by Carol Caiton
For long silent months she'd retreated into herself, to a place where she didn't have to confront what had happened, a place where she didn't have to confront anything at all. Jill had cried. Every day she'd cried. Rachel remembered that, but she hadn't had the emotional wherewithal to respond. She'd lived in a protective bubble, separate and insulated. She was semi-aware of the world around her, but she wasn't a participant. Time simply passed in isolated numbness.
Off and on throughout each day her mother labored to draw her out of her shell. She read to her, told her stories from her own childhood, kept her informed when there was news to be shared, and talked about plans for the future. Rachel had heard the resonance of sound, but she didn't connect the words. The months passed with no measurable progress until finally, gradually, impressions began to penetrate the barrier her mind had erected—the smell of food cooking . . . laughter . . . television . . . the tears her mother sometimes dabbed at while she read.
Eventually the impressions grew stronger and became more frequent, slowly pulling Rachel into a sharper, clearer present. She drew back, reluctant to step into that toobusy world. But it happened very suddenly. One second she sat in a chair across from her mother, safely ensconced in her soft world, and the next she was plunged into the real world with crystal-clear perception.
"Don't cry, Mom."
The words had been softly spoken, her voice dry and rusty. But she hadn't been prepared for the shocked gasp, the drain of color from her mother's face, or the sudden torrent of tears. Nor had she been prepared for the horror that flooded her mind when her mother rushed over, sweeping her up in a fervent, emotional embrace. The embrace and its associated memories—the intensity of both—hurled her back to the quiet safety of her soft cocoon. The nightmare was too hideous, the real world too acute.
That was how she came to differentiate between the two—the real world and her soft world. It would happen without warning, those bursts into full, alert consciousness. But the nightmarish memories grew clearer as well, wrenching screams from deep in her soul. Life was no longer safe. People were monsters.
One or the other of her parents was always nearby to soothe her, to take her into safe comforting arms. But the arms closing around her were the catalyst that drove her back into oblivion. They trapped her, suffocated her, and however irrational it was, her brain connected human contact with the expectation of brutal violence.
"Don't touch me!" she finally shouted, able at last to push the words out before sinking into the safety of nothingness. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"
She'd scrambled for the stairs, heart racing, fear climbing to unbearable heights that made her gasp for air. Her mother had stared at her with stricken eyes, hands falling to her sides. But from that moment, Rachel knew it was important to leave her soft world behind. Rooting herself in the real world was the only way she could be certain no one ever touched her again.
It took years to work through the crippling aftermath. Gradually the nightmares became less frequent. Eventually she stopped locking her bedroom door. And with time she was able to feel the gentler emotions again. To love.
By her fifteenth birthday she no longer thought of every stranger as a potential monster. By her sixteenth birthday she could venture out alone. Little by little her mind relented, dismantling the barriers that held her back from rejoining the world as a healthy, happy young woman.
But her psyche demanded a compromise. It had relented, but only to a point. In every practical sense except one she'd been able to resume a normal life. That one compromise, however, exacted a terrible price. It was a deeply entrenched, defensive mindset that was unwilling to yield to more than the smallest concessions. And so, for eleven years, since the day she'd been attacked, she hadn't been able to tolerate even the gentlest of physical contact with another human being.
She spent her teenage years in therapy, had been assessed by a number of psychologists, tested for autism and every other tactile-sensitivity condition known, but post-traumatic stress remained the final diagnosis. She tried hypnotism, meditation, acupuncture, tapping —conventional and unconventional methods of therapy. But her psyche refused to cooperate. Unreasonable, overwhelming panic knotted every muscle whenever someone drew near. Her breath was reduced to short, shallow gasps, and her vision narrowed to pinpricks of light.
Only one form of therapy had offered a glimmer of hope. At the age of sixteen she'd been re-introduced to systematic desensitization —a form of therapy that had been tried at a time when her younger mind was unable to cope with the horror it aroused. It was a grueling, hateful process and she'd often wept on her way to an appointment, knowing the torment ahead, then wept again on the way home, wounded and spent. But it was through systematic desensitization—repeatedly subjecting herself to that which can't be tolerated—that she began to make progress.
It was she who initiated each touch, reaching for her mother's hand and holding on until her body shook with repulsion, until she had to fight to hold back screams of desperation. But eventually there was progress. Even she had been able to recognize it. So she pushed herself while home as well, working with both parents, with Jill, Ali, or Nathan whenever he dropped by. And finally she reached a milestone, able to give and accept a handshake, a brief hug—and even smile while doing so.
Unfortunately her progress stalled with that milestone until, at the age of eighteen, she was forced to accept her limitations. She was handicapped. Emotionally disabled. She would have to learn to compromise, to accept her known parameters and work with them. She knew how far she could push, knew when it was wise to retreat. And always, always, she prepared in advance before placing herself in a situation that involved people outside her intimate circle, primed herself to rapidly assess her circumstances should someone happen to bump into her. At times that heightened sense of awareness, always standing guard, sapped her energy. But she no longer froze, paralyzed with terror. Instead, after a few stuttering heartbeats, she was able to subdue the threat of impending danger, assure herself she was safe, and continue on.
