Bad Jokes

I pressed my fingertips into the black leather upholstery and tried to ground myself. It was a nice chair, expensive – the kind I imagined might litter the office of a wealthy businessman like my father. It surprised me, this chair.

Most shrinks I’d visited in the past had offices designed to inspire feelings of comfort and an idyllic home life. They’d been stuffed with bookshelves, packed with knickknacks, and always had a conveniently placed box of tissues within reach. I’m not sure who decided that ‘troubled youths’ like myself would prefer such an environment; if anything, it was a slap in the face, reminding me in no uncertain terms that my father’s modern, uncluttered mansion would never be anything like a home.

Psychiatrists – at least those I’d had the misfortune of knowing – didn’t typically go for the modern look; it was too clinical, too sterile to foster any false sense of camaraderie. So far, by her furniture selections alone, Dr. Joan Angelini had surpassed my expectations and was flying in the face of convention. Then again, nothing about this situation was conventional, considering she was the first shrink I’d ever sought out voluntarily.

For the tenth time in as many minutes I fought the urge to bolt for the door, reminding myself this torture was self-inflicted. She wasn’t some state-issued doctor, checking up on me at my father’s or the court’s behest; she was sitting there analyzing me strictly because I’d asked her to. I’d actually handed over several hundred dollars – and a small piece of my soul – and requested this torment.

And for what? One little panic attack had me running scared.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at the woman in front of me. She was in her late forties and stylishly dressed, her blonde hair coiffed in an elegant chignon and her blouse pressed to perfection.

“Is there something in particular you want me to ask you?” she replied with practiced indifference, unruffled by my irritable nature.

“Well, I’m not paying you to stare at me for sixty minutes.”

“Brooklyn, you sought me out. Why? What made you decide to come here?”

“I had a panic attack last night.”

“Okay, that’s nothing to be too concerned about. Nearly everyone experiences a panic attack at one point or another. Was this your first one?”

“No.” I took a deep breath, and prepared to unload fourteen years worth of pent up dysfunction on this woman. I just hoped she could handle it – it was her job, after all. “I’ve been having them sporadically since I witnessed my mother’s murder at age six. The drug-addict who killed her took her keys and drove off. Apparently he was so high he didn’t realize there was a little kid in the backseat.”

I watched Dr. Angelini’s eyes widen – not even shrinks could hide every emotion – and the flurry of her pen assured me she was documenting each detail. I kept my voice impassive as I offered her the facts – and nothing more.

“I hit him in the face and he let go of the wheel. We crashed. He grabbed me and used me as a human shield during a shoot-out with the police, but I don’t remember much of that. I think he held me so tight I passed out. I remember losing a lot of blood and not being able to breathe, though.”

“What triggered the panic attack last night?” she asked.

“Some asshole in a bar grabbed me from behind and lifted me off the ground,” I said, absently rubbing the bruises hidden beneath the sleeves of my jacket. “I couldn't breathe. I heard sirens and his voice in my head.”

“His?”

“Ernie Skinner. The guy who killed my mom.”

“So you’re saying the attack triggered a memory?”

“I think so,” I shrugged. “I’ve never really tried to remember much about that time in my life. In fact, I’ve done everything in my power to avoid it.”

“And now?”

I looked her in the eye. “Now, I think I want to remember.”

Dr. Angelini smiled for the first time since I’d walked into her office.

“That’s a start, Brooklyn.”

***

I walked through the door of my apartment and tossed my keys on the kitchen island. My meeting with Dr. Angelini hadn’t been as bad as I’d been expecting – for some reason, I’d opened up to her in ways I hadn’t with any of my other shrinks. Maybe I just hadn’t been ready to talk about it before now.

Lexi wasn’t home, which didn’t surprise me; she was spending most of her spare time at Tyler’s apartment these days. I didn't mind being alone, though. I’d learned self-sufficiency at age six.

Walking into my bedroom, I immediately noticed two things: Finn’s unreturned leather jacket still hanging from a hook on my closet door, and a bouquet of flowers lying on my bedside table. They definitely hadn’t been there this morning when I’d left for my appointment with Dr. Angelini and, to my knowledge, Lexi hadn’t been home all day.

