“You can’t be identified from the description in the article,” Colin remarked.
“No, but that reporter pegged Simon, didn’t he? ‘A rugged-looking individual with short, sandy-coloured hair and military bearing.’”
“Jenny, if this had to happen, I’m glad you were with him and not with me. I’ve been interviewed by the media, I’ve testified in numerous cases, and I’m more likely to be recognised. Casey has operated under the radar for a long time.”
She folded the newspaper closed. “Colin, I’m sorry about last night. The homework, I mean. I love you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t.”
He moved behind her and leant over to embrace her. “You’re under a good deal of stress, Jen. We’ll work through it.” When she lifted her face for his kiss, her mouth was warm from the tea.
After he left, she began her exercises, an ingrained habit now, but her limbs felt heavy, as if they were pinned to the floor. Whose body is it anyway, she railed at herself. Surely she could get through these exercises! She sat up. Everywhere she looked she saw her failure and her fear—Colin’s sofa, her bedroom. On her way to change clothes, she closed his bedroom door. He wanted her to be there with him, and she couldn’t. It was too much—they loved and desired each other, but she had a monster on her back, and now someone might as well have painted a target on her chest.
Stick it out, Brian would say. She dragged herself to the bookstore. Mr. Hollister had left instructions on the computer table next to the morning newspaper. She hadn’t been online very long when she heard the doorbell jingle and Simon’s voice. Esther directed him upstairs.
“I’m on late turn today, love. I saw the article—just thought I’d check on you before I go in.”
She was hunched forward.
“Stomach bothering you? Stand up and show me where it hurts.”
Esther Hollister couldn’t hear their voices, but she could see the young policeman rest the flat of his hand on Jenny’s stomach. His arm was around her shoulders.
“Tense these muscles and count to ten,” he told her. “Then relax to a count of ten. Eventually—if a period of relaxation always follows the period of tension—the tension itself can become a cue for the relief to follow.”
“I wish you didn’t have to leave.”
“You’ll be okay, love. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes, Simon. Thanks.” She watched him go down the stairs and heard his farewell to Esther before he went out. She turned back to the computer screen, but between the newspaper on the corner of the table and the ache in the pit of her stomach, it was slow going. Finally she stopped trying, resting her hands in her lap. Her cowardly hands—afraid to touch Colin where he wanted to be touched. How do you build a relationship when the undertow of fear is so strong?
Mr. Hollister startled her, and she couldn’t wipe the tears away quickly enough. “Miss Jeffries, are you all right? We’re very happy to have you with us, you know. You mustn’t worry if you don’t complete my list today. Essie!” he called. “Tea for Miss Jeffries, please.” The tea was always hot, so Esther joined them straightaway. “Essie, I think we’re working Miss Jeffries too hard,” he said.
Esther set the cup next to the computer. “I don’t think that’s the problem, Reggie. Jenny, would you like to tell us what’s upsetting you?”
She looked at their concerned faces. They had daughters, she knew—two daughters and a son. Surely their children had trusted them with confidences! She knew neither Colin nor Simon would want her to disclose anything, but they seemed very far away. She opened the newspaper and pointed to the words beneath the masthead. “That’s about me,” she said. “I’m the Scott witness. I’m still in London.”
“Reggie, close the shop,” Esther said. She pulled a chair next to Jenny and took both of her hands in her own. “My poor dear.” She waited for her husband to return.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth before,” Jenny said. “I shouldn’t be telling you now. Please don’t fire me. I really like coming here.”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Hollister assured her.
“Goodness me, that explains a lot,” Esther smiled. “You know more policemen than I have books on the shelves, and they are all so protective of you.”
“And you’ve been so shy about your personal information,” Mr. Hollister added. “You’ve not let your name be recorded anywhere, and you’ve never given us your address.”
“Colin thought it would be best.”
“Why, Jenny?”
“Because Colin thinks he’s still after me. He was so angry when the verdict was read. There have been incidents, but the police haven’t been able to link them to—to—him. Oh, you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Mr. Hollister said firmly. “Essie, what can we do to help this young lady?”
“People and books, that’s where I always turn,” she answered. “Jenny, if you feel safe here and you want to continue, you’re welcome to come in whenever you like. I also want you to have our home address and phone—if you need us, ring or stop round. We have plenty of space, and we won’t pry.”
Mr. Hollister wrote their contact information on the back of his business card.
“Reggie, that book about FDR that just came in—can you put your hands on it? I think it might be just the thing for Jenny.”
It was downstairs, but Mr. Hollister located it quickly. Jenny’s eyes filled when she saw the title: Freedom From Fear.
CHAPTER 24
“Difficult week?” Dr. Knowles asked. “I saw the newspaper article.”
No one spoke. Jenny was sitting on the sofa, her shoulders slumped, and Colin was beside her, watching her.
“Did it make you feel more vulnerable, Jenny?”
Looking down, she didn’t answer.
“Recovery doesn’t occur in a vacuum, Jenny.”
“I’m not recovering at all,” she said in a hollow voice. “I’m more afraid. I feel like the monster is around every corner. I need Colin more than ever, and I’m less capable of responding.”
