Out of the Shadow (17 page)

"In my nightmares, whoever molested me keeps coming back for more. But it’s something else: it’s also the cologne. I smelled it the night of the rape and I think it’s the same one the molester wore. It’s called
Aramis
."

"But that’s a common cologne! Many men wear it. Why, your dad even has a bottle, although I’ve never known him to wear it much."

"Oh." She hadn’t thought about the cologne being in the house all along. Maybe whoever molested her used Irv’s cologne. Or maybe it was Irv. She quickly banished the thought. "I never considered that."

"What?" Julie asked.

Becca chose not to answer. "Mom, I don’t know what to do. I feel like I'm falling apart. I have trouble sleeping, and when I do, I end up waking up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. This is becoming unbearable."

To her surprise, Julie bundled her up into sheltering arms. Because she rarely thought of her mother as a friend or an ally, this demonstration of love caught her unprepared.

"Whatever happens, Becca, I want you to know I’m here. I might have let you down in the past, but you can count on me now."

Her heart swelled with gratitude at her mother’s support, which surprised her, and made her aware her feelings toward Julie were beginning to mutate from anger into a greater acceptance. She even experienced a degree of respect for Julie’s know-how in handling the awkward situation downstairs. "Thanks, Mom, I appreciate it."

Julie held her for a long minute, then pushed away in her typically brusque manner. For once it failed to bother Becca. "Now, dry your eyes and let’s go down to dinner," Julie said. "I’ll go ahead and make excuses to Paulie while you ready yourself. But be down soon or I’ll come up to get you."

          
Becca waited until Julie had left the room before gathering herself. She didn’t want to pursue her suspicions around Paulie and lose the momentary sense of camaraderie she shared with her mother, but she still hadn’t crossed him off her short-list of suspects. For now she would wait and watch. If she took her time and remained open to clues, more would be revealed.

Later that same evening, Becca paced Evan’s dark-stained living room floor, listening as the sound of her heels click against wood, then echo off the tall white walls and cathedral ceiling. "I don’t know what to believe. Paulie says he rarely babysat for me and wasn’t even in Philly at the time of my attack. He said he could produce proof he was in California, but we’ll see if it ever materializes." She scratched her head. "The plot sickens. If it wasn’t him, who could it have been?"

Evan watched her from his perch on the arm of his boxy, brown futon. "Do you know how many crimes go unsolved? Most of them. Why do this to yourself and your family? It’s been over six months since the incident. Relax and allow the police to do their work."

"I don’t think I can," she said, pacing. "Besides the fact I’m their primary suspect, I don’t think I’ll be able to let down my guard, knowing there’s someone lurking about who has me in his sights." She stopped in front of Evan. "All I ever wanted was a normal life! Now look at what I have."

"Maybe normal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Look at me. I ended up studying all last night, and never left the condo. If that’s how you define a normal life, it leaves a lot to be desired."

"But you said you were going to the library last night. I distinctly remember you telling me that was the reason you couldn’t join me for dinner."

"Oh, I went there earlier. Right after clinic. No, I had to study for my exam last night."

"Oh, I guess I heard you wrong." Or did she? "Anyway, it has to be a heck of a lot better than this insanity. All I’m asking for are answers, yet all I get are more questions. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get on with my life until I figure out what happened." She took a seat on the futon. "It’s strange hearing myself say I’ve put my life on hold, but it rings true."

He sauntered over to the ceiling-high bookshelves lining one wall of his condo, removed a book, and handed it to her.

She read the title,
Man’s Search for Meaning
by Victor Frankel. "What’s this about?" she asked, thumbing through the book.

He took a seat beside her. "Frankel was a Nazi concentration camp survivor who experienced the most horrendous treatment any human being can imagine, and yet, because of his attitude and outlook, he came through the war in one piece physically and emotionally. According to him, with the right perspective, you can walk through hell and come out a better person. He points out you can’t always control what happens to you, but you can control how you react to it. Read it, you’ll see."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"Only that you don’t have to put your life on hold while you wait to find out who raped you." He draped an arm around her shoulder. "You can make a decision to go on with your life and take things as they come." He drew her closer. "And remember, you’re not alone. I’m here with you.
 As a matter of fact, I want to be with you when you go on this manhunt. From now on, I’d like you to take me along."

