by Lada Ray
“Ah,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I see.”
I took Rachel to her room, where she changed into a pair of shorts and a tee. Soon we were sitting in the veranda's comfortable wicker chairs.
“Spill it,” said Rachel, sipping her green tea.
“Spill what?” I asked innocently.
“Come on, Jade,” Rachel smiled at me shrewdly. “I know you - you've found a story, haven't you?”
“A story?” I raised my eyebrows, unable to resist the temptation to tease her a bit before, naturally, telling her absolutely everything. “What story?”
“Yes, a story. And please don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I recognize the gleam in your eye. It happens every time you've found something interesting to investigate.”
“Yep,” I nodded, unable to hold off any longer the bursting dam of my doubts and theories, and relieved that she made it easy for me. “You're right, of course. There is something - yes. Something very sad, in fact.”
“So, what is it?”
“You really want to know?”
“Why do you think I asked? If the gleam in your eye is any indication, it's got to be a good one.”
“I think so,” I nodded. “But I am not sure that it's actually a story, you see. There is certainly a mystery and a tragedy, too. In fact, we are talking about a crime committed some thirteen years ago.”
“Thirteen years?” Rachel said, raising her eyebrows. “Kinda a long time, not your style really. What got you interested in such ancient history?”
“Well, this ancient history has a direct and very real connection to today.”
And I told Rachel all about my knitting club, about Adelaide, about Rebbecca, about Jason and about a very strange fight Jason had with the chief. I explained to her about my belief that a miscarriage of justice had been committed here. And in the end, I told her about my mysterious and persistent visions of a struggling girl being beaten and raped by not one, but three rapists.
Rachel listened attentively, nodding occasionally. After that, we sipped tea in silence.
“So, what d'you think?” I blinked first.
“About what?” Rachel batted her eyelashes innocently. Apparently, she couldn't resist the temptation either.
“Oh, c'mon, Rache,” I burst out, getting really impatient. “All right, you win. Sorry, I teased you. But honestly, what d'you think?”
“Well,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “If anyone else told me this story, I would've suggested a couple of years of intense therapy.” Then she noticed my look and finished in a completely different tone. “But since it's coming from you, I would take everything very seriously.”
What can I say, I was relieved. “So, you don't think I'm imagining things and that my visions are a sign of pregnancy induced madness?”
“No, I don't.” Rachel's expression was now serious. “I think you are as sane as I've ever known you to be.”
“But why visions? Why me? Granted, I've always had pretty good intuition, but ever since I moved here, it's like I'm some goddamn psychic. It's weird, I'll tell you… and physically draining, too. What do you thing it means?”
“I can't tell you for sure right off the bat,” said Rachel, frowning. “But I could propose a theory that might explain it. See, it's possible that your famous intuition has always been borderline psychic. You might've been born with natural psychic ability. But because it was never nurtured in you, it expressed itself as a well-honed intuition. That's why you were always able to get out of tight spots and escape any problems during your dangerous assignments.”
“But why did it “come out of a closet” all of a sudden now? Why here?”
“Well, for the first time in your life you were able to slow down enough to smell the roses and listen to the singing of the birds, so to speak. The change of pace in your life is dramatic, you now have time for reflection. And that's when our inner talents manifest, when we stop drowning them out with everyday noise and give them an opportunity to flourish. When we stop to listen to our inner voice.”
Not for the first time, I was impressed with Rachel's ability to explain everything clearly and succinctly. “Wow, Rache, I can tell you, you've got to have a column. Something like “Ask Rachel.” And count me as one of your most devoted readers. Now it finally starts making sense!”
“And of course,” added Rachel as an afterthought, “you're pregnant. So, your emotional body has become much more in tune, much more sensitive than usual, as the New Age people would say. And that, I'm sure, was an important trigger that helped awaken your psychic ability.”
