by Beth Andrews
“It’s about trust.” She scrubbed damp palms over her thighs. “Nick’s right about one thing. I’ve been a coward, running away when things get hard. I don’t want to do that anymore. When I leave Widow’s Grove, I want to leave with some self-respect.”
Bina sat on the carpeted floor of her office, arms clasped around her knees. “Well, it’s interesting you bring up trust. How does trust fit into sex?”
The question brought Sam up short. “What do you mean? I trust Nick.”
“Picture that you and Nick are intimate. Put yourself there. Then ask yourself about trust.”
Sam thought back to the night Nick had brought her the swing. She remembered him moving over her, in her. Remembering the orchestra of sensations his body played on hers. She felt a coil, winding tighter. Then...
“I’m afraid to let go of the emotion. No, that’s not right.” She looked at the floor to avoid facing Bina’s regard. “I’d have to drop my guard. To be totally open. Defenseless. Exposed. If Nick saw what’s really inside me, he’d leave.” She put her face in her hands. “And seeing the knowledge in his eyes would destroy me.”
“And what is this ‘thing’ that you can’t let Nick see?”
The question was like a rock falling into a dark pool of water, ripples spreading outward. She hated dark water.
“Sam, look at me.”
It took her a while, but she just managed it.
“You’re ready to talk about this. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.” She leaned forward. “You have to say it. Out loud.”
The chair felt like a hot plate. But her legs wouldn’t hold her. She squirmed in the seat and pushed the words up. “Part of what happened with Mr. Collins is my fault.”
She held up her hand when Bina would have spoken. “Do not tell me that I was just a kid, and I’m not responsible. I’ve heard that on Oprah. And it’s bullshit.”
Bina raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
“Oh, he forced me into the situation. That’s a fact. But I’m not a total victim. I had choices. I could have told someone. I didn’t.” Her throat clicked when she swallowed. “I had excuses why I didn’t tell. But what it all boils down to is that I didn’t have the guts.”
The ripples advanced through the dark pool, gathering force. She fisted her shaking hands. Telling Nick had been scary. Coming here was frightening. But this? She gritted her teeth and pushed the deepest truth past her locked jaw.
“Mr. Collins knew I wouldn’t tell. The fact that we never spoke of it somehow made it worse. It made us partners, in a twisted way. Coconspirators in our own ugly secret.” A shudder rattled from the back of her neck, down her spine. “And that secret is like a wasting disease. Over time, it’s ruined everything.”
Her lips pulled away from her teeth. “There’s something seriously wrong with a person who can do that. How could you ever trust yourself after making decisions like that?”
“Don’t you think he knew?” Bina touched Sam’s arm and she jumped. “It’s the abuser’s secret weapon. They make the child feel they have responsibility for their own molestation. And that causes more lasting damage than the sexual abuse itself.”
Sam shook her head.
“I could sit here for days and explain the psychology to you, but it wouldn’t make any difference. You have to know it in your heart.” Bina thought a moment. “You say that you had choices. What were they?”
“I could have told someone, obviously.”
“Let’s assume you had. What would have happened next?”
“I don’t know, because I didn’t do it!” She leaned over and crossed her arms over her stomach, rocking in the chair.
“But what do you think would have happened, if you had?”
“They would have stopped it. But this was my dad’s boss. They’d have looked at my bleary, alcoholic dad, and wondered why he didn’t protect me.” The words sped up. “The social workers had already been to the house once, and filed a report. They would have taken me away.”
“What would have happened then?”
“They would have put me into foster care.”
“Then what?”
“Things might have been okay for me, but my dad—” Her voice cracked. “He would have lost his job. With Mr. Collins in jail, the whole crew would have. Dad drank his way through every construction company in the county. He wouldn’t have been hired. He probably would have ended up homeless.” The dark water of emotion rose, filling her. It breached the levee, to track down her face.
“What else could you have done?”
“I could have killed him.” That cold, high voice didn’t sound like hers. It sounded like the little girl’s. Sam stopped rocking. “I fantasized about it in my bed at night. I would grab a screwdriver, and stab the SOB.” She shook her head. “At the time, I thought they’d put me in jail. I know now that they wouldn’t have, but I’m glad I don’t have to live with the guilt of that on top of everything else.”
“Okay. What else could you have done?”
“I could have run away. But the cops were bound to notice a kid that young on the streets. They’d have brought me home, so the only thing I would have accomplished was scaring and hurting my dad. And bringing the social workers down on our heads.”
Bina put down her coffee cup. “Okay. You’ve come up with four legitimate solutions to the problem that nine-year-old was faced with. Looking at it now, as an adult, which is the best choice?”
All those choices would have hurt others. Mr. Collins she didn’t care about, but the men who worked for him didn’t deserve to lose their jobs. But that paled compared to what it would have done to her father. She’d let it go on, because to do anything else would have destroyed her father.
Could it be that simple? Maybe not, but she couldn’t deny the truth, either. “The only option I had was the one I chose.” She took a shaky breath. “Better I lived with the guilt than my dad. I could handle it.” And that was the real truth.
