Don’t ask me where this came from. I should have recognized the signs of the perfect storm of Myrtle the Evil Muse and frustration with a couple of projects I’ve been working on. I sent rough drafts off to alpha readers this weekend for input and thought I’d spend some time watching football (Go Aggies!) and reading. So imagine my surprise when I got ambushed with the following in the early hours of this morning. So far, I’ve got just shy of 5k words written, notes for an entire plotline, and an writing earworm I’m hoping I can shove back in its box until I finish one of the current WIPs.
This isn’t the entirety of what I’ve written and it is very much a first draft. No spell check, grammar check, etc., has been run on it. But this lets you see what sort of dirty tricks my muse takes pleasure in playing on me. . . .
“Hallowed Grounds”
Morning dawned, too early as always. Sunlight slipped between the blinds as easily as the knife that slipped between my ribs that pre-dawn morning six months ago. The memory haunted me, especially at night. I couldn’t escape it, not even here in my childhood bedroom thousands of miles from where it happened. Nor could I escape the fact I felt as much a stranger here as I had in that Eastern European village where my life exploded into a million pieces.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a metaphorical explosion.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Without thinking about it, I switched on the bedside lamp. Light flooded the room, driving away the shadows. As I glanced at the familiar clutter, I wanted to feel something, anything. But the sight of the old bookshelf, filled with books that offered me escape a lifetime ago did nothing. Then my gaze fell on one of the picture frames resting on the dresser. There, inside the silver frame, rested a frozen moment from a life now as foreign to me as the medals in their shadow box my parents proudly displayed in the family room downstairs.
Maybe it was the shadows that morning that got to me. Or maybe some part of me wanted to connect with the life I left here when I went to college and then joined the Army. Not ready to face the question, much less the answer, I turned the frame face down on the dresser and reached for the second frame.
There we were—me, a bright-eyed kid of maybe eleven or twelve and my parents, looking so damn happy. We stood together on the bank of the creek not far from the house. I remembered the day. Mom packed us a picnic basket and Dad and I tried our hand at fishing. Back then, I didn’t know much about the world outside of Ash Grove. I certainly didn’t care for anything outside of it. What I wouldn’t give to recapture at least some of the joy and innocence I felt then. But that old life was long gone and there was nothing I could do about it.
As I stepped out of the shower a short while later, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted up from the kitchen. For a second, I was sixteen again, ready to head downstairs to grab a scone where I’d find Mom and Dad talking about the day’s menu at “Hallowed Grounds”, the café that had been in the family for generations. Then reality intruded. I wasn’t sixteen any longer. But I didn’t doubt for a moment that they were both downstairs waiting for me, just as they had been every morning since my return home.
I dressed quickly in a pair of well-worn jeans, soft flannel shirt, and boots. This was my uniform, one I wasn’t yet used to. Eyes closed, I inhaled, held it, and then exhaled, struggling to find my center, that emotional balance that would let me get through another breakfast with my folks without letting them know how I really felt.
As ready as I could be to face the day, I stepped into the hallway. This was no battlefield. It wasn’t a stretch of desert and it sure as hell wasn’t the village of my nightmares. Even so, I fell into old habits, moving silently, alert to everything around me. The same stair tread that had creaked when stepped on when I used to try sneaking in or out after curfew groaned loudly. Nerves taut, I bit back a curse. I was home. I needed to remember that. No one was trying to kill me here.
With that thought in mind, I pushed open the kitchen door and plastered what I hoped was a reassuring smile on my face. I’d made it through the past week. I could make it through today.
I had to.
Dad stood at the stove, his back to me. Mingling with the welcoming smell of coffee were the enticing scents of bacon frying and freshly baked bread. A quick glance over Dad’s shoulder confirmed my guess about the rest of the meal: scrambled eggs. Without a word, he carefully spooned them into a bowl. Then he turned, handing it to me with the same easy, lopsided smile I knew so well.
“Morning, Rowan.” He kissed my cheek and then smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was worried about me. Well, that made two of us. “Put that on the table and then get yourself some coffee.”
“Where’s Mom?”
Much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t sure I could handle both parents this morning. They meant well, but they didn’t understand what I was going through. How could they? They hadn’t been betrayed, they hadn’t suffered the sort of losses I did on that last mission.
“She’s in the study talking with one of our suppliers. She’ll be here soon.” He turned back to the stove to flip the bacon onto a rack to drain before transferring the crisp strips to a plate. “Pour me a mug while you’re at it.” He nodded to the coffeemaker, a reminder that I still stood there, bowl of eggs in my hands.
It didn’t take long to put the bowl down and pour two mugs of coffee. Then I took my place at the hard maple breakfast table. Its surface showed the wear and tear of at least two generations of use. My fingers lightly traced a shallow dent I remembered playing with as a child. How many meals had I eaten here over the years?
When I looked up, I caught Dad watching me. He tried to be subtle about it, just like always. But I saw the worry. It was the same worry I’d seen on the faces of the doctors who treated me after the mission when to hell in a handbasket. I’d seen it on Captain O’Rourke’s face that last day as I signed my separation papers. He’d watched me walk away, patched up but broken all the same.
