“I would have, but you were still breathing. Régine thought it would be too dangerous. You should get some rest. Maybe go see a doctor, too.” He said it wryly, knowing I never went to doctors.
Chapter 9
As I rode home in a taxi, I mused on the fiasco of the rehearsal. I sang horribly this afternoon. I was at fault. Why hadn’t the demon shown up the moment Régine criticized my subpar singing in the tavern scene? Earlier this week, the demon had roused the moment I was criticized directly or balked, or whenever I felt I should be in charge instead of somebody else. Perhaps the demon only appeared when I was convinced that someone else was to blame?
Why was I attempting to second-guess a demon?
Why had I become so ill? Why had it taken an hour to get sick? Wait. The amuse-bouche. Immediately prior to rehearsal, I ate the contents of the little package, two tiny pieces of savory bread. It had seemed a perfect coda to my intense scene with Dex in his car. I had brushed my teeth carefully afterward, of course, but the damage had been done.
No need to concern myself with a doctor, then.
At my condo, I found a phone message from my mother. She insisted on leaving old timey messages on my equally old timey landline that I kept just for her. Michael Rather had called her, wanting my phone number, but she had not given it to him. She did not indicate that he had threatened her. A blessing that she had retired to Georgia to care for her ailing older sister. She was out of Michael’s physical reach. Anyway, my burly male cousins would protect her.
What else could I do to avoid a man who refused to take no for an answer? Carmen carried a knife, but she was too fatalistic to use it. Although carrying a weapon was not my choice, perhaps I should brush up on my self-defense lessons. Do a refresher class or two. If it came down to the man who stalked me, or my own life, I should be ready to do more than defend myself. I should do him harm. But was this a priority? Michael’s obsession with me was not constant. Months sometimes went by without him attempting any contact.
Appearances by the demon were equally difficult to predict, but they actively caused trouble. The demon must be stopped. I called Hannah Lochte to set up a second session. I did not need psychological counseling, but perhaps if I completed the full psychiatric assessment, she would intercede with Marcus O’Flaherty on my behalf. Or, possibly she knew someone else who could arrange an exorcism if he persisted in refusing to help me.
I ran out of time to call the doctor Gayle had told me to contact, so I did not call.
Despite the dramatic events of the afternoon, once I was settled in at my condo and waiting for Gayle, my thoughts kept straying to Dex. Given how hot we were for each other, was I foolish to even consider Dex’s talk of starting a foundation? My ego would be heavily involved in a charity that bore my name, but if we had a fling and it quickly went sour, where would the plans for the foundation be? Would they fall apart? Nothing was more likely. Flings started red hot and ended ice cold. Or even hotter, filled with rage. I should not invest any more thought in the possibility of a charitable foundation. It was a red herring. What I should consider very seriously was whether I wanted to become Dex Morgan’s lover.
There was so much going on in my life. Rehearsals and performances. The demon vexation. That awful Michael Rather. And now, Dex Morgan. Possibly I would yield to my desire and his, and become his lover. From now on, though, I would not eat any more strange food, even to be with him. I hoped he was not a true foodie, wanting to try mystery food several nights a week. I had been gracious once, but the consequence had been my frightening collapse.
I should text Dex and tell him what happened. If he hadn’t eaten the amuse-bouche yet, he probably should throw it out. There could be something wrong with it. Why hadn’t I thought of contacting him immediately after? I thought too much about myself, and not enough about others.
Dex pinged back, saying he would toss the amuse-bouche, and did I want to come to his place tonight at ten-thirty p.m.?
Men. They never stopped trying. Gayle had promised to be here by nine. I needed her strength, not the confusion of my attraction to Dex. I texted him back my refusal. My regrets? I did not fool myself. If he were here with me this instant, I would say yes to him.
I had no time to see a doctor and subject myself to tests, but Régine had insisted. When I complained to Gayle, she sided with the opera director. “Your boss would lose her job if she let you return to work without getting checked out.”
“She’s not my boss. She’s only in charge of the production.”
“But she’s responsible for your health during the run of the rehearsals and the performances. Cooperation is the only choice you have now. I’m betting she won’t even let you back on the premises until you’ve seen a doctor.”
“How did you guess?” I grimaced.
Gayle gave me an exasperated look. “I’m an attorney. I know all about legal liability.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor. I don’t trust them. They discriminate against women.”
“So see a woman doctor,” Gayle snapped back. “Don’t be dense. You had a violent allergy attack today. By rights, you should spend the night in the hospital hooked up to a batch of monitors.”
Either it was Régine’s influence or Gayle’s, but the next morning, I obtained an immediate appointment and soon was in a doctor’s examination room, getting thoroughly tested, poked, and prodded.
She pronounced me good for now, with one caveat. “I want to see the result of the blood work before I give you a clean bill of health. Meanwhile, I’m prescribing an EpiPen for you to carry, in case of another allergy attack.”
When she asked me if I wanted a prescription for birth control, too, I abandoned pride and said yes. I was not obliged to fill it, but perhaps I might. Seeing this doctor was not painful. Why had I waited so long?
