Salvation (7 page)

“It just would. It reminds me of all of that. All the stupid things I used to be so obsessed with—clothes and antiques and shoes and everything. Seeing all of it again now would make me feel...I don’t know. I don’t want to remember her.”

There was a pause, one so long that I looked up from my hands, which I’d been staring at. Dr. Jones was just watching me quietly.

“Do you realize that you’re dividing yourself?” she asked at last.

“What?”

“You’ve referred to yourself as ‘her’ now three times. You call your own thoughts and memories ‘demons’, as if they’re external to you. Do you realize you’re doing that? Dividing yourself?”

I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I just shook my head. When she didn’t reply and was obviously waiting for me to say something, I mumbled, “It’s just that the girl I used to be doesn’t feel like
me
anymore.”

“Okay. I understand that. You feel like your previous self is entirely different from who you are now. So tell me this. In your mind, is the Diana who was raped the Diana you used to be or the Diana you are now?”

I had no idea how to answer that question either.

***

“A
re you sure about this?” Gideon asked, shifting the box he carried from arm to arm and looking around the simple living area with a slightly wary expression.

“What do you mean?” I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

“Are you sure you want to live here?”

I’d left the Center that morning and was moving into a vacation cottage my dad owned outside of the city. It was already furnished, but Gideon had volunteered to help me bring over the personal things I needed.

“Why not? It’s in good shape and comfortable and I don’t need a very big place.” I tried to sound casual, but I felt rather irritated and defensive about the question. It was bad enough for Dr. Jones to ask me all about my living choices. I didn’t need Gideon nagging me about it too.

“But it’s so isolated and far away from everything.” He set the box he held on the table, since it was full of kitchen stuff. “Are you sure you want to be so disconnected?”

The cottage was only about forty-five minutes outside of the city—not even as far as the Center had been. But it sat on several acres of property, so there weren’t any houses or businesses close by.

“Yeah. I’m sure. I can’t move back to my apartment. I can’t...I can’t be that person again.”

He leaned back so he was propped on the edge of the table and watched me quietly for a minute, in a way that made me very self-conscious. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window, burnishing his light brown hair almost gold. He wore short sleeves and his cast was off at last, so I could see both of his forearms. He’d had the tattoos that used to be there removed.

“Okay,” he said at last. “But what about finding a new apartment in the city? I’m just worried that you won’t feel safe here.”

I shook my head, trying to force down my annoyance. I really wished this stupid conversation would end, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to Gideon. In a voice of artificial calm, I replied, “I was kidnapped off a city street. That...that row house was in the city. Why would I feel any less safe here?”

His face twisted briefly, and I knew he was bothered by my words. “I don’t know. You’ll just be all by yourself.”

I took a breath to force back rising impatience. I knew he was trying to help, so it wasn’t right for me to want to scratch his face off for his persistent intrusion. “That’s what I want. It really is. I feel safer when I’m alone. Why won’t you believe me?”

“I do believe you. It just seems like it would be better to have other people around.”

“I’m not going to move in with my dad or something. What the hell are you thinking?” I wasn’t doing as good a job at hiding my annoyance now.

“For Christ’s sake, I’m not expecting you to—” He cut off his initial answer and tempered his tone as he started again. “I didn’t think you’d move in with your dad. I just think it would be better to have people around.”

“You already said that.”

He swallowed off his reply and went back out to his SUV to get another box. Or get away from me. Or something.

I was plugging in the blender I’d taken from the box when he came back in lugging a small potted tree. “Where should this go?”

I gestured toward a sunny space on the wall between the table and the living area, relieved the earlier conversation was over. “There would be good. Thanks.”

He put the tree down and then shifted it slightly so it was more centered. When he glanced back to check for my approval of his positioning, I nodded with a smile.

He smiled back as he straightened up. “So when do you think you’ll go back to work?”

