Chapter 16 Lily #2
My thoughts flicker to Marco, the person who said nothing but whose presence dominated the space with his mere silence.
His cold demeanor and lack of tactility from his place at the end of the bed such a stark contrast to my kidnapper’s.
The mysterious man who sat there watching without so much as a word, but who took something from me I’ve never given anybody else.
And then I think of Anderson. The sob catches in my throat as I focus on the betrayal and infidelity until the guilt wreaks havoc in my psyche.
I scramble off the bed to the dresser for my cell phone and grab it like a lifeline, not understanding why this wasn’t my first thought when I woke up. There are ten texts from him.
“Lil, you okay? I haven’t heard from you. I understand that you’re mad.”
“Lily. Just check in, please. My mom called and the boys wanted to say goodnight.”
“You’re worrying me.”
“Call me. Please. I’m in meetings but will answer.”
My knuckles turn white as the tears return. I welcome the feeling, the shedding of emotions that weigh heavy.
The big question I don’t know how to answer remains. What do I say?
Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with . . . what? What exactly am I feeling?
Relieved.
Confused.
Sated.
The last one makes my insides twist. It’s the most dangerous truth of all of them. It makes me feel dirtier than anything he ever did to me. Endless orgasms . . . the book boyfriend dream.
But it’s not real.
Yes, you achieved so many orgasms with . . . two strangers who abducted you . . . but it’s not real. Not for every day.
Not the orgasms. Not the misplaced trust you had in your captor.
You can’t want something that’s not real.
“Oh God,” I whisper for the umpteenth time.
Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul.
One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips.
I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not equipped to handle.
I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room.
Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured?
I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble.
I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought.
If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?
Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.
I cry when my cell rings, the sound so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time.
Anderson.
I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings.
The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat.
I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen.
Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.
“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.
“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me. Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.
I am happy. Yes, I whine to Kate on occasion, but what woman doesn’t blow off steam to her best friend now and again?
Perhaps that helps marriages stay together as you often encourage your best friend to look for the good parts of your marriage.
And the day I was leaving, that’s exactly what she did.
“Lily, I know you and Anderson have lost your way a bit. But can I assure you that you’ll be okay?
I just met a mutual friend who said all Anderson does is talk about how incredible his wife is.
How she holds down the fort and puts up with his temperamental ass and how he’d be absolutely nothing without her.
Like . . . he really loves you and tells everyone about it .
. . so here’s to hoping this trip reminds you two of that.
Of how strong you are together and what you can both improve on.
Or it might be a bust.” Her laugh is loud and sarcastic.
“Who knows? But he does love you. The boys love you. It’s obvious how they all look at and depend on you .
. . especially when you aren’t looking. Anderson works hard .
. . and maybe with his screwed upbringing, maybe that’s how he attempts to show you how much he loves you. ”
I brushed off her comments at the time, believing they were bullshit to make me feel better, but after all of this, after hearing his voice and all I want is him . . . maybe she’s right.
Maybe his apology for missing the trip was real. Maybe that break in his voice when he told me he couldn’t come was sincere. Maybe he genuinely believes he should look for another job so that he’s more present in our lives and less stressed in his. Maybe.
The man has been my everything for over twenty years. How could I have thought anyone else would ever love me more? He loves me, faults and all . . . and I have plenty of them.
We just need to work harder at seeing each other better. Therapy? More date nights? I don’t know . . . but the way I feel right now hearing his voice, tells me, it’s going to work.
We’ll make it work.
Sure sex might be a little boring sometimes, it might be predictable or scheduled to minimize the off chance of the boys interrupting us, but is that really on him? Is the rut we’ve fallen into all his fault?
“Why do you and Dad have to go to another country for your anniversary? And why can’t we come, Mom?” Justin asks. And for once, I don’t hear criticism in his voice. I hear concern.
“Where is this coming from, bud?” I ask.
“It’s . . . I’ll just miss you,” he mumbles. I chuckle.
“You mean you’ll miss me picking up after you and Josh? Or taking you to practice after school? Or reminding you of what you need every day for school lest you forget something important?”
Yes, they did hear their father apologize profusely for getting angry when I didn’t remind him to buy his assistant a birthday gift.
