Lies We Keep

by Danielle Rose

  I nodded.

  “It can wait until she’s discharged,” James said.

  “No, I want to get it over with. Tell them to come today.”

  Tara nodded. “I’ll make the call.” She left the room, busily typing buttons on her cell phone.

  “When can I go home?” I asked the doctor.

  “I’d like to keep you for observation—”

  “When?” I interrupted.

  “Another couple days. For now, I’d like you to relax, but if you need anything, just press this button,” she said as she motioned to a remote on my bedside table. “That will also control your bed and the television.”

  I nodded, thanking her, and she left. I was alone with James.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I’m not. I just want this over with.”

  He smiled down at me.

  “How are you?” I asked, letting my eyes scan the length of his body.

  He looked tired, weak. His usually tan skin was pale, taut. Dark circles were painted beneath his muddled blue eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in months.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You were injured,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about me, Jezebel.”

  “Damn it, James. I’m not a child!”

  I grabbed the bedside controller and pressed the button, so I could sit up in bed.

  “I need to know what happened.”

  “But we don’t need to talk about it now.”

  “Now seems like the perfect time since the police will soon be here,” I countered.

  He didn’t speak.

  “You were shot,” I said, replaying that night in my mind. “I remember everything. I shot Brent, I crawled to you, and I listened to your heartbeat until I couldn’t hear it anymore.”

  “It was too much on your system. You fell unconscious,” he said.

  “Please, James. I need to know.”

  He exhaled slowly. “I was tracking your location, but the necklace told me you hadn’t left the area. It didn’t make sense. I tore apart every room searching for you, but you weren’t there. When I couldn’t find you, I went to neighboring houses. He kept you in one of the basements. He killed the elderly woman who’d lived there.”

  “Oh, god,” I sobbed.

  “She didn’t suffer. Honestly, it didn’t seem like he’d even planned it. I believe he attacked out of passion, which derailed any previous plans he’d made to take you. We got lucky. His inability to wait for an opportune time worked to our advantage, because since we’d been searching for you, the police were everywhere. They heard the fighting, gun shots, and they found us.”

  “And you’re okay? You’re really okay?” I whispered.

  He nodded and brought his hand to his chest. “I never even lost consciousness, and now, it’s just a scar.”

  My head fell into my palms as I released everything I had pent up inside me. The bed squeaked as James sat beside me and rubbed my back. I leaned against him, closing my eyes. I didn’t know how long Brent had kept me prisoner. I didn’t know what would happen next. But I survived. I didn’t give up. And now, it was over. It was finally over. My stalker was gone. And he couldn’t hurt me anymore.

  Even after my tears dried, I remained curled up beside James. I didn’t move until the police arrived.

  “Ms. Tate? I’m Detective Young,” a man said as he flashed me his badge. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” I said. A truthful, yet ironic, response.

  “I’m glad you’re doing well. I’ve stopped by a few times to see how you were doing,” Detective Young said, smiling.

  I offered a half-smile, but inside, I wanted to escape, to forget everything, to pretend I never went to Maine.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding your kidnapping and the subsequent death of Mr. Miller. Do you feel up to it? I can come back if you’re not well enough.”

  “No, I’m fine. I can answer your questions now.”

  I shifted in the bed, trying to sit up as much as possible. My wounds had since healed, but sleeping for three months had left me stiff. My joints ached every time I moved.

  “I’d like to record our conversation. Is that okay with you?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  He pulled out a thin, black tape recorder from his suit jacket pocket and placed it on the overbed table. He pressed a button to record and asked me to recount everything I could remember. James, ever faithful, remained by my side. Sliding his fingers between mine, he held my hand, offering reassuring squeezes whenever my memories became hard to bear.

  “Have you ever seen him before?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “H-He said we’ve met, but I don’t remember it. He said I wouldn’t. He said our ability to stay invisible made us… connected.” I shuddered at the thought.

  “Thank you, Ms. Tate. I’m sorry if recounting this has been difficult for you,” he said, shutting off the recorder and sliding it back into his pocket.

  I shook my head. “It’s fine. I just want this nightmare over with.”

  “Of course,” he said, pulling a business card from his pocket. “If you remember anything else, you can call me at any time.”

  “I’ll take that,” James said. “You should already have our information. We’ll be returning to Manhattan as soon as she’s released.”

  “Yes, understandable.”

  “Are you going to file charges?” Tara asked.

  I’d almost forgotten she had returned to the room after contacting the police.

  The detective shook his head. “No, ma’am. This was a clear case of self-defense.”

  Not realizing I’d been holding my breath, I exhaled slowly.

  The next couple days passed in a blur. The nurses checked on me every hour to make sure I hadn’t fallen back into a coma. Apparently, that was a major concern. When Doctor Patel finally cleared me, I nearly jumped for joy. I would have walked out in the hospital gown if I wasn’t afraid of mooning everyone I passed.

