Chapter 26
Malcolm
I popped the cap on my beer just as my phone started to ring. I took a drink, as I stared at the unknown number displayed on the screen, deciding if I wanted to be bothered. For a moment, I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but answered anyway.
“Hello,”
“Malcolm Frankel?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, this is Officer Johnson with Atlanta PD, do you know a Calida Jokobi?”
My heart sank. Oh god had something happened to her? I shouldn’t have let her leave.
“Yes.”
He proceeded to tell me she was being detained at her house, fined for starting a fire, and he was instructed to take her in unless he could find someone to come babysit her for all intents and purposes. She’d given them my number. He hoped I could come, because he rather not do the paperwork if he had to take her in.
As I drove to her house, my thoughts ran wild. She’d started a fire. Did she burn down her house? No, if it was that serious, surely, she would have faced charges, but she was drunk and burned something.
Why did I push her? Fuck! When I pulled up, I saw the police cruiser sitting in the driveway. The two officers stood outside, leaning against it, joking. I didn’t see Ginger at first, but then I spotted her hair resting against the window.
“Are you Malcolm?” one of them asked.
“Yeah.” I looked over at the blackened mess that sat right in front of the steps to the porch.
“She’s all yours,” the other one said, guiding Ginger over to me.
She smiled when she saw me. “Malcolm! What brings you by?”
“The cops called.” They threw me a wave as they climbed into their car.
“Oh…they were nice. Put me in handcuffs. That was exciting.”
I led her into the house, having to support most of her weight. I had no idea where anything was. In the times I’d been over, I’d always stayed in the great room area. I saw a trail of clothes in the hall, I followed it toward the light. I stopped when I saw the destruction. Feathers, fabric, ripped and torn stuff lay everywhere. The comforter, pillows, the entire bed had been massacred. More clothes were on the ground—his clothes.
“I’m gonna be sick!” she pushed off me, stumbling toward the bathroom.
With my help, she made it to the toilet just in time. After emptying the contents of her stomach, Ginger slumped down against the wall. I walked over and turned on the shower. The water turned brown when it hit the shower floor, washing away a fine coating of dust that seemed to have settled there. That could only be the case if it’d been unused. I looked back at Ginger, who remained in the same spot.
I tested the temperature to make sure it was warm enough before going to retrieve her.
“Come on, Ginger, a shower will help.” Grabbing her arm, I put it around my neck to give me extra leverage to lift her without injuring her.
“You just tryin’ to see me naked.”
I turned my head away from the foul stench of her breath. “No, baby, I’m not. I’ll even turn my back while you undress.”
Once I made sure she was somewhat steady on her feet, I did as promised and turned my back. I heard her struggling, but she managed to undress and step into the shower. Not wanting to leave her unattended, I slid down, sitting with my back against the wall next to the shower. I dropped my head into my hands. Guilt. Guilt consumed me. I fucked up. I’d been selfish, and stupid, thinking I could be some sort of magic fix to all her problems.
“Fuck!” I whispered harshly to myself.
I threw it all out the window. All the advice I’d been given, all the research I’d done, all of it ignored. I was better than this. I was supposed to be better than this.
“Ginger?”
“Hm?”
“Just checking to make sure you’ve not passed out.”
The water shut off. I jumped up, looking around for a towel. Two bright orange ones sat hanging neatly on the towel bar. I grabbed one, giving it a good pop to get off some of the dust. I held it up in front of my face just as she stepped out. I released it when I felt the tension of her tugging at it, and turned my head to keep from seeing her.
“Thank you.”
I turned in her direction. She brushed the longer, wet strands of her hair back out of her face. She looked...vulnerable. It was her, the real her. The one she’d tried so hard to hide from us all.
“No problem. Your clothes are…?”
“Upstairs.”
She walked past me. The towel dipped in the back just enough to reveal a tattoo on her shoulder, but more shockingly a long, ragged scar down her back.
“What the hell?”
She’d stopped, standing in front of a vanity. I watched her in the mirror. She clutched the towel tightly with one hand, but the other ran along the marble countertop.
“I still see the blood. Even though he cleaned everything up, I still see it. I know it’s there, stained deep in the marble. It’s there. It’ll always be there. Like it’ll always be in me.”
I frowned. Blood? That bastard was responsible for the scar on her back.
“I sat here, taking the bobby pins from my hair. He walked in, loosening his tie. He smiled at me and started helping me remove the pins. ‘You looked nice tonight, Ginger.’ I...I didn’t even get a chance to react.” Her hand went to the back of her head. “I didn’t even realize what had happened. I just remember there was pain, the stool….he’d knocked the stool from under me, and held me up by my hair. The counter was so cold when he pressed my face against it.”
Her hand continued massaging the back of her head. My mind tried to play catch up as she talked.
