The Pretty Ones

by Jamie Lee Fry

  I’m lying on my back, paralyzed. I want to turn my body, but it refuses to move. The only movement is my chest wheezing up and down. The repetitions are faster now. Sweat pools in the niche above my clavicle, and I desperately want to wipe it away. More hot droplets run across the nape of my neck. My breathing is more labored with each attempt, and my throat wants to close as my breath darts away from me, out of my control.

  My hair is wet against my head; I’m burning up. I open my mouth again and the words score my throat. “Someone, please help me.” I feel the words, but no sound follows—it’s as if I can see them floating out of my mouth and evaporating like water vapor on a cold day. But no cooling relief as I draw in what little breath I can; the words burn my throat. Tears pour out of my eyes as I lay there, wholly helpless, screaming with no noise. My esophagus feels torn, and all I can taste is blood in my mouth. I can’t swallow, but merely push all the air in and out of my lungs, faster and faster. The rise and fall of my chest, the taste of blood in my mouth, words that make no sound. Darkness surrounds me. My lungs still snatching at every breath, clamoring for oxygen.

  Both sides of my face are soaked with tears, and mucus is streaming from my nose. I want to raise my hand and wipe my face, but my body ignores my request. My chest and stomach are in sync with each other in movement, going up and down. I swear I can hear my parents yelling my name and yelling out for Jenny.

  CHAPTER 26

  Jenny

  February 2008

  I fly out of bed and throw open the window. I swear I hear my sister yelling.

  “Jenny, Jenny. Wake up, Jenny! We need help!” It is my sister shouting. Joan needs me. Her voice is scared. I immediately know something is very wrong.

  I’m coming, Joan.

  I dash out, run through the yard, and I hear Joan calling for me again. “Jenny, help, it’s Charlie. Jenny, where are you? Help!” my sister screams louder. Her voice is all panic.

  I leap up the stairs, taking them three at a time. I bolt into Charlie’s room, where I see my sister pacing and still shouting for me. “Jenny, hurry.”

  “I’m here, Joan. What’s going on?” I say, ready to assess the situation.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with Charlie.” Her hand is shaking as she points to Frank on the bed with my niece. He looks like he’s trying to wrestle her awake.

  I crawl into Charlie’s bed and gently nudge Frank away. He gives me an understanding look and moves to the end of the bed. Joan watches me as she continues to pace the room.

  Charlie has mucus running down her face and tears pouring from her eyes.

  I study Charlie quickly and carefully. Sleep paralysis, perhaps.

  “Charlie, sweetie, it’s Jenny. Can you hear me?” Nothing.

  I stroke her hair to calm her down. I see the terror in her eyes, but I don’t want to startle her and make it worse. I’m cautious with my movement. “Charlie,” I whisper her name again.

  “Sweet, sweet Charlie Bear, It’s Jenny. Sweetie, I need you to wake up.” I rub her arms and feel that she’s burning up and sweating. Her bedsheets are soaked.

  Charlie blinks. She’s coming around.

  I feel relieved, but her breath is darting out faster than before. She seems more alert, but now she’s almost panting, trying to control her breath. She’s having a full-blown panic attack. “Charlie, I need you to focus on me.” I guide her to sit up in bed. I tightly hug her with one arm while Joan places a tissue in my other hand. I wipe her nose and eyes while caressing her cheeks.

  I keep my voice low and calm. “Charlie, you got this darling, I’m here in your bedroom with you. Let’s concentrate on your breathing. I know this is scary, but you’re OK, nothing to fear. Let’s take a deep breath in. Try to hold it. Deep breath out.

  “Charlie, I’m going to have you try to count your breath. One, two, three, four . . .”

  Her breathing slows down the longer I count with her.

  “Charlie, I need you to say my name.”

  “Je-Je-Jenny,” she slowly sputters out.

  “OK, I want you to point at your dad.”

  She slowly lifts her hand and points to Frank.

