by Shenda Paul
“Even if he didn’t say the words, the blow to my chin let me know he’d had you,” he continues. His look of disgust would be comical if I weren’t so taken aback at the thought of Luke hitting him.
“He should have hit you harder. If I were a man, I’d horsewhip you.”
“He’s lucky I did not have him charged with assault, but interfering Ingrid was there, as always. She threatened to support his version of events. He took what was mine, Angelique, and I intend to reclaim it.”
“I don’t belong …” I stop, nearly crying with relief when a long shadow, the very welcoming sight of my muscled friend, falls across the garage entrance.
“Angelique? What’s going on?” Samuel demands, his scowling gaze fixed on Dieter, who, after a moment’s surprise, offers his hand. “I’m Dieter Quandt, owner and Director of the Quandt Ballet Institute.”
Samuel pointedly ignores the overture, and while still staring pointedly at him, addresses me. “Angelique? Who is this?”
“I’ve told you, I’m…” Dieter interjects.
“I’ll get to you in a minute, until then, I suggest you shut up—if you know what’s good for you,” Samuel warns.
“Angelique?”
“This is Dieter Quandt, the man responsible for my accident,” I say, and that seems to be enough for Samuel. He grabs Dieter by his lapels. Dieter struggles to keep his balance as he’s unceremoniously frogmarched down the drive. I race to keep up with them.
“Get out!” Samuel orders, his voice dangerously low. “If you ever come near Angelique again, you’ll be needing a cast!” He flings Dieter aside like a rag doll. He lands ignominiously on his backside. Red-faced, he scrambles to his feet.
“I won’t give up, Angelique,” he promises and, still holding my gaze, gets into his car and drives away.
10
“A re you going to tell me what’s going on?” Samuel demands.
Dieter’s arrival and threats have rattled me. My leg hurts for no good reason. It’s as if my subconscious is reminding me of the pain and misery the man’s already caused; a warning of what he could do in the future. I feel tired, bone-weary actually. After the awful events of the last couple of months, I’d only just convinced myself we’d cope, that I’d cope. And now, I have Dieter’s obsession to contend with.
“Angelique?” Samuel prods impatiently, and I finally turn to face him. He must see my distress because his expression instantly softens. He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea or something.”
I busy myself in the kitchen, start the coffee machine, set out mugs and put on the kettle to make myself herbal tea. Samuel’s watching me closely; I can sense it, and I know he won’t allow me to avoid the issue. He’s just waiting me out.
“He was responsible for my accident,” I say without looking up.
“I thought you were hurt during a performance?”
“I was.” I relate the full story then, from the moment Dieter approached me in the park to today’s confrontation. By the time I stop, Samuel’s pacing.
“That man should be put away. At the very least, you have to take out a restraining order. I’ll go with you.” He turns to me, his expression warning me not to argue.
“That son of a bitch!” he continues, seeing no resistance. “If I’d known this before, I would have ripped him apart. He’s a fucking predator!” I flinch; shocked at the ferocity of Samuel’s anger, his foul language. Sure, he looks intimidating, his physique ensures that, but I’ve only ever seen the caring side of the man, I’ve learned, is a gentle giant. Today, though, I’ve seen just how frightening he can be if crossed.
“We’re going to the police,” he says, and I agree without hesitation. I’d been stupid and naïve not to speak out before. I may well have avoided my accident, I think, but instantly dismiss the thought. I really can’t deal with what if’s now; there are too many other things happening.
“You know that Nic and I are moving to Connecticut, don’t you? She wants to be near her family when the baby comes, and I don’t have any relatives, so I want my son to have a large family to grow up in. I’m going to miss you; you’re like a baby sister to me, but I need to make Nic happy—”
I cut him off by wrapping my arms around his waist. “I love you too, Samuel, but I’m not your responsibility—your family is. Distance won’t change our relationship.”
“I’m going to worry about you even more now this pervert’s sniffing around.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll get the protection order, and I promise to be careful.”
