If I can even get free that way. I could pull my foot halfway out then jam it even tighter in place.
Terrified of the pain but more terrified of the situation, I take a deep breath then let it out and force myself to pull with every fiber of my being.
As the pain surges to new and unbelievable heights my stomach revolts, and I throw up onto the snow beside the car, narrowly managing to miss myself. I stay hovering over the mess I've made, tears sliding down my face and freezing against my skin in the wind, waiting to be sure I won't throw up again.
I also won't pull again. I can't. I hate myself for it, but I can't. There has to be another way out, because I can't face that again.
A news story I heard about a guy with his arm trapped beneath a boulder comes to mind. He cut his arm off to escape, sawed right through it with his trusty knife. A shudder tears through me. I don't think I could do that, and even if I could, I have no knife.
All I have is my teeth.
I stare at my jeans-covered leg. Could I bite and chew at myself until I got free?
My stomach twists again and I take deep breaths to calm it. Even if I threw up every few seconds, if it got me out of the car...
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. It wouldn't. I'd have to bite through my own leg bone.
Wouldn't that have been great, if I'd started chewing my leg and then hit the bone? What a kick in the teeth.
An awful laughter explodes in me. It's not funny, it's the furthest thing from funny, and yet I can't stop cackling. I laugh and laugh and cry and keep laughing until I'm worn out.
Then I try to get back into the car and I can't.
I've indeed worn myself out, with the crying and the barfing and the pulling and the laughing, and my arms won't lift my body back into the car. They've been holding me up the whole time and they're just done.
Not laughing any more, I hold tight to the door frame and try to pull my hand out of the snow and bring it up to join the other one.
I can't make myself lift it, though. I know that if my top hand slips and I drop I'm going to pull my foot again, and the thought of that pain makes me feel small and weak.
But the snow stinging my face isn't pleasant either, so I count to three and tell myself to move my hand, and on the fourth attempt at that my hand actually moves and I catch the door frame. I hang there, panting, then haul myself back onto my seat.
I shut the door, having achieved nothing but pain and cold and exhaustion, and such a rage fills me that I almost relish the idea of biting my leg off, tearing at myself in a fury.
It's beyond unfair. There are evil people roaming free right this second, doing terrible things to people, and I'm stuck here because I want to lose weight?
Unable to keep the anger inside me any longer, I start screaming, and I scream every curse word I can think of and repeat some of the best-sounding ones until my throat is raw.
Shaking with fury, I open the door and slam it as hard as I can again and again, but it doesn't calm me so I pound my fist on the passenger seat next to the cookies.
Cookies. Not eating them hasn't done me any good, so why not eat them?
My hands rip open the container before I realize I'm going to do it, and I cram an entire cookie into my mouth. It's far too big and I start to choke, then hack and cough and spray cookie bits over myself and the car.
After a few more racking coughs that rip at my painful throat, I manage to get myself under control. The sweet taste of chocolate lingers in my mouth, but the cookie itself is everywhere but inside me. Such a waste.
That about sums up my relationship with food. No joy, just pain. No satisfaction, just a hint of what I could have but never let myself savor.
I drop my head back against the seat, sadness rising as the last remnants of my anger melt away, and I cross my arms over my chest and let the tears fall. The numbed part of my brain is beginning to thaw, to accept what it needs to know.
I can't escape. All my life, I've hated being out of control, and this is the ultimate.
I need to accept that I might not make it out.
My brain again pulls up a ton of excuses as to why that can't happen, but there's a strange comfort in knowing that this might indeed be the end of my life. I wouldn't need to fight any more. Fight myself.
My tears slow and sleep sneaks up on me. For a moment I'm ready to let go, to give in. That scares me, so I make myself wriggle in my seat to find some semblance of alertness, and open my door to let another rush of cold air wake me further.
That's when I realize I am soaking wet after my time in the snow.
I close the door fast, but it's too late. What little warmth had built back up in the car is gone, and I'm soon shivering. It's really not that cold, and I shouldn't be shaking as much as I am, but I can't stop it. I lock my arms around myself and try to calm my body but I can't.
My wet mittens feel dreadful so I take them off and retract my arms into my coat sleeves, stuffing my hands into my armpits. Cuddling myself inside my coat helps, and when my eyes close the cold seems to fade away, leaving me pleasantly drowsy.
Weird images dance through my brain. Ruby gives way to a dragon from the game, which morphs into lizard-skin boots I wanted to buy but thought would make me look silly, which are picked up and modeled by a giraffe, which—
I push my hands out of my coat sleeves and rub my face hard with both palms. Don't go to sleep. It's not good for you. Not now.
I need something to focus on. I need to stay awake until I'm rescued.
I need to eat a cookie.
I probably do need to. It's medicinal, really. Sugar will keep me awake and the carbs will keep me calm. Nature's Prozac. But I will make it an event. No stuffing it in.
I break the cookie into four round-ended triangles, so the chocolate won't melt too much on my fingers, and take tiny nibbles. Some bites contain nothing but cookie, butter and sugar and flour filling my mouth with creamy-sweet sensation. Some are entirely chocolate. Mom only uses big chips of pure chocolate, and when they melt the taste is so exquisite that I have to wait until it's completely gone before I take another bite. Some, the best ones, have a bit of cookie and a bit of chocolate, and then everything dissolves together and it's amazing.
