by Jessica Pine
"I was getting lightheaded. I really did think I was going to die then. I didn't think I had any more blood left in me. And then...it was like a miracle. I felt him kind of jerk on top of me - like he'd had an electrical shock. He started moving - like flailing. Really hard. I was covered in bruises afterwards. I heard the knife hit on the tiles and he was making these weird gobbling, gasping noises. I managed to get out from under him and realized what was happened - he was having some sort of seizure."
She takes a deep breath.
"And then he stopped," she says. "And that was that. He died."
"Holy shit."
Amber shrugs.
"Afterwards they said I'd fractured his skull. When I clocked him with the bedside lamp. I barely broke the skin, but it was enough to make him bleed into his brain."
"It was an accident, Amber."
"No," she says. "I meant to do it. If I'd had the gun in my hand I would have unloaded the rest of the clip into his evil fucking head." She gets up from the chair, her arms wrapped around herself. "I wasn't sorry he was dead. I was relieved."
She exhales and turns back to me.
"I called 911. I kept thinking 'I've killed him. I killed Justin,' - kept trying to make myself feel something I should have felt. I killed a person, Jaime. And I wasn't sorry."
I get to my feet and go to her.
"Amber, he was trying to kill you. State law says..."
"And what about natural law?" she says, her eyes filling with tears. "What about that? What kind of human being takes a life like that? I bashed him on the head with a rock like a goddamn cavewoman."
"It was him or you." I reach out to her, and this time she walks into my arms. I hold her there for a moment, her chin sharp on my shoulder.
"I know," she says, in a near whisper. "I keep telling myself that. My doctor tells me that too - there are some relationships that almost always end in murder, and that I'm lucky it wasn't mine."
"Well there, see? She's right. It was the only way it was ever going to end. You got out alive."
Amber sighs. I feel her ribs expand against me.
"I know that. It was afterwards - that was the hard part. I got out alive, but the hardest part is convincing myself that I deserved to."
Chapter Twenty
Amber
He spent the night.
It was all very proper, or maybe he just didn’t feel like trying to get down and dirty on an air mattress.
There's no coffee; there's no kitchen as yet. He rubs the back of his neck like it's stiff and it's all I can do not to pounce on him with the pretext of offering him a neck rub. The awkwardness is coming off him in waves. For the first time I wish we'd had sex last night - maybe things would be less uncomfortable.
"We could go out for coffee?" I say.
He hesitates, and it's all I need to know. I can feel the anxiety bubbling up from my chest like acid indigestion - that same fawning, edgy state that's so familiar. It was the way Justin used to make me feel.
"I just think," I begin, unsure as to how I'm going to end the sentence. "I just...it would be nice. We could...I don't know..."
"No, I know," says Jaime, the goddamn liar. Nobody could have made any sense out of that last mouthful of word salad. He doesn't want me. He doesn't. How can he?
The fear heads south, needling me between the legs - a thin little spike of vague want that gets me when I remember I can still charm him in that way. Wasn't that always half the fun of it? - the fear of running the risk of rejection, even though you were sure he'd still collapse when you raised your skirt or your t-shirt? I could have tried to seduce him all over again last night, but when I laid down on the bed - such as it was - I was suddenly aware of how tired I was. Deep down tired. It's amazing how it can get you like that. In the early days with Dr. Stahl - after she had managed to coax the worst of it out of me - I slept like the dead for the first time since Justin died. Like reliving it was that exhausting.
It's enough that he stayed. Isn't it?
Or maybe he just thought I'd try and open a vein again. I hate the sympathy in his eyes - it's way too close to pity for my liking. Then he asks, "Are you busy this evening?" and my heart flutters wildly back to life.
Another sign that it's way too soon.
"I don't think so," I say. "Why? Do you want to get dinner or something?"
He's wary and rumpled; he slept in his clothes last night. I would do anything to take it all back, go back to the way we were before I told him. Except that wouldn't have worked either, would it? You can't shut the world out forever.
"Sure," he says, scrubbing a hand over his dark stubble and stifling a yawn. "You want to go out?"
"I don't think I'm ready for that yet. We can eat here?"
He glances around the apartment - the empty walls, the bare floor - but he's too polite to do anything but come up with a solution to the problem.
"Okay," he says. "You wanna get pizza?"
All my tension bursts out of me in a laugh.
"Pizza? Here? You're in the land of low-carb now, kiddo."
"Right," he says, and his smile is so warm that I want to cry. "Of course."
"Sushi? We're going to be sitting on the floor, so..."
"Sounds like a plan."
We're standing at the door and the tiny, bright moment has already burned out between us. Stiffness once again locks our limbs and pins our tongues in their proper places.
"So - about six?"
"Seven?"
"Okay," he says, and hugs me - a mechanical, funeral kind of hug. Oh God, I shouldn't feel this way. I won't feel this way.
"Take care," he says, kissing my cheek. "I'll see you later."
"I'll...go get some furniture," I say, in a misguided attempt at being cute. Quirky. It doesn't suit me and I'm instantly ashamed of myself for trying to fake it. I can still feel the touch of his lips as I dial the phone.
