52. Jessica
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
As soon asBailey and I step outside my back door, the question I’ve been dying to ask Troy since I called him earlier tumbles out. “How did it go with Pushing Limits?”
He smiles, but even before he can tell me, I already have my answer. That’s not the smile of someone who recently received great news. “It was a good idea…but, unfortunately, the logistics weren’t feasible. Mason and his family don’t live in the same city as the band, so they can’t practice together for the festival.”
I hug Troy, pouring all the love I feel for him into it, my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was hoping they would be able to make it work.”
He tightens his arms around me. It feels so right, so good. His strong muscles pressed against my body feel so good, like a taste of heaven.
“Me too.” Troy’s warm breath kisses my cheek. “George and Susan are figuring out how best to go about it, but we’ll have to make the announcement soon about the band canceling. We’re not looking forward to that. It’s gonna cause us all kinds of problems.”
I lock the back door. Troy links his fingers with mine, and the three of us walk to his truck, where Butterscotch is waiting in the front passenger seat.
Troy drives me to the Veterans Center and walks me to Robyn’s office for my first appointment since she returned from her vacation. He gives me a quick kiss good-bye. “I’ll see you soon.”
He leaves, and I take a seat in the waiting area. I’m a few minutes early.
“Hi, Jess,” Robyn says from the doorway of her office as I skim through my feel-good photos on my phone. She’s wearing her standard green Army uniform.
I rise to my feet and join her in her office. I take my usual place on the couch.
Robyn sits in her desk chair, which is swiveled to face me. “How have you been doing? A lot has happened since I last saw you.”
I assume she means the protesters and reporters. She doesn’t know yet about my last conversation with Craig. “Do you mean how’s it going beyond me being frustrated and angry at what’s been happening because my previous name was leaked?”
“All of it. The frustration and anger and any other emotions you’ve been feeling.” Robyn wears her usual compassionate expression, her smile a slight tilt of encouragement.
I don’t say anything for a moment, rallying up all my thoughts and feelings. “I’m tired. Tired of being judged by people who don’t know me. I’m tired of the wrongful and hurtful assumptions.” I could write a novel about those alone.
“What assumptions are people making?” She leans forward in her chair, her legs crossed.
“That I’m dangerous. That their children need protecting from me. That if my husband really abused me, I could have walked away.”
Robyn makes a soft sound of acknowledgment. “The last point is one many survivors of abuse hear from people who don’t know better. This is where awareness of the misconceptions surrounding abuse is critical. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with all of that, Jess.”
She straightens in her seat. “Do you believe there’s any truth to the words people are saying to you?”
“I know I’m not dangerous. I’m scarred because I didn’t defend myself in prison.” Even back then, I’d tried to disappear into my surroundings like a chameleon. I hadn’t wanted to get into trouble and risk my sentence being extended. Troy told me Garrett had his FBI contact look into what happened to me while I was in Beckley. And I still have no answers as to why I was targeted during my stay there. No clues. No confessions. No convictions of the guilty parties.
“How do you view yourself after everything you’ve been through?” Robyn asks. “And that includes what happened with Violet and her daughter.”
I rub my palms on my shorts to give my hands something to do. “I’m stronger. Braver. But also scared. Alone. And…and ashamed.”
“I would definitely use the first two to describe you. What you’ve accomplished has made you stronger. And that’s good.” She leans forward again. “Tell me more about being ashamed.”
“I let down my daughter. If I hadn’t fallen for my husband’s charms…if I had left when the abuse started, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Hmm. It sounds like you believe what those other people have been saying, despite it not being true. You have no reason to blame yourself or be ashamed. The only person at fault was your late husband.”
I give a small nod, knowing she’s right. But it’s hard to remember that at times even when I know better.
“I want you to try a new exercise,” Robyn says. “Each time you say or think something negative about yourself that comes from the place your late husband built, I want you to reshape it.”
“Reshape it?” I toy with the hem of my shorts, my gaze still on Robyn.
“For example. Instead of saying you’re ashamed you didn’t stand up against the people who wanted to harm you in prison, reshape it to you’re proud you took the high road and didn’t retaliate. You stayed strong in your convictions. It will feel awkward at first, but with practice, it will go a long way to diminishing your feelings of shame.”
“Okay. I can do that.” I think.
“Give it a go.”
I bite my lower lip, contemplating what to say. There are so many things I’m ashamed about. I’m not sure where to begin. “Instead of thinking I’m ashamed I let my daughter down…I’m…um…I’m proud…I’m proud I produced such a sweet and wonderful little girl.”
Robyn nods, her smile widening, and I feel like the little girl who got a gold star on her first spelling test. But like with spelling tests, it doesn’t mean next time I do the exercise it will be any easier.
“That’s really good, Jess. That’s your assignment for the next few weeks. I want you to practice turning the negative statements into positive ones.”
