by Joy Fielding
“I don’t want them.”
“Take the pills, Bailey. Please. For me, if not you. Jade is home alone, and I have to be at work first thing in the morning. I can’t stay here all night.”
I open my mouth, allow Claire to deposit the pills on the tip of my tongue. She hands me a glass of water. I drink it down.
As soon as she leaves the room, I prod the pills loose from the inside of my mouth and spit them into the palm of my hand. I hear her cleaning up and feign sleep when she checks on me half an hour later. “Good night, Bailey,” she whispers from the doorway. “Sleep well.”
— ELEVEN —
In my dream, I’m skinny-dipping in a secluded emerald green pond surrounded by flowering shrubs. I put my head back, feel the sun warm on my face, the fresh water cold against my neck. Gradually I become aware of a circle of sharks below me, and I start swimming for shore. A man is stretched out at the edge of the water, lost in the beauty of his own reflection. “Tell me you love me,” he whispers as a shark’s fin slices through his mirror image and giant teeth rip at my throat.
I scream and bolt up in bed, reaching for the light switch.
David Trotter is standing at the foot of my bed.
He is all in black and his face is in shadows, but I know instantly who he is. He moves closer. I can smell the mouthwash on his breath.
“Stay away from me!” I cry, throwing myself out of bed and landing squarely on my sore ankle. I collapse to the floor, sobbing in pain. He grabs my hair, punching at my stomach and face before I can regain my equilibrium. “No!” I shout, but his gloved hand is already curling around my throat, pressing down on my windpipe.
Somehow I get one hand free and reach up and back toward the nightstand beside my bed. I manage to open the top drawer, my fingers searching blindly for the pair of scissors I keep there. But the drawer is empty. The scissors are gone. “Looking for these?” David asks. I look but all I see is the white of the pillowcase he is pulling over my head. This is what death looks like, I think, as he pushes my legs apart and plunges the scissors deep inside me.
I wake up screaming, my face buried in the soft creases of my pillow. The taste of cotton fills my mouth. The phone is ringing. “Goddamn it,” I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position. I stare at the phone, not completely sure if I am really awake this time or still dreaming. What does it say about me that I no longer know when I’m conscious or not? My sister is right. I need professional help. I can’t go on like this, night after night after night. Nightmare after nightmare after nightmare.
I pick up the phone, lift it to my ear. But I hear only a dial tone. Perhaps it didn’t ring at all. It’s too dark, and I’m too tired to check the caller ID.
I take a shower, shampooing the hair that Claire so painstakingly blow-dried earlier and exchanging my pajamas for a nightshirt. I stand beside my bed, staring at the illuminated dial of the clock and knowing I won’t be able to get back to sleep. It’s two thirty in the morning. I debate turning on the TV but decide against it, sensing there are more interesting things I could be watching.
I know the lights are on in the bedroom of the apartment across the way even before I lift the binoculars to my eyes. I know the man will be there—Narcissus, Claire named him—parading semi-naked in front of his window, inviting the world to watch.
Except I’m wrong. No one is there. All Quiet on the Western Front, I think, remembering the old movie my mother and I watched together, one of hundreds of film classics we watched during her illness. As much as I literally ache to have her arms around me, I’m relieved she isn’t here to witness the sad mess I’ve become.
“We have to stay strong,” my father said to me after her funeral. “We have to make her proud.”
Yeah, right, I think. She’d be really proud of me now.
I’m always proud of you, I hear her say as I feel her arms surround me. Tell me what you see, she whispers as I lean my back against her breast, rest my cheek against hers, inhale the subtle flowers of her shampoo. She kisses the fresh bruise on my chin, and I feel the pain ebb.
I return the binoculars to my eyes.
I see an empty room. A king-sized bed, a freestanding oval mirror, a turquoise lamp with a white pleated shade sitting on a vanity table next to the window.
And a man, I realize with a start. Narcissus, home from a night on the town. He is standing in front of the oval mirror, clearly pleased with what he sees. He runs a careful hand through his hair, then removes his jacket, throws it on the bed. He pulls his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and walks to the window, his fingers tapping out a number before lifting the phone to his ear and staring out at the night.
My phone rings, and I jump, my head shooting toward the sound, my heart pounding, sweat erupting from my pores. I stare back through my binoculars at Narcissus, noting the phone still pressed against his ear. Could it be him? Does he know I’m watching?
I move quickly to the nightstand and just as quickly feel my ankle give out and my knees hit the floor. “Shit,” I cry as the phone continues its merciless ring. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. This is all still part of that stupid dream. My Nightmare: The Sequel. Part Three. The Saga Continues. The Saga Never Ends.
I crawl toward the phone, reach it at the start of its fourth ring. “Hello?”
A dial tone assaults my ears.
I lurch back to the window, phone in one hand, binoculars in the other, looking toward the apartment across the way. Narcissus is still at his window, his phone at his ear. He is talking and laughing.
Did my phone even ring? Or did I only imagine it?
