It was all so horribly confusing and so very, very depressing. And yet, Isobel pressed on. Knowledge was power; she believed that. Or she once had believed that . . .
Abuse, she read, could be a learned behavior. Often, the abuser was simply following in a parent’s footsteps. Did Jeff’s father, Jack Otten, abuse his wife? Was that where Jeff had learned how to bully someone he supposedly cared for? If that were the case, it would take some of the blame away from Jeff. It wouldn’t exonerate him, but it might help explain why he had been treating Isobel so badly.
But what if there was no abuse at home for Jeff to mimic? What if Mr. Otten treated his wife beautifully? What if some people were simply born bad? What if Jeff had no real reason for behaving the way he did; what if he just believed that he had a right to do whatever he wanted to do? Was there any hope for such a person? Was such a person suffering from a certifiable ego disorder? Was it evidence of psychosis or of something much worse—evidence of evil?
Before that moment Isobel had never, ever given serious thought to the notion of evil. Before now she had associated the word with superstition and a Dark Ages sort of ignorance and gory, exploitive horror films. In short, she had dismissed the notion of evil as an unpleasant, destructive fiction.
Now, she wasn’t so sure.
There was one more bit of research she wanted to accomplish. With another look over her shoulder to be sure that no one was watching her, she typed in the words restraining order. She had heard her mother telling anyone who would listen that a restraining order wasn’t a magic bullet. Still, it might be better than no protection at all, so she learned where and how to get one. She learned what security it could and could not provide.
And then she thought: When Jeff learned that she had taken out a restraining order against him, wouldn’t it make him even more furious and more likely to hurt her? Hadn’t she just learned from her reading that any resistance, any show of independence, was likely to drive an abuser to more violence?
Isobel rubbed her forehead. If only there was someone she could turn to who could fix this awful situation, someone who could pluck her safely and forever out of harm’s way, someone beyond the range of Jeff’s frightening influence.
Someone like her father? Would he come to her rescue? No. He would not. Because, Isobel reminded herself ruthlessly, he had two other little girls to love, and a new baby on the way. He had effectively abandoned Isobel, after duping her for almost an entire year, so why would she even imagine turning to him in a crisis, like she had when she was a child? She was angry with herself for this weakness. Her father was a coward. A person didn’t become a hero unless he wanted to become a hero.
Isobel shut down the computer. She felt more frightened and less hopeful than she had before she had done the research.
She thought that the librarian looked at her keenly as she passed the front desk with a quick wave of farewell. Did she know? Could she tell? She felt a crazy urge to stop and blurt the truth to Nancy but knew that it would only draw another innocent person into the web of danger. Isobel had become toxic.
Once out on the sidewalk, she peered warily up and down the street for any sign of Jeff. She would get home the way she had come, though the journey along the long stretches of narrow, winding road was dangerous. She simply couldn’t risk Jeff seeing her in a car with anyone and taking out his anger on him—or on her.
The sidewalk was teeming with happy tourist families, wearing brightly colored T-shirts, eating ice-cream cones, and carrying Boogieboards. The contrast between the carefree vacationers and herself, caught in a hellish trap, felt too enormous to bear.
She stumbled; she wasn’t even aware that she had taken a step. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm. With a cry, she jerked her arm away.
“Sorry,” the old man said, his face flushed with sunburn or embarrassment. “I thought you were going to fall.”
Isobel mumbled words resembling “thank you” and turned toward home.
Chapter 49
Her eyes were rimmed in red. The skin around them looked bruised. The rest of her face was pale.
It had been a bad night, worse than ever. The dream had come in another new and ghastly form. This time, Louise had seen Isobel’s teenaged face on the dead baby. It was by far the most appalling version of the nightmare yet. Louise honestly didn’t know how she could survive anything worse.
She had stumbled down to the kitchen that morning, earlier than usual, in desperate need of coffee. Three cups and several hours later, she felt no better.
Catherine, who had just come by, confirmed that Louise looked as bad as she felt.
“You look awful. Sorry, but you do. Are you sick?”
“No,” Louise said, too tired to take offense at her friend’s honest though blunt comment. After all, Bella had said much the same thing. “I just didn’t sleep well. Again. It’s the stress of this wedding.”
“Speaking of which . . .”
“Did you talk to Calvin Streep?” Louise asked. She hadn’t had the nerve or the energy to fight Flora Michaels’s assistant the day before when he had issued a particularly outrageous demand. She had complained about his behavior to Catherine; Catherine had asked for his contact information and promised to “set things straight.” Louise had not protested her assistance.
Catherine laughed. “Oh, I talked to him.”
“And?”
“And he’s a pompous little ass. But don’t worry. Everything is settled. In your favor, of course.”
Louise put her hand to her heart. “Oh Catherine, what a relief! I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You should have asked me for help with this sort of thing before now. Those two have been completely out of control with their crazy demands.”
“I wanted to do it all on my own,” Louise admitted.
“That’s usually not a good way to do business.”
“Now I know.”
