Baggage

         “I quit!” she declared, scooting forward on Destry’s stiff suede couch.

           She hadn’t planned to say it—not today, at least. She’d thought that she could endure a little more rejection, a little more wasted effort. But she’d done everything she could think to do: She’d taken Kyleigh to restaurants. The mall. The movies (even though sitting for two straight hours in the dark was not her idea of a good time). She’d asked her about her work, her hobbies, her friends, her likes and dislikes. Told her jokes. Helped her improve her tennis game. Told her that she looked beautiful in that green dress, even though, in reality, the color washed her out. Raved about her hair, her shoes, her jewelry. Still, the young woman had shrugged her off. When they met, she went as pale as mayonnaise, eyes bulging, as if Myra had come aiming a gun at her. She replied to her questions as tersely as possible, and she had not once expressed any desire to get to know her. A person could only take so much.

As to why Kyleigh acted this way, she didn’t know. Her strongest theory pointed to Adrien. She’d finally gathered the courage to sneak out five years ago, but the memories lingered, as fresh now as that day. The icy glint of his eyes when he looked at her. The heaviness in her gut as she anticipated his return from work. The fists flying, the caustic, spittle-laced words uttered all the while penetrating even deeper than their blows. The nights she’d lain awake beside him, wondering what she’d done wrong, the echoes of the punches throbbing in her joints, the salt of tears tingling on her tongue. Kyleigh may think that this had tainted her. Corrupted her. That one who’d loved a monster could not love a prince. Or, at least, that she had far more baggage than she wanted her father to have to take on. The thought made Myra want to grab her, to shake her, to scream into her ears until sense weaved its way into her stubborn mind. And, at the same time, she wanted to collapse like she had so many times at Adrien’s feet and seep into the cracks in the floor.  

           Destry wouldn’t understand this. He would think it a rash decision, the product of emotions rather than logic. Indeed, all color had drained from his face—she would have said that he looked like he’d seen a ghost, except that, always a skeptic, he would refuse to acknowledge one even if it did appear before him. “You can’t give up, My,” he said. “What would that mean…for us?”

           Of course, she had already asked herself that question. The answer shattered her. But she could not live with someone who resented her—not again. Not in addition to the nightmares from which she woke, panting and soaked, nearly every night; the heat the rushed to her face whenever someone saw the physical reminders of him, because she felt sure that they knew; and the knowledge that anything from the crackle of a baseball bat hitting a ball to the smell of overripe bananas could throw her right back into the narrative he’d written for her. Nothing good would come of it. If Kyleigh refused to give her a chance, she would have to make that sacrifice, for all their sakes.

           She sighed. “You know what it means.”

           He shook his head, features seemingly trying to converge into a point. “You can’t really wanna give up everything we have, just for—“

           “Just for your daughter? She’s your priority, whether you like it or not.”

           “Of course she is,” he said, scowling, “but I don’t think you and her are mutually exclusive.”

           “She’s made it perfectly clear how she feels about me. You can’t deny it.”

           “No, but there’s gotta be a way to work it out. Let’s talk to her.”

           She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s gonna do anything.”

           “You’ve gotta at least give her a chance.”

           She had given her a chance. Hundreds of chances. Why would this one prove any different? A grown woman, she did not fear her father, and Myra wouldn’t have wanted to manipulate her that way even if she did—she knew all too well how that felt. Kyleigh could make her own choices, and she’d already made this one.

           Reading her expression, he said, “I’ve known my daughter a lot longer than you. I’m telling you, she’s more reasonable than you think.”

           She doubted that. “Reasonable” people didn’t treat others this way without an explanation. However, the intensity in his eyes and his voice made her reconsider. No, she didn’t think they’d get through to Kyleigh. But then, she reminded herself, he had been the first and, so far, only man whose touch she’d trusted after the bruises had faded and the lacerations had scarred over. He had dried her tears when she’d told him about Adrien, assured her that the fact that she’d survived such a nightmare only made him admire her more. He had stirred up feelings inside her that she’d thought Adrien had killed long ago. He deserved this favor, and then some.

