Chapter 4 #2
It was always this way whenever I had nothing to distract me.
I would start to think about it, remember it.
I’d be unable to keep it from my mind. Then I’d get anxious about every noise.
Then I’d smell repellant aftershave that couldn’t possibly be in the room.
Then I’d feel the edge of a table pushing into my stomach and rough hands pulling my hair, pulling my legs apart.
It was happening again now.
When I started to shake, I ran to the stereo and turned it on. It was set to an opera station on the satellite radio—probably from the last time my dad had stayed here—and they were playing The Magic Flute.
I left it on that station since the music felt different, not something the girl I used to be would have listened to. Mozart filled the room, and it seemed to help drown out the demons. So I turned it even louder. Then louder until the music pulsed through the room, the whole cottage.
I stood in the middle of the floor for a minute, knowing I should probably take a shower and get ready for bed. But I didn’t want to go to bed. I was restless and jittery and desperate for something to keep me from thinking about things I didn’t want to face.
Damn Gideon anyway. If he hadn’t insisted on bringing things up earlier, then they wouldn’t be so much on my mind.
When I started to tremble again, I paced around the cottage.
Tiny, open kitchen. Room for a dining table.
Living area with couch, media console, and one big chair.
Recently remodeled bathroom with steam shower and jetted tub.
One bedroom with big windows and an elliptical trainer in the corner.
I went back to the living area and turned on the security system, staring for a minute at the green indicator light.
It was a pleasant, comfortable little place. Nothing anyone could complain about.
It was almost ten o’clock on a Saturday night in June. I was twenty-three years old.
And it felt like any life I’d ever had was over.
I wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for myself, though, so I changed shoes and got on the elliptical trainer.
I pushed myself as hard as I could for an hour until I was exhausted, drenched in sweat, and felt like I would just drop. Mozart still throbbed through the house, through my head, through my body. Every muscle ached, and my lungs burned every time I took a breath.
It seemed right somehow—as if the state of my body was finally starting to match the state of my soul—so I kept going.
* * *
The long, painful ordeals on the elliptical trainer with opera blaring became a regular routine.
It wasn’t good for me. I knew it even then. There’s a little part of your mind that recognizes when you’re doing something to hurt yourself, but sometimes that voice isn’t loud enough to drown out all the others.
I had too many voices. And the loudest ones—the demons—hurt and demeaned me in a different language.
No matter how high I turned the volume, I couldn’t not hear them.
But I could temporarily mask them with opera and run my body down until I couldn’t feel anything but the physical pain.
And sometimes I could pass out in absolute exhaustion and fall into oblivion for just a little while.
Gideon called every day, and he came by a couple of times a week, always on Friday evenings and then either on Sunday afternoon or a weekday evening.
I think he would have come more often, but he was kept pretty busy with his job, my cottage was quite a trek from his apartment, and I didn’t always make a point of inviting him.
One Friday evening a few weeks after I’d moved in, Gideon brought pizza over. I’d eaten one piece, and he’d eaten most of the rest of it. We were sitting on the couch, watching a sports channel because I didn’t really care what was on.
“Here,” he said, picking up the biggest piece of pizza left in the box. “You only had one.”
“It’s fine. I’m not really hungry.”
His eyes were searching my face again in that way that was getting more and more familiar. I hated that look, and I ducked my face behind my hair so he couldn’t see it clearly.
“You should eat more,” he said in what was supposed to be a laid-back tone. “You’re losing weight.”
I was losing weight, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t eating enough.
I didn’t eat a lot, but I ate regularly and what I ate was fairly healthy.
But I was on the elliptical trainer for hours every day.
My feet were completely torn up, even though I’d bought better shoes, so I had to always keep socks on to hide them.
My knees hurt all the time, and I was never without pulled muscles.
But the physical pain didn’t really bother me.
