Out of the Shadow (13 page)

I took another sip of water while she pondered the implication of what I had said. "How many people do you know who have been together more than a couple of years, and are in what you would describe as a loving relationship?"

She had to think about this. "Not many."

"Yet all those couples entered into relationships thinking they were in love. Just like you. What they were feeling was infatuation. They were thrilled to have another person show interest in them and they felt, perhaps for the first time in their lives, their emotional and physical needs were being met. They tied themselves to this person, assuming this state of fulfillment would continue indefinitely.

            
''Unfortunately, the elation runs its course in a year or two and then dissipates. When that happens, they’re left with the same fears and feelings they had before, coupled with a real sense of disappointment after being smitten. That’s when the troubles begin.

''Without a good understanding of what love is and how to achieve it, they begin to believe their partner is the enemy. They think the other person is withholding what had been given freely before.

''This often leads them to attack one another. There are many ways to attack another person besides verbal abuse or physical violence. Silence and withholding attention are two others."

Becca nodded. "Like my dad."

"Exactly. I don’t mean to dissuade you from a relationship with Evan, but it’s important that you understand what you’re getting yourself into. You need to ask yourself: is this a good time to begin a new relationship? Whether you’ve given yourself enough of a chance to process through what happened with David, and grieve his loss? If you are healed enough from your recent trauma to move on? I think these are questions you need to explore before you make a commitment to anyone new."

She looked down at her hands, busy knitting an invisible scarf, and refused to meet my eye. I prayed I hadn’t lost her, but it was my job to help her take a good look at her motivation before making any major changes in her life.

Finally, she raised her head in a defiant gesture. "I’ve been asking myself those same questions, but it’s too late. There doesn’t seem to be any way to alter the path I’m on. Like it or not, I’m too far gone."

"I see," I said, and this time I did get the picture. "How will this affect your goals in therapy?"

"It shouldn’t affect them at all. No matter what develops between Evan and me, I plan to continue working with you. I can’t have a healthy relationship with him unless I have one with myself. Besides, nothing has changed for the better outside of my relationship with Evan."

I gave her a reassuring smile, hoping she meant what she said. "I’m glad to hear that."

In addition to my concern Becca might be taking on more than she could handle with Evan, it would have been disappointing to lose her as a patient prior to meeting her therapeutic goals. As long as she remained in therapy, our relationship might act as a safety net if the one with Evan went awry—a definite possibility, considering her state of mind. In other words, I wanted to be there for Becca when she was ready to be there for herself.

After her therapy session in Queen’s Village, Becca met Evan at a lunch counter around the corner. She ordered corned beef on rye and he chose a vegetarian whole wheat wrap with eggplant and bell peppers.

While they waited to be served, he inquired about her session.

"It was thought-provoking as always,” she said. “We spoke about a lot of different things."

"Like what?" he asked, reaching across her for sweetener to put in his herbal tea. He poured a packet in his cup and then looked back up at her.

"Like...well...like love, for instance. Here’s a question for you. Do you know the meaning of love?"

Before he could answer, their dishes were unceremoniously dumped on the table with a mind-boggling clatter by a skinny waitress who obviously didn’t indulge in the overstuffed sandwiches or rich desserts served at the deli.

After the waitress retreated, he said, "I believe I do. It’s a mystical union between two people leading to a deepened awareness, connection, and understanding on both their parts."

"That’s beautiful! I should have known you would come up with exactly the right answer.”

"Why do you ask?"

Becca swallowed a bite of her sandwich. "Because I can’t say I’ve ever thought too deeply about the subject. What passed between my parents couldn’t be called love. Most of the time what had been referred to as love was either inauthentic and over the top, or downright nasty."

He smiled at her, tenderness blanketing his face. "I plan to teach you everything I know about love," he said, then reached across the table and took her hand.

A spark passed between them, but she quickly withdrew her hand from his and looked away.

When she glanced at him again, he stared down at the table, refusing to let her meet his eyes. "Is that all you spoke about? Are you going to counseling or a lonely hearts club?"

At his remark, she jerked her head up to stare at him.

