Dark

by Aleatha Romig

  “Maybe we can do it together?”

  Reid

  It took every ounce of self-control to not rip the envelope from Lorna’s grasp and stow it away where the contents were incapable of threatening her well-being. As I forced myself to do what Lorna asked—to be present, an unusual memory came to mind.

  I was probably eight or nine years old. A relatively quiet child, I was rarely in trouble. Yet that day there’d been something that happened in my classroom. This many years later, I can’t recall the exact incident, although I remember the topic: another boy told me I didn’t have a dad. I did. He was no longer with us, but I had one.

  While the incident remained in my memory, it didn’t imprint upon my psyche as much as what happened later at home.

  Sitting in the living room of the home I shared with my mother and grandmother, my knees trembled as I held an envelope with my mother’s name written in scrolling letters over the surface. My teacher told me to deliver it. Of all the assignments I’d had in my short life, it was the hardest.

  In my child-aged mind, whatever was in the letter was going to end so much worse than what happened at school. It wasn’t that I feared my mother’s or grandmother’s punishment as much as it broke my little boy heart to cause either of them distress. They were both still reeling from the aftershocks of my father’s death. Even at a young age, I knew they were working to make our lives continue albeit in a way my mother had never imagined, and here I was, giving them grief they didn’t deserve.

  Mother and Grandmother sat with their eyes fixed on me, not the letter.

  “What happened, Reid?” my mother asked.

  I handed her the envelope.

  “No, son,” my grandmother admonished, “your mother asked you a question. We’ll look at that letter in time. Now you need to explain what we’ll read.”

  “I don’t know what she wrote.” I didn’t. The letter was sealed. If I’d have opened it, they would’ve known.

  “You don’t know what she wrote?” Grandmother asked.

  My head shook in time with my hands and knees.

  “Bring the letter here,” Mom said. Her demand wasn’t stern but instead laced with compassion.

  I knew from experience that she didn’t mean to simply hand it to her but to stand and walk toward her. With my chin near my chest and eyes down, I took small steps, finally reaching the spot before her skirt-draped knees. I lifted the envelope.

  My mother took it and placed it on her lap before reaching for my chin and lifting my eyes to hers. “Reid Murray, keep your eyes up. Don’t you ever let someone else determine your worth. You’re a good boy. You will be a good man. I don’t know what this letter says, but I know what’s here” —she laid her hand on my shirt over my heart— “and here.” She touched my forehead. “Nothing in that letter will change that.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Good, son. There isn’t anything wrong with an apology, especially if it comes from your heart. Real men can be sorry,” Grandmother said. “But it takes more than saying it. It takes an honest heart. Apologies are useless if you don’t learn from your mistake and decide to do better in the future.”

  Mom lifted the envelope. “Did you learn anything today from whatever your teacher is going to tell us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll try to do better the next time?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then it’s a good day,” Grandmother said with a smile.

  As Lorna’s arm beside me tensed, I had no idea why that memory had returned at this moment. It had been a long time since I’d remembered our home and the wisdom of my mother and grandmother. And yet in barely a second, that entire scene had sped through my thoughts.

  Lorna placed the envelope in my hand and folded back the flap.

  It wasn’t sealed.

  I reached for her hand as our eyes met. “Sweetheart, I want to tell you something I just learned, just now.” I didn’t care that Dr. Dixon was listening. My confession couldn’t wait.

  “Reid, the results...”

  My finger came to her soft pink lips. “I learned something I have known but now is reinforced. I know something I already knew, but now it’s overwhelming.”

  Lorna swallowed as a rogue tear slid down her battered cheek.

  “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. I’m so fucking lucky to call you my wife, and I will love you every day I take a breath. I’ll be here while you read this. I’ll hold you and love you. I’ll spend every fucking day making up for my lack of protection, but not one second will be spent disparaging the greatest woman I’ve ever loved.”

  The envelope fell to my lap. As Lorna lifted her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shirt, my embrace surrounded her. If only I’d been with her. If only I would have protected her. For a moment, I held her as her breathing steadied. When she pulled away, her eyes were dry.

  “I love you. I need to know this.”

  We both turned to Dr. Dixon who nodded.

  Lorna lifted the envelope from where it had fallen and again lifted the flap. The report within was four pages and stapled in the corner. There were numbers and percentages. There were listings for the different tests ran.

  Surface DNA as well as internal.

  Collection data.

  Presence of spermicide.

  Discussion of clinical observation and results.

  Lorna scanned the first page and then the second. Her eyes met Dr. Dixon’s. “It says you took pictures.”

  “It’s standard. I didn’t include them in the report, but I can get them.”

  Lorna’s arm began to tremble as she turned the final page. “It says 97.9 percent?”

  Dr. Dixon nodded. “It is unusual to have one hundred percent in these types of reports.”

  “Why is there any doubt?” I asked.

  Dr. Dixon sat taller. “Lorna, it is my medical opinion that you were not raped in the common understanding of the word.” Before we could question, she continued, “There was no trace of spermicide or evidence of prophylactic usage.”

  My wife exhaled as her hand returned to mine.

