by Julie Cannon
Her room was on the forty-third floor, adjacent to her parents and across the hall from Aaron. Her parents had insisted she come here from the hospital three days ago to continue to rest and regain her strength before the long trip back to San Francisco. Not up to arguing with them, she’d acquiesced but now wished she were back in her own house and out from under the watchful and somewhat smothering eyes of her family.
She never doubted that they loved her, especially now after what Aaron had gone through to rescue her. It had cost a small fortune, which he gleefully informed her that her company had paid. The fact that they’d all come out alive had made the global news wires, and between the newshounds, paparazzi, and the people in the room she’d had enough.
“A little overwhelming, isn’t it?” Aaron asked as he stood beside her. “Everybody’s so happy to see you.”
Barrett nodded, trying to find the right words. “Get the fuck out” wouldn’t do. Nor would “Yes, I got out, but I left others behind. What about them?” So she simply nodded and sipped her glass of ice water. That was one of the first things she’d wanted. A glass of ice water. She hadn’t had anything cold to drink or hot to eat in months, and she’d started with the purest beverage in the world. She’d managed the hot meal a few days later.
Looking around, Barrett felt disconnected from everyone and everything. The shrink her parents had flown over from the U.S. was an expert in trauma and the mental and psychological effects of being held hostage. They’d talked briefly before Barrett realized she didn’t need a shrink, just a little time for herself, by herself, to get reacquainted with her life. She told the doctor as much, who stated that was a normal reaction but that she should see him for at least another few months to help her ease back into her life. She told him that was bullshit, paid her bill, and told him to go home. Now if she could just do the same with everybody else.
Her mother glided across the room, the smile on her face never wavering. As a matter of fact it was the same smile she’d had the first time Barrett saw her in the hospital room a week ago.
“Barrett, darling, how are you holding up? You look a little tired.”
Her mother always thought she looked a little tired. Her mother’s constant concern for her health irritated Barrett, but she cut her some slack. It wasn’t everyday a daughter was kidnapped, held for ransom, rescued by paid mercenaries, and returned home. Oh, and how could she ever forget about getting shot? As if the ugly scar on the front of her left shoulder or the scar on her forehead wouldn’t remind her. Her souvenir could have been worse. She could have come back in a box.
“I am a little tired,” Barrett said, obviously shocking her mother. Barrett had never admitted to being tired even when she was absolutely exhausted. It wasn’t quite a lie. She was tired—tired of all these people. Her mother jumped into action like Barrett knew she would, and within minutes the room was empty except for her family.
“Come sit down, Barrett,” her mother said, tapping the couch cushion next to her.
Barrett turned from her view of the Panama Canal out the window to look at her parents. Ginny and Howard were in their late sixties and today looked every bit of it. Her mother had aged significantly since Barrett had seen her last, and her father had lost most of his hair and a good twenty pounds. She herself had lost forty-three, and the strain of captivity was apparent. Her hair was cut ultra short, her skin dark from the sun, and her eyes alert and wary of everything around her. God, what a family portrait this would make, she thought.
“I’m going to lie down for a while. Wake me when it’s time for dinner.” After a few hugs and “do you need anythings” her family left. Finally she was alone.
She stripped out of her clothes and showered. Even after her return and being scrubbed and disinfected from head to toe, she still felt dirty and grimy. She was anemic due to poor nutrition, had a pestering fungus on her feet, her shoulder ached, and her wrist was still in a sling, but she was otherwise healthy.
The first thing she’d done when she was finally able to shower by herself was shave her legs. That simple act wasn’t easy with her left arm still useless, but it made a world of difference in how she felt. She’d had a decent haircut in the salon downstairs and had bought some clothes that fit. She’d insisted on getting her hair cut the minute she was released from the hospital. She’d never again have hair long enough to be used to grab or drag her anywhere.
Wrapped in a thick terry-cloth robe with the hotel logo embroidered above her left breast, Barrett sat in a plush chair she’d pulled in front of the expansive window. After months in the hot, humid jungle, she found the air-conditioning wonderful. She sipped her iced tea and took stock of her situation.
The doctors had told her that, barring any complications, she should have a full recovery. Other than the scar from the surgery to remove the nasty bullet, a slightly crooked nose, and the scar on her forehead from the cut she’d suffered while being taken, she’d have no lasting physical effects of her ordeal. The weight loss wasn’t too bad, but she could stand to put back ten of the forty she’d lost. The pins and rods that held her reconstructed hand in place looked like a child’s erector construction set, but that too would be removed. All in all she considered herself pretty damn lucky.
Closing her eyes and leaning her head back to rest on the chair, she let her thoughts drift to Kelly. Actually they didn’t have to drift far, as Kelly was always on her mind. What had happened to her once The Colonel returned empty-handed? Did he take out his anger and frustration on her? He’d known, as the only women in camp, that they would bond, and he’d used that fact against one of them whenever he felt like it. She was sure he’d do so now.
