Brass Ring

by Diane Chamberlain

  Randy laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You were very well trained. Mellie protected you the same way. It’s all you knew how to do.”

  She set down her knife with a sense of defeat. “I don’t want to be that way anymore.”

  Randy walked across the kitchen to the steps leading down to the basement and his wine cellar. “Don’t worry, Claire, you’re not,” he said. “If you were still into protecting people, you wouldn’t have told me how good you felt talking to Jon today.” He disappeared into the basement, and she stared after him, trying to discern if his words had been meant as a compliment or if they were, instead, an expression of hurt. She hadn’t known that Randy needed her protection.

  She pulled the bowl of spinach from the microwave. The icy green block was still hard. Setting it on the counter, she began chopping at it, the knife in her fist.

  Suddenly, her hand froze in midair, and the vertigo fell over her with such force that she had to lean against the counter. The bright green of the spinach made her stomach roil, and the knife shook in her hand. She wanted to drop it, but her fingers were locked in place around the handle. Frightened, she started to call for Randy, but stopped herself.

  “Open your damn hand,” she said out loud. She nearly had to pry her fingers from the knife. When it fell into the bowl, she backed away from the counter and lowered herself into one of the kitchen chairs.

  Closing her eyes, she steadied her breathing. She tried asking herself the questions Randy might ask. Had she seen anything—any images from the past? No, she had seen nothing but the knife in her hand. That alone had been enough to sicken her.

  And what did the knife remind her of?

  Nothing. No, that wasn’t true. She pictured the barn. The workshop. Carving. She could see herself in her grandfather’s shop, carefully working the knife around a pattern in a block of balsa wood. That was a good memory, though. Nothing to bring on an attack of terror.

  “Damn it!” She pounded her fist on her knee, tears filling her eyes. Wasn’t she ever going to be free of this? She’d hoped her flash backs had been linked to the incident with Vanessa. With that out in the open, they should leave her alone, shouldn’t they?

  She heard Randy on the basement stairs and quickly stood up again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Gingerly, she removed the knife from the bowl before putting the spinach back in the microwave. She wouldn’t tell Randy what had happened. She wasn’t hiding it from him, not in any underhanded way. She simply needed to know she could do this on her own.

  Randy called Cary later that night. He used the phone in the study, across from the master bedroom, where Claire waited for him under the paisley sheets and comforter. She could hear his side of the conversation, and she listened with admiration. Randy talked about loyalty to friends, options to violence, respect for the opposite sex. The conversation lasted a very long time.

  When he came into the bedroom, he undressed quietly and climbed into bed without reaching for her. She looked over at him, at the faint shine of tears on his cheeks, and her heart broke.

  She pulled close to him. “Cary will be all right,” she said. “He sounds like a healthy kid who—”

  Randy shook his head. “Do you hear yourself, Claire?”

  She thought about her words. Empty, soothing words—the kind she was best at uttering. “Yes,” she said sheepishly.

  “And it’s not Cary I’m upset about right now.”

  She ran her fingertips over his cheek. “What is it?”

  He suddenly closed his arms around her, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. She heard him swallow, and it was another minute before he spoke.

  “I guess I’ve known all along that I was only borrowing you,” he said.

  “Borrowing me?” She lifted her head from his chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve always loved Jon. I’ve been serving some need in you that you didn’t think he could meet.”

  She wanted to protest, to offer him some sort of reassurance, but said instead, “I don’t want to need either of you anymore.”

  “I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent with you,” Randy said, as if he had decided for both of them that their relationship was over.

  She pulled back from him, sitting up.

  “I was hoping your feelings about me would change,” he continued, reaching toward her. His fingers came close to her satin-covered breast, but he lowered his hand to the bed without touching her. “Even after all this time, though, you still think of me as a brother.”

  “That’s not true.” She gently cradled his hand in hers, knowing that she and Randy were on new ground here, that in the next few seconds, the fabric of their relationship would stretch and give until it had taken on a different shape. She was ready for that; she felt profound relief that the time had come. “I think of you as a wonderful friend who’s helping me through a terrible time.” She touched the hem of the sheet where it lay above his waist. “I’ve felt dishonest, though.”

  “How so?”

  “By becoming lovers.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head. “Don’t feel guilty. You’ve never led me to believe there was more between us than there was. You and I have had different hopes and expectations right from the start. We both knew that.”

  Her throat felt tight. “I don’t want us to make love anymore,” she said.

  He nodded, squeezing her hand. Silence filled the room, and all Claire could hear was the sound of their breathing.

  “Will you go back to Jon then, if he’ll have you?” Randy asked finally, and the question surprised her because she hadn’t even considered it an option at the moment.

  “No,” she said. “I just want to be with Claire for a while.”

  “Well, I admire you for that,” he said. “And I’m selfishly very glad. I hope that means I can still see you. Can we still be friends?”

  The thought of not seeing him hadn’t even crossed her mind. “I’m counting on it,” she said. She let go of his hand, folding her own hands together in her lap. “But right now, I think I’d better move to the bed in the guest room.”

