Mistrusting a Memory
by Lubrican
Chapters : 1-2 | 3-4 | 5-6 | 7-8 | 9-33 & Epilogue Available On
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Chapter Five
The place he directed her to was a tiny hole-in-the-wall that she would
have never given a second glance. She realized how hungry she
was the instant she walked in, through the door Bob held for her, and
the odor of wonderful, delicious things hit her like a sledge hammer.
"Vinny!" Bob called out to a man, standing at the grill, wearing a
white paper hat.
Vinny looked over his shoulder, grinned, and held both hands up in the
air, a spatula still in one.
"You got me, copper," he said. "Take me away."
A well padded woman, wearing a waitress outfit that was at least three
sizes too small for her, came toward them. She was beaming,
but most men wouldn't have noticed. She had what looked like
acres of cleavage, almost bursting out of the top of her uniform.
"My favorite flatfoot in the whole, entire city," she gushed.
She hugged Bob and then looked at Lacey. "My my, Bob, you
sure have come up in the world!"
"Aw, gee, Donna," said Bob. "I just keep trying to find a
woman who can compete with you, that's all."
"Hey!" called out Vinny, who was using the spatula to cook with
again. "Quit hitting on my wife! Behave yourself,
or I'll call a cop or something!"
"Don't you pay him any mind," cooed Donna, batting her long,
over-mascaraed eyelashes at Bob. "I couldn't compete with
this one in a million years." She looked back at
Lacey. "Honey," she said, "welcome to Santini's,
where we serve great food, regardless of the ne'er-do-well you come in
with."
There were only six tables in the place, five of which were occupied by
people who paid no attention to their entrance at all. Most
were busy with shoving food into their mouths. Donna led them
to the remaining table and held the chair for Lacey, who sat and then
looked up to find the waitress looking down at her. "Sweet or
dry?" she asked.
"Sweet," said Lacey, her mind still whirling. Obviously, Bob
was well known here. It was almost like walking into some
place that was run by your relatives. You were
welcome. It was obvious and taken for granted.
"Sweet it is," said Donna. "And I'll bring you a cudgel to
manage him with." She tossed her head toward Bob, who was
sitting there looking perfectly innocent.
"Shrimp!" said Bob. "Lots of it."
"And what's wrong with my lasagna?" asked Donna archly.
"MY lasagna," came Vinny's faint voice.
"The lady likes shrimp," said Bob. "And she's on the verge of
becoming a vegetarian."
A look of horror crossed Donna's face. "Oh! Well,
then, that's different. Veal's not on the menu tonight, but I
could get Vinny to make you one that will solve that little problem."
"Shrimp is fine," said Bob. "And some clams too," he added,
as an afterthought.
"All right," said Donna. She turned to Lacey.
"Sweetheart, I'm SO glad he got you here in time."
She hurried off, as Lacey's jaw sagged.
"Sorry," said Bob. "I should have warned you. We
like to kid around a little."
"I guess so," said Lacey, weakly.
"You OK?" he asked, concern in his eyes.
"Yes," she answered habitually. "I don't know," she added,
honestly.
"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.
"I don't know that either," she said, helplessly.
"Tell me where you grew up," he said.
"What?"
"Your childhood. What was it like? Good?
Bad? Indifferent?"
Donna returned with two glasses that had to hold half a bottle of wine
each. The one she set down in front of Lacey was dark
violet. The first sip revealed it to be a Sangria that was
rich and fruity.
Once he got her started, she couldn't stop. For an hour, when
she wasn't cramming her mouth full of the most delicious shrimp she'd
ever tasted, or taking gulps of the sinfully sweet and rich wine, she
talked constantly.
She told him how she'd grown up in a strict, conservative
family. Her father was a blue collar worker in an auto
plant. When she was thirteen, she and two male playmates had
been caught playing doctor and she'd been sent to her grandparents, who
lived so far from anywhere that the only boys she didn't see at school
were cousins, who lived in a trailer with her aunt and uncle, behind
the big house.
It turned out her cousin's interests were the same as the boys she'd
been removed from. Unknown to her grandparents, her sexual
education had moved forward at a rapid pace. It was mostly
hanky-panky, and mostly harmless, though she became intimately aware of
the functions and capabilities of the male sexual organ.
She'd had a pet cow, that she milked, and a dog and three
cats. She remembered those as the best years of her life.
She told him how she'd gone to college, to get an MBA, because everyone
said that would take her far. She'd met Paul there and had
finally gotten up the courage to let a man go all the way.
Because of that, she was sure she loved him. When he'd
proposed, she'd said yes—not because the idea of marrying him
made fireworks go off, but because she'd thought she loved
him and marrying the man you loved was what you were supposed to do.
It wasn't until she had said that, that she realized she had blurted
out all kinds of personal things, without even thinking about
it. Bob had listened and eaten, the whole time, without
saying a word.
"I can't believe I just told you all that," she moaned.
"I'm a policeman," he smiled. "I know all the tricks of
interrogation and how to get you to spill your guts. Don't
feel bad."
She ignored him. "I hardly know you!" she said.
"Why would I tell you all those things?" She seemed upset.
"May I make an observation or two?" he asked gently.
"Yes," she said, for lack of anything else to say.
"It sounds to me," he said softly, "that for most of your life, other
people have told you what to do and how to feel. You've been
bouncing along in life, from place to place, doing what you thought was
expected of you. Now, here, sitting with a policeman, you did
the same thing. I asked you to tell me about yourself and you
did."
She stared at him. That didn't make any sense at
all. She'd done what she wanted to do. Hadn't
she? She thought back to what she'd just told him.