He smiled down at her with a look of tenderness. Then it mutated into desire. He began to lower his lips to hers, but she pushed him away. Not ready for a repeat of their last encounter, she could no longer be sure she really trusted him. She doubted everyone now, and he was no exception. "Not now."

Flushed, he ran his hand through his layered hair, looking so appealing she was tempted to ignore her reservations.

"What’s the matter?"

She crossed her fingers behind her. "I have to leave for the hospital in an hour to cover the evening shift for Angela." The moment she said this, guilt at telling a half-truth nibbled at her.

"Is there anyone to cover for you?"

Gazing into his beseeching eyes made her wish there was. Or did she? Too confused to choose, she stood. "I have to go ready myself. I’ll give you a holler tomorrow."

His expression turned serious. "Do I get another chance soon?"

How could she answer him? Although attracted to him, she didn’t know her own feelings. Now with Drew in the equation, she couldn’t even try to make sense of it all.

She gave him a gentle nudge. "We’ll see about that," she said, and fled his condo before he could probe any further. She had too many questions herself to give him any answers. And even if she knew, she wasn’t sure she’d be ready to say.

Chapter Twelve

An ache in my belly signaled lunchtime, and I noticed a handful of my audience fidgeting in their seats. "Before we take our lunch break, I’d like to share with you my definition of a psychopath. On the surface psychopaths are charming, intelligent, likable,
 and often successful, but underneath they’re shallow, unfeeling, superficial, and lack empathy. What you see is not what you get. One thing of note is that psychopaths often have a ‘secret life,’ and are elusive and unavailable. If you observe these traits in someone, those could be the first indicators of psychopathology. Let’s end here for the morning and meet back after lunch, at precisely two."

People rose from their seats. I glanced down at my notes to double-check where I stopped, and heard them start toward the door. A couple of hard-core types ignored their hunger pangs and wandered up to the podium for clarification or questions. Once through with them, I glanced about, but failed to spy Adrian. Against my will, my heart sank.

Much to my relief, the door to the men’s room opened and he reentered the conference room, heading straight over to where I stood.

"Going to lunch, Sarah? I’m treating."

I laughed; our lunches are included in the cost of the conference. "Same time, same table?"

"You’re on."

As we made our way to the lunch room, we chatted about the conference attendees. He observed that one of the men had a toupee which looked more like a Stainmaster carpet sample than real hair, and I pointed out the sexy young woman in the too-tight, low-cut spandex top—as if he hadn’t noticed. Today, lunch was being served cafeteria style, and we carried trays full of food to the table. I had more on my plate than I normally eat, but I was famished after a day and a half on my feet.

After we both had a chance to take a few bites, he asked, "What do women see in psychopaths?"

I shook my head at his question. "I would like to remind you, not all women are attracted to psychopaths. Most women who are prey to these guys have been abused themselves, and aren’t able to read the more obvious signals. The psychopath's existence depends upon an ability to dazzle and manipulate. They’re predators. Lying and pouring on the charm are survival tactics for them. One way they lure their victims is by figuring out what the woman wants most in the world, and offering it to her. It’s only after the fish is hooked that their true nature surfaces. While psychopaths are particularly adept at overcoming someone’s resistance, women with good instincts can avoid them, or at least recognize one, before he’s done too much damage to her."

"What is their ‘true nature?’" he asked between bites of meatball sandwich.

"Rage. They’re full of anger and violence. But why am I telling you this? You’ve heard it all before."

He smiled. "I still love hearing it from you."

Oh my God
, I thought.
I can’t believe how obvious Adrian is and how well it works with me.
"What a flirt you are."

"I’m a lot more than that."

"I don’t know if I can take much more."

He captured my gaze and said in a husky voice, "I think you can."

I took a sip of my iced tea to cool down.

"Sarah, what’s your interest in this type of case?"

I put down my glass and considered how much to reveal, deciding it would be prudent to keep my real reasons to myself. "It’s a fascinating case. You said so yourself."

"No doubt, I sense it holds a personal attraction for you."