That was the same look I saw whenever my folks thought I wasn’t looking.
“Help yourself, Ro.” Dad placed the platter of bacon on the table followed by a basket filled with fresh bread and a selection of muffins. “How did you sleep?”
“Okay, I guess. Still getting used to sleeping in a real bed.” I shrugged. How did I explain I rarely slept more than an hour or two at a time any more? He’d worry even more if he knew and I didn’t want that.
“I know it’s hard right now, Ro. But your mom and I are glad you’re home.”
His voice might be a little rough, but there was no denying the truth of what he said. I only wished I felt the same way.
I stabbed my fork into the eggs, avoiding his eyes. “I know, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry I’ve been a hermit. It’s going to take time to adjust to everything.”
If I ever did.
“We do understand.” He looked down at his fingers wrapped tightly around the coffee mug. “You’ve been through so much. I hope you know that your mom and I will do everything we can to help. All you have to do is ask.”
“I know, Dad, and I appreciate it.” Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything they could do. Not unless they had a way to go back in time and make sure we never we on that last assignment. “I don’t know how to explain it, Dad, but I don’t feel like I fit in any more.”
He nodded, his gaze softening. “Maybe you should do something to change that.”
How? I had changed in more ways than he’d ever understand. I couldn’t just turn back the clock and be the seventeen-year-old who left for college and then the Army.
Instead of asking what he had in mind, I lifted my mug and tilted it in his direction, inviting him to explain.
“You’ve stuck to the house since you came home, kiddo, except when you’ve gone for your runs.”
I nodded.
“It’s obvious that isn’t working. So how about coming to Hallowed Grounds this morning?” Before I could voice any of the million objections that came to mind, he continued. “You’d be doing your mom and me a favor if you did. Leslie called in an hour ago. Her sister’s gone into labor and their mother’s not going to be back from their grandmother’s until later today and Linda’s ex has made it clear he wants nothing to do with the baby. Leslie needs to be with her sister and we need someone to cover for her.”
He left the rest of it unsaid. There were others they could call in to cover for Leslie, but this was his way of getting me out of the house and where I’d see people. Something I’d done my best to avoid since returning home. I opened my mouth and then shut it before I said something I’d regret. He thought the café could be the lifeline I needed to finish healing mentally.
“You want me to work front of house?” The words sounded as flat as I felt.
“I do.” He leaned forward, his expression serious and his voice gentle. “It would give you something to focus on besides why you’re here. Besides, you’re good with people, always have been.”
That last part was a stretch, especially now. Still, I nodded even as I swallowed the bile threatening to climb up my throat. The last thing I wanted was to be on display at the shop, with all the customers wanting to know how I was and what happened to bring me home. Besides, I wasn’t the same girl who used to help her dad clean the espresso machine and flirt with customers for tips.
Not that I could tell him that.
“I guess I can give it a shot,” I murmured.
He smiled, relief softening his expression. Something else—a hint of hope, maybe?—lit his brown eyes. I swallowed hard, knowing I’d disappoint him sooner, rather than later.
“Thanks, Rowan. It means a lot to have you help out.”
We fell silent and turned our attention to breakfast. Dad watched me as I ate. It felt as if he was searching for the daughter her remembered, the one buried under the pain and scars.
The daughter he knew died that night in Kaszyniec. All I could do was make sure he never knew what happened and the true depth of the mental and emotional scars it left.
Hopefully, I was a better actress now than I had been in high school.
Half an hour later, I paused outside Hallowed Grounds a drew a deep, bracing breath. I could do this. I hoped.
I pushed open the door and a wave of memories washed over me as the bell softly announced my arrival. Standing just inside, I glanced around. Like home, very little had changed about the café. No, that was wrong. I simply wasn’t looking closely enough. The tables and chairs looked the same, but the flooring was new and there appeared to be a fresh coat of paint on the walls. But the overall effect was the same as I remembered. Just as the scent of freshly ground coffee beans, fresh breads—not to mention sugar, cinnamon and other goodies—were familiar.
Mom stepped out of the kitchen, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she saw me. She gave a wave and turned to fix me a cup of coffee. At the same time, a few early customers waved from where they sat at tables near the front windows. I nodded in response, reminding myself they had nothing to do with what happened. I knew them. I trusted them. I needed to remember that.
“Good morning, love.” Mom kissed my cheek and then handed me the mug as I joined her behind the counter. “Thanks for filling in.”
I eyed the espresso machine warily. I’d grown up learning how to use the ancient machine my parents bought before I was born. This new one looked like something out of some mad scientist’s laboratory. Maybe this was as big of a mistake as I thought. No way could I handle this.
“It won’t bite.” Mom smiled as she rested a hand on my arm. Then she reached around me and quickly showed me how it worked. “It really is much easier than the old machine.”
I shook my head doubtfully. “Nope. Not gonna happen, Mom. I want Betsy back.” Betsy being the old expresso machine I used to hate but would now give anything to have back. At least I knew how to use it.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” She spoke softly, her expression reassuring. “It’s like riding a bike.”