He raised a hand. “I don't know why I said that. I didn't mean...”

She hammered her cup against the table with a decided thwack. "Believe me, we don’t spend most of our sessions discussing my love life. We talk about all kinds of different things."

"What then?"

"You name it. Now do you mind if we change the subject?"

He cocked his head in a boyish gesture of appeasement. "I didn’t mean to intrude, but I’d like to get to know you better, and this seems the fastest way in."

"You could ask me a direct question about myself."

"Alright, I can do that. Do you talk much about your rape and David’s murder?"

She laughed. "I didn’t mean about my therapy. I meant about me."

"Answer my question."

"Of course, silly. That’s the reason I’m seeing a therapist: to work out my feelings about what happened. I want to pick up the pieces and go back to living a normal life."

He took a sip of herbal tea. "You don’t see your life as normal now?"

"Hardly. I’m still traumatized, and don’t you ever forget it. I expect to be treated with the utmost care." She smiled, which eased the tension that smoldered between them like a newly lit log.

"Have you tried to recreate what happened the night of the murder, to see if you can identify the intruder?"

"We’ve been more focused on what happened to me as a child."

Evan made a face. "Are you kidding me? You have enough to deal with in the present. I can’t believe your therapist would insist on doing the Freudian frug on your psyche. Are you sure you're not wasting your time?"

            Becca sat back and stared at Evan. She couldn't believe his attitude. What had gotten into him? He typically erred on the side of patience and understanding. Was he betraying a different part of himself? "Why are you opposed to my therapy? Is there some reason you would want to discourage me from looking back?”

“
Now what purpose would that serve?”

“
Maybe you don't want me to remember something?”

He shook his head.
 “I'm not sure what you're talking about. I don't particularly believe in traditional therapy. Too many practitioners spend their sessions dwelling on the past. And their patients remain stuck in time.”

“
Well, I'm not one of them because I’m actually beginning to feel better. I rarely have nightmares anymore, and I’m happier than I’ve been in months. Now let’s forget about my therapy and talk about other things."

She immediately turned the topic to his course work, and the conversation slowly drifted away from her psychotherapy to his studies, but a nagging sense of irritation, like a bitter aftertaste, stayed with her long afterwards. She resented his meddling in her affairs without any first hand knowledge of them, and questioning the difficult, often wrenching work she was doing. She also questioned his motivation for undermining her effort. Maybe Sarah had been right; maybe she couldn’t make a good decision about a man so soon after her trauma. She had to wonder about her feelings toward Evan. Was she ready for a serious relationship with him? Even while he droned on about meditation, her mind traveled somewhere else—miles away from him.

After work the next day, Becca surveyed the street outside her apartment building. After her recent encounter with the stalker, she couldn’t go anywhere without looking over her shoulder.

Inside the apartment, the dim, late afternoon December light filtered through shuttered windows. She flicked the switch to the overhead and carried a bag of
Whole Food’s
groceries to the kitchen counter. Cecil made his grand entrance and rubbed up against her leg. She petted him and fed him before putting the groceries away. Finished at last, she undressed and tugged on her blue fleece sweats and slippers for a quiet evening at home.

Back in the kitchen, she put water on for tea when the phone rang. She quickly placed the tea kettle on the stove and grabbed the receiver before the answer message began. A muted male voice, as though spoken through a distortion device, said, "You must have thought you heard the last of me, but you haven’t. I keep an eye on you all the time."

Becca's heart skipped a beat. "Where are you?" she asked, while sidling over to the bay window that overlooked the street. She stood behind the curtains, pulling them back just enough to peruse the block. No one who fit the stalker's description in her head stood within view.

"You can't see me, but I watch your every move. I haven’t forgotten you. Never forget me..."

"Stop bothering me!" she yelled into the phone. "Leave me alone!" She heard the line go dead.

Shaken, she immediately phoned the police and reported the call. With curtain closed, she leaned back against the wall, feeling helpless. Then she caught sight of the blinking light on the message machine. Hoping it indicated an earlier call from the stalker, as evidence for the police, she pressed the button. Instead, Uncle Paulie’s voice filled the room.

