Paul had played the scene over and over in his mind: Anna being brutally attacked, then lying helpless and bleeding in that alley just steps away from where he'd been. Just steps away! He was supposed to be Anna’s protector, and he'd impatiently sipped coffee while she bled. He'd beaten himself up for that. He had awakened from brief catnaps, arms flailing the air in front of him, trying to atone in his dreams for his failure to protect the woman he loved. He wasn’t sure he would ever come to terms with his monstrous failure. It almost made it worse that Anna had so completely forgiven him—in fact, had never accused him in the first place. He didn’t deserve her. And yet, how grateful he was that she belonged to him, that she was here in the safety of this hospital, and that she was alive.
The nurses came in and helped Anna get up to use the bathroom. They carefully dressed her wounds and helped her wash her face and get settled in bed again.
When they left, Paul kissed her good-night and sank into the big chair near her bed. This time he knew he would sleep.
Chapter 6
Paul awoke to the sound of the breakfast carts rumbling out of the elevators in the hallway and the hushed voices of the nurses changing shifts. Rubbing his neck, he stood up, testing his muscles. His whole body ached from sleeping in the chair. He'd slept so soundly that he didn’t think he'd changed positions once, but the stiffness was a small price to pay for the much needed rest.
He saw Anna’s form, dwarfed in the imposing hospital bed, and slowly he began to remember the events of the previous day. He watched her chest rise and fall until he was convinced that she was breathing easily, and then he went into the room’s small lavatory to wash his face and bring some order to his tousled hair.
Anna stirred when she heard Paul emerge from the bathroom. She tried to sit up in the bed, but intense pain seared through her shoulder and pounded in her head. She felt the wound on her neck pull and tighten. Groaning, she lay resignedly back against the firm pillows.
Paul toyed with the remote control until he found the buttons that raised the head of the bed. Wordlessly, he helped her swing her legs over the side. She perched on the edge of the bed, catching her breath and testing the pain before she tried to stand.
She'd walked to the bathroom the night before with a nurse on either side. Now she did so with only Paul’s arm for support. She tested her legs gingerly, and when she decided she felt strong, she dismissed him with a wave of her sling, clutching the immodest hospital gown to a close in back with her free hand.
Anna wrestled with the tough plastic wrapping on the new toothbrush the hospital had provided. Her frustrated grumblings brought Paul back into the bathroom. He opened the package and squeezed a stripe of toothpaste on the brush. He handed it to Anna with a flourish, and she began to brush her teeth vigorously.
“Do you have everything you need now, honey?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. She gargled and spat noisily into the sink.
“Okay. I’m going to head down to the nurses’ station and see if I can find out when the doctor will be making rounds. Be back in a minute.”
She waved him away.
Anna peered into the mirror in the dimly lit bathroom. Oh, she looked awful! Like death warmed over, her mother would have said. It felt good to wash her face and brush her teeth, but oh, how desperately she wanted a bath. She longed to soak away the grime of the alley that she imagined imbedded in her back. She wanted to scrub the place where he had gripped her arm so tightly. And though her neck was tender and sore, she wanted to wash it, too, to banish every contamination that he'd inflicted on her. Mostly, she wanted to wash away the memory of the whole sordid ordeal. She wanted to pretend that she was here in this hospital because she had a simple virus. She desperately needed to be well and to walk out of here and get on an airplane and go home. Then she wanted to pretend that none of it had ever happened.
Maybe she could have, if no one else had known. But Paul knew. Her daughters knew. And seemingly every law enforcement agency in Florida knew. So she would have to acknowledge that it had happened. She would have to sort it out with everyone watching carefully to see how she was doing when they didn’t think she was looking, to see if she was going to fall apart or if she was going to go on living.
Anna walked with halting steps back to the nightstand by her bed and rummaged through the drawer of toiletries the hospital had supplied. She found a flimsy comb and went back to the bathroom mirror and began to work out the knots in her hair.
