“If I live to be a hundred, I’m more cursed than I thought,” Tory said. She was tending to the pans.
Tory had changed out of her jumpsuit as soon as Ben went home, putting on a pair of dark sweats and an old T-shirt, her usual around-the-house outfit. No woman should be able to wear such shapeless clothes and still look so good, Phyllis thought. If she didn’t care for Tory so darn much, she’d hate her.
Phyllis was still wearing the pantsuit she’d had on all day. Mostly because she actually felt good in it. It was new, and complimented her slimmer body—slimmer by twelve pounds.
“You’re attracted to him,” she said, her instincts telling her that if she didn’t push, Tory might lose this chance she’d been waiting a lifetime to find. The chance to be part of a healthy, loving, maybe even exciting relationship.
“I am not.”
“Then why did you doll yourself up for him?”
“I was married to Bruce for a lot of years. Etiquette for entertaining is ingrained.” Tory moved to the glasses, setting them on the shelf above the dishwasher.
“And that’s why you got jittery anytime he came too close?”
“You know why I’m not comfortable around men.” Her voice was muffled by the cupboard door as she returned a stack of plates.
“But you aren’t afraid of Ben, are you?” Phyllis asked. Even if Tory never went on a date with Ben, never gave him a chance, she at least had to see that she could be around a man and not feel instant fear.
Finishing with the plates, Tory left the question unanswered.
“I saw the way you looked at him, honey,” Phyllis said softly, meeting Tory at the dishwasher with the empty silverware bin.
“Stop it!” Tory said, her voice stronger than Phyllis had ever heard it. “What’s the point?”
“The point is for you to see that there’s hope, Tory. Maybe you can even begin to believe in some kind of future.”
“Ben’s just a student.” Tory pushed the door of dishwasher shut with a little more force than necessary.
“So you keep telling yourself. But that excuse is only going to last another few weeks, until he’s no longer your student. Then what?”
Tory leaned back against the counter, her arms folded in front of her. “Then I don’t expect I’ll be seeing him again.”
“Shelter Valley isn’t Boston, Tory. You can’t get lost in the crowd here.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to date the crowd.”
Phyllis’s heart tore wide open when she heard the little-girl longing hidden behind the bitterness in Tory’s voice. “We’re only talking about one man, not a crowd.”
“And again, what’s the point?” Tory asked, her gaze meeting Phyllis’s, her expression one of weary resignation. “I’m dead, remember?”
Phyllis was overwhelmed with frustration at the cruel irony that now determined Tory’s life. Tory had to be Christine to stay alive, but as long as she was Christine, she couldn’t live.
“Someone’s standing in this room with me, Tory,” she finally said. “We just have to figure out who that someone is. And when we do, she’ll be free to live—and even love, if she wants to.”
Tory watched her for a couple of minutes and Phyllis could almost see the thoughts forming in her mind.
“No matter what the externals of the life I’m living, whether I answer to Christine or Tory, whether I’m a teacher or an ex-wife on the run, what’s on the inside doesn’t change,” she said quietly. “And all other problems aside, I don’t think the person in here—” she pounded her fist lightly against her chest “—can ever let go and live as you want her to.”
Phyllis’s heart sank. Tory sounded so sure. And so rational. “Why not?”
“I killed my sister. I don’t deserve to live.”
Oh—so it was the guilt they were dealing with. As long as it had a name, Phyllis could attack it.
“You didn’t kill her, Tory, but I can understand why you feel as though you did, since you’re the one Bruce was after when Christine died.”
Tory stared at Phyllis, her gaze unflinching.
But Phyllis didn’t drop her eyes, didn’t look away.
“The point is, you would gladly have died in her stead if you’d had any say in the matter,” she went on. “The choice wasn’t yours. It was out of your hands. A stronger will—or power—than your own made that decision. You had nothing to do with Christine’s death.”
Tory’s gaze fell, but not before Phyllis had seen the tears shining in her eyes. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Believe it, Tory. It’s the truth.”
Tory shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Would it make more sense if you’d lost your life?”
“Of course it would.” Tory looked up again, her voice certain.
“And why is that?”
“Look at me,” Tory said, gesturing at her body with both hands. “Not only did my stepfather mess me up, but Bruce did, too. You said it yourself. I can’t even be around a man as nice as Ben Sanders and not get all jittery.” The words flowed briskly now that they’d been released. “Hell, I can’t even walk beside him on the sidewalk unless there’s at least a foot between us. How can you think someone like that could ever live a normal life?”
“You work through the shit and get beyond it,” Phyllis said.
Tory’s lips twisted into a half grin. “Spoken like a true psychotherapist.”
Phyllis shrugged, returning the grin. Her answer might have been coarse, but it was also true.
“I have no education, no real experience at anything worthwhile. Nothing to contribute,” Tory said, her tone not self-pitying or even self-denigrating, but plainly matter-of-fact.
It brought a rush of tears to Phyllis’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. Tory needed her to be completely focused.
“I know how to entertain, how to dress, how to do my hair and makeup, and how to run,” Tory continued, ticking each item off on her fingers.