“Do you know any young girls, about the age you were then?”
“The youngest girl I know is Sunny, one of the teenagers on my work crew.”
“Okay. Close your eyes. Picture Sunny at the age you were then. Can you do that?”
Sam visualized a towhead in pigtails, with sun-browned summer skin and skinned knees.
“If Mr. Collins had taken Sunny into the back bedroom—”
“Oh, God, please don’t make me go there.”
“Would what happened in that room have been Sunny’s fault?”
The answer exploded from her. “Good God, no!”
“Then why is it yours?”
She rolled her eyes. “Bina, I’m not stupid. I know it isn’t my fault.”
“I know you do. The adult. Who lives in here.” She tapped her temple. “But that’s not where that little girl lives. She lives here.” She put her hand over her heart “And she doesn’t believe it. Not a bit of it.”
“Why would I care what she thinks? She’s a whiner, a wimp, who’s afraid of everything.” She should have known better than to tell Bina about the voice.
“Ah, but you should care,” Bina said. “She’s a part of you, Sam.”
“Well, I’d rather she just go away.”
Bina’s perfectly arched eyebrows lifted farther. “And how’s that working for you, so far?”
“What do you mean? I don’t hear her voice often, and when I do, I just ignore it.”
“Oh, really? Why do you think she keeps you traveling from place to place, no friendships, no ties?” With one graceful motion, Bina stood. “Is that what you see adults around you doing?”
Sam sat back, feeling like she’d walked into a wall she hadn’t seen.
“So, if you’re not in charge of all your decisions, who is?” Bina dusted do
g hair from the seat of her pants.
The little girl, making decisions? That’s ridiculous. Her mind wanted to skitter away from even contemplating it. You committed to seeing this through. Just do it.
Adults had roots. Homes. Families. They weren’t afraid of ties—they sought them. They didn’t create everything they wanted, only to give it away. They had compasses that steered them in the right direction. They weren’t afraid all the time.
Damaged children did all those things.
“Holy shit. That’s mutiny.”
Bina threw her head back and brayed. Sam only just resisted putting her hands over her ears. Through the window, she saw the dogs stop chasing each other, and look toward the house.
Another logic grenade went off in Sam’s brain. Oh, please. There’s only so much truth I can handle in one day. “Are you telling me I have multiple personalities?”
“No, Sam. That little girl is really just an unacknowledged piece of your psyche. It’s your past, influencing your present.” She put her hands on her hips. “The question is, are you willing to do what it takes to put the past behind you? Are you willing to let the adult in you step up and make the tough decisions?”
Here it was. The line in the sand. Her past was hell, her present was purgatory. What was beyond the line? Did she have the guts to find out?
Hell, she didn’t have the guts not to. “I’m ready.”
“Good girl. I’m proud of you. Come on around the desk. I want you to sit here.” Bina pulled out the desk chair.
“You mean now? I thought maybe next time I come—”
“This will only take about fifteen minutes.” She patted the back of the cushy office chair.
Sam crossed the room, feet dragging.
“It’s not electrified, and I’m not going to tie you in it. I promise.” Bina walked across the room to a closet, opened it and rooted around.
Sam sensed that she was close—so close to getting to the bottom of the steaming mess of the past inside her. She should have been excited about that. But instead, it felt like she was back in the nightmare, her mind screaming, Run!
Forcing her knees to unlock, she sat, hands on the desk. Seeing that they shook like a cold-turkey addict, she hid them in her lap. The sound of paper tearing came from the closet. Bina backed out, a huge piece of white butcher paper in her hands. She walked over and laid it on the desk.
“Here.” She extended a huge, thick carpenter’s pencil, but when Sam reached for it, Bina pulled it away. “Nope. Left hand.”
“Bina, I can’t write with my left hand.”
“I know you can’t.” She patted her on the shoulder. “But the little girl can.”
Sam lifted a hand to her aching head. “I knew you’d get all woo-woo on me eventually.” She squinted at Bina. “Are you sure you’ve never been on Oprah?”
Bina laughed. “All you have to do is ask the little girl what she wants you to know. That’s it.” She walked to the door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Sam stared at the paper. The pencil felt like a foreign body in her hand. “This is stupid.” She didn’t even like that kid. She sat, pencil hovering over the ridiculously huge piece of paper.
The clock on the wall ticked. Loud.
Putting her right hand to her neck, she massaged the steel ropes alongside her spine. God, this was embarrassing. She pushed back against the chair.
Well, she wasn’t saying it out loud. Okay, what do you have to say? What do you want me to know?
Her hand began writing.
* * *
SOME TIME LATER, Sam lifted her head to see Bina seated across from her, watching. She looked at the paper. It was filled with downward sloping lines of scrawling cursive. It looked like a third-grader wrote it.
And she had no clear memory of writing it, or what it contained.
“Read it, Sam. Not out loud. She wrote it to you.”
Shaken by what had just happened, Sam wasn’t about to argue.
I’m so alone.
No one knows. No one can know. I’m all alone.
Daddy needs me. I have to take care of him. But I’m only a kid.