An hour later I'm in Dr. Stahl's waiting room - an angular white jungle of minimalist surfaces and lush green plants. The receptionist brings me jasmine tea and offers me magazines, but I've brought Madame Bovary along with me. I could never get on with it in college - too wordy and slow, but I feel as though I should be reading something worthy. Sooner or later I'm going to have to meet other people, and my dropping out is bound to come up in conversation.
But the words make no sense. I'm not that smart. The magazines are as bright and shiny as a poison butterfly. I know they're bad for me. I know they're full of the kind of idle, meanspirited bullshit that could destroy a sane person. What if there's something in there about me? I glance up at the receptionist, wondering what the hell she was thinking, but all I can see is the back of her blonde chignon, mostly obscured by palm fronds.
A door opens.
“Amber,” says Dr. Stahl, throwing it wide. “Come on in.” When she turns to lead me into her office I see the red soles of her black patent leather shoes.
“I like your shoes,” I say, with a kind of shock at the words coming out of my mouth. She’s always been my doctor. We’ve never exchanged the kind of words you would think of sharing with another woman.
“Oh, thank you,” she says. “We all have our vices, I guess.”
“Vices?” I take the offered seat - a cube-shaped white leather armchair. The first time I came in here I wanted to retreat into it and never come out. She sits down opposite me, on the high backed white chair I remember from before. Between us there is a low, glass topped coffee table. In the middle of the table is a tissue box, with a Kleenex protruding from the top like a tongue - both a taunt and an invitation.
“Shoes,” she says, admiring her Louboutins. “I’m afraid I can’t resist them.” She stretches an ankle for a moment then snaps her feet back together with almost military precision. Back to business. “How are you today, Amber?”
I hesitate. I know what I need to say to her, but now I have to I can't. Deep down what her answer will be.
"Madame Bovary," she says, breaking the sile
nce. The book is sitting on top of my purse.
"Yeah. I read it in college. Didn't really get it then, but I figured I might have better luck second time around."
She sits there with that perfect, blank-yet-friendly expression. Waiting. I'm going to have to talk about last night. So I deflect.
"Have you...read it?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "A long time ago."
She doesn't elaborate. It's not her job to do so, after all. She's here to draw things out of me.
"I thought the ending sucked," I say, sounding bratty to my own ears. But really – it’s one of those ‘broccoli’ books - the ones that are supposed to be so good for you that when you don't read them they leave you feeling like a snotty little kid who won't eat her vegetables.
"It's a sad ending," says Dr. Stahl. "But inevitable, I think. Why didn't you like it?"
"I don't know. Why couldn't she have gone off with Leon instead? Instead of sitting around being unhappy forever?"
"You think she would have been happy with Leon?" she asks. Oh, she's good. She knows how to get to the heart of the matter.
"I don't know," I say. "All I know is I wouldn't eat poison if it didn't work out. Sometimes you've just got to...I don't know...carry on. Keep breathing."
She says nothing. Her silence is a blank page, waiting for me to scrawl my dysfunction all over it. It's now or never, I guess.
"I talked to Jaime last night," I say.
"Okay," she says, folding her hands.
"I told him. About what happened."
"And you hadn't talked about this before?"
"No. I mean - we'd talked about Justin. But not about...you know. That." I did it. Everyone knows I did it. Why just I can't say it? "It's not much of an ice-breaker, is it? 'Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, but I killed my last boyfriend.'"
Dr. Stahl inclines her head slightly.
"And how did that make you feel?"
"Not as bad as it should. Is it wrong that I'm sick of him?"
"Jaime?"
"No. God, no. Justin."
"Okay."
Oh God. She's giving me nothing. She sits there quietly waiting for me to blow - I know it's what she's supposed to do, but sometimes I hate it. I know it's for my own good but it's still another form of manipulation, and I don't respond well to having my buttons pushed. For obvious reasons.
"I hate him." It comes out like a reflex, like a sneeze. "I fucking hate him. I hate that he's still in my head. I hate that he's under my fucking skin - literally. This skin graft? Drives me nuts. Sometimes it itches and burns like Voldemort just walked into the goddamn room or something. He came into my life and he poisoned it, and now he's fucking dead and he's still poisoning me. He's still got a hold over me. I am never going to be the person I could have been - because of him, because he put me through hell - and please, please don't give me the talk about being a stronger person because of it, because fuck strength. Fuck scars. I don't want them. I just want to be free."
The tears come, hot and angry. "Last night was so hard. I wanted to talk. I wanted him to know everything, but it was like I had to keep holding myself back. I could have just...jumped him. Like before. I guess you figured out I slept with him, right?"
"I had, yes."
Her expression is infuriatingly bland.
"You think I'm a slut?"
"No," she says. "I think you were in a position where sex was one of the few cards you still held. It was a negotiating technique - a distraction. It was the one power over Justin that he allowed you to have."
"Which I lost," I say, and it's hard. So hard. "When he raped me."