  “OK good. You’re doing great.” I hold her until she can control her breath and then Joan and Frank crawl onto the bed to embrace and comfort her. I move over to the papasan chair across the room to give them space. We all stay until Charlie has calmed down and is safely asleep again.

  We quietly sneak downstairs. Joan and Frank are scared and want answers. “Jenny, what was that?” they both ask me.

  I’m the professional, but I’m also scared for my niece.

  Joan tries to keep herself busy as she scurries around the kitchen looking for the tea kettle. This is how she reacts when she’s worried or nervous. She doesn’t know how to sit still.

  I try to gain my composure for them and use my professional voice. “I know that it was scary to see Charlie like that just now, but I think she may have had some sort of night terrors or sleep paralysis and what you witnessed at the end was definitely a panic attack.”

  Joan starts crying. “What caused it?”

  “Stress or lack of sleep, although there’s nothing that I’ve witnessed from her recently that might have triggered it,” I say sadly.

  I let my mind wander while they process what I’ve just said. Charlie has not experienced a tragic event, death, or anything like that, which can sometimes be associated with panic attacks. I haven’t seen any signs of anxiety. The only life-changing event is the pending move to college, and she seems excited about that, if anything. I truly can’t pinpoint the cause down to anything specific, and I feel like a horrible aunt, friend, and psychologist right now.

  Maybe if I hadn’t spent so much time with him, I could’ve seen this coming.

  Joan is still rummaging through the cabinets, and Frank gets up to help Joan find the kettle. He fills it with water and paces the room with his wife. “We haven’t seen her much lately. Maybe we missed something. I’ve been so busy at the office and well, Joan was busy at the floral shop with Valentine’s Day just ending. No one’s really been home for her,” Frank says.

  “Oh my sweet baby girl,” Joan moans.

  My beautiful sister. I hate seeing her distraught like this.

  “Well, Jenny, I want you to treat her. It has to be you. I don’t feel comfortable with anyone but you helping her. She knows you and trusts you,” Frank says.

  “Oh, Frank, I don’t think I can. I don’t feel right treating my own niece. I didn’t notice anything going on in her life before. What makes you think I can figure it out now?” I spout back in frustration.

  “I don’t mean professionally sitting her down and talking it out. I mean more like pull it out of her, get her to talk. Watch Charlie. Keep an eye on her. We know something is going on with her, so we want to be aware. You’re smart; you will find a good way to evaluate Charlie without actually telling her what you’re doing. I don’t want to scare her.”

  I don’t understand why he is being so weird about this. It’s normal for people to seek therapy for something as simple as a panic attack.

  I sit back and cross my arms. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Please, Jenny. Think about Mom,” Joan pleads.

  “Fine. I will do what I can.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Charlie

  February 2008

  My eyes are glued shut and I have to try hard to pry them open. Gross. I feel yucky. I rub my hand along my neck and push away my hair that’s stuck to the skin. Visions of my nightmare slowly come back to me. I was trapped and I couldn’t breathe. I remember I had no control, and everything was spinning out of my reach. Nothing made sense. I remember Mom, Dad, and Jenny were in my nightmare. Chills flush my body. Gosh, everything about that nightmare feels real right now in the light of day. Bits and pieces flutter back into my memory. It was horrible, but it was just a nightmare. Right?

  I slowly make my way out of bed and s
hove my feet into my slippers. I’m sluggish and tired and barely have the energy to lift my feet and walk. I shuffle my way into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror appalls me.

  I look like shit.

  I feel like hell.

  I’m fucking ugly.

  My dishwater-blonde hair is blah, straggly, and lifeless. My eyebrows are like caterpillars, my nose is slightly crooked, and my lips are too thin. I’m so ugly. I’m not pretty like Jenny or even my mom. I frown at myself in the mirror. No wonder Liam hasn’t asked me on a date yet. He’s embarrassed by me. Who could ever love me? I am a fool for thinking I could get a guy like him. I am so stupid.