“Okay.”
“I see you have a new tattoo.” Robyn points at my arm. I’m wearing a short-sleeved top that leaves the shell-and-flower ink visible. “It’s gorgeous. Is there a reason you picked the shell and flowers?”
I roll my lips together, working up to telling her the truth. Taylor and Simone thought the tattoo was a great idea. Troy was less sure.
Robyn won’t judge me for it, but vulnerability still nips at me. “Amelia loved searching for shells with me when she was a toddler. The times we did that are some of my most precious memories.” And the ones I tend to revisit when I go to my happy place.
“What about the flowers? Why hydrangeas and…” Robyn shifts forward to get a better look at my arm. “Are those forget-me-nots?”
I nod.
“So why the hydrangeas?”
“Because they symbolize love and family.”
“You got it to symbolize Amelia?” As expected, there is no judgment in Robyn’s tone, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering what she’s thinking. Does she think it was a mistake? That it won’t help me heal but will do the opposite?
“Yes. It was her birthday the weekend before last. I couldn’t be with her”—will never be with her again—“and I wanted to celebrate the day.”
Robyn tilts her head slightly to the side, her eyes taking in my face. God knows what she sees there. I haven’t exactly tried to keep my emotions hidden from view.
“So you celebrated it with the tattoo?”
“Yes. And a small birthday cake. Troy’s sister-in-law suggested it might help with my grief. Celebrating Amelia’s birthday. My friend lost her baby due to a car accident she was in while pregnant. Since then, she has celebrated her baby’s birthday every year.”
“You’re grieving the loss of Amelia?” Once more, no sign of judgment from Robyn.
I glance at my hands on my lap and discover I’m wringing them. I place them flat on my thighs and stare at them so I don’t have to look at Robyn’s reaction to my reply. “I contacted my sister-in-law again about being in Amelia’s life. Her husband phoned a few days later to tell me it wasn’t going to happen. I was too much of a reminder of the abuse he went through at the hands of his brothers growing up. They bullied him as a kid. He didn’t go into much detail beyond that.”
My shoulders curl in on themselves, grief slicing through me from just talking about it. “I can’t blame him for his decision.”
“What do his reaction and the birthday cake and the tattoo mean to you, Jess?”
“They mean never getting to see Amelia.” The name comes out as a choked whisper, the word scorching a path in my throat. “It means I’ve lost the most precious thing to me.”
The air has been sucked out of the room, and I can’t find enough oxygen to fill my lungs. I’m suffocating, and I don’t know what to do about it anymore.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jess. I truly am. You’ve lost so much over the past ten or so years, and I’m not sure you’ve had a chance to fully mourn any of it. It’s going to take time and work, but you’ll eventually get there. I promise.”
I nod, hoping she’s right but also glad she accepted what I told her instead of trying to find the silver lining.
“Have you talked to your physician about seeing if an antidepressant or a medication to help with anxiety could benefit you? Not just for the grief but for your general mental well-being.”
I shake my head.
“Talk to them. See what they say. The right medication might help you better manage everything you’re dealing with. Sometimes therapy alone isn’t enough. And there’s no shame in needing medication that can help you get back on track.” Robyn smiles, reassurance infused into the curve of her mouth.
I nod again, unsure how I feel about what she’s saying. “Okay.”
“And you might want to try using a weighted blanket when you sleep, especially if you’re still having nightmares. Research has shown it can benefit those with PTSD and complex PTSD. The blankets aren’t for everyone, but it might be worth a try.”
I have read about the benefit of weighted blankets. I just wasn’t sure if they were for me. But I guess I’ll never know unless I try one out and see what happens. Maybe I’ll be surprised. “I’ll look into it. Thanks.”
She shifts her notepad on her lap, her reassuring smile not wavering. “Alright. Let’s talk about things you can do to help you process your grief…”
* * *
I’m emotionally drainedby the time Bailey and I leave Robyn’s office. Zara is sitting on a waiting room seat, her attention on her phone.
“Hi?” I say, glancing around for Troy.
“Troy had to get back to the office due to some emergency and asked me to drive you home.” She rises to her feet.
I glance at my phone. There’s nothing from him. No text. No missed call. “Thanks.” I smile even though Troy’s absence sits heavy in my chest. I could really use one of his hugs right now.
Zara drives me to my house and pulls into the driveway. “The protesters finally decided to get a life?” She scans the area as if expecting one to lunge from the trees.
She’s right. No one is on the street or the sidewalk, other than a woman walking her dog. You wouldn’t know that only a few weeks ago almost a hundred people were here chanting and waving signs and trying to get me to leave Maple Ridge.
“Maybe they finally realized they were wrong about me.”
Or chose to stick with just harassing me on social media. That’s fine with me. I avoid those sites. I don’t see their hateful and misguided rhetoric.
