Conflicting Hearts (17 page)

The police officer takes one look at me, stops the car, and
gets out. Instantly, he’s in an authoritative stance as he hovers over me.

“Problem, miss?”

I don’t say anything.

“Shops are closed. We don’t like loitering. Can I see some
identification?”

I nod my head, open my purse, and search for my wallet. My
hands are shaking like a leaf. A minute later, I find my driver’s license and
give it over. He takes it, runs his flashlight over the information, and then
looks at me.

“What are you doing out here, Miss Hayward? It’s late.”

I raise my eyes to him, and my lower lip quivers. “Fight…I
had a fight with my boyfriend.”

“Did your boyfriend assault you?” he asks in concern. He
shines the flashlight into my face, no doubt looking for bruises. I squint and
turn my head away.

“No. Nothing like that. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his
body.”

“Well, you can’t sit out here all night. I suggest you go
back to your hotel or wherever you’re staying.”

“I can’t officer. Please, can’t I just stay here?”

An exasperated look crosses his face. Another set of
headlights approach from the south, and I immediately recognize Ian’s car.

“Oh, God, it’s him,” I moan. Quickly, I pull my hood over my
head as far as it will go and lower my face to my knees and hide. “I can’t talk
to him right now. Please, officer, make him go away.”

The policeman doesn’t say anything. I hear Ian’s roadster
pull up and stop. The officer walks away, and Ian’s window rolls down. They are
talking, but their voices are low and I can’t decipher the exchange of
conversation. A minute later, the cop is back in front of me again.

“Mr. Richards would like you to return home with him. I
think it would be in your best interest to do so, Miss Hayward.”

“I don’t want to,” I protest, keeping my face buried and out
of sight.

“Look lady, I’m not playing the role of some shrink here.
You either go with him and work out your lover’s spat, or you’re going to spend
the night in a jail cell for vagrancy. What’s your choice?”

“You wouldn’t,” I say, lifting my head and looking into the
policeman’s disgruntled face.

“I would. Ian Richards is a decent guy. He’s well known in
the community, and I have no qualms turning you back into his care. You can’t
stay here, and yes, I’ll haul you off to jail.”

Figures.
Kind Ian has a stellar reputation even in
Cannon Beach. I hear Ian’s car door open, and his footsteps approach.

“She’s all yours,” the cop says, walking away. He climbs
into his car and drives off, leaving me alone with my victim.

Ian knells down on one knee in front of me.

“Rachel, I’m so sorry for losing it.”

He touches my knee with his hand, and I push it off. “Go
away,” I whisper.

I hear an exasperated sigh expel from his lungs. “Come home
with me, sweets. You can’t stay out here all night in the cold and dark.”

Why not?
I think to myself. It’s how my soul feels at
this moment. I pull the hood even tighter down over my face. There is no way in
hell I can look into his blue eyes and not die at his feet.

“Take me home…to Portland. I want to go home,” I plead like
a little girl.

“Rachel, it’s almost midnight.”

“I won’t get in the car with you unless you take me home.” I
pout. He remains silent for a few moments, and then relents in an exasperated
tone of voice.

“If that’s what you want.”

He rises to his feet, and I see him offer me his hand. I
don’t take it. How can I touch him? I so ashamed that I want to slink down
the sewer grate alongside the road.

Ian withdraws his offer of help and walks toward his car. He
holds the door open for me, and I crawl inside. Once he closes it, I scrunch up
in the seat and hug the door, still hiding my face underneath my hooded
sweatshirt. A minute later, we’re heading north on Interstate 101. I feel like
crap.

“Rachel. We got to talk about this,” he says in a sweet,
loving voice. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you. Please, forgive me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now,” I whisper. “Time
out.”

He heaves a heavy sigh and accelerates the car. I can tell
he’s upset with me.

“If that’s how you want it,” he replies, annoyed. “Have it
your way then.”

“That’s how I want it.” My voice is emphatic but trembling.

The entire one and a half hour trip back to Portland
transpires in complete silence. I think of the horrible thing I’ve done to him,
and I wish to God I would have never been born. I’m such a whore, and I dragged
him down to my level. He was right. I turned him into my abuser, and there is
no forgiveness for what I’ve done. Now God is going to make me pay for sure.