My spine stiffened again as I realized the earlier conversation wasn’t actually over. It had just taken a slightly different direction. “I don’t know.”

“It might help. To feel like things are more normal.”

“Would you just shut up?” I snapped, giving up on my attempt to be patient and reasonable. “I’ll go back to work when I’m ready.”

He tightened his lips and turned away. I could see a tension in his shoulders, as he headed back to get another box from the car. I knew he was annoyed with me too and wanted to argue.

But you evidently don’t get mad at a delicate, damaged flower, no matter how much she deserves it.

When he came back in, he’d restrained his instinctive response, but I knew he was still thinking about it. So I replied to what I knew was going on in his mind. “I’m not going to feel normal, Gideon. It’s all I can do to get through the day and hold myself together. I’m not ready to go back to work yet.”

“Okay.”

“People deal with things differently. You can’t expect me to need exactly the same things that someone else might need to recover. You need to give me enough space to deal with this in the way that works for me.” I’d found in the last few weeks that this was an excellent response, since it left whoever was nagging me no room for argument.

“I said okay.”

He was saying it, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe it. I took my favorite pasta pot out of the box and banged it onto the counter next to the stove. It made more noise than I was expecting. “I’m serious, Gideon. I don’t want you to be arguing with me in your mind. This is what’s going to work for me. I’m not going to feel safe. I’m not going to feel normal. This is the best I can do.”

I hadn’t meant to say that. I knew better than to say that. It was exactly the kind of thing that made people worry, that made them think they needed to help me. I could see the reaction on Gideon’s face. His expression had been tense with suppressed frustration, but it seemed to crack at what I’d said, softening into concern, emotion. “Diana,” he began, his voice slightly hoarse.

“No!” I raised a hand to emphasize the word. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean that. I just feel that way sometimes. I’m sorry I’m being so rude. I really appreciate all your help. I just need some more time.”

“Okay.” His blue eyes were searching my face urgently, looking for something I had to hide. “Okay. I understand.”

I wasn’t convinced that he did.

***

A
fter we unpacked the car and set things up, I fixed us sandwiches, grapes, and cookies for dinner. I was actually ready for him to leave, but I figured he at least deserved to be fed after helping me move all my stuff.

He didn’t seem inclined to leave afterwards, and I ended up having to make a number of obvious hints about being tired. He finally got up and headed to his car, and I released a sigh of relief as his SUV disappeared down the long drive.

The cottage was surrounded by trees. There was nothing else in sight in all directions, except the pool in the back. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so completely alone.

I’d wanted it. It was why I’d moved out here. I wanted the kind of freedom that came from having no one looking over your shoulder, judging your actions, assessing whether you were healthy or not. But, now that I was here, the silence was oppressive. It closed in on me, bringing darkness.

And in the darkness the demons lived.

It was always this way, whenever I had nothing to distract me. I would start to think about it, remember it. I’d be unable to keep it from my mind. Then I’d get anxious about every noise. Then I’d smell repellant aftershave that couldn’t possibly be in the room. Then I’d feel the edge of a table pushing into my stomach and rough hands pulling my hair, pulling my legs apart.

It was happening again now.

When I started to shake, I ran to the stereo and turned it on. It was set to an opera station on the satellite radio—probably from the last time my dad had stayed here—and they were playing
The Magic Flute
.

I left it on that station, since the music felt different, not something the girl I used to be would have listened to. Mozart filled the room, and it seemed to help drown out the demons. So I turned it even louder. Then louder, until the music pulsed through the room, the whole cottage.

I stood in the middle of the floor for a minute, knowing I should probably take a shower and get ready for bed. But I didn’t want to go to bed. I was restless and jittery and desperate for something to keep me from thinking about things I didn’t want to face.

Damn Gideon, anyway. If he hadn’t insisted on bringing things up earlier, then they wouldn’t be so much on my mind.

