“I didn’t find you.”
I failed you.
“That’s not true,” she says groggily. “Those guys who were at your office said they found me thanks to you.”
Her eyes close, she takes a deep breath, and stays still.
Tears stream down her cheeks. I’m so afraid to touch her and hurt her that I don’t move. For the first time in my life, I have no fucking idea on how to fix this, her. I don’t know how to tell her that I’m here for her while also apologizing for not protecting her.
“Please, don’t cry.” This is all my fault. If only I had protected her better. “Rest. You need your strength.”
She opens her mouth and closes it again. Eventually the tears stop and her breathing evens out. She’s fast asleep, but I stay watching her anyway, listening to the monitor and focusing on her heart. I sit down on the plastic chair, rest my head in my hands, and let myself cry. I hate that I wasn’t supportive enough when she told me what happened to her. That I didn’t come up with a solution to keep her from coming back.
Guilt claws at my insides, and the uncertainty of what’s to come grasps me by the throat, squeezing my neck tightly.
Four
Wes
It’s been almost a week since the abduction. Abby’s been in and out of consciousness for the past couple of days. Dr. Ward came earlier today to check on her one last time before flying back to Seattle. She told me Abby’s hands were healing well and left a list of places, physicians, and therapist who could help her recover in the city. She also left me with the information about Esperanza’s Home, a rehabilitation center created by Luna and supported by HIB.
Sterling has visited daily. Mom’s called me every day asking about her health, but strangely, she didn’t jump on a plane to be by her side. She mentioned that she’d fly to Denver once Abby is out of the hospital. When I asked her if she was going to stay at the old house or with me, “We’ll see,” was all she said.
Mom didn’t seem to care that I’d have to make arrangements if she chooses to stay with me instead of staying in her house. The same house she abandoned after dad died. Unlike my childhood home, my penthouse only has three bedrooms. I use one of them as a home office. If Mom picks my place, I’d have to move the office furniture out to make room for her. I’m hoping that Abby will want to recover with me, in my apartment.
At least I have a week until she leaves the hospital to set up my place. Once she recovers, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the future and discuss our relationship. We left it hanging before we left Tahoe. If she still insists on leaving, I’ll follow her.
The nurse enters the room in her blue scrubs, poker-face-serious, without slowing her stride at all. She grabs Abby’s hand to take her pulse. When she turns to me, her face softens into a smile.
“Good afternoon. I’m Karla, the second shift nurse,” she introduces herself.
After five days, I should know all the doctors and nurses that work in the hospital. Yet, she’s brand new to me. But fortunately, all the personnel in this place is warm and caring with Abby. Karla fusses with the blankets, changes the IV solution, and tidies around the bed.
“If you don’t mind, I need to check the stitches and clean the wounds,” she says, tilting her head toward the door.
I don’t understand why they kick me out of her room every day when her hands are exposed. They’re wounded, open and raw, like my very soul. Brynn reconstructed her hands. They’ll remain with pins for a couple of months. The swelling on her face is going down. The cuts are healing. I haven’t seen them, and it seems intrusive to check them while Abby is still asleep. Soon, when she’s awake and ready, I hope that we can discuss that night, her injuries, and plan how we’ll make it all better.
Once she’s finished, she comes out and smiles. “She’s awake. Lunch should be here shortly.”
“Thank you, Karla.”
When I enter, Abby’s bed has been raised and she’s sitting up.
“Hey,” she greets me as I sink in to the orange plastic chair.
“How are you feeling?”
“Less sleepy, more aware than the other times I’ve woken up,” she yawns. “Thank you, for sticking around.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I extend my hand but stop because I can’t touch her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“You have to stop apologizing,” she insists. “Each time I wake up it feels like déjà vu.”
“I’ll probably be doing it for the rest of my life,” I confess.
“Well, let’s get this straight. You’re not to blame for my injuries,” she stops, hesitating for a moment. Her eyes flicker with unease and worry. Is she choosing her words?
“If anything, you saved me,” she says clearing her throat. “This wasn’t random. They planned it long ago. It was years in the making. Their first attempt was during my high school graduation. I remember seeing them there, but I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me.”
I’m hit with a wave of nausea. I never should have promised her nothing would happen when I didn’t understand the extent of Shaun’s resources.
“If Linda hadn’t taken me to Europe, who knows what would have happened. I’m thankful for everything that you guys have done, even when I hid the truth from you.”
She presses her lips together and sighs. “I’m not really the person you think I am. I’ve tried to be someone I’m not so that you wouldn’t reject me.”
“I never would have rejected you,” I defend myself immediately.
“You can’t say that, Wes. It’s part of the past now, so we’ll never know.” She swallows hard. “Dr. Ward told me that I should be able to leave the hospital in a few days.”
“The house will be ready for you.”
She breaks eye contact. “Wes, I’m not coming home with you.”
Every nerve in my body shrieks in agony as I wait. My gut tells me to run because if I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I don’t move.