The pale fine hair around her temples and at the nape of her neck was matted with flecks of dried blood and was hopelessly tangled. She dampened the comb and worked out a snarl, wincing in pain, but determined to finish the task before she retreated to the refuge of the hospital bed.
She stood there, lost in thought, painstakingly working on a section of hair at a time. From the corner of her eye, a shadowy figure flitted behind her reflection in the mirror. Anna’s heart stopped beating. She whirled around, panic-stricken. The raw terror she'd felt in the grasp of that monster revisited her, and she broke out in a cold sweat. A sob of relief escaped her lips when she realized it was Paul standing in the doorway, oblivious to the fear he'd innocently caused her. She fell against him, unable to explain to him this awful panic that held her in its grip.
At ten o’clock, Anna’s doctor stepped into her room and briefly examined her. He tucked the stethoscope into the pocket of his lab coat and looked at her over the top of smudged reading glasses. “Well, you’ve been through quite an ordeal, Mrs. Marquette, but I have no problem dismissing you today, if you feel well enough to leave. It looks like the concussion was relatively mild. I don’t think it will pose an ongoing problem.” He looked at her chart. “Let’s see, home is Chicago?”
Husband and wife nodded in unison.
“You are flying, I assume? I’m not sure how you’ll feel about making a trip right away. You may want to go back to your hotel and rest for a couple of days before you tackle the airways. But I’ll leave that up to you. If you feel up to it, there’s certainly no reason why you couldn’t fly, even as early as this afternoon.” With those words, the doctor smiled reassuringly at Anna, shook Paul’s hand, and left the room.
The nurse on duty gave Anna instructions for dressing the wound on her neck and caring for her shoulder. Then she gave her a thick stack of pamphlets with titles like “Sexual Assault: How to Cope” and “Help for Victims of Rape,” explaining gently that she might find them helpful. Anna stuffed them into the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed, embarrassed to have them lying out in the open where anyone might see them.
When the nurse had gone, Anna turned to Paul and pleaded, “Please, honey, let’s go home. I just want to get out of here.”
“Anna, are you sure you don’t want to stay at the hotel for a few days?”
“No!” She was vehement. “I want to go home, Paul. I know I can make it. Couldn’t you get our tickets changed?”
“I’m sure I can arrange something if you’re positive that’s what you want to do.” He looked skeptical.
“I’m sure.”
Paul signed the papers that released Anna from the hospital’s responsibility and left to make arrangements for changing their flight and canceling his meetings.
Anna lay in the hospital bed, not moving. She stared out the window at Orlando’s skyline. And the thought played over and over through her mind, “If only I can get away from this city—back home to Chicago—if only I can go home, I think I can make it.”
The airport was crowded with students returning from spring break, and their noisy revelry pounded in Anna’s head. Paul helped her find an empty seat near the ticket counter. He herded their luggage through the snaking line that ended at the baggage check-in, sending Anna a reassuring smile each time the line moved forward a few inches.
She looked awful. Although the nurses had helped her with a hurried shower before she left the hospital, Anna had not been able to sham
poo her hair, and now it hung in limp strands around her face. Her eyes were puffy and ringed with mottled green-and-purple circles. The bandages on her neck stood out like a beacon above her scoop-necked top, drawing stares from everyone who passed within a few feet of her chair. Anna was acutely aware of the furtive glances and the pointing and whispering. She hadn’t thought of this when she'd begged Paul to let her fly home today. She pulled her light jacket close around her, but it did little to camouflage the gauzy scarf of a bandage wound around her neck.
Closing her eyes, Anna rested her head on her hand, her thoughts slipping back, against her will, to the horror of the attack. The heavy sigh of someone settling into the seat beside her brought Anna back to the present, but she kept her eyes closed, hoping to avoid an awkward encounter.
But the large woman who had just taken up residence next to her was not to be deterred. She put her hand heavily on Anna’s arm and spoke in a booming voice that grated harshly on Anna’s fragile nerves.
