Page 110 of Water's Edge

I get the Scotch and tumbler with the Idaho motel logo out of my desk drawer. I’m drawn to the box of tapes on top of my closet. I keep the loaner gun in my holster. The weight under my arm is comforting, reassuring. I get the tapes down and put them on the desk with the recorder. I can smell myself. The smell of blood is still in my nostrils. Blood is still under my fingernails. I want to take a shower but I’m too tired. I’ll wash my hands and face later. I’ll take a shower after I sleep.

I pour the tumbler half full. No ice. The Scotch is cheap. After the first sip, they all taste the same. Something on an old tape of a session with Dr. Albright comes to me. Of course, I remember it word for word.

I can picture her white hair, her kind face, as we talk.

Dr. A: But you’re here now. You’re safe.

Me: I think so. But I don’t know for sure. No one really does.

Dr. A: I suppose that’s so. But you’re no longer in imminent danger.

That’s what you think. What was true then is true now. I have a stalker.I’m not conscious of moving my hand, but I’ve drawn the loaner .45 and am holding it on top of the desk. Again, I don’t know why they need to test my gun. I told them I shot the asshole. I know I’ll sleep with this one for a while.

I look at the top of my desk. Cheap tumbler. Cheap Scotch. Cassette tapes in a box. Cassette player. Two framed pictures of my brother. One was taken at my aunt Ginger’s house in Idaho. The other is of Hayden when he graduated from high school. On the back of that one is a handwritten note:

Rylee, I’m graduating today. You are not here (as always). My foster parents are nice people, but they don’t replace my family. Thanks for taking all of that away from me.

I deserve his hate. But still I send emails and check for emails several times a day. I’ve written him dozens of times. He hasn’t written back.

I punish myself by listening to the taped sessions with Dr. Albright. I guess they’ve helped to open me up, as she was fond of saying. Giving me a new life. I don’t think so. I slot in a new tape and my finger pauses over the “play” button when I hear a knock at the door.

There’s a sharp pain in my chest because I’ve jumped up, and my weapon is in my hand. I don’t think a killer would knock first,but Jimmy knocked at Ronnie’s before he shot me twice. I move to the door and stand to one side, gun held in both hands, muzzle pointed at the middle of the door. I wait. Another knock. Not forceful. I move to the other side of the door where the doorknob is. I unlatch the door, twist the knob, and pull it open.

My breath catches in my throat and I consciously have to ease the pressure my finger has put on the trigger.

“I figured I’d get a reception,” Hayden says, “but I didn’t think it would be this.”

I can’t stop staring. My mouth is hanging open. I will my arms to lower the gun.

“Can I come in?” He smiles that same stupid lopsided smile of his and that breaks the spell.

I stand back and he enters. I close and lock the door behind him. He walks into the sparse room where I have a couch and a kitchen chair. I still don’t have a television. Too many of the programs still trigger bad memories. I only think of the TV because Hayden spent hours in front of it.

My brother is more than six feet tall and his skinny ribbed chest and slumped shoulders have broadened and filled out with muscle. He’s wearing khaki cargo pants that are a little too snug and a blue-and-red T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front. His hair is short and sun-bleached the color of beach sand. His eyes, however, have changed. The color is the same, but they aren’t the scared-shitless eyes of a little boy. They exude confidence. Experience. Danger. They’ve seen things even I haven’t seen. He’s me, only maybe more messed up.

“How have you been?” It comes out of my mouth and I cringe inwardly.Stupid. Stupid.

“I’m home. That’s all that matters. Right, Rylee? Or is it Megan now?” He grins, but I can’t tell if it’s a humorous grin. It’s more accusing. Sharp.

“You’re home.” I can feel my eyes tear up, but I don’t want to cry. It would be wrong. I’ll never cry in front of Hayden. I was the strong one. Regardless, I don’t trust myself to speak.

“Are you expecting someone else?”

He’s looking at my gun.

I put it in the shoulder holster but don’t take it off. “No,” I lie. I’m always lying to him. “I just had a tough couple of days. Still haven’t wound down, I guess.”

“I heard all about it on the news. You’re on paid leave?”

“I guess I am.”

“The case is over?”

“Yeah. It is.” Except for my stalker. “How long are you home?”

The look he gives me is indifferent. Not the Hayden I remember. But what did I expect? He’s been in Afghanistan. That he’s in one piece is amazing.

“I’m done. Out. Honorably discharged.”

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