I decided to capitalize on the doctor visit. I called Marcus O’Flaherty’s office to announce that I had duly seen a doctor and taken many tests. I asked for another interview. To my surprise, I was put on hold and then the assistant said the professor had time for me today if I could get there promptly.
When I arrived at his office, Marcus began by saying, “You are serious about pursuing an exorcism, I see. Visiting a doctor is a significant concession by you.” He urged me to sit, resuming his desk chair. “You’ve passed a major test.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to grasp his implication. “Do you mean you routinely turn down whoever asks? You gatekeep?”
His face took on a smug expression. “Don’t be offended. You have no idea how many people contact me looking for an exorcism.” He leaned back in his chair. “Only the most persistent, needy clients require the intervention of a priest.”
“You scoffed at my description of the demon that has taken possession of me.”
“I questioned it. That’s different.”
I stared at him. He did not appear in the least apologetic about having turned me down flat a few days ago. I should be angry with him, but I felt no rage. Possibly, the demon had learned better timing—or was lying low to protect itself from being exorcised?
I would not give up. “Tell me, Professor O’Flaherty, do you doubt the truth of demon possession?”
He straightened. “Call me Marcus. I believe demons exist. There are many elements of human experience that are beyond rational explanation.” He leaned forward. “However, some people simply need help with behavior. They have personal problems they ascribe to an exterior force. A little research plus talking to them over a short term usually uncovers a personal failing, a refusal to deal with certain issues that likely are the origin of the demon theory they’ve taken on. They don’t want to blame themselves, so they blame an outside force.”
He looked directly at me, his expression challenging. “Isn’t that what you have done? Blamed a demon for behavior that upsets others but at the same time bolsters your sense of self-worth?”
I dropped my eyes and gazed down at my hands, which by sheer force of will were lying
in my lap sedately. “If that was ever true, I renounce it.” I raised my face and looked at him directly. “Help me rid myself of this demon.”
His expression seemed more sympathetic. “Your request will go through channels. With the evidence of the video, and your show of persistence, I foresee a good chance of an exorcism being approved.”
“How soon?”
“You’ll have to be patient. A quality your demon does not have.” He lifted an eyebrow, once again challenging me to deny how well the demon’s outbursts had suited my ego from time to time.
I wouldn’t let him see my chagrin at being read so easily. “Are you sure you are not a psychologist? You clearly analyze people.”
“I trained in psychology, but religion is my vocation. I’ve seen many who are in pain and seek relief, yet aren’t ready to look into themselves for the answer to their problem. Or to look to God.”
I tightened my lips. I had prayed about the demon, but my prayers had not been answered directly. For some reason, I had been led to seek help from Marcus O’Flaherty. At last, he appeared willing to give it.
I said, “I need this step. I want an exorcism.”
My emphatic response appeared to satisfy him. He opened a book and said, “Even though you can find the basic information online, I should tell you exactly what we do for an exorcism. You should understand the limits of what can be done.”
“That would help, yes.”
He put one finger on a page to mark his place and looked up. “First of all, any lay person can perform a simple exorcism by praying for you. You don’t need a priest. If you have a prayer circle or something like that, you can engage the assistance of your fellow parishioners. No red tape involved.”
I nodded my comprehension. Although I doubted anyone at my church knew specific prayers against evil spirits, they certainly would be willing to pray with me. However, dealing directly with evil spirits might be too much to ask of them. Many of the members of my parish were elderly ladies. I preferred the idea of a priest, someone experienced with the rite, performing the exorcism. “Go on.”
“There are specific prayers to be said against evil spirits that inhabit you. These are supplications you can recite yourself, at home, or anywhere else. They need not be said aloud.”
“I have prayed for relief many times,” I said. “The lack of an answer will not make me stop praying.”
“Good.” He ran his finger down the page. “At the next level, you need a priest trained in exorcism. The priest should meet with you in a sanctified space, like a chapel. You should not be alone. He would follow a specific series of prayers. The ritual includes blowing on you to blow the evil out of you, and more. The most important prayers are the admonitions aimed directly at the demon. Those prayers come after the others, and only a priest with experience can say them.”
“Your church takes exorcism very seriously.”
He bowed his head, “As it should be taken. Demonic possession is nothing to be casual about.”
I snorted a little. “I agree with you. The rage level manifested is frightening.”
“We can’t promise the exorcism will work,” he said soberly, searching my face.
“I understand,” I said. “Prayer can work wonders. It is my fervent hope that the full rite of exorcism will free me from the demon’s grasp.”
Marcus’s expression was approving.
***
I had time that night to attend a self-defense class as a drop-in, to arm myself against the other threat in my life. The topic was knives. The irony did not escape me.
“What you have to know about a knife attack,” the self-defense teacher said, “is that you want to avoid the knife at all costs.” She held up a knife. “This is thin and not even very long, but it’s enough to kill you.”
Nine of us sat on a mat in a small room in a gym. Some of the women were older than me, and some were younger. A few looked haunted, as if they’d already seen the wrong side of a knife or other weapon.