I press *69. A recorded message curtly informs me, “We’re sorry. The number can’t be reached by this method. Please hang up now.”
I disconnect, trying to figure out what this means. But my brain refuses to function. Did someone actually call? Was it a wrong number? Some stupid kid playing a dumb late night prank? David Trotter? Travis? Anyone? No one?
I watch Narcissus lay the phone down on the end table beside his bed, then remove his tie and kick off his shoes. I see his head snap toward the bedroom door. I watch him leave the room. I see the light come on in the next room. I watch him walk to his door and open it. I see a young woman—slim, pretty, with long dark hair—enter. I watch him take her hand and lead her into the bedroom. I hold my breath.
From this distance, she looks a little like me. Or how I used to look anyway. He kisses her neck and she throws her head back and hugs him tight. Was she the woman he was just talking to on the phone? Did he call her and ask her to drop by? If so, she got here awfully fast. Maybe she lives in the building. Is it possible she’s a hooker? Didn’t David Trotter tell me that Miami has the most beautiful hookers in the world?
He’s kissing her on the lips now; their kisses become increasingly passionate. His hands slide across her breasts, her buttocks, her thighs, then disappear under her short skirt. Seconds later, the skirt falls to the floor, followed in short order by her blouse and her bra. She has small breasts, breasts that are covered by his hands. Large hands, I think, my teeth tearing at my bottom lip. He pulls down her panties and kneels down, burying his head between her legs.
I gasp, feeling my stomach cramp and my knees buckle.
Soon, Narcissus is back on his feet, pushing the young woman up against the window, her naked body now on full display, his hands everywhere at once, at her breasts, between her legs. The side of her face is pressed against the glass and her eyes are closed as his fingers slide around her throat. They find her mouth and worm their way between her lips. Narcissus takes off his shirt and unzips his jeans. The palms of the woman’s hands open flat against the glass of the window as he pushes into her from behind.
I cry out, feeling every thrust, but unable to turn away.
When they are done, they stagger from the window and tumble into bed. The room goes dark. I teeter into the bathroom, where I throw up the soup and ice cream I managed to get down earlier in the ni
ght. Then I return to the bedroom window and sink to the floor, where I remain, scissors in one hand, binoculars in the other, curled in a quivering, semi-fetal ball, until daylight.
—
Claire calls first thing the next morning. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I’ve made you an appointment with a therapist. Noon today.”
“Today?”
“You have other plans?”
“No, but …”
“No buts,” she says. “Her name is Elizabeth Gordon, and she’s fitting you in during her lunch hour as a special favor to me.”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Just about everything.”
She laughs. “That’s good, Bailey. You made a joke. That means you’re getting better.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about. I wasn’t trying to make a joke. I was being serious.
“Bailey, are you still there?”
“I just don’t think I’m up for going out today.”
“And I don’t think you can afford to stay cooped up in that apartment.”
“I didn’t get any sleep.”
This seems to surprise her. “Really? Those pills should have knocked you out.”
“Somebody phoned me,” I say, omitting the part about my spitting the pills out. “Twice. In the middle of the night.”
“What do you mean? Who?”
“I don’t know. The line was dead when I picked up.”
“Both times?”
“Yes. At least, I think so.”
“What do you mean, you think so? You’re saying someone called you twice and hung up when you answered?” I can feel her confusion even without seeing her face. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”
“No,” I admit. I don’t bother telling her about trying *69. Maybe I dreamt that part, too.
“You should call the police,” she says.
“It was probably just a wrong number.”
“Call them anyway,” she insists. “It could be relevant.”
We’re both skirting the obvious, neither one us wanting to be the one who gives voice to what we are both thinking: that the calls could have come from the man who raped me. To do so would be to give the idea a reality, a validity, that it currently lacks.
“You think the calls came from the man who raped me?” Suddenly I need to hear the words out loud. Whoever attacked me stole my purse, after all. It contained all my vital information. He could have easily obtained my home phone number.
“I think we should eliminate it as a possibility.”
“What can the police do?”
“You know more about that than I do, Bailey,” Claire tells me. “Can’t they maybe trace the call?”
“Not if it was made from one of those throwaway cells,” I say, sounding like a cop on one of those CSI shows.
“Call the police,” Claire says again. “Bailey?”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Good. Okay, I’m going to give you Elizabeth Gordon’s address. Have you got a pen handy?”
“Yes,” I lie.
She’s not buying it. “No, you don’t. I’ll hang on while you go get one. And hurry. Don’t make me late for work.”
I fish through the top drawer of my nightstand for a pen and a piece of paper. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“It’s 2501 Southwest 18th Terrace, just west of 95. Suite 411. Did you get that?”
“Yes.”
“Read it back to me.”
“2501 Southwest 18th Terrace. Suite 411.”
“Good. It shouldn’t take you more than ten, fifteen minutes to get there by cab.”
“Okay.”
“Who are you seeing?”
“What?”
“The therapist. What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth Gordon. What’s her address?”
“2501 Southwest 18th Street.”
