* * *
I wake up in the middle of the night gasping and soaked in sweat, a nightmare slowly receding to the corners of my mind. I grasp at its edges until I can conjure what shocked me back into consciousness: a shape at the end of my bed, slowly taking form, a man.
His hands reaching to me in the darkness.
I haven’t dreamt of him in a long time.
2013
Bea wakes alone, moonlight spread across her unclothed skin.
Goose bumps prickle over her body, she feels the air against her back, the absence of Lev, and she knows that something is wrong. It isn’t just that he’s not with her. It’s something else, something more, and she’s afraid of it. Her eyes flutter open slowly. She rolls over in their bed. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and when they do, she finds him sitting at the window seat, facing her.
Lev, she whispers and he doesn’t respond.
His silence is powerful, intimidating at the best of times, but this … this reminds her of coming home two years ago to a quiet, dark house, to the swing in the front yard unmoving, and knowing deep in her bones that something had changed in her world and there would be no going back from the moment it revealed itself to her.
She moves out of bed carefully, naked, and kneels at his feet.
What? she asks, grasping his hands, pressing his knuckles to her lips. He stares down at her, his expression unreadable and it scares her so much she pulls herself closer to him, resting her head on his lap. Now the accident is in her head, a thought takes hold, and she can’t help but ask: Is it Lo?
The question shakes Lev from his reverie and he presses his palm against her cheek and while the tenderness of his touch soothes her, the slight tremble in his hand worries her more.
Rob has left The Project.
She doesn’t understand. How could anyone leave them? Even Rob. She’d thought he was getting better—they had worked so hard to correct him, to show him the path—but now, Lev tells her, he’s fled.
He left a note.
Lev reaches into his pocket and hands it to her. She rises, reading by moonlight, and while she reads, Lev pulls her between his legs and buries his face against her. She presses her free hand against the back of his curls as every single one of Rob’s words burns into her. Rob came to The Project to help people, to help this shit-infested world shine, but he only feels he’s traded one cesspit for another.
We started out so promising. I could feel God through you, but now I believe you have claimed yourself as God and I believe this has corrupted you. I do not feel God anymore.
Bea shakes her head slowly, her anger rising; she has never seen a more abiding servant to the Lord than Lev. She skims the rest of Rob’s grievances. They have taken from him, he says, the last five years of his life and he wants all he has given in the name of God returned to him.
Lev stares at her expectantly when she’s done.
He had no faith, she says.
No, Lev agrees quietly. He didn’t.
JANUARY 2018
Arthur lives at the edge of Morel. The clean, unadorned lines of his property strike me as lonely in the same way my apartment sometimes strikes me as lonely, a space its inhabitant doesn’t quite know how to occupy. Sometimes, when I step inside my place, it feels like a language I’ve forgotten how to speak and the days I feel that way are the days I most remember what it was like to have a home and a family—and what it means to not have those things anymore.
His house is across from a small park, empty this time of year. I sit on a bench, facing the street, watching his front door, waiting to see what, if any, Project detractors will find themselves in front of it. It’s cold out, the metal of the bench numbing the backs of my thighs, my eyes watering from the bitter air as much as the deep, thrumming ache it causes in my bones. I could have driven the Buick out but an idling car parked close enough to Arthur’s house for a good view struck me as a little conspicuous.
I check my watch. It’s almost time. When I glance up, there’s a fluttering behind the curtain covering Arthur’s front window. I imagine him pacing anxiously behind it, hopeful.
I’m hopeful too; there have to be more stories like mine and his.
A man walks down the street toward Arthur’s house. He’s young, early twenties. As soon as he reaches the path to the door—he keeps walking.
I exhale and wait as Arthur waits.
A half hour passes.
I can’t feel my hands, they’re so cold, and I’m about to call it when a black sedan pulls up just shy of the house. It lingers there so long, I think it must be a coincidence but something about it makes me stand and move closer for a better look.
The car stops idling, the engine cuts. A tall, white man steps out of the driver’s side looking about as old as Lev. His red hair is curly around his head and he pulls at the bottom of his coat before digging his hand into his pocket, producing his phone. He glances at the screen and then the house, as though checking the address, then moves to the door. There’s no question he’s here for Arthur’s meetup.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice sounds from down the street, sharp and familiar, sending a shockwave through me. At first, I think it’s directed at me, but it’s not. The redheaded man looks up and I follow his gaze to—Casey. I step back quickly as Casey marches toward him, furious. Even when I was pushing my luck with The Unity Project, trying to make my way to Bea, I’d never seen her this mad. Her face is blotchy red, her hair flying wildly around her head as her black trench flares behind her. She asks it again:
“What do you think you’re doing?”
As soon as she’s close enough, he says her name and grabs at her arm. She jerks away and their voices blur together, indistinguishable. She gets as close to him as she can seem to stand it, and he, for his part, seems to be doing his best to remain calm. The whole moment crescendos; Casey pushes him hard in the chest and then, to my astonishment, turns on her heel and climbs into the sedan.
He stands there for a long moment, his jaw set, and then gets into the driver’s side. I watch her as he starts the car. Her face is completely contorted with rage. She snaps something at him and turns her face to the window and her rage gives way to surprise as her eyes meet mine. Shit.
The sedan pulls away from the curb.
When I look to Arthur’s house, he’s watching from his window and I duck out of view before he sees me too. I make my way back to my apartment, thoughts whirling.
* * *
She calls me hours later, long after I’ve googled who the man might be and discovered who he is: her brother, Daniel. I stare at her name as it lights up my phone and when I answer, she doesn’t wait for my greeting. She tells me we need to talk. Off the record. In person. She’s still in town, she says. When I ask her to name the place, she picks The Unity Center.
The Unity Center is near the heart of Morel, just slightly tucked away from the sinus rhythm of the town, offering a level of privacy for those who might want to seek assistance away from prying eyes. It’s a large building, three stories tall, designed to do several things at once. The first story is where the action is: at the front of the building, past intake, is the dining room, which is adjacent to the kitchen. It serves breakfast and dinner and light snacks and drinks throughout the day. A recreation room neighbors the dining area where people can relax, breathe, socialize; anything that’s not disruptive or destructive. At the very, very back are showers and bunks, room to sleep fifty. Per its website, once you’ve made use of all of those services—or regardless of whether or not you do—you can avail yourself of The Unity Connection, which runs on the second floor. The third, presumably, is for staff facilities.