I quickly crossed the room and looked at the flowers. They weren't in a vase and their only adornment was a black satin ribbon, which held bouquet together. The flowers themselves were unusual – a dozen black roses. There was no card with them, nor was there any indication as to how they had arrived in my bedroom. The hairs on my neck instantly stood on end and despite the warmth of the day, goosebumps flourished across my skin.

Someone had been in my room.

I whirled around and scanned the space for intruders, an umbrella clutched in my hand as a makeshift weapon. I checked under my bed, in the bathroom, Lexi’s room, the kitchen, and the living room. I wasn’t an investigator, but I figured I’d watched enough episodes of CSI to know what to look for. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed; there were no mysterious footprints in the carpet, the doors and windows were all locked and didn’t look tampered with, and not a magazine was out of place. It was as if the flowers had simply materialized.

Returning to my room, I scooped up the bouquet and tossed it into the small wastebasket next to my desk. As I released the stems, sharp thorns tore at my hands. I winced as several drops of blood fell from my fingertips, landing on the black petals in the trash bin and staining them crimson.

All kinds of red flags were going up in my mind as I thought about the flowers. Who had left them? How had they gotten into my room? What did they mean? Who gives someone black roses with the thorns still attached?

I wrapped a tissue around the worst of the scratches to stop the bleeding and pulled open my laptop. A quick Google search told me exactly what I wanted to know.

Black roses, which do not exist in nature, are most often used to symbolize intense hatred or death, though they can also mean farewell, rejuvenation, rebirth, or the return from a long journey in which one did not expect to survive. In folklore, black roses are a foreshadowing of death on the horizon; a person who comes across this ominous flower is likely to suffer their demise.

Death.

Someone was sending me roses as a harbinger of my coming death. My heart beat faster at the thought and I felt the walls closing in around me. My mind began to flip through a list of people who might want me killed, or at the very least scared. Gordon came to mind immediately. After the beating he took last night because of me, he might want revenge.

Another possibility, a suspect infinitely more deadly than Gordon, lurked in the recesses of my mind, but I didn’t dare examine it yet. I didn’t want to even consider him an option. Plus, he was safely locked up in San Quentin. If he’d been paroled, I would have been notified.

I pulled out my phone and quickly dialed Lexi’s number. When she didn’t pick up on the first try, I hung up and immediately redialed. She eventually answered, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Brooklyn? Is everything okay?”

“Lex, have you been here at all today?”

“No, I’ve been at Ty’s since last night. What’s going on?”

“There was a bouquet of black roses sitting on my bedroom table when I came home just now. The apartment was locked. I don’t know where they came from.”

“Did you say black roses?” Lexi whispered, a tremor in her voice.

“Yes.”

“I went through a big roses phase when I was helping my sister plan her wedding floral arrangements. Black roses aren’t good, Brookie. They usually mean—”

“Death,” I cut her off. “I know.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I think I’m going to call the police,” I said, feeling paranoid and foolish but not knowing what else to do.

“I’ll be right there,” she said, disconnecting the call before I could protest.

Within minutes, the front door opened and Lexi’s running footsteps could be heard as she made her way to my bedroom. Throwing open my door, she launched herself onto my bed and wrapped her arms around me. I was so stunned that I didn’t even have time to return her hug before she was pulling back to examine my face.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering in her blue eyes.

“I’m fine,” I shrugged. “Just a little freaked out I guess.”

“Where are they?”

I nodded in the direction of my trash can, and Lexi leapt off my bed to investigate the sinister bouquet. After a few minutes, she returned to sit on the bed.

“There was no note?”

“No.”

“Have you called the police yet?”

“I was waiting for you,” I lied. Truthfully, I’d nearly talked myself out of calling. It was probably just a stupid prank. Creepy? Yes. Life-threatening? No. Plus, what could the police do at this point?

“Brooklyn Grace Turner,” Lexi glared at me, easily seeing through my lie. “We are calling them. Right. Now.” She whipped out her cellphone and dialed the non-emergency number for the local police. As soon as it began to ring, she offered the phone to me.

“Charlottesville Police Station, how can I help you?”

“Um, hi. My name is Brooklyn Turner and I’m calling to report… I guess we’ve had a break in.”

“You guess?” The man sounded exasperated. “Ma’am, if this isn’t a serious call I’m going to have to hang up.”