  CHAPTER 28

  Jenny

  March 2008

  Dark, ominous clouds roll in fast above me as I make my way across the mall parking lot. A tiny speck of rain kisses my nose. A few more clouds loom over the mountains in view from the parking lot’s west end. I can feel the storm is just moments away. I rummage, with one hand, through my black satchel for my car keys as I cross the lot. My darn bag is a catch-all for everything. My keys, lip gloss, and other important items always find a way of ending up in the corners and crevices, annoying the crap out of me. Of course, this bag was designed by a man. A woman would never have done this to herself. I imagine the designer sitting up late in his office, laughing as he plots the most beautiful bags but then makes them useless. The thought irritates me. Note to self—never again buy a handbag designed by a man.

  Dang, still no darn car keys.

  I stop and use my free hand to lift the bottom of bag up and push the contents into my eyesight.

  Finally, the keys!

  The rain starts to pick up as I’m almost to my car. More droplets hit the top of my head and bounce off my stupid glasses. I really didn’t want to wear them today, but my allergies are so bad that I could not get my contacts into my dry, red eyes. Dang you, juniper trees, I curse you.

  I hope that since I gave in and wore the glasses today, I can be rewarded tonight by being able to wear my contacts. I really don’t want to wear my glasses this evening. Although I was once told I looked like a hot teacher when I do wear them, which I’ll take as a compliment.

  I open my car door and toss my bag in the passenger seat. As the engine roars to life, the sky above opens up, and tiny pieces of hail mixed with rain pounce off my windshield. I go straight to switch on the windshield wipers when something catches my eye. I open the car door; fresh rain blows against my face, leaving little drops on my glasses; blurring my vision. I reach for the white envelope that is tucked under my wiper blades. It’s already sopping wet.

  Really? A parking ticket.

  I don’t see what parking law I’m violating. I will deal with this later. I toss the soggy letter next to my purse. It will have to dry up a little before I can even open it anyway, otherwise, it will just rip, and be a lost cause.

  My phone buzzes; I see it is a message from him. A smile spreads across my face, making me forget my little annoyances from moments ago.

  Pick you up at 7. Reservations at 7:15. Wear something sexy ;)

  “I did buy myself something sexy,” I say out loud. I’m pretty pleased with my new purchase of a racy yellow dress with a deep V-neck and a high slit up the right leg. I almost bought the safe black dress that I could also wear to work, but then I thought if I can wear it to work, then it’s not a date dress. I can’t help but feel giddy thinking about tonight. It’s the first real date we’ve been on outside my house. It’s a big step for us. We are taking our relationship out of the bedroom and out on the town. He was so cute the last time we were together. He kept going on about this incredible steak house right here in town. He couldn’t believe I have lived here almost my entire life and have never been to this apparently iconic restaurant. I swear he went on for five minutes about these darn steaks. He insisted to take me on a date there. I found it cute how excited he got over food. He is a man who knows what he likes, and right now, he seems to really like me, and, of course, steak.

  I know I need to keep my focus on Charlie, but right now, I’m not sure what to do to help her. I’ve been keeping an eye on her along with Frank and Joan, but tonight I’m going to let myself have a little bit of fun. We don’t think Charlie remembers the panic attack or anything from that night. Frank won’t let us directly ask her what happened. He thinks it’s for the best if she doesn’t remember. I told Frank he’s just making my job harder by not letting me address it head on, but I have to respect his wishes. I promise my attention and focus will be on her first thing tomorrow. I will get to the bottom of her panic attack.

  I finally make it home and pull down the alleyway to park my car. I reach for the bag and my purse from the passenger seat. I almost forget about the little white envelope with my supposed ticket. As I reach back for it and it’s almost in my hand, I am caught completely off guard. I must have only seen the back of the envelope when I was in the rain at the mall. It is obviously not a ticket because it’s addressed To Jenny. It is meant for me.

  Who left me a little note?

  I run inside and carefully open the letter at my kitchen counter. It’s wet and hard to peel out of the envelope. I’m careful so I don’t tear the entire thing apart. I rip the edge, but the rest comes out nicely. I spread the damp note out on the countertop to read it.

