“And that would matter more if I could remember my parents,” she responded.
You remembered your mother in the kitchen.
“Wait, I did remember my mother,” she said.
“What do you remember of her?” Leonard asked as he made a note on his notepad.
Joyce glanced at me, but I pretended not to notice. It would be better if Leonard thought she was remembering on her own without looking to me first.
“I remembered what she looked like and how good a cook she was,” Joyce replied.
“And how did that make you feel?” Leonard asked.
I had to smother a chuckle at the shrink speak.
“Actually, it made me feel safe,” Joyce explained.
“That’s perfectly understandable, considering what you’ve been through,” Leonard surmised.
“Um, are we done yet?” Joyce asked, shifting in her seat.
“Yes, if you want. But I’d like to see you again, if you’d be willing.”
“Why?” she asked pointedly.
“The memory of your mother is just the beginning,” he explained. “Your memories are trying to surface, and I’d like to help you traverse the good with the bad. I want to help you, Sister Emily.”
“Oh… I guess that would be okay,” she responded half-heartedly. She stood up, but Leonard put his hand up.
“If you’d wait here for a moment, I need to speak with Trina. We’ll just be outside in the hallway.”
Joyce looked at me and, this time, I nodded. She sat back down.
Doc and I went into the hall, and he shut the door behind us.
“You’re skating on thin ice, Trina,” he said immediately.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doc,” I hedged.
“She’s clinging to you emotionally like she would a life preserver in a raging ocean. And that’s what it is, Trina, a tropical storm of emotions that will crash on the shore of her psyche if you’re not careful.”
“Nice metaphors, Doc.”
“I’m serious, Trina. Her rapist could walk up to her today and she wouldn’t know him until he raped her again. In the meantime, she lives in fear of anyone, especially males, coming near her. She clings to you for protection not only against the violence she’s seen, but the memories she’s afraid to face.”
“I get that, but—”
“Your job, Detective, is to catch the rapist, not babysit the victim.”
“Hey, now wait just a damn minute. I’m doing what I need to do to find out who raped her.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’re too close to this. I’m pulling you off the case.”
“No, wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “You can’t do that.”
“I can, and I will if you don’t distance yourself from her.”
“How in the hell am I supposed to do that? I can’t solve the case without her. Look, give me some time. I just need some time to figure out why they labeled her a snitch.”
“A week,” he allowed. “That’s all the time I can give you and even then, it’s against my better judgment.”
“Fine. I’ll solve this case in a week or I’ll resign.”
“Now, don’t get carried away, Trina.”
“I’m not,” I hissed. “As you said, it’s my job to catch her rapist. If I can’t do that, then I don’t deserve to wear the badge.” I was dead serious and totally pissed. How could he put a deadline on a woman’s recovery like that? Unless a cop caught a lucky break, attacks like the one Joyce suffered weren’t solved in a week. Months maybe, even years, but not in seven days.
“Look, Trina,” Leonard said, stopping me from leaving. “I’m saying this as much for the victim as for you. You’ve got to detach and focus on her as just a case, nothing more. You can help her by taking her to places she’s been before, like her parents’ house, her school, even the church you found her in. Revisit these places and let her tell you what she remembers. Don’t prompt her. She’ll only get frustrated if nothing comes to mind. Some memories, especially of her childhood, will surface easily. But some memories may be tied to the attack, like what her name is, and they will be the last to surface, if they ever do at all. It’s her subconscious way of protecting herself.”
“Yeah, okay, sure, Doc. That’s good advice,” I admitted.
“And you’re not helping her by calling her Joyce. Use her name, and it might trigger something. I want to see her back in here a week from today, understand?”
It wasn’t a request. “Yes, I’ve got it.” That’s when you take her away from me.
Chapter Ten
I Like to Eat, not Cook – Trina Wiles
As much as I hated to admit it, Leonard was right. I needed to get serious about triggering Joyce’s… I mean, Sister Emily’s memory. I needed to provide opportunities for her to remember. She mentioned that her mother loved to cook. Maybe she did too. So, on the way back to my apartment, I stopped at the grocery store.
“I’m almost out of milk and soda,” I explained as I led her inside the store. “Say, do you feel like cooking? I suck at it, but if you’d like to try it, I can pick us up some chicken fryers.”
“I’m not sure,” she responded, her eyebrows raised contemplatively. “That could be fun or it could be dangerous.” There was a twinkle in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before.
“I’m a cop, remember. Danger is my middle name. But if it’ll make you feel better, we could have spaghetti instead.”
“Oh, yes. I loved fixing spaghetti when I was a kid.”
Keeping my poker face on, I ignored the fact that she’d just remembered something. “All right. Sounds good. Do you fix yours with tomato sauce or alfredo sauce?”
“Tomato sauce and ground beef. I remember my mom browning the beef, and I would offer to help so I could sneak a piece when she wasn’t looking.”
Leading her to the meat section, I continued the conversation. “I did the same thing, until my kid brother caught on and Mom thought he wanted to learn to cook.”