The tink, tink, tink of the ice against the glass drew her attention, and Barrett saw that her hand was shaking. It did that every time she thought about Kelly and the others. The shrink had talked to her about survivor syndrome, often called post-traumatic stress syndrome or PTSD.
He’d said she might experience symptoms of anxiety, depression, social withdrawal, difficulty sleeping, and nightmares. He cautioned her about the possibility of flashbacks and how she might feel guilty for being rescued when so many others were left behind.
She’d listened with half an ear because the words applied to someone else. She didn’t have PTSD, for God’s sake. She’d never let her subconscious rule her conscious mind, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Sure, she felt bad that Kelly and the others weren’t with her today, but she had to get back to her life. Too much had happened without her. Her business was suffering, and they’d lost several major contract renewals. She’d missed too much and needed to get a grip.
Chapter Eleven
The mere thought of food made Kelly want to retch. She’d barely eaten in a week and was sick all the time. She’d probably caught some parasite from the water, the mosquitoes, or God knew what else. It was hotter in this camp, the humidity stifling. Everyone was listless, and even the guards didn’t seem to be paying as much attention to them as in the past. At least the punishment for Barrett’s escape had stopped.
For the first few weeks after the daring midnight rescue, the hostages had been stripped naked and forced to stand for hours in the heat, humidity, and driving rain. When one of them finally collapsed in exhaustion, another was punished. Kelly wasn’t exempted from the punishment and actually received more. She wasn’t allowed to treat her fellow hostages, and when The Colonel called for her, he didn’t touch her but tormented her for hours by talking about how he’d caught, tortured, and finally killed Barrett.
Kelly refused to believe his tales, and each time he started in she switched her mind into being somewhere else. She built a new house brick by brick, decorated every room, landscaped her yard, and had barbeques with new neighbors. She was back at work providing superior care to her patients and spent time with friends in the mountains.
She tried not to think about Barrett and what she was doing. She refused to believe she’d been caught and
killed. Her rescue was too well executed, her rescuers too well armed and trained to have failed in the depths of the jungle.
One day, out of sheer boredom, Kelly had asked Barrett to describe her house, her office, and a typical workweek. She loved listening to Barrett talk and was fascinated by her life. It was so very different from her own. She knew Barrett was wealthy but that wasn’t what made Barrett interesting; it was her view of life. As she talked, Kelly couldn’t help but discover their differences.
Kelly didn’t care about money or things. She was born to be a giver, to take care of others. Whereas she was selfless, Barrett looked out for herself. Kelly needed people and a connection, but Barrett preferred to be alone. Kelly would rather negotiate and acquiesce to avoid an argument or confrontation; Barrett fought for what she wanted.
Was she sitting behind her desk ruling the world of business? Was she sitting on her back patio watching the waves crash over the rocks? Was she driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, the top down on her BMW, her hair blowing in the wind? Was she having dinner in a world-class restaurant? Was she alone?
It didn’t matter to her that Barrett was a lesbian. Even when they were forced to strip in front of each other she hadn’t felt uncomfortable. Barrett hadn’t referred to any one special woman, and Kelly surmised that Barrett was transitory in her relationships with women. One night she’d asked her about it.
“Have you ever had a steady girlfriend?”
“No. Have you?”
“Of course not.” The question had surprised Kelly a little. “I’m not gay.” She hoped she hadn’t sounded defensive.
“That’s okay,” Barrett said. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“Thank God. I’m so relieved. We heterosexuals always worry about how people will react when we come out to them. Luckily I haven’t lost any friends because of it.”
“You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you?”
Kelly heard the laughter in Barrett’s voice. “I used to be, but I asked about you.”
“And I answered you.”
God, getting information out of Barrett was proving to be difficult. “Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Barrett,” Kelly said, teasing her. “You don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?”
“Of course I do. I’m a successful businesswoman, or at least I hope I still am. And like anyone in my position, I’ve been interviewed countless times. I’ve always answered any question they asked.”
“I doubt anyone asked why you never had a steady girlfriend.”
“You’re right there. But I’ll save you having to ask again. I’m too busy. I’ve been completely dedicated to building my company for as long as I can remember. Having a steady girlfriend takes time, effort, and commitment. I have very little of the first, am too tired for the second, and I don’t do the third. Thus…no steady girlfriend.”
Barrett stated her position so succinctly Kelly had to think about it for a few seconds. “So you—”
“I keep it light, never stay the night, and make sure the lady knows the rules. What about you? You got a steady beau waiting for you?”
“No. I’m sort of in between, as they say.” For her, however, the time between had been getting longer and longer. The more she dated the less spark she felt, until it had reached the point that she was seriously considering staying single the rest of her life.
“I can’t believe a pretty girl like you doesn’t have guys lined up waiting their turn.”
Kelly couldn’t help but laugh. “I wasn’t always this beautiful,” she replied. “I was quite a bit heavier and a lot nerdier. Now, however, I guess I’d be described as lean, with that fresh, outside glow, and my social skills have definitely improved,” she added.
“Well, I happen to think you’re pretty amazing. If you ever need a date, just give me a call. I’d be proud to be your escort.”