“Um. It was a difficult decision.” She swallows hard. “I’m going to a treatment center. There’s a place in Washington State that doesn’t cost much where they can help me. Luna is one of the founders.”
“Look, Abby, you can stay with me,” I stutter the first couple of words as I try to find my footing.
“We can move to Tahoe,” I suggest, terrified of not being close to her while she’s healing. “If you need nurses and therapists—”
“Wes, I have to go,” she says in an unnaturally quiet voice. “Denver is choking me.”
“We can move to Tahoe,” I repeat desperately, because maybe she didn’t hear when I said that we can do it in Tahoe too.
“You can’t help me, Wes. I’m beyond help,” she states.
“You’re wrong.” I fight her, but it’s hard to believe my own words when I can’t look at her without breaking down myself.
“I wish I were wrong. Since I told you the truth you’ve been distant, cold.” A tear slips down the cheek she’s biting.
“It was too much to digest all at once, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to step up and help you.”
“Wes, for once in your life, stop and think about yourself. This is too much for one person to take on. You can try all you want, but if I don’t work on this from the root, nothing will change.”
“Abby, I can’t lose you. What about us?”
She hiccups and sobs at the same time. “There can’t be an us when I don’t even have a me. I have to fix myself first.”
I’m about to speak when she continues. “Every day I find myself trying to be the person you’d want to be with. And I just can’t do that anymore. You’re in love with the girl I fabricated to make you happy. Not the real me.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“This isn’t something I just made up. I’ve had time to think about it. You’ve changed so much in the last couple of days,” she pauses and her face drops. “After I
told you about Corbin and Shaun you flipped a switch. You can barely look at me without flinching.”
“It’s a lot to process,” I say to defend myself.
“My theory is that you’re only with me because I’m easy to please. I don’t demand much. You need someone who can adapt to your time constraints and needs. A woman who doesn’t mind the amount of time your work demands from you.”
“Abby, what are you saying?” I’m fucking confused.
“We both need a healthy relationship. One that isn’t codependent but free where we can pursue what we love. You changed when William died. The light inside you dimmed, and you aren’t even doing what you love.”
She’s telling me how to live my fucking life? How about her?
“Abby, we’re finally together. You can’t possibly already think that you’d be better without me.”
“Can you hear yourself?” She raises her voice. “My choice isn’t about you. It’s about me. You can’t possibly think that I can live the rest of my life hoping that you’ll keep me afloat. I have to learn how to swim.”
“But I care about you so much,” I insist.
Can’t she see how much she needs me? And what am I supposed to do without her?
“We can’t be together just because we care about each other. I want to be with someone who loves me for who I am and what I do.”
Panic jabs at my stomach. “I love you,” I declare saying the words she needs to hear so she’ll stop ripping my heart from my chest.
“You’re saying it now because I’m asking for love.” She talks faster, desperately, as if she only has one chance to convince me or convince herself that it’s over.
“You can’t dictate my feelings.” I fight her. How can she just throw away what we have?
“I’m not, but I’m not sure if what we have is actually love.” She glances at her hands as she talks. “Love should feel real, not forced. It should be everything you’d ever want. The most addictive substance known to man. The sweetest candy you could ever taste. A sugar rush that can elevate you higher than any mountain you’ve ever explored.”
Her eyes find mine. “I don’t think either one of us feels that way. How can you say you love me when you don’t even know me? I live pretending to be who you want. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
“You’re saying that I don’t love you because you don’t love me.”
“If anything, I adore you, Weston Ahern,” she says, her chin quivering. “I’m just too confused and scared. I’m hurt.”
“We can fix it. Why are you pulling away now when you need me the most?”
“I need to say goodbye because there’s not enough fight inside me. Because in order to become my true self, I have to learn how to stand on my own. I don’t know when I’ll get to that point, but I’m going to fight for myself.”
Hopelessness forms a pit in my stomach, and I feel a twist deep in my heart. “What am I supposed to do without you?”
A lump clogs my throat, and I can’t continue.
“Make the most out of life.” Her voice is light, sweet, and yet so sad. “Live every moment like it could be your last.”
“Abby, you don’t mean this.”
I feel as cold as death.
“Wes, I have to go to treatment because right now I don’t want to be here or anywhere, I just don’t want to exist,” she says firmly, despite trembling in despair. “If you care for me, you have to let me go.”
And fuck if I don’t love her with all my heart. I kiss her forehead, and I march outside the room, allowing myself to fall apart only when I get to my car.
Five
Abby
Three months later
Two weeks after Shaun abducted me, I left for Esperanza’s Home. The place was founded by Luna, the woman who saved me, along with the partners of HIB and some of their friends. The primary patients are the victims they rescue. She wants us to recover, to thrive once we leave this place. I love the name. Originally, she wanted to name it Casa de la Esperanza which means House of Hope. But Esperanza’s Home is catchier.
