Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  But how? Someone would have had to come in and kept me drugged or poisoned. For the whole weekend.

  That shadowy figure of a man—maybe he wasn’t a nightmare, but an actual memory. And if he was, then I was lucky that I’d merely overslept. Probably, I hadn’t been meant to wake up at all.

  They rushed into the house fussing.

  “Are you all right?” Susan raised an eyebrow, eyed me head to toe.

  “JFC, Elle,” Jen said. “You scared the shit out of us. Why didn’t you pick up your damned phone?”

  It went on like that for a while until they realized I wasn’t answering any of their questions.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Jen asked.

  “She’s not right,” Susan agreed.

  “No,” I agreed. “I’m not.” I smeared tears across my cheeks, told them I couldn’t remember anything about the weekend. Not talking on the phone. Only vaguely eating or going to the bathroom. Nothing concrete until that morning when I hadn’t been able to get up.

  “Should we take her to the hospital?” Jen looked at me, talked to Susan.

  Susan walked into the living room, returned with an empty wineglass and Syrah bottle. “She might just have a hangover.”

  “I don’t have a hangover.” I’d had hangovers before. This was not the same. And I wasn’t a binge drinker, hadn’t ever lost a weekend to a bottle. I turned, went to the kitchen, my body feeling foreign and robotic. They followed, Susan carrying the bottle and glass.

  I sat at the table, trying to remember drinking the Syrah. Replaying events. Jerry had been at the door, holding a bottle of wine. Had been angry when I’d told him to leave.

  “How many bottles did you drink?” Susan pressed her hangover theory.

  “I don’t remember. I might have had a glass or two.” Actually, I didn’t remember drinking at all.

  “This bottle’s almost empty.” She sounded like a lawyer, cross-examining me. She checked the recycling bin in the pantry, began counting the empties. Stopped at five.

  “OMG, she hasn’t even made coffee.” Jen opened the refrigerator, looking for a can of coffee beans. Noticed a bunch of roses in the trash. “Whoa. Where’d these come from?”

  Susan looked at the roses, turned to me and squinted. “Elle? Why are there roses in your trash?”

  “I’ll make coffee.” I didn’t want to talk about the roses. I stood, got the coffee out of the freezer, poured beans into the grinder. Had to concentrate on each step. Measuring the water, putting ground beans into the filter. Things I normally did on automatic took intense effort. Susan and Jen watched me and whispered, seemed far away.

  “Her speech seems okay,” I heard Susan say. “And she’s moving her arms and legs. I don’t think it’s a stroke.”

  “So WTF is it? We’ve seen her hungover before, and she’s never been like this.”

  The coffee was brewing. They sat across the table from me, studying me.

  “Maybe she pulled a gigantic Elle?” Jen suggested.

  Oh dear. That was what I’d feared, too.

  “You think she’d check out for a whole weekend?” Susan frowned, pushed her hair behind her ear. “She’s never done that before.”

  “I know, but what else—”

  “And she only pulls an Elle when she’s shocked or stressed out.”

  “Duh, Susan. You don’t think she’s stressed out by these murders? She found that first body—the principal. And what about that woman who was hit by the car—she was right there.”

  “Right. But when she pulls an Elle, she never misses more than a minute or two. Even when Charlie got killed.”

  I was standing right there, but they didn’t think to ask me about my symptoms. Susan was right, though. Until now, my dissociative episodes had only lasted for only a few moments. But I worried that they’d increase in duration and frequency, and that someday, I’d drift into my own mental world never to return.

  “It wasn’t an Elle,” I said.

  They both looked at me as if surprised to find me there.

  “This wasn’t me pulling an Elle,” I repeated. “Look, when I have an episode—when I ‘pull an Elle’—I remember it. I go away into my thoughts for a little bit, but afterwards, I know where I’ve gone. I might revisit a specific moment of the past or imagine the future. But whatever, if you asked me about it later, I could describe it in vivid detail.”

  “And this time?” Susan asked.

  “This time,” I said, “I don’t remember anything. Not a minute since Friday night.”

  They exchanged looks. Didn’t they believe me?