That was a wonderful night when Anderson ate humble pie.
Justin leans in and rests his head on my shoulder, something he hasn’t done for quite some time .
. . and can barely do now that he’s almost taller than me.
“No, Mom. I’ll miss you. I know I’m not . . . well, I don’t make your life fun at times. But I love you, and I’ll miss you, Mom.”
I realized before I left that I’ve become complacent.
I allowed the boys and Anderson to treat me disrespectfully at times.
And if I’m honest, I’ve taken Anderson’s place beside me for granted.
Have we both stopped putting our marriage first with unspontaneous, scheduled sex? Is there more I could do too?
“Lil, talk to me. You’re scaring the shit out of me.” The urgency and fear in his voice is loud and clear, jolting me from my thoughts. I can visualize him pacing in front of his desk, one hand on the phone, the other shoving through his hair.
“I’m okay,” I croak. “I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and will myself to calm down because I can’t answer the questions he’s going to ask, and the more composed I am, the less insistent he’ll be for a response.
“What’s going on?” His voice softens but concern is still prominent.
“I just—I just miss you.” I hiccup the words, biting my knuckles to prevent another sob from falling out as the die is cast.
I can’t tell him.
I know I’m sealing my fate to hell by lying, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
I can’t shatter his innate, male instinct to protect me.
I’m okay. I’m unharmed. The damage done to me is far less than what it would do to him.
He would never look at me the same. His empathy—one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place—would urge him to coddle and handle me with kid gloves.
The fact that everything happened—he’d look at it as a failure as a man, as a husband to protect me—would gnaw at him until he self-destructed.
Do I destroy the man I love to assuage my own guilt?
“Lil, you okay? Why are you crying?”
His words break through my thoughts. The tone of his voice almost shatters my resolve. The confession is on my tongue, but I close my eyes and force a swallow, internalizing my own pain to prevent his.
“Nothing. I just got sick and . . . and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you, the boys . . . home.” I press my thumb over the speaker on the phone so he can’t hear the telling sound of my hitching breath.
“Are you sure, Lil? You don’t sound good.” I’m silent. I don’t trust my voice just yet. “I’m flying out there.”
“No!” The word is out of my mouth, a desperate plea, my epiphany so simple yet so daunting simultaneously.
He can’t come see me because I need today and the next to compose myself, to absorb what happened, heal some of the physical marks, figure how to cope with the emotional reminders.
To allow me time to accept this experience has changed me.
I want to impress that our marriage and he is enough for me.
That isn’t the problem, but experimenting in the bedroom will only enhance our experience of each other, for the good of our marriage. And that is okay.
Even thinking it makes my cheeks heat with shame.
The answer I need to figure out though is, will that admission hurt him as much as me telling him about the rape? Blindside him when he thought we were happy and I’m far from it? Make him feel inadequate?
“I’ll be fine. I just . . . you not being here, makes me realize how much I think we need to work harder on us. For us.”
“You’re not the only one thinking about us. I messed up by not being there.”
There’s a horn honking in the background. It’s outside of my window in the streets but I swear it sounds like it’s on his end too.
God. My mind is playing tricks on me.
“I . . . I let you down. Again. This time apart has forced me to see not only that but so much more,” he says.
I stare at the ceiling with tears burning my eyes. How did he know I needed to hear that right now? How did he know those words would soothe parts of me I feared were broken by all of this?
I want to go home.
Change my flight. Get the hell home.
You can’t.
You need a day or two to heal. To right your brain. To come to terms with everything.
“Lil . . .” His voice trails off, the unasked question falling into its silence.
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my personal telltale heart.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m going to have to say it a hundred times and it still won’t be enough. I should have told work to go to hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us.
My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.
“We can only go from here,” I whisper.
“Twenty years ain’t nothing, right?” he says. “I love you, Lily.”
“Love you too.” My voice all but breaks.
The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality.
The silence here though feels safer than the thoughts in my head.
And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.
Ora sei libero.
I can hear my captor’s voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember other words. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.
I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.
You are now free.
But if this is freedom, why do I feel like I’m his captive still?