Page 30 of Cascade

“And what happened afterward?”

I sigh. Everything and nothing at all, is what I’d like to explain.He’s a code switcher.He didn’t pressure me to say more, he didn’t pity me. He didn’t run away screaming or pressure me to have sex. “He held me and said he has faith in me.”

“Sounds like a pretty empathic response,” she says, gesturing for me to say more. When I don’t, she points at a shelf of books behind her. “Some people, adult children of alcoholics, have written about not feeling worthy of stability, about seeking out the familiarity of chaos and abandonment. Could it be that your response to Archer’s support is rooted in fear?”

“Fear?”

Pam nods. “Tell me about your previous experiences with comfort and acceptance.”

I think back through the few examples I have of teachers reaching out to help me with homework in school, the nurse who showed me how to use a tampon when I got my period in junior high. As I rack my brains for something to say, Pam continues. “Your silence here is very telling, Opal. It seems like you haven’t had a lot of experience with safety. With trust.”

“Well I could have told you that,” I say with a defeated laugh. “It just feels easier to ignore him until he gives up and goes away and I can go back to how things were.”

“Are you here talking to me every week because you want things to be as they were before,” she prods. Sometimes I wonder. Every week I leave this office exhausted. My understanding of my entire life, all my decision making processes, all the things I do—my perspective on all of that is changing.

My hyper-sensitive awareness of safety is really a defense mechanism. My pathological need to be on time is my desperation for order among the chaos. “I feel like I don’t understand anything anymore. I don’t know what it means. What people do and say.”

“What do you think it means when Archer says he has faith in you?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to admit that he knows just how to talk to me, just how he knows how to talk to everyone. And that maybe someone thinks my research is as important as I think it can be. To admit that someone else believes I can help women. I haven’t even begun to tell Pam how I feel like an imposter every time I step into my scrubs, despite my degree from Penn and my track record of healthy patients and positive outcomes. The data doesn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t question the margin of error.

I spend the rest of the session dancing around admitting that maybe Archer thinks I’m a halfway decent midwife and health researcher, possibly even an ok person he wants to date. I clam up and I can tell that Pam knows, and that bugs me, too.

When I get home, Oscar seems like he can also tell I’m avoiding some sort of difficult emotional revelation. He doesn’t even come into the kitchen right away when I serve him his dinner in his fancy crystal pedestal bowl. I’m about to yell at him about it, when I hear a sound.

I know I’m not hearing things because Oscar arches his spine, clearly on edge. His hair stands up, and the longer I listen to the wailing and grunting sounds, the more mine rises as well. “Ok,” I tell Oscar, reaching for him and clutching him against my chest. I want to enjoy this moment where he seems to actually need me, but the noises grow louder and more alarming. “What should we do?” I start to pace as the sounds grow desperate. Is it a person? An animal?

I look toward the front window and I scream when I see a man outside.

Archer.

I sigh and open the door. “You scared the shit out of me,” I say, by way of greeting.

He tilts his head to the side and scratches at the back of his neck. “You weren’t taking my calls,” he says, his voice drifting off as he sags against the door frame. “I was thinking of you today, Precious. That’s all.”

Oscar climbs out of my arms and walks over to his sofa, staring at Archer, like he’s waiting for the man to sit down next to him. So of course, Archer walks inside and squats next to the cat, scratching his chin. I hate that my cat only lets me hold him when he’s afraid but he’s Mr. Cuddly with Archer.

“Well, come on in,” I say, swinging the door closed. And then I hear the noise again and Oscar yowls.

There’s a long scraping sound, like my patio furniture is being dragged around. And then I hear a scream—a human child screaming. I’m sure of it. I flick on the lights on my back porch, but I see nothing. The sound continues.

“What in the hell is that,” Archer says, craning his neck to look out the back window as he keeps a calming hand on Oscar.

There’s another scream out back and Archer says, “You got kids out there fighting over the last cupcake or something?”

I shrink back against the curtains. “I thought when I saw you out front that you were the noise. I have no idea—“ My words are cut off by another chorus of wails outside. “Archer, please!” I beg him. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“All right,” he says, standing up. He sets a hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me. I hate that I need him right now, because whatever is making those sounds is scaring the crap out of me. Oscar jumps back up into my arms and I hold him tight.

Archer steps toward the back door, scowling. “I think I might know what that is,” he says.

“Is it a child? It sounds like a child, Archer!” There’s another dragging sound—maybe the grill being shoved along the pavement—and a series of whimpers. My lip starts trembling and I feel myself withdrawing. I want to curl into a ball and hide.

“I really think it’s critters back there, sweetheart,” he says, stroking my arm with one hand and ruffling Oscar’s head with the other. “Can I turn your porch light on?”

I nod as he walks over to the patio door. “What if it’s a ghost child,” I plead with him. Surely nothing else could make those sorts of supernatural noises.

He squints into the darkness out back and flicks the lights on and off a few times. The noises don’t let up and Archer sighs. “Ok, Opal, I’ll go out there and just check.”

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