           “All right,” she said, sighing.

*         *         *

           Destry had made roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, though probably none of them would have any interest in eating once they broached the subject. She told herself not to get her hopes up; she’d thought she’d resigned herself to what she knew would come of this. Yet, her stomach heaved, its contents swelling into her throat—and not just because she could hear Adrien’s voice demanding, “What kind of woman doesn’t know how to roast a damn chicken?”

           Destry looked almost as nervous as he said to his daughter, “We need to talk.”

           “About what?” Kyleigh demanded.

           “What’s your problem with Myra?”

Kyleigh pushed shredded meat around her plate, into her potatoes. “No problems.”

           “Then why’re you treating her like this?”

           “Like what?”

           “You know what.”

           Kyleigh glanced out the window, a square of blackness punctured by the few stars valiant enough to persevere through suburban light pollution. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           “Then you have no problems with us getting married.”

           Kyleigh pursed her lips, twisting her fork, flicking bits of potatoes into the air like water droplets from the sprinkler Adrien had blamed Myra for breaking that last brutal summer. She shuddered as her flesh remembered what had followed.

Finally, Kyleigh said, “You don’t need my permission.”

           “That’s not what I asked you.”

           Kyleigh dropped her fork; it clanged as it hit her plate. “Oh my God, why does it even matter?”

           “Because you’re my daughter,” Destry said, spearing her with a glare, “and she’s gonna be my wife.”

           Kyleigh folded her arms across her chest, looking, again, at the window; then, at the gold-framed clock on the wall opposite; and, finally, at Myra. “It isn’t you, okay? It’s him.”

           Myra’s brows furrowed. “Who?” She couldn’t have meant Destry.

           “Your husband.”

           She knew it, and, yet, her gut contracted.

Kyleigh’s gaze dropped to her plate—theatrics. She didn’t have to explain herself. She didn’t have to suffer. She would get what she wanted, because Daddy would bend over backwards, because men bent over backwards for Kyleigh Tollett, and they screwed over Myra Verdin. The natural order of things. Perpetuated by the peons; bound by the sky and the trees and the earth. Only, this time, the bindings strained. Groaned. Cracked. The words flew from her mouth before she had a chance to ponder them: “I’ve been through too much, you’re saying? So I could live through it, but you having to even associate with somebody who’s been through it’s just too much of a burden on you?”

           “That’s not what I said,” Kyleigh snapped, hitching her chin out. “I said, it’s him, and I meant him…Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

           Myra’s frown deepened, confusion replacing the heat that had consumed her only minutes before. “Don’t know what?”

           Kyleigh glanced at Destry, who looked just as confused as Myra, and then back at her. “He’s with you, you know. Every second of every day, from what I’ve seen. He looks at me with those beady eyes…” She shuddered. “I can’t take it.”

           Myra still felt confused. Destry, on the other hand, seemed to understand what she’d said, and detest it. “Seriously, Ky? You think one of your wild ghost stories is gonna get you out of this?”

           Shivers wracked Myra as it became horrifyingly clear. She hadn’t known he stayed with her, or in this realm, period. But it would explain the dreams. The thoughts. The sense of what he’d done never having left her, not really. The way Kyleigh looked at her, like she’d seen a ghost.

           Because she had.

           “See,” Kyleigh said to Destry, “this is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d think I’m crazy.” She whipped her head toward Myra, glare sharper than a guillotine blade. “And I’m sure you do, too.”

           She swallowed, rubbing her upper arms in a vain attempt to slough off the chill soaking them. Destry, meanwhile, ordered Kyleigh to stop telling “made-up stories” and have the guts to admit the real reason she didn’t want them together.

Myra would tell him to stop yelling at her. Tell him and Kyleigh that she believed her, that he couldn’t possibly think them both crazy. And then she would take to the internet, find someone who dealt with these things, tell them her story, and ask whether they could help. If not, she’d move on to the next one, and the next. However many it took to get Adrien throw his hands in the air and quit.