"Hi sweetheart. I’ve inquired after you repeatedly, but your mother keeps telling me you’re too busy for a visit. But I finally convinced her to give me your number so I could call you myself. She wants to do dinner on Sunday with the whole family, and is hoping you’ll come. I hope so, too. I’d love to see you. Give her a holler. Bye until then." Click.

At the sound of Paulie’s voice, Becca faltered. Damn, only hours before she had convinced herself she was doing much better, but the back-to-back calls had sent her into a tailspin. Had she only been fooling herself?

She would bet her newly minted paycheck Julie had convinced Paulie to call, and Becca reached for the phone to offer her regrets when something stopped her. As much as she resented Julie’s manipulation, and found spending time with Paulie repugnant, she couldn’t put the inevitable off indefinitely. To spend one evening with her family, as uncomfortable as it may be, might kick up enough dust to expose what lurked beneath her anxiety. The time had arrived to face her fears...and her family.

She straightened. This time when she lifted the receiver, she knew exactly what to say. She dialed Julie’s number and waited for her mother’s nasal voice to come over the line.

Chapter Ten

With the patient count down, Becca left the hospital an hour earlier than normal. She couldn’t wait for the trip home from work to end, so she could curl up on her couch for a much-needed nap. She dragged herself off the El and trudged the three blocks to her building, up the front steps and into the foyer, anticipating the moment she could lie back and close her eyes.

Then she opened her front door to a startling sight.

The apartment had been torn apart. CDs and DVDs were strewn on the floor; books were piled into a mound. A ceramic sculpture lay on it's side, broken. Jagged pieces scattered about. From her angle, she could peer into the bedroom, where drawers had been jerked open and their contents hurled onto the carpet. Closets were emptied, and the furniture had been moved. Every item she owned had been dumped or damaged.

An awareness the perpetrator might be lurking about sliced through the fog that had descended upon her, and her apprehension intensified. She knew she should back out the door immediately, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the destruction derby in front of her. She gaped at it and groaned, a heavy despair settling over her, mingling with the now-familiar sense of vulnerability and victimization.

Finally she pulled herself away, closed the door carefully behind her, and left to find Evan at home in his condo. When he opened his door and spotted her expression, he hurried her inside.

"What’s the matter? What’s going on?"

Still in shock, she could barely catch her breath long enough to explain after her sprint up the flight of stairs. "S...S...Someone broke into my apartment. I don’t know if they’re still in there. I’m afraid to go in alone."

"Good thinking. Have you called the police?"

"I came directly here."

He handed her the phone after dialing the number she gave him for Sally Mills. A man came on the line.

She sniffled back tears. "Is Detective Mills there?"

"She’s off today. I’m Lieutenant Wantabe. Can I help you?"

"My apartment’s been broken into. Whoever did it might be inside. I don’t want to go back in there."

"I’ll send a car over right away. What’s the name and address?"

After giving her information and case number, she listened to a muffled voice bark out orders. Then he came back on the line. "Where are you now?"

"A neighbor’s."

"Sit tight. A car will be there in a few minutes."

She waited with Evan until the sound of sirens shrieking down the street alerted them to the approaching police. The police officers they encountered in front of her building told them to remain outside when they entered the apartment, guns drawn. By the time she and Evan were allowed in, the police had swarmed the premises, looking into closets, behind curtains, under furniture, and in the bathroom. Most of her possessions seemed to be all accounted for, including her television, surround sound, medication and jewelry. The police came up empty-handed, except for the discovery of an open window in the living room that had been closed when she left in the morning.

"You
 might have surprised the intruder, and they bolted before taking too much," one of the cops said.

In the midst of the mayhem, Lieutenant Wantabe arrived. Although only around five-foot-five, he was a powerfully built Asian in a preppy-looking navy-blue pea coat and red scarf. He handed her a card and glanced around. "Whoever did this wasn’t into interior design."

She followed his gaze and again felt deflated. "It’s a mess, isn’t it?"