The treatment center is in Washington state, near the Oregon border. The place is surrounded by tall pines, green vegetation, mountains, and wild animals. It’s a refuge, a secluded place where I’m able to find peace every day.
I attend individual therapy daily and group therapy three times a week. Physical and occupational therapy are twice a day. They have plenty of activities to keep me busy during the day. At first, I couldn’t do much because my hands were still healing. Now that my mobility has returned, I’m able to participate in more classes.
Every day I get to choose from equine therapy, art therapy, yoga, breathwork, and meditation. I’m not ready for Tai Chi or the Zumba classes yet, but one day I’d like to try kick-boxing. Before I leave the center, I’ll take self-defense classes too. Meeting new people every day is another benefit of the center. Being here gives me a sense of community, friendship, and understanding.
The center specializes in sexual assault trauma. Everyone who resides here has experienced what I did in some form or another. At some level, we understand what the other has gone through. We’re accepting and lift each other up.
There are mornings when I can’t get out of bed, but my cabin-mates remind me that I have a purpose in life. Other days, I’m the one cheering them up. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I have the support of many. It feels good to also be there for others. We’re like a tribe looking out for each other and assuring one another’s survival.
I’m finally making friends. The kind I can openly talk to about my past without restrictions and who won’t judge me. They listen, and if I need it, they give me a hug or cheer me up.
Every day I go to therapy, unless I’m not doing well. Those days I’m obligated to attend two sessions.
Today isn’t a good day. After breakfast, I head toward building B where my session will start in just a few minutes. My throat has felt nearly closed since I woke up at three in the morning, and I can barely breathe. The only way I could’ve diminished the effect of the nightmare was by going for a run, but we’re not allowed to go running in the middle of the night. Doing crunches for two hours was exhausting, but it didn’t help at all.
“Good morning, Abby. How are you feeling?” Rose, my therapist asks.
Even though there are different counselors in the center, we’re assigned to only one. It’s hard to build a relationship with another person from scratch. Getting used to a counselor, trusting them, and being willing to talk about our issues takes time. If they switched practitioners often, we wouldn’t be able to move forward.
“Unstable,” I say, taking a seat. “I had a nightmare. Wes came to save me. He ran into the room, but it was a trap. I tried to warn him, but I couldn’t talk. Shaun shot him five times. He was lying on the floor, awash in his own blood.”
“You seem to be handling it better than the last one,” she says studying my face. “How’s the scalp?”
A week ago, I had a similar nightmare, and I scratched my scalp until it bled. I cried for two days straight. Everything reminded me of the dream, of Wes, of the loss.
“I haven’t harmed myself, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She nods. “What did you do after you woke up?”
“I rinsed my face and did some crunches since I couldn’t go out for a run.” My voice carries a lot of bitterness and anger.
“It’s for your safety. If you sprain an ankle, no one would be able to get to you until the next morning.”
“Well, today, they didn’t let me run for long, and taking five-minute showers feels arbitrary.”
“Your goal is to break those obsessive patterns,” she says as she reads through her notes. “We’re just helping.”
Helping, they claim, but it feels like I’m in prison when they tell me, you can’t go farther or that’s all the time you get for today.
I’m allowed to take one shower a day for five minutes—ten i
f I wash my hair. It’s hard to abide by their rules and confront my feelings at the same time. Physically, I’m in a much better place. Emotionally and mentally? It’s going to be a long and painful process to find myself.
“Maybe I’m beyond help,” I say frustrated.
“Baby steps,” Rose says, and I’m positive that she’s about to lecture me. “Trust me, you’re doing great.”
I snort. That’s not helping me settle right now. It feels like I’m failing, and I’ll never be ready to leave this place. Not that I hate it. I’m grateful that I can be somewhere where I’m safe from myself and others.
“You have to continue taking baby steps.”
“Baby steps?” I repeat, my eye twitching from stress and lack of sleep.
“That phrase didn’t make sense to me until I was fourteen,” she says. “My parents divorced when I was seven. Dad remarried and had a couple of kids. When my little sister was learning to walk, I got it. She was almost one. The girl was cute. A chubby little thing who would stand up holding herself up, take one tiny step after another trying to walk and suddenly she’d lose her grip and fall. She repeated that continuously until one day, Daisy was running around the house and no one could stop her.”
“Are you telling me that I’ll fall down several times before I stop wanting to be under the shower for hours? Because I doubt that. Once I’m home I might continue doing it.”
“Not only with showers, but with everything,” she says. “You might be ready to leave us in a month or a couple of years. When you do, you’ll remember this conversation. We won’t let you fall back into the habit because we have you on a schedule, for now. Once you find your rhythm, we won’t have to say a thing. You’ll follow your own beat.”
A month or a couple of years? The gap between one and the other is too big. When I registered, the person over the phone explained to me that everyone’s timeline is different. Mine isn’t set in stone, and I’m glad because I can’t see myself leaving any time soon.
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