“And did he? Learn to cook, I mean.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “Only enough to grab a bite, then he would suddenly have something else he had to do.”
“Wait, is that the priest I almost hit with a candlestick?”
“Yep, the same one. He was a little devil when he was young.”
“I’d like the chance to apologize to him, if I can.”
“Of course you can,” I assured her. “Why don’t we go run by the church tomorrow? He’ll want to know how you’re doing.”
“Okay, that would be good.”
We got our groceries and headed home, talking all the way. I knew I was supposed to distance myself, but she was finally comfortable talking, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment. Granted, it was mostly me doing all the talking because she didn’t have much to contribute, but by the time we got home and carried the groceries in, I had her talking about her feelings on Leonard.
“He seemed nice enough.” She put the box of spaghetti on the counter and then reached inside her shirt pocket. “By the way. Here’s your key back.” There was nothing in her hand.
Laughing, I took the invisible key from her. “I don’t think I need it anymore. The lock must have broken as soon as we left the precinct because I’ve been talking non-stop.”
“I like listening to you talk. Especially about your family. I wish I could remember mine.”
“You will. You’re remembering more and more, and it’s just a matter of time before it all comes back to you.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, and you should, too.”
“All right then, I will,” she said decidedly. “Okay, you put the water on to boil, and I’ll brown the hamburger.”
“Will do.” I reached in the lower cabinet and pulled out two pans. “Here’s a saucepan for the hamburger,” I said, handing the pan to her.
“Thanks.” She unwrapped the beef and laid it in the pan. “
Do you have something to stir this with?”
“Sure. When I moved in, I just tossed everything in the drawers so it’s probably…” I opened the middle drawer. “Yep, here’s a spatula for you.”
“When did you move in?” she asked, taking the utensil over to the sink and washing it.
“Three years ago, when I made detective. Believe it or not, this place is a step up from the rat trap I was living in.”
“Sounds like the place I lived in while I was in college.” She walked back to the stove and began chopping up the meat with the spatula.
“What did you major in?” I asked casually, holding my breath. Please remember.
“Accounting. I wanted to be an accountant, I think.”
“And did you become one?”
She stirred the meat, staring at it as if the answer was in the pan. “Yes. Actually, I graduated and took the CPA exam.”
“You’re a Certified Public Accountant?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m supposed to be a nun, right?”
“I think you could probably be both,” I said as I stirred the pasta.
“Do you have a cutting board?” she asked as she picked up the tomato from the counter and carried it to the sink. As she washed it, I found the cutting board buried under some pots and pans. I handed it to her and she washed it as well.
She’s very germ conscious.
“That’s just it, neither one of those feels like me,” she said as she placed the tomato on the cutting board and began dicing it. “Did we pick up some onions?”
“Yeah, they’re still in the bag,” I said, as I opened a can of tomato paste.
“Thanks.” She pulled the onion out of the grocery bag and began peeling it. “If I were a nun, wouldn’t I feel it deep down inside? I mean, you don’t just decide one day that you want to marry God. That’s a huge commitment that takes years of contemplation. Why can’t I remember any of that?”
“You will, in time.”
She set the knife down and wiped away the onion tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly, she turned and reached over to me, grabbing my face with both hands. She pulled me to her lips hungry with need.
My mind melted from the warmth of her lips and the taste of her mouth as she invited me in. It was both exciting and intoxicating, taking away my reasoning and replacing it with a terrible hunger. A hunger I hadn’t felt in a long time. I moaned with pleasure as I pulled her closer and kissed her harder.
“Yes, yes,” she cried, clutching at me desperately.
A nagging little voice inside my head reminded me that I was kissing a nun.
She ripped a button off, trying to push her hand under my shirt.
“Wait. No. No, we can’t, Sister Emily,” I said, pushing her back. She tried to kiss me again, and I held her at arm’s length. “What is wrong with you?” This was not the docile, doe-eyed, frightened woman I had come to know. Something was wrong.
She searched my eyes and when she didn’t find what she was looking for, she turned to the stove, her back to me. “I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know why I lost control like that.”
I turned her toward me, leaving my hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, too. You’re a nun, and I won’t take advantage of you.”
A moment past and then she looked up at me, her face flushed with anger. “But I don’t want to be a nun, damn it!”
A slow grin stretched along my lips as I realized what she was saying. “Then don’t be,” I said, letting go of her. She needed to be comfortable with herself if she was ever going to remember who she was. She was still a nun, but for now, if that didn’t feel right to her, than she should take that pressure off.
“It’s that easy?”
I nodded. “Yes, it is. I’m not asking you to get a divorce. It’s just that until we find out what happened to you, I don’t think you should worry about the labels. But I want you to understand something. I am a detective, and I have a duty to protect you, even from myself, no matter how good that kiss was.”
“Oh? The kiss was good?”
“Very good,” I admitted. “And it was also our last one, understand?”
“I understand. It won’t happen again. But will you please stop calling me Sister Emily.”
I could hear Doc in my head and I knew what I should say. “Yes.” Knowing and doing are two different things. “But only when we’re alone.”
