Mission Accomplished

“See that star, Bee?” the boy asked, pointing at an especially bright one in the night sky above our heads. My gaze followed the direction of his finger. When I found it, I smiled; I was getting better at picking out constellations every night.

We were sitting on the stoop again, and the night was colder than usual. It was well into November, now. I’d been here at the foster home for nearly three months, and winter was coming fast. I had to bring the thin blanket from my bed with me when I came out onto the back porch each night.

I hoped I wouldn’t still be here at Christmas time.

“It’s pretty,” I whispered, my lips forming the words but barely any sound escaping. The boy heard me though, looking away from his star to stare over at me. Though nearly a month had passed since that first night I’d told him my name, he still always looked happily surprised whenever I spoke to him, like he’d just opened a really awesome Christmas present or gotten a triple fudge sundae with his favorite ice cream flavors.

Maybe it was because I still wasn’t talking to anyone else.

“That star is part of a constellation called Cassiopeia,” the boy said. “See those four stars, shaped like a sloppy W?” He pointed from one star to another, tracing a map of the constellation with his finger.

I squinted, at first unable to see it. To me, the stars looked like a glowing, jumbled mess – sort of like the tangled strands of Christmas lights Mommy pulled down from the boxes in the attic when it was time to decorate the tree each year. It was hard to imagine ever picking out a pattern from within the chaos.

But then, as if something clicked in my mind, I did see it.

Cassiopeia: a lopsided, w-shaped mess of stars, shining so brightly I wondered how I’d never noticed it before.

“Remember the legend of Princess Andromeda?” the boy asked.

I nodded. I’d loved that story – it was the first one he’d ever told me.

“Cassiopeia was the queen – Andromeda’s mother. All the characters from that story have their own constellation: Pegasus, Perseus, Andromeda, Cassiopeia… They’re all up there.”

I watched, fascinated, as the boy pointed out cluster after cluster of stars.

“Show me another one,” I demanded quietly, enthralled.

“Okay,” the boy said, a look of concentration crossing his face. “See that one? That’s Pisces. It’s supposed to look like two fish swimming but I think it looks more like the letter V.”

My eyes followed the direction he was pointing and, though this one was harder, I eventually found it. When it popped into focus I smiled a real grin for the first time in months.

“How do you know about these?” I asked, my voice filled with awe.

“My dad taught me about them.” The boy’s voice was sad.

I decided I wouldn’t ask him to show me any more tonight, not when he sounded so upset. But I knew tomorrow night, I’d ask again. And the next. And the one after that.

I’d ask until he ran out of stars.

My fascination wasn’t exactly new– I’d always loved to look at the sky, especially after Mommy had painted stars on my ceiling. But now, they seemed enchanting, mysterious, and nearly irresistible. It was like he’d opened up a whole new world to explore, and I wanted – needed – to learn everything about the constellations floating in the darkness far above me.

“Bee, can I ask you something?” The boy’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

I nodded, tearing my eyes from the stars to look at his face.

“Why me?” he asked, his voice quiet and his eyes turned away from mine.

“What do you mean?”

The boy swallowed roughly, his small Adam’s apple jumping in his throat like he had a gumball stuck down there. I almost giggled as I watched it bob up and down but his voice had sounded so serious, I held it in.

“Why do you talk to me and no one else?”

I was silent for a while, thinking about his question. The truth was, I didn’t even fully know why I felt so comfortable with him and not the doctors or psychiatrists or the other the foster kids.

“I guess…” My voice faltered. “I guess it’s because you make me feel safe.”

“Safe?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged my shoulders, looking up at the sky. I knew the boy was staring at me, but I couldn’t look back at him just yet. “At first, your stories…they reminded me of my mom. She loved fairytales. She’d tell me one every night before I went to sleep.”

The boy didn’t answer. After a minute of silence, I felt his larger fingers wind through mine as he laced our hands together.

“Tell me a story,” I whispered, squeezing his hand tightly. “One with a happy ending.”

“Okay, Bee,” the boy said, returning my hand squeeze. Taking a deep breath, he began.

“Once upon a time…”

***

I woke to the sound of a guitar strumming softly. It was still nighttime and moonlight was streaming through the skylights overhead, illuminating the soft, down comforter I was wrapped in. After a brief moment of disorientation, I realized that I was in Finns’ bed.

I closed my eyes as it all came rushing back at once: the attack, my escape, talking to the paramedics and police officers, all the helplessness and the fear. I began to tremble, hugging the blankets closer around my body.

I forced myself to think of the good things that had happened tonight instead: the look on Finn’s face when we sang together on stage, my realization that I loved him, the way he’d cleaned me up and cared for me when we got back to his apartment.

Once I’d gotten the shaking under control, I opened my eyes and looked around the room for Finn. He wasn’t hard to find.

