When I open the door, it’s raining so hard there’s a waterfall rolling off the awning covering my stoop. The loudness that comes with the storm is like a background soundtrack to a very sad movie.
Indie’s leaning against the old wooden fence on the far side of my gravel driveway smoking a cigarette. How she even keeps that thing lit in this downpour, I’ll never understand. It’s like she’s got a shield around her hand and the rain never touches it.
She didn’t knock so I have no idea how long she was standing outside looking through the front window of my shop. From the state of her drenched clothes it was a long time. And right now everything about her is cold and wet.
Something about her is always cold and wet.
“Indie,” I say. But my whispered greeting is way too soft to make it past the pounding of the storm around us.
Lightning strikes off in the distance. Right above her head like she’s the goddess of storms. And then, seconds later, the low rumble of thunder formally announces her arrival.
I extend my hand, beckoning her with two fingers and calling to her the way someone might call to a fearful stray dog. “Come here,” I say. “Come inside. You’re wet.”
She takes a long drag on her cigarette, drops it in the gravel, and then crushes it with the tip of her soaked brown boot.
“I need something.” She calls this from across the driveway.
“Come inside. I’m not talking to you like this.”
She never takes her eyes off me, but her left hand dips down to her flannel and she pulls it up. Just a little. Just enough to show me the gun tucked inside the waistband of her jeans.
“Understood,” I call back. “Now come inside.”
She looks to her right, down the length of my long, lonely driveway, then pushes off the wall and walks through the downpour like it’s a calm summer day and not a violent, late-winter evening.
My hand is still extended when she approaches but she doesn’t take it. Just pushes past me, her leather jacket dragging against my t-shirt, transferring some of her wetness to me as she enters.
I turn with her, close the door, and stand there. Just watching her as she places a hand on the surface of my small shop table and starts kicking at the heel of one boot to get it off her foot. She does it again with the other one and then she’s barefoot.
No socks. Never wears socks.
“Don’t start with me about socks.” She reads my mind as she shrugs the jacket off, water dripping everywhere on my concrete floor, and drapes it over the back of a metal folding chair. Then she lets out a long breath of air. “I wouldn’t ask. You know I wouldn’t ask. But I need you, McKay.”
“Of course.” I whisper this, afraid she will run if I talk too loud or get too aggressive with her. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You know that.”
She smirks at me, crooked smile revealing the perfectly straight teeth I paid for when she was fourteen. “I guess I do.” She says this as she peels off her flannel and then tosses it onto the table.
She doesn’t remove the gun from the waistband of her jeans.
I have a lot of questions for this girl. Starting with, Where the fuck have you been for the last four years?
I don’t say it out loud. But I don’t need to. She can read my mind.
“Where haven’t I been? I’ve been everywhere. Every-fucking-where. But this isn’t a social call.”
Immediately my mind is spinning with possibilities. Why is she here? What has she done now? How hard will it be to clean up this mess? And… will this nightmare ever end?
“He’s done it again. I’m so fucking pissed off right now, I could murder someone.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Who is the bane of my existence? Why is he always so uptight and controlling, McKay? Why isn’t he more like you? Huh? I mean… does he like being the asshole? Does he get off on making me angry? Why? Why does he do this?”
I was holding my breath during all that. So I let it out. “What did he do this time?”
She presses her lips together, frowns through it. And her eyes get glassy and bright as she takes a deep breath. “He took him.”
Holy fucking shit. “Who?”
“Adam.”
“No, who did he take, Indie?”
“Nathan. Who fucking else? I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Nathan?”
“My husband.” She snarls these words out like she can’t believe I’m playing this game with her. But I’m not playing at anything. After four years I’m just genuinely sick hearing that name come out of her mouth. “Ringing any bells here? You’re such a fucking piece of work, you know that, McKay? And if you’re just going to defend Adam, I’ll go back the way I came and you can pretend you never saw me.”
She bends down, reaching for one of her boots like she’s going to put it back on, but I put my hand on her arm and give it a squeeze.
She looks up at me, then straightens. Tight-lipped and sad.
“No. I’m not defending him. I’m just confused, Indie. I’m trying to understand what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying is this. I’m sick of this shit, OK? I’m fucking sick of it. He has no right to tell me what to do anymore. None.”
“I… I don’t understand, Indie. Have you… talked to Adam?”
Her face screws up for a moment. Like she’s thinking about this. Then she lets out a long sigh. “No. But I don’t need to talk to him to know what he’s up to.”
“… OK.” I play it cool. “I get it.” Even though I don’t. If there’s one thing I’ve come to terms with over the past four years it’s that I don’t understand one goddamned thing about what we were doing with this girl all those years.
I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand why Donovan was brought in, I don’t understand why I was brought in, and I don’t understand how we all fit into the big picture.
And there’s always a big picture. There’s always an ulterior motive when it comes to the Company. Even if the Company is gone, the remnants are still there. The objectives still linger. We all played a part in that too. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past fourteen years it’s this: Letting go of your purpose is not as easy as it sounds.
But Indie is in no state to hear the truth right now.
Funny. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s never been in a state to hear the truth.
“I’ll help you. Whatever you need, Indie. I’m here. And I’ll help you.”
She nods her head, swallowing hard. “Good.”
She sighs that word out in a low, soft whisper. And I think to myself… she can be soft. When she’s like this, she can be fragile like a snowflake. And soft like the wings of a butterfly. And quiet like whispers in a church.
She’s not really made of sharp corners and hard edges.
She’s a girl. And she’s real underneath it all. She’s still in there after all the things we made her do and were done to her. She has to be in there. I have to believe that.
“Do you know where he is? Have you talked to him recently?”
“No. We don’t really talk anymore.” Indie looks disappointed for a moment. And I can’t stand to see her like that. “But I’m sure I can find him.”