“You know how to be kind and thoughtful,” Phyllis rebutted immediately. “You help me around here in a million little ways, simply because you notice that things need to be done, not because I ask you to do them. You even do my laundry.”
“I have my own to do, anyway.”
“You listen to people, you have an understanding of human suffering far beyond your years and the compassion to go with it. You’re highly intelligent, loyal, dependable—”
“Until Bruce catches up with me again, and then I’ll be gone without so much as a goodbye, leaving everything undone.”
Tory wasn’t ready to believe in herself yet, to separate what life had forced her to be from who she was inside. But Phyllis wasn’t giving up. Not if it took them both until they were a hundred.
“Besides, Christine was all those good things, and more,” Tory said. “While I ran away from home, straight into the arms of my sister’s murderer, she actually made something of herself. She got a very impressive education, a worthwhile job. She was beautiful, generous, giving. She could’ve had any man she wanted, and he would’ve been the luckiest guy on earth…”
Tory’s voice trailed off, and Phyllis could hear a hint of the tears she was obviously fighting.
“She had her whole life ahead of her,” Tory finished in a whisper, losing her battle with tears.
And Phyllis made a decision. One she wasn’t happy about. One she wasn’t even sure about. But one that wasn’t going to change. Christine’s life was over. There was nothing more Phyllis could do for her. Tory’s life was still ahead of her, whether she wanted to believe that or not. And Phyllis’s training told her that sharing Christine’s secret could very well be the catalyst that might help Tory find at least a modicum of peace. It might help relieve her of the heavy burden of guilt she was carrying over Christine’s death. Phyllis knew, deeply and intuitively, that Christine would want her to share this hideous secret.
While Phyllis missed Christine every day, she was at pe
ace for her friend, at peace knowing that Christine was finally free from her burdens.
But Tory didn’t know about those burdens, so couldn’t find that peace. She didn’t know about the emptiness Christine’s life would’ve always had. And while Phyllis wasn’t Tory’s therapist, she was certainly qualified to be. Without a doubt, she was as close as Tory was ever going to get to the professional counseling that would help her.
They’d been breaking the rules since this entire nightmare began. Breaking them for the right reasons. Breaking them because there was no other choice. It was time to break another one.
“Come with me. There’s something I have to tell you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TORY FOLLOWED PHYLLIS into the living room, where she sat on the floor and leaned against the sofa as Phyllis also sat on the floor, her back against the matching chair. Her friend was really looking great, even after a long day of cooking and entertaining. She had a waist now, one that was shown off quite nicely in the new pantsuit—and the royal blue was the perfect complement to Phyllis’s pretty red hair. But it was the life in Phyllis’s face that captivated Tory. And occasionally frightened her.
“What’s up?” she asked, somewhat frightened now. Phyllis’s usually smiling face was serious.
Tory’s fear grew when Phyllis opened her mouth and then closed it again without speaking. She’d never seen her friend at a loss for words.
Phyllis smiled, though her smile was more nervous than comforting, and tried again. “I don’t quite know how to do this.”
Sitting stiffly against the couch, her back ramrod straight, her legs out in front of her, Tory waited.
“I don’t know how much Christine told you about me, about our relationship…”
“She said you were the best friend she’d ever had.”
Phyllis’s face broke slowly into a real smile then. A smile that revealed more than a hint of tears.
“She was the best friend I’d ever had, too,” she admitted, looking down at her hands. “The sister I always wanted. She talked to me, Tory, about certain things she’d never told anyone before.” Phyllis looked back up at her. “Not even you.”
Tory doubted there was anything about Christine she didn’t know. Abuse did that to a family. Made them closer than close, made them feel each other’s pain. She and Christine had always been aware of each other, known where the other one was at all times—except when Tory had started running. They’d shared everything.
But that wasn’t something she’d expect Phyllis to know. It wasn’t something the victims of abuse ever spoke about.
Phyllis’s chin was almost on her chest as she sat propped against the chair, smoothing patterns in the carpet. “Tell me about your stepfather.”
“Why?” Phyllis was supposed to be telling her something.
Was this some kind of psychiatrist trick to get her to talk? Was Phyllis just trying to get her to go out with Ben Sanders, who, by the way, hadn’t even asked her out or expressed any intention of doing so in the future?
“Christine told me a lot about those years,” Phyllis said. “I’d like to hear about them from you, too.”
“Why?”
Tory didn’t talk about her stepfather. Not ever.
That was the beauty of living with Phyllis, or part of it, anyway. This was the first time in her life that she’d been with someone other than Christine who knew what they’d been through—yet she didn’t have to talk about it. She’d been shocked at first when Christine had told her that she’d confided in Phyllis about their teenage years.
Later, she’d been grateful.
“I have a reason, Tory, I promise. And I’ll tell you soon, but just trust me here, okay?”
Trust. That five-letter word that was worse than any four-letter word Tory had ever heard. Because when it was broken—as Tory’s had so cruelly been—it destroyed you inside.
“He drank.”
“All the time?”
Tory’s legs were so stiff they were cramping. “No.”
“When did he drink?”
