At bedtime, after she was down, he examined me and tenderly put cream on my privates, pausing to make soothing sounds if I flinched, his face sympathetic. He said we had to wait six weeks before we could “make love” again. When he’d raped me it was a hell of a lot more painful but somehow less disturbing. Sometimes I actually forced myself not to react if it hurt when he spread the cream, so he’d keep going. Pain was normal.
When she was a little over a week old I was cooking and needed two hands, so I was about to go put her down in her basket, but he stood in front of me and said, “I’ll take her.” My eyes moved back and forth between him and the safety of her bed—I’d been so close—but I didn’t dare refuse him. After I gently placed her in his arms, he strolled away with her, and my heart climbed into my throat. He sat on the end of the bed.
She began to whimper, and I dropped what I was doing to stand in front of him.
“I’m sorry she disturbed you—I’ll put her in her bed.”
“We’re just fine here.” He bounced her up and down in his arms, and as he gazed down at her he said, “She knows I’m her father and she’s going to be a good girl for me, isn’t she?” She quieted and he smiled.
I turned back to the stove, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely stir the pot—every once in a while I twisted around to grab some spices so I could keep an eye on things.
At first he just stared down at her, but then he unrolled the blanket and took off her sleeper so she was lying on his lap in only her diaper. I was terrified she might start bawling, but she just wiggled her arms and legs around in the cool air. He looked her over, grabbed her arm, then slowly bent it backward. Even though he wasn’t doing it hard, my body tensed as I waited for her cries to fill the air, but she was quiet. He did the same with her other arm and legs—it was like he’d never seen a baby before.
His expression was calm, more curious than anything, and he was gentle when he wiped a bit of drool off her chin, even smiled, but the urge to go over and rip her out of his arms was powerful. Only fear of the consequences overrode it. Finally dinner was done, so I walked over on shaky legs, put out my arms for him to hand her to me, and said, “Your plate is ready.”
It took him a second to give her to me, and as he passed her through the air a look crossed his face that I’d never seen before. He let go. For a heartbeat she was in the air, and then she dropped. I leapt forward and caught her just before she would have hit the floor. With my heart hammering my chest so hard it hurt, I clutched her against me. He smiled and got up to eat his dinner, humming a tune under his breath.
In the middle of taking a bite, he paused and said, “Her name is Juliet.” I nodded, but no way was I naming her after his crazy mom. In my head I called her by her secret name, and other than you, I’ve never told anyone what he named her.
After that he picked her up sometimes, usually when I was doing something, like folding the laundry or cleaning. He always sat on the bed with her, rolled her onto her stomach, and then bent her arms and legs back. She never whimpered, so I don’t think he was hurting her, but I still wanted to run over and grab her—only the knowledge that he might hurt her to punish me held my feet fast. Eventually he’d put her back in her basket, but once he just left her on the edge of the bed like a toy he’d grown bored with. My body broke out in a cold sweat every time he went near her.
When I worked in the garden he let me take her outside with me, nestled in a little blanket tied around my neck. I loved being out there with her, seeing the vegetables I planted grow, smelling earth warmed by the sun, or just rubbing my hands over the down on my baby’s head. Saying I found some happiness up there feels wrong, because it’s like saying it was okay—it was never okay. But when I had my baby I did feel happy at least some of the time every day.
The Freak never let me outdoors unless he was working out there as well, but he usually had something going on, chopping wood, weatherproofing the shutters, staining some of the logs, so I made it out often. He wanted me to repaint the rocking chairs from the porch, and I took them down to the river with me to work on while I enjoyed the sun with my daughter.
If he was pleased with me, he let me just sit by the river when my chores were done. Those were good days, days when I wished I had a sketch pad to capture the contrast of my baby’s milky-white skin against the emerald-green grass, or the way she scrunched up her face when an ant crawled over her. Images of fireweed in bloom, sunlight dancing on the river, and the reflection of fir trees on its surface made my hands itch to paint. I thought if I could just get all that beauty on paper I’d have a way to remember there was still an outside world to return to when things got bad in the cabin, but when I asked The Freak for a sketch pad he said no.
Because it was warm, he had me doing laundry in the river every couple of days—he was big on conserving water. The stupid baths he made me take every night used up a ton of water, but I never said anything. Hell, I liked the way river water and sun made the clothes smell. A rope strung from an apple tree someone must have planted years ago to a corner of the cabin served as our clothesline. That was The Freak and me, a regular pioneer couple.
I first noticed the mallard duck floating around the edge of the river, where the water slowed down, before I had the baby. Sometimes other ducks were with him, but usually he was alone. If The Freak wasn’t looking in my direction, I stopped what I was doing and admired the duck. The first couple of times I went down to the river to wash clothes or just to sit, the duck flew off as soon as he spotted me. But when my baby was a week old I sat on a rock to rinse out some blankets and enjoy the feel of cool water on my hands, and the duck just moved to the opposite side of the river and paddled around, pecking at the water, catching bugs.
The Freak came down and handed me some bread. The gesture surprised me, but I was happy to be allowed to feed the duck.