Two months later, Samuel and Nic leave, eagerly awaiting what we now know is the birth of their son. Samuel, of course, is ecstatic.
Mom’s still at the spinal care center, but she’ll be moving to another facility soon, one that will become her home. We’ve done a lot of research, and I’ve visited a few places, but we’ve yet to decide on a suitable one. Mom’s care and happiness remain our priority, but cost is also an issue, a big issue, for me, especially, since I’m now managing our finances. Mom didn’t ask, and she helps as much as she can, but she’s had and still has so much to deal with. I don’t want to add to her burden, so, it’s my responsibility now to ensure we’re able to afford the care Mom’s going to need for the rest of her life. The money from Peter’s estate has been a godsend, and, with Mr. Jamieson’s help, we’ve invested it—wisely, I believe—but I worry it won’t be enough. That concern, though I never mention it to Mom, is ever-present in my mind.
I haven’t touched my annuity, and I don’t intend to. I’ve invested it as part of the funds set aside for Mom’s care. I’m still at the library, and I’ve managed to increase the number of classes I teach. I earn enough to support myself, but not nearly enough to ensure my financial security or eliminate my worry about Mom’s ongoing care. Once she’s settled in her new home and physically and emotionally stronger, I’ll concentrate on my future.
I haven’t heard from or seen Dieter, but I remain alert and nervous. I no longer feel safe in Orlando now that he knows where I am. Quite honestly, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that we should leave. Now that Peter’s gone, there’s no reason for either Mom or me to stay.
Two weeks later, we still haven’t found a facility that meets both Mom’s needs and our budget. Then, a few nights ago, I thought I spotted a black car following me home. That, for me, was the last straw. I no longer considered leaving Florida; I was determined to do so.
“Where will you go?” Mandi asked when I told her, and I admitted I hadn’t thought that far. “Come home,” she said. “Look, I know Quandt’s here, but he lives and works in The City. It’s not an area you’d frequent anyway, and there are plenty of great studios in the suburbs.
“Besides, he’ll never think of looking for you here,” she argued when I hesitated. “This is your home, Angel. You’ll be close to people who love you and want to support you—both you and your mom.”
I promised to think about it; and the more I did, the more sense it made. Mandi, determined as ever, called Rachel, who, of course, called me and endorsed everything Mandi had said. Then, learning that I hadn’t told Mom about Dieter’s reappearance, she, rightly, pointed out that Mom’s physical impairment doesn’t mean she’s incapable of handling things. “Your mother deserves the truth,” she said.
That conversation’s haunted me. I feel terrible for hiding things from Mom. I realize, now, that I should have revealed the truth a long time ago, but, for whatever reason, my childish mind and lack of understanding convinced me to keep quiet. Then, after my accident, I didn’t want her blaming herself, and, most recently, I felt I shouldn’t add to Mom’s already significant burden. All that needs to change, I’ve decided, but, first, I need to find a suitable care facility in New York.
“Oh, Angel! I failed you,” Mom cries, despite my repeated reassurances that she hadn’t—not me, or Dad, as she’d also claimed.
“It’s no one’s fault except Dieter Quand
t’s. I’ve beaten myself up for not speaking out sooner, too, but Samuel convinced me that only one person’s to blame. And he’s right Mom. None of us could have known; Dieter’s a good liar. He’s fooled many people for decades, not only us.”
I crawl onto the bed with her, doing for her what she did for me too many times to recall. I enfold her in my arms and leave when Mom falls into an exhausted sleep. It’s been awful witnessing her anguish, especially after the recent heartache she’s endured, but I’m glad Mom knows the truth. I only wish I’d acted sooner.
The next day, after a more rational discussion about Dieter and after filling Mom in with my conversations with Mandi and Rachel, we agree to move back to New York. I present Mom with the two best care options, and we make that decision also. By the time I leave, we’re both bubbling with excitement, convinced we’re taking yet another positive step in reclaiming our lives from the misery that’s dogged us.