“‘I know what you were doing, Ginger. I saw how you looked at him, but you’re mine. You’ll always be mine Ginger,’” she said in angry whispers.
I’d never said those things to her. I’d never talked to her like that. But she wasn’t repeating words I’d spoken to her. It was him. Without warning, she kicked the small seat that was under the vanity. It scraped loudly across the floor before coming to a stop right in front of me.
“‘You need to be reminded of what’s at stake, Ginger!’” she hissed.
She fingered the scar, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I listened in horror, praying to myself this story wasn’t going where I feared it was. My ears were hot, pulsating. My stomach twisted. My hands balled into fists at my side.
Tears ran down her face. She gripped the towel tighter. “He...he started cutting me out of the dress. I...I didn’t even know where the knife came from. There was so much blood. And pain. I tried...I tried to block it out...but...but he...he…the grip he had in my hair was so tight. The way he pulled my neck back. I cou...I couldn’t close my eyes. I...I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t.” She started to hyperventilate.
Ginger leaned forward, but lost her balance, I rushed to catch her.
I held her tight. She buried her face in my shirt, sobbing. I didn’t want her to keep going, but I wasn’t going to try to get her to stop. She had to get it out. It was clear she’d been holding this in for way too long, and like a cancer, it had been eating away at her. She needed to release it.
Through broken cries, she told the rest of her story. He’d raped her, and he’d made her watch in the mirror as he did so. He’d raped her, and called her Ginger during the ordeal.
The more she spoke, the angrier I got. Angry at him for what he’d put her through, for the hell she’d had to live, and apparently was still living. I was sickened over the knowledge I reminded her of that night each time I called her by that name.
I tried to never waste energy thinking about that asshole, but as I held her trembling body in my arms every interaction with him raced through my mind. The one that repeated the most was that Thanksgiving dinner. He’d asked me about the name. I recalled how she’d tensed and tried to deflect the question. I’d taken the shift in behavior as her being embarrassed, but she’d been scared. How could I—she’d clung to him, barely made eye contact—I’d missed it. Fuck! I’d ran my damn mouth and she’d paid the price.
“There was something...something in him that he had to let out. His eyes...they were so dead, so cold. My son...my son has those eyes…” Her words drifted off. She leaned her weight against me, crying softly.
I picked her up, carrying her from that room. I took her upstairs. The first door I came to was ajar; I pushed it open with my foot. The towel came open when I laid her on the bed, I instantly closed it again. In that short time, she’d dozed off. Walking over to the dresser, I was thankful to find I’d picked the right room. Pictures of her and Shawn sat atop it.
I hated going through her things, but she needed clothes on. After managing to get her dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, without exposing her too much, I got her tucked in bed. She turned her back to me, continuing to whimper in her sleep. My eyes went to the tattoo. I never imagined Ginger…no fuck, not Ginger. I couldn’t even think of her by that name any more. I never imagined Calida to be the type of person that would ever want a tattoo, but as I looked at the design something told me it wasn’t of her choosing. S-D-J. Shawn’s initials, but my gut told me that tattoo was for his sperm donor. Fury swept through me like wild fire.
That fucker! My hands shook. I balled them into fists and pushed them into my thighs. I sat on the edge of her bed, shaking my head and rocked back and forth. I needed to hit something, preferably him. Like when I’d seen her in the hospital, I wished he was alive so I could beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He got off too fucking easy being dead. After what he’d done to Macy, to Calida, he’d needed to suffer as they suffered. As she still suffers.
I took another look at Calida, letting out a forced breath. The sight of the tattoo and the top of that scar fed the hate and all-consuming anger that coursed through my body. I headed into the bathroom down the hall. Turning on the cold water, I splashed some on my face.
I wanted her words, and subsequent pictures that formed with them, out of my head. It was a case of having information you needed to know, but didn’t want to have.
How could she continue to live here? To willingly stay in a place that brought her so much pain. I’d learned the truth secondhand, and the suffocation of that knowledge had been instant. She’d experienced it, yet continued to live in the reminder every…single…day. Was she punishing herself for taking his life?
My stomach lurched. I gripped the sink, forcing exhales. Blood pounded in my ears. My fingers ached as I squeezed the porcelain bowl tighter. I fought against the overwhelming urge to punch a hole in the fucking wall.
I looked up at my reflection. “Get a fucking grip!”
Thankfully, Calida had passed out, so she couldn’t see me losing it. I’d wanted her to talk to me, to let me in, and that’s what I got, even if it took her being wasted for it to happen. She’d let me in, and we’d work through it.
I turned off the water and grabbed one of the hand towels sitting on the counter to dry off my face. She’d made quite a mess that needed cleaning. Keeping busy would be good for me.