Reactive Attachment

From Harlan, he receives the following:

"She's a real bitch," delivered with all the gravity of a terminal diagnosis.

Alistair chases her outside and down the alley. She disappears around a corner; when he reaches the turn she has vanished. He waits, listening: there, a muffled sob from behind that fence. He pushes open the gate.

"Betsey?" he whispers.

She's leaning sideways against the fence, facing away, knees drawn to her chest. In the moonlight he can see the line of her spine sticking out through her thin shirt. It's a cold night, and she's left her coat at the house. She's rocking slightly, face buried in her arms.

"Hey," he approaches the way he would an injured goose. Like she is something that will bite. He kneels beside her, still an arm's length away.

She ignores him, keeps up her mindless rocking. 

"You really pissed Harlan off. What happened?"

At first he doesn't think she's going to answer.

"Why don't you ask him?" she finally says, voice indistinct from behind her folded arms, "I didn't do anything."

"I'm asking you," he replies. He's heard Harlan's take, and it doesn't interest him.

"Why?" Spoken with all the bitterness she can muster.

He glares at her, ineffectually since she is still hiding her face.

"I had to get out of there," she says after another interminable pause.

"What did he do?" But Alistair can already guess. He must have touched her, somehow. Maybe it was an accident, he bumped into her in the crowded party. Or maybe on purpose, he put his hand on hers. He wouldn't have known. 

"It doesn't matter," she says, "You'd take his side anyway."

He suppresses the urge to yell.

"Harlan's my friend," he says, "you didn't have to be mean to him." 

"Why did you bring me here?" she whispers, "I didn't want to come." She starts shivering now, the cold finally reaching her.

He knows it's coming, the blankness in her eyes when she finally looks at him. But it is awful nonetheless. Nothing prepares you, he thinks, for how to react when your friend starts walking a path you cannot follow.

"You said you wanted to come," he reminds her. Please come back.

Come back here.

"I didn't." She is already somewhere else.

Though pointless, he persists. "You did. You told me you wanted to come."

"You lied to me," she whispers.

"I didn't lie," but he knows whatever he says doesn't matter.

"You did," more forcefully now, "You said you would be there. If anything happened."

Alistair bristles; a wildcat bracing beside an injured goose.  

"I was there! I was there the whole time."

"Then why didn't you do anything?" Her eyes are dry now, and ringed with red.

There it is, the accusation. The one that cuts him, makes it hurt to breathe. He doesn't have an answer.

Maybe he is tired of replaying this tape. Maybe he doesn't want to apologize this time. Maybe he doesn't want to be understanding. It never works. He changes tactics.

"Maybe because you never told me," he spits.

Something new: she slaps him. He sees the arm lash out in slow motion, hand open, reacts too slowly to stop it but catches her arm on its retreat.

She stares with open mouth and wide eyes, tries to pull away. But he holds fast. She's broken the illusion. She isn't a broken bird, she's Betsey, small and vengeful and fighting with the wrong person.

"Let me go!" she mutters urgently, unwilling to shout in some stranger's yard.

"I was there, Betsey. Nine years. Why didn't you ever tell me?" He's angry now, and something else besides. He's righteous.

She pulls at him, but it's like struggling against quicksand. She only entangles herself further in his grasp.

"Why?" He reels her in, wrapping his arms around her protectively, "Why didn't you tell me what she was doing?"

Safely contained, she acts out wildly. She convulses, kicking and grabbing at his hands, his arms, trying to break away. She wants to hurt him. He holds on.

"Leave me alone!" she cries, and elbows him in the ribs. He lets go. Freed from his grasp, she goes suddenly still.

"You have some nerve," he says, panting. There's more, but he can't work out which part to say first.  

"I know," she sniffs. She won't meet his eyes. But she seems calmer. More herself.

A light goes on inside the house. A woman, his father's age, comes out onto the porch. She's wearing slippers and a winter jacket over her pajamas.

"Hello? Are you all right?" she calls out to Betsey. She approaches the two of them, still tangled together beside the fence.

"I'm sorry," Betsey says, "I wanted to hide - "

"From him?" the woman says, looking at Alistair with alarm.

"No," Betsey said, "not from him."

"I heard you yell. Do you want me to call the police?" She pulls out her phone.

"No."

"Well, here, call your mother, at least," she says, trying to give Betsey the phone.

Now Betsey is alarmed. She's giving the woman a stare that is almost pleading. The woman looks confused.

"Not a good idea," Alistair translates, "I'm so sorry for trespassing, we'll leave now."

"You sure you don't have anyone you want me to call?" the woman is still ignoring him.

"Just him," Betsey says, looking at Alistair. She reaches out, gently touches the back of his hand.

"What happened?" the woman asks.

"I got scared," and she isn't talking to the woman who still is standing there looking down on them with concern.  

"What do you want me to do?" he asks. And he isn't talking about this odd moment, or about what happened at the party.

"Stay?" she says it so quietly he almost doesn't hear.

He turns his hand over so their palms meet.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, and envelops her as she crawls back into his arms. And holds her, heartbroken, because he doesn't know if it's true.