Confused and indecisive, I walked into the kitchen. When I had come home, there had been a lot to clean up, but there was nothing there now. Everything was spick-and-span, and all dishes, glasses, and silverware had been put away. The counter looked wiped clean, as did the kitchen table, and the floor looked washed. The tile gleamed.
Nothing was out of place in the living room, either. I suspected it, too, had been vacuumed. Even the windows were washed. Was this all done to ensure there was no evidence left behind? The champagne bottle was gone, and there was nothing in the trash bins in the living room. I returned to the kitchen. The garbage disposal in the kitchen was empty. I saw that the garbage bag had been removed and replaced with a fresh one. I could dress and go downstairs to the large bin and start searching through it to find something to present as evidence later, but a vision of myself sifting through discarded food, plastics, paper, and other assorted refuse was the vision of someone who had gone completely bonkers.
I debated calling Chandler. He should know what had happened, I thought, and then I thought about what exactly I would tell him. How was I going to explain this? I had let Douglas Thomas into my apartment with a bottle of champagne, had worn the pearls for him so he could take a picture, and he had performed a toast. He had obviously put some powerful sedative in my glass of champagne when I had gone to get the pearls. I now remembered all that. Better also think about Chandler’s reaction, I told myself.
I sat on the sofa, fingering the pearls and thinking. Perhaps it had been gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, or GHB, commonly known as Liquid Ecstasy. A particularly strong dose of that would have done me in. I could hurry down to the ER and get a toxicological analysis. Often it is only rarely detectable in blood for up to eight hours or in urine for twelve. I imagined I fit into the time limits, but then what? I had to prove he was there. From the looks of what he had done to my apartment, that might not be so easy. Of course, someone might have seen him come into my building or go out. Another tenant could recall buzzing someone in about that time. But usually someone who had done something that stupid wouldn’t want to reveal it. A full-blown investigation would have to be started, and people, especially nowadays, weren’t eager to be witnesses.
Besides, every other woman in this building would become paranoid and blame me. They’d all want to know what I had done wrong. How did I permit this to happen to me, a nurse, someone who was supposed to be more intelligent? What should they avoid? Should we form a neighborhood watch, strengthen the building security, and finally install those cameras that were suggested despite the additional homeowners’ association dues?
What would Chandler think? I asked myself again. What did I think? I should be in more of a rage than I was and surely be at least a little hysterical. Even if there was no penetration, my body had still been violated. Surely he had taken pictures of me naked with these pearls lying above my breasts? What if they started to appear on the Internet, despite what he had promised? What if everyone on my staff saw them? Maybe Annie Sanders would print them out. Of course, I should be panicking.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t. I was quite calm, actually, but maybe that was because I was still in the throes of the drugs. The full impact of all this continued circling me like angry hummingbirds. And of course, I was trained to confront crises professionally, trained to handle trauma with composure. The worst thing was showing your panic and terrifying the critical patient even more.
But this time, I was the critical patient. Shouldn’t I be raging with anger, calling the police, and going after him?
I returned to my bedroom and sat on the bed. If I did that—called the police even if no pictures of me appeared on the Internet—how would I escape derision once what happened was public knowledge? The man for whom I had alienated most of the people I worked with had drugged and violated me after I willingly let him into my apartment and drank champagne with him while wearing his gift of expensive pearls. Oh, yeah, they would all feel so sorry for me. Fat chance. Some would whisper I had probably agreed to everything and then, when I regretted it, claimed I was violated. The smug smiles and laughter would drive me to jump out the window.
But here I was, like so many sexually abused and violated women, looking for a way to avoid reporting it. I rose, determined not to be that kind of a woman. I won’t let myself be a victim without a voice. I can’t take the chance of destroying some DNA evidence that might still be on my body or on my bed, I thought. Anger replaced self-pity. I turned and looked at the sheets and pillowcases. A forensic expert could find something. But then my heart sank again.
It immediately struck me. They had been changed, too. I hurried out to the washing machine and dryer. The previous sheets and pillowcases were already in the dryer, waiting for me to take them out. Frantically, my mind went from one idea to the next. What would I suggest be examined for evidence? I was back to only the condom. Why, if he was so meticulous about everything else, did he leave that behind, almost taunting me with it? Why hadn’t he flushed it away? Perhaps for that very reason, the taunting.
Maybe there was nothing he wished for more than my accusing him and then having to support the accusation. Sex was committed here, but what proved it was unwanted? Who knew what fabrications he would create? The man didn’t live in this world. He moved in and out of an alternative reality, for sure. He’d claim I had wooed him while he was my patient. I would fill his ordinarily boring life with some excitement. He’d be bragging about it at work. He wants me to make that call. He’s practically praying I do.
I could easily imagine the expression on the skeptical detective’s face, even if it was a woman. “You sure you didn’t encourage him?”
If nothing definitive could be discovered in a toxicological test, there would be that he said, she said argument even if I scooped out the condom and had the contents analyzed to prove Douglas Thomas had been here. The skeptical detective would be right. I took his pearls, didn’t I? I willingly was drinking champagne with him. Why couldn’t his version of events be true? Why couldn’t any sexual encounter have been consensual? Want to get into the depositions and the courtroom? Belinda Spoon would probably fix her schedule so she could attend, among others from the hospital staff. She might even be willing to testify and claim I encouraged him.