And I’m all alone.
There was more, but she couldn’t read it—her vision was filmy. She touched her forehead to the paper, arms wrapped around herself to hold her guts in. She remembered. Exactly what it felt like when she was that little girl. So afraid. So alone.
A strangled sound came, unleashing rattling sobs that, for the first time, didn’t shred her throat.
Other than handing her tissues, Bina didn’t move. Sam’s tears poured through the breaches in her walls, toppling them, dissolving the bricks. When it was over, she expected a stinking mudflat of emotions to remain, but that’s not how it felt. She felt scoured, gentled. Clean.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAYS LATER, IN the shade of the small cottage’s porch, Sam listened to the creak of Ana’s rocker, the birds’ songs and the silence inside her head. In the months they’d known each other, Sam strove to get Ana to speak, but Ana had taught Sam of the joy of silence. She closed her eyes, relishing the calm.
Peace. So that’s what it feels like.
The quiet was disturbed by the sound of an ancient engine, laboring. Tim pulled up in front of Ana’s house, and cut the ignition. The door squealed as if in pain as he opened it and took the big step down.
He marched to the gate like Patton leading a charge, chin set, eyes steely.
Ana stood.
Uh-oh.
He stopped at the bottom of the steps, took off his battered bowler hat and looked up at her. The look in his eyes softened, and a side of his mouth lifted, just a bit.
“Why do you stand staring?” Ana barked.
“I was just thinking about the first time I saw you. The Christmas dance at Yeager’s barn. Do you remember?” He smiled. “You wore a green dress with a white lace collar and sprigs of holly in your hair.”
“That was too many years ago to think about now. What do you want here?” She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into her coiled braids.
“I want to be your friend, Ana. That’s all. I have no hidden agenda. I don’t want to frighten you or change you.”
She lifted her chin and looked down her Aryan nose at him as if he were a cockroach on a wedding cake.
“You and I were friends once, Ana. We spent time in each other’s homes, remember?” He twisted the hat in his hands. “All our friends are gone—passed on. I’d just like to be able to stop by to talk now and again.”
Her scowl deepened. “I know what you would like, Timothy Raven.” She shook a bony finger at him. “I took care of one man until the day he died. Changed diapers, fed him, tried to keep up his name and his reputation, long after his mind had gone.” Her tone was as brittle as her words. “I will not spend the rest of my life taking care of another.”
Tim dropped his arms to his sides, hands open to her. “I thought someone could take care of you for a change.”
She lurched back as if he’d slapped her.
“You and me, we’re alone in the world. I would like to make things easier for you. No strings. Just friends, if that’s all you want.” He looked away, and resumed worrying the brim of his hat. “My Betsy died five years ago. Every day, I’ve missed her. Her singing in the kitchen, her step on the stair.
“You know that loneliness. I don’t want to spend the rest of the time God gives me, living like that. No one should have to.” He looked into Ana’s faded cornflower-blue eyes. “I don’t want that for the sweet German lass I used to know.”
Ana stood, looking down on him for the longest time.
“You, take care of me?” She made a scoffing sound. “Look at you, Tim Raven. You can’t even take care of yourself. You are a mess.
Betsy would have a fit if she could see you now.”
He looked down. So did Sam.
He wore the usual outfit: baggy pants, yellowed white shirt, moth-eaten cardigan. But his brogans were shined, his cheeks were pink from a shave and he had put in his teeth.
“My sweater may have a hole or two, but it’s my favorite. And Betsy always loved a man with nice shoes.”
Sam’s heart ached for him. She hoped they’d forgotten she was there.
Ana cleared her throat. “I will think on what you have said. More than that, I will not promise.” Head up, she walked into the house, closing the door softly behind her.
* * *
THIS TIME, WHEN SAM trudged downstairs to get another armload of her belongings, Bugs flopped on the floor of the parlor. She’d decided to move to the upstairs bedroom. It made no sense to camp in the parlor when the bedroom loft was completed upstairs.
“Hey, Bugs, we’re lucky it’s just humid. We could have done this in that heat wave back in October.” Sam lifted the junk box in the corner, dropped it on the stripped cot and looked around the bare room. Since she’d been bivouacked here, the parlor was the only room in the house not yet touched. The floor needed refinishing, and the wood window frames would have to be replaced. The crew could knock this out in a week.
There were details to be completed elsewhere in the house, too, but every day that the to-do list got smaller, the anxiety dancing along her nerves amped up. She finally had a completion date—November thirtieth. The party was set for the first week of December.
She plopped onto the mattress and looked out the side window at the dark clouds piling up in the north. The pounding beat of “Born to Be Wild” throbbed from the radio upstairs, and the call of the road pulled her insides, a hollow, restless ache.
She could head up the coast to San Francisco. Lots of Victorians there.
Wait a minute. Was this her want, or the little girl’s? Was this her defective compass steering her in the wrong direction, yet again?
I don’t know. How would I know?
She thought back to what Bina said. Would a grown-up do this? Well, maybe. There was nothing inherently wrong with being an itinerant building contractor.
