by Naomi Kryske
And travel they did—up one side of Hampstead High Street and Heath Street and down the other. They bought ham and cheese crepes and stood on the pavement eating them. He purchased strawberries from the market. At the bookstore he chose two Hampstead books for her, one composed of picture postcards and the other, a history of the area, detailing the struggle to preserve the Heath from commercial development. It was late afternoon before he guided her past the library and Keats House and back toward his flat.
After a brief respite and time to wash and change clothes, they walked to an Italian restaurant for dinner. It had a French-sounding name, but everything inside was Italian: the waiters, the menu, the wines. A romance language, a romantic meal, and a man across the table from her, romancing her, asking her questions about less turbulent times and teasing her when her cheeks warmed from the glass of vino rosso that he kept filled. Their waiter taught her an Italian proverb: “Buon vino fa buon sangue,” or “Good wine makes good cheer.” He was right.
“I wish we had more time,” she said after they returned to his flat. The warmth she felt now had nothing to do with alcohol—his touch had kindled it.
“That’s what I’m asking for. We’ve been under horrific pressure, artificial time constraints. It takes time for things to unfold as they’re meant to. Postpone your trip.”
“I’d like to see more of England than hospitals and courtrooms. But how can I not go home? I’ve missed them for so long.”
“Jenny, I’m in love with your optimism, your vitality, your humour. I want more of them.”
She wanted more kisses. Her chest rose and fell to his touch. His fingers explored the skin under her t-shirt. “I don’t want you to stop, but my scars are there. I don’t want you to see.”
He reached across her and turned out the lamp on the end table. The only illumination came from the kitchen behind them. When he kissed her neck and eased his hand over the cup of her bra, she began to feel shivery. Did he feel that way when she kissed him? She felt his fingers inside the cup. Why hadn’t she worn a blouse with buttons? With the t-shirt it was all or nothing—she was either covered or totally exposed. “I can’t—I want—I don’t know what to do.”
That meant stop. Damn. She had been responding. “My love is real, Jen. It’s not going to go away.” He moved his hand away but continued to kiss her, lightly, gently. He wanted to prolong the experience, to tempt her to stay, to make her remember his touch after she’d gone.
CHAPTER 3
On Sunday they packed a picnic lunch, sandwiches, strawberries from the day before, and a bottle of wine. Eventually they found a relatively private spot to sit on the Heath and watched the motley world go by, laughing together at the snippets of conversation they heard and what they imagined a companion’s response might be.
They walked back with the empty picnic basket. He watched her open her suitcase and survey the space she had left in it. “You won’t be needing your winter things in Texas,” he remarked. “Or the books you’ve finished reading. Why don’t you leave them here? I’ll post them to you. It’s far more important that you take your flag.”
She felt a terrible ache in her chest when he handed it to her, the flag he had given her as encouragement when she had sent her father home without her. The flag that had been an integral part of her life, waking and sleeping. “You’ve been such a gentleman, Colin—no pressure, no anger. I’m sorry. I know I’ve let you down.”
He sat down beside her on the floor and took both her hands in his. “Jenny, physical love between a man and a woman is God’s creation. It’s too fantastical to have come about in any other way. I want you to experience it with me, but I want you to experience it because you love me and you want it as much as I do. You haven’t let me down, and you aren’t burning any bridges by visiting your family. Families are important. I respect your commitment to them.”
He had pizza delivered. After dinner he held her. His kisses were gentle. He rubbed her back and massaged her shoulders to ease the tension he felt there. “I’d like you to take something of mine home with you.” He went into his room and retrieved his Bible. “It’s a book of love and hope, Jenny. Think of it as a bridge between us, as proof positive that nothing has ended here, because I’ll want you to return it.”
“How is that possible? I live half a world away.”
“Love doesn’t know any boundaries, Jen. My feelings for you aren’t going to change. I’ll be ringing you while you’re in Texas.”
Her hands were full. His were empty. She had nothing to give him, this handsome, cordial man. She had lost consciousness—died, in a sense—in a little room with a monster. She had awakened to pain and to this man’s face and voice. Her injuries had healed, her pain had receded, but this man had not stepped aside. He had walked with her through the corridors of fear and the halls of justice. The thought of going home had been her guiding star for so long. Now she was going, and she thought her heart would break.
CHAPTER 4
In the morning Colin drove Jenny to Heathrow. His final professional responsibility was to get her on the plane safely. At the corner of the jet way she turned to see if he were still there. He was, but he did not wave, and neither did she. One hand was on the handle of her rolling bag and the other swiping at her tears. She had not expected to cry leaving London.
She cried at the Houston airport, too, glad to be in her parents’ arms. Her brothers hung back until she teased them about being the only girl they were shy with—her mom had told her that BJ had a girlfriend and Matt spent all his money on weekend dates. She sat between them on the drive home, tired from the long flight and slow march through customs. She listened contentedly to the voices of her family and watched the landscape through the car windows, broader and brighter than she remembered it, and hoped it would be a metaphor for her future.