When I started to tremble again, I paced around the cottage. Tiny, open kitchen. Room for a dining table. Living area with couch, media console, and one big chair. Recently remodeled bathroom with steam shower and jetted tub. One bedroom with big windows and an elliptical trainer in the corner. I went back to the living area and turned on the security system, staring for a minute at the green indicator light.

It was a pleasant, comfortable little place. Nothing anyone could complain about.

It was almost ten o’clock on a Saturday night in June. I was twenty-three years old.

And it felt like any life I’d ever had was over.

I wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for myself, though, so I changed shoes and got on the elliptical trainer.

I pushed myself as hard as I could for an hour, until I was exhausted, drenched in sweat, and felt like I would just drop. Mozart still throbbed through the house, through my head, through my body. Every muscle ached, and my lungs burned every time I took a breath.

It seemed right somehow—as if the state of my body was finally starting to match the state of my soul—so I kept going.

***

T
he long, painful ordeals on the elliptical trainer with opera blaring became a regular routine.

It wasn’t good for me. I knew it even then. There’s a little part of your mind that recognizes when you’re doing something to hurt yourself, but sometimes that voice isn’t loud enough to drown out all the others.

I had too many voices. And the loudest ones—the demons—hurt and demeaned me in a different language. No matter how high I turned the volume, I couldn’t not hear them. But I could temporarily mask them with opera and run my body down until I couldn’t feel anything but the physical pain. And sometimes I could pass out in absolute exhaustion and fall into oblivion for just a little while.

Gideon called every day, and he came by a couple of times a week, always on Friday evenings and then either on Sunday afternoon or a weekday evening. I think he would have come more often, but he was kept pretty busy with his job, my cottage was quite a trek from his apartment, and I didn’t always make a point of inviting him.

One Friday evening a few weeks after I’d moved in, Gideon brought pizza over. I’d eaten one piece, and he’d eaten most of the rest of it. We were sitting on the couch, watching a sports channel because I didn’t really care what was on.

“Here,” he said, picking up the biggest piece of pizza left in the box. “You only had one.”

“It’s fine. I’m not really hungry.”

His eyes were searching my face again, in that way that was getting more and more familiar. I hated that look, and I ducked my face behind my hair so he couldn’t see it clearly.

“You should eat more,” he said, in what was supposed to be a laidback tone. “You’re losing weight.”

I was losing weight, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t eating enough. I didn’t eat a lot, but I ate regularly and what I ate was fairly healthy. But I was on the elliptical trainer for hours every day. My feet were completely torn up, even though I’d bought better shoes, so I had to always keep socks on to hide them. My knees hurt all the time, and I was never without pulled muscles. But the physical pain didn’t really bother me.

I took the piece of pizza and ate it, just so he wouldn’t think I was anorexic or something. Then I got up to throw away the used napkins and empty box. “Do you want another beer?” I asked him as I went to the kitchen.

“Sure. Thanks.”

I grabbed another bottle from the refrigerator and popped the top. I always had beer in the cottage for him, but I didn’t drink it myself. I didn’t drink wine either, although I used to really like it.

Something about it scared me, as if I might start and not be able to stop. And I didn’t need any other unhealthy habits. So I never drank anything but water and coffee.

He was supposed to be watching the game on TV, but I knew he was secretly watching me as I came back to the couch. I handed him the beer and tried not to wince at the stab of pain from my knee up to my hip as I sat back down.

If he saw it, he didn’t mention it. Just took a long sip of the beer.

He’d just been here an hour, but I was already ready for him to leave, since he was making me feel defensive and self-conscious. If he would just act like he had during the weeks at the Center, I wouldn’t have minded. He’d only talked about innocuous things then. It had been nice. Distracted me. Hadn’t made me think about anything painful.

It was different now, though.
He
was different. He seemed to always be pushing farther into my privacy, even when he was pretending to be casual.

I was sometimes tempted to tell him not to come by anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to be such a heartless bitch to a man who’d been nothing but good to me.