Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (42 page)

“I learned
that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.”

— Nelson
Mandela

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Alrighty
then—let’s take an inventory of my morning so far.

It’s storming
outside, a decent reflection of the tempest that is overwhelming my mind, my
heart and my life. Grant has been arrested for
murder
. I have no clue
when or even
if
he's going to return.

Meanwhile, I’m
still reeling from one of the worst panic attacks I’ve had in years. When I saw
all those police, all in one place at my door, the past roared back to the
surface of my mind. My brother, my mother, Jamie.

I’ve deluded
myself into believing I was past that level of dysfunction. I'm so
disillusioned and disappointed in myself. I've been doing so well for so long.
I’ve come ten steps forward only to go eleven steps back.

So, here I am
now, alone, freaked-out and solely responsible for the care of a six-month-old
child. To top it all off, a few minutes ago, my period started.

Now my day is
complete.

Can anything
else possibly go wrong? Famous last words. I should know better than to tempt
fate with that thought, especially on a day like today.

I’d give three
night’s sleep to crawl into the Zen-like comfort and safety of the small black
box André made for me. My anxiety level would immediately drop. Unfortunately,
no-can-do. If I run away to my retreat, who would look after the baby?

Thank God,
Briley entertains himself. I only have to occasionally shift a different toy
within reaching distance, or move the Noah’s Ark mobile that hangs above him.

Mitten brushes
against my legs, demanding attention. Absently, I stroke him. From time to
time, he almost makes me smile by batting at one of the dangling toy animals
hanging from Briley’s Ark mobile. He’s trying to snap me out of it, bless his
furry sox.

Mitten is
attentive and protective. He’s seen me like this before and was my rock during
my little meltdown. I love him so dearly.

I’m physically
exhausted and an emotional wreck. In hopes of distracting myself, I pick up the
remote control to Grant’s wide-screen TV and aimlessly flip through the
channels, unable to settle on anything. My mood keeps vacillating from numbness
and depression to abject fear and anxiety.

It often can
take three to four hours for me to fully come down from one of my panic
attacks. Until then, I simply can’t think clearly.

Oh, yeah, I’ve
climbed back on board the crazy train. Until the engine runs out of fuel and
the locomotive slows down, it still seems as though I’m speeding along at a
million miles per hour. There’s no easy way to disembark.

I can only wait
and suck it up. Getting off the train takes time.

“Hello?” I hear
the call of an unfamiliar female voice.

“We’re in here,”
I reply. My stomach tightens as a fresh spike of anxiety shoots through me.
Grant
sent her, Grant sent her,
I tell myself
. I trust Grant.

I hear the front
door close and the sound of an umbrella being set down. I look up to see a
petite woman peeking around the corner and then tentatively come toward me.

“Hi, Renata, I’m
Sally Ann,” she says quietly, walking into the room. She brings a soft floral
scent and the fresh smell of rain with her. Her light blue eyes are hesitant,
but kind. It’s obvious she doesn’t mean to impose, yet she appears to be well
aware I’m in trouble.

“Grant asked me
to come,” she says. “Those policemen should be ashamed of themselves! I don’t
know what they thought they were doing coming here, going through his home and
scaring you half to death. Grant is a hero. He wouldn’t ever do anything
wrong!”

“Yes,” I agree,
glad to find I’m not stuttering.

Strangers make
me uneasy. I feel awkward, mute and stupid around them. A client is different
because they need my help. Luckily, I’ve learned to be a good actress for short
periods.

Sally Ann is
excusing my irrational hysteria by blaming the police, and her loyalty toward
Grant is nice too. A flash of curiosity piques my interest. I’m surprised into
assessing her objectively, despite my fractured mental state. This woman is
either a counselor, or she’s naturally empathetic.

“What can I do
to help?” she asks with sweet sincerity.

My God, it’s
such a relief to have her support. Sally Ann is an attractive young woman,
perhaps my age or a little older, with a very pretty, symmetrical face. She’s
wearing a light blue cashmere sweater and blue jeans. Her figure is curvy, and
her thick, wavy locks are shoulder length. Her brunette hair contrasts with her
striking light blue eyes. It’s a powerful combination.

No barriers, no
hidden agenda—her kind-heartedness isn’t an act. This genuinely sweet and
wholesome woman has arrived in order to help. I almost cry with relief.

“Thank you… for
coming,” I murmur.