We leave a month later, accompanied by Hank, a medical aide recommended by Doctor Nicholls. He’ll help get Mom on and off the plane and help her settle into her new home. Luckily for us, he has family in Jersey City and only charged half his going rate. “One hand washes the other. I get to visit my family; you get the help you need” he said at the time.
We’ve been back for two weeks, and we’re all but settled in. The residential facility is a well-run, the atmosphere pleasant, and Mom’s as happy as can be expected. I’ve yet to find a permanent home. In the meantime, I’m sharing Mandi’s apartment. Right now, I’m in the middle of a job interview.
Candice Davis, or Candy, as she’s asked to be called, is the owner of a Brooklyn ballet school. Around forty, she’s warm and bubbly. An ex-ballerina with a Minnesota company, she moved to New York with her husband and son ten years ago and established this school seven years ago. It’s been growing steadily, hence the need for someone to relieve her of the junior classes. In return, I’ve shared details of my classical training and the fact that I taught in a school very similar to hers in Orlando. I deliberately skipped over my time in Europe. I have no wish to revisit those events, and my experience with the Leipzig Company wouldn’t make any difference to me getting this particular job or not.
We’re currently in one of the school’s two modest studios, where, at Candy’s request, I’ve given a practical demonstration of my skills. “You’re wasted on teaching; how come you’re not with a company?” she asks when I rejoin her.
“I was injured and can’t dance professionally, but I’m thrilled to continue my involvement in ballet.”
“Well, the job’s yours if you want it, Angelique,” she informs me, smiling warmly.
“I’m grateful for the opportunity, Candy, and I feel sure I’m going to enjoy working with you.”
“Oh, I know I’m going to love having you here. Let’s discuss details in the office, shall we?” she suggests, leading the way. “It’s such a pity about your injury, though; what a waste of talent,” she commiserates over her shoulder.
It takes almost no time to finalize things, and we agree that I’ll start on Monday. I leave the studio with a skip in my step, eager to share my good news with Mom.
I settle into and my new job, which I love, quickly, and before I know it, seven months have passed. Mom, I’m thrilled to say, seems content, despite her difficulties. Performing even mundane tasks, like brushing her teeth, is near impossible, yet she perseveres. No matter how physically taxing or emotionally draining an activity is, Mom remains determined to regain as much independence as she can. I’m amazed, humbled, in fact, by the grace with which she handles it all.
Things aren’t all doom and gloom, though. She’s made new friends, and Rachel visits regularly. With careful planning and execution, either she or I manage to take Mom out for walks. We’ve even found a couple of coffee shops and restaurants within walking distance, where we three have become regulars.
I lease a tiny apartment nearby and pop in every day, even if it’s only for a little while. Financially, things remain tight, but it’s easier than it would have been in Orlando. With my teaching job and the four evening shifts I’ve secured at a local Starbucks, I’m able to pay my living expenses and save a modest amount each week.
One of the biggest benefits of being back is the ability to spend time with my friends. We’re all busy, but we make sure to see each other as often as we can. This evening happens to be one of those occasions. They’re meeting me here at work in less than half an hour, and, then, we’re going out to dinner.
They’re late, so I decide to sit at a window table to wait. Engrossed in people watching, I’m startled when someone steps out of the throng to stand directly in front of me. Ice-blue eyes meet mine when I look up, and I’m caught in in his gaze like a hapless victim of a snake.
“Angel!” Mandi’s voice breaks my stupor.
“What’s wrong?” She rushes over, but I can’t find my voice. I glance up at the window instead, but he’s gone.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“I…he…” I stammer as Mandi slips into the seat beside me. “What’s wrong,” she asks wrapping an arm around me. Sammy and Bron sit across from us.
“Are you hurt?” Mandi’s usual impatience does little to help my brain right itself. Bron reaches over to take my hands in hers. “Breathe, Angel.”
“He…he was here,” I finally speak.
“Who?” Mandi demands.
“Quandt.”
“What? He came to your work?”
“No…no, I think he was just passing and saw me.”
“What the hell did he do?” Mandi jumps up, to do what, I don’t know.