“Okay, I can live with that.”
We carried our plates and sodas into the living room. Joyce sat on the couch, so I sat on the floor to put some distance between us. Just as I put my plate on the coffee table, Joyce did the same and then slid off the couch to the floor. So much for that idea. Using the remote, I turned on the TV and surfed Netflix for a movie.
“See anything you like?” I asked.
“Oh, I love Julie Andrews,” she exclaimed when I scrolled past Princess Diaries.
“Who doesn’t?” I quipped, pulling the movie up. “What’s your favorite movie with her in it?”
“No contest. The Sound of Music,” she replied. “What is yours?”
“Victor Victoria, of course.”
“Why of course?” she asked.
“I love gangster movies, and I love a woman who dresses like a man.”
She laughed and pointed at me. “But you dress like a man.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I love a woman who dresses like a man and then strips down to show she’s all woman.”
“I don’t remember her completely undressing,” Joyce said.
“She didn’t, but I have a very good imagination.”
Joyce gazed at me with swirling eyes of laughter and something else. Something I knew I should put a stop to, again, before it got out of control…, again.
“Joyce, I…”
“I know what you said. I know that I shouldn’t, but I also know that I want you right now... so bad I ache.”
“Uh…” I stalled, trying to come up with a firm no that she couldn’t deny.
“But since I can’t have you, I think I’ll skip the movie and go take a cold shower.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a very good idea,” I agreed.
She rolled her eyes then picked up her plate and carried it to the kitchen while I sat back and wiped the sweat from my brow. God help me. I’m going to lose my mind before this is all over.
But That’s not Who I Want to Be – Sister Emily aka Joyce
Cold pricks of water stung my back as it pooled in the hollow of my collar bones and made rivulets down my breasts. I shivered but not from the cold. The clarity of the cold water slowed my thoughts and allowed me to realize why I had gone after Trina like that. She was stable, solid, and supportive, and I was… am, unstable, with no anchor to rely on. Trina was my anchor. It’s not fair to her. As she said, she’s a cop and has a job to do, and I was her job, nothing more.
I wanted her; there was no denying that. Hell, I would have crawled inside of her if she had let me. I wanted her to make love to me to erase the nightmares. To prove to myself that I was worthy. To feel what gentleness felt like.
The cold water had quickly penetrated down to my bones, and I turned off the shower and stepped out. Grabbing a towel from the shelf, I glanced at myself in the mirror. There were some bruises, some scrapes, but overall, I didn’t think I was too bad looking. Then I looked at my eyes and shivered. I didn’t recognize the eyes staring back at me in the mirror. There was no soul behind them. Oh, God. I quickly averted my eyes and began toweling off.
Wrapping a towel around me, I left the bathroom and the soulless mirror and walked into the bedroom. Trina had placed the suitcase with my things in it on the bed, so I opened it and took out some cotton panties. I’d rather wear Trina’s briefs. Sighing, I pulled the panties on, but since I had no pajamas at the convent, I slipped into Trina’s t-shirt.
As I was about to put the suitcase away, I noticed the box the Reverend Mother gave me.
Captain, My Captain – Trina Wiles
> Sitting on the couch staring at the wall sometime after midnight, I once again couldn’t sleep. My emotions were at war with my ability to reason and compartmentalize things. In all my years on the police force, I had never been so blindsided by any one person. Joyce was a beautiful woman, no doubt about it. She was strong-minded and growing stronger every minute, which was fascinating to watch.
But how long would they let her stay with me? My captain had called while Joyce was in the shower. Apparently, Leonard and she had a confab and she agreed with him on setting the time limit. She reminded me just how unprecedented it was for a police detective to take a witness home and she was putting her career on the line, not to mention my own career, if we didn’t catch the rapist. If she hadn’t agreed, I’m sure Joyce would be back at the convent, feeling rejected and alone right now. That was not going to happen.
Joyce had been remembering more and more but only about her childhood. I needed to push her to remember her attacker. It wasn’t something I wanted to make her relive, but it had to be done. Paul said his FBI friend offered to help; maybe I should take him up on that. They had all the data on rapists. Maybe if I had Joyce go through their mugshots, it might trigger something. That would take forever.
Joyce still looked upset when she came out of the bathroom. She didn’t even look at me as she walked into the bedroom.
This is Who I Am? – Sister Emily aka Joyce
“Oh, my God!” I grabbed another picture and stared at it. “Oh, my God!” I screamed again. I couldn’t breathe, and my head was beginning to spin.
Trina barged through the door, her gun in her hand. “Joyce!”
“I’m alright,” I said more calmly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What happened?” she asked, setting the gun on the dresser. She walked over to the bed and sat down. “Are these the photos the Reverend Mother gave you?”
“Yes. Look at this.” I handed her a three-by-five photograph. I had dumped all the pictures on the bed and was rifling through them when I saw that one.
“That’s a nice picture of you. Just a couple of years ago, probably,” she said, looking from the picture to me and then back again.
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