“Something else happened this week then.”
“It’s not fair!” she burst out. “The monster has had what Colin hasn’t, and it’s not right! I can’t give him what I want to give him!”
“No, it isn’t fair,” Knowles agreed calmly. “But the monster, as you call him, took it, while Colin doesn’t want it until you’re ready to give it. Will you tell me about it?”
She remembered how she had felt when she removed his trousers. She had put her hands on the waistband of his undershorts and felt time stop. He had called her name, once, twice. Slowly—oh so slowly—she had eased his shorts down. The forest of dark hair that swirled between his legs made him look menacing, and she had not been able to touch him there. She had been unable to go forward, unable to go back, paralyzed except for her racing heart. “No. Night after night I’ve hurt him, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
All week Colin had fought with his expectations. Jenny’s tentative little fingers were so much more exciting than a confident, experienced touch would have been. At times the anticipation had been almost unbearable. Discouragement had followed.
“Jenny, these are exactly the things we need to talk about, the things that frighten or disturb you. Tell me, and let me put it into context for Colin. Did you see him naked this week?”
She nodded and started to cry.
“And what did you think about that?”
“I thought—I thought—it looked like a weapon,” she said, her voice failing.
Colin looked at the floor. His eyes took in the beige carpet, Theo’s shoes, the tuft of dust behind the leg of his chair. It had been bad enough seeing her reaction; hearing her describe it to Theo was worse. Why this woman? he asked himself. Since his divorce, he’d had several affairs. Those women had been willing to sleep with him. They had been charming and clever. Why hadn’t he fallen in love with one of them? Theo’s response
surprised him, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
“Of course you did, my dear,” he said gently. “That was your experience with Scott, wasn’t it? But tell me—when you saw Colin, did you want to run?”
“No. He was kissing me and whispering my name.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Colin, say something,” she sobbed.
What could he say? He had said it all, and it had not made a difference.
“What did you think would happen?” Knowles persisted.
“He’d hurt me. He wouldn’t mean to, but he would.”
“What sort of man is Colin, Jenny?”
“He’s wonderful—thoughtful and gentle and strong. He believes in helping people, in protecting them and seeking justice for them. He knows what to do. He’s sure of himself. He’s loving and generous.”
“Jenny, sex is more than two bodies coming together. Our sexuality comes from who we are as human beings. It’s directly related to our character. Even now, you respond when Colin touches you because the touches are his. Later, when he makes love to you, you’ll respond, not just to a set of anatomical parts, but to the whole individual, his values, his personality, his commitment to you. In mathematics they teach that the sum is greater than the total of its parts. That’s true in loving relationships, too.”
“Dr. Knowles, why does it have to be so hard? I love him, and I want so badly to be able to follow through.”
“Are there any other fears you haven’t related to me? Fear of pregnancy, for example? Perhaps birth control is a subject you and Colin should address, if you haven’t already.”
Why? Colin thought. Birth control is for couples who actually make love.
“We did, and Colin said—” She looked at him, but he didn’t answer.
“What is our current therapeutic theme?”
She sighed. “I’m in charge of my body.”
“That’s correct. Therefore I’d like you to be responsible for this issue.”
She had gone white. “I’m afraid of going to that kind of doctor,” she stammered.
Knowles frowned. “Jenny, you must have had a pelvic examination as part of your medical while you were in hospital.”
She looked at Colin.
“Yes, and a forensic examination as well,” Colin replied after a moment, “but she was unconscious.”
“Have you had one since you left hospital?”
She opened her mouth then closed it without speaking. “Sort of,” she finally said.
“Would you explain that, Jenny?”
“I had pain, terrible pain. I hadn’t had a period in so long that I thought the monster had gotten me pregnant. Brian held me down, and Simon—he did what he had to do, I guess. Made sure I wasn’t miscarrying.”
Colin remembered Jenny confessing her pregnancy fears to Knowles. Casey had been present. “He examined you?” he demanded, his detached tone gone. “Jenny, he was out of line!”
Dear God, thought Knowles. That stern-faced young policeman. “How did you feel about what he did?”
“Terrified. And so mad I accused him of being a rapist. I had fought him, you see, him and Brian, and I had lost.”
“How did he react?”
“He went ballistic. He was so angry I was sure he was out of control.”
“I should have been told,” Colin said.
She gave him a rueful smile. “Things happened at the flat that we didn’t tell you. Anyway, it was awful, because I was exhausted and afraid and I couldn’t get away from him.”
“Did he hurt you, Jenny?” Knowles asked.
“No, and that’s the amazing thing. He calmed down. He explained the difference between anger and violence—anger being what you feel and violence, what you do. Then he proved by his behavior that they weren’t always connected. It was a turning point for me, because after that I was never afraid of him.”
“And now you’re close,” Knowles commented.
Too close, in Colin’s view.
“Yes. He taught me a lot during the time we were in the flat. And Colin—” she turned toward him—“that’s why I didn’t run when you got mad. I waited to see what you’d do.”