 As soon as he pulls into my apartment complex and
stops the car, I jump out and run up the stairs toward my door without saying
goodbye. When I reach the third floor and insert my key into the lock, I glance
below. His car drives off into the night, and the man I love is lost to me
forever. I’m a wreck and want to die.

CHAPTER
17

Intense Personal Injury

Monday morning arrives, and I drag myself into my bathroom.
My eyes are nearly swollen shut from constant crying since Ian dropped me off
early Sunday morning. I can’t show up at work today—I just can’t. I pick up the
telephone and dial the number for my boss. It goes to voice mail.

“Mr. Stewart, this is Rachel. I won’t be in today,” I
declare as my voice cracks. “I’m ill.” 

I hang up and walk over to the couch and sit down. Whiskers
jumps into my lap and purrs. He always senses when I’m upset. I pet him and
silently cry. My mind can’t stop thinking of Ian and how I’ve ruined our
relationship.

My cell phone pings for the hundredth time, announcing the
arrival of another text message. I’m afraid to look, but I can’t help myself.
It’s Ian again.

“Rachel, I need to know you’re okay. Please, text or call.”

I finally answer his multiple pesky messages. “I can’t talk.
I need time out. Find someone else. I’m not worth the trouble.”

He doesn’t give up. Another ping announces the arrival of a
return text. “I’m not letting you break up with me.”

I text him back. “Too bad, I already have.”

The phone rings. It’s Ian. I answer it, angry as hell. “Why
can’t you leave me alone?” I bark into the receiver.

“I won’t let you break up with me. We’re going to fix this.”

“You can’t fix it. I’m broken, don’t you get it? Nobody
can fix me. Not you, not God, not anyone. Just go away.” I hang up.

A moment later another text arrives. “I won’t give up on
you…ever.” I want to find a hammer and smash my goddamn telephone. Instead, I
turn it off and then throw it in the kitchen drawer.

The rest of the day, I can’t function. For hours, I lie in
my bed in a fetal position. I’m tired of living. Thoughts of killing myself run
through my mind—from overdosing to slitting my wrists—but I’ve always been
afraid to act out. At least when I think about it, I feel better. I hate
emotional pain, and I want it to stop. If I die it will stop, but then my theological
thinking kicks in and the risk of hell compels me to suffer through it instead.

I relive in my mind how Ian sexually gave me what I craved.
The thought turns me on thinking about being bound, and I start to ache for a
repeat performance. I can’t do this to myself. I can’t reach down and recreate
it in my mind, for I know I’ll be feeding my vile desires. 

Slowly, I crawl out of bed and wander over to my desk and
scour the center drawer. Somewhere, there is the card to my former counselor,
and I have to find it. I’m going to end up in an insane asylum if I don’t get
help.

After a few minutes, her card resurrects to the top of my
messy drawer. I dial the number, and her answering service kicks in.

“This is Dr. Grayson. Your call is important to me, please leave
a message, and I will contact you as soon as possible. If you are in a crisis
and need immediate help, call the Suicide Prevention line at…” Blah, blah,
blah. I wish she’d stop talking so I can leave a message. At last the beep
comes.

“Dr. Grayson, this is Rachel Hayward. I don’t know if you
remember me or not, but you helped me through my divorce five years ago. I need
help again. Please call.” I leave my number and hang up like a sniveling little
girl. An hour later she telephones back.

“Rachel, it’s Dr. Grayson. What can I do for you?”

“I need somebody to talk to,” I cry. “I just broke up with
my boyfriend, and I’m a mess. When can I see you?”

“Well, I actually have a cancellation today, and I’m free at
three o’clock. Would that be convenient?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Looking forward to talking with you, Rachel. Hang in
there.”

Our call ends, and a sense of relief flows through my veins.
At least I have someone to spill my guts to, even if it will cost me $120 an
hour. I have to fix this somehow.

* * * *

The location hasn’t changed, and I feel relieved when I
enter the door. She has the usual “in session” tag on the outside of her
office, so I know the routine remains the same. I pick up a magazine and flip
through the pages waiting my turn. Nothing registers and I don’t even know what
I’m looking at. Finally, the door opens, another woman departs.

