Redemption (Desire Never Dies)

by Clara Grace Walker

  Tears came quickly to her eyes. “I didn’t want to.”

  “Oh right. I forgot. He raped you.” Mama pronounced the word sarcastically. “Never mind how you ran around in all those short skirts and dresses, turning him on all the time. No. Let’s just call it rape.”

  Mindy’s tears came harder. The memory of being held down, of closing her eyes, but still smelling his cigar smoke while he did what he did, would haunt her forever. “It was rape.” The words came out in a whisper.

  “You don’t even care that he’s dead, do you?” Mama leveled a hateful glare at Mindy.

  No. She didn’t care. God help her, she was glad for it.

  “He’s dead because of what you said. Shanked and beaten in prison because you called him a rapist and a child molester. It’s your fault Frank’s dead. You killed him. You wanted to have sex with him, because you’re nothing but a slut. And then you had him thrown in prison and killed. You need to take responsibility for what you’ve done.”

  She had been a virgin. Frank took that from her. Why didn’t Mama believe her? Why did they keep having this conversation?

  “And now you’ve gone and given away Frank’s baby.” Mama picked up another can of beer from the half-empty case sitting at her feet, popped the tab and started drinking. “You gave that little boy away like some piece of trash you were getting rid of.”

  Thinking about the baby made Mindy cry harder. She’d held him for only a minute, but she remembered every detail: the dark hair and blue eyes, his incredibly soft, puffy cheeks, the way he smelled, those tiny hands curled into fists. Six pounds, five ounces and twenty inches long. So light it had felt like she was holding a doll. She’d loved him, and she’d given him away. She never wanted him to know he was the son of a rapist.

  “I should have given you away,” Mama said.

  “I know, Mama. I wish you had.”

  Reduced once more to tears, Mindy pushed the memory away. As much as it had hurt to leave Earl, at least he didn’t hate her. And keeping her secret was the only way to make sure her son would never learn the truth of his conception. She had to protect him from that, no matter the cost.

  She had to stop thinking about Earl. It hurt too damn much. Like a wound that would never quite heal. One more scar to go with the rest.

  Dully, she lifted her head from a cushiony pillow, felt her head throb even more, and lay back down. From somewhere outside she heard the cries of gulls and smelled an ocean-scented breeze. Where was she? Her last clear memory was shopping on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

  Opening her eyes fully now, she took in her surroundings. The room she was in was large and comfortable, done in shades of aquamarine and beige. The outside wall was made of glass, showing off a view of dense, green vegetation, still bathed in early morning light. The glass wall held two screened windows, one of which had been opened to let in the breeze. She slept in a queen-size bed with a blue and gold comforter. Across the room was a dresser, a plain one done in cherry wood, with a matching chair and writing desk. The desk was bare. No books. No paper. No pens. Strange, she thought. Who kept a bare writing desk? She looked at the walls. One held a painting of a seascape, done in pastel hues, and looking very much like something found on a hotel room wall.

  Another wall boasted a large, framed version of the serenity prayer. Her grandmother had kept a copy of that prayer on the wall of her dining room back in San Diego. They used to sit together there, listening to Grandma’s old forty-fives and putting together puzzles. They would sing the songs together, and Grandma would tell her what a beautiful voice she had. Grandma had died when she was six. Mindy’s childhood had died with her.

  Mindy looked around some more, trying to figure out what was missing. Clocks, she realized. Clocks were missing. Nothing to indicate what time it was, or even what day. Panicked trickled into her thoughts. She needed to find out where she was. She needed to go home.

  She sat up now, feeling her head spin in the process. She wore strange clothes. A yellow t-shirt and shorts she didn’t recognize. Struggling to stand, she made her way to the bathroom, wobbling with every step. Inside, she found a full complement of hygiene products; none of them her brands, and minus a razor. The mirror, however, provided her with the day’s most startling revelation. She looked like a hag. Someone had taken her waist-length, chestnut brown hair and bleached it blonde.