“You are most
welcome—oh!” she suddenly interrupts herself, her almost musical voice singing,
“What a gorgeous little baby! And what a beautiful cat!”

I briefly
introduce her to Mitten, who likes her instantly. This settles the matter for
me. Mitten is a wonderful judge of character.

“Do you have
experience with babies?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” she
replies in that soft, quiet voice. “I’m very good with them.”

That’s all I
need to know. Urgent with the desire to leave, I stand up. “Would you please
look after Briley?” I ask her. “Just for two hours or so? Honestly, I need some
time alone in order to pull myself together. I’ve had such a fright.”

Sally Ann’s
expression is filled with compassion. “You poor thing! Grant told me what
happened over the phone. What a terrible shock for you. Go!” she says, making a
shooing motion with her hands. “Don’t you worry now. I’ll manage just fine.”

Before I
disappear, I show her Briley’s bottle, which is ready when she needs it, and
also the location of some jarred baby food. As soon as possible, I take off,
escaping into the much needed, familiar safety only my little black box can
provide.

~~~

We all have our
boxes we escape into, in order to get by. Mine just happens to be a physical
one.

A psychiatrist
once diagnosed me as “agoraphobic” with “severe social anxiety.” If I’m at a
party, or any gathering I feel awkward, stupid, mute and judged. It’s not
them—it’s me. I can be friendly, but I find it difficult to make friends.

André taught me
how to
act
normal around strangers.

Feeling
normal
is the tough one.

Like a
frightened mouse, I spend almost three hours regrouping. I’m cut off from
everything, curled up into a ball, enveloped by comforting dark silence. When I
come out, I’m able to be myself again.

Sally Ann is
sitting on the couch, playing with Briley. She looks up with a smile as I enter
the room.

“Hi, Renata,”
she says. “You look so much better!”

“I feel better,
thanks to you,” I say, forcing myself to speak confidently. Sally Ann blushes
and shakes her head, unable to easily accept my tribute. We’re both apparently
shy, which is pretty funny.

I change the
subject. “Did you have any trouble?”

Sally Ann tells
me in detail that she fed Briley, changed him and gave treats to Mitten. Her
eyes are bright, her manner enthusiastic. It’s clear she's enjoyed her time
with both of them.

She’s
straightforward and happy to talk. What you see is what you get with her. I
like that. It’s unusual to find anyone as open and easy to read as she is.
Maybe this type of behavior kicks in when she sees someone she perceives of as
wounded, exactly like I was when she first arrived. She’s a nurturer.

Sally Ann has
also made herself at home by brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
Thank God!

I offer her a
slice of chocolate cake, and serve us both. After such a terrible morning, I’m
empty inside. Now that I’ve gotten it together, I’m able to eat and settle my
stomach.

“How do you know
Grant?” I ask her, pouring a cup of coffee for myself.

“Oh, I’m a good
friend of his sister, Betty Jo. We all went to school together. Grant is three
years older than we are. He’s always been so nice to me and my brother.”

I find listening
to strangers much easier than trying to speak to them. With careful
questioning, I find out that Sally Ann has a twin brother, Danny. Sadly, he was
a troubled teen who never grew out of it, I gather.

Briley is in a
baby swing, half asleep. Sally Ann rocks it from time to time. “Danny’s too
sensitive, you know what I mean?”

I nod. Oh boy, I
understand that all too well. I was like a raw nerve ending for too much of my
life.

Mitten climbs
onto my lap and I absently stroke him.

“And bullies are
just like rabid wolves,” she says, her voice rising with righteous anger. “They
instinctively sense who in the herd is the most defenseless. They’re also such
cowards! They don’t go for strong prey, they go after the broken or already
wounded, you know? They target the easiest one of the pack to bring down.”

“Stinky!
Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!”

“I understand,”
I say, as vivid memories of my troubled childhood flash through my mind.
Children at my school taunted and tormented me too. I instantly feel a kinship
with her poor brother.

“Bullies seemed
to come out of woodwork, inevitably zeroing in on Danny, in the way bullies
do,” Sally Ann continues. “Whenever they did, if Grant found out, he’d beat the
hell out of them. He was always so protective of Danny, as though he was his
personal bodyguard or something. It was sweet, even if it wasn't always done in
the sweetest way," she says with an uncertain smile.

Sally Ann frowns
for a moment, her features marred by confusion. “In a way, Grant is kind of
