Stockholm Syndrome
Page 21
He nodded. “Always a good plan.”
I smiled a little. “Okay. Um. So.” I twisted my hands. He reached over and patted one of them, and I turned my palm up to catch hold of him, so our arms ended up getting tangled up together. His skin was warm against mine. I smiled.
I told him about Bastard. The more I talked, the more distant it felt, like I was telling a story about someone else. I hung up the story mid-sentence. “I know you want to talk about that, but I wanted to tell you that while I was in there, I had...thoughts.”
Ryan swivelled to stare at me.
“Yeah. I know it doesn’t sound too crazy. I mean, we’re always thinking, right? So that we ‘are’?” Now his eyebrows drew together, so I explained, “‘I think, therefore I am.’ Never mind. Okay. So. The important thing is, I was thinking about us, and I realized, I love you. I want to tell you that. It was horrible, being locked in there, knowing that you didn’t know I love you.”
He half-laughed, half-coughed. “I knew it.”
“You did? But—”
“Hope. I know you. I know you love me. You were just confused. And that’s okay. I shouldn’t have—I should never have let you go.”
I stopped to absorb that. How did he end up blaming himself? Or trusting that he’d win me in the end? Ryan had known that I was torn between him and Tucker, but he’d figured I’d eventually recover my senses and realize how much I already loved him?
On the other hand, the dude was all about faith. So I guess it’s not that big a stretch to go from trusting some big kahuna in the sky to figuring out that your hemi-girlfriend will come around eventually. In fact, any atheist would figure that between me and God, I’m Ryan’s better bet, being corporeal and all.
“You don’t have to worry about it, and you don’t have to talk about it. I just love you,” said Ryan.
I blinked. I found it both refreshing and completely weird that he’d applied his all-encompassing love to me. On one hand, it made me feel safe. Tucker was always negging me—you know, kind of bugging me, provoking me, making me pay attention to him. Ryan was more relaxing to hang around. He did his own thing, he trusted me, and he was happy for himself.
On the other hand, I did like Tucker’s brand of stupid bravery, like throwing himself into a hostage situation with me.
Le sigh.
I took a deep breath. “I do have to talk about it, though. Or at least about how I chose you and Tucker.”
He smiled. “You mean chose me over him.”
“No. I mean—” My heart thudded. I didn’t want to do this. I could let Ryan think he’d won. Tucker was in the hospital, broken—I didn’t want to think of him that way, but I did. Something was very wrong with one of my men. My sunny, ‘Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down’ man—“I realized that I can’t choose. So I pick both of you.”
“What?” said Ryan.
“Yeah.”
Ryan’s cheeks turned a dull red under his brown skin. I realized that I rarely saw him blush, except when he’d just had an orgasm. He doesn’t get too flustered outside the bedroom. I remembered him, his hair jagged with sweat, his eyes slitted, gasping for breath, and thought, will I ever see that again? Did I just flush that down the toilet, and I don’t even know if Tucker a) wants me anymore, and b) will survive?
Ryan turned away from me for a second. He said, with his back to me, “You fucked him in there?”
“What? No!” He must not have heard about Bastard attacking me. I’d fill him in on that later. I already had my hands full with this damage control. “How would we have done that? We had a lunatic with a gun in there!”
His shoulders set. “You kissed him?”
I hesitated, but I said, “Yes. And if you’d been in there, I would have kissed you, too.”
“Hope. This goes against everything I believe in.”
“I know that, Ryan!” It was my biggest fear come to life, that I’d hesitated between these two perfect men and would ultimately end up with no one. But I had to tell the truth, damn it. Having a gun pressed to my head, the inability to go to the bathroom without witnesses, the fact that Tucker had almost died, and that part of his soul seemed to have withered...all that made me realize that I had to tell the truth. That was all I was good for.
Even if it cost me my men. Even if it left me broken and alone.
That was what I did.
“I’m not on board with this,” said Ryan, with his back to me. I could see he was trying not to swear, not to yell, to keep it cool, not to traumatize me after all I’d been through. He was trying to keep it together, even though I’d just about killed him too.
“I know that,” I said softly. “It goes against you, and Christianity, and Western norms. And this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, because Tucker doesn’t want it, either. I’ve probably lost both of you. But I realized in there, I can’t choose. I need you because you’re like the other half of me. You’re my dream guy. Smart and sexy and loyal. It’s like, I couldn’t make you up as an avatar in a video game because it would be too unreal.”
Ryan likes video games. His shoulders relaxed a little, even though he said, “That’s what avatars are for.”
