7. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
“You’ve been busy,”Robyn says late Saturday morning. We’re sitting in her office, and I’ve just explained everything that has happened since I saw her three weeks ago.
“You could say that,” I reply. “I’m just happy it’s over and Violet is free of her husband. She no longer has to live each day in fear.” As long as justice gets it right, and he ends up doing time. A very long time.
“How about you?”
I shift on the couch and focus for a second on the tall ficus in the corner of the room. I haven’t figured out yet if it’s real or fake. I’m almost tempted to walk over and check. “What about me?”
“Do you still live each day in fear?” Robyn’s gaze is all knowing, and I inwardly wince. Not much has changed, even after I was released from prison. My body is programmed to expect the worst and constantly hovers in fight-and-flight mode.
The one thing that has changed is, I can now hang out with Noah during Game Night and not have a panic attack.
“I guess so. There was an article in USA Times the other day that pointed out I now live under a different name in a small Oregon town. It had a recent photo of me. People will soon figure out I’m Savannah Townsend.” And changing my hair color once more won’t prevent that—not when the scars on my face are difficult to hide.
“And you’re concerned?” Robyn’s tone is smooth and gently coaxing.
“Yes.” I explain what it will mean if people learn where I spent the past five years—how they’ll ostracize me. How I’ll be isolated again. “I’m trying to start over and work on my mental health, like you suggested. That’ll be hard to do if people have an issue with my past. Which will happen.”
“You need to work on your mental well-being and focus on yourself so you can regain the sense of power stripped from you over the years. Part of that lost sense of power came from the trauma bond that developed during your marriage.”
“Trauma bond?”
“It’s an emotional attachment an individual has with their abuser. You mentioned before that your husband could be kind and loving, and he was especially that way at the beginning of your relationship. He showered you with affection.”
I nod.
“It was during those periods of kindness that you developed the bond with him. It’s only natural. It happens for most people. But then there were the moments later when he made you feel devalued, worthless, or was violent with you.” She leans back in her chair. “A trauma bond is the repeated cycle of the abuse, devaluation, and positive reinforcement. The positive reinforcement comes from those periods when your husband was kind and loving. The periods of positive reinforcement overshadowed the fear of him being abusive again.”
A breath of silence falls over us, allowing me a moment to digest everything Robyn’s telling me. When I look back to that time in my life, everything she said makes sense. I did focus too much on the good days and excused his behavior. I had truly believed he loved me and wouldn’t be mean or hit me again.
I had lied to myself so many times…until I couldn’t lie anymore.
“Women don’t ask to be in an abusive relationship,” Robyn continues, “but our bodies can end up working against us. Dopamine, which is a hormone, plays a role in addiction. It also has a similar role in trauma bonding. Abuse causes an increase in your stress hormones, such as cortisol. After the abuse, during that period of calm when your husband would be kind and loving, dopamine was released. Dopamine creates feelings of pleasure, and that helps strengthen your connection to the abuser.”
“And that’s why it’s so hard for a woman who’s in an abusive relationship to leave,” I venture.
Robyn nods. “That’s one of the reasons. In addition to dopamine, the hormone oxytocin is also released. That’s another hormone that gives you the sense of feeling good, and it can help ease fear. And this further strengthens the abuser’s connection to the woman.”
“So, we become addicted to the abuser?”
“That’s right.”
“Damn.” That explains so much. “Is that why so many women keep returning to their abusers?”
“Yes. That, and the imbalance of power the men exert on them. The woman feels like he controls her to the point where she doesn’t know how to resist or break free. She feels incomplete or lost without her abusive partner. That’s why if a woman leaves an abuser, she needs professional help to end the cycle. Otherwise, she’s more likely to return to him.”
“But in my case, I was forced to go cold turkey.” My husband’s death and my prison sentence made it impossible for me to return to him. That helped break my cycle of abuse.
Only for me to fall into a different pattern of abuse in prison.
“Yes, you were forced to go cold turkey. But that doesn’t mean, as you know, you could easily shed the impact his abuse had on you. So that brings us back to your mental well-being. How is that going?” Robyn’s eyebrows lift a small amount.
“I’m trying. But knowing that at any moment someone might figure out my identity makes it difficult to focus on my mental well-being.”
“It’s possible nothing bad will happen if your former identity is exposed, Jessica. It’s possible you’ve mentally built the problem up to something bigger than it needs to be. We won’t know for certain until the moment happens—if it happens. Have you found anything yet that will help you feel more grounded? Something that will give you a sense of purpose?”
I shake my head, wishing I had something better to report on that front. “I tried wedding photography, but it didn’t really do as much for me as I’d hoped. I enjoyed it, but it’s not something I would do on a regular basis.” I feel the same about photojournalism. It’s not the same shooting it with the iPhone. I can get the equipment I need, thanks to the restitution payment, but I haven’t gotten around to buying it. Something tells me the sense of purpose I’m searching for isn’t a career as a photographer or photojournalist.
“Don’t give up yet on figuring out what that special something is you feel passionate about,” Robyn says. “It might take time, but the outcome will be worth it for your long-term mental health.”
