The Flinch © Kevin R. Doyle
As the young man stepped on the elevator, he flinched. Katie had seen the instinctive reaction before. Belatedly, she realized that a portion of her scarf had slipped down, exposing part of her face. Thus, the flinch.
As Katie sank between the walls of her cubicle, the comforting, warm feelings of peace and security engulfed her. At work, concealed both by the cubicle and the telephone over which she conducted business, Katie didn't have to worry about people's reactions. She knew her voice sounded nice, smooth and mellow. And she knew that, for at least the next eight hours, she could feel almost normal.
When she applied at the telemarketing firm, Katie immediately asked for work on the third shift. The manager, who usually had to beg people to work graveyard, hired her on the spot. Working late night and early morning made it easier for Katie to walk to and from work without meeting people. From time to time, she miserably recalled the days when she'd had a car to drive, and as much as she'd cursed that old clunker back then, she would have given a lot to still have private transportation. Instead, the courts had relegated Katie to either walking or using the bus, and the bus was far too public for her. Winter usually presented no problem. But spring and summer, when she couldn't easily hide herself under scarves and hats, posed something of a dilemma. This night fell on the edge between fall and winter, just cold enough to justify a scarf. As she had walked the thirteen blocks from work to her apartment, not meeting anybody for block after block, Katie had been tempted to unwind the scarf and walk head upright, like a normal person. However, just as she reached up, she spotted a couple walking her way. She hurriedly put her hand back in her jacket and walked on. And glanced back as the couple passed her. Young, huddling together for extra warmth, probably returning from a late-night party or date. She noticed how closely they walked together and how, even over layers of clothing, their hands moved back and forth in anticipation. As they disappeared around a corner, Katie sighed for her lost life. Katie shut her apartment door and, as she did every night, leaned against the wall, trembling with relief. Another day and night out of the way. Another twenty-four hours in which she'd managed to hide from the world. Except for the young man in the elevator. It bothered her that she'd left herself so exposed, so vulnerable to the inspection of a stranger. She'd have to be more careful in the future. Her apartment looked the same as she'd left it, the same as it always would. Stark, almost barren, with just enough furniture to live on. She didn't care much for ornamentation, and in particular her walls and shelves contained no trace of pictures or mementos from her past life. Nothing that would remind her, even indirectly, of the scar. A visitor in her home, which she never had, would have noticed that, unlike most young women, Katie didn't own any mirrors. She'd discovered shortly after the accident that she really didn't need one. She never used make-up, and after that night in the hospital shortly after the accident, she couldn't bear to look at her reflection. Katie woke up out of a nightmare, one she had almost every night. In it, unknown people, who looked suspiciously like doctors and nurses, trapped her in an old-fashioned carnival funhouse filled with mirrors. But unlike a normal funhouse, all of these mirrors showed normal reflections; everywhere she looked, they showed her true appearance, the face she never showed the world. Waking up in a sweat, she lay still for a few minutes, slowing her breathing and building the resolve to get up and face another day. Briefly, she thought about Rob and wondered where he was and what he was doing. The entire time, the image of the mirrors lingered in the back of her mind. Katie had only seen her face once since the accident. Now, three years later, she still remembered the murmuring of the people at the hospital. "Poor child," she'd heard them whisper on that night. "How awful for such a thing to happen to one so young." It had taken her awhile, but Katie had eventually worked out systems to handle the mundane affairs of life. One such system involved groceries. Fortunately, the occasional small grocer who made home deliveries still existed. Early that afternoon, right on time, the downstairs buzzer sounded. "Hello," Katie said as she depressed the intercom button. "Gleason's Market, Mrs. Stone." "Come on up." She clicked the lever that released the downstairs latch, then stood by the door and waited for the delivery boy. Opening the door to his knock, Katie looked as if she'd just come from the shower. Her thick black robe, cinched all the way to her collarbone, covered her up to her ears. A huge bath towel, wrapped turban style, masked her head from her eyebrows up. The delivery kid, one of the two or three regulars, quickly handed over her bags. Setting them on the counter, Katie fished the money out of her robe, counting out the exact change. She noticed him peer closely at her while trying to look the other way. Was he searching for the telltale marks on her face, the evidence of her sin? Shutting the door, Katie leaned wearily against the wall. Would the kid talk about her when he got back to the market? Would the other workers stand around and gossip about the strange woman, obviously fairly young, who never let anyone see her face? Or did they even need to gossip? Did they already know the whole story about the accident three years before? Did they know what she tried to conceal whenever she opened the door? They kept her in the hospital for nearly a week after the wreck, checking and testing for any unseen injuries. After a few days, she became accustomed to the sympathetic, sorrowful looks of the nurses and the stern, unyielding demands of the doctors. On the second day, Rob finally showed up. "Honey, I ..." He stood at the foot of the bed, twisting his hands, looking everywhere but at her. Come here, she mutely begged him. Come here and hold me, comfort me and tell me about Angie. Don't just stand there and look away. But he did stand and look away. He stood as far as possible from her and mumbled a few platitudes. Then, after gracelessly walking over to pat her hand, he turned and shuffled out of the room. She never saw him again. He even handled the divorce by long distance. Katie stood at her window and watched the twilight set in. In another hour it would be dark. Then, several hours later, she'd get dressed, conceal her face as much as possible, and head out to work. The TV had warned about a cold snap coming on tonight, which would make it easier for her to cover herself up. It also meant fewer people on the street, fewer opportunities for someone to notice her. Fewer chances for her to see them flinch as they passed her by. "Your recovery's almost complete." Dr. Masters studied his charts, hardly glancing at Katie. "The way you're healing, we should have you out of here and ready to go home in a few more days." His last words tore even wider the wound that would never heal. Home. The place where Rob wasn't. And where Angie... "There is one other thing you'll need