Seeing her room, however, was a shock. It was a little girl’s room, and she realized with dismay that she didn’t belong in it. She wasn’t sweet and innocent anymore. With a wave of panic she missed the witness protection flat, so used and worn it never looked really clean, its furniture a little battered from previous occupants. She swept the pink pillows from the bed, reversed the spread, and wished she could tear down the frilly curtains. She called Colin to let him know that she’d arrived safely and felt hollow inside when she hung up the phone.
Her dad grilled steaks for dinner, and her mom served potato salad she’d made earlier in the day. Jenny found it difficult to explain why she laughed at the potato salad, having to assure her mother that yes, she still liked it, and that no, she wouldn’t have preferred anything else. Angel food cake with fresh peaches was the dessert.
Before she went to bed, she opened her journal and started a new page with the heading, Things That Are the Same. 1. Men are sleeping in the other rooms. No, her brothers were boys, old enough to drive and date but not likely to be much help if a threat came. 2. I’m safe. No, the house has no alarm system. Her father would have to defend her mother, too—bad odds. Did he lock all the doors at night? Would she have any warning if someone tried to break in? Maybe they should get a dog.
She looked at her list. Short, but it demonstrated how different everything was. Colin was not downstairs, a mere phone call away. He would not be calling by. She smiled at herself for adopting the British expression for coming over and began a new list: Things I Wish For. 1. Colin’s touch. Amazing—after the monster’s attack, she hadn’t thought she’d want any man to touch her, ever. 2. A feeling of safety. When bad things had happened, the guys had known what to do. Danny had saved her life at the hospital and Sergeant Casey at the courthouse, twice. Colin had, too, in a way, with his attentiveness and affection. 3. A sense of belonging. She imagined Colin saying, “I can grant that wish, Jenny.” Could he? 4. An identity separate from the events of the past months. Was that possible? 5. A sense of purpose. A new mission, Sergeant Casey—Simon—would say. Having a normal life would be good. “What does that mean, Jenny?” he wo
uld ask. He wouldn’t be satisfied when she confessed she didn’t know.
In the morning she discovered that there was no tea in the house, except the iced tea variety, so she asked her mother for a Coke.
“For breakfast?” her mother asked with surprise.
“To settle my stomach,” she explained.
She had her hair trimmed and shaped, but there was no man to admire it except her dad. Her parents had been busy since hearing the news of her return, and by the end of her first week home, she had already been to the dentist, the family doctor, and her first appointment with a psychologist.
Sergeant Casey had given her a copy of her medical report, which detailed her injuries and treatment. Dr. Morgan, the family physician, took most of it in stride, although he could not entirely mask his pity. He patted her on the shoulder and assured her that he understood her nervousness. He must have—he did not make her disrobe completely for the examination.
She gave the psychologist, Dr. Abramson, a copy of her medical history also, hoping that having the record would spare her from having to relate everything. He seemed a little lost with all the medical data, preferring to focus on how she felt. Dislocated. Lost. Lonely. She mentioned Colin’s love and then regretted exposing it to Abramson’s psychological scrutiny. She looked repeatedly at her amethyst watch, deciding not to disclose who had given it to her.
On Saturday morning when her mother took her shopping, she bought a variety of postcards to send Colin and then went into the department store. She was trying on a blouse in one of the fitting rooms when she heard her mother gasp and then go suddenly silent. She had seen Jenny’s shoulder and the flaws on her torso. Jenny sank down on the little stool in the dressing room, shaken by her mother’s shock. “Mother, I was badly beaten, and I had surgery, you know that,” she said, her enthusiasm for shopping completely deflated. “There are marks from everything.”
Saturday evening she put on her baseball cap and went to a game with her dad. It was the most crowded place she had been since her return home, and although she enjoyed the play on the field, hearing so many American accents did not make her feel less like a foreigner. And she missed Colin’s call from London.
Coming home should have been comfortable, like putting on a pair of old shoes, but Simon had been right: You can’t go home again. These shoes chafed. That night she dreamed a gunman fired at her. She had her bulletproof vest on, but it didn’t help, and the sergeant wasn’t there to stop the bleeding.
Sunday she attended church with her family. The minister’s text for the day centered on the love passages from the New Testament. He used Christ’s death as the perfect illustration of love, adding that by following the guidance of Scripture, we could also demonstrate the depth of our love. Jenny’s mind heard a new voice inside her, telling her that Colin was patient and kind. Colin was not rude or easily angered. He was a policeman—he certainly didn’t delight in evil! Why had she been in such a hurry to leave him? She had his Bible but not his handkerchief. She had to settle for the stale Kleenex in the bottom of her purse.
After church her parents spoke to her about her plans. When she told them that graduate school was no longer a consideration, they encouraged her to think about what kind of work she would like to do. At her age they felt she should be self supporting, and the routine of employment, having office hours, would settle her. Practical shoes, she thought. She tried to imagine a work environment in which she’d feel comfortable—safe—but when she mentioned the police department as a possibility, her parents thought she was joking. When the conversation was over, she called Colin, preferring to think about romantic shoes.