I took the piece of pizza and ate it just so he wouldn’t think I was anorexic or something. Then I got up to throw away the used napkins and empty box. “Do you want another beer?” I asked him as I went to the kitchen.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I grabbed another bottle from the refrigerator and popped the top. I always had beer in the cottage for him, but I didn’t drink it myself. I didn’t drink wine either, although I used to really like it.
Something about it scared me, as if I might start and not be able to stop. And I didn’t need any other unhealthy habits. So I never drank anything but water and coffee.
He was supposed to be watching the game on TV, but I knew he was secretly watching me as I came back to the couch. I handed him the beer and tried not to wince at the stab of pain from my knee up to my hip as I sat back down.
If he saw it, he didn’t mention it. Just took a long sip of the beer.
He’d just been here an hour, but I was already ready for him to leave since he was making me feel defensive and self-conscious.
If he would just act like he had during the weeks at the center, I wouldn’t have minded.
He’d only talked about innocuous things then.
It had been nice. Distracted me. Hadn’t made me think about anything painful.
It was different now though. He was different. He seemed to always be pushing further into my privacy even when he was pretending to be casual.
I was sometimes tempted to tell him not to come by anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to be such a heartless bitch to a man who’d been nothing but good to me.
“My team at work is having a cookout tomorrow,” he said when the next commercial came on.
He paused as if I was supposed to respond, so I just said, “Really?”
“Yeah. In the afternoon. Do you want to come with me?”
The invitation startled me, and I stared at him for a minute.
He obviously wasn’t asking me out. There was nothing like that in our relationship, and if I’d sensed even a hint of it, I would have shut him out of my life completely.
I was mostly surprised he would ask me to do something he must know I didn’t want to do.
I’d made it very clear since I’d left the center that I didn’t want to be around a lot of other people.
“It will be really low-key. We can leave anytime you want.”
I frowned and took a sip of water, mostly for a reason to stall. “I don’t think so,” I said at last, as I lowered the bottle.
Now he was frowning. “Why not? You might have a good time.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“How do you know?”
Now I was getting annoyed with him. As always, I tried to force down the feeling since it made me feel like an ungrateful ass. “Because I know. I’m not up to hanging around with a bunch of strangers.”
“It won’t be like that. They’ll be grilling and playing volleyball, and there will be kids around to distract everyone. You won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want. It might be good for you to get out a little.”
“I’ll decide what’s good for me.” My arm was hurting from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, so I assumed I’d pulled something the night before when I was working out. I rubbed at the pain unconsciously and tried not to scream at Gideon. “You don’t get to make choices for me.”
“I’m not trying to make choices for you.” His voice was rough with impatience. “I just think you’re not letting yourself get back into life, and I don’t see how it can possibly be good for you.”
“I’ll decide what’s good for me,” I gritted out, using the same words I’d used before because I couldn’t think of another reply. “I don’t want to go.”
“Okay. Fine.” He leaned back against the couch, taking another gulp of his beer, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy with him either.
I felt frustrated and jittery and upset, and I really needed him to leave soon so I could get back on the elliptical trainer.
“Did you hurt your arm?” Gideon asked.
I blinked in surprise, and he nodded down at my arm, which I was still rubbing compulsively.
I dropped my hand immediately. “Not really. It’s just a little tendonitis or something.”
He reached over and took my wrist in his hand, and I jerked away from him.
“What the hell?” he asked, his eyes searching my face in that intrusive way again. “I was just going to rub it for you.”
I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted him to just go away so I could push myself into battered oblivion again. But if I objected, it would just give him more ammunition for his concerns, so I relented and stretched my arm out.
He took it again and very gently started to rub the inside of my wrist.
I tried to relax back against the couch so he wouldn’t see that it bothered me.
His eyes were focused on the television, as if his massage was simply an afterthought, hardly on his radar at all.
But his touch seemed strangely careful, starting softly and growing more firm as he moved slowly from my wrist up to my elbow.
He had to touch me over my sleeve as he moved up my arm since I was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was a warm night, but I felt safer without any skin showing, so I never wore tanks and shorts anymore.
He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be thinking only about sports. But he kept up the massage for a long time.