  The coffee was ready. Susan got out mugs and poured.

  Jen scrounged for something to eat. Found frozen bagels, popped them into the microwave.

  I closed my eyes, straining to remember. Saw Rose attacking my car, Ty coming over, threatening me. And Jerry at the door with roses and wine.

  “I remember Friday night—Jerry brought the roses as a peace offering.”

  “Jerry?” Jen’s eyebrows raised. “And you let him in?”

  “I made him leave.”

  Again, I saw the dim figure of a man in the dark.

  I looked at the almost empty bottle. I must have opened the wine. Must have poured a glass. And then?

  Nothing.

  Or no, not nothing. I shuddered, rubbed my neck. Saw the man again, a blurred shape coming toward me. Hovering over me. But I was paralyzed, unable even to scream.

  Susan was taking jam from the fridge. Jen was cutting warm bagels, saying that she couldn’t believe I’d thrown out such pretty flowers. It was a real shame. It wasn’t their fault they’d come from Jerry.

  “I’ve been raped.”

  The first time I said it, they didn’t seem to hear. So I repeated it, louder. And then, realizing how true it felt, I said it once again.

  They both blinked at me. Two faces, identical expressions.

  Then the questions started. “When?” “Where?” “Are you all right?” “Who raped you?” “Was it Jerry?” “Was it Ty?” “What happened, tell us from the start.”

  I had no answers. Just a vague memory of a shadowy man.

  I told them about waking up naked. About feeling drugged and unable to move. Didn’t mention feeling filthy.

  “Let’s go. We’ll take you for a rape test.” Susan stood, picked up her purse.

  I shook my head, felt my face heat up.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Elle. If you’ve been raped, it’ll help catch the creep who raped you.”

  Except that it wouldn’t. “I took a bath.”

  “You what?”

  “Before you got here.”

  “Good Lord, Elle, why would you do that?” Susan pushed hair behind her ear. “Never mind. The test might still work. You’d have to clean yourself really thoroughly to get rid of everything.”

  I met her eyes.

  “Really? You seriously—”

  “I was extremely thorough.”

  They looked at each other, then back at me.

  “I douched.”

  “You douched.”

  I nodded. “Several times.”

  Again, Susan and Jen exchanged looks. Didn’t they believe that I’d been raped?

  “But, Elle. Surely you knew you were washing away evidence—”

  “No. See, I didn’t remember what happened. I just felt like I had to wash.”

  Silence. They watched me.

  “Okay, maybe there are other signs.” Jen began examining my arms and neck. Looking for bruises? “Take off your pants. Let’s see your thighs.”

  I’d already seen my thighs. “There’s nothing.”

  Jen sighed and sat down. Susan crossed her arms and frowned. Their faces expressed doubt.

  “Oh God,” I breathed. “What if I’m pregnant? Or what if he gave me an STD?”

  “What time of month is it?” Jen asked.

  Good point. I was due to get a period in a couple of days. So it was unlikely that I’d have co
nceived. But I’d still need to get tested for STDs, damn it. But maybe it was okay. Because maybe he’d worn a condom. In fact, he probably did wear one. After all, no modern-day rapist would risk leaving a semen sample, not when his DNA might lead the police right to him. Not when he didn’t know I’d douche it all away. Still, I should get a test. I would. Soon.

  Susan was talking. I’d missed the beginning. “And besides, you’ve been through a tremendous amount of stress, Elle.” She put the jar of jam down and sat beside me. Her eyes looked sorry. Or maybe disappointed. She took my hand, and I understood.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Susan pursed her lips. Jen broke off a piece of bagel, popped it into her mouth.

  “Here’s what we believe. We believe that you’re not yourself. And that something has happened to you. But rape? Elle, there’s no sign of a break-in. No sign that anyone but you was here last night. No marks on your body or sign of a struggle. And you’ve washed away any semen—”

  “Here’s what I think,” Jen interrupted, munching. “I think she had way the hell too much to drink and then took sleeping pills because of all her stress and ended up pulling one giant-sized effing Elle.”

  Sleeping pills? “I didn’t take sleeping pills.”