like a wolf too—the biggest and scariest wolf of all, but I don’t think he’s
ever been a bully.”

“Really?”
I was interested in hearing her story before, but now I’m hanging on every
word.

“Oh, yes,” she
says with starry awe in her eyes. “One time, at school, during swimming, this
big jerk kept dunking Danny, scaring him half to death. My poor brother was
choking and panicking. Grant got so angry he grabbed the bully and held him
under water until Danny was terrified the big jerk would drown.” She smiles.
“Then Grant made the guy apologize to Danny.”

I smile.
“Impressive.”

“Isn’t it?”

We chat for over
an hour, mostly about Grant. It astonishes me he's spent his life resisting
someone so sweet and pure. I’m even more surprised to find how much I envy her
wholesome perfection. I feel a strange, never-before experienced urge to hate
the woman. But who could dislike
her?

I've never been
the jealous type. However, Sally Ann is just so remarkably demure, caring and
lovable. I'm touched by her charm. There’s a compelling sort of innocence in
her eyes. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn she’s still a virgin.
Actually, I'd bet money on it.

Grant said he
never dated or had
any
relationships with women other than prostitutes.
I'd have thought Sally Ann would be utterly irresistible to him, or to any man
with a pulse. Hell, if I had leanings in that direction,
I'd
fall for
her.

Grant obviously
trusts her—and he doesn’t trust easily.

A bitter knot of
envy tightens my chest.

I'm not sure why
I feel this way about Sally Ann. I can only attribute my newfound jealousy to
the strength of my love for Grant. I find myself feeling possessive of him in
ways I've never felt for anyone. This is surprising. Yet, even with these new
thoughts and sensations coursing through me, I can't help but like Sally Ann.

Socially adept,
kind and graceful, I truly admire her.

It breaks my
heart to admit it, but Sally Ann is perfect. Mental demons whisper in my mind
with bitter, hateful reproach.
You don’t deserve Grant. You’re not good
enough for him.

Sally Ann is.

By the time I
see her out the door and say goodbye, I know three things. One, she adores her
brother. Two, the sweet Southern Belle is saving herself for marriage, and
three? The poor woman has silently suffered
years
of unrequited love for
Grant.

"Now and
then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy." —
Guilaume Apollinaire

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I’m wearing
jeans and boots without a shirt as I labor in the yard.

Two weeks have
gone by since the police so rudely raided my home and frightened the hell out
of Renata. Other than her spending a few hours every day alone in her room, she
came out of it pretty well.

The heat from a
potential murder charge is off for now. My lawyer assures me that there’s not
enough evidence to press forward with the case. At last I can relax.

The sky is
clear, the temperature's about fifty but it’s still early. It's going to be hot
today, but not humid. I have the day off from the shooting range. I want to get
this project done and spend more time with Renata.

I have two
poles, both eight inches in diameter and fourteen feet high. They’re held fast
with wire cables. The four cables and two poles are all anchored in concrete
that has almost set.

These babies
won’t be going anywhere.

I’ve already put
the metal crossbar in place, now I just need to attach the two rubber swings I
picked up from The Home Depot.

I stare up at
the sky, measuring in my mind. I estimate Renata and I will be able to reach
about twelve feet high at full swing. I recall the joy on her face when I took
her to that playground after she'd told me how much she loved to swing. It
changed her mood from troubled to jubilant so quickly. It was beautiful to
watch.

Delighting
Renata is my new favorite thing.

“I love it,” she
says.

I shoot her a
grin and my pulse kicks up just from seeing her smile. I’ve memorized her face,
her profile, the feminine shape of her. I could easily draw a detailed picture
of Renata from memory—if I could draw.

Every time I
look at her, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her in my life and in my
home. I find it almost impossible to believe she even exists. How can someone
so perfect live in the world?

Despite the cool
morning air, Renata is wearing a summery, yellow dress. She’s been watching me
while holding the baby on her hip, a common domestic scene I’m getting used to.

What would it
feel like to see her holding
our
child wrapped in her loving arms?

Monster!
Pervert!

Echoes from my
past make me fear fatherhood, yet these whispering demons don’t hold as much
sway anymore. I’ve learned to listen to my negative self-talk. I recognize the
