by Debra Lynch
Levi’s soothing voice brings me down. “Probably straight to jail after that. Jesus Christ, Rachel. Why didn’t you tell me what the hell was happening?” I try to jerk myself up, but he eases me down and hands me a glass of water. “Easy now.”
Panicked thoughts race through my mind. Don’t drink it. It’s drugged! “Where’d you get that?”
His eyebrows knit together. “From the tap.”
“A clean glass?”
“Yes, a clean glass.” His face looks so concerned as he strokes my arm, tears brimming his green eyes. He blinks. “Take a deep breath.”
Through unfocused eyes, I spy my cracked wineglass lying on the coffee table. My trembling hands grip the glass Levi offers, I knock back the blessedly cold water and set down the glass. Did Dennis really fess up? Did I really stab him? Or is this just a dream? “Did I kill him?”
“No.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But he’ll probably wear an eye patch the rest of his life.”
My brain feels hazy as my head lolls back. I did it. I actually got Dennis—the slimeball murderer, and rapist who’s haunted my life for the past twenty years—to confess. Relief floods through me as I savor the memory of the bastard’s shocked expression.
My shaky hands reach out to my friends. Levi holds one hand, and Madeline holds the other. I’ve yearned for this moment most of my life, and I can’t believe it. It’s done. My brain won’t shut up, though, the drug making me dopey. This better not be a dream. “Do you mind if I … I just gotta sleep.” I rest my head against the cushion.
And then Madeline’s eyes light up, her smile shaky, and she says the words that make me believe this is real. “You did it, babe. You won. Rest up. Plenty time to talk later.”
My eyes squint open in time to see two paramedics roll a gurney into the living room.
The last thing I hear before they load me onto the stretcher is Levi’s masculine voice, a tone of exasperation. “Somebody better fill me in. How the hell is Madeline walking?”
Forty-Two
Rachel
South Coast Medical is a blur of efficient doctors, blood testing, and clean white sheets. I test positive for the date rape drug Rohypnol and later discover the police had analyzed the wineglass, which also revealed the drug.
It takes several hours for me to recover from the intense, stupefying effects of the drug, and I have to say that I don’t remember much of what happened when I was admitted.
When I awaken in my hospital bed, the sun is just rising, a shaft of light over the beach cottages that dot the hillsides of the seaside medical center. Levi and Madeline are perched on my bedside.
Levi’s green eyes widen, and he grips my hand. “Rachel! Oh my god. You gave us a scare.”
Madeline shushes him with one of the southern phrases she’d perfected. “Now don’t go getting your feathers ruffled.” She gives Levi a stern look and returns to her normal accent—a slight Bronx enunciation. “Rachel’s the toughest gal I know.”
“It’s just—”
She holds up a hand, and this is what I love about Madeline. She’s a straight shooter. “The doctor said she’s fine.”
Levi sits next to me and kisses the side of my head, his warm hand holding mine. “They did. But what about emotionally?”
I ask Levi to reposition the adjustable bed. I sit up shakily and blink. The room swims into focus. Madeline and I have some explaining to do. But first things first. “Any coffee around this place?”
A carafe sits on the bedside table, and Madeline pours me a cup. I drink deeply of the blessed pick-me-up.
The rush of last night’s events collide in my brain with electrifying intensity as a jolt of euphoria shoots up my spine. “It’s not a dream. I really did it.” I’ve waited twenty years for this day. I take another sip as my gaze darts between my two friends. My skin itches with anticipation. I have to know. “Where’s Dennis. Is he in jail?”
“You bet your life he is,” Madeline says.
“I was at the party when I got the alert that our show was going live,” Levi says.
“I was home when I got mine,” Madeline says. “The second I knew what was going down I hopped into the Ferrari.” She slaps her thigh. “I could’ve won the Indy 500 the way I ran red lights to get to you.”
When they’d opened the live feed, there was Dennis sitting on my sofa enjoying his last moments of freedom and confessing his sins for all the world to see.