“Terrace,” Claire corrects. “Are you sure you wrote that down?”
“Terrace,” I repeat. “Suite 411,” I add, before she can ask.
“Good. Now I have to go to work, but I’ll call you later. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.”
“Okay, I want you to go into the kitchen and make yourself some toast and coffee. And an egg. Have an egg. It’s protein.”
“I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“Have an egg, Bailey.”
“Okay.”
“Good girl. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up the phone, leaving the slip of paper with Elizabeth Gordon’s address on top of the nightstand, and hobble into the kitchen, make myself some toast and coffee. And an egg, which is actually quite delicious. I’d forgotten how much I like eggs. I’ve forgotten how much I used to enjoy a lot of things.
The phone rings, and I jump, my stomach lurching, the egg I’ve just enjoyed threatening to come back up. I move to the phone as quickly as I can, although I don’t pick it up. Unknown caller, reads my caller ID. I hesitate, debating whether to let voice mail take it. Ultimately, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I lift the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Bailey,” Heath says. “What took you so long?”
“Why do you block your calls?” I say instead of hello.
“What?”
“Why do you block your calls so I can’t see it’s you phoning?”
“I block all my calls. It’s automatic. I pay extra,” he starts to explain.
“Did you call me last night?”
“Huh?”
“At around two in the morning. Did you phone?”
Silence. Then: “I don’t know,” he admits. “I was with Travis. We got pretty wasted. We might have made a few calls.”
“You were with Travis?”
“What’s going on, Bailey? He says you think he’s the guy who raped you, that you sicced the police on him.”
“I didn’t sic the police on him. And I don’t think he raped me.” Do I?
“The guy loves you, Bailey.”
“And I love you, Heath. But, I swear, if I hear you defend that man one more time …”
“Whoa. Okay. Wait. I’m on your side, remember?”
“Then start acting like it.”
Silence. I know I’ve hurt his feelings, something I’ve always taken great pains not to do, but I’m tired and crabby and everything hurts and Claire has made this appointment for me with a therapist who’s giving up her lunch hour to fit me in, so how can I even be thinking of not showing up, which is exactly what I’m thinking?
“I’m sorry, Bailey. I’m an ass.…”
“Can you give me a lift somewhere?” I don’t want to end up consoling Heath, which is where I know this discussion is headed. “I have to be over on Southwest 18th by noon.”
“What’s on Southwest 18th?”
I tell him about the appointment Claire has set up for me.
“Beware of scheming step-siblings who are only after your money.”
“Can you take me?” I ask again, ignoring his remark.
“Sure. Oh, wait. Noon, you said? No, I can’t. I have another callback for that Whiskas commercial at 11:45. It’s my second callback. Apparently it’s between me and this one other guy. What about Saint Claire? Can’t she take you?”
“She works, Heath.”
“How convenient.”
I’m losing patience with the conversation. “Was there some other reason you called?”
“Just to find out how you’re doing. And since you’re being a bit of a bitch, I guess that means you’re getting better.”
It’s interesting how different people interpret getting better. To Claire, it comes down to a sense of humor; to Heath, it means being a bitch. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love you,” he coos as I disconnect.
I call the police. They tell me they still haven’t been able to locate David Trotter, that they’ll keep m
e posted. I decide not to tell them about last night’s phone calls. I don’t want to get my brother in trouble. Or Travis, who is probably the one who made the calls, with Heath just covering for him, hiding behind drug-induced amnesia. If the calls continue, I’ll report them. In the meantime, I should get ready for my appointment. It’s still hours away, but I might as well get a head start. God knows I don’t have anything else to do.
I head for my bathroom, purposefully avoiding the binoculars still lying on the floor beside the bedroom window. I’m through with being a voyeur, I tell myself as I step into the shower, laying my scissors down on the gray-and-white marble shelf built into the shower’s marble wall. I stand beneath the torrent of blistering hot water, feeling my hair flatten against my scalp like seaweed. When I have finished scrubbing myself so raw I can actually see patches of bloody skin around my elbows and knees, I thoroughly wash and condition my hair, although the conditioner has ceased to have any effect, undone by too much shampoo. Permanent knots have replaced the waves in my long hair. Its once-shiny brown has lost its luster.
I do a cursory job of drying it, then pull it into a large scrunchie at the nape of my neck. I apply concealer to my eyes, then smear some tinted moisturizer on my face. This is followed by some cream blush and a few strokes of mascara.
I look like a clown, I decide, staring slack-jawed at my reflection for several seconds before wiping everything off and starting over again. The second time is even worse. I rub the mascara off with a tissue, find myself face to face with a wild-eyed raccoon.
Ultimately, I step back into the shower, start the whole process over again. This time I decide not to bother with makeup. Elizabeth Gordon will just have to take me as I am, dry scaly skin and corpselike complexion.
The phone rings, and I jump. “Hello?” I say, picking it up before the end of its first ring.
“What’s the address?” Claire asks, and I laugh.
“2501 Southwest 18th Terrace.”
“Suite number?”