by Joy Fielding
Emma began tiptoeing toward the front door. “I’ll leave you alone,” she whispered, opening the door and stepping outside.
“Wait,” she thought she heard Jan say as the door closed behind her, but Emma had no interest in hearing any more about Jan’s nephew or seeing any more of her trophies.
“Who says you’ve earned the right to enjoy yourself?” she repeated in amazement, about to head back to Mad River Road, when she stopped, turned around, marched purposefully back toward Marshalls. “Damn it, why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves?” She pulled open the door to the discount department store and stepped inside, headed for a rack of summer dresses to her right. It’s not like she did this sort of thing every day. It’s not even like she did it once a month. When was the last time she’d gone shopping for herself? When was the last time she treated herself to a smart summer dress? She checked the price tag of a mauve-and-white flowered halter dress, noting that even at $120, it was at least a hundred dollars more than she could afford. Oh well, it wouldn’t hurt to try it on, just for fun. She located her size and threw the dress over her arm, moving on to the next rack, and doing the same with a pale peach sweater set. She took her time going through the aisles, eventually piling all the items she’d selected into a shopping cart, except for a delicate, green chiffon scarf that she wrapped around her neck. She could always claim she’d tried it on and forgotten to take it off, she decided, although the fuchsia-colored silk blouse that she’d stuffed surreptitiously into her purse might be harder to explain.
She pushed her cart toward the dressing rooms, then waited in a small line of women for an empty stall.
“Only five items at a time,” the attendant told her.
Emma rifled through the various items in her cart. “I don’t know what to pick first.”
“I know. They got such nice things in this time.”
Emma selected five items, including the mauve-and-white flowered dress, and offered them to the attendant for perusal.
“I just love this dress,” the woman said, handing the items back.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Could you check the size? A six? I’m blind as a bat without my glasses,” Emma lied.
The attendant fumbled for the tag as Emma slid the peach-colored sweater set underneath the other items she’d be taking into the dressing room. “Yeah, here it is. Size six. Wish I could fit into a size six,” she said wistfully.
“I think you look great,” Emma said, managing to sound as if she really meant it. She should have worn a skirt. One of those long, billowy numbers that was easy to hide things underneath. That way she could have walked out with half the store. This way, she’d only be able to manage a few items. Hopefully, that would include this peach-colored sweater set, she thought, pulling off her white T-shirt and replacing it with the sleeveless pullover, then pushing her arms through its matching cardigan and admiring herself in the mirror, deciding she liked what she saw. “Sold,” she said to her reflection, determined to ignore the unsolicited little voice in her head reminding her she’d sworn off this kind of behavior. She tried on the rest of the items, then repeated the whole process again, managing to secrete two items the next time.
“You’re not taking the dress?” the attendant asked as Emma exited the fitting room for the last time.
“It doesn’t fit right,” Emma said. Thank goodness. She would have been heartbroken to leave it behind had it looked good, but there was simply no way she could have managed to get it out of the store undetected. Not on this trip anyway.
“So, nothing worked?”
“Some days are like that.”
“Well, better luck next time,” the attendant said.
Emma was smiling as she left the changing room area. The day was shaping up to be a great one. Not only did she still have a whole free afternoon ahead of her, but she also had a flattering new haircut and the beginnings of a brand-new wardrobe. As soon as she got a job, as soon as she started making some decent money, she’d send Marshalls an anonymous check to cover the cost of the items she was taking.
And since she’d ultimately be paying for everything anyway, she might as well select a few items of jewelry to go along with her new clothes, she thought, stopping to admire a pair of dangling pearl earrings. “Can I see those?” she asked the salesgirl behind the counter.
The teenage girl, whose own lobes were ablaze with multicolored crystal studs, withdrew the earrings from their glass case with surprising care. Emma noted similar crystals decorating the girl’s frighteningly long, magenta-colored nails, and one large, red crystal perforating the side of her wide nose, like a large freckle.
“How much are these?” Emma held up the earring, staring at her reflection in the small mirror that sat on the counter.
“Fifty-five dollars.”
“That’s a lot.”
“They’re pearls,” the girl said.
Emma almost laughed. As if the girl could tell pearls from peanuts, she thought. “What about those?” She pointed toward a pair of pink rhinestone hearts. “And those.” She indicated a pair of tiny blue flowers. “Could I see those as well?” Emma held the different pairs of earrings up to her ears, turning her head from side to side, pleased with the way each set highlighted the graceful bend of her long neck. Maybe they weren’t as expensive as the “pearls.” Maybe she’d actually be able to afford them. “How much are these?”
“The hearts are sixty-five, and the flowers are fifty.”
“Ouch.” So much for affordable. She returned them to the counter, suddenly resolving to return the other items she’d stolen as well. I’m not that girl anymore, she reminded herself. I don’t take things that don’t belong to me.
“Excuse me,” a customer called from the other side of the counter. “Is there anyone here who can help me?”
The girl turned her head, and without a second thought, Emma swept the pink rhinestone earrings off the counter and into the pocket of her jacket. “You go,” she told the salesgirl magnanimously. “I’ll come back another time.” So much for turning over a new leaf.