“Yes. Now you do. Well, I can’t stay. My car is out front, with Charlie in it. I’m taking her to the vet. I get so disgustingly nervous, even when it’s just a routine checkup. Charlie is calm as a cucumber while Mommy sweats and shakes.”
Louise smiled. “The parenting instinct is strong. The thought of our child in pain is almost unbearable.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing I never had a baby. I’d be dead of a heart attack before her third birthday and she’d spend most of her life in therapy as a consequence.”
With that final lugubrious comment Catherine left. Louise didn’t realize how Catherine’s presence had helped calm her until she was gone. The memory of the nightmare wasn’t the only thing bothering her. Andrew had sent her an e-mail the afternoon before with an excuse (work was crazy; he had had a bad cold) for not having been in more touch with Isobel. She had lost her temper and shot back an angry and unconsidered reply, to which there had been no response. Well, Andrew was a smart man; self-preservation was high on his list of priorities.
It should be high on her list of priorities, as well. But how to banish the macabre image of Isobel’s current face where the baby’s should have been? She knew it would haunt her forever; eventually it might destroy her.
Louise gasped. She thought she had seen movement just outside the kitchen door. Cautiously, she peered through the window, but there was no one and nothing there.
She knew beyond a doubt that something in her life was very wrong. But exactly what was very wrong was maddeningly beyond her grasp.
Chapter 50
Isobel lay in her bed, curled up in a fetal position. She would have to join her mother and Jeff in the kitchen soon. (He had dropped by unannounced, and her mother had invited him to stay.) Already, her mother had knocked on her door, urging her to come down for dinner.
Slowly, she sat up. This was no way to live a life, that much she knew. She had been living in a state of constant fear since the day Jeff had abandoned her at his house. Since then, she had learned very quickly to read his smallest gesture, like a dog wi
th a cruel and inconsistent master, always looking for a clue that would tell him whether to flinch, cringe, roll over, or run away.
Because what did you do when you were afraid of something and you wanted desperately to survive it—and you knew that you couldn’t or wouldn’t simply run away from it? You watched it. You studied it. You hoped to eventually know enough to outsmart it.
Since that day Jeff had been hinting that he had been watching her more closely. “Paying more attention to her” was what he said, but Isobel knew what that meant. Jeff was spying on her. At least, he wanted her to think that he was. She didn’t know for sure if he had found out about her library search. She didn’t think he would believe her if she told him she had been trying to help a friend in need. Not with his suspicious mind . . .
But the spying wasn’t the worst thing. Earlier that day, at his house, Jeff had forced her to perform oral sex on him. She had been afraid to say no. He was rough during the act; her neck and shoulders ached from his grip. When it was done, he told her how good she had been and had held her close.
She had been rigid with fear in his arms.
“You know I love you, Izzy, right?” he had whispered in her ear.
“Mmm.”
Jeff’s grip had tightened. “I said, right?”
“Right,” she had managed to whisper.
“And you love me, right?”
“Right.”
But this wasn’t love at all.
With her will in tatters, Isobel went down to the kitchen.
“Finally,” Jeff said.
Isobel took her seat between them.
“Did Isobel tell you she’s no longer writing her blog?” Jeff asked as he helped himself to a second serving of green beans.
“Yes,” Louise replied. “She said it was becoming too much. Right?”
Isobel nodded.
Jeff turned to her. His expression was a mix of bemusement and concern. “I have to say, I was totally surprised when you told me,” he said. “I never thought you’d give up the blog. It meant so much to you and we had talked about your plans for expansion.”
Isobel was almost impressed. Jeff was brilliant in the role of innocent boyfriend, expressing concern for his girlfriend, being nice to the mother he had accused of abandoning her daughter. Who was she to equal his skill?
Jeff was saying something. Her mother was laughing.
Isobel poked at her food. Everything felt surreal. She wanted to leap from the table and shout, “Stop! It’s all a lie!” She wanted to curl up and die. It would be so much simpler than fighting on . . .
Quentin came through the kitchen door just then, carrying a tool case. His right eye was almost swollen shut; the bruise was angry, black, purple, and red, and covered almost all of his cheek.
Isobel gasped. She knew absolutely that Jeff was responsible for Quentin’s injury.
“Oh my God,” her mother cried. “What happened?”
Quentin turned partly away. “It’s nothing. Got careless.”
“You should be more careful,” Jeff said, jocularly. “You don’t strike me as the clumsy sort, but appearances can be deceiving, right?”
Quentin’s lips thinned into what could be interpreted as a smile or a frown or a grimace.
“Do you want an ice pack?” Louise asked. “I can—”
“No.” Quentin’s answer was abrupt. “Thanks. I’m going to fix that drain upstairs now.” He left the kitchen as quickly as he had entered.
“You know,” Jeff said, leaning confidentially toward Isobel’s mother, “if that Quentin fellow isn’t working out, I know a few guys you might hire.”
Isobel literally leapt from the table. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said. She ran to the powder room and locked the door behind her. Her heart was racing. She leaned against the wall for support; her entire body was trembling.
