Chapter 22

Elspeth

That was the night I began sleeping in Finn’s room. I was careful to point out that I wasn’t moving in. That seemed too much like a foregone conclusion and if there was anything my life didn’t have, it was a conclusion. I preferred to think of this as learning more about one another. Up until now, the camera and lights had all been on me. Finn had escaped the exposure, but I thought it was time he shared in it—if only to understand what he was putting me through. That conversation came up as we lay, side by side, in his king-sized bed. I had teased him that it was a bed without personality—a Plexiglas sculpture that happened to hold a mattress and fitted sheet.

“What’s wrong with my bed?” he protested, although weakly.

“It has no personality.”

“Are beds supposed to have personalities?” he responded, doubt in his voice. “Did I miss a memo somewhere?”

“No, your bed isn’t void of personality—it’s deliberately neutral.”

“I don’t understand what that means,” he commented, his fingers running the length of my inside arm. I had to admit it felt great, but so did talking. It seemed so long since I’d had normal conversation without the weight of my life’s mystery involved.

“It means that I’ve noticed that at times, you go out of your way to avoid making impressions on others. It’s like wearing a certain kind of watch might tell them you make more than minimum wage, so you wear none.”

“Oh, now you’ve got that wrong,” he argued. “Not wearing a watch for me was a personal goal. It’s a symbol that I own my own time.”

“But is that true?”

“What do you mean?”

“You never make appointments?”

“Rarely.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like appointments.”

“You don’t like commitments.”

He was frowning, wondering how we’d gotten to this from my initial comment on the design of his bed. I didn’t bother to explain that this was how women worked—how we thought. Why take a straight line when a circuitous one often won the goal through sheer endurance?

“And that’s another thing,” I continued before he caught up with my thinking. Women also had the timing thing down pat.

“Another thing?”

“I’m beginning to feel like I live under a microscope. Every word I speak is analyzed, you order in experts to give opinions as to whether I’m lying, and so forth. I don’t like it.”

“Why is that?”

“What do you mean, ‘Why is that?’ You just now admitted that you don’t like people making assumptions about you, and you have to ask why I would like my personal privacy as well?”

“Whaaaaat? I never admitted I don’t like assumptions.”

“Then you don’t.”

“Are you messing with my head or did you sneak pot into the main course at dinner, which… by the way, was terrific.”

“Of course, it was. I had to teach you a lesson about assumptions. I turned the tables on you.”

“Elspeth, you’ve got me not only turned, but dizzy. What are you getting at?”

“What I’m trying to suggest is that just maybe I will never regain my memory. Have you considered that? It’s possible my life began the night you rescued me, and I’ll have to start from scratch. If that’s true, do you really want me to begin my new life feeling as though I’m a prisoner on parole and you hold the key to throwing me back inside?”

He was silent long moments as he considered what I was saying. I suspected it had entered his mind before I brought it up and he was feeling guilty. I’d known him long enough to recognize that when he was quiet, he was bothered by something he’d done, or not done.

“So, tell me about you. Who held you accountable?” I asked.

“What makes you think someone held me accountable?”

“No, sir. You can’t play my game. I’m onto that and we’ve moved on. I’m asking you straight out—who influenced you?”

I felt his shoulder move beside me in a shrug. “Many people, I guess.”

“Name one.”

“Mr. Rodney.”

“Who was that?”

“My junior high gym teacher.”

“So, was he like a super athlete and taught you about self-discipline or something?”

He chuckled and I remembered how I loved the sound of his laughter; it came from within his belly and vibrated as though his diaphragm was a musical reed— rigid and yet able to vibrate when you moved air over it. “Hardly. No, Mr. Rodney was incompetent. The rumor was they’d given him a medical discharge from the Army because he continued to wet the bed. He barely made it through college and only had a Bachelor’s, but since there was little competition for his job, it was his by default.”

“Then how was he an influence?”

“Mr. Rodney epitomized everything I didn’t want to be.”

I thought about this. “That’s interesting. So, you didn’t like that he failed at things?”

“No. I didn’t like that he took on things at which he could never be successful, so he sought failure. It was a standard to which he aspired.”

“Hmmm…” I mused his answer. “You’ve never failed?”

“Yes, plenty of times—but no one ever noticed. I never crossed a finish line unless I was in first place.”

“Lordy, that’s quite an ego you’re carrying around there.”

“Not at all. I just pride myself on my image and people don’t respect losers, so I make it a point to never fail with a witness.”

