Someone Is Watching (4 page)

When they brought me home from the hospital, after all the tests and hours of police questions, my brother was so traumatized that he chain-smoked at least four joints before he was able to calm down—“We should call Travis,” he kept mumbling, and then he fell sound asleep. Even though Travis and I are no longer a couple, he is still Heath’s friend. They were friends before Travis and I hooked up. In fact, it was Heath who introduced us. Heath still doesn’t understand why we broke up, and I haven’t told him. He’s upset enough as it is.

So now I stand by my bedroom window in the apartment I never leave, staring absently at the backs of half a dozen identical glass towers, the hollow eyes of my reflection staring back at me,
my fingers folded around the omnipresent binoculars that have become a virtual extension of my hands. There’s a large chip in one side of them now, from when they hit the ground after my attack, and my fingers go to it automatically, as they would to a scab. I lift the binoculars to my eyes and hear my mother’s voice:
Tell me what you see.
I focus on the nearby construction site, watch one worker arguing with another, his fingers poking angrily into the other man’s chest, as another worker intervenes.

Slowly, I shift my focus, the two circles of the binoculars continually merging and separating as I move fleetingly from one floor to another, constantly readjusting the lens. Eventually I settle on the building directly behind mine, sliding my view from one window to the next, invading the lives of the unsuspecting and unaware, monitoring their casual routines, violating their privacy, drawing them close while keeping them at a safe distance.

The phone beside my bed rings, and I jump, although I make no move to answer it. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m tired of reassuring people I’ll be all right, that it gets a little easier every day.

It doesn’t, and it won’t.

I press the binoculars tighter to my face, watch the universe unfold from afar. This is as close to the outside world as I want to get.

People always tell you it’s pointless to get upset about things you can’t control. I used to agree. But that was before my mother was diagnosed with cancer, before I watched helplessly as the disease stripped her of her strength, her smile, ultimately her life. Before my father succumbed to a massive heart attack and died, just weeks after being given a clean bill of health by his doctors. Before a man found me crouching in the middle of a bunch of sweet-smelling shrubs and stripped away my clothes, my dignity, and whatever inner peace I still possessed. I know now that control is a harmless illusion at best, a harmful deceit at worst.

I’ve never had many close friends. I’m not sure why that is, exactly. As a rule, I’m pretty sociable. I get along well with most people. I’m good at small talk—maybe too good. Not so good at the deeper stuff. I’ve never felt the need to sit around discussing my feelings. I’ve never wanted to share the details of relationships I consider private. My friend from high school, Jocelyn, whom I haven’t seen in years, used to say I was more like a boy than a girl in that regard, that I would rather talk generalities than particulars, and that while I was a great listener, I never discussed my own
problems, that I never let anyone get too close. She said I had trust issues, probably because my family was so wealthy. Not to mention estranged. I’m not sure I agree. I mean, maybe I’m not great at letting other people in. Maybe I’ve always been more comfortable as an observer than a participant. But that’s just the way I am. Maybe that’s what makes me so good at my job.

At any rate, Jocelyn is long gone. She took a year off after we graduated high school to travel around Europe, then headed west to college in Berkeley. I stayed here in south Florida. We lost touch, although she did try to “friend” me on Facebook a few years ago. I meant to respond, but it was right around the time my mother was dying and I never got around to it.

Clichéd as it sounds, my mother was always my best friend. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I miss her every day. But as much as my body aches to feel her arms around me, to have her kiss my forehead and assure me that that kiss will make everything better, I’m supremely grateful she isn’t around to see me now. Not even her kiss could fix this.

I’m friendly with Alissa Dunphy, the third-year associate I was working for the night I was attacked, and Sally Ogilby, assistant to Phil Cunningham, the firm’s top family lawyer, but I rarely see them outside of work. Alissa is chained to her desk, determined to make partner before she turns thirty-five, and Sally is married, the mother of a three-year-old boy and expecting her second child, this one a girl, in a couple of months. This doesn’t leave her a lot of time for other interests. Her life is very busy. Our lives are all very busy.

Correction:
Were.