  To Jenny,

  I know what you’ve been doing, and it’s wrong.

  What? Is this a prank? Some kind of messed-up joke?

  No one knows anything about us. Do they?

  Guilt for my secret briefly touches the surface, but I push it back down.

  If it didn’t have my name on it, I would assume it was a mistake. Too much of a coincidence for all that to be for the wrong Jenny. Right?

  Could it be from one of my clients? Perhaps Marvin, my ten o’clock appointment this morning. I was distracted during our session, thinking about what I would wear tonight. Did he sense that I wasn’t giving him my attention? Or perhaps it was my one o’clock, Beverly? Did one of them follow me to the mall? They’ve both been known to stalk people and do some crazy things for attention. Both seem unlikely though.

  I don’t recognize the handwriting. It’s sloppy and angry-looking, if handwriting can be angry. Either way, the note doesn’t have a pleasant feel. Whoever did this unquestionably wrote it in haste, and the rain didn’t help the feel of the note. The letters are practically dripping off the page. I feel like they could pour off the page and puddle at my feet.

  Oh, crap. I’m going to be late.

  I really don’t want to be late. I don’t have time to deal with this awful letter from an unknown author. I can’t let it consume me, but someone thinks they know something.

  I put the letter in the top drawer of my desk. I can figure it out later, but not tonight.

  I haven’t been this happy in a long time and he makes me happy, so I’m not going to let this note ruin my evening.

  I shower and put myself together quickly. I’m happy my eyes are better, and I can wear my contacts.

  The dress fits as expected, and my hairstyle works perfectly; down with a few curls scattered throughout. My long brown mane is still pretty and luxurious; most women my age started to see their hair thin or have even turned gray already. This girl I went to high school with turned almost 100 percent gray by the time she was thirty. She didn’t even bother to try and cover it up. I know I’m too vain for that and would have to color my hair, at the first sight of gray.

  The doorbell rings, interrupting my thoughts.

  Oh, he is here! I squeal, a little shriek of excitement.

  I answer the door. He smiles his beautiful wide grin and hands me a single red rose. I beam and playfully ask, “What is this for?”

  “It’s the one-month anniversary since we started dating, or whatever you want to call what we’ve been doing,” he replies and winks at me.

  “Oh my,” I say, startled by his thoughtfulness. “You are too sweet. Thank you for my rose.” />
  He gives me a coy smile, and I set the flower on the counter. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me into him.

  “We’ve got a few minutes,” he whispers into my ear. The warmth from his breath makes my body tingle. He kisses the length of my neck softly and then pulls me into my bedroom. He undoes my dress with one hand, and it slinks off my body and onto the floor. For a brief second, I think about my dress getting wrinkled, but he quickly interrupts my thoughts by pulling me back into the moment with a long, passionate kiss. I yearn for more.

  I take my time undressing him. Slow and sexy, but I can sense he’s ready to play. He likes to be in control in the bedroom. It’s been a nice change for me. I’m always the one in control of every aspect of my life. I never get to just let go and let someone else pull the strings. I get a rush from it.

  He prefers things a little kinky and I play along. His confidence in the bedroom is a major turn-on.

  “Babe, do you trust me?” he says and he pushes me back onto the bed.

  I nod and smile. I watch as he walks over to his pants coiled up on the floor. He pulls two long strings of twine from the pocket.

  He struts back to my bed, kisses the top of my forehead, and continues until he has kissed every inch of my body down to my toes. I’m shivering with anticipation.

  “Give me your hands,” he asks.

  I hold them out and he takes one wrist at a time and ties them to each bedpost.

  I’m lying face up and spread across the bed with my wrists held hostage firmly in place by my bedposts. Helpless.

  “It’s not handcuffs, but it will work,” he says.

  “Well, this is new,” I say, with a little uncertainty in my voice. But it’s not handcuffs, like he said. I can handle a little twine. I try to reassure myself that this is OK. Not being in control gives me an unknown tingle.