“It makes sense,” I nodded, feeling relieved. “I only hope I'll be able to prove my suspicions. I really need to help Jason and Rebbecca. Just imagine, he'd been wrongfully convicted and lost twelve best years of his life in jail. And she's been as good as prisoner in a psychiatric clinic ever since the rape.”
Rachel was silent for a minute or two. Then she asked: “Is Rebbecca now at some local clinic, by any chance?”
Yes,” I nodded. “She is. It's called The Berkshire Hope Clinic and it specializes in long term care of mental patients with no history of violence. My knitting buddies told me the story. According to them, Rebbecca withdrew into some kind of inner world, as they put it, and stopped talking altogether. I guess, her relatives thought the familiar surroundings and, perhaps, her old friends' visits might help trigger something that would restore her. The clinic, I understand, has a lot of people, who, like Rebbecca, had lost their memory.”
“But I thought that you said hers wasn't a memory loss, but a withdrawal into “some inner world?”
“That's right, but...” I started saying. Then stopped, realizing that Rachel was trying to tell me something. “Is there a significant difference between the two?”
“Significant difference? Could be all the difference in the world!” Rachel has mounted her favorite horse and I prepared to hear a lecture on psychology.
But thankfully, she was brief. “In layman's words, memory loss may occur when one's subconscious blocks a tragic event and in order to access it, you must break through that block. And a withdrawal into the inner world most likely means that a person lives with the memory of a tragedy or a secret but doesn't trust the outside world enough to reveal it. Subconsciously, she erects a wall between herself and the rest of the world. In other words, memory loss means that the wall exists between the trigger event and the person, while a withdrawal into the inner world means that the wall exists between the person and the outside world. Do you see the difference?”
“Ye-es,” I said slowly, trying to wrap my mind around the difference in question, and then - I got it!
“You see, Rebbecca may actually remember what happened thirteen years ago, but for some reason doesn't trust the outside world enough to talk about it. That's why she blocked out the outer world, but not the event itself.”
“Rache, you are brilliant, you know that?” I exclaimed. “This means that if Rebbecca started trusting someone, she might start talking!”
“The only question remains,” Rachel continued gravely, “why didn't she trust anyone enough to open up till now?”
The question hung in the air, like a bomb about to explode. We looked at each other in silence, considering possible answers and their implications. As it were, none of the answers seemed to promise a happy ending.
Rachel was the first one to shake off the spell. “Jade,” she said, looking at me intently. “I know you don't like hearing this, but maybe you should drop this investigation. I don't like the sound of it. Something is very fishy here, sinister, in fact. And you are pregnant.”
“I have to keep investigating this, Rache!” I said passionately. “I must. I feel so sorry for that poor girl, and Adelaide, and Jason. I can't tell you how sorry! You should have seen Rebbecca's picture before the tragedy. She was so beautiful, so – so light and optimistic, she had such a bright future ahead of her. And then, there was her picture after the rape.
What a change! She was all haggard and bruised and it was like the light in her had been extinguished. And Jason, you know, he was dreaming of a career as a writer. Maria, the former librarian, thought he had promise. All of a sudden, it all goes puff! I can't... I simply can't stop! I have to find out whose cruel hand had destroyed these two lives!”
I held my breath and looked at her imploringly, willing her to understand my position. For some reason, I desperately needed her to agree with me, needed her to say it was all right to proceed with my secret inquiry.
She contemplated me for a while, then said, “I see how important this is for you and apparently nothing I say would change your mind. So, why don't I help you with whatever I can?”
“Rache, you are the best!” I exhaled and threw my arms around her neck.
“But you have to promise me,” she said somberly, distancing herself a bit and locking her hypnotic black eyes into mine. “Promise, you'll be very, very careful, both for you and the baby.”
“Scout's honor!” I said solemnly, raising my hand palm up and grinning ear-to-ear. “Okay?”
“Ok-kay,” echoed Rachel with slight hesitation, failing to mirror my grin. There was still a concerned frown on her face and it took her another five minutes to reshape her features back into their usual sunshine continence.