Kelly laughed, a tickle in her stomach at the invitation. Was Barrett escorting someone else tonight? Were they sharing intimate conversation over candlelight and fine wine? Was she planning her seduction and escape? Had she gone on with her life like this nightmare never happened? Had she been changed by her experience? Did she ever think of her?
*
“What?” Barrett asked a little too sharply. Everyone around the table was looking at her expectantly.
“Let’s take a short break,” Debra said to no one in particular, yet everyone immediately jumped up, practically falling over each other to get out of the room and leaving Barrett and Debra alone.
“Don’t look at me like that, Debra.” Barrett pushed her chair back from the conference table.
“And how am I looking at you?”
Barrett didn’t answer her but asked a question of her own. “What do you want, Debra? Obviously you have something on your mind.”
“I want you to tell me what’s going on with you. You’ve been back to work for a month, and I don’t think you’re ready.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“No, Barrett. I don’t think I am. You can’t sit still, you have no focus, you can’t follow a conversation, and you look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks, Debra. With friends like you who needs business enemies?”
“You know I’m right,” Debra said, refilling her glass from the pitcher on the credenza behind her.
“I don’t pay you to psychoanalyze me,” Barrett snapped in irritation, even if Debra’s words were pretty close to the truth. Thank goodness she didn’t know about her nightmares and overwhelming sense of guilt because she was here and Kelly and the others weren’t. She was safe, sleeping in a comfortable bed and had hot running water at the turn of the faucet and more than enough food to eat. Her fellow hostages on the other hand slept on the hard ground, bathed out of a cup, and had scraps of leftovers if they were lucky.
“You don’t pay me at all, which is why I’m the only person who has nothing to lose by telling you the facts of life. Everyone else tiptoes around you, afraid to say the wrong thing.” Debra crossed the room and sat in the chair next to her. She turned both their chairs so they were facing each other, their knees almost touching. Her voice was gentle.
“I’m worried about you. You look worse today than you did when you got home. I can’t even begin to understand or imagine what you went through. It’s completely okay for you to still be a little rattled by—”
Barrett shot out of her chair. “I am not a little rattled, distracted, or any other word you can dig up to describe what you think is going on. There is nothing wrong with me. Now either get everyone back in here or I’ve got better things to do.”
Later that evening alone in her house, a tumbler half full of scotch in her hand, Barrett watched a baseball game. She had no idea who was playing and really didn’t care, but the cadence of the broadcaster’s monologue was somewhat soothing. She used to love the silence after a long day. She would come home after dinner or a business meeting and sip two inches of her favorite liquor and unwind. If she’d been with someone she’d strip, shower, and fall into bed and not move until her alarm went off at five. Every morning she began her day with a run on the beach, two cups of coffee, and a strawberry protein smoothie on the way to work. Now, the silence was deafening.
She couldn’t get her mind to shut down. She was in a constant state of anxiety and every sound made her jump, which irritated the hell out of her. She would never admit it to her, but Debra was right. She couldn’t focus and had the attention span of a two-year-old. She couldn’t sit still, had absolutely no appetite, and had tried unsuccessfully to lose herself in sex. On the other hand some days she could barely drag herself out of bed, was listless, and had no interest in anything whatsoever.
But the guilt of leaving Kelly and the others behind weighed her down the most. She’d read all about survivor guilt and the theories of PTSD and refused to admit she might be suffering from it. To do so would mean she wasn’t as strong as she was before, that she was no longer abl
e to take care of herself, that she needed to be dependent on someone else to help her get through this.
As much as she refused to admit it, her captivity had changed her and she didn’t like what she saw.
*
The nightmare wouldn’t end. No matter how hard she tried to wake up, her eyes wouldn’t open. Barrett knew she was dreaming but couldn’t stop the scene unfolding in her subconscious. It was the same one that played in a continuous loop night after night. Smoke and gunfire obliterated everything, but the one thing she could see clearly was Kelly reaching out to her.
Finally the beeping from her alarm interrupted the reel, and she staggered naked into the bathroom. It was still dark outside, and she didn’t turn on the light but slid open the shower doors and stepped inside. She twisted the cold-water knob and slid to the floor as the icy spray cooled her sensitive nerve endings.
It was several minutes before Barrett pulled herself together and stood. Her legs were still weak, and her hands shook as much from the cold water as from her frayed nerves. She washed her hair and tried not to think. She bathed her body and tried even harder not to think. But being able to lift her injured shoulder only halfway constantly reminded her of her ordeal. Of course the pins and rods in the fingers of her left hand wouldn’t be removed for another few months, and that very public souvenir generated more questions than not. Twenty minutes later she was dressed and out the door, her briefcase slung over her good shoulder.
Barrett avoided Debra as much as she could the next few weeks, not up to another come-to-Jesus confrontation. She busied herself with reviewing proposals, making phone calls, and setting up customer visits. At work she surrounded herself with people who challenged her mind, forcing her to concentrate. She avoided her family as much as possible.