inner dialogue, tell myself it’s bullshit, and then ignore it.

These embedded
thoughts no longer have the same power to hurt me they once did. I’ve realized
every one is a lie.

“You’ll be able
to try it out later today,” I say.

“Woo hoo!” she
calls out wearing a broad grin.

Renata wants to
know who abused me. I won’t lie, but there’s no way I can tell her now. I’ve
explained to her it’s a secret I must keep.

My history of
being sexually abused by the murder victim would be more than enough motive to
send me to trial. Who knows when the police might get around to interviewing
her? They’ve already spoken to my entire family, my employees and my alcohol
rehab facility. They even tried to talk to my AA sponsor, who told them to
shove their head where the light don’t shine.

Luckily, they
don’t seem to know about the counseling I’ve had with André. Communication
between a therapist and a client is privileged information, but you never know.

Detective
Bronowski kept his word and quickly returned Renata’s iPad. Why haven’t they
returned my personal laptop or business computers?

I had to buy new
computers for the shooting range, which was fine. Yet, we're missing our data
files. It’s been a tedious task, reconstructing the information we need for
taxes and bookkeeping as well as countless other business-related
responsibilities.

My lawyer told
me Stan Huber was the witness who claimed that I killed my father. I couldn’t
believe it. Stan fucking Huber? The bastard.

I’d talk to him,
but I don’t see the point. Clearly, Alex got drunk or high and jabbered the
same plan to kill our father to Stan that he'd blabbed to me. Stan used that
knowledge to get out of jail. Of course, being my brother's best friend, Stan
didn't want to hurt Alex, so I became the fall guy.

It doesn’t
matter at this point, because I don’t want Alex arrested, either. He's in
enough trouble with the law already.

“You mind
holding the ladder again?” I ask Renata.

“Sure.”

Renata puts
Briley down on the baby blanket and hands him a toy. Damn, she looks hot in
that little dress. As she bends over, her ass moves in a way that makes my
blood pressure rise. Is she teasing me?

I wouldn’t put
it past her in the least.

I’ve never met a
woman who wants sex more than Renata does. Actually, she doesn’t have to tease
me. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to fuck her. Just
thinking about her makes me horny. Around her, I’m constantly hard.

Mostly, I try to
ignore it.

This strategy
isn’t working.

She straightens
with a sexy grin, walks across to me and keeps the ladder steady with both
hands.

“So,
Mr.
Up-Early-and-Energetic
,” she says. “Where did you say we’re going today?”

I climb the
ladder, hook the first swing in and attach the clamps with nuts and bolts.
“White Rock Escarpment—hand me the other swing, will you?”

She pushes the
ends of two chains into my hands. “Do you go there often?”

“Nope. I haven’t
been there for years.”

I climb down.
Renata and I stand back, admiring the swing set I’ve built for her. From the
moment she expressed a love of swinging, I began to envision how to build her
the perfect swing set. These are like swings on steroids. This way, we both get
to swing together, like we did on that special day at the park.

“I love it,” she
says, turning toward me. “Thank you so much.”

I shrug, it
really wasn't a big deal. I’m strangely self-conscious, yet delighted by her
happiness. Pleasing her is easy.

My body tightens
as I recall what I have planned for her tonight. Renata knows nothing about it,
so I don’t
have
to go through with it.

I relax
instantly at that thought.

“You’re
welcome,” I say. “I think we both deserve a second childhood, don’t you?”

I adore the glint
of delight I see reflected in her eyes.

“Can I kiss
you?” she asks hopefully.

I clear my
throat and move closer to her. Touch still unnerves me, and kissing is too
intimate, but I’m working on it.

I bend my head
down, pressing our foreheads together. Renata puts her hands on my shoulders, I
place mine upon her slim waist. My palms flex around her soft flesh and my cock
stiffens further.

I knows she’s
wearing a bra and panties, but Renata feels naked under her thin dress.

For the love of
God, she smells good.

I take a deep
breath, let it out and then we kiss. It’s not a
real
kiss with tongue,
mouth and urgent demands. It’s more like a gentle press of lips. After only a
moment, I pull away and both of us then drop our hands to our sides.

Renata smiles at
me. “You’re getting better at this.”

“A little,” I
say quietly. I'm improving, but it's still a struggle.

After the
incident with the police, I put the brakes on everything physical between us. I
stopped and rewound my foray into the sexual realm back down to the ground
floor. Instead of picking up where we'd left off, we’ve been taking it very
