by Pam Richter
She pushed up the sleeve of her robe. There was a large blue bruise that went all the way around her wrist, back to front. Michelle stared in surprise, because although she had light skin, she didn't bruise easily. Then she remembered that numb feeling when Omar had let go of her wrist last night, when she had attempted to bolt from the cocktail lounge. He had held her wrist tightly, but she had felt no pain.
When she went over the incident in her mind she found it even more incredible that Omar had been able to stop her headlong rush to get away from him. Michelle repeated the event again in her mind slowly. She had jumped up and bumped the table, saw the drinks tip into his lap almost in slow motion, the liquid splashing up over his shirt. Then the whole table had fallen and landed on his knees. The table rolled off of him and landed on the floor with a gigantic crash. By that time Michelle had told him the drink had vodka in it and had turned on her heel to leave.
The incident didn't add up sensibly. How did Omar get up, walk around the table, and grab her before she had taken a second step? It seemed impossible for anyone to move that quickly. And she had been very fast herself. Furiously angry, she had decided in a split instant to leave, thinking he was playing a nasty, macabre joke on her. Of course, she'd had her back to him when he moved to intercept her. She couldn't imagine him jumping over the table, cape and all. That was ludicrous. But he had been right beside her when she was one step from the table.
Michelle decided to let it go. She had been sitting motionless for too long, trying to figure how Omar had bruised her. She had to get to work. The last time she had been late with financial reports, the corporate comptroller for the entire Heroshi conglomerate, Nakamura, had sent one message: Are you dead?
Later, she learned it was a kind of Japanese joke. She didn't think it was very funny at the time, but she didn't understand the Japanese very well. And she didn't want to make that powerful man, Nakamura, angry again.
Michelle continued to sit and muse. She would have to wear something long sleeved, today, and probably all week long. Michelle thought that maybe she hadn't noticed the pain because she had been so furious. And maybe she had the sequence all wrong. Perhaps she had stood in disbelief for a few seconds before turning to go.
When Michelle got to the bottom of the graphs, the projected gross income from monthly lease rentals, she considered her personal problem. She needed practice at being alone with men. It was like the psychological method of Progressive Desensitization, in which one gradually becomes used to a situation that precipitates a panic attack. Omar might be the perfect person to practice with. He was older, so he probably wouldn't suddenly pounce on her, like an overly enthusiastic younger man in a bout of excess testosterone. He seemed to be sensitive, even with all the touching, and he had sat there with tomato juice all over him calmly. She couldn't help regarding him favorably for not using his cape to cover up.
Michelle knew she was rationalizing reasons to see him again. But he had been nice about his ruined suit. She knew she was always paranoid and suspicious. It was time to learn to trust again.
Omar had shaken her hand at the doorway to her apartment and didn't seem to expect her to ask him in. He appeared perfectly safe, gentlemanly and mannerly. And besides, he was urbane, sophisticated, charming and had a beautiful voice, not to mention his exceptional face. Except he was so big. He was large enough to be the man who had hurt her.
Michelle sighed in exasperation at the preoccupation her mind slid back to like a half healed scab. She could accept the fact that she was going to be leery of men, probably for the rest of her life, but taking inventory of the physical size of each man she met and wondering if he was the one was a little extreme. Especially since an ocean separated her from the place where it had happened.
Michelle's female therapist on the mainland believed it was drastic for Michelle to move so precipitously to Hawaii. She had advised Michelle that in these dire economic times it might be a decision she would later regret, reminding Michelle that she had a wonderful job, which she enjoyed, and which was quite lucrative. Michelle found herself wondering just whose economic times the therapist was worrying about. Losing a patient whom she saw three times a week would be an economic loss not to Michelle, whose medical insurance was paying for the therapy in any case, but it might to be to that very same therapist.
The other thing that Michelle's therapist thought was 'counterproductive' was that she had become obsessed with the Karate classes she started taking after she recovered from the attack. The therapist had stated categorically that Michelle had to feel safe with men 'in her mind alone.' But Michelle didn't think so. Feeling safe in your mind alone was just plain stupid, as far as Michelle was concerned. She wanted to say, Just wait until you are raped, then see how safe your mind makes you.
Michelle never wanted to feel at the mercy of anyone again. She was a big girl, almost six feet tall, and she loved physical exercise. She liked the feeling of being strong and able to kick ass if the situation arose. Her therapist argued that Karate was ineffective against a gun or a knife, but Michelle went ahead as obsessively with the workouts as she was with anything she did seriously. When she drank she was a serious drunk, at the office she was a workaholic, and when she practiced karate she knew she would kill without hesitation if she was ever again threatened with her life.
Michelle still faithfully performed her Karate exercises at least an hour a day. She could break boards with her fist, and she knew how to break out of any hold a man could throw on her. Michelle could not only break holds, she could kill. The thought that she herself was lethal gave her a depressing kind of exultation.
Her therapist did talk her out of getting a gun, although Michelle learned how to use several weapons and practiced at a range for a few months.