Dressed only in a pair of faded, unbuttoned blue jeans, he was sitting on a chair facing a window on the other side of the room with his guitar balanced on his lap. I’m not sure he was even aware that he’d woken me, his playing was so soft. I vaguely recognized the tune he was strumming, but I couldn’t put a name to it until he began singing quietly.

The melody was haunting, the words unforgettable.

Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in….

As he reached the chorus, the lyrics pleading for me to take him in and give him shelter, I finally remembered the name of the song and my eyes filled with tears.

He was playing I and Love and You by the Avett Brothers. And it was perfect.

When his voice trailed off with the final words, the I love you hanging in the air like a specter, it was utterly silent in the room except for the sound of our quiet breathing. I felt like an intruder – like I’d witnessed something he might not have wanted me to see.

Did I pretend to be asleep? Act like I hadn’t heard him, like his words hadn’t reached into my chest and grabbed me by the heart? I wasn’t sure.

Before I could decide, his voice cut through the silence.

“How’s your head?” he asked, his shirtless back still turned to me.

Well, I guess this means he knows I’m awake.

“It’s alright,” I whispered.

He rose from the chair, setting down his guitar and turning to face me across the dark room. The sight of him made my breath catch in my throat. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it over and over. Bare chested, his muscles and tattoos had never looked more prominent – and he’d never looked sexier. With half his face in shadow and the other half illuminated by an errant moonbeam, he was otherworldly gorgeous, like some kind of dark angel sent to save and destroy me all at once.

He approached the bed with his lithe, inherently graceful stride, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I was entranced by the way he moved toward me, fixated by the fluid way his muscles contracted beneath the skin. His eyes were intense on mine when he reached the side of the bed, stopping three feet away – just out of reach. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but I could see the indecision in his eyes and I didn’t like it.

“I need to tell you something,” his voice sounded more serious than I’d ever heard it. I instantly felt a cold sweat break out across my body, my heart beginning to hammer in my chest as my mind raced with possibilities.

“What is it?” I asked. “Did the police call?”

Finn expelled a harsh breath through his lips and dragged his hands up through his hair; whatever it was, he definitely didn’t want to tell me about it.

“Finn?” I prompted.

He finally met my eyes. They were burning with frustration, anger, and sympathy. My heart rate increased even more.

“Officer Carlson called. They checked out Gordon’s alibi,” he took a deep breath, and I watched as his hands curled into fists. “It’s airtight. They say it couldn’t have been him.”

Finn smashed his right fist angrily into the palm of his left hand, his face cloudy with rage and his eyes far away; it wasn’t hard to guess exactly whose face he was imagining that fist smashing into. In fact, part of me was worried that he was seconds away from tracking down Gordon and extracting his own vigilante version of justice.

“Come here,” I said, stretching out a hand to him. When his fingers twined through mine, I gave his hand a sharp tug, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling forward toward me onto the bed. After regaining his balance, he settled in next to me, though his expression remained distant with thoughts of Gordon and revenge.

“Finn,” I said, snapping a finger in front of his face. His eyes flew to mine. “You can’t kill him, caveman. Haven’t you heard? Pretty boys like you don’t do well in prison.”

His lips turned up in a small, involuntary smile. I was getting to him.

“You’d end up with a 350 pound roommate named ‘Tiny,’ who’d totally take the top bunk and make you his bitch.”

His eyes narrowed, but I could tell he was fighting a laugh.

“Oh, hey, do you know what prisoner’s use to contact each other?” I asked him.

He raised one dark eyebrow at me skeptically.

“Cell phones. Get it?” I elbowed him in the stomach for emphasis.

The dimple popped out, and I knew I had him. Soon, his small smile turned into a grin, and then to full blown laughter as he processed my pun.

“And you said my jokes were terrible…” he gasped out, trying to catch his breath.

“Whatever,” I shrugged. “Mission accomplished.”

“And what mission would that be?”

“Well, since you haven’t yet left to go kill Gordon, I’d say my efforts to detain you are succeeding.”

“I don’t know about that,” he muttered, the smile fading from his expression. “That guy better pray he doesn’t cross my path. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“Well, I’ll just have to take your mind off him then,” I said, abruptly sitting up fully in the bed and allowing the comforter to fall down around my waist. Finn had evidently forgotten about the fact that I was completely naked beneath the covers; his eyes immediately fixed on my breasts and I watched with more than a little satisfaction as his eyes dilated at the sight of them.

“Mission accomplished,” he echoed softly, moving closer to me on the bed. Reaching out his hands, he gently palmed my breasts, and I nearly moaned at the sensation of his guitar-calloused fingers against my skin. Arching into his touch, I closed my eyes and felt the whisper-soft brush of Finn’s lips across my own.