I let out a shaky laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, sure. The problem’s that I never rode a bike like this.”
“You’ve got this. Just don’t overthink it.” Her cellphone rang and she glanced at the display, frowning slightly. “I need to take this. Think you can handle things until I’m back?”
I glanced at the five customers sitting at two tables and nodded. They had their coffees. Hopefully, no one would want anything until Mom got back. If the expresso machine intimidated me, I couldn’t make heads or tales out of the cash register—if you could even call the terminal next to the counter that. When had my folks embraced technology? They could barely handle email when I left for college.
I grabbed an apron from under the counter and put it on, tying it around my waist. As I took a few moments to familiarize myself with the pastries and breakfast sandwiches on the day’s menu, I listened to the sounds around me. The customers talked about the latest headlines, the books they were reading, the upcoming election. Mixing with their soft murmurs, the clink of spoons against mugs and forks against plates filled the air. I felt their eyes on me. When I looked up, I was met with a cautious smile, a curious glance, and unspoken questions I wasn’t ready to acknowledge, much less answer. To ward them off, I smiled, nodded and did my best to project a confidence I didn’t feel.
Yet, as customers came and went and the breakfast crowd transitioned to lunch, I realized something. The steady rhythm of the café, the honest warmth of the greetings from the regular customers, the sounds of a healthy business eased some of the tension I’d grown used to. It was almost as if it grounded me, at least a little. Not that it fooled me. This was, at best, a temporary fix. As soon as I returned home and wasn’t busy, the nightmares would return. My dead would haunt me and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Rowan, it’s so good to see you.” Mrs. Dunlap, one of Mom’s long-time friends, sidled up to the counter, her eyes soft with pity that she tried to mask with a warm smile. “We’ve all missed you, girl, especially your parents.”
“Good to see you too, Mrs. Dunlap.” I smiled a bit tightly, but she didn’t seem to notifce. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, just my usual latte, honey.” She leaned in, looking at the various pastries and sandwiches on display. When she looked up, she grinned like a kid who’d been let loose in a candy store on her own for the first time. “And maybe a piece of your mama’s cinnamon swirl cake.”
“Coming right up.” I turned and began making her latte, praying I remembered how. There’d been a time when I could do so without thinking. But that was a lifetime—and a machine—ago and I still had to deal with checking her out. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready, ma’am.”
Hopefully, she’d take the hint and let me fumble through this without her watching.
“That’s all right, Rowan. I like watching you work.” She smiled and I groaned inwardly. So much for not being the center of her attention. “Are you settling in all right? I bet it’s nice to be back home after everything that happened.”
If I hadn’t been carefully adding the steamed milk to her latte, I’d have rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s... nice to be back.”
Mrs. Dunlap smiled gently. “I’m glad you’re back, Rowan. Remember something. There’s nothing wrong with asking folks for help. We’re all here for you.”
“I’ll try.”
I passed her the latte and cake. She drifted back to her table, stopping along the way to speak with some of the other customers. As she did, I reached for a rag and wiped down the counter before turning my attention to the espresso machine. Mrs. Dunlap wanted me to ask for help? She meant well. I knew it. But she had no idea what she was asking.
As I worked, the hum of the coffee machine and clatter of dishes slowly morphed into a kind of white noise, lulling me somewhere else, somewhere my nightmares became real. The sounds and smells of the café faded. Shouts of fear and pain intermixed with the sounds of gunfire and explosions replaced them. I saw Rodriguez, with that cocky grin his, giving Thompson a shove and laughing as he did. My stomach twisted as the memories became real. The mug in my hands felt heavy as a rifle replaced it. Smoke filled the air. The smells of burnt rubber, fuel, dust choked me. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth and I gagged. We needed to retreat. We needed to exfil. But how?
“Rowan? Rowan, come back now!” My mother’s voice was shark, the fingers of one hand bit into my upper arm as she gave me a little shake.
I drew a shuddering breath and shook myself. Mom stood there, hands on my arms, her expression worried, fear darkening her eyes. Behind her stood Dad. He looked as if he was afraid I’d shatter into a million pieces in front of them. I blew out the breath I’d been holding and lifted a shaking hand to lightly pat Mom’s hand where it rested on my arm.
“S-sorry. I’m okay now.”
“What happened?” Mom asked, gently guiding me to the stood they kept behind the counter.
I shook my head.
“Flashback?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
“Oh, honey.” Mom wrapped her arms around me even as Dad shook his head when several of the customers moved in our direction to make sure everything was all right. “Why don’t you let me take you home.”
“I’m all right now.” Not really, but then I hadn’t been truly all right since the ambush. “Let me finish the shift.”
“Are you sure?” Dad looked at me closely, trying to see past the defenses I was already putting back in place.
No, but I couldn’t tell him that.
Instead, I nodded. Like it or not, I knew I’d be better here than at home alone where nothing distracted me from my thoughts.
Save me from renegade muses. Usual disclaimers apply. Oh, and there will be ghosts, creatures and other things that go bump in the night involved. Sigh.
I am intrigued.
Wondering what happened.