He pushed back his hat and rubbed his high forehead. "Don’t you have a burglar alarm here?"

She nodded. "I was late for work and forgot to set it."

"Have any idea what they were after?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

"Doesn’t look like they missed much. I contacted Detective Mills after I spoke with you. She told me about the rape and murder. Do you think this break-in has anything to do with it?"

Becca spotted blood on her palm and realized she had been unconsciously digging her nails into her own flesh. She wrung her hands in despair. "Jesus. Why else would anyone do this?"

Wantabe took another look around. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us. Officer Jefferson here will take a full report. We want you to go through everything, and itemize anything missing. It’s important you do a thorough job."

"I hope you guys don’t think I did this myself."

Wantabe shrugged. "I’ve seen suspects do all kinds of crazy-ass things to throw us off their trail. Hopefully you’re not one of them."

That he was cynical enough to believe she’d stoop to this level just to take suspicion off herself was beyond wildest imagination. What a perverted view of humanity! "You have to be kidding. I’d never do such a thing."

After he left, she gave her account to Jefferson and waited with Evan on the curb while the police cars pulled away. Back inside, she began to mechanically put her apartment back in order. Her first course of business, locate Cecil. She discovered him crouching under the bed in terror. It took several minutes to coax him out before she could go back to straightening her surroundings.

Her desk drawers hung open and had obviously been rifled through. As she put her paperwork back in order, she realized the box containing all her personal and business cards was missing. She checked a second time to satisfy herself of its disappearance. “Damn,” she called to Evan. “They took my card file.”

Evan, who had been busy picking her clothes off the floor, looked over at her with a shake of his head. “What will we discover next?”

It didn't take long to answer his question. While straightening the disheveled living room bookcase, she noticed the missing picture. "Shit!"

Evan appeared in the doorway with a coat over one arm and a hanger in his hand. "What?"

"There’s a photo missing of me when I was ten."

He stood there, shaking his head. "I remember it. Why that?"

"I don’t understand. This gets creepier by the minute..."

Evan put down what he held, took her by the arm, and led her to sit on the bed. "You’ve done enough for now. You’ve been frantically cleaning since the police left. You look exhausted. Rest."

She nodded her acquiescence, but as soon as she sat still, the tears tumbled. She had been through too much lately. Ashamed she couldn’t contain herself in front of him, she wiped tears away with trembling fingertips as fast as she could. "This is awful."

Evan watched her through worried eyes, then took a seat beside her and draped an arm over her shoulder. "It sure is. Whoever did this must have been pretty desperate."

"Or fucked up." She spat out the words, stunned by the surge of outrage that rose up in her like a sudden storm.

"Yeah, could be, but maybe they had a purpose."

She stared at him, confounded. Why would he try to justify bad behavior? "You might be a spiritual kinda guy, but you aren’t a saint yet. You don’t need to attribute a higher order to this low-life. Whatever this asshole’s motivation is, he’s made me feel totally violated. In my opinion, he’s just a criminal, and that’s that."

Hands on her shoulders, Evan turned her toward him. "We might never know why he did this, but knowing might not make it easier on you anyway." He brushed away another tear. "This must hurt a lot."

He obviously knew the right thing to say because it made the tears fall faster. "Worse than hurt. I’ve been having trouble sleeping again. And when I do nod off, I wake up in the middle of the night in terror. My appetite’s gone, and I hardly ever laugh anymore. All this is wearing me down."

"Understandable." He drew her closer. "You’ve been through hell and it isn’t letting up. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help."

"Stay with me tonight. I need to know you’re here. Don’t leave me."

"I wasn’t planning on going anywhere." He trailed a finger across her cheek until it settled beneath her chin.

With a tilt of her head upwards, he lowered his lips to hers. Although tempted to pull away, the heat of his kiss, coupled with the intensity of her need for him, slowly thawed her frozen fear. She had many things to do before her apartment resumed any semblance of order, but she gave in to her desire for protection and passion, allowing him to kiss her over and over again. She ached for him now as she’d never ached for anyone before.