  The ride back to Manhattan was silent and short-lived. James and I didn’t speak, but every few minutes, he’d glance over at me or reach for me in some way. I was sure he was just reminding me that he was there, that I was safe. I’d smile at him or hold his hand. It was a show, of course, because internally, I was an empty void. I was shutting down again. Only this time, I was aware of it. I knew the signs. Avoiding my feelings had kept me safe… until it didn’t anymore.

  When we reached my Manhattan brownstone, James parked, grabbed our bags, and helped me into the apartment. My muscles were still stiff, but after a few long soaks in my hot tub and a regular workout routine, I’d be back to normal, according to my doctor. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, I was shattered. That’s what happened when a broken person breaks: she shatters.

  I took the first step into my apartment and looked around. Everything was where I’d left it. The window curtains were drawn shut to keep out prying eyes. The lights were off; the fruit on the counter was moldy. If I’d opened the fridge, I’d find the food had spoiled. My apartment was the physical representation of what I’d become: dead.

  When I was asleep in my coma, it felt like the world stopped moving. But really, that didn’t happen. The world kept going on, kept living its life as if nothing out of the ordinary had changed.

  But everything had changed.

  I swallowed hard, turned, and faced James.

  “I have to see someone,” I said.

  He nodded, understanding my need. “I’ve been doing some research. I found someone who specializes in trauma victims.”

  He pulled out his phone, pressed a few buttons, and handed it to me. Her website flashed back at me. I clicked on the About page and read her bio. She had experience working with celebrities and specialized in treating the trauma associated with fame. I scanned the page, settling the final message: Don’t wait until it’s too late.

  “I’ve already contacted h
er. She wants to help. Her mobile number is in my contacts.”

  I should have been angry with him. Had Tara done this when my parents died, I would have never forgiven her betrayal. After all, I was young, naive. I truly believed I could handle it on my own. I truly believed spilling my contents to a shrink made me weak.

  But I was wrong.

  I exited the Internet app and navigated to the phone’s contacts. Her number was the first number listed.

  She answered after just one ring.

  “Doctor Scott.”

  She was loud, forceful, confident.

  “This is Jezebel Tate. I… I need help.”

  “Jezebel, I’m so glad you called. I’ve spoken to Mr. Blakely about your situation. How are you?”

  How am I? I was tired of being asked how I was. I was tired of staring at pained expressions of guilt over what happened to me, but most importantly, I was tired of lying. I was tired of hiding.

  “I’m breaking,” I whispered.

  “Jezebel… Is it okay if I call you Jezebel?” she asked.

  I nodded, sniffling.

  “Hello?” she said.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, sorry. It’s fine.”

  “How about you call me Beatrice?”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Jezebel, I know it seems like your world is crumbling around you, but it’s not. I promise you will get through this. I promise I will help get you through this.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Say it with me Jezebel. Stop telling yourself lies. You will get through this.”

  “I will get through this,” I repeated. My voice was weak, shaky.

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow morning. Are you available at eight?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Very good. Jezebel, are you alone tonight? Or is there someone who can stay with you?”

  I glanced at James.

  “I have someone who will stay with me.”

  He smiled at me.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Jezebel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Never forget that you’re stronger than you could ever imagine.”

  I stripped and stared at myself in the floor-length mirror. I didn’t recognize the girl who stared back at me. My chocolate brown eyes and hair seemed… dull, faded, muddled. My skin was pale, my frame gaunt. I’d lost weight and muscle when I was in the coma.

  I stared at my hands. A ring of scar tissue encircled both wrists. I turned them over, staring at my palms. I’d lost tissue on a few fingers, and now the craters in my skin mocked me.

  “Jezebel?” James said, knocking on my door.

  He found me standing nude before my mirror, staring at my imperfections. Stepping behind me, he wrapped his arms around me, holding me closely. I looked back, and he placed a soft kiss to my temple.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  I closed my eyes and let his words envelop me.

  Beautiful.

  “You should finish getting ready,” he said, stepping back and handing me my swimsuit.

  I dressed quickly and let him lead me into the living room. Slowly, I climbed the stairs to my rooftop deck. Reaching the hot tub, I tossed my towel aside and got in, letting the heat of the water soothe my aching joints.

  James moved to sit behind me, and I leaned against his long, muscular frame as he massaged the kinks from my underused body. I stared at the sky and imagined I could see the stars.

  I thought about this place and about James. I’d called Manhattan home for many years now, and I’d always felt safe there. Now that Brent was gone, James didn’t have a reason to stay. The allure of Manhattan no longer existed. I wasn’t pulled to it the way I’d been. Instead, I was pulled to James, to a life with him, to the safety I felt when in his arms.

  But was he pulled to me, too?

  “Will you stay with me?” I asked.

  James leaned forward, wrapping his arms around me, squeezing tightly.

  “Always,” he said, his breath hot on my neck.

  I smiled, wrapped my arms around his, and closed my eyes.

  Tomorrow, I would see Doctor Scott.

  I would face my demons.

  I would confront the lies I kept, the lies that have haunted me since I left Milwaukee all those years ago.