“Jenny, having heard all this, I’d like to alter my stance on the issue of birth control. I’ll make it a recommendation, not a requirement, that you be responsible for the method. It’s your body. In this instance, if you choose to trust Colin to protect you, I will as well. You should know, however, that most physicians do not require a pelvic examination prior to providing that sort of medication.”
“What’s our homework?” she asked.
“What would you like it to be?”
“I want Colin to give me another chance.”
CHAPTER 25
On Saturday Colin went into the Yard to catch up on paperwork. Jenny needed a distraction, so she curled up with the book about Franklin Roosevelt that the Hollisters had given her. Colin hadn’t been happy about her disclosures to them; in fact, he’d questioned her at length about the information she’d given. Over and over she’d told him that the Hollisters hadn’t asked her anything. Their only concern had been her safety. And aside from confessing that she was the Scott witness, she hadn’t revealed very much, only that it was Colin’s case and that the policemen they’d met had been part of her protection team. She assured him that they recognized the need for discretion. Esther had said, “We’ll close the book on this issue. Your secret is safe with us.” Colin had finally concluded that no harm had been done, but she had been left with the feeling that she had done something wrong.
Freedom From Fear: A Treatise on the Life of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the title page read. There was a brief bio of the author, Bernard Alleson, but no photograph. He was born and educated in the northeast. Alleson’s was an athletic family, and he had participated in school and community competitions. When he was in his late teens, however, an accident had left him paralyzed below the waist.
“Everyone has a failing of some kind,” Alleson wrote in the introduction. “We all must reconcile ourselves to our limitations. The process is simply more pronounced in those individuals with physical handicaps, whose restrictions are evident and extreme.” Denial was the first stage, he claimed, in which we either do not accept what has happened to us or do not believe that its effect will be permanent. Bitterness and grief follow denial, but the phase he dubbed “now what” was the one that had spurred him to research and write the book. What happened once you dealt with the fear brought on by your condition? What did your life look like, once you decided to proceed with it?
She set the book down for a moment, angered by Alleson’s smooth prose. Was she supposed to accept that she would never heal, that the monster’s attack would mark her for the rest of her life? To settle for a life in which love played no part?
Chapter One gave a brief summary of the facts of FDR’s life. She skimmed it, remembering the advice of one of her college professors: “Look for the big idea, because it’s the anchor for everything else.” Chapter Two revealed Alleson’s conviction that a historian is called to probe beyond the demonstrable facts of history to the intangibles that, however difficult to illustrate, caused a subject to come alive. Not every brilliant, well-educated, upper class man became successful in political life. Roosevelt had become paralyzed in 1921, yet eleven years later he had been elected President of the United States. How had he done it? The expectations of others had not been the driving force—his family had not wanted him to continue in politics after his illness. “It was a product instead,” Alleson wrote, “of Roosevelt’s self-concept. He had been indulged as a child, raised to believe that he was capable of great things. It was that mental image of himself, however at odds with his physical reality, that he carried with him and would not alter. Being a patriot, it was that mental image that he transferred to his country, believing always that his nation, no matter how besieged, could respond with greatness.”
The witness protection team had believed
in her. So had Colin. Did he still? He loved her. Was that the same thing? Dr. Knowles thought he could help. Irrelevant—FDR had believed in himself. She needed to believe in herself.
Colin had not returned, and it was time for lunch. She made herself a sandwich and continued her reading. Alleson did not speculate at length about FDR’s fears, mentioning only that death would have been the initial fear, surfacing when his illness first struck, when the pain had been at its worst and the diagnosis vague. Over time treatment had promised life but not mobility. His fear of death had then receded, to be replaced by a fear of failure, the fear that he wouldn’t have a future worth living. For a man of Roosevelt’s stature, lack of a productive life was almost equivalent to death.
During dinner with Colin she was quiet, remembering Dr. Knowles’ concern that she feel safe sexually and his recommendation that some fabric remain between her and Colin. After spending most of the day reading a book about a handicapped man, written by a handicapped man, she saw her clothes as evidence of her handicap. The motorcyclist’s bullets could have crippled her; her body armor hadn’t covered her completely. Instead the monster had crippled her. Not with his fists—her bones and bruises had healed, and she could walk—but with his sexual attack. Had Roosevelt felt like a prisoner in his own body? Had Alleson? Why did she, when she had stood up to the monster in court?
Colin knew she’d been shaken by the newspaper story. He’d been shaken by the last therapy session and what had preceded it. Relationships weren’t linear; perhaps they would both benefit from a step back physically. It could ease the crushing disappointment he felt. He put his arms around her but gave her chaste kisses.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On Sunday while Colin studied the newspaper, she delved further into the book about Roosevelt. His fears had clearly not led him to make safety a priority in his life. He had loved the sea and had spent as much time as he could on yachts and naval vessels. He had taken long trips by plane. He had had a car specially engineered so he could drive it. He had learned not to be afraid of his physical body. Wheelchair or not, his exploits proved that even his body was capable of more than people would have expected. His wheelchair had been an accessory, a tool that got him where he needed to go.
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