I shrugged that observation off easily. Rache is such a worrywart, I told myself. I guess it comes with the territory and that's exactly what makes her such an excellent psychoanalyst.
Rachel was pensive, as if weighing her options. Then she said, “Tell you what. How about we go visit Rebbecca today?”
“Great idea,” I said readily, “but don't we need some kind of permission to do that?”
“More or less. Of course, I could go by my own credentials, but it would be better if we used some really big name. Because, as we well know, big names open doors much easier.”
She paused, thinking. “Here is what we are gonna do. I'll call my old professor Strauss, the one I told you about - my teacher from Columbia.”
I remembered professor Strauss very well. He was very high profile, having written three best selling books. Rachel was his favorite student and she still kept in touch with him. I've even heard that he encouraged her to write a book of her own.
“What are you gonna tell him?”
“See, I've recently taken his advice and started writing a book,” responded Rachel with a crafty look on her face. “I'll tell him that I am in Stepford for one weekend only and that here I've heard about a case that fits into my book's case study magnificently. So, I need him to call the clinic and ask for me to be allowed to see Rebbecca... what's her last name?” she prompted.
“Gilman.”
“Right, to see Rebbecca Gilman today, because her extremely interesting case fits so well into the theme of my book.”
“Rache,” I exclaimed in admiration, “that's inspired!”
“Glad you like it.” She bowed with an air of exaggerated importance.
“Just one thing,” I said. “How d'you know where to find him? It's Saturday.”
“No problem. I know exactly where he is at the moment.”
“You do?” I said, raising my eyebrows playfully.
“Yep. He's in his office at Columbia - he always is on Saturday mornings, catching up on his paperwork.”
“And the number is?”
“And the number is...” she opened her cell phone with a flourish. “Here it is, on my speed dial.”
Wow! On speed dial? I knew Rachel was Strauss's protégé, but even I didn't realize they were that close. Hey, no complaints on my part, especially, if this closeness helps me solve my mystery!
Chapter 13
Professor Strauss turned out to be a real trooper. He listened to Rachel's story without interrupting and immediately agreed to call the clinic. Ten minutes later, he called back and announced that he spoke with the head nurse of the long-term ward, where Rebbecca had been a resident for the past thirteen years. The head nurse's name was Mrs. Blake and she was awaiting Rachel's call to schedule a visit. A short call later, we were on our way to the clinic.
In Stepford, every edifice of any significance seemed to be located on Main Street. So, not very surprisingly, the Berkshire Hope Clinic was just a few short blocks down the road from the Blue Peacock Inn. The towering red brick mansion, complete with a grand, white columned entrance, was thoroughly in line with the town's old colonial mystique.
Nurse Blake met us at the front desk with a perfunctory smile.
“Hi,” she said. “I am the head nurse and I understand you are...” She paused, looking inquiringly at Rachel.
“Rachel Weise,” Rachel extended her hand. “Thanks for allowing me a visit on such short notice.
“No problem, Dr. Weise,” said Nurse Blake. “Although our chief physician is on vacation till next Monday, we are very familiar with Professor Strauss's work and any of his associates are welcome here.”
She turned to me. “And you would be?”
“This is my friend, Jade Snow,” introduced me Rachel, “who is hosting me here, in Stepford. She has graciously agreed to drive me to the clinic and I'd feel uncomfortable leaving her in the lobby after everything she's done. I hope you don't mind if she joins me?”
“Jade Snow?” asked nurse Blake. “Aren't you a part of the Stepford Knitting Club?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
“My daughter, Shawna, attends it, too. She spoke very highly of you. It's very nice to meet you. I am Janet Blake.” I shook nurse’s hand as she ushered us into the long-term ward.
“I'm actually very glad to see anyone visit Rebbecca,” confessed Nurse Blake, as she led us down the long corridor. “She's been here so long, almost thirteen years… And very few people come to visit her any more. Just our local guys, Marc Catcham and Jack Maloof. Chief Nordini comes sometimes and I saw Peter Burns a few times, but not too often. Very nice people they all are, God bless them.” She opened the door at the end of the corridor, inviting us in.