I thank Zara for the ride, and Bailey and I go into the house through the front door. The damaging words that were once there are completely invisible under several coats of blue-gray paint.
I have a few hours until Troy is due to come over, so I go upstairs to Amelia’s—I mean, the guest room. I get comfy on the window seat and power up the laptop.
I resume typing where I left off, but instead of Angelique’s story, restlessness hijacks my thoughts. The same restlessness that’s been building for the past few hours.
Robyn reminded me in our session today that I need to focus more on my recovery and doing things I enjoy. I haven’t been able to go hiking or canoeing or practice yoga lately. I haven’t even taken any new photos. My life has been at a standstill since the protesters and media intruded on it. But they’re gone now. I’m no longer a prisoner in my home—I’m only caged by death threats.
“You want to go to the lake?” I ask Bailey. She perks her head up, which I take to be a yes.
The street is empty of parked cars that don’t belong there. No one I need to worry about is standing on the sidewalk. The rain from this morning finished hours ago, and the warmth of the day has dried up the puddles. It’s gorgeous now. Perfect for hanging out at the lake.
Several minutes later, I’m pedaling toward it with Bailey in the trailer. My senses are on high alert, but no one seems to be paying attention as I zoom down the quiet streets.
At the lake, I steer Iris’s rusty old bike past the beach to the start of the trail that circles the water. I lock the bike to the metal rack.
The tangy scent of pine wraps me in a comforting hug, and the chirping of birds from the trees cheers me onward. Robyn was right. I need to get back to doing the things I enjoy.
I pull on my straw hat so my face is less recognizable and shuck on my backpack, my laptop tucked safely inside.
Bailey and I walk along the quiet dirt path, pausing every so often so I can shoot photos with my phone. A chattering squirrel. A lonely wild blossom at the side of the path. The stretch of water reflecting the faded blue sky.
Two women, a decade older than me, approach from the opposite direction. I don’t have time to duck my head. The gaze of the bleach-blond woman wearing short shorts falls to the prominent scar by my mouth. Her eyes narrow into a scowl, and she elbows her friend.
Her friend glances my way, and her expression twists into horror and fear, as if I’m stumbling about in a hockey mask and carrying a blood-soaked ax.
I drop my head, heat rushing to my face, and struggle to remember what Robyn told me a short time ago. They think I’m a murderer. They don’t think I’m harmless or safe to be around children. I try but can’t think of a way to reframe the negative into something positive.
I stop and study the photos I’ve just taken. None are worthy of any photography awards—even with editing.
Each one is a disappointment.
Like I’ve become.
Bailey and I continue walking a short distance and stop at a group of large boulders on the edge of the water—my favorite spot to sit. I position myself so I’m looking out at the lake. No one can see my face from the path.
I pull out my laptop and type, but the words I need still won’t come. Instead, my head fills with the words I heard so often from my late husband and while in prison.
Failure. Useless. Worthless. Pathetic. Lazy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The words pulsate and grow. Transform into hideous colors. Take shape into something prickly and barbed. No matter how much I try to twist them into something positive, the more they resist, the louder they become. They scream in my head, Ugly, dumb, dumb bitch.
I cover my ears with my hands, but that does nothing to quiet the voices, so lifelike, so real.
Maybe my late husband was right. Look at the mess I made of the festival.
Stephanie’s words from last night stomp through my head. “And who’s to say Pushing Limits canceled because their drummer is injured? Maybe it was a convenient excuse after they heard Savannah Townsend is involved with the festival. They don’t want the bad press associated with that.”
If more people don’t want to support the event because I’d originally been helping with it, it might have dire consequences. More performers might pull out. Ticket holders might demand a refund. All the hard work Troy and everyone else has been doing will be for nothing.
I remain on the rock for who knows how long before I pack up the laptop and get up to leave.
Bailey and I hike along the trail, but this time my steps feel heavy, like gravity is pulling me down. It’s a struggle to keep moving. Luckily, I don’t bump into any more people. I just need to get past the beach without anyone noticing me and then I can hide away in my home again.
As I approach the beach, a sweet, girlish giggle has me looking up. My heart clenches and my stomach free-falls to the ground. I drop with it and crouch behind the long wild grass, hiding from the three individuals several yards away.
Troy and Olivia and Nova.
Olivia squeals and leaps to her feet. She hugs Troy, and he swings her around. They both laugh, her head thrown back, and he continues swinging her in a circle.
I press my suddenly cold fingers against my mouth, trapping the building sob. I guess Troy didn’t have to work late after all.
Nova jumps up and down on her cute chubby legs, giggling and cheering.
They really do look like the perfect, happy family. The family Troy wants. The family he deserves.
My heart shatters, knowing what I must do. Knowing what’s best for him, for them, for everyone concerned.
And maybe way down, down, down the line, what’s best for me too.