Convergence Read online

  There was something about him that tugged at a memory. Did I know him? Had I met him somewhere? If so, I couldn’t place him, but there was something vaguely familiar about him.

  Especially his eyes.

  It’s his eyes I remembered, like two bits of coal. So dark, I suspected if I were close enough, differentiating between the iris and pupil would prove impossible.

  As he watched me, the intensity of his stare seared like an open flame held to my skin. I jerked back against my seat—a reflexive move to get away lest I get burned. My grip on the pen I held loosened, and it dropped onto the open book. Flustered, I looked from him to the book, the title page now marred by a scribble of ink.

  “Oh… I’m sorry.”

  I looked back to where he’d stood, but he was gone.

  Again, I apologized to the young woman, then glanced over my shoulder. “Paige, hand me a fresh book.” The assistant from my publishing house pulled a book from a box behind the table.

  “Thanks.” I took the book and returned my attention to Aubrey. I held up my hand, opened and closed it a few times, the thin platinum and diamond wedding band I wore catching the light and winking. “Writer’s cramp.”

  I picked up the pen. “Let me try that again.” After I’d signed her book, when she turned to leave, I pivoted slowly, taking in the few customers milling about behind me and on either side of the store. When I finally looked through the line of faces again, it seemed the man had vanished.

  It wasn’t until much later—ninety minutes or more, maybe—after I’d pushed the thought of him aside, that he reappeared. He stood outside, one hand cupped on the glass of one of the large windows, a book in his other hand. He held the book clutched to his chest as though it were an object of great value, something treasured. He peered into the store, staring at me.

  Was it my book he still held?

  I pulled away from his gaze. “Paige,” I whispered. She was straightening a stack of books on the end of the table. When she looked up, I turned back and gestured to the window, but again, he was gone.

  Paige looked from the window to me. “What?”

  Mouth dry, I reached for my water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.

  “Deni? What’s wrong?”

  “I just… Never mind.”

  Had I signed his book before I noticed him watching me? If so, could I retrieve his name from the hundreds I’d heard that afternoon? It seemed unlikely. Although I tried to make eye contact with each reader and listened as they said their name, I didn’t recall him. Anyway, why was he different than any of the others looking at me? I was making something out of nothing. He probably just hadn’t wanted to wait in line for me to sign his book. Maybe he’d left and then come back to see if the line had dwindled.

  What did it matter? I successfully put him out of my mind. In fact, I didn’t even think to mention him to Keith when I called home that night.

  I didn’t think of him again.

  Until the next time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adelia

  May 5, 2017

  Knowledge equals protection.

  I held that belief the way some women hold their keys positioned between their fingers when walking alone through a dark parking lot. Or the way some hold the grip of a handgun, placing their faith in its force.

  Knowledge became my higher power. Pursuit of knowledge my religion.

  A woman must know how to protect herself.

  But intellectual knowledge and experiential knowledge are the difference between life and death—the chasm between the two unknowable, too vast to understand. Circumstances aren’t ours to control. It is only faith, belief in what cannot be fully known or understood, that truly saves.

  That realization was hard-won and ultimately determined my course.

  The twisting two-lane highway is flanked by orange and lemon orchards on either side, with wheat-colored foothills rising above the lush green trees. The landscape belies the dry, hot wind laced with grit that roars through the interior of the open Jeep, exfoliating my bare arms, face, and head as my foot weighs on the accelerator. The sun overhead punishes. Just days ago it rained—a cold, pounding storm. It seems we skipped spring.

  The rock outcroppings rising from the rolling hills stand like personal monuments, affirming my course. I lift one hand from the steering wheel and run it over my bare scalp.

  There is no room for doubt.

  When I fly by a road sign marked with a gas pump icon, I steal a glance at the gas gauge on the dash. I know I have enough fuel remaining to make it to my destination, but when I reach the small station in Lemon Cove, just fifteen minutes or so outside Three Rivers, I stop anyway. The station looks like something from a time warp. Vintage 1950 at least. I slow and pull off the highway and into the station. As I make my way to the single pump, disintegrating asphalt crunches under my tires, and when the Jeep drops into and out of a gaping pothole, muddy water splashes. The runoff has made its way down to the foothills.

  The Jeep parked in front of the pump, I get out and stretch, my muscles stiff from sitting for so long.

  After topping off my tank, I pull away from the pump and park along the side of the station near the restroom. I grab my backpack off the backseat and hop out. When I realize I need a key for the restroom, I head back around to the front of the station and go inside. Behind a counter cluttered with packets of gum, mints, cigarette lighters, maps, and postcards, a man about the same vintage as the station looks up from the newspaper he’s reading and eyes me, his expression wary.

  “Restroom key?”

  He studies me, his gaze shifting to the ink on my scalp.

  I lower my eyes and stare at the cement floor worn to a sheen.

  He grunts. “Here.”

  I look back up and take the key that’s attached to an old dented black and gold California license plate. “Thanks.”