“Ah,” I pointed out, “but now I know your secret, so I’ll be watching. Your game is up.”

“Have you considered that I’ve never failed, and I’m only making this up to divert your attention?”

“It’s possible, but totally unnecessary.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have no reason to want you to fail. I’m on your side.”

He stopped breathing as the words sank into his ego-centric brain. Before he recovered, I added, “You’ve never had anyone on your side who wasn’t paid to be there, have you?”

When he answered, there was a raw realization in his voice. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

I didn’t let him dwell on it. I’d made my point, and we both knew it. I crawled into that well of comfort between his chest and his arm and sighed in contentment. Tipping my face toward his cheek, I kissed him and settled back to go to sleep.

“Night,” I whispered, vocally turning down the house lights so he could step off the stage and once again return to his internal thoughts.

“Night,” he responded automatically and I knew by the fact that he didn’t change his position, he was mulling over everything we’d just said. But, for once, he was at the center of his thoughts—not me or who I was. Again, I recognized that circuitous routes definitely had their merits.

* * *

He was drunk again. I knew it as soon as I heard his footsteps hit the front porch. He wasn’t lifting his feet to move forward; he was kicking the paint-worn wood as if it was responsible for his dissatisfaction with life. When I heard his foot kick the door, I knew the focus of his anger had changed. Now it was her turn to be responsible—to minimize his conscience and feed his ego.

I hoped to God she was sleeping and that he would ignore her. I hoped that this once he might be too drunk to make it to their bedroom and collapse on the davenport, or better yet, the floor. That way maybe he’d die and we could call the men in the white coats and they’d clean up the mess. They would take out the trash and we’d remain behind—safe, untouched, and free.

The steps dragged past my bedroom door, and I knew my prayers would go unanswered—again. I heard him bellow her name and her sleepy response stole her excuse and put her in the harness of hell. The lamp crashed to the floor, and I heard him curse as he’d probably cut himself.

Then came the sound I hated the most—the crack of his hand slapping her and her cry as I knew she was trying to back away from him. He screamed her name, amidst layers of curse words and garbled drunk talk that made no sense to anyone but him. The metal springs of their bed cried out as he flung himself upon her—her cries of “No, no,” going unheeded.

What was I to do? If I slipped out into the night, it would be leaving her to his mercy—and he had none. None for her, and certainly, none for me. I could leave; that part would be easy. Could I stay hidden, though? He would find me. He wouldn’t rest until he punished me in front of her so that she would suffer, knowing it had been her fault.

I wondered briefly if I left, whether that would rob him of that excuse? I knew it wouldn’t. People like him made everything rot—even the good and kind people who tried to take care of him. The rot came from him, spreading like a disease if you were within hearing. I could hear the rot spreading to her—it had no smell or visibility. No… it was a sound—a hideous squeal from the devil himself as it overtook her.

There were hands on my shoulders, and I was being jerked upright. “Elspeth! Wake up! Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Wake up!”

I sucked in a breath of clean air, but even so, bent over the edge of the bed and retched. “Oh! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’ll clean it right up!” I pushed the covers back from my feet and flew to stand up, trying to orient myself and find a bucket or a cloth to clean up the mess.

“Forget that! Come back here. Are you sick? What’s wrong? You look like a child, and you’re shaking.”

I turned to look at him and realized there was no creaking mattress. I looked down and there was no broken lamp on the threadbare carpet beneath my bare feet. I opened my mouth to speak, but knew that silence was the only refuge.

The look on his face was different this time. It almost looked like concern. He came at me, but when his arm raised, it was to scoop me up and hold me against his chest. He strode from the room, pausing to push the hair back from my face and the next sensation I felt was water. Warm, comforting water.

I laid my cheek into his chest and the safe place came back to me. I felt myself lowered until my feet were touching warmth beneath and he began to remove my clothes, as well as his own. I knew it was useless to fight—it would only anger him more. But… but this was different. He wasn’t tugging at me, wasn’t ripping my clothing away in his haste to join our bodies. He was pulling the cloth gently, with respect, and his hands held the smell of soap as he rubbed my entire body slowly, lovingly.

The water stopped then and a thick towel the size of a tablecloth was wrapped around me. He picked me up again and this time, when he put me down, it was into the layers of a clean, soft bed. He climbed over me to pull me against him, tucking the blankets around me until I was cocooned. I was safe. No one was screaming. There was no rot.