  No. Wait…she’d done that. She vaguely remembered it now. Though how much time had passed since, she was unsure. Combined with her pale skin and green eyes, the effect of the white, blonde hair could only be described as hideous. The song Monster popped into her head and she started singing, stopping after only a few words. Rhianna and Eminem would take offense if they could hear her rasping out their lyrics. She sounded even worse than she looked. So much for the Girl With the Golden Voice.

  She looked skinny, too. When had she last eaten? Her stomach heaved at the thought, and she went back to bed. She’d barely had time to steady herself when an alarm, shrill and loud, reverberated through the walls of the room.

  “Good, peaceful morning.” A way-too-cheery voice greeted her.

  It was the last bit of shock her system could take, and she vomited, right there in the queen-size bed, in the unfamiliar room, in a place she didn’t remember coming to.

  Chapter 3

  Shirley Cantwise perched on the edge of a small black office chair, the kind with an adjustable seat and back, but no arms. A monitor in front of her displayed five different views of the Coral Reef Center treatment facility, though her gaze remained fixed on only one. The view showing a girl with white-blonde hair hanging limply to her waist and not nearly enough meat on her bones. She was in the cafeteria, where she was supposed to be eating breakfast, sitting alone at the far end of a twelve-foot, fold-out table.

  Sweltering inside the room, made hot by sun pouring through a glass wall and stacks of humming electronic equipment, and not yet cooled by the air conditioning switched on only an hour ago, Shirley mopped her brow with a linen handkerchief and watched the newcomer with disgust. “Look at her,” she said to her brother.

  Arthur sat in a chair beside her, his gaze glued to the girl. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek, let loose from a damp patch of curls above his temple. He made no attempt to wipe it; just stared at the girl. “I like her better with dark hair, but even with the blonde hair, she’s still pretty.”

  His compliment pissed Shirley off. “What she is; is vile and pathetic. It’s no wonder Earl Grayson dumped her.”

  Shirley thought often of Earl. He was so handsome. That dark hair, worn almost to his shoulders and graying at the sides, with his neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and those steel-blue eyes. He really turned her on.

  She’d memorized his statistics. He stood six foot, one and weighed 178 pounds. He wore a large shirt with a fifteen and three-quarter inch neck. His pant size was thirty-two by thirty-four. He spent two hours in the gym, three days a week. More if he was preparing for a film. She’d seen every one of them at least a dozen times. He was born and raised in San Diego, but now lived in Malibu. He liked swimming, baseball and the British sci-fi show Doctor Who. She’d spent hours watching the ridiculous show on Netflix, trying to figure out why he liked it. And she’d memorized enough details about the show to have a conversation with him about it, and pretend she liked it, too. She also knew he drove a black, Cadillac Escalade. She'd seen a picture of him in it once. After she’d treated a cheating spouse who owned a Cadillac dealership, she’d managed to acquire on for herself. Black, of course. Just like the one she’d seen in the picture.

  On many occasions, Shirley had fantasized about meeting Earl. She knew exactly how the meeting would go. She’d play it cool. Not gush over him like some star-struck fan. Instead, she’d use the psychology skills she’d learned in college to make him fall in love with her. They’d make love together in her bed, in the living quarters adjoining her office. If she just believed strongly enough, she could bring her fantasy to
life. She was sure of it.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ryan, Ms. Cantwise. May I come in?”

  “Of course, Ryan. This is your office.” Ryan was her head of security. The room she and Arthur sat in was the security office, down the hall from her own. She trusted Ryan more than anyone else; save Arthur. He understood better than anyone the undeniable truth behind her teachings. “Have a seat, Ryan.” She glanced at Arthur and he stood, offering Ryan his chair.

  Ryan sat beside her, glancing briefly at the computer screen before meeting her gaze. “I was wondering if I might talk to you about something,” he said. “It’s about Pauline.”

  “Pauline?” Shirley still watched the girl, thinking about Earl. “What about Pauline?”