  When I walk into the restroom, I’m assaulted by the sharp scents of deodorizer and what it’s meant to mask. But I’m grateful for the privacy and the lock on the door. I hang my backpack on a hook, then lay the key and license plate on the edge of the sink. I turn on the faucet and bend to splash my face and head with cool water. I rinse the grit from my face and scalp. Eyes closed, I pull paper towels from the dispenser and dry off.

  I dare a peek into the cracked mirror hanging over the sink. The image reflected startles me, as it always does—it is incongruent with who I am, or at least who I perceive myself to be. Even my eyes, the portals to my memories, are unfamiliar. Fire smolders in their depths.

  The sun has darkened my olive-toned skin, despite sunscreen. I turn a bit so I can see the side of my head in the mirror. I trail my fingers over the intricate tattoo inked there and let it remind me of why I’m here.

  I turn away from the mirror and don’t look back. I throw the paper towel into the trash, then dig through my backpack, pull out a tube of sunscreen, reapply it, and toss it back into the pack. I check the time on my phone. This is my last stop before Three Rivers. Am I ready? Yes. I’ve done everything necessary, except for one thing. It’s the reason I stopped here.

  I reach into the backpack again and pull out my wallet, which is light in my hand. The black leather is smooth, worn. I open the wallet to the driver’s license in the first plastic pocket. I stare at it a moment.

  Adelia Lynn Sanchez

  DOB: 06/03/78

  I flip through the rest of the plastic flaps where I’ve kept just the essentials. When I reach the last flap, it’s there. One photo. I’ve kept it as long as possible. But now…

  I trace the small smiling face in the photo with one finger, almost feeling the silk of his skin through the plastic sheath. The scent of his shampoo—baby shampoo, even at seven years old—mingled with grass, sweat, and his own scent, all boy, seems to rise from the picture. I swallow the ache in my throat. A shock of dark hair covers his tanned forehead. How many times have I pushed that hair out of his eyes?

  Will I see him
again? I have to see him again. Hold him again. There is no other option. I won’t entertain other options.

  I wedge my fingers under the plastic and pull the photo out of the pocket. When I do, something else comes with it and drops to the floor. I stoop and pick up a business card that must have been tucked behind the photo.

  Denilyn Rossi, PsyD

  Clinical Psychologist

  Chair, Department of Psychology, Pacific Covenant University

  I flip the card over and read the contact information as I shake my head. I have no need for her here. I should have bought one of the lighters on the counter inside the station so I could torch the card. Instead, I set my wallet and the photo on top of the restroom key and tear the business card in half, then tear it again. I rip the card until my anger is spent and just bits of paper remain. Then I gather them up, dump them into the toilet bowl, and flush.

  I turn back to the sink, pick up the picture and memorize, again, each contour of his face. I close my eyes and press the photo to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m doing this for you. It’s all for you. One day, I pray you’ll understand.” My voice is thick. His face in the photo wavers as tears fill my eyes, then spill. I choke back a sob as I pull toilet paper from the roll to wipe my eyes and nose.

  These are the last tears I’ll shed. I can’t afford to indulge my emotions. I can’t allow them to douse the fire within.

  It’s time for a singular focus.

  I tear the photo to shreds. I can’t have him linked to me in any way. Not here. Not now. I hold the pieces over the toilet bowl and drop them one by one. They flutter, land in the water, and float, his image scattered and distorted. I take a deep breath, reach for the handle, and flush again.

  This time my life, my heart, swirls and disappears.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Denilyn

  January 9, 2017

  I pull on my coat, grab my briefcase, and close and lock my office door—the mirrored image of my morning routine. But before leaving, I have something to take care of. I tap on Ryan’s partially closed office door, then lean around it. “Have a minute?”

  “Sure. Come in.” He turns from his computer monitor and motions to a chair across from his desk.

  “No thanks. I have to run. I just want to apologize. You know, for earlier… I’m sorry I was—”

  He holds up one hand. “No need. I knew today might pose some challenges. Just here to help if you need anything.”

  “It was a long time ago, right?”

  He shrugs.

  “Anyway, I am sorry I was short with you. Have time for lunch later this week? We can catch up.”

  “Sounds good. Let me know what works.”

  I take a step inside his office. “Wow, it looks great in here.”

  He turns toward the window. “Can’t beat the view, right?”

  “It’s beautiful, especially in spring when the oaks are green and the buckeyes blossom.” I point back toward the hallway. “I have to go. Don’t work too late. You can’t get it all done in one day.”

  “I’ll get out of here soon.”

  A few students linger in the hallway, waiting for meetings with professors, still trying to add classes or change their schedules in some way. Things don’t really settle until midmonth, sometimes later. A few of the faces are familiar.

  It’s good to be back, isn’t it? To have a schedule and work to occupy my mind. I think of Willow as I make my way to the stairs. What drama did she endure over the break? I’ve spent enough time with her to suspect her home life has left scars.

  As I reach the exit to leave the building, a gust of wind pushes an unlatched door open and it clatters back against the frame then slams shut. The bang reverberates in the quiet hall, and my heart rate accelerates as though a shot were fired. I stop, put my hand on my chest, and watch as the door blows open again. The rain has subsided for the moment, but the storm still brews.