There were times, lonely, heartbreaking times, when she longed to tuck her arm through her mother's as they shopped at the mall, or to relax in the love of her father's embrace. It had been such a long time. And now, lately, there were nights when she buried her face in her pillow and cried quiet tears. Not many young women contemplated the future within such a limited scope. Fewer still probably thought about it knowing they'd be alone until the day death paid a visit. She could look forward to waking up every morning in a bed she shared with no one, eating breakfast at a table by herself, and closing every day under the very same circumstances.
She wanted more than that that. Yearned for it. She wanted to walk through life without fear. She wanted a normal healthy relationship with a man. To take pleasure in his touch. To fall in love.
Then, that first televised interview with Vanessa Boyer had given rise to an idea. It was a hideous, unthinkable idea, but the linking system and the PR woman's account of RUSH's safety precautions had triggered it—a macabre possibility that gave Rachel one last hope. It left her trembling and short of breath when she considered what she'd have to endure to pursue it. Then it took three days before she could bring herself to think about it again . . . carefully, lightly touching the edges of it and drawing back when panic began to rise up.
Systematic desensitization. If she joined RUSH, Inc. and managed to link with a highly compatible partner, would that high level of compatibility allow her to steer it in a sensual direction, one that might be the trigger to break through her prison?
She began using her imagination to draw up the images of men she found physically attractive and immersed them in a variety of scenarios. But her heartbeat picked up its rapid tempo and the usual tightness gripped her chest. It took weeks of picking new faces, working past the nightmarish fear, and soothing herself with practiced breathing patterns. Day after day she subjected herself to imagined intimacies and revu
lsion, pushing herself a little further, then a little further again.
For the next two and a half years she set out to learn everything she could about RUSH, Inc., continuing to walk herself through hateful exercises that sometimes caused her to wonder if she might be doing herself more harm than good. Was she damaging an already damaged mind? Would she even be able to recognize a gentle, loving touch after this?
Then her sister met Luke Ingersol and fell in love. Watching them together, observing the unfettered need to touch and the obvious adoration in Luke's eyes, stirred in Rachel both a moving joy for her twin and a depth of aloneness that hadn't touched her before. Within just two short weeks Jill and Luke announced their plans to marry. Her sister had found the man she wanted to spend her life with, and Rachel's heart swelled with happiness for them both, even as it keened with silent pain and envy.
More than ever she wanted to know if RUSH was everything it was purported to be. She ached to face down and conquer the nightmare that dictated her life. She didn't want to sleep in an empty bed or sit at a lonely breakfast table. She wanted a husband. She wanted children. She wanted it all. And she was willing to do an awful lot for the chance to have it, no matter how revolting, no matter how painful, even if it dragged her back into that long ago soft world.
CHAPTER 3
During the entirety of those two years Rachel told no one what she had in mind, not Jill, not Ali—no one at all. She had too many questions and reservations of her own and not enough facts to debate theirs. She needed information, a lot of information, but acquiring it proved a discouraging process.
RUSH's website was gorgeous—a misty tropical jungle in the background, the stunning wrought-iron gates in the fore. Membership packages started at Entertainment Level 1 and ended at Entertainment Level 8, all of which included monthly birth control shots, a microchip implant, two required classes, and a private room per encounter at a place called Carnelian Jade, or at another place called Threshold. Of course the perks increased and became more lavish with each level, but she was certain the cost did as well.
She looked for an exhaustive list of classes but couldn't find one. She checked for prices but couldn't find those either. There were no member ratings, no blogs, nothing beyond the gorgeous homepage, a rundown of security features, and the list of membership packages.
She did learn something interesting though. RUSH had on staff a highly reputable psychologist. She knew of Dr. Daniel Zeman. He had distinguished himself as an expert in the field of sexual dysfunction, enjoyed a lofty New York address, and could claim impressive success. But she knew of him because her father, through a network of connections, had conferred with him years before. Since her aversion to touch was the result of a violent sexual act, he'd hoped a sex therapist could offer some insight and had sought out the best.
Professional courtesy had its advantages. It had been Dr. Zeman who suggested working with a therapist to re-introduce systematic desensitization and at sixteen, she'd been better prepared. Now, however, she wondered if, after all these years, he would remember that conversation with her father and connect her with the teenager about whom her father had conferred. And since he worked at RUSH, Inc., would he interfere when he found out she was looking for someone who would work with her through that same process toward an intimate connection?
Eventually the time came when she had to approach her family. She needed their help and yes, she badly wanted their support. RUSH's public relations representative had marketed the impression of a sophisticated resort but the bottom line was, that had been her job. And Daniel Zeman might have every award known to mankind, but that didn't explain what he was doing at a place like RUSH. Opposition groups had been spreading rumors of handcuffs embedded in the walls while supporters hailed RUSH's medical advancements and state-of-the-art security. But what was Daniel Zeman doing there? What to believe? What not to believe?
She waited for a quiet evening when everyone was home. There wasn't a lot to explain. Systematic desensitization had worked to some degree in the past. Brief hugs might be all she could tolerate from the people she loved, but what if a compatible sensual connection could break through the barriers that were caused by a brutal sexual act?