The narrow room we entered had a simple bed by the window, a bunch of flowers in a small vase atop a bed stand, a side table with photographs and a chair in the corner. Another chair was brought in for us. Through a slightly open window, the upbeat chirping of birds could be heard from the garden, as the gentle breeze delicately fluttered the white curtain.
The room itself didn't stand out in any way, but our eyes immediately drifted to, and fixed on, the still figure draped in a long hospital gown. The figure sat on the edge of the bed, looking straight ahead with unseeing eyes.
Mrs. Blake's demeanor changed dramatically, once she entered the room. She was now a caring nurse, no longer an efficient administrator we had met in the lobby. She checked the pulse on the limp, painfully thin arm and spoke kindly to the still figure on the bed, “We like it when someone comes to visit us, don't we Becca?”
She pointed at us, “These two nice young ladies wanted to talk to you for a bit. You don't mind, do you, Becca?”
The gaunt figure on the bed didn't move, nor produced a sound to indicate she heard or noticed us. She just lowered her eyelids with long, curved eyelashes and continued sitting still, now with her eyes closed.
I recognized those eyelashes right away. I saw them on the picture from the old yearbook, a picture of a happy, healthy and beautiful eighteen year old girl. Those eyelashes seemed to be the only thing that still remained of the old Rebbecca, a sad reminder of what could have been.
As we sat on our chairs, Nurse Blake tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her.
“Hello, Rebbecca,” said Rachel cheerfully. “Do you mind if we talk with you for a while?”
The figure on the bed didn't move, sitting as still as before, her eyelashes lowered.
Rachel and I looked at each other, trying to decide how to proceed. I cleared my throat.
“Hi Rebbecca,” I started quietly. “My name is Jade Snow. And this is Rachel Weise. We live in
New York City, but I am staying here, in Stepford, to write my book. And Rachel is visiting me for the weekend.”
It seemed, nothing has changed, but did I detect a slight flutter of the eyelashes? I almost dismissed the thought as wishful thinking, when I noticed Rachel's intense gaze fixed on Rebbecca. Did she notice it, too?
I continued, while observing Rebbecca closely. “I am a journalist and I've worked in Iraq and Afghanistan for the past two years. But then I got married. My husband, who is traveling in Africa, suggested I move to Stepford while he's away.”
It was unmistakable this time, the flutter of the eyelashes, the slight opening of the eyes.
Rachel and I stared at each other.
“Keep talking,” mouthed Rachel.
“Rebbecca, my husband thought that it would be good for me to be here, while he is traveling. This being such a paradise and all. Because I am pregnant, you see.”
The figure continued sitting still on the bed, but something in her has changed. The eyes were now open. Then, they shifted slightly to the right, towards the open window. Rachel and I exchanged glances.
“The window,” mouthed Rachel. “She wants it closed.”
I got up and maneuvered past the still figure on the bed. I closed the window, conscious of Rebbecca's eyes on my back. Then, I smoothed out the curtain and started back to my chair. As I passed the bed, someone grabbed my left forearm so forcefully that I jumped. I looked down, perplexed. Rebbecca was holding on to me with such strength that I would have never suspected from those limp fingers.
Her eyes were now looking up straight into mine. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out.
“Can I help you, Rebbecca?” I said, alarmed.
The lips moved once more and as I leaned closer to her mouth, trying to listen, it hit me again. A quick flash, but this time much clearer. Night grass was damp and the moon in the sky was bright. The young woman in a summer dress turned to rags fought with every last bit of strength left in her. But what could she do, sprawled helplessly on damp ground, against two strong men? One of them slapped her hard, and kept slapping, till she bled. Another kicked her. And then, right before the lights went out and her tortured body, mercifully, felt no more, another, large and menacing form appeared, blocking the stars and the moonlight...