She was almost at the front door when she felt the hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” a male voice said ominously. “I think you’d better come with me.”
TWENTY
Jamie opened her eyes to find Brad standing beside the bed, staring down at her.
“Well, well. Look who finally decided to open her eyes.”
Jamie said nothing.
Brad plopped down on the bed next to her. The motion tore through Jamie’s torso like a bayonet, and she had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from howling out in pain. “Aw, come on, Jamie. You’re not still mad at me about last night, are you?” His hand reached out to gently brush away several stray hairs from her forehead.
Every muscle in Jamie’s body tensed and recoiled, sending agonizing spasms from the bottom of her toes to the tips of her fingers, although she barely moved. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice heavy and without inflection.
“Almost twelve o’clock,” Brad said, and laughed. “Do I get points for letting you sleep in?”
“Twelve o’clock,” she repeated, although the words meant nothing and refused to resonate. What did it mean that it was twelve o’clock? What did anything mean?
“Time to get this show on the road.”
Time to get this show on the road, Jamie repeated silently, wondering, what show, what road?
“Come on, Jamie. Checkout time’s one o’clock.”
Brad stood up, walked to the dresser, threw the same clothes Jamie had been wearing yesterday toward the bed. “Get dressed. It’s time to go.”
Jamie could tell from the flatness of his voice that he was running out of patience, and she tried to move, to push one foot over the side of the bed, to prop her body up on her elbows, but it was as if each limb had been encased in plaster casts while she slept. Her arms were like anchors, weighing her down, each faint exertion causing her to sink lower and lower into an endless abyss
. If only that were true, she was thinking as Brad’s hand whipped the thin blanket from her naked body. Cold air from the air-conditioning unit blew noisily against her newly exposed flesh. Goose bumps rose along her skin.
“Get up, Jamie. Now.”
“I have to take a shower,” she muttered without moving.
“What—are you kidding me? Another shower? You spent half the night in the damn shower.”
“I need a shower,” Jamie reiterated, surprised to find herself suddenly on her feet. She shuffled along the side of the bed, hugging the wall for support and trying to ignore the gauntlet of invisible razors slashing at her thighs, the knives poking at her backside.
“You got five minutes,” Brad said.
Jamie caught a brief glimpse of herself as she passed the mirror, although she barely recognized the swollen face and haunted eyes staring back at her. Were it not for the gold-and-pearl earrings peeking out from underneath her tousled hair, she might have been able to dismiss the apparition as nothing but a figment of her overly fatigued imagination.
“Hey, Jamie,” Brad said as she walked past. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
Immediately Jamie’s body jackknifed, doubling over on itself, and she was overcome by a succession of dry heaves that pushed her to her knees and left her gasping for air.
Brad was instantly beside her, wrapping her in a smothering embrace and pulling her to her feet. “Whoa there, Jamie-girl. That’s no way to react when a man professes his love.”
Jamie wiggled free of his arms.
“Aw, come on, Jamie. Don’t be that way.”
Jamie spun around, her eyes shouting what her voice could not. Don’t be that way? Don’t be that way?!
“Come on, Jamie. It wasn’t that bad. It was really kind of fun, when you think about it.”
Jamie could scarcely believe the words she was hearing. Was he serious? Had he really used the word fun to describe what he’d done to her last night? “Fun?” she heard herself cry. “You raped me, for God’s sake.”
“Aw, don’t call it that. Come on, Jamie. You enjoyed it. At least a little bit. Admit it.”
“How can you say that? How can you even think it?”
“ ’Cause I know women,” he said ominously. Then even more ominously, “ ’Cause I know you.”
Was that true? Jamie wondered. Was it possible a virtual stranger could know her better than she knew herself? That he’d recognized something inside her—or more likely, that he’d recognized a lack of something—the moment he saw her and simply acted on his instincts? This is all your fault, she heard him say as she stepped onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor and closed the door.
“Don’t lock it,” Brad called after her.
Jamie stood with her hand on the lock. One twist was all it would take to keep him out, at least temporarily. And maybe he’d get tired of waiting, of coaxing, of banging on the door. Maybe the maid would come to clean the room. Maybe if she started screaming, screaming at the top of her lungs, he’d panic and take off. More likely, he’d just kick in the door, grab her by the hair, throw her down on the bed. And then what? A repeat of last night’s fun? “Oh, God,” she moaned, her hand dropping to her side as tears traced familiar lines down the length of her cheeks.
“Hey, Jamie,” Brad said from just outside the door. “You want me to come in there and wash your back?”
Jamie said nothing as she pulled back the clear, plastic shower curtain and stepped into the tub, turning on the spigot and feeling the water shift abruptly from cold to hot. She thought of opening her mouth and letting her throat fill up with water. Could one actually drown that way? she wondered, turning around, feeling the water racing down her back to hide between her buttocks. “Oh, God,” she cried again, as a fresh flood of tears escaped her eyes. She lifted her hands to push the wet hair away from her face, her fingers brushing up against the gold-and-pearl earrings at her ears. “What have I done?” she cried.
She’d been asking herself the same question all night.
What happened? What had she done?