My life used to be busy. My life used to be a lot of things.

Alissa has called every day since the attack, repeatedly telling me how sorry she is, how responsible she feels, asking if there’s anything she can do to help me through this difficult time. I tell her no, there’s nothing, and I can almost hear her sigh with relief. “You’ll tell me,” she says before hanging up the phone, “if there’s anything you need …”

I need my life back. I need things to go back to the way they were before. I need to find out who did this to me.

The police think it was a random act, a crime of opportunity, a case of wrong time, wrong place. Still, they ask: Can there be anyone I have investigated, anyone whose marriage my photographs helped scuttle, anyone whose business failed because of information I uncovered, anyone at all who hates me that much to do what he did?

I think of the testimony I gave in court the morning of my attack, the venom that shot from Todd Elder’s eyes as he leaned against the wall outside the courtroom, the word
bitch
spewing silently from his lips. He fits the rapist’s general description. As does Owen Weaver, I realize, recalling our short-lived flirtation and his mouthful of straight white teeth. I shudder, feeling those teeth rip into my breast. Is it possible?

“Can you remember anything about the man at all?” I ask myself daily, repeating the police officer’s question.

I search my mind, scrape it clean for the tiniest of fragments, trying to be as persistent, as methodical, as resourceful in my private life as I used to be professionally. But I find nothing. I see nothing.

“It could have been worse,” I recall one of the nurses saying. “He could have sodomized you. He could have forced you to use your mouth.”

“I wish he had,” I hear myself tell her. “I would have bitten his dick right off.”

“He’d have killed you.”

“It would have been worth it.”

Is it possible this exchange actually took place? Or am I only imagining it? And if this conversation really occurred, what else have I suppressed? What else is out there, too terrible to see, too awful to remember?

—

A typical day, post-rape: Wake up at five in the morning after maybe an hour or two of sleep. Shake off one of several recurring nightmares—a masked man chasing me through the street, a
woman watching from her balcony, doing nothing; sharks circling my feet in placid waters—climb out of bed and search through the top drawer of my nightstand, locate the large pair of scissors I have kept there ever since my attack, and begin my morning search of my apartment.

Whoever raped me stole my gun, and I have yet to replace it. But that’s all right. I’ve decided there’s something more visceral, more personal, more satisfying, about scissors. Whenever I think about striking back at the man who assaulted me—and I think about this as often as I take a breath—I never think of shooting him. I think of stabbing him, as he stabbed me. And even if I can’t use my body as a weapon the same way he could, I can still tear at his flesh as he tore at mine, the scissors an extension of my arm, my fury.

Such is the person I’ve become. Such is the woman he made me.

Holding the scissors in front of me, I check under my bed, even though it sits too low to the ground to allow anyone to hide beneath it, then proceed down the long marble hallway, flanked on both sides by the paintings I inherited from my parents—a series of colorful hearts by Jim Dine, a Motherwell nude, an abstract pink-and-black Gottlieb, an orange-and-black Calder that looks kind of like a turkey. I do a quick search of the second bedroom that serves as my office, peeking under the Lucite-and-black-marble desk on which sits my computer and behind the purple corduroy pullout sofa where Heath sometimes sleeps. I peer into its small closet and ensuite bathroom, checking the tiny cabinet under the sink, before continuing down the hall to the main powder room. After ascertaining that no one is crouching behind the door, I move to the hall closet and look for feet hiding beneath the rack of coats. I make sure the lock on the front door is secure, then check the kitchen on my way to the living and dining area.

Two modern white sofas curve toward one another in the middle of the rectangular room, a large, square limestone coffee table between them on top of a free-form cowhide area rug. Bright purple accent pillows adorn the sofas. They match the purple velvet
armchair that sits in the invisible dividing line between the living and dining areas. Ten plastic lemons fill an oblong wire bowl in the middle of the glass dining room table. A dozen pink silk roses stand tall in a lime-green vase on the serving table against the wall opposite the window, underneath a painting of two faceless women strolling hand in hand along a deserted beach. I don’t remember who painted it. A local artist, I believe.

