Camp Damascus(14)

The next thing I know, my mother is blasting on the living room light and rushing toward me with a look of belligerent alarm. “Rose! Oh, son of a gun!” she cries out.

A moment later, she steps on a shard of glass and erupts with an unbridled howl. “Shoot!”

“There’s someone in the house!” I scream, tears streaming down my face. “She’s in the closet!”

A look of grave concern crosses my mother’s face as I say this, glancing between me and the nearby door as she hobbles over and crouches down.

“What are you saying?” Lisa questions. “Who is in the closet?”

“The lady from the falls!” I clamor wildly, losing myself in the mighty flood of emotion that courses through my body. “She had these blank eyes and weird teeth! She’s wearing a uniform!”

My mother’s eyebrows furrow as I say this.

Dad arrives in the kitchen doorway, panicked and out of sorts.

“What’s going on?” he asks, hurrying over until my mother raises her hand to stop him in his tracks.

“Glass” is all she says, prompting Dad to glance down before taking a cautious step back.

“What’s going on?” my father repeats, calmer this time.

I struggle to follow his lead, pulling it together as much as I can before pushing onward. “There’s a woman in the house,” I inform him. “She was standing in the dark and she just ran at me. I saw her earlier today at the falls and she must’ve followed me home.”

“She had blank eyes,” my mother adds, strangely calm now, “and a uniform.”

With this new information my father’s expression flickers slightly, changing in a way that’s so subtle I’d barely notice if not for the fact that I’m looking right at him with my senses on high alert.

My father points to the closet door. “In here?” he questions.

I nod.

Dad creeps toward the door as my eyes widen in fear. He’s got nothing to defend himself with in the frightening event that this intruder has a weapon, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait!” I blurt, terrified by the thought of what lurks within.

Before I have a chance to stop him, however, Luke yanks open the closet door.

My father halts abruptly, staring into the darkness for a beat and then reaching out to turn on the light.

There’s nothing in the closet.

A startled gasp escapes my lips—I’m both confused and relieved.

Dad turns around, a solemn look on his face as he returns to me. He takes his time to avoid the shattered glass that covers our kitchen floor, then eventually kneels down so we’re eye to eye.

“It’s been a long night,” my father announces, reaching out and placing his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay, honey?”

My first instinct is to protest, to tell him I’m perfectly fine and the strange woman must’ve slipped past him somehow, but the words won’t form. Instead, I start crying again, even harder than before, as I allow the feelings to sweep me away like Noah’s ark.

My parents soothe me from either side, hushing gently as I collapse into their arms.





3





TRUTH


I wait patiently in a small wooden chair, trying my best not to eavesdrop but latching on to fragments of the muffled conversation anyway.

“Yes, I know … well, it’s not an exact science…” the familiar voice explains, anxious but assured. “There’s variation in every breed … yes, I know. Understood.”

The talking abruptly halts as a landline phone slams back down onto its wooden desk. There’s a brief moment of silence, then footsteps marching toward the office door that flies open moments later.

“Hi, Rose, come on in,” Dr. Smith offers, smiling warmly to greet me.

My therapist is a bespectacled, bearded man with soft features and kind eyes that always seem to bear a look of deep concern, whether I’m telling him something important or not. He’s relatively short and his hair is stark white, still sitting thick atop the man’s head despite his age.

Our sessions typically occur on a set monthly schedule, but today he’s fitting me in.

“I used to love days off from school,” Dr. Smith reveals as we step into his office, motioning toward my usual leather chair as he takes a seat in his own. “Dentist appointments. Doctor visits. I know it can be scary but I always looked forward to missing some class.”

Dr. Smith chuckles to himself as he says this, thrilled by the rebellious nature of his childhood. He settles into his chair even more, allowing this blue-and-white piece of furniture to envelop him. The striped colors pop against the leathery tones of this otherwise academic basement office.

“My parents thought I should come in first thing,” I reply.

“And what do you think?” Dr. Smith continues.

I mull this question over. “I think they’re right,” I finally offer. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

Dr. Smith nods, but doesn’t say anything. He stares quietly, waiting for me to continue.

“Who were you talking to just now?” I ask.

“Dog breeder,” he replies, “but we’re not here to talk about my Newfoundland puppy.”

More silence, the pressure of this reticent moment hanging over us like a sword above John the Baptist’s neck.