Chapter One

 

Chapter One

I’ve always loved the sea. The vastness of it, I’ve often found, can put anything into perspective. It’s always had a calming effect on me, ever since I was a child. Whenever we visited the seaside I would make up worlds under the sea where mermaids lived and swam, playing with dolphins and other fish and staying away from humans. I guess you could say that I’ve always had a vivid imagination. It’s helped me though, when I’m not near the sea just imagining it has sort of the same effect. But nothing can really compare to standing on the shore, the wind whipping your hair about your face, sending the icy spray from the tops of the foaming waves to plant its wet kisses on your cheeks. The way the waves swell and then crash mercilessly against the pebbled beach, then pull back and come again, pounding over and over, relentless. That’s always captivated me. I have to confess there have been times when I’ve contemplated doing a ‘Virginia Woolf’ - putting stones into my coat pockets, wading out as deep as I can and just let the sea take me where it wants, let me sink down deep below the surface. Let the water replace the oxygen in my lungs and just slip away into oblivion...

 

Her voice grates through my reverie and jolts me back to the present.

 

"Alexis? I think it’s about time we got started don’t you?" Across from me, sitting in an overstuffed olive green armchair that matches the olive green and over polished mahogany theme she’s got going on in this place, is Dr Catriona Deans. She’s ok to look at, I guess. Kinda tall and willowy looking with these hazel eyes that seem to look through into your very soul, digging deep and trying to pry out all your secrets. Her hair - long and mousy with sandy highlights which are probably fake - is up in this severe ballet dancer cum school marme kind of bun thing. It makes her look much older than she is, which is probably around early to mid thirties. She’s wearing a charcoal skirt suit with heels. Typical office attire. Not that this is your regular company office.

Judge Martin referred me here, to Dr. Deans, after... everything. But we’ll get to that later, maybe. There’s a huge window behind her, kind of like the ones they have in these cathedrals; running from floor to ceiling but without the stained glass. She’s really big on light and airy I think. Running the length of the right hand wall is on continuous bookshelf completely filled with leather-bound volumes. This place is a vegetarian’s worst nightmare. In the far corner is a large-ish desk, mahogany - Quelle suprise - with a computer on it, along with a neat pile of files. I have an image of her going schizo if there’s one thing out of place in here.

 

"Alexis?" She says my name again and I realize I’ve been staring. I shift my gaze to stare out the window behind her. That’s always been one of my bad habits, staring at people. My mom always told me I even did it when I was a baby. I think it’s about time I said something.

"How many times do I have to tell you people not to call me that." She looks a little amused at this, and notes something down in the file she has balanced on her crossed knees.

"And why exactly is that?"

"Because I don’t like it," I reply pointedly. I’m planning on making this as difficult as possible for her, leaving no doubt in her mind that I don’t want to be here, and I’m only here because Martin said he’d throw my in a psych ward if I didn’t attend.

 

"What’s wrong with it? I think Alexis is a very pretty name." Of course you would.

"I don’t suit it." Can we just get on with this please? There are about a million other places I would rather be right now, a million other things I’d rather be doing.

"Why don’t you think you suit your name?" I sigh, exasperated. I’ve been through this about a gazillion times already, with doctors and cops and dumb a*s pro bono lawyers.

"Because it means ‘protector’ and I’m no protector. Of anything." She must think this is significant of something because she’s writing in that damn file of hers again.

"So, what would you rather I called you?"

 

"Maura. It’s down as my preferred name on all my records, which you probably have in that folder of yours." She smiles. I hate it when they smile. It makes them all look the same, like they pity you or something. She closes the file and pulls out a blank piece of paper, placing it on top.

"Well, now we have that out of the way, Maura, we can really get started. Now, do you know why you’re here?" Before I can stop myself, the sarcasm just pours out of my mouth.

"Gee, well, let me think, there are about a billion reasons that are all probably written down in that little file of yours. Why don’t you take your Goddamn pick lady because I really couldn’t care less."

She seems a bit taken aback by this outburst. Oh well. She isn’t my concern. I look down at my watch and suppress a groan. I’ve only been here 15 minutes, another 45 to go. They should’ve used these sessions in World War II to make spies talk. Would’ve worked like a charm, I can guarantee you. She’s speaking again.