When he captured my mouth with his, need flared hotly between us. While he used his hands on me, I trailed my own down the planes of his muscular chest, delighting in the feel of his rippled abs against my fingertips. Pulling my mouth away from his, my eyes sprang open and I began to trace my fingers along the tribal whorls of ink on his bicep and shoulder. When my fingers had fully navigated the maze of his tattoo, I lowered my mouth to the design and began to follow the same path with my tongue, as I’d long wanted to do.

Finn growled low in his throat, evidently enjoying my exploration of his body art. When I’d finished with his arm, my mouth traveled up over his shoulder and collarbone, down the slope of his chest, and finally to his stomach, leaving a trail of damp, open-mouthed kisses behind. As my lips neared the waistline of Finn’s jeans, he gently reached down and pulled me back up to eye level.

After a lingering, fierce kiss, he stared into my eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

I knew what he meant. After what had almost happened to me tonight, it was probably odd that I felt this consuming need to be with Finn. I didn’t want to overthink it, though. I didn’t want to think period. I just wanted to feel.

I looked into Finn’s eyes, hoping my answer was apparent in their depths. “I’m sure,” I said. “I want you to erase him, Finn. I need you to.”

At my words, a tender look came into his eyes. “I will, princess. I promise.”

Kissing me sweetly, he used his hands and his mouth over every part of me, eradicating any thoughts of my attacker from even the darkest corners of my mind. When he finally rid himself of his jeans and braced himself over my body, Finn stared down at me as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“I love you, Brooklyn,” he breathed, as he slid slowly inside me. “I always have.”

I gasped, both at the feeling of him and at his words. Wrapping my arms and legs around him as tightly as I could, I matched his rhythm. We were perfectly in sync, moving together as one, and I could feel something building inside me, more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced.

He loves me.

My hips lifted to his, faster and faster as we climbed toward release.

He loves me.

My fingernails dug into his back as I tried to press us even closer.

He loves me.

My back arched off the bed and a scream built in my throat.

When I exploded into my orgasm, I cried out so loudly I would have been embarrassed if Finn hadn’t been right there with me, yelling my name as he came. Together, we climaxed into a powerful, passionate release that I knew, for however long I lived, I’d never forget.

Afterward, Finn pulled me up to lie against his chest so he wasn’t crushing me or putting any weight on my injuries. With his warm, strong arms wrapped around me, I was safe. I was loved. And I was happier than I could ever remember being.

“I love you too,” I whispered, smiling against his chest. His body went utterly still beneath mine, and I heard the breath catch in his throat at my words. One of his hands cupped my chin and he tilted my head back so I was able to see his face.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “Because once you tell me you love me, that’s it, Bee. You’re mine. And I’m not ever giving you up.”

“Hmmm, well in that case….” I teased, grinning playfully up at him.

He did not appreciate my joke; his face remained utterly serious as he waited for my answer.

“Oh, you idiot!” I smacked his arm. “Yes, I love you. Do I need to get it tattooed on my ass and sign a binding legal document, or will a verbal confirmation be enough?” I rolled my eyes.

“You’re a smartass,” he said, grabbing my hips and settling me on top so I was straddling him. “But I love you anyway.”

I had just enough time to see that adorable dimple pop out in his right cheek before his lips were again on mine, so fierce it felt like he was branding me as his, and he was slipping back inside me.

***

“So, a lot has happened since our last session.”

Dr. Angelini’s normal tone of self-possession and composure was slightly ruffled today. I couldn’t really blame her, I supposed; it probably wasn’t every day that one of her patients divulged about a slew of recovered dream-memories, a near-fatal sexual assault in an alleyway, and a foray into a first-ever healthy romantic relationship – all in one sixty-minute session, I might add.

Just unloading all the details of everything that had happened in the last week had eaten up most of our time together. I wasn’t sure how much psychoanalyzing she could possibly get done in twenty minutes, but I didn’t peg the good doc as a quitter.

“How are you feeling about the attack?” she asked. “You mentioned you spoke with the police again this morning.”

“They say it’s not Gordon,” I shrugged. “And I don’t really know what I’m feeling. Is there a right emotion for this situation that I should be experiencing? Because, except for the hour right after it happened, when I cried, I’ve been feeling generally normal. I’m not scared to go out at night, or walk to my car alone. I don’t want to board up my windows and isolate myself for the next several decades with twenty-seven cats,” I explained. “I feel like me – just with some extra cuts and bruises.”

“There’s no singular right or wrong emotion, Brooklyn. You don’t necessarily need to feel traumatized, simply because you’ve experienced a trauma.” Dr. Angelini stared at me across her pristine glass coffee table. I vaguely wondered how she kept it so clean; there wasn’t a coffee ring or a fingerprint smudge on the damn thing.