“Well, I came home this afternoon and there was a bouquet of black roses sitting in my bedroom. I have no idea how they got there, nor does my roommate. The apartment was locked. And there was no note.”

“I’ll send someone over to check it out and talk to you. What’s the address?”

After rattling off our street name and house number, I was assured that an officer would arrive shortly. I handed Lexi’s phone back to her and she quickly grabbed my arm and towed me into the living room.

To my surprise, Tyler and Finn were sitting on our couch, talking quietly. Their conversation stopped and they both looked up as we entered the room. My eyes met Finn’s and quickly skittered away. I had no idea what to say to him after last night. Before I could move further into the room, Finn was on his feet and standing in front of me, his hands gently clasping my forearm and examining the smattering of dark bruises that Gordon’s hands had left behind.

I looked up into his eyes, which had clouded over with rage. Seeing the anger there, I tried to tug my arm from his grasp but he held fast.

“I’ll kill him,” he growled through clenched teeth. I’d never seen him so furious and I definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m fine, Finn. It’s no big deal, so please relax.”

“No big deal? Are you kidding me, Brooklyn?” Finn dropped my arm and began to pace around the living room. “He put his hands on you. You have fucking bruises! Please explain what part of that is not a big fucking deal!” He was yelling now, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. Abruptly, he turned back to face me.

“It is never okay for someone to put his hands on you like that. Please tell me you know that.”

“I do,” I said somewhat meekly. I hadn’t realized how much the sight of my bruises upset him. “But really, they don’t hurt anymore. And you took care of him last night.”

“I’d like to do a lot more than mess up his pretty face,” Finn muttered, evidently contemplating Gordon’s murder. To calm him, I placed both of my palms against his cheeks and turned his face toward mine. He startled, clearly surprised by my touch, but as soon as his eyes met mine he seemed to relax.

“Thank you for last night,” I said, holding his gaze. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

He pulled in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You don’t need to thank me.”

A knock at sounded loudly at the door and I dropped my hands from Finn’s face. Lexi pulled open the door, revealing a middle-aged police officer with a beer-gut, a graying beard, and a receding salt-and-pepper hairline.

“I’m Officer Carlson. I’ll be taking your statements and looking around the place for any signs of a break in. Can one of you tell me what happened?”

Lexi got the officer a glass of water and I sat on the couch with him discussing the flowers and their mysterious arrival. After jotting down my statement in a small black notebook, he followed me into my bedroom and examined the bouquet lying in my wastebasket.

“Well,” he drawled, scratching his protruding belly, “It’d have been better if you hadn’t touched them, of course, but I can take them back to the station and see if we can lift any prints off ‘em. It’s doubtful, though. Flowers aren’t exactly ideal for fingerprinting.” He snorted, evidently amusing himself.

Glad they sent out Charlottesville PD’s finest to help me through this ordeal.

After bagging the flowers and taking a cursory glance at the front door lock, Officer Carlson left. He promised to let me know as soon as they had any answers about the break in, but I certainly wouldn't be holding my breath. I closed the door behind him and walked slowly to my bedroom, ignoring the identical looks of concern plastered on Lexi, Tyler, and Finn’s faces. I needed to be alone.

Propping open my window, I slid out onto my rooftop and curled my knees up to my chest. I pillowed my arms on top of my knees, laid down my head, and closed my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. Somehow, even my rooftop didn’t feel safe today. The creepy flower delivery had me more rattled than I wanted to admit – not to myself and certainly not to the three people inside on my couch.

In fact, the only time I’d felt safe in weeks was when Finn had swooped in like a freaking knight in shining armor and carried me away from Gordon and the panic-inducing crowds at Styx last night. I wasn’t sure why he had such a calming effect on me. I’d never needed anyone to save me before, and I definitely didn’t want to need someone now.

I was alarmed to recognize how much I enjoyed Finn’s company – how often he made me laugh, how I’d find myself smiling against my will in his presence, how he’d forcefully reacted to seeing me hurt. Despite all that, I wasn’t sure he felt anything for me, other than desire to add me to the long list of bimbos he’d screwed.

I’m not sure how much time passed as I sat out on the rooftop. Dusk had begun to descend and the sun crept ever closer to the horizon. I heard the sound of my window sliding open, and Finn’s muffled curse as he maneuvered his tall frame through small opening. I didn’t turn my head to acknowledge him as he settled in next to me.