Over the next few days I coaxed the duck closer and closer with the bread. Soon he was taking it out of my hand. I wondered if he ever flew over my house. He was a reminder of life beyond my narrow existence, and I couldn’t wait to get down to the river to see him every day, but I was careful not to let my excitement show. Practiced indifference was becoming second nature—I’d learned the hard way that letting The Freak know I liked something was the quickest way to end it.
He never let us out of his sight or running distance, but he usually left us alone down at the river. Sometimes I was even able to tune out his presence enough to convince myself I was just relaxing by the river on a typical summer day, smiling at my daughter’s growing awareness of the world. Before she was born, I’d wondered if she’d be able to sense the evil around her, but she was the happiest baby I’d ever been near.
My eyes had stopped searching the clearing for avenues of escape. I wouldn’t be able to move fast carrying her, and I knew my fears of what he might do if he caught us were probably tame compared to the reality.
When my daughter was two weeks old, The Freak came down to the river and crouched near me. As soon as the duck saw him it backed away from my hand and swam into the middle of the pool. The Freak tried to tempt him closer with bread, but the duck ignored him, and a flush crept up The Freak’s neck. My breath trapped in my throat, I prayed the duck would take it, but he didn’t, and finally The Freak dropped the bread and headed back up to the cabin, saying he had to get something ready for dinner. The duck came right back.
I heard a sickeningly loud explosion as his beautiful head blew up in front of me. Feathers floated in the air—landing on me, on the baby, on the river’s surface. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard screams and realized they were mine. I jumped up from my crouch and spun around. The Freak stood on the porch with a rifle in his hand. With my hands clamped over my mouth to hold in the screams, I stared at him.
“Bring it inside.”
My mouth struggled to form words. “Why did you—” But I was asking the air. He’d already left the porch.
With my baby’s wails e
xpressing my own feelings, I waded into the river and grabbed what was left of the duck. Its head was practically gone and its poor bloody body was upside down, floating downstream.
Later that day I learned how to pluck feathers off a duck. I’ll never forget the smell. Tears welled up and spilled over the whole time, and no matter how often he told me to stop crying, and God knows I tried, sobs kept breaking free. With every feather I pulled out of that duck’s body, my guilt mounted. If I hadn’t tamed him, he’d still be alive.
When it was time to sit down and eat our roast duck dinner, I froze. The Freak sat opposite me, and between us, arranged on a big platter, was my duck. I had given in to demand after demand, but watching him carve up my symbol of freedom, I hated him like never before. My hand couldn’t lift the fork to my mouth. It didn’t take him long to notice.
“Eat your dinner, Annie.”
The only movement was tears down my face. It was bad enough I was the reason it was dead—I couldn’t eat it. The Freak grabbed a handful of meat, strode over to me, pried my mouth open, and shoved it in. While I gagged and choked—drowning in duck—he screamed at me.
“Chew it!”
His other hand held the back of my head so I couldn’t pull away, and once he’d shoved my mouth full, he clamped his other hand over my lips. I ate my duck. I had to.
The Freak went back to eating his. I was mesmerized by the flashing metal of his fork and knife as he carefully cut the duck into small pieces on his plate. Aware of my attention, he slowly brought the fork to his mouth and delicately took a piece off with his teeth. His lips closed around it, his eyelashes fluttered down, and he gave a sigh of pleasure. As he leisurely chewed, he opened his eyes to stare at me. Finally he swallowed.
Then he smiled.
That night was the first time I couldn’t look at my daughter while she nursed. She was drinking the duck, drinking my beautiful duck, and I wondered if she could taste my pain.
Last night it was damn hard to stay out of the closet, Doc. My room was so dark, pitch-dark, and I kept thinking that something was reaching for me, but when I turned on the flashlight I keep by my bed, there was nothing. I tried sleeping with a candle, but that just made creepy flickering shadows on the wall. I turned on all the lights, but then I was wide awake. Which only made it that much easier to hear every creak in my house, and it’s an old house—lots of creaks. So the good news is I never slept in the closet last night, Doc; bad news is there sure are some crappy late-night TV shows.
It did give me time to think about fear and all that stuff you told me on how PTSD manifests in different ways, but I still can’t tell you exactly why sleeping in the closet makes me feel safer. All I know is, something about the bed just feels so exposed. There are so many ways I could be gotten to—from my feet, left side, right side, or even from above—too much empty space pressing in on me.
The more painful the stuff I tell you, the more I want to—need to—sleep in the closet. You asked what it is I’m trying to keep away from me, and maybe this is a good time to go into the granddaddy of all my lingering side effects—this paranoid itch that won’t go away no matter how much I scratch.
I just can’t seem to shake the overwhelming feeling I’m still not safe. And I know it’s whacked, because the cops have been totally cool about keeping me up to date on the investigation, especially this one cop, Gary—man, the poor guy probably wishes he’d never given me his cell number—and they’d have told me if I was still in danger. They bloody well have to. That’s their whole deal—protect the people and all that crap. So what the fuck?
Please don’t give me any of the It’s-just-PTSD-natural-after-your-experience garbage. Look, I get that I came home with major hang-ups and fear and shit. Like I said, I thought about everything you told me—even did some research on the Internet. Hell, I was hoping that was all it was, but there’s something different about this. Feels too real.