She didn’t tell him how difficult it was—how her parents’ expectations, not unreasonable, seemed like a mountain too steep to climb and how adrift she felt in a room with too little wall space to mount her British flag. Hearing his voice was reassuring, even with the transatlantic echo, but it wasn’t enough. Severing the phone connection gave her an emptiness that ached, like having a part of you surgically removed and still feeling the slice of the scalpel when it was gone.
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During her second week home, Jenny went to see college friends who had settled in the Houston area. Mandy Edwards had married before either she or her husband had graduated from school, and they had a baby already, a baby girl. Mandy was excited and proud, and Jenny was happy for her but felt the chasm between them widen. Mandy didn’t know what to say about Jenny’s experience, and Jenny didn’t want to tell her how dangerous the world was for girls.
Emily Richards was as ebullient as ever, laughing about how she’d spent her year in the company of children while Jenny had had adult conversation, at least if you could consider cops to be capable of adult conversation. Jenny tried to explain what the men meant to her, how wise and supportive they had been. They weren’t the dreaded enforcers of speed limits on holiday weekends, but the difference between death and life, fear and safety, chaos and control. You were involved in an in-depth study of the British legal system, I’ll grant you that, Emily had replied, but you don’t have to get emotional.
Her second appointment with Dr. Abramson went less well than the first. She told him about Danny, Brian, and Simon, and how close she had become to them. She described Hunt’s irreverence. Abramson agreed that they were good men but suggested that since their job was over, her dependence on them was unhealthy. He explained that disengaging was an important factor in moving forward. If she had been unable to say good-bye to Simon in person, writing him a letter would be a useful exercise, even if she didn’t mail it. Say good-bye when he had finally told her his name? It was unthinkable. She had released too much already. What did Dr. Abramson know about loss? She’d write him a letter. “Buh-bye,” as they said on the British chat shows.
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When Jenny refused a third session with the psychiatrist, her parents took her to see their minister, Walter William Keith. She thought of him as the man with three first names, but the congregation affectionately called him Walter Will, because in the short time he’d been with them, they’d learned that no matter what needed to be done, Walter would pitch in.
“Your parents have told me how difficult this past year has been for you,” he said. “How can I help?”
“Everyone wants me to forget it and move on,” she told the trim man who had looked taller in the pulpit. His liturgical robe, which had hidden his slight frame, hung in the corner of his office. “And I can’t, because it changed me. With my friends—their futures seem so bright, and I’m a real-life law and order victim, not an entertaining TV plot. I don’t really want them to know how violence feels, but I’m not over it. I’m different, and it’s lonely.”
“They mean no harm, but trust comes so easily to them, doesn’t it? Jennifer, sometimes we have to forgive others their innocence. More than that, not spoil it.”
“How do you know?”
“I have alcohol-related violence in my family.” He paused. “I was affected by it, but I’m not defined by it.”
“Is that why you became a minister?”
“I sought peace, and Someone I could trust. Who do you trust?”
“My family, sort of, but they’re not on the same page with me. The guys who protected me are, but Dr. Abramson said I should stop thinking about them.”
“You must know them very well.” He leaned back in his chair, wanting her to know he wouldn’t rush her. “Tell me about them.”
She described the ones she knew best, the commitment they had made to stay with her, the hard times they’d come through together. She told him about Danny and how much she wanted to hear his laugh; Brian, patient with her fear; how tough Simon had been but how they had come to respect each other. Even Hunt, who didn’t change his behavior when he was around her, who treated her like she was normal. And Colin—faithful, considerate, loving, with enough hope for both of them.
“God chose them?”
“Of course. God knew what you needed.”
“How do you know God was a part of it?”
“Because when you talk about them, your face relaxes. And they made sacrifices for you, which is a godly thing to do.”
“They were so good to me, and I didn’t deserve any of it.”
“God’s grace is always unmerited, Jennifer. And His grace is often accompanied by peace, a sense of inner calm despite stormy circumstances.”
“I felt that, sometimes, when I was with them.”
“Jennifer, God works through His people. When people truly listen, it’s a sign of God’s presence. When they don’t judge. When they accept your love without having to shape it to meet their own needs. When their actions make you want to give something back.”
“It looks like you gave something back,” she said, gesturing toward his swollen thumb.
“Habitat for Humanity,” he smiled. “Our spiritual beliefs can lead us to actions of all sorts, and I have witnesses that my tools were effective, at least some of the time.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “The Bible is a kind of hammer, you know—we can use it to drive our beliefs home.”
Colin had given her his Bible. “I don’t know where to start,” she confessed.
“Start at the end, with Revelation 21:5: ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ Or if you prefer the Old Testament, Ezekiel 36:26: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you…’ God lives through His Word and through prayer, and we can also experience Him in our relationships with others.”
“Will the nightmares stop? If I pray?”