met Rochelle Lambeaux, I assumed she was the most ridiculous of phonies, always cheerful and lively and brimming with compliments. I was also confused. Rochelle was gorgeous, a bona fide beauty queen with cabinets filled with crowns and trophies from her pageant days. While my father was no troll, I couldn’t understand why the former Miss Texas Bluebonnet would choose a divorced truck driver with two teenage children who was thirteen years her senior.
They dated for all of three months before eloping to Vegas and buying a house together in Arcana and then Rochelle promptly became pregnant. It always struck me as a strange coincidence that my mother, who had sworn up and down that she’d never marry again, decided that she needed to march down the aisle herself shortly after she met Rochelle. Since then she’s gone through two other husbands but who’s counting.
Anyway, it turned out my initial impression of Rochelle was very wrong. She adored my father and his death devastated her. She’s also one of the only truly kind people I’ve ever been lucky enough to meet. She’s much like Gloria in that way.
Rochelle’s house is an adorable red and white cottage in a tidy neighborhood. The front yard flower beds are crowded with freshly planted gardenias now that the weather is beginning to feel more like spring. I’m only halfway up the paved front walkway when the door is thrown open and the spirited tornado that is my little sister rushes out to collide with me.
“TORI!” Carrie throws her arms around my neck and nearly topples us both.
“How’s my favorite sister?” I laugh and as I hug her tightly a small slice of my damaged soul heals.
She bends her head back to smile up at me. “I’ve missed you. Wait, when did you dye your hair pink? Do you like my hair now? I didn’t want braids anymore. Come on. Mom made vanilla bean cupcakes. I put the icing on them.”
Carrie drags me into the house and we nearly run over Rochelle, who was drawn by the noise.
“Tori!” My stepmother wraps me in a hug and Carrie hugs us both and it’s the loveliest handful of seconds I’ve experienced in a long time.
Rochelle went to some trouble setting out a lunch of pasta salad and cold cuts on the dining room table. I’m ushered into the seat of honor at the head of the table. Carrie is overjoyed with her presents and keeps chatting a mile a minute about school and about her dance classes and about a boy named Josh who has a crush on her. The second I’ve cleared my plate she pounces and insists that I must try a vanilla bean cupcake, which she again reminds me was carefully iced by Carrie herself.
“It’s delicious,” I declare after a single bite.
Carrie nods as if she knew this would be the reaction. “We watch Food Network all the time. Are you not living in California anymore?”
I wasn’t prepared to touch that topic just yet, but I can’t lie to my baby sister. “No, I had to leave California. I was in kind of an accident last fall and it wasn’t a big deal but I ended up losing my job.”
It’s a very sanitized version of the truth but it seems to satisfy Carrie. Rochelle, on the other hand, has begun to regard me with alarm. I look down and notice that I’ve been twisting the cloth napkin around my finger until it cuts off the circulation. I release the napkin and flex my hands.
“Baby,” says Rochelle to her daughter, “why don’t you go clean out Erica’s cage so you can show her off to your sister?”
Carrie leaps up from the table. “Erica’s a rabbit. She’s a Holland Lop. I named her after Daddy. We adopted her two weeks ago and we’re going to adopt a sister for her soon.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
Carrie does some thinking. “Give me about twenty minutes and she’ll be stage ready.”
“Sounds great.”
My sister tilts her head and gives me an unusually shy look. “My dance recital is in June. I’m a company dancer now so I’ll be performing in six dances. No, seven. I just got a hip hop solo. Will you come?”
June is two months in the future. I can hardly stand to think about what awaits even three days in the future.
My sister’s hopeful eyes remain fastened on me. I notice that she has the fingers of her right hand crossed, obviously praying that I’ll say yes. How can I not?
“Of course I’ll come, Carrie.”
She cheers and performs a cartwheel in the hallway before running outside to beautify Erica the rabbit.
I watch her disappear. “She’s growing so fast.”
Rochelle smiles and toys with her wedding band. I never see her without it. “That she is.”