Gwen. Catherine. Quentin. Jeff hated them all. Only Isobel stood between her friends and more violence against them, verbal or physical. How had she become the protector of everyone she loved? In only weeks she had become an adult before her time and in a way she had never thought possible. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
When she went back to the kitchen, her mother was still sitting at the table with Jeff. They were eating ice cream.
“I don’t feel very well,” Isobel said from the doorway. She couldn’t look either her mother or Jeff in the eye. “I’m going up to bed.”
“What you need is a good night’s rest,” Jeff said solicitously. “I’ll check in with you later.”
That night Isobel had lain awake trying to imagine a way to break away from Jeff. She couldn’t. Every scenario she constructed ended in his successful pursuit. Even if she waited until she turned eighteen and could legally disappear into a big city, change her name if necessary . . . Jeff would still find her. He had the power.
And all night long he had sent her e-mails and text messages in which he made it clear he didn’t believe she was sick. He warned her not to betray him. He reminded her of what they had done at his house the day before. He told her of what other things they were going to do, soon.
Morning finally dawned. Isobel was both grateful (she could stop pretending to herself that she was capable of sleep) and fearful (it was another day in which she would have to see and deal with Jeff).
She went down to the kitchen though she wasn’t in the least bit hungry. If her mother was around she would try to eat something for the sake of appearance.
Her mother was there.
“Are you feeling better this morning, Isobel?” she asked, a frown of concern on her face.
“Fine,” Isobel said. “Must have been a twelve-hour virus or something.”
“Can I make you some eggs?”
“No, thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll just have some toast or something.”
She took two slices of bread from the bread box and stuck them in the toaster.
“I’ve been thinking about going out west for college,” she said, her back to her mother. “Maybe California or Seattle.”
“What? First of all,” her mother said, “you’re only going to be a junior this fall. It’s a bit early to be making decisions about college, isn’t it? And second, I thought you wanted to stay on the East Coast, near me. And your father.”
“It’s never too early to think about college,” Isobel countered, turning now to face her mother. “And besides, I’ve been thinking. I want a big change in my life. Change is good, right? Look how we left our life in Massachusetts and moved to Maine because you wanted a fresh start.”
“Well, that wasn’t quite the same . . .”
“Why wasn’t it the same?” she challenged.
But her mother’s phone announced that someone else demanded her attention.
“It’s Flora Michaels,” Louise said with a sigh of annoyance. “We’ll talk about college plans some other time. I’ve got to deal with this.”
Her mother left the kitchen, phone to her ear.
The toast popped. Isobel put the pieces of bread on a plate and left the kitchen. She heard her mother’s voice from the library. For the first time she realized that the only person in her life Jeff had never vilified—except for that once, the first time at his house—was her mother. In fact, she had asked him the other day why he never called her Izzy when they were with her mother. He had said that using her full name was a sign of respect.
Isobel had wondered what exactly he had meant by that but hadn’t bothered to ask.
Jeff texted her.
She responded immediately. She had to.
Chapter 51
Louise was exhausted. She had been afraid to sleep the night before, afraid to be swept into the nightmare that grew increasingly dark and dangerous with each manifestation.
She had sat vigil over her sanity until against her most strenuous will she fell into a light sleep around 5 a.m. Her alarm clock woke her at six thirty, rousing her from a vague waking dream involving a bri
de in a tattered dress and, for some reason she couldn’t understand, Andrew in a chef’s coat, fixing the bride dinner.
She was in the kitchen, watching a news show, when Isobel came in.
“Bella made scones this morning,” she said to her daughter. “Cinnamon and raspberry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”
“Just letting you know that I’ve got my eye on the last cinnamon one, so if you’re going to change your mind you’d better change it fast.”
Isobel smiled a bit and took a seat at the table. “That’s okay. You can have it.”
“Oh, I want to hear this.” Louise raised the volume on the TV. Kathleen Shannon of Channel 6 in Portland was doing a story about domestic violence; the story highlighted the city’s social services for abused women and advised women in trouble on how to get a restraining order and otherwise seek help.
At the commercial break, Louise lowered the volume again. “It’s just so sad,” she said. “But I guess there will always be abusers out there. I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise.”
Isobel didn’t respond.
“Are you okay?” Louise asked, finding Isobel’s silence unnerving. Usually, she was such a chatterbox.
“Fine,” Isobel said.
“I know it’s hard to listen to these stories. It’s hard not to feel some of the pain and shame those women feel. And the anger and the fear.”
Isobel nodded.
Louise looked back to the television and raised the volume. The weatherman was predicting rain. “I feel bad that I haven’t had time to volunteer since we moved to Maine,” she said. “I should be out there helping other women.”
Isobel suddenly stood, bumping against the table and rattling the spoon in her mother’s empty cereal bowl. “I forgot I left my laptop open,” she said, and dashed out of the kitchen.
Louise’s phone chirped. There was a text from Flora Michaels. Could there be little marzipan pigs the flower girl could scatter like petals as she walked the aisle, she wanted to know. Louise supposed it was possible and texted back that she would speak to the owner of Harbor Candy Shop about the special request.
The Summer Everything Changed Page 29