It was the first time in her life that she saw her father cry and his anguish pierced her with grief and regret. He'd always been a source of strength for them all. He'd always been the one to remind Rachel that patience and perseverance produced results. But he'd risen quickly from his chair and left the room under a burden of emotion. Too late, Rachel recalled that she'd had a long time to adjust and grow into the idea. It hadn't occurred to her that her parents might need a gradual approach as well.
Turning to her mother, she was prepared to abandon the idea. "I won't do it. I'll go tell him I've changed my mind."
She started to rise from the sofa but her mother gave her shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. "Give us time to digest it, Rachel. Just give us a little time." Voice thick with emotion, she too left the room.
Even Jill's eyes were watery with tears. "I ache inside, Rachel. My whole heart aches and I wish I could wrap my arms around you and give us both comfort."
"Then do it. For as long as I can handle it, I want it too." She took a quivering breath. "I don't know where else to turn, Jilly. I'm scared and I'm trapped and I don't know what else to try."
Jill slid along the sofa cushions and Rachel met her halfway. For a few brief seconds, that singular oneness they'd shared as children passed between them and they each held on fiercely. Until Rachel had to let go.
Exhaling, wiping her eyes, Jill dropped her arms and backed away. "I'll help." She sniffed, then smiled. "I'll ask around at work. Maybe some of our clients are members. People talk to the cosmetologists and stylists, so maybe they've heard something from someone who's been there."
Later that evening both parents came to her bedroom. She went to her father immediately and slid her arms around his waist. He, too, held her for as long as she could tolerate it, then he released her.
"I have confidence in your judgment, Rachel. You're intelligent, you're strong, and you've worked hard at everything every doctor has suggested. So I'll ask around the medical community and see what I can find out. But be patient. Keep researching and watch for articles from reputable sources. The police haven't shut the place down, so that's encouraging."
Rachel agreed. As always, his advice was given in love.
Time passed however without notable progress. Various groups routinely demonstrated outside the tall wrought-iron gates, but the initial uproar had died down. There had been a murder about a month ago and the body of a young woman had been discovered on RUSH property. But the murderer turned out to be a drug dealer who had been denied membership after three separate tries. No other incidents had been reported since then, and other stories now dominated the news.
As well, Jill had been unable to learn anything from her co-workers. Apparently plenty of people discussed RUSH, but no one seemed to know anyone who had joined. Rachel continued scanning the Internet and reading the boards, but no one had anything to offer. Either RUSH wasn't doing much in the way of business, or its clientele maintained a sweeping silence.
Her father made inquiries into the recent work of Dr. Daniel Zeman, confirming what she already knew. For more than twenty years he'd studied human sexuality, sexual dysfunction, and sex addiction. He'd lectured at several universities in the northeast, taught numerous seminars, and he was featured in medical journals. What she hadn't known was that he'd closed his practice in New York specifically to develop the linking system for RUSH. And now he monitored the varied sexual habits of healthy individuals, compared his findings to those of his former patients, and tracked the success rate of the system he'd authored.
Then she and her family met Mason Ingersol, Jill's future brother-in-law. He was an attorney. He was father to a sweet little boy. He was practically part of the family. And he not only worked at RUSH, Inc., he was one of the seven myste
rious men who owned it.
Rachel had wept.
After so long, she could hardly believe the plan she'd pinned all her hopes on was finally within reach, that one of the men who actually owned RUSH had been sitting at the picnic table in her own backyard for a family barbecue. It was one of those peculiar ironies of life that popped up now and again, always surprising, yet fitting into the puzzle as though waiting for the right time.
She couldn't seem to stop crying the night she found out. The combination of joy and revulsion pulling her one way then another had finally exhausted her. She'd even laughed through her tears because it was yet another of those strange ironies. But her fear factor had dropped a hundred points because of the simple fact that Mason Ingersol was Luke's brother and neither one was a sleeze.
Still, she'd recently read a blog written by a woman who applied for membership at RUSH but had been turned down. In it she'd stated she had some issues regarding a recent date rape and wondered if her application had been refused because of that.
Rachel considered that possibility as well. If the woman had been turned down because of psychological issues, then filling out an application would yield the same results where she was concerned. Thus, left with only one option, she wasn't beyond using her connection to Mason. Nor was she beyond begging.
He took her out to dinner the night after she phoned him at work. Over coffee she told him about walking home from a birthday party eleven years before. She told him about the time of silence, the psychological consequences of the attack that still shrouded her in solitude. At twenty-three years old, she'd lived nearly half her life in a state of fight or flight, ever vigilant in public settings and without physical affection.
Mason had agreed to approach the board with her request. He told her up front, however, that he didn't expect them to agree and he'd been genuinely surprised when they had—with conditions. Everything was contingent upon Dr. Zeman's approval though. It would be up to her to arrange an appointment with him, at her expense, and to enlist whichever personnel he approved, at her expense, and to sign any legal documents Mason presented, releasing the corporation and its employees from all liability.