  In time, with James by my side, even the shattered pieces of me will mend my fractured soul.

  Today marks one year since Jezebel asked me if I’d stay with her. She asked me as if I had another option. But I didn’t. After all we’d been through in the short time I’d known her, I was addicted. She was like no one I’d ever known.

  Occasionally, she’d lean against me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She’d look up at me with doe eyes. She looked innocent, frightened. In those moments, I knew she was reliving her past.

  She was reliving the moments I broke my promise to her.

  I told her I would keep her safe, shield her from the dangers of this world. I even believed it myself. But in the seconds that led to her abduction, I was a fool. I’d given into the façade we’d paraded before her friends. I let myself believe we were safe, together, happy.

  And my idiocy nearly cost her her life.

  It’s been one year since Jezebel broke down her walls and asked for help. She’d looked to me for strength. She hadn’t realized that she was the strongest person I knew. To ask for my strength, as if I were the strong one, was ludicrous.

  She had agreed to see Doctor Scott three times weekly until the pain lessened and she learned to forgive herself for her role in her abduction and her parents’ death. I admired her for facing her demons. If only I were that strong.

  “You’re staring at me,” she said, smiling. She glanced up at me. “Why?”

  “Your beauty leaves me awestruck.”

  Her cheeks flushed, a dimple forming in her cheek. Even in her most casual of moments, she was heart stopping.

  After each session with Doctor Scott, she asked me why I too wouldn’t face my demons. In those moments, her grace melted into a distracting form of courage that left me breathless.

  I never knew what to tell her.

  Unlike Jezebel, I chose to run away, to let them die.

  Unlike Jezebel, I killed my parents.

  Unlike Jezebel, who effortlessly released her secrets to me, I refused to relinquish my truth, for the cost of knowing was but mine to bear.

  Unlike Jezebel, I would live with my mistakes until I took them to my grave.

  My parents weren’t the victims of a drunk driver; they were the victims of systemic manipulation.

  Even in the end, even when I saw the oppression for what it was, I yielded.

  Jezebel believed we were destined to meet, to help each other, but I wasn’t so sure.

  Could there be help for the damned, for the wicked?

  At times, when the darkness was too much to bear, I considered leaving her. I knew she was better off without me. I was weak; I’d never been anything more.

  When I brought her home from Maine, the light that initially drew me to her had faded. When we first met, she took away my breath. I’d never met someone who had been equally heart stopping and frustrating. Her naivety diminished after spending just a few days together.

  But as I looked at her now, I saw that light returning. How could I tell her there was no hope for me? How could I knowingly smother the spark that diminished her shadows?

  Habitually, I locked the door behind me, setting the alarm as Jezebel tossed her bag onto the island counter. Even with Brent Miller dead, I still routinely checked the apartment. In the hospital, I told her she was safe now, and there was nothing I wouldn’t give to ensure I kept that promise.

  “James?”

  Internally, I smiled.

  After we’d begun to admit that our relationship was becoming something more, she started calling me by my first name, not last. Each time
my name left her lips, a shiver shot through me. I was sure my hair stood on end and that everyone around us could tell that she had become something more.

  “Hm?” I replied, turning to face her.

  She stepped beside me, looping her hands around my waist.

  Even now, dressed casually after a day of appointments, shopping, and lunch, she was stunning. Her hair hung in soft curls around her shoulders, and her chocolate-brown eyes were shining brightly.

  It was then that I saw it. It took a year of wondering how long it would take Doctor Scott to take Jezebel’s shattered pieces and put them back together. The woman I’d once known was staring back at me, her eyes devious glints sparkling like whiskey in the moonlight.

  She gazed up at me, her lips curving into a sly smile. I felt the sensation resonate deep within me. I clenched my jaw shut, fighting the erection that inevitably came whenever she gave me her come-fuck-me eyes.

  The last time I touched her, we connected in a way that left me raw. It wasn’t about fucking or her orgasm. It was about a connection between two people, the feeling of her skin brushing against mine. Something formed between us and forced us into admission.

  The last time I touched her, we were still happy. I hadn’t let my guard down, I hadn’t lost her to him. In the year since, every night, I held her in my arms while she fell asleep, because she couldn’t sleep alone anymore. When she woke up screaming, sure he had returned for her, I was gutted. I hated that, while I could protect her body, I couldn’t protect her mind. Instead, I had to trust that Doctor Scott would keep that safe. Trusting Jezebel’s well-being in the hands of another was one of the hardest obstacles I had to face.

  She stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against mine. Closing her eyes, she kissed me. What started as a slow, deep, longing kiss turned more fervently as each second ticked by.

  She bunched my cotton shirt into the palm of her hands and pulled me down. I ran a hand through her locks, grabbing the hair at her scalp and tugging playfully, relishing in the feeling of her soft strands tickling the sensitive skin between my fingers. She smiled against my lips.

  Slipping her hands beneath my shirt, she teased my muscles, scratching the skin until she reached my shoulders. She pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.