Michelle didn't have a therapist now. She had abhorred going over and over her character defects. She had rather liked herself before the rape and found she did not particularly like her therapist. She didn't want insights. She wanted to stop being afraid of men. It was a weakness that hindered her mostly during social occasions. Michelle hated the uncontrollable trembling that would begin whenever she was alone with a man. It was as if her mind gibbered hysterically 'Danger', to her body, when she knew logically she was safe. Suddenly she would be in throws of a full-scale panic attack.
Michelle hated not being in total control of her own body. The worse thing was that the attacks were unpredictable. Panic would suddenly consume her and she would have to retreat before someone saw her trembling like a palsied victim, vibrating away as though she would pass out at any second. It was demeaning. Michelle knew she was living a restricted life because of it. Her mind wouldn't let her enjoy normal social occasions because she was deathly afraid she would go out of control and have to retreat ignominiously. And the fear and avoidance made her affliction worse. Fear of an attack could actually bring one on.
Michelle understood that her mind was trying to keep her safe to avoid the physical damage and the pain she had endured when she was raped. The uncontrollable shaking, caused by the release of adrenalin in her body from fearful emotions, had nothing to do with the logical part of her cortex. The 'Fight or Flight' response had probably saved primitive man in the past when faced with dangerous situations. But now her natural fear reactions were causing her pain and humiliation. And a great lack of sex in her life.
The worse thing was that Michelle really missed being around guys. She liked their sweaty physicality, the largeness that made her feel almost dainty, their boisterousness and sometimes crude and funny senses of humor. She missed men in her life as friends and lovers.
Michelle had always been close with her younger brother Bobby and his gang of friends, but after her attack they all treated her as if she would shatter like glass. The same men she had played touch football with, that she had wrestled when they were all adolescents, now detoured her carefully. Not only were they leery of her, they were ashamed that they were males; the half of the human popula
tion that could rape. She knew they were also infuriated by what had happened to her and their guardedness and protectiveness warmed her soul, but she longed for the old days when they had treated her like one of the guys because she was almost as big as they were, and she wouldn't hesitate to fight dirty to win a game.
The one lucky thing about the panic attacks was that they did not effect her at work. She was in perfect control at the office. All of the other executives at Heroshi Corporation were males, and she had no trouble dealing with any of them.
Michelle had finally decided that karate would do it for her body, make her feel invulnerable to attack, and having Heather as a friend was better than any therapist.
Michelle had met Heather on the first day that she had moved into her apartment in Hawaii. She had been pulling on her hair abstractly, staring despairingly at the boxes the moving company had deposited in a pyramid on her living room floor. Michelle was astonished by the sheer amount of objects she possessed and daunted by the task of creating order out of the mess.
She had packed so swiftly, the decision to move so sudden and imperative, that she had not labeled the boxes. She couldn't bare the pain in her mother's eyes any longer, or the sadness that had aged her father. They constantly reminded her of the attack by their silence. And she wanted to be far away from the man who had hurt her. She thought it would make her less fearful. During the attack she had tried to humanize herself by telling the rapist her full name. Now she had nightmares that he would be able to find her again.
She got out her exacto knife and was just slitting the adhesive tape on the first box when someone knocked on the door. She thought it must be a mistake. She knew no one in the building. It must be some children, knocking on doors as a prank. She turned back to the boxes when the knock came again.
Michelle opened the door and thought she had been right. She saw a tiny girl in a pony tail holding a coffee cup. She was wearing shorts, thongs and a tee shirt. On closer inspection it wasn't a girl. She looked young because she was so small. A tiny, exquisite woman.
"Don't kill me. I just wanted a cup of coffee," the small person said.
Michelle looked down at the knife she still held in her hand and laughed. She opened the door wider, so the woman could see the piles. "Sounds like a great idea. If I can find the coffee pot."
"Wait a sec, I'll get my scissors."
Michelle watched her run down the hallway and go into an apartment at the end of the hall.
She was back in less than a minute, holding a pair of wicked looking scissors open in her small palm.
Was this going to be some sort of strange duel? Scissors against exacto knife, or was she intending to help? Michelle got out of the way as the woman walked in and looked around.
"Which one is kitchen equipment?"
"I have no idea," Michelle said.
"Shall we look? My name is Heather. Can I open some?"
"Ah...sure. Maybe this one," Michelle said doubtfully and started opening a box. "No. This is clothes."
They both started tearing open boxes. After about twenty minutes without success, the boxes being hard to maneuver and open, and kitchen equipment elusive, Michelle asked Heather if she really had to be somewhere or something. After all, it was a Monday morning.
"I was planning to see a couple of movies today, but this is more fun."
Michelle was wondering about Heather's idea of fun, when it dawned on her that she had been laughing for the first time in months. Heather talked non-stop. She told droll stories about the modeling business and her travels in the Orient. Heather was a native Californian, like Michelle, and she had moved to Hawaii because she did most of her modeling in Japan. Living in Hawaii, the stopover for flights from the mainland United States to Japan, had been beneficial for her career. The Japanese loved blond Americans girls in their commercials. Heather's choice of living in Hawaii had opened her to more opportunities than she would have had if she had stayed in California.
"Do you have a job?" Heather asked.