“Okay.”
“Are you familiar with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs?”
I nod, slightly surprised at the question. “It’s been a while, though, since I’ve studied it.” During my freshman year psychology course.
“As you might remember, there are five basic groups. Before you can reach the higher levels of esteem, recognition, and self-actualization, you have to make sure your physiological, safety, and security needs are met first.”
That does sound familiar. The middle level is love and belonging. If I don’t feel safe, it’s hard to feel worthy of love. That rings true for my marriage. Only my physiological needs had been met. For the most part. The rest had felt a million miles from being obtainable.
Robyn leans forward an inch in her chair. “How have you ensured your physical and security needs are met?”
The physical needs in Maslow’s hierarchy include sex, but I’m not about to admit to having a healthy sex life with Troy. There are some things Robyn doesn’t need to know—especially since she went to school with the man. “Troy had the security system installed in my house last month. And Troy makes me feel safe.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “How does he make you feel safe?”
I smile, the curve of my lips generous, and heat touches my cheeks. “Well, he’s a retired Marine who works out.” The result of his working out—the image of the hard, well-defined planes of his body—pops into my head, and the heat in my cheeks turns up a few degrees. “Who wouldn’t feel safe with him around?” Other than anyone who would try to hurt his friends and family.
Robyn chuckles, amusement sparkling in her green eyes. “I’ll give you that.” Her amusement fades and her expression turns serious. “So, you can talk to Troy in the event that anyone has an issue with your past and you don’t feel safe. What about the police?”
I squirm on the couch. “They don’t make me feel safe. I haven’t had a great track record with them. Even in Maple Ridge.”
“Alex Wilson and Cole Dunbar were bad cops. I personally know a few members of the police force, and they’re good people.”
My gaze flicks briefly to the ficus in the corner. “I only know one Maple Ridge cop I think I can trust.” Noah.
“Would you call them if you felt your safety was at risk?”
Maybe. Possibly. “I don’t know.”
She slowly nods, her expression revealing nothing about what she thinks of my answer. “What about military? Do you trust someone in military uniform?”
“I trust Troy and his brothers. They were all Marines.” It’s taken me time to get to that point, but they’ve done so much for me since I moved to Maple Ridge. Troy has done so much for me.
“Anyone else?”
“You mean other than you?” I nod at Robyn in her green Army uniform.
“Do you trust me?” The question is asked straightforwardly, like she’s asking if I drink coffee.
“I’m talking to you about things most people don’t know about, so I must.” It took me a while to even admit them to Troy.
“Have you had any negative experience with any member of the armed forces?”
“No. Only cops.”
“So, that’s something we can further explore after I return from my vacation, starting with when Alex Wilson assaulted you in your own home. The goal will be to help you learn to trust members of the police force.”
“Okay.” Except I can’t see that happening anytime soon. Not after everything I’ve been through. It’s going to take time. And lots of baby steps.
* * *
I digup a stray dandelion from the flowerbed and toss it into the bucket next to me. The hot afternoon sun kisses the backs of my bare arms, and small birds in the trees serenade me. I should be weeding the front yard, but the idea of being in plain view of my neighbors has my stomach twisting in tight knots.
You’re being silly. No one has probably realized it was you in the newspaper. You’re getting worked up over nothing. Five years in prison has made you paranoid.
Bailey and Butterscotch chase each other on the grass.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice says, startling me.
I turn to the wooden gate separating the backyard from the driveway. The hedge on either side of the gate is my height, but the gate is shorter—reaching my waist—and reveals Anne Carstairs on the other side of it. Her chin-length blond hair ruffles around her face in the light breeze. She’s wearing tailored shorts and a short-sleeved top in the same lavender as the blossoms in the flowerbed near the gate.
I push to a stand, beaming at the woman who is partly responsible for my life becoming better. “Hi, Anne!” I walk to the gate and open it.
She looks at the two dogs who are now watching her with great interest, heads cocked to the side. “Who do we have here?” She steps through the gate as Bailey and Butterscotch bound the short distance to us.
Bailey leans against my leg, and I stroke her. “This is my dog, Bailey. I’m training her to be my psychiatric support dog.” Shame heats my face at admitting that much to Anne, even though she knew I needed a place to stay while I was recovering from a traumatic event. She just didn’t know the details. “And that is Butterscotch. Troy Carson’s dog.”
She crouches and strokes Butterscotch, who happily laps up the attention. “You hired Troy for the renovations? Good choice. And you’re now his dog sitter?”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “More like his girlfriend. We’re still working on the renovations, but he injured his shoulder during a search and rescue last month.” The same shoulder that has been hurt two other times since then. “So the renovations have been temporarily put on pause. Would you like to see what we’ve done so far?”
“I’d love that. The outside looks great.” She glances up. “You had the roof redone.”
“I did. I hired a roofing company Troy recommended so he and I could focus on the inside of the house.” Troy and Lance helped me with additional repairs on the outside, and we’d repainted the wooden siding a light blue-gray. On top of that, the shutters have been replaced and the front and back doors painted a medium blue-gray.
We go inside through the back door. “How was the trip to the UK and Europe?” I ask.