  He nodded, a look of resignation on his face. “If you insist,” he said.

  She got out of the bed and let out a long breath, as if she’d just endured some taxing physical challenge. “I love you, friend,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

  THE BED IN THE guest room was cold, and she shivered as she slipped beneath the covers. She missed Randy’s warmth and the comfort of his arms around her, but she knew she couldn’t have continued the intimate side of their relationship much longer. It had never felt right to her. And after tonight, she wouldn’t sleep at his house again.

  She couldn’t fall asleep. Slowly, very slowly, the panicked confusion she’d felt while talking with Vanessa crept over her once more. She thought of how, when she’d had trouble sleeping, Jon would relax her with images of the carousel. Randy could never have done that. Even if she had told him what to say, it wouldn’t have had the same effect.

  Maybe she could learn to paint those serene and calming images for herself?

  No. What was the point? After today, she doubted that thoughts of the carousel could ever bring her peace again.

  46

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  VANESSA STOOD IN FRONT of the dresser mirror in her hotel room, stroking color onto her cheeks, smudging the liner beneath her lower lashes. She could see Brian’s reflection in the mirror, and she watched as he shoved their room service trays to one side of the glass-topped table and spread out the Washington Post on the other. He made no comment about the fact that she hadn’t touched the breakfast he’d ordered for her. He should have known there would be no way she could eat this morning.

  In an hour, she would be meeting with Starla Garvey. How much detail would she be asked to provide? She was as ready for this as she would ever be, yet she wished she could simply talk about the AMC
programs from the safety of her role as a physician.

  She had decided to be somewhat cryptic in the facts she offered. She would say she couldn’t remember her abuser’s name—if indeed she’d ever known it—and she wouldn’t mention the carousel. The man was simply someone who had helped out on her grandparents’ farm from time to time. She would stick to the facts that were important—those that would get her a slot in testifying in front of the committee the following day.

  Her stomach was churning, and the makeup couldn’t mask the pallor of her skin. The pale green suit looked crisp and cool in the mirror, though. A good choice. She turned to face Brian.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  He lifted his eyes from the paper and smiled. “Incredible,” he said, and she had to laugh.

  “Great, but I’m trying to look credible this morning.”

  “You’ve failed miserably, then.” He stood up and started walking in her direction when the phone rang. Her first thought was that the attorney was canceling their meeting. Tensely, she picked up the receiver from the dresser.

  “Vanessa Gray,” she said.

  “Vanessa, this is Claire.”

  She gave Brian a look of distress. She should have expected this call. After riding away from her sister’s apartment, she’d wondered why the hell she’d given her the name of the hotel.

  “Hello, Claire,” she said. “I only have a second. I’m on my way out.”

  Brian grimaced when he realized whom the call was from and took his seat at the table again.

  “I need to see you,” Claire said. “I could come into D.C. for lunch tomorrow, or we could arrange to meet at some other time if you’d prefer. But please, Vanessa, let’s get together.”

  Vanessa sighed and leaned against the dresser. “There’s no point to us getting together,” she said. “I’ve learned to exist without family and—”

  “Maybe I could be a support for you while you’re going through this thing with the hearing.”

  “Thanks, but my husband’s with me.” She looked at Brian, whose hazel eyes were wide and encouraging. “He’s all the support I need.”

  There was hesitation on the line. “Lately…something happened to me a couple of months ago,” Claire said. “I witnessed a tragedy, and since then I’ve been remembering things from our childhood. I always thought that everything was wonderful for us growing up. But I began to remember things that weren’t so great, and I—”

  “You’d better go, Van.” Brian looked at his watch, and Vanessa missed some of what Claire was saying. She was interested, in spite of herself.

  “It would help me so much to talk to you,” Claire said. “To see what you remember. To compare and—

  “Claire, I really have to go. Maybe I’ll get back to you.”

  She heard Claire’s exasperated sigh. “I made a mistake, Vanessa, I know that,” she said. “But I was ten. I didn’t know what Zed Patterson wanted. I guess I figured it was something I should avoid, but when I sent you out to the barn, I didn’t know for certain that something terrible was going to happen to you. And I’m not responsible for our father taking you away that day. I feel as though you’re blaming everything that happened to you on me.”

  Anger flamed up inside her. “Look, Claire, you don’t know what I went through. I can’t expect you to know or to understand. But you’re a reminder to me of the most horrific time in my life. I don’t need that, all right?” She hung up and stared at the phone for a few seconds as if waiting for Claire to try again, but the phone didn’t ring.

  Brian was at her side, squeezing her shoulders lightly. “Are you sure you want to burn that bridge?” he asked.

  “I feel no love for her,” she said. “I haven’t had a sister in thirty years. I still don’t have one, as far as I’m concerned.”

  He rubbed her arms through the suit. “I liked what you said about me being your support.”

  “And I meant it,” she said softly. “You’ve been terrific.” She tried to hold his gaze, but couldn’t. She pulled away from him and walked over to the mirror to run the comb through her already well-combed hair. In the mirror, she caught the bewilderment in Brian’s face as he sat down behind the table again. She simply couldn’t talk to him about support right now. He wouldn’t support her if he knew the full extent of her plan.

