Unbound Read Free Page B

man with the grey eyes that smiled, even though
his mouth did not, said, “Don’t be afraid,” and I realized I wasn’t.
    Something
about his deep, warm voice was familiar and I thought maybe he knew me, or
maybe he was a teacher at my school, because I wasn’t really feeling shy, like
I usually did.   Instead, it felt
like he liked me. I think it was because he looked right at me, and not through
me, like most adults do with kids.
    As
I looked silently back at him, he reached for my hand and placed it firmly in
his own. We walked to the counter of the department store together, this tall
man with the nice-smelling leather gloves and kind eyes. He waited his turn in
line and then smiled at the clerk and inquired politely if she might make an
announcement.
    Glancing
up at him, I’d felt completely safe, as if nothing had ever been more natural
than to be hand in hand with a stranger in the mall. I would have left with
him, if he’d asked me to.  
    Instead,
he had leaned down to me and whispered, “Stay safe, Rachel, I’ll be watching
for you,” and then he walked away, leaving me with the department store clerk.
She looked very disappointed that he didn’t stay.
    But
the reason I remember that day so clearly, the reason I think I remember this
at all, is because I am sure, certain in fact, that I never said a word.
    I
never told him my name.
    *           *           *           *           *
    My
eyes were open for a full second before I remembered where I was. What day it
was. The evening light cast pale shadows across my walls. I sat up, stunned
into a stupor from a nap that had stretched through the afternoon and into the
early evening.   Turning lights on as
I moved through the apartment, I checked the front door and noticed my mother’s
work shoes weren’t on the mat where she usually put them. More than likely
she’d picked up a double shift at the hospital. She did that all the time. Why
not? It’s not like she had anything, or anyone, important to come home to.
    Moving
into the living room, I stood by the window staring out at the streetlights and
early evening traffic, watching for her car and knowing it wasn’t coming all at
the same time. I could feel gloominess wrapping around me like a blanket and
shaking my head, I moved swiftly to my bedroom and changed quickly into my
running clothes, fearing that losing any more ground today would be disastrous.
    On
the street, I felt better almost instantly. Hardly three blocks into my route
and my thoughts were clearer, my mood less grey. I concentrated on my foot
strikes on the pavement, counting rhythmically as I tried to drown out my
regrets and worries, tried to listen only to my breathing and my heart as it
pushed blood through my veins. When I felt like this I could almost forget
everything that felt wrong in my life. Everything that had been wrong since my
father had died.
    Our
house had always been quiet, but the year I turned thirteen it had become as
silent as the grave. My father’s grave, actually. That October, my father’s
constant indigestion had turned out to be colon cancer. It was over quickly
– six months from start to finish. And in that short time my mother and I
had slowly and silently withdrawn into our own grief. After he left us, we
wandered the house like strangers, as if my father was the sun that had held
our family in orbit for all of these years, and without him, we were no longer
connected in any meaningful way.
    Nights
were the hardest, dinners non-existent. Neither of us even wanting to pretend
we had the energy or the appetite to make pleasant companions. I grazed throughout
the day and my mother simply stopped eating for a while. Noticing her jeans
sagging around her hips one morning, I looked at the dark bruises under her
eyes and began to worry. About her health. Her heart. Her sanity. Whenever I
confronted her about my concerns, she gave vague reassurances that sounded
indifferent,