“See you next week,” Dr. Grayson says to her departing
patient. She looks over at me and smiles. “Rachel, come on in.”

The familiarity of her office returns. Nothing seems to have
altered—from her chair to the two-seater couch near the wall. The familiar
brown pillows are on either side, and I notice her plants that need watering.
It’s not the most inviting atmosphere, and I wonder if I should bring up the suggestion
it’s time to redecorate. She sits down in her chair, and picks up a pen and
pad.

“So, what brings you here today, Rachel?” 

I’m amazed at how psychologists can jump from one troubled
mind to another with ease. That’s all it takes. The floodgates open, and I’m
bawling like a little girl. She hands over the box of tissues.

“Take your time. When you feel like you can tell me, go
ahead.”

After blowing my nose, I glance up at the clock on the wall
keenly aware I’ve wasted ten minutes of my $120 fifty-minute session.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You said in your phone call that you broke up with your
boyfriend. Is this your first relationship since your divorce?”

“Yes, first serious one. I’ve hardly dated anyone in five
years.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Not very long.” I don’t give specifics, because I’m
embarrassed to tell her I jumped in the sack with him on the third date.

“How did you meet?”

The absurdity of it breaks out a relieved smile upon my
face. “I rear-ended him on the Sunset Highway on the way to work.”

Dr. Grayson raises her eyebrows. “Well, that’s the first
time I’ve heard of a couple meeting that way.” She looks at me. “That memory
seems to make you smile, at least.”

“Yes, from the moment I met him, he’s been the kindest person
I’ve ever known. He’s Mr. Perfect, and I’m Miss Screwed up. We’ve been
colliding hearts ever since.”

“Do you mean your personalities?”

The sadness returns. I look at Dr. Grayson, but then pull my
eyes away from her before I utter the words.

“My abuse issues.” I gulp. “My sexual abuse issues, to be
honest.”

Dr. Grayson flips through my file. “Yes, I remember we
touched upon your past briefly in our sessions before, but you indicated at
that time you didn’t want to delve into that area.”

“I guess it’s time to delve,” I sheepishly reply.

“And what’s changed your mind?”

“Because my relationship with Ian Richards is the closest to
normalcy I’ve ever been. I feel as if I’ve dragged him down to my sexual
perversion.” I start to cry again. “I want to change. I don’t want him to
change for me. It’s wrong.”

“What type of perceived sexual perversion are you talking
about, Rachel?”

“The fact that I need to be hurt to feel wanted and have an
orgasm.”

“All right,” she says, making a comment on her pad. “We can talk
about that behavior.”

I look at her, wondering if this is really going to help or
not.

“Where are you currently in your relationship with Mr.
Richards?”

“We’re not. I told him that I didn’t want to see him again.”

“And what prompted that?”

My lower lip quivers. With each damn minute that ticks by it
becomes harder to express my thoughts.

“We had sex the other night, and I asked him to hurt me.”

“And did he hurt you?”

“Not really bad. I don’t want you to think he beat me or
anything.”

“All right, thank you for clarification. What did he do?”

“I asked him to be rough. It’s the only way I can come.”

“And he was rough, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Did he like it?”

“Obviously, no.” I glare at her like she needs to get the
point. “He was angry afterward. I think he was angry at me for making him do
it.”

“Hmm,” she says, as if she’s digesting my statement. “Did
you make him or did he have a choice?”

I think for a moment. “No, I guess I didn’t
make him
,
per se.”

“Then he had a choice.”

“I guess so, but he did it for me.”

“And what happened afterward?”

“He yelled at me and asked me never to ask him to do it
again, then started crying.”

“I see. Why do you think he acted that way?”

“Because I forced him to be someone he’s not. He said he
felt like my pedophile abuser.”

 “You’re saying you forced him, again. There’s that
lack of choice.”

“Okay, I guess I didn’t.”

“All right.”

 “You have to understand that there’s not a mean bone
in the man’s body. I selfishly didn’t care if he could handle it or not.” When
the words comes out of my mouth, I suddenly get what Ian must have felt.