  “I like her.” Ryan said it simply, all traces of emotion eased from his voice. “I’ve been wanting to take a mate. A CRC follower, in accordance with your teachings. I’d like it to be Pauline.”

  Shirley tore her gaze from the monitor and regarded him closely. He was of average height, but stocky build. He wore a buzz cut, like all male CRC followers, had dark eyes, like hers, and a pleasant face. He’d come to her three years ago, seeking help with anger management. He’d been in her employ ever since, helping to build the CRC facility. As head of her security team he kept their facility safe from the prying eyes of the outside world, and helped keep the patients in line, following her teachings, and reminding them what they stood to lose if they didn’t. He’d been instrumental in dealing with the Mance girl. Rewarding him would be a good idea. “Of course you can have Pauline.” She spoke pleasantly. “Tell her I said so.”

  An uncharacteristic smile widened Ryan’s face. “Thank you, Ms. Cantwise. I appreciate it.”

  He left and Shirley went back to staring at the girl. She still sat by herself in the cafeteria, humming, not even trying to eat her food. “Typical pop star. Nothing but a spoiled slut.”

  “I really like her,” Arthur said.

  Shirley thought about how the girl knew Earl; knew how it felt to be touched by him, kissed by him, made love to by him. The girl had lived the very things Shirley had only fantasized about. Shirley watched her on the screen and trembled with disgust.

  Shirley hated Mindy LePage.

  Chapter 4

  Throwing up hadn’t helped. Tremors and bouts of nausea still assaulted Mindy.

  Aside from being sick, she was also pissed. Flat-out, mind-numbingly madder than hell. No one would answer her questions. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Why wouldn’t anyone take her seriously when she said she wanted to go home? More importantly, where were her clothes, her ID, her credit cards and her cell phone? The rehab folks…because that’s where she was…rehab; had first sent her into the gym for exercise. How they’d expected her to exercise, she had no idea. The only option that seemed preferable to death was a coma. She had spent the entire hour sitting with her head between her knees, only vaguely aware of the half dozen or so other patients grunting through calisthenics. The workout was supervised by three CRC staff members, wearing black security uniforms. They barked out commands: sit-ups, jumping jacks, push-ups, which the patients, spread out on yoga mats, quickly followed. But not Mindy. She could barely sit up. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or calmly explaining their rules had induced her to do anything else.

  After the exercise program, they’d sent her to the cafeteria for breakfast. She spent the next forty-five minutes with her head on the warm metal surface of a fold-out table, in a room that was too hot. She’d been too sick to eat the undercooked scrambled eggs, whole grain toast and banana they’d given her.

  In her head, through all the shock and trauma, played Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb. She’d hummed it softly to herself while she’d hung her head between her knees during the morning workout, and again while she’d rested her head on the cafeteria table.

  Now she stood in front of a closet in the aquamarine and beige room, looking at a collection of rehab resort wear which, she was told, was just her size. Shorts, skirts, t-shirts, tank tops, sweats and yoga pants, all emblazoned with the innocuous sounding name of the facility: The Coral Reef Center. They’d also supplied her with plain white cotton bras and panties. She had no idea where her own clothes were.

  She had showered, and was now expected to dress for therapy and learn how to re-program her life.

  She’d heard of this place. Anthony Howard, the head of her record company, had been sprung from here a few months back. A total convert, he’d exhorted the Coral Reef Center’s benefits and encouraged her to follow him on the path to a new life. He’d sounded like cult zombie. She’d even come up with a nickname for him: zombie bot. He’d never bothered to mention where the place was, though judging from the warm climate and palm trees visible through the glass walls of the building, she had to be somewhere in the south. The people running the place hadn’t bothered turning the air conditioning up enough to really cool it down and she’d been perspiring since waking. She continued humming the Pink Floyd song, thinking they’d have to re-name it for this place and call it Uncomfortably Numb.

  A chime sounded on the speakers, built into the walls of the room. “Peaceful greetings, patients. Individual life mending sessions will begin in five minutes. Please be dressed and ready to report to your life coach in a timely fashion.”