to deal with," Masters said from behind his notes. "What?" Every day, Katie thought her voice sounded duller than the day before. "Well, there's. That is . . ." His voice trailed off, and he burrowed deeper into his paperwork. "What is it, doctor? Whatever, it can't be worse than what's been thrown at me so far." He pulled his head up with an effort and, for the first time since entering the room, stared directly into her eyes. And he managed to do so without flinching. Give him bonus points for self control, she thought bitterly. "There's a couple of police officers outside. They've been coming here every day, waiting until I say it's okay for you to talk to them." The police. Katie's head whirled. Not once, since coming to after the accident, had she thought that the cops would have questions. And yet, it seemed like such a logical development. "I can talk to them now." "I just wanted to let you know they're around. You don't have to do this yet. I can put them off another few days." "No," she said, her voice sounding duller by the second. "Now's fine." Another of Katie's enduring dreams concerned that interview with the police. This usually happened after she would see or hear something on the news involving cops. Invariably, the next night she would experience a nightmare replay of the interview. However, this dream didn't distort reality; it reran the events in brutally realistic terms: "How fast were you going?" "Just a little over the speed limit, I think. But not much. I'd left work a little late, so me and Angie were in a hurry." "How much had you been drinking beforehand?" "Just a bit. We had a small party at the office. For my birthday." She found out later that the hospital's records held a different version of how much liquor she'd had. Another reason for the looks the staff gave her. "Did you see the other car before ..." Katie broke down at that point. No, she finally blurted. She hadn't seen the other car. She hadn't even known it existed until they collided. Until Angie began screaming. It took her so long to stop. Katie stepped out on the sidewalk, once again leaving the comforting confines of the apartment. She moved fluidly around the few people she encountered, always positioning herself so they couldn't catch even a glimpse of her face. She made it to the office building without incident. As she waited for the elevator, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a man approaching on her right. Instinctively, she twisted to the left. By the time he stood next to her, the elevator still hadn't come. "Hi, there." Her stomach knotted up. She didn't remember the last time a stranger had spoken to her. When she didn't answer, he tried again. "How are you tonight?" Katie moved a bit, just enough to get a better look at him. Her heart skipped when she recognized the man from the night before. "I work for the publishing firm up on twelve," he said, his voice and smile a touch strained. Why did he keep talking to her? "Look," he continued, "I saw you the other night and just wondered ..." Before he could finish, Katie turned and ran out of the building. She rushed home, dark thoughts whirling through her head. Was her ugliness so apparent that it now brought out the weirdos? Did they see her as a desperate, lonely woman eager for any type of affection, no matter how shallow? As she came within a block of her apartment building, Katie slowed to a walk, hot, painful breaths rasping through her throat. As soon as she got inside, she'd call work and make up an excuse about a stomach flu. That would fix things for tonight. But what about the next night? And the one after that? Now that strange men were approaching her, could she ever safely leave her home again? Was what happened this night an isolated incident? Or was it an indication of yet another burden she'd have to carry around? Bolting inside, she hurriedly threw the locks. Then she slumped against the door and prayed that she could cry. But the tears refused to come. She hadn't cried a single time since that first night in the hospital, when a kindly nurse took her hand and told her about Angie. She'd lost it on that night. Screaming as loud as possible, tears rushing down her face, she'd clenched her fists and beat them over and over into the mattress, jerking her head back and forth, nearly snapping her neck with each move. Then, as the nurse's words rocketed around in her mind, she began to feel vomit surging up her throat. Angie couldn't be dead. Not her beautiful little girl. Not Rob's daughter. Less than six hours before, she'd been alive, chattering about something that day at school. And now... The noise brought more people rushing into the room. Katie's nausea overcame her and, before anyone could stop her, she flipped off the bed and staggered to the bathroom. After expelling what remained of the birthday celebration, Katie climbed to her feet. A small part of her mind calming down, she robotically stepped up to the sink to wash herself. As she raised her head, she got a good look at her face. She leaned against the sink, her hand reaching out to caress the mirror. Dimly, she saw that the others in the room had moved back, leaving her alone. Lightly touching the glass, she traced her reflection, staying silent for several moments. Then she really started shrieking. Her first night home was the last time she saw her reflection. Standing before the mirror in her apartment, Katie heard noises in her mind: the squealing tires, screeching brakes, shattering glass and, through it all, her daughter's painful screams. Staring in the mirror, Katie realized that her own reactions had been slow that day, nearly nonexistent. Too many martinis at the office party, too much indulgence before remembering it was her day to pick Angie up from school. And it all resulted in this, this face that now looked back at her. She didn't call her excuse in to work. After locking herself in, she never moved from the door. She slumped on the floor, crying her tearless sobs for a lost husband, lost life and, most of all, lost daughter. Somewhere, at some point in the lonely darkness of that night, Katie increased her determination to avoid other people. She'd been careless the night before, letting the man on the elevator get a good look at her. Clearly, whenever she allowed her exposed face to be seen, people would flinch and turn away. With the guilt of her baby's death etched across her clear, unmarked features, how could it be otherwise?
____________________ A life-long Midwesterner, Kevin R. Doyle has spent the last thirteen years teaching English, communications and Spanish at both the high-school and community college level. Currently, he teaches English and public speaking at a small high school in central Missouri and works as an adjunct instructor of composition for Moberly Area Community College. He's been writing short stories of horror and suspense for years and has had a moderate amount of material published in various small-press magazines, both print and online. His most recent work has appeared in Outer Darkness and Dark Fire . The idea for "The Flinch" came from an actual incident he witnessed while living in St. Joseph, MO.
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