  “How do you know? You said you don’t effing remember anything.”

  I glared at her but didn’t answer. Her comment offended me. She was right that I didn’t effing remember anything, but I knew I wouldn’t have taken pills even if I’d had any.

  Susan looked at her watch. “Damn. I have to get back. Now that I know you’re all right, I’ve got to take care of actual paying clients. Can you stay with her, Jen?”

  “Me?”

  “It’s all right.” I gathered coffee mugs. “I’m fine now. I don’t need anyone to stay.”

  “You aren’t fine,” Susan said.

  “You look like hell,” Jen added.

  “I’ll go back to bed. I’ll be fine if I sleep.” I didn’t mean that. No way was I going back to bed. Not to those sheets. I pictured the man. This time he was at the bathroom door, watching me on the toilet. Oh God. And then I saw him again, carrying a tray to the bed. No, not a tray, a box. Was he bringing me pizza? Water—making me drink it? Was that how he’d kept me drugged, by putting something in the water? Damn, why couldn’t I remember? And why didn’t they believe me? My friends should have been helping me remember details so I could identify the rapist. They should have been soothing me, reassuring me. Instead, they were acting like I’d simply and irresponsibly drunk myself into a stupor of hallucinations. Crazy Elle. Undependable Elle. Neurotic Elle. Whatever else they thought of me, at that moment, I was indignant Elle, and I wanted both of them to leave.

  “How about this?” Jen said. “I have tennis at noon. I can stay with her until eleven thirty.”

  That was only an hour. “I don’t need you to stay, Jen. Go.” I stood.

  “You sure?” She grabbed her bag, not arguing. “Because I’m here if you need me.”

  I forced a smile, didn’t let on how hurt I was. Didn’t confront them about not believing me.

  Susan was on her feet, studying me. “You should see a doctor. Why not call your shrink?”

  My shrink? Not my internist? Not my gynecologist?

  I stiffened, thanked them for coming, apologized for worrying them, and walked them to the door. They meant well. They cared about me. But neither of them believed me.

  When they left, I locked the door and stood in the foyer, searching my mind, desperate to locate memories. My skin tingled, either from my repeated baths or from fear. Fury roiled in my belly, and I felt entirely alone.

  Minutes later, I called the police, asked for Detective Stiles. Even though he was in homicide, I knew him. I could tell him about the rape. He’d listen.

  The operator put me on hold. Maybe Stiles was in the field or at a meeting. Maybe I should call back later.

  No. I’d hold on. I would report what had happened to me, wouldn’t be a silent victim.

  I waited. Watched cars pass out my window, splattering puddles from the earlier rain. Thought about what I’d say to Stiles. I’d tell him that a man had come in during the night.

  Stiles would ask if I’d known the man. I’d say I wasn’t sure. He’d ask me to describe him. I’d say I couldn’t. I’d explain that I must have been drugged because I remembered only his silhouette, his shadowy form. He’d ask what exactly happened. I’d say I couldn’t remember details, but that he must have kept me drugged until Monday morning when I’d awakened naked and stiff. And feeling violated.

  “That’s it?” he’d say. He’d pause patiently. Then he’d suggest a rape test.

  I’d explain about my bath.

  I’d hear him shift in his chair. He’d ask what exactly had led me to believe I’d been raped.

  I’d try to explain.

  I’d say that there were several suspects. Jerry had brought me wine and roses and had been furious when I’d rejected him and made him leave. And Ty had come by steaming mad, blaming me because his brother and sister were in foster care and his mom was in jail. And Duncan Girard had intimated that he’d get back at Joyce and me because Joyce had flat out accused him of pedophilia. And Stan—well, Stan was just creepy. I’d explain that Mrs. Marshall, Joyce Huff, and Ty’s old girlfriend Stephanie Cross had already been killed, not to mention Patsy Olsen who’d been dressed like me, and that my name was next on the list that Kim Lawless had found in Joyce’s planner. Also, who knew who could have gotten into my house because I still hadn’t replaced the locks, and someone could have copied the lock box key, which I’d remove now because my house had been sold even though, oh God, I didn’t know where I was going to move because nothing else felt like home because even though Charlie was dead, I still missed him after more than two years, even though he’d been a lying cheat.