“It was wonderful. We went to the usual tourist spots, of course. But we also spent a lot of time exploring small towns that tourists tend not to bother with.”
“Did you go to France?” An intense craving to show her Iris’s journals buzzes under my skin. I just have to wait a little longer. Wait until I’ve finished transcribing them so Anne can easily read her great-aunt’s words.
“Yes. We visited Bordeaux and various vineyards in the area. And Paris, naturally.” Anne’s gaze travels over the kitchen, with the predominantly white and creamy-blue colors. “Wow. I don’t even recognize the room.” She skims her fingertips over the white-granite island countertop. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you. What about Burgundy?” The region where Jacques Gauthier’s vineyard and farmhouse were located. “Did you go there?”
“Unfortunately, not. We probably needed a month just for France if we wanted to visit all the wine regions. Maybe that will have to be Dan’s and my next trip.”
The craving buzzes again under my skin. I’m barely able to keep from bouncing on my toes with all the pent-up excited energy crackling in me.
I show Anne around the parts of downstairs where the renovations have been completed, which is just the kitchen, the living room, and the hallway so far. The downstairs washroom and the laundry room still need work done on them. We didn’t have a chance to start them before we were injured. “Troy and I are still working on downstairs,” I explain. “We haven’t done any renovations upstairs yet.”
“Well, so far it looks incredible,” Anne says, her smile bright.
“Once we’ve finished the major renovations, I’ll paint some of Iris’s old furniture to fit in with the aesthetic.” I run my hand over the sturdy wooden bookshelf that would look gorgeous in a whitewash.
“Auntie Iris would be impressed with what you’ve done. It’s so pretty and cozy. It’s perfect. She would have loved it.”
I try to appreciate the living room through the eyes of the woman who had been an SOE agent and risked her life in occupied France. “I would love to learn more about Iris.” I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from blurting about Iris’s journals, the medal, and the pendant I found in the secret room. A tendril of guilt curls in my stomach at the secret I’m still keeping from Anne.
Not much longer…then you can really surprise her.
“I can tell you she would be happy you’re the one who bought her house. Not because of what you’ve done here, but because of what you’ve been through. As Savannah.” The name is spoken softly without any recriminations or regrets.
But that doesn’t stop the sharp lungful of air that drags into my chest.
Anne’s kind eyes search my face, but it’s not enough to blunt the unease and shame swelling in me.
“I had no idea you were Savannah Townsend until recently,” she says, her voice the gentle caress of a mother consoling a frightened child. “I knew you had been through a lot based on what little Florence told me. I could tell the day I first met you that whatever happened to you had pretty much crushed you. But I never imagined it would be something as bad as not only surviving an abusive husband but also the prison system.”
Butterscotch sits next to Anne’s feet. She crouches and strokes him. “One of my friends was raped when she was in her early twenties. The guy had been the college’s football hero, and the administrators did what they could to bury the truth, not wanting it to become a scandal. They paid her off to keep her quiet. She wasn’t the same after that. She fell into drugs to cope with the pain. She lost her job and her home. She felt like she had nowhere to turn. In the end, it was the drugs that did her in. She saw them as her safe haven.” The corners of Anne’s mouth are weighed down with sadness.
A chill skittles over my skin at the story. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Anne.”
“Me too. That’s why I offered Auntie Iris’s house for you to stay in. I didn’t know what had happened to you, but I wanted to make sure you had a safe place to stay while you healed.”
I look at the wood flooring by my feet, hiding the tears that blur my vision—tears for Anne’s friend and for Anne’s generosity for what she has done for me. “And now that you know the truth about my past, you don’t have second thoughts about selling the house to me? Knowing I was once an inmate in a maximum-security prison?”
“Not at all. If anyone belongs in this house, it’s you, Jess. Or do you prefer Savannah?”
My eyes meet Anne’s, and the kindness reflected in them knocks a small amount of the burden of truth from my shoulders. “I haven’t been Savannah in a long time.” Not even while I was in Beckley. “I don’t feel like her anymore. I’m Jess now.” I just have to figure out who the heck Jess is. “What else can you tell me about Iris? I would love to hear more stories about her.”
“You should visit me in Ash Falls some time, and then I can show you old photos of her. Family photos—including pictures of my grandmother and grandfather. That would be Iris’s sister. And I can tell you all kinds of stories about my great-aunt.”
“I would love that. Thank you.” I would love to learn more about the woman who risked her life to make a difference in the war. Maybe I’ll be able to finish transcribing the journals by then to give to Anne.
Anne walks to the bookshelf and picks up the framed photo of Troy and me that Simone took at the Sunshine Festival in June. Troy and I are smiling at each other, having just kissed, and we look like we’re in our own little world.
“You two really are a cute couple. And it’s obvious he cares a lot for you.” Anne returns the photo to the shelf.
I don’t respond, crossing my fingers she doesn’t ask me about my feelings for Troy. They’re still a knot of emotions, and I’m not sure how to unravel them.
Angelique was brave, fighting for what she believed in.
I’m nowhere near as brave when it comes to my heart. And Troy.