He was on my rooftop. Lexi had never even been out here with me. I should’ve felt violated or incensed at his intrusion into my private space, but somehow it felt right to have him here. He’d shared his highway lookout point with me, after all.

I waited for him to speak, but he remained silent. After a few minutes, he slipped his leather jacket, which he must’ve found hanging in my room, around my shoulders and wrapped an arm around me. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until his warmth was pressed against my side.

“Want to hear a bad joke?” Finn asked.

I turned my head to look at him and cocked one eyebrow. Was he being serious? He didn’t exactly seem like the comedian-type.

“I’ll take your silence as tacit approval,” he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. His eyebrows pulled together as if he were deep in thought. “What do you call a pony with a cough?”

I looked at him blankly.

“A little hoarse!” Finn laughed, evaluated my less-than-amused expression, and became contemplative once more. “Hmm, no luck with that one. Okay, why couldn't Dracula's wife get to sleep?”

Again, I failed to give him a reaction.

“Because, Brooklyn, she was up all night with his coffin.” He sighed dramatically. “That one was obvious! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t even trying to answer these.”

When I still didn’t laugh, Finn rolled his eyes. “Jeeze, tough crowd. Okay this is my last one. Mostly ‘cause I don’t know any more jokes. Baby, do you play Quiddich?”

I think my mouth fell open in shock. He couldn't possibly be making a Harry Potter joke…could he?

“‘Cause you sure look like a Keeper to me,” he finished, smiling broadly.

I couldn't help it -- I burst into laughter. “You like Harry Potter?” I asked incredulously.

“What kind of question is that?” Finn asked, his cheeks flushing slightly pink with embarrassment. “Everyone likes Harry Potter,” he grumbled. “Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve just never heard a guy admit to it before.” I dissolved into giggles at his obvious discomfort. “Seriously, where did you get those jokes? They’re pretty terrible, just so you know for any future attempts at cheering up sulking girls.”

“Oh, believe me, I know how bad they are. My little sister taught them to me a while back, though, and I can’t seem to forget them. Plus, they made you laugh…eventually.” His eyes crinkled up as he grinned playfully at me.

He was gorgeous all the time but seeing him like this, so boyish and lighthearted, made him even more attractive. My heart seemed to turn over in my chest as I took in his profile: the chiseled jawline, his perpetually messy dark hair, that freaking adorable dimple, and those stunning cobalt eyes. I leaned into his side and pressed a feather-light kiss to his jawline, settling my forehead into the hollow of his throat before he had time to react.

“Thank you. Again.” I laughed. “It seems like I’m always thanking you for something these days.”

Finn kissed the top of my head and shrugged. “What are friends for, right?”

Hmm. So we were still just ‘friends’ in his eyes. I pocketed that little nugget of information away for future dissection.

“So you have a little sister?”

“Step-sister, technically. I was adopted when I was ten.”

“Oh.” I wanted to know more, but was afraid to ask. If he told me his story, would I be obligated to tell mine?

“Yeah, my biological parents died when I was eight. Car crash. I spent a handful of years in foster and group homes before my adoptive parents found me. They saved my life.” His tone was reflective – there was no sadness in it, just a contemplative acceptance of his past. I didn’t apologize for his loss, because people had been telling me how sorry they were for fourteen years, and it had never changed a damn thing for me.

“I—” I broke off, cleared my throat, and tried again. “I spent some time in a group home too.” Turning my face into the crook of Finn’s neck, I blocked out the world and my voice dropped to a whisper. “Eventually, my biological father came and took me home with him. I’m not sure why he bothered; its not like he had any interest in raising me.”

We fell into silence for a time, watching as the stars slowly began to emerge in the darkening sky. We’d both left things unsaid, but it didn’t feel strange. It was oddly comforting to know that he had things he wasn’t ready to share yet either.

“It’s nice up here,” Finn whispered. “Peaceful.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, closing my eyes and thinking my rooftop had never felt so safe. I put the flower incident out of my mind, and tried to savor the feeling.

Finn and I eventually made our way back inside, joining Lexi and Tyler for pizza and a stupid Will Ferrell movie that was on TV. It was a blissfully normal ending to a horrible day.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 617