I let myself make little purrs of pleasure as I eat the cookie slower than anyone has ever eaten a cookie before, and when it's gone I feel no need to pick up the last one. I savored the hell out of that cookie, and I am satisfied.
Has that been the secret all along? If I'd really let myself enjoy what I ate, would I have been able to lose weight?
I'd heard of that, but I've never been convinced. Besides, I didn't eat too much. If anything, I ate too little. So how would enjoying it have helped?
Well, it helped me right now, because I feel calm and almost happy. And awake. And I know what I want to do. I will write my will and my letters to my friends and family, say everything I want and need to say, and then no matter what happens I will be at peace.
It's a great decision, but it doesn't last. After a few minutes of working on my will, thinking through everything I own and who should have what, a resurgence of my earlier fury sweeps me. Not at the situation this time, but at myself.
Is this really what matters? This systematic distribution of my crappy possessions? Why am I wasting my time? I erase it all, except for the note about my engagement ring and Bill's mother's earrings, then type:
Sandra and Andrew, I'm counting on you to make sure Ruby gets a good home. If you can't keep her, find someone who'll love her and make sure she gets her shots and her vet visits. I've got a few thousand dollars in my retirement fund, and whoever takes Ruby should get that money too.
Mom and Dad, everything else I have is yours. Keep whatever you want, then sell any leftovers and give the money to a charity that helps kidnapped adults. I wanted to start one after Bill died but I was too scared. I wish I had done it.
I love you, so much.
I close the laptop as tears pour down my ch
eeks. Writing the note makes it seem possible. I'm beginning to accept the unacceptable, and not even my foot has ever hurt this much.
Chapter Eight
Having let myself really cry, I can't stop. A dam has burst somewhere in my tear ducts, and I huddle into my seat, folding my right hand over the bracelet on my left wrist in a desperate search for comfort.
I might be about to die.
It's not like I truly thought I'd live forever, but at the same time I've never known a world without me in it and it's impossible to imagine.
At Bill's funeral, the minister kept talking about how he was safe and happy in heaven, at the side of his father who'd died of cancer when Bill was eighteen. Bill's family had attended that church since he was a baby, and the minister had choked up a few times trying to speak. But he and Bill's mother had their religion to comfort them. I didn't.
I don't know what I believe about life after death. I've always hoped there is one, and that hope is even stronger now. But I get bogged down in the horrible things that happen, and in what kind of god could allow them, and I can't reconcile that with the supposed beauty of heaven.
I don't want to go to heaven anyhow. I want to stay here.
There was a time, after Bill, when I did want to die. The idea of living on the same planet as Julie seemed unbearable. But I'd never done anything more than occasionally let the thought cross my mind. I couldn't kill myself. Bill wouldn't have wanted that for me.
We'd had spirited discussions about religion, and I'd both envied and been unable to share his faith. I know he drew comfort, chained to that tree, from his firm belief that he'd be in heaven shortly, and I hope with all my heart he was right.
I have no such faith for myself, though. My parents were regular churchgoers until I was eight, and I've seen so many brutally unkind and two-faced people professing to be good that I don't trust religion. Bill and his mom had been the exceptions: they'd lived their faith, and I'd loved them even more for it.
My spirituality, though... there isn't much of it. Have I even set any...
I take a deep shuddery breath and brush away the tears. I don't need to be so worried about the afterlife. I'm not dead yet.
A little snicker escapes me at the memory of Bill watching and laughing at the Monty Python sketch about the poor man whose son claims he's dead.
There were those funny walks, too, and the lumberjack thing. Plaid. I never liked plaid. Polka dots, sure, but—
I squeeze my eyes tightly closed then open them again. My mind keeps wandering away from me and I don't like it. I need to keep myself focused on where I am, so I can take any opportunities that arise. Whatever they might be.
What was I thinking about?
Right. I open the laptop and check my planning document. Under the category of 'Spirituality', I find no goals. Blank space.
While that's very zen, that's not why I left it blank. I'd never been able to think of a spiritual goal. I'd toyed with exploring various religions, but it felt so artificial and irrelevant that I hadn't done more than a cursory Internet search. Picking out a religion like I'd pick out a vacation destination? Not right, somehow. So I'd let it slide.
I do think there's something overseeing everything, but then I see an awful event and I have to wonder how well the overseeing is going. Bill's death, for example. Why did such a good man have to die? And do I deserve to die, for that matter?
No. I don't, and he didn't either. Things happen, though. Bad things. But then good things happen too. Maybe we need the bad ones to make the good ones even better?
Although I'd happily accept no more good things to have Bill still alive.
I don't know. Maybe this is one of those things you can't know in life. Like why Julie thought kidnapping Bill would accomplish anything she wanted. Or why my subconscious thought a dream about a foursome was the best way to handle my pain.
As I'd expected, Louisa had been delighted to listen to Andrew's recording of my nightmare, but she'd also wondered about my relationship with him. "He's your coworker, but he was there overnight?"
