September 11
Ana
"Poor little girl."
The man with the gun sneers at me. I try to run, but my legs won't move.
"You were too scared to save your family when they were still alive. Now they're dead and you're still too afraid. You can't even get justice for them. Poor, scared, little girl."
He raises the gun and points it at my head.
"At first I was worried when I heard there was a witness. But now I see that I'll get no trouble from you. You're just a sad, scared little mouse. Pathetic."
The gun fires.
I wake up in a cold sweat. I cry quietly, not wanting to disturb Ryan again. Casper rolls over in his sleep.
The man in the dream was right. It's my fault he's not in prison. All I want is to hide out in this cabin forever, but if I do that, the people responsible for my family's deaths will never pay. They could do this again. Kill some other girl's family. Make another me. The thought makes me physically sick. I know I won't be falling asleep any time soon.
It's dark outside, probably past midnight. I turn to the bedroom door and see light underneath. Ryan's still up? I drag myself out of bed and wrap the blanket around me. When I open the bedroom door, Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his rifle.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asks, looking concerned.
"No," I say.
He looks into my eyes for a moment and must read something in them. "Nightmares," he says, a statement and not a question.
I nod.
"Come here," he says, standing and walking over to the couch. He rubs the fingers of his left hand on a dirty old towel. I sit in his usual spot, preferring to have the wall at my back rather than the room at large. He only hesitates a moment before sitting at the opposite end.
I sit sideways on the couch, bringing my legs up so my feet are flat against the cushion and my knees are up to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs and lean my head against the back of the couch. I don't say anything for a little while. When I close my eyes, I can see the dream replaying in my mind.
"I'm a coward," I say after a long silence.
"No, you're not," he says immediately.
"Yes, I am," I say, opening my eyes.
"You're one of the bravest people I've ever met," he says. "If anyone here is a coward, it's me."
He looks at me then with an intensity I'm unaccustomed to. Something tells me that he's not talking about Afghanistan, but something more present. What does he mean? My response is delayed.
"No way," I argue. "You're way braver than I am. I know what it's like to get shot at. It's terrifying. You had to live that every day."
"It wasn't like that EVERY day. We weren't on the front lines of battle. Most days it was pretty quiet."
"What I told you, about the day that my family-" I stop. "I've never told anyone before. Not all of it."
"Really?" he asks, looking surprised. "Weren't you supposed to testify? You were in witness protection."
"I know," I say. "Every time I tried to tell anyone, even the nice counselor who was trying to help me, I just... I couldn't. Every time I tried, it was like I was living it all over again. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. I actually passed out once."
"Panic attacks?" Ryan asks.
"It felt like I was dying." I rub my arms, feeling a nonexistent chill. "They put me in WITSEC because the shrink thought I might be able to talk eventually and I was apparently involved in a high-profile case. They moved me to a hotel in Phoenix. That was the first time someone tried to kill me."
Ryan sits up, his face becoming serious and alert.
"I don't know how they found me so fast. After that, they moved me out of state. Changed my identity. Put me in counseling. But it only got worse. The nightmares. The panic attacks. I knew I needed to tell someone what happened that night, but I couldn't get the words out."
"Why didn't they arrest the people who did this? Couldn't you identify them?"
I shake my head. "They didn't leave behind any physical evidence. The only thing the police have is me. I'll never forget the faces of those two men. But describing them to a sketch artist or looking through pictures... or identifying them in a line up - I just couldn't. It killed me that I couldn't. It still kills me. They're going to get away with it, too. There wasn't enough evidence without my testimony."
"What?" Ryan is incensed.
"Apparently Mamá got tangled up with one of the most notorious crime syndicates in the southwest. They're wanted for a lot of other stuff, more than just killing a-" I can't finish that sentence. "More than just this. But they have these top tier lawyers that can get them out of anything. The Marshals told me that the FBI has been building a case against them for years, and they just need something concrete to make those charges stick. But to get that evidence, they have to get a judge to grant a warrant. The judge won't do it unless they can come up with some solid probable cause. When they tried to arrest these people before, they made a mistake or broke a rule or something and the state got sued."