The Namasté Getaway enjoyed subscribers from all over the globe. Viewers from America to Timbuktu to the deepest regions of Siberia witnessed Dennis admit to all his heinous acts. Murdering his first date-rape victim, drugging his mother to death, raping a nine-year-old, murdering my father, stalking me—including an up-close and personal live-action horror show of Dennis’s attempt to maim and rape me.
Levi shakes his head and strokes my hair. “Still can’t believe you took this on yourself.”
I sit up, more energy rushing through my body. “It’s been a long time coming.”
Levi grimaces. “Jesus. You could’ve been killed. That man—”
“That’s why we needed to trap him,” Madeline says. “Cops won’t do anything until they catch him doing what? Raping another little girl? Killing another man?”
Levi says, “Okay, you two. Now that Rachel’s awake you better tell me exactly what the hell kind of plan you concocted. Madeline promised to spill the beans. But not ’til you were awake.”
I feel elated in a way I haven’t felt since I first started practicing yoga, meditating, and helping my video blog followers. My precious yoga had saved my life when I allowed it to work its magic. And of course, the friendship of my bestie had saved me. I smile at Levi.
Madeline and I stare at each other, and I burst into laughter. “Who wants to go first?” she says.
The pent up secrets I’ve kept from Levi and the world bubble to the surface, begging for release. “I will,” I say. I pat Madeline’s arm. “I met this dear lady in an acting improv intensive in Burbank six years back. We roomed together, and what can I tell you? We became buds. And we talked. Long talks. That’s when I found out we had more in common than a love for acting.”
Madeline scoots closer to me, holds my hand, and squeezes. “Yep. Growing up in the BX—sorry—the Bronx and going to Catholic school was an education in grifting better than any fancy college PhD. I could write a book.”
“When I broke down and told Madeline what’d happened to me when I was nine and that Dennis was due to be released, we came up with the ultimate con.”
Levi’s gaze darts from me to Madeline, from Madeline to me. “You guys are crazy. So what was the plan?”
“Madeline hosts a podcast in Miami called Southern Fried Wisdom. It’s a day-in-the-life show from a New Yorker living in South Florida. She does it in her southern accent, and it’s hilarious. The weirdest things happen in Florida.”
“You’re not really Southern,” Levi deadpans.
“Honey, the closest I been to the South is South Beach.”
“And you don’t really use a wheelchair,” Levi says.
Madeline hops off the bed and performs a little shimmy. “What tipped you off, sugar pie? We thought it would add a nice touch to lure the bastard in, and he never caught on.” She switches to her southern accent. “Dennis is so stupid if his brains were dynamite he couldn’t blow his nose.”
Levi scratches his head. “I still don’t get it.”
I smooth the sheets. “Here’s how it went. I rented Madeline the house in Costa Mesa. She moved here for—”
“As long as it would’ve taken,” Madeline interjects.
“Madeline’s goal was to wheel by Dennis’s place and strike up a friendship.”
“But he beat me to it.”
“We’d both wear nanny cams every time we were around Dennis. It was a race to see who could lure him in and get him to confess first.”
Madeline sighs heavily. “If only I were forty years younger.”
&
nbsp; “What you did was dangerous,” Levi says.
“But effective, right cowboy?” Madeline says.
“What happened with the shoplifting, though?” Levi says.
My cheeks feel hot, and I look at my hands. “We had a bit of a snafu with that one.” I meet Levi’s gaze. “One of my yoga students is a super nice guy named Tom Sanders. He also happens to be a parole officer. One day, not long after Dennis was released, Tom left his notebook behind and—”
“She picked it up and thumbed through it,” Madeline interrupts like a proud mother.