  Maybe I’d cry.

  Lord, I sounded crazy even to myself. Susan and Jen were right. Rape or no rape, I should call my shrink.

  Out the window, the sidewalks were nearly dry. A man passed by with his Corgi. A woman pushed a stroller, maybe taking her curly-haired toddler to the park. Sunlight speckled the street, filtered through colored leaves.

  I was still on hold when I decided that Stiles wouldn’t believe me any more than Susan and Jen had. Maybe they were right that no one had gotten into my house. Maybe I’d pulled a monumental Elle and imagined the shadowy man lowering himself onto me. Maybe I was slipping into dissociation, completely losing touch. I pushed END, set the phone down, and wandered the house, running my hands along wainscoting and furniture, concentrating on tangibles like wood and fabric, trying to swallow my fear.

  At around noon, it occurred to me that if my attacker were real, he might come back. I might have to defend myself. I got my bag and went shopping. Held a few guns before deciding against getting one. Bought some mace instead. Stood taller with it in my bag.

  On the way back, I drove past Logan Elementary. The Jolly Jack’s truck was parked at the end of the schoolyard. Duncan Girard was on the curb, laughing and selling ice cream to some boys. Was he built like the shadowy man? I kept my eyes on him, pictured him skulking through my house, into the bedroom. Looked up just in time to avoid hitting a parked car.

  Duncan Girard. Was he the man who’d spent the weekend drugging and raping me? I heard him threaten, “I’m warning you. If you spread rumors about me—”

  But Joyce interrupted, shaking her head, no. “Don’t be silly, Elle. Duncan Girard wouldn’t rape you. He only likes children.”

  Joyce didn’t know that, though, not for sure. She’d had no proof. And besides, rape wasn’t about sex; it was about power. I’d read that somewhere or heard it on television. Either way, it sounded true. And anyway, I had no proof that I’d been raped, much less that Duncan Girard or any other man had even been in my house during the night.

  I went home. That afternoon, Pete from Safe and Lock showed up at two. The front door lock was ch
anged by two thirty. Pete assured me that his lock was strong and durable. He gave me a spare key. Despite how woozy I was, I went to the hardware store on Fairmount Avenue and had copies made for Becky, Susan, and Jen. Then, I went home and stayed there, doors locked and bolted.

  I avoided people, ignoring calls from Jerry and unknown numbers, answering the phone only if it was Becky, Jen, or Susan, and only to convince them that I was fine. But in truth, I was a mess. I was certain I’d been drugged and raped but had no evidence and no credibility even with my closest friends. Two of my colleagues had been murdered, and my name and Becky’s were on a list of potential victims. Ty Evans and his psycho mother both had come after me. Jerry was hounding me. Plus my house wasn’t mine anymore. I had to move out and leave my memories behind, but everywhere I looked, I saw Charlie and heard his long-dead voice declaring love.

  I even answered him sometimes, asking why, if he loved me so much, he hadn’t chased away the rapist.

  I was out of control, so I hid inside, talking to a ghost, reviewing events, letting my mind ricochet to exhaustion.

  Dinner was frozen pizza at around ten. Then I changed my sheets and put on fresh flannel pajamas. When I went to bed, sometime after midnight, I slept with one hand on my mace.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I slept through to the next morning. On Tuesday, I got up early, went to school, and stopped in Mr. Royal’s office to apologize for not calling or showing up the day before. I told him I’d been so sick that the alarm hadn’t awakened me, that it must have been a twenty-four-hour flu.

  His response was flustered. “Glad you’re better. Don’t let it happen again.” He shuffled papers, glancing at me. “Any more repercussions from that Evans situation?”

  I didn’t mention Ty’s visit to my home. “Not that I’m aware of. But I haven’t seen Seth yet.”

  He harrumphed. “See that you keep me informed. We don’t need parents attacking teachers on school property.”

  Would it have been okay if Rose had attacked me off school property? “There was no way to predict Mrs. Evans’ behavior.”