That’s where you come in, Doc. You have to help me get rid of this obsession that I’m still not safe. That someone or something is out to get me. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting some instant shrink just-add-bullshit porridge answer. Give it some thought. Maybe I’ll have it all figured out in a couple of weeks when you’re back from your holiday—wouldn’t it be nice if this shit was that easy.
Thanks for referring me to another shrink, but I’ll wait for you to come back. For some strange reason, I have trust issues.
SESSION THIRTEEN
Nice to see you back, Doc. At least one of us is relaxed. Just giving you a hard time—I don’t doubt for one minute you needed a break from all this doom and gloom. You do a good job of hiding it, but I know this stuff gets to you. Right from our first session I noticed whenever I talk about something intense, you rip off a corner of your note pad and roll it into a ball with your fingers. The faster you roll, the harder this shit’s hitting you. We all give ourselves away somehow.
Like I said, I’m glad you had a nice time, but I’m a hell of a lot gladder you’re back. Sure could have used you last week. And no, not just because of all that someone’s-still-out-to-get-me crap I was talking about last time, although that vulture is still hovering in the background—something else happened. I saw my ex, in a grocery store, picking out apples with some girl…. God, the way he smiled at her killed me. And the way she tilted her head back—in her tight white turtleneck and designer jeans—laughing at something he’d said…
Before they spotted me and I had to see Luke’s beautiful smile turn sympathetic, I ducked around the corner. Basket ditched in the middle of the store, I walked out, head down, and jumped in my car with my heart beating faster than a crack addict’s. Trying not to squeal my tires in my desperation to get the hell out of there, I pulled around the back of the store, parked far away from any other cars, and with my head on the steering wheel, cried my eyes out.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was mine. I should be the girl picking out apples with him. Eventually I drove home, but I couldn’t stop crying and I never did get any groceries. Ended up eating hard cheese on stale crackers that night while I pictured them cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning, or him kissing her with his hands wrapped in that beautiful hair. Hell, by the time my mind was done with it they were pretty much engaged and naming their future children.
In those few seconds he looked so fucking happy, and I wanted to be the only woman who could make him smile like that. Just talking about it is making me feel all crazy inside. I know I’m supposed to want him to be okay, want what’s best for him and all that, but man, oh, man—does it have to be someone like her? Miss Perfect Blonde, so clean in her white turtleneck I felt dirty just looking at her. I used to wear clothes like hers, used to want to wear clothes like that.
I wonder if this woman, this stranger, knows all about me. She’s probably a nice person too—can’t see him dating someone who isn’t. Maybe she feels sorry for me. God, I hope not. I’m doing a damn good job of that on my own.
After The Freak killed the duck, a piece of me tore off and left a black hole in its place. Terror moved in and brought a giant hand gripping my heart and guts. Over the next couple of days whenever I watched him pick my daughter up, examine her, hell, even walk by her basket, the hand squeezed harder.
One morning she was fussing in her bed and I was about to pick her up when he beat me to it. A little cry escaped from the bundle in his arms; she was still wrapped in her blanket as he bounced her. He put his face close to hers and said, “Stop it.” I held my breath, but she was quiet, and he smiled with pride. I knew it was the bouncing, not the words, that had calmed her, but I wasn’t suicidal enough to set him straight.
“She listens well,” he said. “But at this age their brains are sponges, easily poisoned by society. It’s good she’s here. Here she’ll learn real values, values I’ll instill in her, but most of all she’ll learn respect.”
Shit, how the hell was I going to deal with this?
“Sometimes kids, you know, they tes
t their boundaries and she might not understand what you’re trying to…teach her. But it won’t mean she’s bad or doesn’t respect you, it’s just what kids do.”
“No, it’s not what kids do—it’s what parents allow them to do.”
He didn’t seem upset by the conversation, so I said, “Maybe it’s good if a child has curiosity and tests authority? You told me the women you knew before always made bad decisions over men and their careers, but maybe they were just rebelling because they weren’t allowed to think for themselves when they were younger.”
Still calm, he said, “Is that what your mother did? Raised you to be free-thinking?” Sure, I was free to think exactly like her.
“No, but that’s why I want to give my daughter a better life. Don’t you want your child to have a better life than you had?”
He stopped bouncing her. “What are you implying?”
Oh, shit.
“Nothing! I’m just concerned you might have some expectations that aren’t—”
“Expectations? Yes, I have expectations, Annie. I expect my daughter to respect her father. I expect my daughter to grow up to be a lady—not some whore spreading her legs for any man who comes along. I don’t think that’s expecting too much, do you? Or are you trying to raise my daughter to be a whore?”
“That’s not at all what I’m trying to say—”
“Do you know what happens to girls who grow up thinking they can do whatever they please? I worked in a logging camp for a while.” The Freak was a logger? “And there was a female helicopter pilot. She said her father told her she could be whatever she wanted. He was a fool. When I met her, her boyfriend—one of the idiot loggers in camp—had just discarded her.”
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