“And that’s when I found out that Dennis was one of his charges. Seems Tom Sanders was investigating the freakshow for accepting bribes from shoplifters. If I’d have looked up that second, I probably would’ve seen a lightbulb. That’s when I got the idea to lure Dennis in through stealing. The hope was he’d accept my bribe and I’d get to be the grateful lawbreaker. I’d have been off and running, we’d talk, and he’d feel comfy enough to tell me all his secrets.”
I bunch the sheets between my fingers and continue. “Anyway, I’m sorry to report that the scam went wrong from the start. I had no idea that letter opener was worth eleven hundred bucks. I’d have been fine with a slap on the wrist by a judge if it came down to it, but no … I had to go and commit a felony.”
Madeline shakes her head sadly and reverts to her southern drawl. “This girl just about lost her religion.”
Levi drops his head into his hands and then looks at me. “Promise me you’ll never do anything like this again. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
Madeline speaks up. “What was she supposed to do? Sit back and watch a dirty child rapist enjoy his freedom while good people like us pay his gate money, food stamps and lord knows what other government programs? Low lying lizard like that’ll never change.”
Levi looks into my eyes and grins. “I have to admit I’m impressed.” He squeezes my hand hard. “I don’t know what I’d have done if anything happened to you. If I knew what was going down I’d have put him in a white room myself.”
“A what?” I say.
He chuckles. “White room. White cell, white clothes, white food, bright lights twenty-four, seven. You’d be surprised how effective a psychological torture it can be.”
Madeline’s eyebrows rise. “There’s hope for you yet, young man.”
“So this means Madeline’s not really your aunt.”
“Sadly, no.” I hold up a hand. “Raised in foster care.”
The doctor, a short woman who could’ve passed for Melissa McCarthy, enters the room. “I know you guys are having yourself a party here but—” she consults her iPad— “I’ve got your walking papers ready.” She wags one finger my way. “You stay out of trouble, young lady. Leave the police work to the professionals next time.”
I cross my fingers behind my back and promise her I will, and she leaves the room.
I gaze at Levi, and he squeezes my hand, giving me a crooked smile.
Levi.
My bestie.
If I want to, I can hold on to the anger that’s ruled my life for the past twenty years, even blame all men for the horrible injustices of rape. Blame them for my toxic relationship with Dennis, the one driving force for the better part of my life.
But I’m not going to do that.
I look into Levi’s warm eyes, and my heart opens. I love him. The past is finally where it belongs. Far, far behind me.
Levi gathers me in his arms. “Come here.” I fall into his warmth, and a weird thing happens. All the years of resentment and rage melt away, and something else takes over. Comfort. Warmth. Love. Levi strokes my hair. “It’s okay now, sweetheart. He’ll never hurt you again.”
I can’t help myself. I fall apart. In Levi’s arms, I allow myself the luxury of a good cry, and boy, do I go for it. My body wracks with deep, shuddering sobs. It feels fantastic to finally let it all out.
As I cry, another feeling takes over. Relief—an unexpected release of all tension as the pain eases its way out. “There, there.” Levi kisses my ear. “It’s okay.” He holds me tight. “I’ve got you.”
Madeline wipes her tears and circles her arms around me.
The three of us stay that way for a while as all the years of anger, malice and vitriol work their way out until a deep peace takes their place. It’s a foreign feeling. One I’ll get used to. Finally, I dry my eyes and gaze at Levi and Madeline. “Thank you. You two are the best. And I’m so lucky to have you.”
And then my friends help me organize for the trip home.
“When do you leave?” I ask Madeline as I wipe tears with a tissue.
“Sometime next week.” She gives me a warm smile. “Got to get back to blazing hot Miami.” Madeline grins and grabs me in a bear hug that nearly knocks the wind out of me. She whispers in my ear, “I’m gonna miss you, hon. I love you a bushel and a peck.”
Dennis woke up in the hospital, handcuffed to the bed.
Given the new evidence and the tremendous public outcry, he was retried, found guilty of murdering his mother, his first date rape victim, and my father. And oh yeah, let’s not forget what he did to me—raping a minor—and sentenced to life in prison.