Slowly he nibbled his way down her neck, sending off waves of desire. His fingers gently crawled under her sweater and over her bra. She could feel her nipple harden at his touch, as the waves turned into tsunamis, the passion so powerful all she could do was surrender to it.
 

When he started to pull the sweater over her head, she helped him and arched her back into him so he could easily release her bra. He lowered his head to her nipple and took it into his mouth, suckling it until she was about to burst from pleasure mixed with pain. Slowly his fingers descended to the button on her jeans and he opened it with a flick of his wrist. He pulled down the zipper and slipped his fingers beneath her panties and between her legs. Waves of intense desire washed through her.

Unable to withstand the intensity of her passion for him, she lowered her hand under the waistband of his sweatpants. But the moment she took his penis into her hand, alarm bells blared in her mind and immediately shut off all other feelings but fear.

She froze, no longer able to respond to him.

Noticing this, he pulled back, searching her face for an explanation.

"What’s wrong?" he asked in a husky voice.

She only wished she knew. She wanted him; why had she reacted this way?

She reached out and stroked his face. "I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want you. I’ve just gone as far as I can for now..."

He nodded, took her hand into his and gently, sensuously, kissed her fingertips, one by one. "No problem," he said. "I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes."

His understanding swelled her heart and made her all the more frustrated with herself.

Evan agreed to spend the night with her. But after their earlier foreplay interruptus, she limited their intimacy to kissing, fondling, and sleeping together with their clothes on, unprepared for anything more. In the middle of the night, she awoke to find herself alone in bed. Curious, and a little thirsty, she rose to fetch a glass of water. She found him in the living room, whispering into his cell phone. She overheard him say, "I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I had an unexpected assignment. I’ll call you in the morning."

The second he spied her, he flipped the phone shut, looking a little nervous. "What are you doing up?"

"I’m thirsty. What was that about?"

"I stood up an appointment with an instructor this evening."

She glanced at the clock and immediately doubted his story. "You mean to tell me you called your professor at two in the morning? Is this a nocturnal course? Metaphysics for the insomniac?"

"I only left a message..."

"And what made you lie? Why didn’t you just tell the truth?"

He shrugged. "I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to."

"I don’t know what this has to do with me. Don’t you think your professor might catch wind that this elusive assignment of yours is a myth? You could get into trouble with your program!"

"Nah. Don’t you worry about it. I can take care of myself." He gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the kitchen. "I’ll meet you back in bed."

Becca made her way to the sink, wondering whether Evan had lied to her, and why. Which made her question if he had intentionally deceived her every time he made excuses for not being available. As much as she wanted to believe in him, could she trust him?

Becca poured herself a glass of water and carried it back toward the bedroom. She wanted to shake off her suspicions before climbing back into bed, but they continued to nag at her like a persistent cough, long after she had settled in next to Evan for the night. Uncertain what to make of his actions, because he hadn’t answered her questions or put her concerns to rest, she tossed and turned. Was she disturbed because she had caught him in a lie, or were her doubts merely anxiety because of their growing closeness? Whatever it was, her apprehension had been primed enough to keep a watchful distance from him. Perhaps he would prove himself to be trustworthy in the long run, but that would have to be seen. She couldn’t afford another disappointment in her life.

Or any more danger.

Becca drove through sluggish rush hour traffic on her way to Julie and Irv’s house for dinner. Although uneasy, she had put on her Sunday best: a sleek purple sheath with black pumps and a string of pearls, wanting to appear calm and in control. The Self-Assured Professional was the image she sought to convey. On the way out, she had stopped by Evan’s, soaking up his admiration and quite a few kisses. At a stop light, she fixed her dusty-rose lipstick in the rearview mirror, not wanting to give herself away to her mom.

She pulled into the circular driveway of the stone Tudor and parked behind Julie’s silver Acura, taking a moment to prepare herself for the family encounter. She reviewed her purpose for being there and chanted a number of affirmations to fortify herself—a skill she had picked up from Evan. Once everyone had arrived, she would ask a number of well-rehearsed questions about her early years. She could only hope her family would answer her honestly.