I didn’t say the other part, which was that Tucker challenged me, drop-shipped me into uncomfortable situations (I realize I shouldn’t point fingers at this, but there it is). I never knew what he’d do or say next. And I wanted to know it. He was like a drug, and Ryan was like my honeymoon, if that makes any sense.
I thought I could choose. I thought I could throw myself head-first at Ryan, because he was my first, last, and always.
But I guess all this stupid detective stuff changed me, too. I wanted to know the unknowable.
If I stayed with Ryan, I’d turn into Bluebeard’s wife, yearning to sneak inside the forbidden room. No matter how big a castle he built for me, I’d always wonder if I could take a tiny peek in that chamber.
If I stayed with Tucker, we’d probably have a good ride before we killed each other.
Neither was a perfect mix.
I walked up to Ryan very slowly. He didn’t move away, which gave me the courage to pause beside him.
Ryan didn’t look at me. He said, “I don’t want that.”
“I know you don’t, and I’m sorry.” I said, “Anyway, it may be too late for me and Tucker. He’s...”
“Dead?” said Ryan, not in a nice voice, and realized how much I’d hurt him all over again.
“Screwed up,” I said. “And maybe he’ll die. I don’t know. But at this rate, a murderer will knock me off first.”
Ryan looked down at me. “Please don’t die, Hope.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said. And I knew it was an underhanded trick, reminding him that I’d almost kicked it. But life is short. Razor short. Especially if you tango with killers every day, the way that I do.
So I only felt a little guilty when I rose up on my toes and kissed Ryan, and after a split second pause, he kissed me back.
His lips parted. His mouth tasted almost sweet, which meant that I probably tasted like an ashtray, but he didn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around me, and it felt like a present, like a benediction. And I thought, Never give this up. Don’t walk away from this. You’d have to be crazy.
But the rest of me was still curled up in Tucker’s bed, in intensive care, with my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
“Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”—William Arthur Ward
This novel was inspired by the 1991 hostage-taking at the Alta View Hospital in Salt Lake City. As soon as I heard about a woman giving birth at gunpoint, I knew I had to write about it. Journalist Robert C. Yeager’s article, “Born a Hostage,” helped enormously, along with Ben Lopez’s book, Negotiator: My Life at the Heart of the Hostage Trade.
Dr. Séverine Laplante fine-tuned the obstetric details and fixed my French. I sequentially picked the trauma brains of
Dr. Paul Irwin, Dr. Yen Dang, Dr. Rob Chen, and Dr. Jacinthe Lampron.
The following people generously attempted to educate me about firearms and security: Ontario Provincial Police Physician Andrew Reed, OPP officer Jeremy Falle, GL of the Cornwall Gun Club, and Jacques Leclair of Leclair Corporate Security.
Dr. Greg Smith stayed up until 3:30 a.m. to read the first draft of Stockholm Syndrome. Author Richard Quarry provided incisive feedback. Louise Sproule provided copy editing. Advance readers included Dawn Kiddell, June Kendall, Kathryn Brunet, Becky MacKay, and the Alexandria Library. All errors are my own.
I’m grateful that New York Times bestselling author David Farland told me, “I’m hooked. I could see it as a movie. I’d like to see you go big.” My colleagues at Dave’s professional writing workshop offered intelligent criticism while Dave’s niece, Marie Seager, took care of my son Max and therefore made it possible for me to attend the conference in the first place.
I offer my everlasting love to Matt, Max and Anastasia.
And thank you to you, the reader. Thank you for reading. Thank you for reviewing Stockholm Syndrome and telling your friends about it. As author Ben Okri pointed out, reading is a creative act. We couldn’t do it without you.
READER QUESTION
Why is this book called Stockholm Syndrome?
Author reply: I wanted to play with the idea of psychological dominance and submission in a hostage situation. I knew Hope would never lust after an oppressor, but I wondered if the reverse could happen. However, none of the four adults in the room turned out to love each other except Tucker and Hope.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa Yi is an emergency physician trained in the crumbling corridors of Montreal. She was nominated for the Derringer Award for the best short mystery fiction worldwide, and has won awards for speculative fiction, poetry, and children’s literature.
She is exceedingly grateful for positive reviews. She also loves meeting new readers and sending them gifts through her KamikaSze mailing list at www.melissayuaninnes.com.
“Only those who will risk going too far
can possibly find out how far one can go.”—T.S. Eliot
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Death Flight (Coming Soon)
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Cain and Abel
Trouble and Strife
Blood Diamonds
Human Remains
The Emergency Doctor’s Guides
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Reckless Homicide: Five Tales of Death and Deception
The Emergency Doctor's Guide to a Pain-Free Back: Fast Tips and Exercises for Healing and Relief
Fairy Tales are for White People: a short story and author essay
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