"You know, this could be a much more pleasant experience if you answered some of my questions with a little more honesty and a little less sarcasm." She regards me over the top of her small black-rimmed glasses.

 

"I’m sorry I’m making this so hard for you Dr. Deans, but I was unaware that I’m supposed to be making your job easier," I fire back. There’s no way I’m going to hide my distaste at having to be here.

"Look," she begins, replacing the lid of her silver Mont Blanc pen with a sharp click. "I’m under no delusions. I am well aware that you are less than thrilled about being made to attend these sessions. However you may find them less of a waste of time if you actually took them seriously. You never know, you may actually learn something about yourself."

I can’t help but snort at that. What does she think is going to happen? That I’ll put on the tough girl act for a couple of sessions before she disarms me with a well timed, well worded question that causes all my walls and defenses to crumble and provokes a torrent of confessions to pour from my mouth? What does she thinks this is? Girl, Interrupted?

"Do you find something amusing?" She’s leaning back in her chair now, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

"Yea, this whole thing. The setup never changes. You shrinks really need to get some new strategies." She smiles slightly, don’t ask me why. I’m not psychic. She watches me for a few moments, her head tilted to one side, that stupid little half smile on her face. I have the sudden urge to wipe it off. I don’t though, that would only serve to worsen my situation. She speaks again suddenly.

 

"May I make an observation?"

I shrug. "Sure. Fine. Whatever. It’ll kill some time."

She removes her thin black-rimmed glasses, placing them on the file in her lap. Prolonging the moment for dramatic effect I guess. Whatever, I just wish she’d get on with it.

"You send out very defensive signals, with your tone of voice, gestures and your choice of language. You feel the need to protect yourself from the outside world and the people in it, even when they are trying to help you."

I can’t believe this woman! I could’ve told her that from the moment I walked in here! The compulsion to scream ‘No s**t Sherlock’ and storm out is almost overwhelming, but I bite my tongue.

"Very astute Dr Deans. Well, you’ve cracked my psyche; I guess your work is done. Have a nice life." I move to rise from my chair but she stops me with a raise of her well-manicured hand.

 

"We still have some time left, and storming out on your first session would not look good on your report. Now I suggest you sit back down Maura." Her voice keeps the same volume and although her tone is light it brooks no argument so I sit back down, making it clear that I’ll comply with her request but I’m not happy about it. A few moments pass before either of us speaks again.

"So, what exactly is there left to talk about then?"

 

She replaces her glasses on her nose and glances down at her file.

"Let’s talk about your father."

I can barely suppress a snigger.

"What father?"

Back to the file again.

"In your file, your father is listed as one Jackson Cross."

I feel myself tense, most likely imperceptively.

"And?"

"Would you like to talk about him?"

A flat out ‘no’ would probably be unacceptable at this point, so I try a different tactic. I shrug.

"Not much really to tell. My mom said he was an amazing magician. First mention of the word ‘pregnant’ and he performed a miraculous disappearing act."

 

She’s writing this down, possibly verbatim judging by her speed. No matter, there’s nothing more I have to say about that anyway.

"And how did that make you feel?"

I roll my eyes. I can’t help it.

"You’re the expert Doc, you tell me how I should feel." She pauses again. Ugh, that file! I want to rip it from her hands and launch it out the window. But I don’t, of course. Plus those windows don’t look all that easy to open.

"You met your father once." It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact. That stupid shrink at Juvi. Shouldn’t have told her anything. I knew it would come back to bite me in the a*s. Everything always does.

"So what?"

"Tell me about it."

Gee, no beating around the bush, is there Doc?

"What does it matter?"

"Because I’d like to know."

"Why? So you can write it all down in that freaking file and tell Judge Martin what a messed up kid I am? Over my dead body."

I feel the anger build up inside me. I always get this way when I’m forced to talk about him. Or think about him.

She tries a different approach. Gotta give her point for effort I guess.

"How old were you? Do you remember it?"

--

 

Of course I remember it. We were living in Atlantic City back then. The neighborhood was pretty rough, but our apartment was ok. Despite the heater breaking down in the middle of winter. The landlord was too much of a bum to get it fixed so we just used to sit around in all our clothes, coats and all. Mom did all she could to make it cheery, put up colorful pictures, got flowers in the summer. She had a knack for doing that. She worked late at this bar, a real dive a couple blocks over.