“Sometimes at night, when he got home from work. As we got older, practically all the time on weekends.”
“And?” Phyllis sat up, too, her ankles crossed in front of her. Her eyes, when Tory dared to look at them, were burning with compassion.
Tory gazed down at her lap. “You already know,” she said. “Christine already told you.”
Phyllis nodded. “And now I’m asking you to tell me.”
“Why?” Tory demanded again. Phyllis had never been cruel before.
Waiting until Tory glanced up, Phyllis said, “Please?”
“When he drank, he got mean.” Tory delivered the words with as little thought as possible.
Survival, strength, meant staying away from those memories.
“How mean?”
Head shooting up, she glared at Phyllis. “What’s with you?” she asked. “You get some kind of weird pleasure from hearing about other people’s misery?”
“No,” Phyllis answered calmly, but Tory glimpsed the instant of pain in her friend’s eyes.
That glimpse kept Tory in the room.
“He hit us, okay?” she spit out, staring at the empty chair just over Phyllis’s shoulder. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“It’s what I expected to hear.”
“So what were you going to tell me?” Tory needed a drink. Her throat was so dry it hurt.
“Is that all he did—hit you?”
“I told you our stepfather beat us. What more do you want?” Tory cried. “The details? Sometimes he used his bare hands. He’d backhand whichever one of us happened to be closest, knocking our heads against the wall until we saw stars. Sometimes he’d punch us. If we were lucky enough to have time to turn around, he’d pull off his belt and leave welts on our backs that sometimes got infected.” She stopped, tried to swallow. “Is that enough, or do you want more?”
“Is there more?”
“Of course there’s more!” Tory was barely able to make the words coherent, she was shaking so badly. “There were stitches, a broken wrist, probably a couple of concussions, not that we went to the hospital to find out…”
Phyllis didn’t move, didn’t cringe, didn’t attempt to take Tory in her arms like the counselor at school had the one time Tory had gone to her, daring to believe that help could be found there. Ashamed as she’d been, she’d waited until the bruises had healed. And with no evidence and a stepfather who was active in the local parent-teacher organization, who volunteered his services for homecoming festivities, who served on church committees and who testified that both Christine and Tory were having a difficult time adjusting to their mother’s death—there’d been no help. The most Tory had received from the ordeal was a hug that had almost sent her out of her skin.
“Other than the beatings, did he ever do anything else?”
It wasn’t a question Tory had been expecting. “Sure, he supported us financially, cooked dinner when he was sober, carpooled once in a while.” Unless you’d lived with her stepfather, seen the change from kind to cruel when he was slapping you silly, you’d never understand why all the nice things he’d done had only made the situation worse.
Phyllis continued to prod Tory until she’d listed every good deed she could think of—and every bad one. By the time she was done, she’d never felt so drained in her life. Not even after the days of endless driving and crying for her dead sister.
“And that’s all,” Phyllis finally said, pulling herself into a fully sitting position.
“Probably not, but it’s all I can remember.” Dry-eyed, Tory felt as if she was going to throw up.
Phyllis ran both hands through her hair, then rubbed them along her legs.
“Christine remembered more.”
Confused, exhausted, Tory threw up her hand and let it drop. “Of course she would. She’s older than me.” She stopped, bit her lip. “She was older than me.”
It had been mon
ths, and she still couldn’t think of Christine in the past tense. Maybe that was partly because every day when she went to work, Christine still lived.
“Tory, your stepfather raped Christine.”
Tory’s heart froze. “He did not.” How could Phyllis even say something so horrible? Wasn’t what she and Christine had been through enough? God, she felt sick.
And sicker as she noticed the tears filling Phyllis’s eyes. “Yes, honey, he did. Many times.”
“No!” Violently pushing herself off the floor, Tory stood up. “You take that back! You know it’s not true,” she said, turning blindly toward the archway that led into the hall. Then she turned around. “Take that back.”
Phyllis was still on the floor where Tory had left her, but sitting as though she was in a strait-jacket. Part of Tory wondered how hard it was for Phyllis to make herself sit there. She suspected it was really hard.
“I can’t, honey,” Phyllis whispered, her eyes filled with anguish.
“It’s not true,” Tory told her, certain of that. She had to be certain. She couldn’t even consider the alternative.
But she didn’t leave. She couldn’t let Phyllis just stay there, sitting like that. “Why don’t you get up and sit on the couch,” she asked, coming a couple of steps back into the room. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“I’m fine here,” Phyllis said, tears dripping slowly down her face.
“No, I’m sure the couch would be more comfortable.” Tory reached for a tissue, and leaned close enough to Phyllis to hand it to her, careful that their fingers didn’t touch.
She couldn’t get that close. Those vile words had come from Phyllis.
“Thank you,” Phyllis said softly, wiping her face.
“Please get up on the couch,” Tory tried again. If she could just get Phyllis comfortable, she could leave.
The Mustang needed gas. Or if it didn’t, it should. There wouldn’t be a station open in Shelter Valley, not this late and not on Thanksgiving, but if she drove into Phoenix she’d be able to find an all-night convenience store with gas pumps.
My Sister, Myself Page 13