His punishment didn’t bring back Daddy, but it enables me to finally unlock the chains around my heart. Another thing that eases my sleep is the fact that inmates don’t take kindly to child rapists. Last I heard Dennis was locked up in the dark, grimy shackles of solitary confinement because all the convicts want to off him. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that somebody takes a letter opener to him in jail sometime soon.
I’m also proud that I did my part to bring justice to the one in four American female victims of rape. I’m no longer a victim. Oh sure, I still have the occasional nightmare starring Dennis, but my heart is full, and my memories of Daddy are a sweet balm to my soul.
But overall I’m with Muhammed Ali who said, “If you lose a fight, it will worry you all your life. It will plague you—until you get your revenge.”
The viewer outpouring and support went crazy with letters and care packages coming in daily, offering encouragement and solace. Turns out, Levi was right about that. We relate to each other through our vulnerabilities. Sure, we might enjoy logging on to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or even our favorite YouTube channel for a hit of entertainment and carefully curated photos depicting perfect lives.
But what we’re really seeking is authenticity.
We want to see each other without makeup—scars and all.
Levi and I continue the show, and The Namasté Getaway recently jumped to over twenty-five million subscribers, making it the most popular yoga-themed YouTube channel in the world.
In the end, it turned out that yoga really did save my life. Heck, I wouldn’t have been able to sprint over a deranged psychopath while drugged if I didn’t have countless hours of vinyasa under my belt.
The full impact of the yogic life finally slammed into me with lightning bolt revelation. It wasn’t about the postures, the diets, or the video blog. It was about taking control of my life. I was the only one inside my psyche, and I had the power to make it any way I wanted.
I chose peace.
Forty-Three
One month later
Dennis
I stare out the barred window hoping for a hint of a breeze, but there is none.
Just a hard bench under my butt and a cell that smells like piss. I pick at what feels like an eyelash stuck in my glass eye for the hundredth time that day.
I look down at my prison-issue jumpsuit and think, I actually do look good in orange.
When I told Rachel that orange didn’t work for her, I wasn’t lying. Not with her coloring. But mine? Yeah, I think I can pull this off.
I still dream of Rachel, or should I say Ruby, every night. Every day, too. I dream of her—the way she looked when she was nine and the way she looked last time I saw her. Wearing my dress. So close and yet so far. Isn’t that the way they say it?
She was only inches away from me. I would’ve taken her right there with all the world watching if Levi and Madeline hadn’t interrupted our happy coupling.
I shake my head.
Rachel is still the love of my life.
I will never give up on her.
“Smith!” the skinny ass jailer yells. “You got a roommate.”
I shrug. “Yeah? Why you making a federal case out of it?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t make this tough. Unless you want to head back to the grain and drain.”
My roommate shuffles into the cell, hands behind his back, ankles shackled. I check out his bald head, a tattoo of a phoenix on his shiny skull. If you’re hoping to rise out of these ashes, I got bad news for you, buddy.
The jailer uncuffs my roomie, and he falls onto the grimy cot across from mine with a heavy whoomph.
Our eyes meet, and I notice the teardrop tattoo. Two tears.
“What you looking at?” he says.
I don’t answer. I’m a high-class dude who’s going to one day bust out of this joint and be with my Rachel again. I was just seconds away from the high-end beach lifestyle that she owed me, and I won’t stop no matter how many public defenders it takes to get me out of this hell hole.
The jailer locks the cell, turns to leave, but doubles back. “Smith. Forgot to give you this.” He slides the envelope through the bars, giving it a two-fingered shove so it lands by the toe of my filthy prison-issue slip-ons.
My eyes snap open wide when I see the return address in Rachel’s handwriting.
I rip the envelope open.
A photograph falls out.
A chill judders through my blood.
What the fuck?
No!
Rachel outsmarted me.
Again.
I cock my head, peering at the snapshot.
No fucking way.