My face is streaming. She nods towards the Kleenex box and I grab the little paper tongue and pull.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I blow my nose and nod.
"You've never used that word before," she says.
I swallow. My eyes burn.
"No," I say. "I know. But it was, wasn't it? I didn't consent to what he did, and he must have done it, because there was no-one else."
"Sex without informed consent is the legal definition of rape, yes. But when we've talked about this in the past you've always resisted that definition. And you resisted it at the time, as I recall."
I nod again. The air between us is calm, but strangely charged. Receptive.
"What do you think changed, Amber?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say, quietly. "I guess I didn't want to be a...victim. And don't give me that bullshit about 'survivors'. So they rebranded it - whatever. It's still rape, right? They can't soften that word."
"No. They can't."
"It was like Everglade used to say," I explain. "That I minimized the things he did. I made excuses for him. Apologized. The alternative was...well...the alternative was getting mad at him."
"You didn't feel you could handle your anger?"
"That much anger? God, no. If I'd got mad...I don't know what would have happened." I wave my hand around the room. "I think this whole conversation would be taking place someplace else. With me in an orange jumpsuit."
“Anger can be a constructive thing – if channeled properly.”
I don’t think that’s true. I feel like lightning; the rage in me is that big, that electric. It’s not some little current you can run through a wire. I sit biting my lip to keep from yelling at her. When I find my voice it’s soft, vaguely-psychiatric – all California.
“I don’t think I’m there yet.”
“And where do you feel you are?”
I think. I feel. I’m so used to these verbs that I’ve forgotten how to do anything else but think and feel. They’re such simple things you don’t even pay them any mind, until you can no longer do them without pain. Like anything, I guess.
Somewhere along the line I forgot how to have a life. Probably sometime around when Justin appeared. He ate my life once. The trick is not letting him do it again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably nowhere near where I need to be.”
“For what?”
I swallow hard. I felt it this morning, saying goodbye. I think he feels it too – he was drawing away from me on purpose. A sad ending, but inevitable.
“For him,” I say.
“Jaime?”
“Yeah.”
“You like him.”
My eyes have started to burn again.
“Yeah. I do. I think I...more than like him.” I blink rapidly but the tears fall anyway. “And that’s exactly why I’m not ready – right?”
She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I’ve come up with the correct answer, after all. I can’t be with him. I’m in no shape to be with anyone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jaime
Nobody ever said that doing the right thing was easy.
Then again, nobody ever warned me it was going to be this hard.
I know what she needs. And I know what she wants. If I give her what she wants, doesn't that make me as bad as him? - the one who exploited her every weakness and anxiety until she had to fight to remember who she was and what it meant to be alive?
I call John Gillespie.
Once upon a time I'd have been star struck to have his number in my phone, but now he's just...John, I guess. Amber’s dad, the father of the woman I...yeah. Let's not torture ourselves here.
He picks up on the third ring.
"Jimmy? Everything all right?"
I hesitate.
"No," I say, eventually. "Everything's fucked." I sound like a sulky kid to my own ears, but it just pops out. Hearing his voice makes it real, makes her real. I know what I have to do and it hurts - and the fact that it hurts so much is exactly the reason I have to do it.
"Is Amber okay?" I can hear the panic in his voice - he thinks something terrible has happened.
"She's fine," I say, quickly. "Totally fine. I just left her apartment."
"Good." He exhales. "Good. Is she safe? Do you know if she's been to the doctor?"
"N
o. I don't know that. Sorry."
"Right. How did she seem?"
"She..." I take a deep breath. "John, she told me everything."
There's a hush over the line for a moment and then he says, "Everything?"
"Yes."
"Oh God."
"Yeah." My throat aches just thinking about it. I stayed last night because I had to, but every time I touched her I felt like I should apologize, check I wasn't touching her somewhere that might trigger some bad memory. "I can't keep tabs on her for you," I say. "I won't. I'm sorry."
I hear him sigh. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know. Call her. Tell her you worry about her."
"And you think she'll listen to me? I'm her dad - she's more or less contractually obliged to ignore me."
"I know that. But I can't do what you want. I'm sorry - I tried, but I can't do it."
"Come up to the house," he says.
"Mr. Gillespie...John...I'm not gonna change my mind."
He sighs again.
"I know that. It's not about that. I just...I think we should talk, don't you?"
I owe him that much; she's going to need him, when I'm done.
It was always a weird feeling, driving my old hoopty up into the Hills. Some people up here have Porsches they don't even drive, then there's me with the balding tires and grouchy suspension of my old, rusting Subaru. Weirder still to sweep through the main gatehouse and up the front drive, gawked at once more by Cory, who probably can't even believe I'm still allowed on the property.
A pretty, dark-haired secretary leads me through the house. I notice the gun hasn't been replaced on the wall. John Gillespie is in the next room, reading something on an iPad. He's wearing thin-framed glasses and for the first time looks so much like somebody's dad that I'm startled. Always weird when you remember these people were once like us. And still are.
"Glad you could make it," he says. "You all right?"