“There was somethin’ goin’ on between her and Mr. Douglas, fer sure. I ain’t seen any other patient give a nurse somethin’ so valuable. I think they was puttin’ on an act for me. That’s what I think.”
Would I shrink in my seat?
More frustrated and still quite angry, I wandered into the living room and stood there for a moment trying to recall every detail of what had occurred, hoping for something to prove definitively that I had been abused. I heard my mobile ring.
That had to be Chandler, I thought. I had to be careful about how I sounded. He was too good at hearing my feelings.
“Hello,” I said.
“Didn’t you get my earlier message?”
“Oh, I haven’t looked at my mobile. I see I still have it on vibrate. Sorry.”
“Where have you been?”
“I went shopping after work and then lay down to take a short rest and drifted off. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
“Yeah, you sound like you just woke up. You all right?”
“Sure.”
“I’m coming home tomorrow. Got to go over things with the partners. I’ve made plans for us to go to dinner. Expensive, the Lighthouse, but that’s what I’d like. Reservations made for seven. Hope that’s fine with you.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sure you’re okay?”
This is it, I thought. Tell him everything or keep it forever a secret.
Rationalization came pouring in from under the door, through the windows, everywhere, being pulled up and out of the well of excuses and avoidance from which most violated women unfortunately drank.
Apparently, no serious physical harm was done to you, Pru Dunning, I heard another voi
ce inside me say. Get over it. You made a mistake, but from the looks of it all, what suffered the most was your ego. There is even a silver lining: your apartment is the cleanest it has been in a long time. I almost laughed.
“Sure. I’m actually very hungry now.”
“Good. I’ll call you when I arrive. Really looking forward to seeing you, Pru.”
“Ditto,” I said.
He laughed. “We’re okay with going to dinner tomorrow night, right? You haven’t taken on someone else’s shift again or anything?” he asked, to double his confirmation.
“I’m fine. I’ll try to be expensive.”
He laughed again. “It’s all going much better,” he said. “You’d probably take one look at me and know the truth anyway,” he added.
“Oh?”
“You know how we can read each other. You were right to suspect they’d offer me the office and a partnership.”
“And?”
“I gave them the answer I told you I would. They were suspicious and had good questions.”
“About what?”
“Us,” he said.
I held my breath a moment. “What exactly?”
“Cliff Barnes asked if I was so involved with you this long, why haven’t they heard we were engaged or anything?”
“We qualify for ‘anything,’ ” I said. He laughed but then was silent. “So how did you reply to that?”
“I said there’s something on the horizon. Cryptic but satisfying enough to stop the inquisition. They were also suspicious of my taking another position at another firm.”
“No one trusts anyone anymore,” I said.
I was really thinking of Douglas Thomas. Was this a way to ease into it? He couldn’t see me shake my head, of course, but I did, as if there was someone else sitting there with me, urging me to tell him.
“I trust you,” he said. “Is there something on our horizon?”
“As long as it’s there for us and not to satisfy some lawyers at your firm,” I said.
He laughed, but he didn’t sound as confident. “We’ll explore that when I come home, okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
I wasn’t really thinking about what he was saying. My voice was weakening. I could feel the onslaught of tears. A mixture of insecurity, deeper fears, and guilt was rising up in my throat. Scenes of old nightmares flashed, and I was on the verge of telling him exactly what had occurred. I knew my voice would crack and I’d start to cry. It would be like small explosions all around me.
“Pru?”
“I . . . can’t wait to see you,” I blurted out, and he voiced the same thought.
“I’ll call you as soon as I land tomorrow,” he promised. “Love you, Pru. Really do.”
“Likewise,” I said. It wasn’t a very romantic or convincing thing to reply. “And miss you,” I added, like some spice to enhance the mediocre word.
He hung up first.
I sat there, staring at the wall.
Suddenly, I thought I had to get out for a while. Visions of Douglas Thomas were flashing all around me. I had a chill like you’d have when you realized someone was watching you. It was as if he would be standing there when I turned and looked toward the living room. Maybe he never had left. He had been in the closet by the entrance the whole time, enjoying my surprise and confusion. He was crazy enough to do something like that, wasn’t he?
The fear was so palpable that I took out a bread knife and started into the living room slowly. Could I stab him if he popped out of the closet? The irony of the nurse who stopped the patient from taking the wrong medicine now being the one to kill him didn’t escape me. How delicious it would be for Annie Sanders.
But how dare he drug me? How dare he undress me? How dare he do something sexual either to me or on me, even near me? I will not be violated. I moved forward with more assurance. When I reached the closet door, I paused and lifted the knife high. There would be no hesitation. Slowly, I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and then thrust the door open.
For a moment, he was there, and then I realized he wasn’t. The closet had nothing in it but some jackets, one of them Chandler’s, an umbrella, and two hats. I closed the door and hurried back to the kitchen, still trembling. I needed fresh air for sure. After I put the knife away, I put on fresh panties, some jeans, a bra, a blouse, and a light sweater. I slipped on my running shoes and then stood in the hallway for a few moments deciding.