“Brooklyn, are you still with me?” Dr. Angelini asked, one eyebrow raised in question.

I nodded, forcing myself to stop the thought process concerning her Windex-ing habits and focus on her words. They were costing me several hundred dollars per hour, after all.

“I think it’s also possible that, because this isn’t the first trauma you’ve experienced, you may be slightly desensitized to risky or potentially life-threatening incidents,” she continued.

“So I’m numb to danger,” I mused, miming karate chops in the air as I slayed invisible enemies. “Does that count as a super-power?”

“Brooklyn,” she scolded, her voice stern. “Please take this seriously.”

“I am! It was a joke,” I scoffed. She was overreacting, big time.

“I do admit that your desensitization to trauma could be an asset in certain threatening situations, such as when you needed to defend yourself in that alley and keep your wits about you,” she explained.

I nodded, sensing a big “but” coming.

“But,” There it is. “ It may also be a detriment, because it can make you reckless. You have no real sense of fear, and you’re completely unafraid to push the boundaries of your personal safety – whether it’s with casual sexual encounters, excessive drinking, or going out into a dark alleyway alone, with no viable forms of communication at hand.”

I thought about her words for a moment. I guessed there was some truth to what she was saying, but it wasn’t exactly something I would be able to fix. As I saw it, I’d been fucked up for so long it was no longer a changeable trait, but an ingrained part of my nature. Sure, I could get better at managing my fucked-upedness, but – let’s face facts here – I’d never be completely normal.

“I don’t suppose there’s a magic pill you can prescribe to fix this little problem of mine, right?” I joked.

“You don’t need medication, Brooklyn. Just keep your cellphone with you next time,” Dr. Angelini smirked.

I laughed. “Did you just make a joke, doc?”

“Definitely not,” she denied, inducing an eye roll from me almost instantly. “Now, I want to discuss your dreams in the few minutes we have left. Have you had more since we last spoke?”

“Yes, and they seem to be getting more frequent; they’ve pretty much taken the place of my regular nightmares – which is okay, cause my nightmares sucked and I look way better sans the dark under-eye circles.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dr. Angelini was holding back a laugh.

“I’ve dreamed about the foster home and the boy three nights this week,” I continued. “And I think you’re right about them being triggered memories – there’s no way my dreams would be that specific if they hadn’t actually happened to me at some point. So now I guess all I have to do is find their trigger.”

“I don’t believe it’s something you should necessarily be actively searching for. When your mind is ready, you may simply remember naturally,” Dr. Angelini shrugged delicately. “And as I’ve said before, there’s no exact science to how our memories work, Brooklyn. My advice would be to live your life and not dwell too much in the past. It sounds like, for the first time in a long while, you’re really enjoying just being in your present.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, smiling wistfully as I thought of Finn. “I finally have something that makes me excited to get out of bed in the morning.”

Our time was officially up, and we’d barely even scratched the surface of everything that had been going on in my soap opera of a life. Dr. Angelini stood and ushered me to the door, reaching out at the last second to press a business card into my hand.

“This has my personal cell number on it. I don’t usually give it out to patients,” she explained. “But I want you to know that I’m always here if you need me, Brooklyn – even if it isn’t for a scheduled session.”

It was clear that her concern for my welfare extended beyond that of a normal doctor-patient relationship, and her maternal gesture made my heart ache. I wondered whether Dr. Angelini had kids and a family of her own; she didn’t wear a wedding ring, so I assumed she wasn’t married, and she didn’t exactly give off a motherly vibe. I was suddenly struck by the thought that she might be a little bit lonely too.

Somehow, that endeared her to me further.

Though I was definitely not a hugger – and I got the sense that Dr. Angelini wasn’t either – I tentatively wrapped my arms around her petite frame and lightly embraced her. She startled at first but recovered quickly, her arms coming up to squeeze me equally hesitantly. After what was perhaps the most awkward hug in the history of mankind, I detached and took a hasty step out of her space.

Clearing my throat, I did my best to dismiss the uncharacteristic display of affection I’d just initiated as no big deal. “Well, thanks doc. I can’t make any promises that your number won’t end up in an newspaper ad for a phone-sex hotline, though,” I teased.

“Well, Brooklyn,” she grinned the most genuine smile I’d ever seen from her, pushing me out into the hallway. “I suppose if that happens, I can’t promise that I won’t recommend you for a lifetime of institutionalization in one of Virginia’s finest state asylums.”

I laughed as I walked down the hall, turning to toss a goodbye over my shoulder. “See you next week, doc.”

“Until then, Brooklyn,” she returned, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

Maybe it was sad, because I was paying her and all, but I was pretty sure my shrink was one of the best friends I’d ever had.

Or, maybe I was crazy after all.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 608