"No. That's the next project," Michelle said, pulling a favorite abstract painting, which had been wrapped in newspaper, out of a box.
"Over the couch. It's beautiful," Heather said. "You could come to my agency. You're certainly the right size, and they'd love your coloring. That white skin and black hair. But you'd have to lose about fifteen pounds."
Michelle had looked at her in astonishment.
"Not that you're fat. But you have to be thin. The camera, you know. Adds weight. You really are perfect. And you don't have to be skinny. I mean, the anorexic babe's out. Now they're into healthy looks, you know?"
"That's kind of you," Michelle said. "But I manage commercial property. I have a few leads."
"Too bad. I mean, Nine-to-Five. I could never handle it," Heather said rolling her eyes and looking perplexed. She was taking silverware out of a box. "I was a child model, but grew up too small. Then the Japanese found me. I make the Japanese businessmen look enormous in commercials when I stand next to them. Makes them feel macho."
Michelle was laughing, but Heather continued, "So just anytime you want to go and see my agent. Maybe tomorrow? I know she'd love you."
Heather was so enthusiastic that Michelle had to tell her that she had scars on her body. She could never wear a two piece bathing suit. She could never be a model.
Heather nodded without a word. She wasn't going to give any saccharin sympathy. Heather was angry without saying a word. She took Michelle to her own condo for coffee and gigantic ice cream Sundays, with lots of Hershey's chocolate.
When Michelle arrived at the office she picked up her messages, fallout from the disasters of the day before; complaints about the ruination of files and computers in the flood, a counter proposal for the lease she had filed with the brokers, complaints from tenants about loss of productivity when the air conditioning went out, outrage over the mess still in the hallway where lawyer had stripped the wallpaper. The usual.
She immediately went into the fax room and started preparing her bi-yearly budget reports to send to Japan. She had a million things to do, but the reports were first priority.
"Don't bother sending them. I can see you're not dead."
Michelle spun around quickly, an electrical shock pulsing through her body, zipping down her spine.
A tall man with bright red hair was leaning slouched in the doorway. He held out his hands as though he expected her to hand him the reports. "I'm Nakamura."
Michelle looked at him for a second. This guy was the controller for the whole corporation? The genius troubleshooter? He looked young, mid-twenties, she guessed. And he was definitely not Japanese with that carrot colored hair. The man was dressed in the perfect conservative charcoal suit and muted tie. He had a small cold smile on his face. Michelle decided he could be obnoxious. A genius know-it-all with a superior smile. She would have to be very careful.
Michelle immediately wondered why she hadn't been told that the controller was coming from Japan. Why he had shown up now? Unless she was to be fired for all the disasters of yesterday. No, he would have had to be traveling when they occurred.
Michelle smiled and shook his hand automatically, noting that her blouse had ridden up on her wrist. He was looking at the bruise. Great, she thought, heading to the conference room where they could spread out the reports.
Now he probably thinks I practice kinky sex with manacles. The perfect start with the most powerful man in the whole corporation, excluding only the Chairman himself.
As Michelle moved she could feel her heart pounding as though she were running a race. It was beating so hard she could count each individual beat, even as she walked with seeming control. It was the precursor to an anxiety attack. Michelle wished she could keep walking forever, maybe forestalling the attack she knew was coming. The one she had dreaded all her working life. The one which would show her an out of control female in a man's job. An emotional wreck whose hormones couldn't be trusted.
Miche
lle spread the statistical reports on the conference table and turned quickly, seeking escape. "I'll get some coffee."
Normally she would have called the receptionist for refreshments, but she needed to get away from Nakamura. Get in control. She could feel her hands shaking and her heart was still thudding loudly. She rapidly left the room, noting that Nakamura was already perusing the reports.
Nakamura ignored the figures on the graphs and read the summaries that Michelle had typed on the bottom. He knew the reports would be excellent, as always, and wanted to see a solid basis for her interpretation of the figures. As he did so, he wondered what had caused the Property Manager's extreme reaction to him. His red hair and freckles made him appear at least ten years younger than his actual age, and usually relaxed people immediately, but this woman, with her very light skin had turned white as a sheet, as though she had seen a ghost. Then she had started trembling. Surely she couldn't be afraid of him, or afraid for her job, even with his thoughtless crack about her not being dead. She did stunning, quality work.
He heard a crash just outside the door and decided she must have dropped the coffee tray. He didn't move.
Michelle started picking up the crockery outside the conference door. She felt like crying. She was in the throws of a serious panic attack and so upset she had dropped the whole damn tray. Nakamura must have heard the crash, and he was probably used to tiny, dainty Japanese women who served him tea without spilling a single drop.
Susan, the office receptionist, heard the crash and ran over to help her.
"I'll make more coffee. You just go inside," Susan whispered to her, unnecessarily. The crash must have awakened the dead. And it had, Michelle noted. Here came her boss, Tom Mitsuto. He was actually running down the hallway, his short legs pistoning, to the conference room. He slowed to a deliberate controlled stride, stepped over the tray, telling Susan she should be more careful, and walked arrogantly into the conference room.
