Salvation Page 6

  “It might help. To feel like things are more normal.”

  “Would you just shut up?” I snapped, giving up on my attempt to be patient and reasonable. “I’ll go back to work when I’m ready.”

  He tightened his lips and turned away. I could see a tension in his shoulders, as he headed back to get another box from the car. I knew he was annoyed with me too and wanted to argue.

  But you evidently don’t get mad at a delicate, damaged flower, no matter how much she deserves it.

  When he came back in, he’d restrained his instinctive response, but I knew he was still thinking about it. So I replied to what I knew was going on in his mind. “I’m not going to feel normal, Gideon. It’s all I can do to get through the day and hold myself together. I’m not ready to go back to work yet.”

  “Okay.”

  “People deal with things differently. You can’t expect me to need exactly the same things that someone else might need to recover. You need to give me enough space to deal with this in the way that works for me.” I’d found in the last few weeks that this was an excellent response, since it left whoever was nagging me no room for argument.

  “I said okay.”

  He was saying it, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe it. I took my favorite pasta pot out of the box and banged it onto the counter next to the stove. It made more noise than I was expecting. “I’m serious, Gideon. I don’t want you to be arguing with me in your mind. This is what’s going to work for me. I’m not going to feel safe. I’m not going to feel normal. This is the best I can do.”

  I hadn’t meant to say that. I knew better than to say that. It was exactly the kind of thing that made people worry, that made them think they needed to help me. I could see the reaction on Gideon’s face. His expression had been tense with suppressed frustration, but it seemed to crack at what I’d said, softening into concern, emotion. “Diana,” he began, his voice slightly hoarse.

  “No!” I raised a hand to emphasize the word. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean that. I just feel that way sometimes. I’m sorry I’m being so rude. I really appreciate all your help. I just need some more time.”

  “Okay.” His blue eyes were searching my face urgently, looking for something I had to hide. “Okay. I understand.”

  I wasn’t convinced that he did.

  ***

  After we unpacked the car and set things up, I fixed us sandwiches, grapes, and cookies for dinner. I was actually ready for him to leave, but I figured he at least deserved to be fed after helping me move all my stuff.

  He didn’t seem inclined to leave afterwards, and I ended up having to make a number of obvious hints about being tired. He finally got up and headed to his car, and I released a sigh of relief as his SUV disappeared down the long drive.

  The cottage was surrounded by trees. There was nothing else in sight in all directions, except the pool in the back. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so completely alone.

  I’d wanted it. It was why I’d moved out here. I wanted the kind of freedom that came from having no one looking over your shoulder, judging your actions, assessing whether you were healthy or not. But, now that I was here, the silence was oppressive. It closed in on me, bringing darkness.

  And in the darkness the demons lived.

  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 laidback 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 farther 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 any time 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 immediately.

  “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.

  It actually felt good. Really good. Easing the sore muscles, soothing them with pressure, causing pleasant sensations to ripple up through my shoulder. His fingers were strong and gentle at the same time, and I didn’t really understand how they could be both.

  I took a shuddering breath and tried to pretend I wasn’t reacting. But I was. I was.

  I didn’t want it to feel good. My body couldn’t feel good. It didn’t match how the rest of me felt, and so it was a jarring incongruity. Upsetting in a way I couldn’t articulate.

  Something inside me was shaking, but I used all the will I could muster to force it down, to keep the shaking from moving into my body.

  He was just rubbing my forearm. He hadn’t even moved past my elbow.

  He’d massaged back down to my wrist, and I thought he was nearly finished. But then he started up my arm again, and this time his fingers were under the fabric, pushing up my sleeve as he went.

  It felt even better and even worse. He was touching my skin, and the resulting sensations were pleasant, soothing, really good. And I simply couldn’t feel good.

  For the first time, I looked over at him, trying to figure out a way to tell him to stop without worrying or offending him. But, as I looked over, I saw he wasn’t watching TV anymore. He was looking down at my inner forearm and the inside of my elbow.

  And I knew—I knew—what he was doing. He was checking it. Because I always wore long sleeves. He was checking to see if I was cutting myself or doing drugs or something. He was using the excuse of the massage to pry even more.

  I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared at him coldly, pushing my sleeve back down.

  He saw the look and understood it. He knew I knew what he’d been doing and how I felt about it, so I didn’t have to say anything.

  He wasn’t actually wrong. It just wasn’t taking the form he suspected.

  We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds in the room from the television. He was looking at me, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring down at the bottle of water I’d picked up.

  “Diana,” he said at last.

  “What?” I snapped out the one word, more harshly than I’d intended.

  “I’m not trying to crowd you.”

  “Well, you’re managing to do it anyway.”

  “You might not believe me, but I’m trying really hard not to. I just worry about you.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t like it. So just stop.”

  He made a brief, guttural noise that might have been an ironic laugh or might have been an exclamation of disbelief. “You think I can just stop thinking about you?”

  “Well, that’s how I feel too. I can’t make myself get better and be normal again. And you�
��re expecting me to. Everyone is expecting me to. But I can’t do it.” My voice broke a few times, and I didn’t like the emotion I heard in it, so I cleared my throat and tried to stop the shaking that was still rising inside me.

  I wasn’t about to cry, though. Dr. Jones had asked at our last session when was the last time I’d cried, and I didn’t have an answer for her. I couldn’t even remember.

  “I am not expecting you to just make yourself better overnight.” Gideon sounded almost offended, which was unusual enough to get my attention. “Do not attribute that motive to me.”

  “Well, that’s what it feels like, with all your watching and scrutinizing and analyzing every move I make.”

  He leaned over to put his beer on the coffee table. The bottle was empty anyway. “That is not what’s happening here.”

  “Then what is happening? What exactly do you expect of me?”

  “I don’t expect anything except for you to be honest with me. Or with anyone, really. And I don’t really think you are.”

  He’d gotten closer to me in his urgency, and I scooted away slightly, since his intense presence and big body was too close, too troubling. “I’m being as honest as I can right now.”

  It was a lie, but it was one I thought would pass, since it was close to the truth.

  “No, you’re not. You’re hiding everything you really feel. You’re playing this part you think other people want to see. You’re acting like you’re getting better when I know that something important isn’t right. I know it, Diana. And I’m going to keep looking for it until you tell me what it is.”

  I jumped to my feet, feeling assaulted and cornered by his words. “What right do you have to expect anything from me? I didn’t even know you a few months ago. We might as well still be strangers. Going through one horrible night together doesn’t suddenly make us best friends. What gives you the right to pry into my privacy this way?”

  I was breathing too heavily and felt naked and exposed, even as the harsh words came pouring out. To escape, I carried my nearly empty water bottle into the kitchen. I dumped the remainder into the sink and put the plastic bottle in the recycling. Then I stood in front of the counter for a minute and took a few ragged breaths.