Chapter Fifty-Four. Kathleen, 1964
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Old hands with crepey skin, young and strong hands, hands with wedding rings or bare ones—men’s hands always sought a way to touch Kathleen.
Businessmen in classy suits on the airplane, pinching her bottom as she leaned forward to serve them.
Guys in the elevator who pressed too close to her.
The teacher in high school who’d curved his body over hers from behind as he inhaled the scent of her hair and pretended to check her work.
Her mother lay back for any man who’d given her a scrap of attention.
How could she bear it? Kathleen wondered.
She never wanted to be touched again. Except by Ronald, of course.
Her gentle, kind husband, who’d looked into her eyes on their wedding night and repeatedly whispered, “Are you okay?” as they consummated their marriage.
Maybe she would feel an aversion to the touch of other men even if she’d never encountered Mac, but right now, he seemed responsible for every unwanted graze, brush, and pinch she’d had to endure during her lifetime.
She’d seen a vision of Mac during that wretched final Ganzfeld test, the ones her friends had banished her to endure alone.
First, the aroma of gasoline signaled he was nearby. Then he appeared, looming over her in the darkness. “Such a pretty girl,” he whispered in his low, rumbling voice.
Always before, she’d quaked inside but remained perfectly still during his violations. This time it was different. The roar that emerged from her was born of decades-old rage. She wanted to tear Mac apart, to dig her nails into his eyes.
But he’d just laughed at her, knowing Dr. Trimble had tied down her hands.
“We’ll play another time,” Mac had said. “It’s more fun when you put up a fight.”
Now Kathleen paused in putting away her pink hair rollers. She lifted her head, listening hard. Was that Mac in her kitchen, making one of the mayonnaise and tomato sandwiches he always devoured?
The sound didn’t repeat so she continued tidying up, stowing her suitcase on the floor of the closet and vacuuming the floors.
Kathleen had imagined collapsing into bed as soon as she arrived home this morning, but she felt too jittery to rest, even though Dr. Trimble had woken them several times again last night.
Strangely, though, she kept losing pockets of time, as if she were mentally dozing off while still physically moving.
It was late afternoon now, and her chores were done. She looked around her tidy house, then scrubbed her body in a hot shower, trying to erase the smell of Dr. Trimble’s vanilla pipe smoke that seemed to seep into her hair and clothes.
She toweled off and fixed her face and hair, then went to check on the casserole she’d put in the oven. It was golden brown, so she lowered the heat to warm. Ronald should be home at any moment.
She mixed a gimlet and sipped it as she sat on the couch, waiting for her husband to come through the door. It was starting to grow dark outside, but her earlier energy had vanished. She couldn’t summon the strength to get up and turn on some lights.
She watched as her half-full gimlet glass tumbled out of her hand and fell to the shag carpet. Luckily the liquid was clear. Her body was leaden; she was unable to sponge up the mess.
Exhaustion slammed into her and she fell onto her side, half lying on the couch cushions. She didn’t so much fall asleep as tumble into unconsciousness.
She awoke to find a man looming over her in the darkness, his hands outstretched. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew it was Mac. He’d come for her again.
This time, she was ready. She wasn’t a young girl. Her hands weren’t tied down.
Kathleen could finally fight back.