Anyway, one day in the middle of summer, I was on vacation from school, someone knocked on the door. I answered it because mom was in the shower; she’d only just got up. Because she worked real late. But I mentioned that. The door was on the chain so I could only open it a couple of inches. There was this guy stood there, kind of good looking but what the hell did I know, I was young. He had sandy hair and blue eyes, so I obviously got the majority of my looks from my mom. He smiled down at me.

 

"Hi. I’m looking for Phoebe Padgett. Is she home?"

"Yea," I replied warily. "Who are you?"

"I’m an old friend. My name is Jackson. Could I come in?" I looked him up and down, searching for the tell tale bulge that would give away the location of a gun. What can I say? It was a skill I honed from a very young age. Satisfied, I closed the door and took off the chain before opening it again.

He walked straight past me and sat on the couch, making himself comfortable. I shut the door and put that chain back on before crossing to sit on a dining chair opposite him. After a few beats of silence he spoke.

"So, what’s your name?"

"Alexis, but I make everyone call me Maura." He laughed. I should’ve knocked his teeth down his throat. But I didn’t. Hindsight is such a wonderful thing.

"Why’s that?" Before I could reply I heard my mom’s bedroom door open and her footsteps coming along the hall. She entered the living room and smiled at me. She didn’t notice him right away.

But when she did, her whole face changed completely. The smile dropped and she ran the gauntlet of emotions, from shock and disbelief, right through sadness and even, perhaps, a hint of joy? But she finally settled on anger and stayed there a good while. Those few moments were the calm before the storm - peace and silence, then the explosion.

"What the hell are you doing here Jackson?" she bellowed and I jumped about a foot in the air. Her eyes blazed with anger, she clenched her fists. I’d never seen her like that before. It scared me.

"Nice to see you too Phoebes," he joked. Big mistake. It only made her madder.

"What am I supposed to do? Be happy that you’ve turned up after all these years? Be grateful that you’ve finally decided to acknowledge us? How in the hell did you find us anyway?"

"I asked around. It wasn’t that hard Phoebes."

"Stop calling me that! You gave up the right to do that years ago."

"I wanted to see you. Both of you." An after thought. As usual.

"Well you’ve seen us. Now get out. We’ve managed just fine without you in the past, we don’t need you now." Her voice dropped in volume slightly, becoming hoarse from all the screaming she was doing.

 

He stepped toward her suddenly, closing the gap between them in just two paces. His voice was gentle when he spoke again.

"I was a jerk. I see that now. I came here to tell you that I’m ready now. I’m ready to be a part of your lives."

I thought she was going to punch him, I wouldn’t have blamed her. But instead she took a calm, measured breath and spoke in an even voice, although it was through clenched teeth. She could always keep her temper better than me; I’m hot headed to the core.

"Well that’s awfully kind of you Jackson but it’s far too little, too late. We don’t need you, and we don’t want you. Now get the hell out of my Goddamn apartment before I call the cops." Slightly taken aback by that, he turned swiftly on his heels and left, without so much as a second glance at me, I meant that much to him.

As soon as the door closed my mom crumbled to the floor, as though her legs just couldn’t support her weight for a second longer. I moved slowly from my chair and knelt down beside her. She was crying, silent tears streaming down her face like rivers. I put my arms around her neck in that way kids do when an adult is crying and they don’t understand why or what to do to help. She gave me a watery smile and hugged me tightly to her.

"It’ll be ok Mommy." She kissed the top of my head.

"Of course it will be."

After a couple minutes silence I spoke again, the question that had been spinning round my head since she’d come into the room.

"Mommy, who was he?" I heard her take a deep breath as she stroked my hair.

"Your father." All I could do was nod.

---

And that was how I met my father. But of course Dr Deans hears none of this.

"I was seven."

She glances down at her watch, a gold Sekonda on a bracelet, then back up at me.

"Well you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve run out of time. I’ll see you at the same time next week."

I can’t get out of this office fast enough.

Author's Note

What do you think of it being written in the present tense? Any constructive criticism is appreciated. Do you want to read more?