  As she climbed into the cab in front of the hotel, she recalled what Claire had said about her newly found memories. It wasn’t so much the content of Claire’s words that played through her mind as the confusion in her voice. The pain.

  While riding to Claire’s apartment the day before, she’d wondered how she would be able to confront her sister face-to-face. She was afraid that seeing the grown-up version of the little girl she had once adored would force her to soften her words to the point of losing her message. But it hadn’t been a problem. There was so much of Mellie in Claire—so much denial and false cheer—that Vanessa had been able to quickly discard her, the way she’d discarded all memories of her mother. Mellie had been useless as a mother. Self-aggrandizing. Ineffectual. She had done nothing to protect her from Zed, and she’d done nothing to prevent Vanessa’s father from dragging her away from her family and her home. Worse, she’d done nothing to track that little girl down, not until Vanessa was fully grown and well past the point of needing or wanting her mother. Equating Claire with Mellie, Vanessa had been able to let her sister have it with both barrels.

  Yet, although she had said all she’d wanted to say to Claire, all she’d waited years to say, she hadn’t felt quite as free and clean leaving her sister’s apartment as she had expected. And now Claire was talking about unearthing old memories, and her voice was full of hurt.

  So, as Vanessa rode in the cab through the streets of D.C., anticipating the interview that frightened her more than anything had frightened her in years, it was her sister she was thinking about and not herself.

  Starla Garvey’s office was sparely decorated, with no show of money or power, and that relieved Vanessa as she waited in the reception area. She might be able to like this woman after all. Starla was an unpaid adviser to the committee; she must truly be dedicated to the importance of these hearings. It would be all right.

  She’d been waiting ten minutes when a tall woman with teased, bleached-blond hair and heavily made-up eyes emerged from one of the inner offices and offered her hand to Vanessa.

  “Dr. Gray?” The woman smiled.

  “Yes.” Vanessa shook her hand. “Are you…?”

  “I’m Starla Garvey. Please come in.”

  Vanessa walked into the office in front of Starla Garvey, pleased to have a few seconds to wipe the surprise from her face over the attorney’s appearance. She sat down on one side of a long conference table while Starla lowered her tight-skirted derriere into a seat opposite her. A tape recorder rested between them on the table.

  “All right.” Starla glanced at her watch. “As I think I mentioned to you on the phone, I already have my quota of witnesses. I understand, though, that you offer a different perspective—the needs of the adolescent, correct?”

  Vanessa nodded. “The adolescent who was abused when she was younger.”

  “Right. So, I’m willing to hear what you have to say.” Starla gave Vanessa a smile that was hard to read. “Are you ready?”

  Vanessa nodded again, and Starla pressed a button on the recorder. “Go ahead, then. Tell me your story.”

  Vanessa wanted to slow things down. Talk about the weather. Anything. She locked her hands together in her lap. When she finally began to speak, her throat felt dry, as if her voice might fail her any minute, and she kept her eyes focused on the slow, steady circling of the tape.

  She told Starla about the farm and how much she enjoyed her summers there with her grandparents. She felt happier during the summer, she said, because her father was with them only on weekends, thereby reducing the amount of time he and her mother were able to fight.

  When she was eight years old, a you
ng man from a neighboring town spent the summer helping her grandfather with work around the farm. One morning, he asked Vanessa’s sister to help him in the barn, but her sister told Vanessa to go in her place, and the man raped her on the floor of the barn.

  Starla surprised her by asking for a description of the inside of the barn.

  “The floor was covered with hay,” Vanessa blurted out, although she had never seen anything resembling hay in her grandfather’s pristine barn. Yet it was the first thing that came into her mind, and now she could see the counterfeit image clearly—light pouring through the barn windows onto the golden hay, a pitchfork standing in the corner. The lie made it easier to describe the details of the rape. None of it seemed real now. She spoke clearly and factually, her eyes fixed on the hypnotic turning of the tape reels.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone what happened?” Starla asked.

  “He threatened me with further harm if I told,” she answered honestly. She went on to describe how, later that day, her father split up the family and took her with him to Seattle. She didn’t see her family again.

  She raised her eyes from the tape to Starla, who was taking notes, despite the running of the recorder. This had been quite simple, she thought. Not nearly as hard to talk about as she’d anticipated. Maybe because she was not telling the complete truth, and that made it seem almost like someone else’s story.

  She described her emotional and physical suffering from the trauma. She talked at length about how, as a teenager, she began hurting herself and sleeping around and using alcohol and drugs to try to erase the memories of the abuse.

  Starla Garvey continued to listen attentively, nodding, her face solemn beneath the heavy makeup, and Vanessa knew, without Starla saying a word, that she had been there, too. There was a bond between the lawyer and herself. It made Vanessa wish she could be more honest with her.

  Starla began questioning her about her work, and Vanessa slipped with relief into the role of the knowledgeable director of an AMC program.

  When Vanessa had said all she could think of to say, Starla hit the button on the machine and smiled at her. “You’re going to be excellent,” she said.