slowly. I've been
dating
Renata.

This is the
first time in my life I’ve dated anyone. I might be flattering myself, but I
think it’s going pretty well.

Rushing ahead
faster than I'm ready for can't be good. She means too much to me. I already
have enough pressure from my body, which is in a constant state of arousal.

It seems as
though this thing with the police might not be a problem. So what’s the hurry?
I want to relax and enjoy this experience. Doesn't it make sense just to let
things progress naturally?

Truthfully, I’m
worried. Things are going OK so far, and I’m afraid I’ll screw this up.

Yes, I have
intimacy problems I need to overcome. Yes, I want to make love to Renata so
much I burn and ache, relentless with need. But, I also want to bask in this
strange, foreign sensation of simply being happy.

“Hola!”
my housekeeper, Maria says, as she strolls out to the backyard.

A small,
thickset, grandmotherly woman, she’s always full of energy. It must be 8 a.m.
Maria, who usually starts at nine, assured me she’d come early today.

I put on my
shirt as I smile and greet her.

Maria’s been
with me since I was a child. She taught me Spanish and was as close to a mother
as I ever had. My own mother was never the nurturing or mothering type. Of
course, my uptight mother didn’t want me associating with ‘the help,’ so Maria
and I had to keep our interactions and mutual admiration for each other secret.

Of all of the
secrets I kept as a child,
this
was the only good one.

Renata, Maria
and I, exchange greetings and last minute details. As a mother of seven and
grandmother of six, Maria is well able to care for Briley.

“You are good
for him,” Maria tells Renata, speaking about me as if I’m not even here.
“Without a woman, a man is unhappy.” She nods wisely. “
Señor
Wilkinson
is a good man—a very good man. He will make a good husband.”

Renata laughs,
tilts her head and asks her, “Do you think so?”

“Si! Si!
Marry him and give him many children,” she eagerly advises, emphasizing her
enthusiasm for her plan by flinging her hands into the air. “It is best for you
both, I think.”

Renata eyes me
speculatively. “Oh?”

I shake my head,
unable to stifle my smile. Encouraging Maria to elaborate on this subject is
very naughty. Maria's always had a soft spot for me.

“He is very good
looking, don’t you think?” Maria turns and regards me appreciatively.
“Together, you will make very beautiful children.”

This is awkward.
I stand utterly still, trying to remain composed. Contradicting thoughts and
emotions rush through me, ranging from embarrassment to delight, from
unworthiness to hope.

How did I manage
to find two such wonderful women?

They say beauty
is only skin deep, but that isn’t true at all.
Real
beauty can only be
found
much
deeper.

The scars on my
face don’t bother me much anymore. Why should they? Renata touches my scars
with
love
. Maria and André also see past them. My scars don’t bother the
important people in my life.

I spend long
periods each day completely forgetting I was ever wounded. André was right—I’ve
put too much importance on my scars.

I wonder if I
focused on them because I felt those ugly wounds reflected who I really was
inside—the monster I'd kept hidden for so long. I not only believed I deserved
them, but as a monster, the scars served a purpose. As if my toxic past was
contagious, I wanted to warn people away, so I wouldn't run the risk of
contaminating anyone.

I’m not that
person anymore.

Mitten is
playing with his new friend, a jet black kitten from next-door. He knows
Renata’s going out and seems OK with it. 

Renata kisses
Briley and we wave good bye to Maria. I open the door so Renata can get into
the car. Our picnic lunch is already packed. Nervous tension tightens my
muscles as I think about the surprise I have in store for Renata, for
tonight—unless I lose my nerve.

The woman I
adore has been quite direct in expressing a desire to continue my therapy, so I
finally booked a hotel room to provide us with alone time. Renata doesn’t know
it yet.

This way, I can
always change my mind and back out at any time.

Supportive and
understanding, she'd let me out of it if I wasn't ready. This gives me peace of
mind, yet I don't want to let her down.

I’ve spent the
last two weeks reading three different books, each detailing various sexual
positions, female anatomy, and how to please a woman in bed. I’ve also watched
a ton of YouTube videos.

Sex is a subject
I’ve avoided all my life, but I’ve put myself through a crash course. I’m
terrified—and electrified, yet I’m determined to try every single suggestion.

Maria is going
to stay overnight, babysitting Briley. Tonight, I intend to finally share the
same bed with Renata.

I hope I can go
through with it.