After I explained about the sabotage, she said, "And how did you meet him?"
I explained that too, including that he'd asked me out for coffee and I'd said no.
"He sounds interesting. Do you like him?"
"Yeah, he's a nice guy."
She turned her head a bit to one side and fixed me with a firm stare.
"I know, that's not what you meant. I guess I don't know. I probably could have, before. He's sweet and smart and cute and my cat adores him. But I'm not sure I'm ready for all that."
She nodded slowly. "But also not sure you're not."
I took a sip of water to give myself time to think. She waited, as she always did when I held back. I sometimes wondered if we'd sit there for years if I refused to speak. I imagined being with Andrew, dating him, and fear and warmth filled me in equal measure. "Yeah, I guess that's true. I'm not sure I'm not ready."
"Well, that's lovely." She smiled at me. "Now, this dream. What do you think it means?"
"I'm not a freak in the bedroom?"
I got the stare and the silence again, and said, "It seems like it's a bunch of things. Wanting to say no and not being able to, seeing that other people don't like what's happening but are also powerless, and Julie being there... they don't seem to fit together."
Louisa studied me. "If you could say one thing to Julie, just one, what would it be?"
"Don't hurt Bill," I said immediately, then blinked back tears. "Bit late for that, isn't it?"
"Maybe not."
"It wouldn't help."
"It wouldn't help him now, no, but maybe it would help you. What did you say the last time you saw her?"
I considered this. I hadn't spoken to Julie since before Bill and I got engaged. When she'd spoken directly to me in the courtroom, I'd been too shocked and horrified to respond. She'd— My heart skipped a beat then pounded hard and painfully as the pieces fell into place.
"When she told me she'd killed him so I'd be alone, she grinned at me," I said, the words coming slowly as if crawling through thick mud on their way out. "The courtroom guys grabbed her to drag her away, but she kept giving me that same grin. The one from the dream. I didn't say anything to her. I couldn't."
"So she got the last word," Louisa murmured. "She shouldn't get to have that."
"Would answering back in the dream make anything different?"
"You tell me."
I usually hated Louisa answering my questions that way, but this time I barely noticed. "It might. I could tell her how horrible she is, and she wouldn't be able to say anything."
"Would telling her she's horrible make you feel better?"
I wanted to say that it would, but I couldn't. "No. Bill would still be dead. She did love him. She killed the guy she loved, the guy I loved, an amazing teacher and an awesome person, because she couldn't keep him to herself. It's insane."
"So what do you want to tell her?"
Sorting through my tangled feelings and emotions took a while, and Louisa waited calmly until I said, "I pity her. I know Bill died thinking about me and loving me. If he was thinking about her at all, it wasn't with love. He probably did forgive her at the end, since that's how he was, but he didn't love her. She knows that, I'm sure. I have to live without him, but she has to live with that and that's worse."
Louisa nodded, and we spent a while working on a short speech I could give Julie the next time I had the dream, eventually getting it nailed down to three short sentences I could recite without stumbling.
"When the dream starts," Louisa said once we were happy with the speech, "let yourself recognize that you've been here before. As she turns to face you, that's your cue to take a deep breath and be ready to start talking. You can interrupt her so she doesn't get to say a word."
"But I'm asleep."
"True, but you're still there, even though you're not awake. You can do it. Try rehearsing it a few times, picturing her
turning toward you and you giving your speech, before you fall asleep tonight."
Though letting Julie appear in my mind made me feel ill, I did my rehearsals before bed that night, and every night for the next week, but I still woke up shaking and crying.
I'd told Andrew about the planned speech, figuring he deserved to know how I'd used his recording, and he'd made me promise to let him know if he could help. Halfway through the first week I nearly called him, but I couldn't bring myself to bother him at three in the morning. Instead I lay in bed sobbing until I eventually cried myself to sleep.
At my next appointment Louisa told me it was only a matter of time until I managed to say those words to Julie, but I couldn't do it in the first few weeks we tried, and I got more and more tired of waking up in terror and tears.
And then, yet again, Andrew was there for me.
*****
Andrew stuck his head into my cubicle. "Ready for lunch?"
I nodded, picked up my purse and a jacket against the cool November day, and followed him to the elevator.
The first Friday after our overnight session, he'd emailed in the morning to see if I wanted to have lunch with him "since we had lunch last Friday and now it's a tradition". We'd said hi in the halls at work and bumped into each other in the game, but we hadn't spent any in-person time together and I was surprised and a little scared by how much I wanted to do exactly that.
I emailed Sandra for advice, and she said I should eat real food and should eat it with him so I pulled up all my courage and said I'd go.
That lunch had been relaxed and enjoyable, just like the Saturday I'd spent with him, and the second Friday I'd emailed him instead of the other way around.
We'd ended up in the elevator at the same time as a group of coworkers that week so we'd eaten with them, but since then we'd had an unspoken agreement to let the others leave first for lunch and then head out together. We also emailed each other a few times a week and arranged times to meet in the game. I liked being with him, and it seemed he felt the same way. I longed to analyze what was happening between us but I did my best not to; we were friends, and at the moment that was enough. That was all I could handle.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 61