  Life mending sessions? Life coach? Were they kidding? She sighed and slipped into a teal skirt and white tank top, finished off with a pair of Coral Reef Center flip flops, supplied in white, blue and yellow on the shoe rack in the closet. Presumably, she was on her way to see a psychiatrist; a person ethically bound to report her kidnapping.

  A knock sounded on the door. That would be Rory, her escort, whom she was told she needed until she learned her way around the place. He’d taken her to and from the gym and to and from the cafeteria. Mindy opened the door, frowning at the blonde, muscular young man. He reminded her of a surfer dude, and claimed to be twenty-five, but looked more like thirty-five. “You’re right on time,” she said. “Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. Apparently, that’s how they expect us to tell time around here.”

  He ignored her sarcasm and waited while she exited her room, closing the door behind her. “You’ll like Belinda,” he said. “She was my life coach when I was here.”

  “You were here? As a patient?” That surprised her.

  “I had a gambling addiction.” They walked along a hallway lined with windows. “I burned through eighty-five thousand dollars on my parents’ credit cards before they found out and sent me here. Other staff members have been treated for drug and alcohol addiction though. What you’re going through won’t be any surprise to them.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual? For a rehab place to be staffed by former patients?”

  “That’s one of the things that makes CRC special.” He sounded monotonous, like he was reading from a script. “Everyone who works here was a patient at CRC at one time. Everyone here has a complete understanding of the CRC program. We have first-hand knowledge of how well Shirley’s methods work.”

  Mindy rolled her eyes. “Anyone here got an iPod? I could stand a little music.”

  “Electronics are prohibited.”

  That probably explained the disappearance of her cell phone. Though not everything else. “What about music?” she asked. “Is that prohibited also?”

  “It’s not prohibited, but there’s no provision for it either. If you want to hear music, you’ll have to sing.” He stopped long enough to turn and look at her. “You’re a singer, right?”

  She nodded. She supposed everyone here would know who she was. And everyone would figure knowing who she was meant they knew her. Just like her two previous gigs in rehab. It was ridiculous to think rehab could help a person who, because of their fame, could never really open up or be themselves. There was always the image to maintain and the tiny kernels of privacy she clung to; those few things about her no one knew.
“Yes.” She answered Rory’s question. “I’m a singer. Mindy LePage. But I guess you already knew that.”

  “Everybody knows it. You introduced yourself when you arrived last night. But you were pretty out of it.”

  She said nothing. Anxiety smothered her. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she was going to lose it. And she really, really, needed a drink.

  Rory stopped in front of a door marked Belinda. “Here we are. I’ll see you in forty minutes.”

  Mindy stepped inside the room. This place was nothing like the two places she’d been in before. Real rehab let you keep your clothes. Real rehab wasn’t staffed entirely by recovering addicts. And real rehab didn’t try and turn a person into a zombie bot. Anthony Howard had something to do with this. That much seemed obvious. But how had he managed to get her signed in without her consent?

  She closed the door and appraised the woman seated in a recliner behind a desk. The wall of windows behind her beamed sunlight on her like a spotlight, highlighting a pretty face with brown eyes and long lashes. Her light brown hair had been twisted into a bun and pinned neatly on top of her head. A naturally pretty woman with nice features, she might well be a knockout with a more flattering hairdo and a bit of make-up.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Mindy LePage, and I’d like to report my kidnapping.”

  The woman behind the desk gave no reaction to her words. Not so much as a raised eyebrow. “I’m Belinda,” she said. “And I’d like to discuss your childhood.”

  Fat chance of that. Mindy glanced around the room, noting bare walls. The bare walls made her suspicious. Real rehab had therapists, too. Therapists with framed degrees and certifications, announcing to the world their education, and promising at least some degree of qualifications and adherence to ethical standards. This woman could have been anyone. A drug dealer. A door-to-door salesperson. Literally anyone. Putting her hair in a bun and wearing a crisply pressed pantsuit didn’t make her a therapist. Mindy met her gaze, frowning. “Why aren’t you a real doctor?”