This is how I’ll handle it, I thought, myself. Where the confidence came from, I couldn’t say, but it came. With determined steps, I went to the bathroom, gazed into the toilet, and then flushed it. I watched my only evidence go down into oblivion. It didn’t frighten me. I would handle this. I was caught unaware, but that would never happen again.
As soon as I stepped out of my apartment, I hesitated in my hallway and listened. I listened so hard that I could hear someone breathing. He wasn’t here. I descended the stairs slowly, pausing between steps to listen for someone possibly following. There was silence.
When I reached the entryway, I paused. Fortunately, there was no one else from the building coming in or going out. I was afraid of small talk, afraid anyone could look at my face and say, “You were sexually violated, weren’t you? It’s all right to talk about it.”
I stepped out and took a deep breath. The traffic was heavy as usual for this time of the day. There weren’t that many people walking, but those who were going somewhere on foot were not rushing the way people do in other cities like New York. Maybe it was the warm weather and the frequent sunshine, but people here were just more laid-back. When they walked, it was closer to strolling, and when I saw people casually moving along, crossing streets, talking quietly, I slowed down, too.
I walked with my arms folded across my breasts and avoided looking at anyone. I paused at a boutique clothing store and looked at the clothes. Nothing excited me, and it was closed by now anyway. I walked on. When I reached the corner, I turned. It would take me around the block, past residences and not stores.
Something caused me to look back just before I made the turn. I was sure I caught sight of a woman wearing a wide-brimmed black hat as she turned to avoid looking my way and oddly just stood there with her back to me. She was under a streetlight.
Could that be her? Scarletta?
A new fear chased me. When I started to walk again, I was no longer strolling. Now I was practically running. After I had made the full circle, never looking back once, I paused and looked down the sidewalk that passed my entryway. Maybe she was there waiting inside, finally willing to confront me? I was shaken by all I had just gone through, but I was ready for her, I thought.
I clenched my hands and took firm strides toward the building. When I was in front of it, I hesitated and studied the entryway. There was no one waiting there, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t gotten in somehow. She could easily be on the stairs, or, like Douglas Thomas, she could be right in front of my apartment door, waiting.
But how would she have gotten in? I wondered. Did she do what Douglas Thomas must have done, pressed a button ringing some other tenant? Maybe she claimed to be a relative who had just flown in. People, especially if it was a man who answered, tended to believe women. Women weren’t as threatening anyway. “She sounded so sweet and innocent.” “Please help.” He’d probably have an orgasm over the phone. Besides, how many lone women break into apartments to steal or kill?
A few? She could very well be one.
Forget it, I told myself. I can’t stand out here forever, can I? I entered but started up the stairs gingerly, pausing to listen. There was a turn for the second floor. I held my breath when I made it. Maybe I’d rush her, grab her, and throw her down the damn stairs, I thought, and started up again.
There was no one around the corner, and when I emerged on the second floor, there was no one waiting at my door, either. I was actually disappointed. In the state of mind I was in, I looked forward to a confrontation. It would be easy to redire
ct my rage at Douglas Thomas toward her and come at her with such a threat of violence on my face that she’d shrink and then flee forever. If she was one of the hospital staff, she’d resign rather than face me again. She had come here anticipating my weakness, ready to enjoy my plea, begging her to leave me alone.
None of that had happened. I opened the door and entered the apartment. The machine was blinking. For a fleeting moment, I thought it might be Douglas Thomas thanking me for permitting him to celebrate with me. He could be that nuts.
My hand trembling, I brought my right forefinger to the machine and pressed Play Messages.
You can run, she said, but you can’t hide.
Scarletta
FOR OUR DINNER out, Daddy bought me a wrist corsage of white orchids, my mother’s favorite flower. When I heard him come home, I started down the stairs in the manner my mother had taught me almost from the time I could walk: holding my head high, my back straight, walking down slowly, each step firm, and keeping my right hand sliding along the smooth mahogany banister for balance but not looking like I was clinging to it.
“That’s the way your grandmother would walk down stairs, descending and clutching that banister as if she could tumble at any moment. She was always just looking for attention,” she told me when she caught me once last year not thinking about how I was descending. “She wanted everyone to hold his breath as if she was created out of fine china when she was really made of hard brick.”
Right now, Daddy paused in the entryway to look up at me, an amazed, even a bit shocked, expression on his face. As I drew closer, I thought he was a little pale, which worried me. Had he been suffering all day, keeping his pain bottled up? But then he smiled with such delight it rushed the color back into his cheeks.
“In that dress, with your hair done in that sleek knot, I thought I was looking at your mother twenty years ago,” he said, his voice so low it was more of a loud whisper. His smile widened even more, his eyes brightening just the way they would whenever my mother entered a room or descended these very stairs. “I’m so happy you decided to wear the dress, Scarletta. It’s a perfect fit. And look at what I bought for you on the way home today.”
The Silhouette Girl Page 10