“Do you think that maybe he was angry at himself for going
down that road, rather than at you?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you talked to him since?”

“Only to tell him to leave me alone.”

She jots a few notes down on her pad, and then leans back
further in her chair looking relaxed and in control. It’s irritating.

“So, what do you want, Rachel? Why are you here today?”

It takes me a moment to think about her question. I know
what I want, and it’s Ian. I don’t want to hurt him with my issues.

“Understanding,” I say with a quivering voice.
“Understanding as to why I want to hurt myself or be hurt, and the courage to
turn away from it.”

“Is that all?”

“I want to believe I’m worth loving, and also that I can
give love in return.”

“That’s an admirable goal. Have you told Mr. Richards you
are here?”

“No, I can’t talk to him.”

“Do you think that’s fair to him, shutting him out of your
life with no explanation because it’s uncomfortable for you to talk to him?”

“Boy, you’re filled with questions, today.” I frown at her.
She smirks. I know I’m hurting him by pushing him away. Now I feel even
guiltier since she shined the spotlight on my insensitive behavior.

“No, it’s not fair.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. Will you call him and let you
know how you feel?”

“Yes,” I relent.

“Will you give him the chance to do the same?”

“Yes, but I need a break from our relationship. If I’m going
to go back into therapy with you, I can’t deal with being with him. I won’t be
able to focus.”

“Then tell him how you feel. If he truly has your best
interest at heart, then he should allow you the time that you need.” She pauses
for a moment and continues in a serious tone. “And no texting or emails to get
it out, either. I want you to pick up the phone and hear his voice or see him
face-to-face to discuss it. “

Busted again,
I groan inside. Texting and emails are
so much easier. Doesn’t she realize that kind of communication was made for me?

I sit there and process all that we’ve talked about, and a
sense of relief flows into my heart. I know this isn’t going to be easy, but I
love Ian too much not to find out why I want to keep my broken child locked in
that room.

We spend the rest of my few minutes talking about how we’ll
approach our sessions, and I set up a payment plan. After making an appointment
for the next session, I drive home feeling like a zombie.

* * * *

It’s been almost an hour since I arrived home. I’ve
procrastinated carrying out my promise to communicate. Finally, I sit down and
write my thoughts down on a piece of paper to read during our conversation. I
might as well run over that deer staring into the headlights ahead of time.
 

When I’m done, I check the time. It’s five-thirty, so I call
his cell. He’s probably still at his office, but maybe he can talk in private.
His phone doesn’t ring but once, and I hear his desperate voice at the other
end.

“Rachel…sweetheart.” His tone is edgy, and I can sense his
sorrow at the other end of the line.

“Hello, Ian.” I look down at my written dialogue and start
reading it aloud. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve gone back to counseling.”

“Can I see you?” he interrupts.

“No, Ian, not now. I need time to figure things out.”

“Rachel, I love you. I’m so sorry for last night. I don’t
know what came over me.”

“Ian, don’t apologize. You made the decision and gave me
what I told you that I wanted.” My lower lip quivers. “It broke my heart
afterward, because I know that’s not you. It can never be you. I’m ashamed over
what happened.”

“God, Rachel. Afterward, I felt like your abuser. I don’t
want to feel that way ever again. I want to love you, not abuse you.”

“I know…I know…” I tell him, with silent tears rolling down
my cheeks.

“I need to see you,” he begs.

“I think we should stop seeing each other, so that my mind
isn’t muddled in the months ahead while I am in counseling. I need a
three-month break.”

“Three months?” He sounds mortified.

“Yes, three months. I’ve got to figure this stuff out in my
life, Ian.” He’s silent at the end of the line. “It’s not fair to you.”

“All right,” he relents. “If that’s what you need, I
understand.”

I imagine the pain and disappointment flitting across his
face, and my heart breaks over pushing him away.

“I want our relationship to work,” his voice pleads. “Do
what you need to do, and I’ll be here waiting.”

“Maybe you need to take this time, too, in order to figure
out why you love me. I’m screwed up, Ian. You can’t rescue me.” I really don’t
think he is, but I still feel so unworthy of his love. “You can do so much
better. You’re a wonderful man, and you shouldn’t love a wounded girl like me.”