The teacher put the knife down on the small table next to her. “You might ask why bother to learn how to defend yourself against a knife attack. The reason is: You want to live.”
She picked up a small flashlight. “Nice, right? Weighted, has a loud alarm, emits a legal analog of tear gas, can be attached to your key ring. Where is this weapon usually? In the bottom of your purse. Unavailable in a hurry. Better than nothing if you have some warning, but chances are, your attacker will take you by surprise.”
She leaned in to pierce us with her intense expression. “You must learn to defend yourself physically. The most important part of our lesson tonight is mental preparedness, and that starts with never, ever feeling guilty about fighting back strongly if someone attacks you.”
She flashed a slide on the wall. It showed a parking lot, and a woman dressed in a very revealing, low-cut dress with an extremely short, tight skirt being accosted by a man. “Is she asking to be attacked?”
She looked at us. “You all know the answer, right? She isn’t. You know this mentally, but before you do anything physically to defend yourself, you have to break out of passively accepting violence against you as deserved.”
She showed another slide, with the woman kicking her attacker and scratching at his eyes. “She might injure him seriously. Does he deserve that treatment?”
We all nodded, some of us more hesitantly than others.
She showed more slides of women being threatened with violence and lashing out physically. “Now that I’ve got you visually warmed up, let’s talk about how to go medieval on an attacker.”
She plunged into the details of how to hit an attacker in the throat, kick him in the groin, or gouge his eyes. As we went through the exercises and took our turns attacking a dummy, practicing kicking hard enough to damage a man, I had the mental leisure to consider the passivity that held women back from physically defending themselves against male brutality. I usually defended myself with words.
Except with Michael. His violent outbursts during our short weeks as a couple had forced me to fight back, but he was far stronger than I, of course. I lost. When I realized I was trying to hide bruises with makeup, I knew it had to end. He’d apologized and been charming after each incident, typical of abusers. I broke it off at church, where I thought he couldn’t attack me. Even then, I needed friends’ intervention to save me from more brutality.
He did not accept that I had ended it. He tried numerous times to talk to me, to start over. I rebuffed all efforts, but he kept on coming. Gayle made me swear out a complaint against him. It did no good. Would knowing how to hit him in the throat or nose help?
Had I seen Michael hanging around the Potomac Arts Center? I might have caught a glimpse of him one day during the first week of rehearsals, but I never saw him again, so I dismissed it. He probably knew where I lived, but my condo building had excellent security. No one could get in without my say so, and I’d specifically listed him as never allowed and provided the front desk with a photo. I usually took taxis around town since owning a car was impractical with my constant travel. As someone who was concerned about a stalker, I tended to not to follow a daily pattern. The self-defense teacher said that helped.
Ever since Michael Rather started stalking me, I had paid attention to news stories about stalkers. They were depressing. Most stalkers never gave up. They became obsessed. Nothing, not even time in prison, deflected them from the object of their mania.
I had some fellow feeling with Carmen’s acceptance of fate when she turned over the cards and saw death. She knew her relationship with Don José would end badly. Michael’s stalking had not taken on the nightmarish aspects of some cases, but if he continued to pursue me, eventually he might tip over into utter madness. What could anyone do about that kind of obsession? Nothing, except hope the stalker gave up the chase. Yet it was the nature of men to chase women. Such pursuit engaged a man’s deepest instincts. I did not want my life story to play out the way Carmen’s did.
>
The self-defense class was bracing. I went home feeling better able to cope should Michael confront me again. Meanwhile, the threat he represented was not as important and crucial to me right now as the threat of the demon. Singing was my whole life.
I returned to the Potomac Arts Center the next afternoon, ready to rehearse. The rehearsal room was empty, but I heard sounds elsewhere and followed them. Louis and other cast members were crowded into the back of an auditorium at which a dais and lights had been set up for a press conference.
“What is happening?” I asked, moving close to my fellow singers. People from the costume shop, the scenery painters, and staff of other departments all crowded the back of the auditorium.
Holly said, in a whisper, “Big announcement. A new major donor and board member.”
Someone shifted in the crowd ahead, and I suddenly saw Dex Morgan standing next to the general manager. What was Dex doing here?
The general manager opened the press conference, saying all the usual things, and then introduced Dex, saying, “I want to welcome our new board member and generous donor to the Potomac Arts Center, J. Poindexter Morgan. We look forward to a long and fruitful association with Dex.”
The other board members clapped, so we did, too. What had Dex done? What did this mean?
“Who is this guy?” Louis whispered his question.
“A tech entrepreneur,” I said.
“You know him?”
I nodded, but we all focused on the front of the room.
“There’s a check involved,” someone said. We hushed, as Dex formally presented a check blown up to giant size—over a yard long, backed by foam core—to the general manager. They posed for photos.
Dex took a turn at the dais and said, “My gift today is merely a token of my interest in the arts and my concern for opera funding in particular. I hope to work with the other board members to increase donations from the tech sector to this important cultural institution.”
More applause and hand shakes all around.
Defiant Diva (Singers in Love Book 3) Page 6