“Good grief, sweetheart. What happened to you? Looks like you got hit by a Mack truck.” She howled at her own joke, and Anna was forced to look at her.
She gave the older woman a wan smile, hoping that would satisfy her, but the woman was undaunted. She leaned toward Anna and eyed her wounds more closely. Then in a loud, conspiratorial stage whisper, she asked, “Did your man work you over, honey? Hey, listen, I’ve been there. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. Leave the fool, I say. That’s what I did…”
Horrified, Anna held up her hand to silence the woman’s misplaced harangue. “No, no! It’s not like that! I… I got, uh…I was mugged in the city, that’s all.” Before she could stop them, tears welled in her eyes. She turned away, but the woman persisted.
“Oh my! What is this world coming to? Well, it looks like you fought like a barracuda! Did he get your money?”
“He…no, he didn’t get…” Anna was beginning to panic. She looked around desperately for Paul, but the line had moved again, and Paul was at the far end of the queue with his back toward Anna. Their carry-on luggage was at her feet. She didn’t think she could move it all herself, but she was frantic to escape this interrogation.
Mercifully, the woman’s traveling companion, a younger version of herself, had finished checking their luggage and came over to escort her mother to the concourse. Anna sighed and willed Paul to hurry.
Finally their bags were checked, and Paul guided her protectively through the terminal. Anna felt weak and exhausted, and by the time they reached their departure gate, she almost wished she had accepted Paul’s offer of finding a wheelchair for her. They were able to board immediately, and he helped her get settled in a window seat. He sat forward, shielding her from the questioning glances of the passengers who filed down the aisle, checking seat numbers and stowing coats and baggage.
Aside from the stares and whispers, the rest of the flight home was uneventful. After a short stopover in St. Louis, they were airborne to Chicago. Anna began to feel the relief of being almost home.
As their plane taxied smoothly along the runway at O’Hare, Anna felt a sense of well-being and serenity wash over her. She was home. She was safe. She was alive!
Kara and Kassi had been waiting at O’Hare since an hour before the flight was scheduled to arrive. Anna watched her daughters’ worried frowns turn into teary smiles of relief as they spotted their parents making their way down the ramp. Anna walked out into the waiting area on Paul’s arm and was swept immediately into the embraces of her daughters. They exclaimed over her bruises and bandages. They fawned over her until she was worn out by their attention. But no mention was made of the rape or any part of the attack, and for now, Anna was content to leave it that way. She was grateful for their sweet solicitousness. But in the back of her mind, she knew she would have to talk about it. Her daughters would want to know the details of what had happened. And she would have to face the reality of what had happened to her. She needed to talk about it.
After the hours of trauma and wakefulness, Anna fell asleep easily that night—happy to have the girls in their old rooms and Paul’s arms wrapped gently around her, taking such tender care not to hold too tightly where she was bruised and bandaged.
At 2:30 a.m., she awoke with a start. Her heart was thumping in her chest, and she was drenched in perspiration. It took her a moment to remember that she was back home, but as the memories pushed their way back into her consciousness, she knew why she was so shaken.
She'd dreamed about him. He was chasing her down a black alley. In her dream the smothering white shroud covered his head as he towered over her. She tried to run, but her legs were leaden. He came closer, closer, and she seemed to lose ground with every labored step.
As much as she didn’t want to have a face to put on her attacker, it was almost worse not knowing. Because now, he could be any man.
Fully awake now, Anna watched the digital clock on her bedside table turn to three o’clock and then four. A hundred times she replayed the scene in her mind. Only now it was not the dream. She saw herself just as she'd been that night in Orlando—walking around the outside of the mall. She remembered the sleeveless blue dress she'd been wearing, even the pale pink nail polish she'd applied that morning in the hotel. They’d apparently removed it in the hospital, but now she remembered its shimmering color clearly. She felt the weight of the shopping bags she’d carried and then felt the sharp blow to her shoulder.