A fake palm tree beside the window stretches toward the room’s high ceiling, the tree as authentic-looking as any of the ubiquitous palms that line the streets below. Artificial white orchids hang from a wall sconce next to the door to the kitchen. Everyone always assumes that the orchids are real, congratulate me on my green thumb. They look shocked when I tell them they’re fake, even more shocked when I confess I prefer these imposters to the real thing. They’re easy and undemanding, I explain. You don’t have to take care of them. They don’t die.

Of course, I have real flowers as well. In the days immediately following my rape, I received at least six different arrangements. They’re mostly from my colleagues at work and are scattered throughout the apartment. Sean Holden sent two dozen pink roses. Travis sent a large pot of purple mums. He remembered that I love purple but forgot that I hate mums. Maybe he did it on purpose, or maybe I just never told him.

After I am positive that no one is hiding behind the decorative panels of the living room curtains waiting to jump out at me, I return to my bedroom, where I rifle through the clothes hanging inside my walk-in closet, making sure that no one is secreted behind my jeans and dresses. I inspect the master bathroom: the separate toilet stall, the glass-enclosed shower, even the white enamel bathtub with its brass claw feet, in case someone is coiled inside, like a snake in a basket, waiting to strike. I do the same with the white wicker hamper that sits beside the tub, removing its lid and poking through its contents with my scissors.

I perform this ritual at least three times a day, although occasionally I vary the order. Only when I am fully convinced that no
one has been able to infiltrate my glass sanctuary in the sky do I turn on the shower. As steam fills the room, I remove my pajamas and step inside the stall.

I take the scissors with me.

I don’t so much as glance at my nude body. I can’t bear the sight of my breasts. My pubic hair repulses me. I haven’t shaved my legs or underarms since the attack. Everything hurts: my ribs, my wrists, my back. Even my skin. I remain under the steady onslaught of hot water until I can no longer feel my flesh. I don’t look in the steam-coated mirror when I get out. I use a harsh towel to dry myself off, then I rub myself raw. I dump my pajamas in the overflowing hamper, exchange them for another pair, and return to the bedroom, scissors in hand.

The room is in darkness. The sun has yet to rise. I keep my blackout blinds closed until daylight arrives.

You never know who might be watching.

—

I sense him before I see him, smell him before I feel him moving above me. I recognize the scent immediately: mouthwash, mentholated and minty. Suddenly I feel the full weight of his body on top of mine, his elbow lodging against my windpipe, blocking my breath, stopping my screams before they can gain traction. “Tell me you love me,” he commands as he forces his way inside me, setting fire to my insides, as if he is pummeling me with a lit torch. “Tell me you love me.”

“No!” I scream, my hands punching at his chest, my feet kicking at his thighs, my fingers scratching at his neck, connecting with nothing as I flail helplessly around in my bed.

I open my eyes.

No one is there.

I sit up. It takes several minutes for my breathing to slow to something approaching normal. The TV is still on. I grab the remote from the nightstand beside my bed and turn it off. I have no
idea what time it is, what day it is, how many hours have passed since I was last awake.

The phone rings, and I jump, then sit staring at it until it stops its awful wail. The clock beside my bed informs me that it’s ten minutes after eight. I assume it’s morning, although I’m not sure, and it doesn’t really matter. I get up, grab the scissors from the top drawer of the nightstand, and begin my tour of the apartment. As I step into the hall, the phone starts ringing again. I ignore it.

The phone rings on and off for the ten minutes it takes me to make sure my apartment is secure. It is ringing when I return to my bedroom. Probably the police, I think, reaching for the phone just as it stops ringing. I shrug and stand there for several minutes, but the phone stubbornly refuses to ring again.

I am just stepping out of the shower when I hear voices, followed by the sound of footsteps, of people moving around my apartment. I grab my oversized white terry cloth housecoat from its hook beside the shower and wrap it around me, raising the scissors in my hand to my chest as I enter the bedroom, all the while assuring myself that I’m imagining things. It’s impossible that anyone could have gotten inside my apartment. There is nobody walking down my hallway. No one is whispering outside my bedroom door.