  “While you suffered an attack or multiple attacks,” the doctor continued, “your perineum region was relatively unharmed.”

  “Relatively?” I asked.

  “Lorna was injured over her entire body. The injuries she sustained were not consistent with forced penetration.”

  “Then why doesn’t the report say one hundred percent?” Lorna asked.

  Dr. Dixon reached over to Lorna’s knee. “I do not believe you were raped.”

  Lorna nodded, yet her voice was unsure. “Okay, you’ve said that. What aren’t you saying?”

  My arm went around Lorna’s shoulder, pulling her closer. “You have your answer.”

  Lorna lifted the paperwork. “Then it should say one hundred percent.”

  Dr. Dixon took a breath and sat back, her neck straight. “Lorna, three pubic hairs were found, one on your skin and two in the fibers of your underwear. Those three pubic hairs were not yours or Reid’s.”

  The resolution we’d sought, the one that had been so close, was stained by the presence of three hairs. Red filled my vision as I worked to stay seated.

  Lorna’s head came to my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  My hands went to her cheeks as I turned her face to mine. “We will find out who did this.” Still holding Lorna’s face, I turned to Dr. Dixon. “I’m assuming you have DNA or some identifying data?”

  “It should be turned into the authorities.”

  Releasing my wife, I stood. “Doctor, I think you know.” I put out my hand. “We are the authorities. No one else needs to be involved.”

  Dr. Renita Dixon had been involved with the Sparrows for too long not to fill in the blanks. Nodding, she reached into her purse, removed a second sheet of paper, and placed it in my hand.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I looked down at my wife. “I told you that you’re a f
ighter.” I reached for her hand, encouraging her to stand. Once she did, I stared down into her emerald gaze, wishing I could make all the sadness and indecision disappear. “Sweetheart, you are here with me and that’s what matters.”

  Dr. Dixon also stood. “Lorna, I can imagine these results don’t answer all your questions.”

  “I don’t think all my questions will ever be answered.” She took a ragged breath. “But this helps. I wasn’t raped.” She looked up at me. “Thank you for having the kit done.”

  The last thing I deserved in this situation was praise.

  “Sexual assault,” Dr. Dixon began, “isn’t limited to penetration.”

  Before she could continue speaking, I stood taller and interjected, “Dr. Dixon, thank you for making a special trip and delivering this information in person. I’m sure Robert is waiting. May I walk you to the elevator?”

  She nodded before turning to Lorna. “You have a great support system. That includes me. Anytime you want to talk, Lorna, I will make the time.”

  “Enjoy the symphony.”

  “Get some rest.”

  As Renita and I left the apartment and walked through the common area, she paused. “Reid, I don’t expect that I’m saying anything you don’t realize, but as I was about to tell Lorna, sexual assault isn’t limited to penetration. Your wife was not penetrated. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t assaulted. Without her memory, we can only speculate at how those hairs made their way onto her body and clothes.”

  My teeth clenched as she spoke.

  “It’s a misconception that only the act of forced or coerced penetration is psychologically harmful.”

  The paper she’d given me with the DNA information on the hairs was in my front pocket. I patted it. “Doctor, we will take care of this.”

  Though she wasn’t much older than us, her gaze shone with the wisdom that comes from both experience and knowledge. “One day, Lorna may remember. On that day, that minute, that second, she will need to know that even if it wasn’t what is commonly referred to as rape, her trauma is real and she should be free to express it any way that will help her deal with it.”

  My Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re saying not to downplay it. You don’t need to worry about that. Whoever this DNA belongs to isn’t long for this world. Downplaying is not my plan.”

  Renita pressed her lips together. “You have dealt with trauma too. It’s important to realize this isn’t only affecting her. I hope that you two can come to the point where you can help one another. What is best for you may not be best for your wife.”

  I reached out and hit the button for the elevator. Once the doors opened and Dr. Dixon was within, I hit the G. “Thank you. Enjoy the symphony.”

  As the doors closed, the phone in the pocket of my jeans vibrated.

  It was a text message from Sparrow. He was on his way back to the tower and wanted a briefing with all of us.

  When I opened the door to our apartment, Lorna wasn’t there.

  A brisk walk to our bedroom and I found her in the bathroom, pulling her long red hair back into a ponytail. I went behind her and wrapped my arms around her. The top of her head came below my chin as we both stared into the mirror.

  “Sparrow wants me on 2.”

  “That’s fine. I’m headed up to the penthouse.”

  “Are you sure,” I asked, searching her reflection for a reaction from the test results. “Laurel said they’d bring food down. I can come back as soon as the briefing is over.”

  My wife spun in my arms, a new smile on her lips as her petite hands came to my chest. “Reid, I have an answer. I wasn’t raped. Now I can search for more with that reassurance.”

  Her voice was strong and clear, and her eyes were no longer moist. The signs were there that everything would be better, but what if it was a facade? What if, like Dr. Dixon said, even this slice of peace would be annihilated when her memories returned?

  “Come up to the penthouse for dinner when you’re done on 2,” she said, walking into our bedroom before she stopped. “Oh, and tell Mace we can talk about my dream another day.”

  “Your dream?”