Her eyes stray to the framed photo on the wall. My father looked especially handsome on his wedding day, even with a hokey Chapel of Love backdrop from their impulsive Vegas elopement. At his side, Rochelle was radiant. Even more radiant than usual. Her black hair fell to her waist and her white dress showcased her flawless figure. Carrie is a perfect fusion of them with our father’s green eyes, her mother’s strong cheekbones, her skin tone blended right in the middle. Eric Malene was young the first time he became a father and he wasn’t always sure how to be one. But by the time Carrie came along he was ready for the challenge and he was overjoyed to have a second chance. It feels like the height of unfairness that he’ll never see his youngest child grow up.
Then again, there’s plenty of unfairness to go around in the world.
Rochelle sighs and refocuses on me. Concern furrows her brow. “Do you want to talk, Tori?”
My fingers try to twist the napkin again. I sit on my hands. “I don’t know where to start.”
She pours me another glass of sweet tea. “Start wherever you feel comfortable.”
It’s the second time today that my eyes blur with tears. It’s possible I’d be relieved to unload all the ugliness that’s been rotting away inside of me for months. Rochelle’s an excellent listener. And I can’t quite feel embarrassed about anything in front of her, not when she’s already seen me at my worst. She’s picked me up off the floor when I was bleeding and hysterical and heartbroken.
This isn’t quite as bad as that. But it’s bad enough.
My father’s wife waits with patience and tender concern.
So I start talking.
It started with a simple friendship. After three years at San Diego’s Heart West Hospital, I’d been promoted to the head of the billing department. My friend Katie bought me lunch at the cafeteria to celebrate. We’d been friends since my first week at the hospital when we reached for the same cucumber sprout sandwich on the cafeteria line. Along with her husband, Timothy, she was a doctor in the psychiatric ward. Katie had news of her own. She and Timothy were opening up a new in-patient behavioral health facility in Chula Vista. I knew Timothy slightly. He joined us for lunch sometimes. He was older than Katie, closer to forty. He had the looks of a television star and was very respected in his field. By all appearances, Timothy and Katie had it all. They were beautiful and successful and they had a solid marriage.
When they extended an employment offer to me, I was amazed. The job would be quite a step up. I’d be managing the business end of the entire facility, which would be called Cloud Springs. The pay was extremely generous. And I’d be working with friends. There was no reason on earth not to accept.
It didn’t take me long to notice that Dr. Timothy Gatlin was not exactly as princely as he appeared to be. He was thin-skinned and temperamental, angering with extreme ease. My office was down the hall from his and sometimes I’d hear him slam his fist down on the desk and belt out a slew of curses. Some of the staff quit because they disliked working with him. But not everyone felt that way. Plenty of people thought Dr. Gatlin was the greatest thing since text messaging. And despite my growing wariness around him, he was always pleasant to me.
Financially, Cloud Springs was doing very well. I worked long hours and was left with little time for a personal life but I had a great job, I lived by the beach and I couldn’t justifiably complain.
The first time I started to suspect something was wrong was when I walked into a heated argument in Timothy’s office between him and another doctor. Allen Groves, a friend from med school days, was the first colleague the Gatlins brought on board. Allen growled, “You can forge your own shit. Keep my name out of it.” He quit on the spot.
When I began secretly investigating, I didn’t honestly expect to uncover anything to be concerned about. I was wrong. The fraud was hidden within reams of falsified paperwork, but it was there if you knew what to look for. Many of the patients at Cloud Springs were homeless and difficult to track. Their care was covered under a state program that was being bilked out of millions by Dr. Timothy Gatlin. I don’t know how much Katie knew. I still don’t. I was already searching for another job and planned to quit as soon as I found one. I was unsure what to do with the evidence I’d collected, evidence I’d foolishly left on my work laptop and in the top drawer of my office desk. I didn’t say a word to anyone, least of all to my bosses.