She’d been asleep in her bed at the motel. Not the Ritz exactly, but clean, and the bed was comfortable. And suddenly Brad was whispering in her ear, telling her he loved her, the words coaxing her out from under her covers and into the cool night air. Driving through the city, turning onto Magnolia Lane, Brad telling her his plans, ignoring her protests as he got out of the car, she following after him, trying to assure herself that he would stop, turn around, tell her it was all a joke.
Except he hadn’t stopped, and soon they were in the house, the warning wail sounding, then ceasing when she pressed in the code. The code Mrs. Dennison could easily have changed, the code she should have changed. Why hadn’t she changed the damn code? This whole mess could have been avoided if Laura Dennison had simply changed her code. The wail would have mushroomed into a full-fledged siren. She and Brad would have taken off down the street, escaped into the night, laughed all the way back to the motel. How stupid was that? she could hear them giggling as they tumbled into bed. How stupid was that?
Except Mrs. Dennison hadn’t changed the code. And she hadn’t woken up. Not when Jamie and Brad were roaming through the downstairs rooms, not when they were standing beside her bed, not when they were rifling through her dresser drawers.
From underneath the shower’s steady spray, Jamie saw herself reaching for the gold-and-pearl earrings in the red enamel box and fitting them into her ears. She saw Brad pocketing the diamond studs as they fled the room, watched him sit down in the middle of the hallway, stubbornly refusing to move until she showed him her old room. And then the room itself, with its beige walls and horrid black-and-brown patterned bedspread.
Come sit beside me.
Brad, no. Don’t do that.
It’s okay, Jamie. Relax.
No. Stop.
Tell me what you did with him in this bed, Jamie.
Brad, I don’t like this. I want you to stop.
No, you don’t. You’re enjoying this as much as I am. You like it rough and dirty.
No, I don’t. Please, stop.
Ready?
The stale smell of the quilted fabric pressing against her nose as he mounted her from behind. The searing pain, the fire rampaging unchecked through her body, razing her insides, leaving her torn and bleeding. Leaving her for dead.
It’s your fault, you know.
It’s my fault.
A loud banging on the door. “Hey, Jamie, how long you gonna be in there?”
Jamie’s head snapped toward the sound. She grabbed the soap, began massaging it across her breasts, trying to wash away the sting of his teeth on her nipples.
She heard Mrs. Dennison’s voice at the top of the stairs—“Jamie?” she’d called. “Is that you?”—then watched herself bolt from the house and run down the street to her car. She saw herself double over, then throw up by the side of the road. She watched herself collapse onto the pavement, unable to move.
Where could she go?
The police? And say what? That she’d been raped? Sodomized by her lover in her former mother-in-law’s house, a house they’d broken into, the woman’s pilfered gold-and-pearl earrings grinding painfully against her ears? That she’d fled the scene, leaving her lover to deal with the woman? That everything that happened that night was her fault?
“Two more minutes, Jamie. Then I’m coming in,” Brad warned.
And then he was beside her, gently helping her into the car, and her face was pressing against the passenger window, her eyes catching the reflection of his smile in the glass. She felt the car’s engine turning over, humming around her as he pulled away from the curb. She heard his laughter, the excited snap of his fingers as they tapped triumphantly against the steering wheel. “Wow. That was really something,” he’d said, and laughed again.
Somehow she’d found her voice. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?”
“Oh, God.�
� A low moan escaped her throat, reverberated through the car.
Brad reached across the seat, squeezed her thigh. “Relax, Jamie. Nothing happened.” He laughed again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, nothing happened.”
“But she saw us. She saw me.”
“She thought she saw you. I convinced her she was mistaken.”
“How? How did you do that?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“You didn’t hurt her?”
“Didn’t have to.” He shrugged, turned right at the next corner.
“I don’t understand. What did you say to her?”
“I explained that it was all a mistake, and that if she promised not to call the police, I promised not to come back and wring her neck. She seemed most agreeable.”
“That’s it?”
“More or less.”
“How much more?” Jamie asked, holding her breath.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Jamie-girl.”
“But you promise you didn’t hurt her?” Jamie asked again, her voice a plea.
“Told you I didn’t, didn’t I?”
Was it possible? Jamie wondered now, as she had somehow managed to convince herself last night.
They’d driven back to the motel. She’d been unable to muster the strength needed to open the car door, so he’d had to do it for her, holding the door open and helping her to her feet, supporting her elbow as she stumbled toward the motel. Once inside their room, she’d staggered into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, gasping at the sight of the blood staining her panties, the dark red bruises on her breasts and arms and thighs, the splotches of dried blood around her buttocks. She’d been sick again, although there was little left in her stomach. Then she’d curled up in the middle of the tiny white squares of bathroom tile, hugging her legs to her chest, and cried, using her knees to muffle the sound. It was only when Brad threatened to come inside that she’d scrambled to her feet and into the shower, staying there until the water turned cold, and even after, until she heard the door open and saw Brad step inside the room, his features distorted by the translucent plastic of the shower curtain. The real Brad Fisher, she’d thought as he’d pulled back the curtain and turned off the tap, suddenly very much in focus. The devil, she thought.