“He just stared and smiled.”
“Smiled?”
“You’ve seen him smile. It’s sick…evil. Don’t you remember? Will I ever escape him?” I ask, my voice breaking
“Come on, let’s eat. We’ll come up with a plan,” Bron, ever the optimist, suggests.
We spend a good part of the night going around in circles, none of us coming up with anything that makes me feel any safer. I could get another restraining order, but the fact is, he didn’t do anything wrong tonight. He hasn’t bothered me since Florida, and I don’t know whether he will again. What I do know is that I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to appear.
“You have to move,” Mandi suddenly announces.
“I can’t leave Mom,” I protest.
“Maybe you should think about it,” Sammy says.
“No, I can’t do that. I’ve had enough of this; let’s talk about something else,” I beg.
Our night ends pleasantly enough, but I can’t lose the vision of Dieter’s eyes as he stared at me. The girls insist on seeing me home. “Thanks,” I whisper, hugging them each in turn, and then shut my door, turn the lock, and slide all three bolts home.
I don’t tell Mom about my encounter with Dieter for three days, but I see him everywhere I go, in a crowd, on the train, outside the dance school, everywhere. Each time I really look, it’s someone who only vaguely resembles him, or not at all. “You’re becoming paranoid,” I tell myself.
Guilt about keeping things from Mom again, plagues me. Finally, remembering my conversation with Rachel, I confess and then spend ages reassuring her that I’m being careful.
The girls, in the meantime, have been busy. They’ve, somehow, obtained a can of pepper spray, which they insist I carry around with me. They’ve also set up a rotation system to call and check on me. My problems are now impacting my friends, I realize.
“They’re right, Angel,” Mom announces weeks later.
“Who’s right,” I ask, puzzled because her statement bears no relevance to our conversation.
“The girls.”
“About what?”
“You should move. You don’t feel safe here, A Stór, and you need to live your life.” Mom holds up a hand to silence my protest.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not saying you have to go. I’m saying, if you want
to go, you’d feel safer somewhere else, then you should go. Being constantly afraid is not the way to live your life. Your dad would have hated that.”
She knows mentioning Dad will get to me; it always does. But this time, I dig in. I continue to protest, but she’s relentless. “Angel, I’m well cared for here. Let me do what I can to make sure you’re safe,” she says.
“I’ll think about it,” I concede, not wanting to reignite Mom’s guilt about Dieter.
Despite my reluctance, I do think about it—at work, while shopping, cleaning my apartment, even during my barre routine or dancing, which is unusual. Mom refuses to let it go. It’s been weeks, and her determination hasn’t faltered. As for me, I’ve progressed to thinking about places to live. I’d been as clichéd as closing my eyes and taking a pin to a map. Although it didn’t once land on it, Boston, for some reason, keeps coming to mind—even when Samuel suggests I move to Connecticut.
I first considered Boston, when one night, as if it by some portent, I dreamed of Dad. In it, he repeated something he’d said many times when still alive. “There are more Irish in Boston than anywhere else in the States. Of course, on St. Patrick’s Day everyone’s Irish, but Boston is the most Irish city in the U.S of A, A Stór. If I can’t make it to the old country, then I’d like to see Boston.”
Two months after she first mentioned it, when Mom talks about me moving again, I tell her I’m seriously considering it. When I relate my dream, she smiles, her eyes tear up. “Don’t you see, Angel? Your dad’s telling you it’s a good idea,” she says.
That night, I research Boston, and Dad was right. With just over twenty percent of its population being of Irish descent, it is our most Irish city.
On my twenty-first birthday, I decide to leave New York.
11
M y constant thought since saying goodbye to Mom has been, “have I done the right thing?” “Yes, she cried,” I reason, but they hadn’t been tears of sadness—well, they hadn’t been joyful either, rather, some combination of the two. “It’s a positive and exciting step, Angel. Go and live your life,” she’d said. So that’s what I console myself with—that, and the fact that I’ll be speaking to Mom every day and visiting monthly.