"Probable cause like an eyewitness to a triple homicide?"
"Yeah." I rub my hands along my arms. Hearing the words triple homicide and knowing Ryan's talking about Mamá, Dad, and Julie gives me a chill. "Everything rests on me. But I couldn't do it. My mind and my body just... just wouldn't let me."
I cover my face with my hands and try to breathe deep, cleansing breaths. "I'm so tired of being scared, Ryan."
"I know."
I glance up at him. He's looking at me, unguarded, the damaged side of his face in full view. In this moment, his concern for me outweighs his insecurities. He's never looked more beautiful to me.
I wish I could tell Mamá about him. I wish I could have one more sleepover with Julie and tell her about the first guy I've ever really fallen for. I even wish I could see Dad glare at him with the intensity of an oncoming train when I take Ryan home for the first time. So many little things I can never have.
"What would they think of me? If they knew I couldn't testify, that the people who did this to them were going to get away with it?" I look down as tears fill my eyes. "Mamá would be so disappointed in me. She always believed I could do anything-"
"No, Ana."
I look up to see Ryan leaning forward, his eyes full of conviction.
"They wouldn't care about that. They just care about you. Whether or not you testify, I don't think that matters to them. I think all they'd care about is that you're OK. They'd want what was best for you."
"You really think so?" I sniff and wipe at my eyes.
"Yes."
I wish he would hold me. He's done it before, held me when I've cried, placed a hand on my shoulder when I was sad. He's stopped doing that. Ryan hasn't voluntarily touched me since... how long has it been? Since I had a meltdown on Julie's birthday. Over a month. Why won't he touch me?
"So why are you awake?" comes out of my mouth instead.
"What?" he asks, but he doesn't seem to be confused by my question. If anything, it seems like he's buying time before he has to answer.
"You were already up when I came out here. Is something bothering you?"
"Oh, right." He looks away. "Do you know what day it is today?"
"Uh... it's mid-September?" I say dumbly, trying to figure out the significance. "Oh - was it the eleventh?"
"Is the eleventh. As of two hours ago."
"Oh. I see." I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. "Did you know anyone who..."
"No, nothing like that. It's just," he pauses again. "9/11 is the reason the US launched the War on Terror and invaded Afghanistan less than a month after the attacks. If 9/11 hadn't happened, maybe none of us would have been deployed to Afghanistan. Maybe we'd all still be alive."
"I hadn't realized that. I was too young to remember 9/11 when it happened."
"I was old enough to remember it. But back then, I never could have imagined the impact it would have on my life."
"No kidding," I say. We fall silent and I contemplate the idiosyncrasies of fate. Do I even believe in fate? I yawn and realize it's past 2 am and I've reached the point of exhaustion where my mind makes up abstract, insightful concepts. Or at least, they seem insightful until I regain consciousness and the dream logic proves faulty. I need to go to bed.
The thought of going back into the bedroom, alone and in the dark, makes me feel like a little kid again. Like when I'd have a nightmare and beg to spend the rest of the night in my parents' bed. Mamá, I'm scared, can I sleep with you tonight?
I'm definitely not asking Ryan in that verbiage. The very thought of asking the words can I sleep with you tonight makes my face start to warm. I close my eyes and begin to drift off to sleep, still huddled in a ball, facing Ryan.
An indeterminate amount of time later, I hear Ryan's voice say, "Stay there for much longer, and you'll be..." he stops, but I don't open my eyes or acknowledge his words. I'm too tired. "Asleep," he finishes quietly after a pause. I hear him let out a soft sigh.
Gentle arms pick me up and I am carried back into the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed, tucks me in, then turns to go. I grab his hand before he leaves.
"Stay."
I'm not sure if I meant it to be a question or a command.
"Until you fall asleep," he says.
"OK."
I'm too tired to even consider whether I meant for him to stay just until I fell asleep or longer. I wish Ryan was still holding me. I want to be held.
I've still got his hand in mine. That will have to be enough for now.