  When my heart rate slows, I pull an elastic band from my coat pocket, gather my hair into a ponytail, and secure it. I exit the building and lean into the wind as I cross the campus and head to the faculty building where most of the faculty offices and the faculty mailboxes are housed. Under the canopy of oak trees, leaves that survived fall now twirl around my feet and dance across the pathway and grass.

  I pick up my pace, anxious to check my mailbox before the building is locked for the night. I enter the brick building and make my way to the mailboxes. When I reach the boxes, I pull a stack of envelopes and papers out of my box.

  Before I drop the mail into my briefcase to go through later, I shuffle through the items. When I come to a plain white envelope, heavy in my hand, I set it aside, curious. I put the rest of the items into my briefcase, pick up the envelope, and turn to go. As I walk back down the hallway to leave the building, I turn the envelope over, slide my finger under the sealed flap, and look inside.

  I stop in the hallway, reach into the envelope, and pull out a silver Cross pen. I roll it over and read my name engraved on the side.

  How did it…?

  I turn and head back to the mailboxes, intent on finding out who put the pen there. But my steps slow as I go. I stop before I reach the boxes and look at the envelope again. No name on the front. I open it again and look inside—no note with the pen. Students and faculty alike have access to the boxes. Anyone could have put the pen there. The logical explanation, I know, is that someone found the pen, saw my name on it, and dropped it in my box.

  “You look perplexed.”

  I look up from the envelope. “Jon…” His french-blue shirt matches his eyes, and his sandy-blond hair looks windblown, not unlike I imagine mine looks. “It’s good to see you.” I glance at the envelope again. “Perplexed?” I look back to him. “Good assessment. I’d lost a pen—a favorite pen. It just turned up in my mailbox.”

  “Nice. Someone found it?”

  “Evidently. There was no note or anything. Just the pen in an envelope.” I pull my briefcase off my shoulder and drop the envelope with the pen inside one of the pockets.”

  “Happy New Year, Deni. How were your holidays?”

  “Peaceful. Good. How about yours? How’d the kids do?” Jon lost his wife to cancer four years ago. They had three children under ten years old when she died.

  “Not bad. We’ve established new traditions, and it seems to get a little easier each year. Although, the holidays are always a reminder.”

  “I can imagine. Well, actually, I probably can’t.”

  Jon points down the hallway. “Heading out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk with you if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.”

  We turn and head toward the front of the building, walking side by side.

  “I’ve missed you, Deni.”

  I glance at him as we walk, unsure of how to respond. A pang of guilt, or maybe regret, nudges me.

  “Sorry, just being honest. I will respect the boundaries you’ve set.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And honestly, I’ve missed you too. I’m just…”

  He slows and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I know. I don’t respect just your boundaries—I respect you. I can’t say I understand, exactly, because I haven’t been through what you’ve been through. But I trust that when, or if the time is ever right, you’ll let me know. In the meantime, I’m satisfied with friendship. I’d like to maintain our friendship.”

  I stop, turn toward him, and look up into his eyes. “I’d like that too. Really. I appreciate you. More than you know.”

  “Careful, you don’t want to lead on the romantic English professor.” He chuckles.

  “I may want to, but I won’t.” I take a step back. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  When we step into the biting wind and part ways, it isn’t the conversation with Jon that I dwell on. Instead, it’s the pen.

  Who found it? If that is indeed what happened. And again, I know it’s the only logical e
xplanation. But… The pen is always in my desk drawer—or was always there. I never took it with me anywhere. I’m sure of that.

  At least I think I’m sure.

  When I reach the edge of the parking lot, I slow my pace then stop.

  I reach into my pocket for my keys, but as I do, the sensation of someone watching me creeps up behind me. My breath catches and my back tingles. Every instinct screams at me to flee, to run. Instead, I plant myself. “No one’s there,” I whisper. “No one.”

  My senses, hypervigilant, are often misguided. I take a few steps into the parking lot as I work, and fail, to ignore the sensation. I stop again, and this time I spin around. I survey the path behind me, the area around me. The only people out in this weather have heads ducked and are either jogging across campus to another building or making a quick retreat to their cars.

  I turn back to the parking lot and continue my own brisk retreat. But the sense that someone is monitoring my every move persists. When I reach my SUV, I take another quick look around the parking lot then click my key fob, open the door, toss my briefcase across the console onto the passenger seat, and jump inside.

  By the time I reach to lock the doors, my breaths are coming in rapid bursts, and my hands, despite the cold, are damp. My heart pummels my chest, and I swallow back tears. I try to take a deep breath, but my windpipe feels constricted and I’m certain air isn’t reaching my lungs. I gasp. “I’m… here.” I inhale, my breath still shallow. Then exhale. “One, two… I’m… safe.” I lean my forehead on the steering wheel and continue the intentional breathing, trying to keep myself grounded in the moment. Instead, panic accosts me until I’m sure I’ll pass out. “One…” I gasp again, and this time my lungs inflate just a bit. I inhale again, and more air reaches my lungs. “One, two… three.”