Slowly, agonizingly, she remembered every detail of the attack. The struggle, his harsh words, the sickening accent he'd spoken in. She wasn’t sure now if it was real or affected.
When she finally came to the end of her memories, where she’d lost consciousness, she began all over again. With each remembrance, each private telling of the story, some small detail that had lain dormant until this moment came clearly into focus. He’d cursed at her. A filthy word she only heard in R-rated movies. The man had spit in her face, too.
It all seemed so unbelievable that somehow she had to make it real in her mind, because it had happened to her. It was true, and the more she relived it, the more it became truth for her.
And when she tired of replaying the attack in her mind, she began what she came to think of as the what ifs. What if I had chosen another exit from the mall? What if I had taken a taxi instead of walking? What if I had left a few minutes earlier or a few minutes later? She tortured herself with these questions, always coming back to reality. What ifs meant nothing. If onlys served no purpose. It had happened to her just the way it did. Now she had to accept that and live with it.
The numbers on the digital clock flashed to four-thirty, and still she'd not been able to quiet her thoughts. She sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side. The room was dark and a half moon cast eerie shadows on the walls. Paul snored softly on his side of the bed. Without turning on the lamp on her nightstand, Anna stood unsteadily in the darkness and groped her way to the door. A night-light glowed from an outlet in the hallway and Anna edged toward the bathroom, feeling her way along the wall with her uninjured arm.
Irrationally, her heart began to pound with fear. Never before had she been afraid in her own house. Even when Paul was traveling, she'd always felt safe here. She forced herself to keep going, moving cautiously down the hallway. Finally, she reached the open doorway and grasped the doorframe to orient herself.
Trembling, she switched on the bathroom light and closed the door softly, locking it behind her. She unwound the gauze bandage from her neck and dropped it into the wastebasket. She examined her face in the mirror, looking past the bruises, the scrapes, the gash on her neck and into the eyes of a woman who had been brutalized and raped.
Did she know this woman? Would she ever feel like herself again? Would her life ever be the same?
She stood for long minutes looking at her reflection. I was raped. Feeling silly, she mouthed the words at her reflection. I was raped. In despair, she slid to the floor and sat beside the bathtub with her back to
the wall. She'd thought that coming home—to Chicago, to this house—would be her healing. She should be grateful for her very life. And she was. Oh, Lord…it could have been so much worse.
Great heaving sobs wracked her weakened body. She let them come, and finally she stood and turned on the faucet and began to fill the bathtub with water. She slipped off her nightgown and stepped into the tub, cringing at the scalding water. She lathered the washcloth and scrubbed her body until her skin was raw. Then she pulled the plug and watched the water run out of the tub, imagining the filth of her attack draining into the sewer where it belonged. She turned on the shower and stood and let the clean hot water rinse her body. Then she stepped out of the tub, dried off, and put her nightgown back on.
She turned to open the door. The familiar fear gripped her once more. Suddenly, she was terrified of what might be on the other side of the door. The hallway would be dark. Her eyes would not be adjusted to the blackness. She would be vulnerable, alone. What if he was out there? One part of her knew she was being irrational, and yet she could not still the quaking of her heart in her chest. She took a ragged breath and, shivering, opened the door. She left the bathroom light on to illuminate her path down the hallway and hurried back to their room.
She slipped into the warmth of the bed, careful not to awaken her husband. Paul’s even breathing was a comfort, and Anna reached out to put her hand lightly against his back, wanting just to touch him, to find security in his warmth, in his presence. Finally, she closed her eyes and slept deeply, until the blare of the alarm clock roused them both at seven.
It was a ritual that repeated itself every night for a week: the dream, the awakening, the scene playing over and over and over in her mind, the tiptoeing into the bathroom for the release of tears, the cleansing bath, and finally the trip back to bed where slumber overtook her. It was a catharsis. For a while at least, she felt purged of the horror of what had happened to her. And always after the tears, she slept deeply beside Paul until the sun fell across their pillows.
Because of the Rain Page 4