Bull's eye! "You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?" I meant what I said. His knowing look confirmed he was clever enough to recognize the truth.

"There’s more to this than you’re saying."

"You’re right. I do have a personal motivation, but how did you figure it out?"

"Just a hunch. Are you going to share it with me?"

Ordinarily I wouldn’t, but something about Adrian propelled me to be bolder than usual, and maybe a little more reckless. "There’s a similarity between my childhood and Becca’s, but not as much as you might think. We’re both children of abuse, but mine wasn’t sexual."

His expression turned serious. "I see."

What did he see? I wondered. A woman still struggling with the residue of a difficult childhood, who can’t always trust her own judgment where men are concerned? Who has had trouble standing up for her own truth with others? Because that’s the woman I see.

Suddenly self-conscious, I said, "I don’t advertise this, and I hope you’ll keep it to yourself."

"Of course," he reassured me. "I had no intention of telling anyone else."

I took the ketchup and gave it a couple of strong shakes before it flooded out onto my fries. "I believe, as psychotherapists, we find clients with similar conflicts to be the most compelling. Don’t you?"

"Yes," he agreed. "I do."

"And there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as we’ve done our homework. To the degree we’re still struggling with old ghosts and buried wreckage, we’ll be handicapped in helping them."

He took the ketchup I offered him and put a dollop on his plate. I was amazed at his portion control after my fiasco. "What about you? Do you feel you’re healed enough to help Becca?"

"If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have taken her case," I said, but I
 suddenly had the sense of being found out. This made me wonder if I still bore obvious wounds. But what if I did? Did it affect Becca’s therapy? Or my judgment? In answer to my own questions, I decided to revisit my hypnotherapist, and see if there was more work to do. I made a mental note to call for an appointment the following week.

I glanced over at Adrian, and he grinned at me as if he knew something about me I didn't know. With that smirk plastered on his face I could only hope whatever it was, he was dead wrong.

"Please take your seats," I said. "We’re ready to begin the afternoon session." A cacophony of sounds followed my announcement: the stomp of feet, lilt of voices, and creak of chairs. Then silence.

A woman’s arm shot up over the sea of heads. "Sarah, could you clarify Becca’s ambivalence toward Evan? Was she still grieving David’s death, or was there another reason for her reaction?"

"Of course Becca still grieved her husband’s untimely demise," I answered, "but what made her conflict more profound was her inability to trust herself and her judgment. As I’m sure you've gathered, she had been mildly depressed before the rape and murder, which was only exacerbated by the trauma. With her history of childhood abuse, compounded by her rape, her sexuality had been affected. Under the circumstances, how could she make healthy choices or have a fulfilling sexual relationship with anyone? Her tremendous attraction to Evan caused her to feel more alive around him, but deep down, she recognized her incapacity to have a functional romantic entanglement with anyone until she removed her major emotional roadblocks."

One of the dowdy social workers rose and asked, "Isn’t it possible she saw something more in Evan
 than simply a crutch, Sarah? You make her sound cold and manipulative."

"Good point. I didn’t mean to paint such a stark picture of her, and I certainly don’t intend to imply she didn’t have feelings toward him. I’m only saying she wasn’t ready for an intimate relationship, and part of her knew this."

A serious-looking young man stood and I acknowledged him. He had a shaved head and an impressive viper tattoo on his forearm that snaked beneath the sleeve of his black tee-shirt "Why was Becca so passive to begin with?"

"Her passivity was a direct result of family dysfunction, combined with her sexual abuse. When a child’s nature is repressed, like Becca’s, by an overprotective parent, they tend to react in one of two ways. They either become passive and dependent, like Rebecca, or angry and rebellious, like many of your adolescent patients. The abuse Becca endured cemented those dysfunctional behavior traits, and they became what we call characterological. Even though passivity might appear harmless on the surface, underneath it lies a well of resentment. This explains Becca’s reaction to her mother. As a colleague of mine would often say: ‘There’s nothing passive about passivity.’"

I glanced around. "If there are no other questions, I’d like to pick up where I left off this morning." No one responded, and I continued.