One afternoon I was passing by a hallway lined with patient rooms when Timothy emerged, frazzled, and begged me to help him with something. Assisting with patient care was not part of my job but before I could properly object, he pulled me into the room and closed the door. A distraught man wearing a filthy military jacket was huddled in the corner with his hands over his ears. He zeroed in on me, shouted something incoherent, and charged without warning. I raised my hands in self defense but he slammed my body against the wall and punched me in the stomach. With the breath knocked out of me, I tried to scream and couldn’t. Timothy stood four feet away, calmly filling a syringe. The man kept yelling and wildly lurching around. Timothy caught his arm, plunged the needle in and seconds later the guy let out a wail and collapsed to the floor.
Relieved, I tried to speak and could only gasp for air.
My relief didn’t last.
Dr. Timothy Gatlin crouched at my side. There was no hint of pity or mercy in his eyes and this is what I remember most. How those hazel eyes regarded me with impassive hatred before he leaned in with coffee scented breath and said, quite calmly, “If you ever try to fuck with me again, you stupid bitch, I’ll kill you.” A scream died in my throat as he grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head into the corner of the exam table. The last thing I saw was his smug face before everything went dark.
When I woke up again, I was lying in a hospital bed. I had suffered a concussion, a broken eye socket and required fifteen stitches to close up the gash on the left side of my face. I was damn lucky that I hadn’t lost an eye. I was also lucky that Dr. Timothy Gatlin had been able to subdue the dangerous patient who had assaulted me. The patient was a homeless veteran who suffered from schizophrenia and addictions to a variety of narcotics. He might have killed me if not for the good doctor.
This is what I was told. This is what everyone believed.
I tried again and again to tell the truth.
No one listened. I don’t even think my own doctors believed me.
Naturally, all the fraud evidence disappeared. I had no proof, only my word, which compared to his, was worth nothing.
I was doubted. Then discarded. There were even times when I began to question my own sanity.
At least I know Rochelle will believe me.
Telling her the whole hideous mess makes me feel a little better. Not much, but slightly.
Rochelle quietly hands me a napkin to dab the fresh tears in my eyes. I glance at the clock and I’m shocked to see that only five minutes have elapsed since I began talking. This story had been congealing inside of me for so many agonized, lonely months. I was smothering beneath it.
I sniff and blow my nose. “Gatlin had everyone fooled. Worse, a rumor began circulating that I’d been stealing from Cloud Springs. If anyone did believe my side of the story then they kept quiet. Everything I said was dismissed and I was considered unstable. The Gatlins threatened me with lawsuits and I’m pretty sure they hired a detective to follow me. I couldn’t find another job. I could hardly gather the courage to leave my apartment. My savings were obliterated by medical bills. And that’s why I’m here in Texas.”
There’s more, but if I tell her she would worry. She would worry if she knew there are times when my anxiety reaches a frenetic pitch and I’m certain he’s there, on the other side of a door or waiting unseen around the next corner. She would worry if she heard that I can’t sleep without pills and that nearly every minute of every day I feel like a lone blade of grass waiting to be flattened by the next strong wind.
“Oh, Tori,” she says and now there are tears in her eyes too. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come out there in a heartbeat. I would have helped in any way I could.”
Because I was embarrassed. And frightened and confused. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
She’s looking at it now, the scar on the side of my face. “Have you confided in anyone?”
“No. Gloria died the day I was released from the hospital. You already know that my mother and I don’t exactly share a warm relationship.”
“And Colt?” she says gently.
I shake my head.
Rochelle heaves a sad sigh. She looks at another framed picture on the wall. This was taken years before she met my father. Colt and I are in grade school and our dad stands behind us with one hand on each of our small shoulders. We’re all smiling. Our dad. He was deployed to the Middle East two weeks after I was born. When he returned, he found his wife on the verge of giving birth again, this time to a child that could not possibly have been his. He and my mother divorced the following year. He always paid child support for both of us and I think in the early years he tried to love Colt the way he loved me. Eric Malene wasn’t a bad man, but he allowed his anger and hurt to conquer him in some ways and couldn’t find a way to accept Colt as his son. When Colt began refusing to visit him once he hit his teens, my father did not object. I think he was relieved.
I chew my lip and wonder if I should add one more surprise. “There’s something else, something unrelated.”
“What’s that?”
“Jace is back. He’s in Arcana.”
Her head whips around and her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“I think he must have heard I was staying at Gloria’s house.”