  “Yeah, he heard me telling Laurel and freaked. I know he’s hiding something, but tonight, I don’t want more confrontation.”

  “Hiding something?”

  I knew what he was hiding. It was what earlier today I’d told him needed to be shared.

  There was a woman on ice in a makeshift morgue on 1. It was amazing what resources we could find when we needed them. It wasn’t like we could take her to the Cook County morgue. There would be questions whose answers we didn’t know or weren’t willing to provide.

  “You know what?” she asked. “Tonight, I don’t want to know what he’s hiding. No more information. I’m on overload, and this was one bit of good news.” She tilted her head to the side. “Can you talk to him and make sure he understands?”

  “Sweetheart, if that’s what you want.”

  Lorna came back in the bathroom and after resting her hand on my chest, lifted to her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. “I do. Thank you.”

  As she walked away, I contemplated a thought I hadn’t had since Mason’s accident, since Lorna found the tickets to England. It hadn’t occurred to me since, but now it was here.

  Maybe it was time to take my wife away to someplace safe and leave the dangers of the Sparrow world, the Order, and the underground behind.

  While that thought swirled through my mind, the paper in my pocket brought me back to reality. First, I needed to know the owner of the hair.

  Lorna

  At nearly midnight, with sleep just out of my reach, I stepped from the shower. While steam rippled through the bathroom, water dribbled down my body in small streams to the bath mat below. My nipples hardened from the cooler air as, forgoing a towel, I walked nude to the vanity and turned on a heat lamp above.

  Water droplets glistened in the warm light as I stared at myself. I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to take yet another shower, but I had. I lifted my face to the glow, taking in the radiating warmth with the knowledge that I was clean.

  Returning my line of vision to the large mirror, I took in my reflection. My bruises were still present. Yet I concentrated on other aspects of my image, such as my long red hair piled messily upon my head. I brushed away small wisps of curls clinging to my face and neck as my skin dried, the moisture continuing to evaporate under the warm lamp from above.

  As if I were in a daze, each act required thought. It was like I’d forgotten routines I’d done for years. Seeing my toothbrush in its holder reminded me to brush and floss. There was no set time, no number of strokes. Battling thoughts and flashes of memories—ones that seemed disjointed by time and space—I found myself floating in a continuum, unable to make sense of the world in any dimension.

  Next, finding my hairbrush, I loosened the hair tie and began smoothing my unruly long locks. The humidity in the shower returned life to the curls, making my mane difficult to tame. I tugged on one strand, brushing and running the tangle-free curl through my fingers.

  There was a flash of something. Dropping my hairbrush, I jumped back. My arms reached to cover my nakedness as my skin peppered with goose bumps, and my heart pounded in an erratic rhythm.

  Whatever had just happened wasn’t a complete thought.

  I lifted a strand of my hair and stared down.

  That was it, but in the flash, the hand wasn’t mine.

  It was big and dirty.

  As I concentrated on the hand, my body became rigid. The air was no longer filled with the sweet aromas of shampoo, conditioner, or lotions. My nose scrunched at a horrible stench. I closed my eyes as my stomach twisted, and I saw the hand with dirty fingernails tugging on a long red curl.

  It was as real as if someone had been right here with me.

  And then it was gone—all of it.

  My head shook as I reassuringly reached for the vanity and took in our master bath. The scent of lavender from
my shower gel returned, suspended in the moist air. The glass stall where I’d been dripped within from the condensation. The tile work throughout was colorful and ornate. Plush towels hung from the racks, and my long robe dangled from a hook. Though my heart still beat too fast, the reflection in the mirror confirmed that I was alone.

  I turned a complete circle, taking comfort that my surroundings were not those in the flash.

  Was this what Laurel meant?

  A flash that made no sense?

  No matter how I tried, I couldn’t place the scene, the hand, or the feeling.

  Taking a deep breath, I willed my heartbeat to normalize as I bent down and retrieved my hairbrush from the floor. Forcing a smile at my reflection, I spoke, “It’s the drugs they gave you.” Saying it aloud gave my proclamation authority. And though I didn’t speak aloud again, my mind continued the conversation, creating plausible answers.

  The loss of memory and thoughts of my dream were conjuring up scenes from fiction. Perhaps it had been a book or a movie I’d seen and long forgotten. My mind was simply too tired and confused to differentiate a distinction.

  As my skin continued to air dry, I took my time applying lotion gently over the bruises while adding antibiotic cream to the cuts and bites. The scent of eucalyptus replaced the lavender. Clean and fresh, the aroma infiltrated my senses, relaxing me as I reached for the bottle of sleep aids I’d received after asking Laurel.

  After filling a cup with water and opening the lid, I shook two into the palm of my hand.

  Indecision slowed my movements.

  The tablets were white and round, yet I worried how they’d affect me.

  I recalled the scene of terror at the flash I’d just experienced.

  If perhaps I could sleep without dreams...

  With a shake of my head, I placed one back in the bottle and hurriedly tossed the remaining tablet into my mouth, taking a drink of water, and swallowed. As the ajar door to the bedroom opened wide, I spun, facing the intruder and bringing the bottle and my arms to cover my breasts.