"The night after her family dinner, Becca arrived home late from St. John’s after covering Angela’s shift. Exhausted, she went straight to sleep, bypassing her usual cup of chamomile tea and before bed-time reading ritual."

The phone ringing in the middle of the night startled her awake. The time read 4:45 on her bedside clock. "Yes?" she answered, her heart hammering at the thought something might be wrong with Julie or Irv.

A woman’s voice asked, "Is this Rebecca Rosen?"

Becca acknowledged groggily and the woman continued.

"I’m calling from the emergency room at Thomas Jefferson Hospital."

Now fully awake, Becca levered herself with one arm to a sitting position, squeezing the receiver closer to her ear. "What’s wrong?"

"Your friend Angela Petrocelli was admitted a few minutes ago with severe abdominal distress. Since she doesn’t have any family in town, she asked us to contact you."

"Is she all right?" Becca asked concerned, but also relieved it wasn’t one of her parents with a heart-attack or a stroke.

"To be frank, she’s not well at all."

"Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can."

Becca hung up the phone. Only apprehension about Angela’s condition galvanized her to rise from beneath the warmth of her down comforter into the frigid night air. Shivering, she made a mad dash for the dresser, squirmed into her gray sweats, and gathered her burgundy fiber-filled jacket from the coat closet as she headed out the door. Outside, the street was deserted and eerily quiet.
 She could barely go five feet before fear of her stalker sent her racing back to the safety of the building. She had to decide what to do! Perhaps she could convince Evan to join her.

At Evan's building, she scurried to his condo and knocked lightly on his door, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. When he failed to appear, she pounded harder and called his name. Still no answer. Worried, she tried again, wondering where he might be at this time of night. She knew where he kept a spare key and considered letting herself in, but didn’t feel right invading his privacy.

Instead, she took off at a sprint for her car. No matter what, she had to be at the hospital for Angela. She thrust open the car door and dove into the driver’s seat, hammering down the door lock with an open palm. With no time to lose, she careened out of her hard-found parking space and screeched around a deserted city street corner to her destination, parking as close as she could to Jefferson Hospital’s emergency room entrance.

At the late hour only a handful of nocturnal sufferers sat scattered throughout the waiting room. She sprinted past them to the front desk. "I’m here to see Angela Petrocelli!"

The nurse wore a grave expression. "Please come this way. Dr. Peters wants to speak with you."

The nurse showed her into the treatment area. "Wait here. Dr. Peters will be right with you."

Becca stood awkwardly by the nurses’ station in the puke-green painted room divided by curtained cubicles. She shifted from one foot to the other, eager to hear about Angela. Minutes slipped by. Why hadn’t she been taken to see Angela? What was the hold-up?

Finally, an overweight young woman approached Becca and held out a hand.
 She was thirty-something with curly red hair, warm brown eyes, and a pale complexion with freckles on her nose and cheeks. "Dr. Peters. I’m glad you could come."

"How’s Angela, Doctor? Is she all right?"

Peters frowned. "She lapsed into a coma a couple minutes ago. We’ve decided to put her on life-support. She’s being moved to the Intensive Care Unit right now."

The ICU! She knew this spelled serious. "Is she going to survive?"

"We don’t know. We’re doing the best we can, but she came in here gravely ill. We’re not sure what the problem is, but we’re running tests as we speak." Peters pursed her lips. "Because she’s a nurse and has access to medication, do you know if she took any opiates? Her pin-point pupils lead us to believe she may have overdosed on morphine."

Becca couldn’t believe her ears. "Angela wouldn’t even take an aspirin if she had a headache. I certainly don’t think she would have taken morphine." Then she remembered the sleeping medication Angela had mentioned. "She was prescribed
Ambien
by a doctor we know, because she was having problems with her boyfriend and couldn’t sleep. She might have taken too many."

"We’ll look into it. Is her boyfriend named Elliot? Right before she lapsed into the coma she mentioned to one of the nurses she was with him this evening. We thought he might know what she ingested that made her ill."

"His first name is about the extent of what I know about him. He’s a surgeon she’s been dating for the past few months. Wait...I remember she mentioned he has a private practice in Center City, and he’s associated with Hahnemann Hospital. That’s all I can tell you."