Her eyes narrow. “What does he want?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what he wants. I don’t think he does either.”
Rochelle becomes worried. “Tori, stay here. Please. We have a guest bedroom and you can stay as long as you like. Carrie would love that. The last thing you need right now is to deal with Jace Zielinski.”
The idea is so very tempting. But even though Rochelle is wonderful for offering to take in her emotional basket case of an adult stepdaughter, I can’t accept.
“Thank you. I know you mean it. But I can’t stay. I need to go back.”
She’s crestfallen. “Why?”
Because this showdown between me and Jace has been a long time coming. Because he’s my cross to bear. He’s my burden to confront.
“I just do.”
She begins to argue but Carrie runs in from the backyard. Erica is ready for her unveiling. Rochelle and I exchange a glance and make an unspoken pact that this conversation is not for Carrie’s ears.
“Lead the way,” I tell my sister with a smile.
The rabbit is a long-eared ball of fluff who clearly doesn’t enjoy being passed around and handled. Carrie sets the thing down in the grass and it jumps around lazily for a few minutes before finding a bush to huddle under. While the rabbit is certainly cute, it can’t compare to McClane’s joyful company.
The afternoon is wonderful and I’m so happy to be with family. My sister shows off her favorite dance routines and Rochelle tells one story after another about my father. The jokes he told, the holidays they shared. She speaks of him with such loving reflection it’s easy to forget how long he’s been gone. Not that I’m anyone to judge, but Rochelle has shown no interest in pursuing a new relationship in the years since he died. I’m not sure she ever will. She seems to prefer to remain alone with her broken heart.
Eventually the sun begins to drop low in the sky and I need to leave if I want to make it back to Arcana before dark. Carrie squeezes me around the waist and declares that she’s so very happy her big sister is living in Texas now. The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll be living in Texas. It’s also true that I don’t know where else I would go. I hug her back and promise to see her again soon.
Rochelle looks me over carefully before allowing me to leave with a plate of leftover cupcakes. “Will you be okay?” she asks in a soft voice.
I can’t sleep without pills and I’m terrified of my own shadow.
I give her a wide smile. “I’ll be fine. Thank you so much for having me over today.”
She nods, visibly skeptical. “My door is always open for you, Tori. Always. Remember that.”
“I will.”
On the drive back to Arcana I try to stay in touch with the warm happiness of Rochelle’s home. There’s none of that waiting for me in the house where Jace Zielinski and I are at each other’s throats. Gloria would be saddened to hear the insults we’ve fired at each other within her walls. We would break her heart.
With this in mind, I’m determined to keep my temper in check. Let Jace behave badly if he wants to. I don’t have to participate in his drama.
It’s not until I pull up to the curb at Gloria’s house that I check my phone for the first time in hours. There’s one voicemail waiting.
“Tori, Paul Elkins here. Listen, I know you mentioned that you were looking for work in the area and I’ve got an opportunity here in my office if you’re interested. I’m sure the job would be easy for you and you could set your own hours. If this sounds good, you can start right away. Give me a call tomorrow to iron out the details and have yourself a good evening.”
This news is too good to be true. I can’t imagine that Paul really has the need for an additional employee. He might be extending the offer out of pity or out of regard for Gloria, but I’m in no position to turn down pity or kindness. I feel a genuine smile on my face until I exit my car and notice Jace’s truck sitting in the carport.
Well, I can’t pretend to be shocked. I knew he’d be here. I have no wish to revisit this morning’s conflict and I can only hope he doesn’t either.
Tumbleweed Lane is quiet, although I spot a trio of men standing in front of the house across the street and two doors over. They are looking in this direction, right at me. I don’t recognize them but my spine prickles and my heart thumps. They are just three suburban guys standing around in a front yard and drinking beer as twilight sets in. They’ve not done or said a thing to make me believe they are a threat. In fact, they probably have no real interest in me at all. Everyone in town is hyper aware of Jace Zielinksi’s connection to Arcana. Sooner or later the news was bound to get out that he’s here at his grandmother’s house.
Still, my rattled nerves don’t listen to reason. I dash to the door with my keys out.
I’m expecting McClane to tackle me with exuberance and I’m slightly disappointed when there’s no sign of him except the distant echo of a bark. I don’t hesitate to flip the door lock behind me. I wish there was a deadbolt.
Jace is nowhere in sight either, but from the looks of things, he’s been in a housekeeping mood. The furniture is straightened and dusted and neat. The kitchen is immaculate. I’m standing in front of the sink and trying to puzzle out what he’s been up to when I hear the back door open. The clatter of dog claws on the tile announces McClane’s return and he bursts in with tongue hanging and tail wagging. He brushes against my legs and whines until I scratch behind his ears. He tips his head back to gaze at me with unconditional adoration.
Jace isn’t far behind and I brace myself for a glare or a crude remark, but he stops at the threshold of the kitchen and stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“Hi,” he says, polite as you please and almost shy.
The greeting is so unexpected that I just stare at him while McClane’s wagging tail knocks into my thigh. Bits of grass are stuck to Jace’s white t-shirt, which is also sweaty and streaked with dirt. He doesn’t come any closer and he keeps looking down at the floor, like something about the situation embarrasses him. I don’t know what to do with this version of Jace, which is a complete departure from the one who makes obscene wisecracks and sneers at me like I’m filth.
“Were you out there gardening or something?” I ask him, a little bewildered at the thought of Jace Zielinski mowing the lawn.
He nods and removes his hands from his pockets. “Thought I’d clean up the yard.” He sneezes into his elbow.
“You should have worn a handkerchief,” I say without thinking.
Jace looks up.
My face gets hot. I’m still unprepared to be scrutinized by his sharp eyes.
“I mean, I remember that’s what you used to do. You’d tie this red handkerchief over your face while mowing the lawn because the grass made you sneeze.”
He chuckles softly. “I don’t think I packed a handkerchief.”
“Well, I’m sure someone out there would be willing to donate one to the Super Bowl champion.”
Jace studies me. Right now his expression is impossible to read. I’m not getting an angry vibe from him, though. He seems just…watchful.
I hold up the plate I’ve been clutching. “Rochelle sent me home with more cupcakes than I can eat.”
“Rochelle.” He nods. “How is she?”
This feels abnormal, having an ordinary conversation with him. “She lives in Midland now. Carrie, my little sister, is nine.”
Again, he nods.
I set the cupcakes down on the counter.
Jace pushes a hand through his hair. “I think I’m going to shower off and keep to my room for the night. I won’t bother you. But is it all right if the dog stays out here? He’s gotten real attached to you and he cries when I try to keep him away.”
I still have no clue what provoked Jace’s stark change in attitude. “Sure, he can stay out here.” I hold my hand out and McClane pushes his wet nose into my palm, which makes me smile. “We’ve become great friends.”
“Thanks.” Jace takes a step back and motions to the fridge. “By the way, I did some grocery shopping. Feel free to take whatever you want. And I left you something in the fridge to make up for eating so much of your cereal.”
He walks off without waiting for a thank you, which is fine because I’m rather suspended in a state of astonishment. Perhaps this morning’s miserable clash was a breaking point. Whatever the reason, I’m happy to call a truce.
With his remark about the fridge in mind, I open it with no clue what I’ll see. What I do find sitting there on the second shelf makes my throat tighten.
The small pizza box is from Giorgio’s, one of the few surviving eateries in town. Our first real date was there. A lift of the cardboard lid proves he even remembered my favorite; stuffed crust with meatballs and sausage.
Oh, Jace.
I don’t believe it’s a romantic gesture. More like a peace offering. And perhaps the closest thing to an apology he’s capable of giving. It’s also proof of how little I really understand the man who used to be the boy next door.
Sure, Jace is insanely successful, worshipped by the nation and likely rich beyond my comprehension. But is he happy? I don’t know. I know I’m not.
Yet when I think about those painful days there’s more than one excruciating heartache to consider. Our breakup was agonizing in more ways than one. Jace changed afterwards and so did I.
But we didn’t just lose each other that year.
We both also lost Colt.