He was right! The only things she'd done of her own free will
were the secret things. Even then, the boys...her
cousins...had called all the shots, except for actually fucking
her. She hadn't let them do that. She'd wanted to,
but was too afraid. And school. She remembered now
that she'd talked about archeology, but her grandmother had pooh-poohed
that. Nobody could make a living in archeology.
Business was the ticket. An MBA would open doors for her.
Had it? Her shop was doing well. Her clientele were
loyal. Her employees ran the day-to-day sales part, while she
concentrated on ordering and finding new fashions. She had an
office, but most of her work could be done anywhere she had access to
an internet connection. It was one of the reasons she'd gone
out on her own in the first place. She'd already repaid Paul
the money he'd fronted her, and the loan she had with the bank was well
in hand. Her work hours were flexible. She was even
going to be able to get by without Paul's income. It would be
tight, but her needs were few. What DID she want out of life?
She realized she had no idea. She had no dream—no
long term plans. She didn't know where she wanted to be in
five years, or what she wanted to be doing. She felt like she
was in a dream...a bad dream, and couldn't wake up.
She realized he was looking at her, waiting for her to reply.
She had no idea of what to say.
"Another observation," said Bob, suddenly, "is that what happened to
you...the attack...is just part of that cycle."
That got her attention. She looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that, if what I said is true, you're used to doing what is
expected of you. You follow orders. You followed
his orders too."
"I HAD TO!" she moaned.
"Yes!" he agreed. "You had to."
"But what does that MEAN?!" she whined.
"You're having difficulties right now," he said.
She realized he was waiting for her to confirm that and nodded.
"You want your life back."
She nodded again and had an errant thought that she was doing just what
he had said she did...she nodded, because he expected her to do so.
"My other observation is that you haven't been in control of your own
life at all, up to now. But NOW, you have a chance to TAKE
control of your life and change it. Right now, you are
footloose and fancy free. Your husband is leaving
you. You have a new place to live. You can do
anything you want to do, Lacey. You can go back to school, or
change jobs, or howl at the moon. Life is wide open for you,
right now, and you have the chance to change everything. You
said you just want your life back, but, from the sounds of it, you're
lucky you lost that life."
"That's cruel!" she whispered.
"It's just an observation. You're beautiful. You're
young. You're intelligent. You could have the world
on a string. You could have any man you wanted, as soon as
you decide whether you ever want another man or not. It
doesn't have to go back to that world in which you just react to the
whims of others."
"You're saying for me to look on the bright side," she said tensely.
"Not at all. I'm saying that you have opportunities now, that
you didn't realize you had before this happened to you. You
had them then, too...you just didn't see them. Right now, you
feel helpless and alone. You are anything BUT
helpless. You can do anything you want to do right
now. You can turn what was the most negative thing you ever
experienced into something that makes your life immeasurably better."
"I'm all alone!" she said.
"No you're not," he said. "You have Vinny and
Donna. They'll recognize you any time you come in
here. Ask them a question and they'll tell you what they
honestly think. You have me. And that's just a
start. There are lots more people out there who will help you
do what you want to do. Finding them is tricky, sometimes,
but they're there."
Lacey heard what he said and it all made perfect sense. Why,
then, did she feel so resistant to the idea? He was
right. She could do anything she wanted. That meant
she'd have to decide what she wanted, though, and she had no idea what
that was.
"I own a business," she said. "A successful
business. I can't just walk away from that."
"Do you love the business you own?" he asked. "Is it really
what you want to do, or is it something you thought you should do?"
In a burst of clarity, Lacey Jean Fetterman had an epiphany.
It was as if the sun came out from behind a cloud and lit up her whole
life. It started with her business. She'd done that
because she thought she could be better than the horrible man who had
harassed her in her previous job. She'd complained about it,
and Paul had encouraged her to start her own business. It
went on to other things, both past and present. She'd NEVER
known what she wanted to do. Others had decided that for her,
like he'd said. She saw herself as a robot, waiting for
commands, before moving to do anything. Her fantasies even
had that component.
"Do you remember that fantasy I told you about?" she blurted.
"The one about being forced?"
"You said you played games," he said softly.
"Yes, but in those games, Paul was never Paul. I pretended he
was someone else that I wanted to be with, but couldn't...because it
wasn't allowed. But if he forced me..."
"You weren't responsible," said Bob.
"YES!" she said urgently. "I understand it now! I
wanted something else...someone not Paul...but I didn't think I was
allowed to want that. But if he forced me...if it wasn't my
fault...then I could enjoy it."
"That's common," said Bob. "Most women don't think it through
like that, but that's probably what's going on deep inside."
"But it's sick!" she moaned.
"Not necessarily," countered Bob. "You were
trapped. That was your way of reaching for something you
couldn't have. You wanted freedom to choose. Just
wanting it isn't horrible. That happens to
everybody. You found a way to have something that you didn't
think you were allowed to have."
"But what if it led to..."
"I already told you, what happened to you WAS beyond your
control. Did you ever, at any time, submit to him because you
wanted to?"
He didn't have to identify the man he was talking about. Both
of them knew it was her rapist.
"No," she whispered. "I did it to stop the pain...to stay
alive."
"You fought him with the only thing you had at your
disposal—the willingness to do something you didn't want to
do...to endure what you didn't want to endure...to stay
alive. I don't think you should feel bad about
that. You did what had to be done."
"But I didn't fight him," she whined. "He did everything he
wanted to do."
"No he didn't," said Bob. There was firmness in his
voice. "He doesn't own you, Lacey. That's what he
really wanted. He wanted to be able to come back, knowing
that you'd let him in intentionally this time—that he had
beaten you down. He didn't get that. He could never
get that, because you're too strong to let him beat you in that way."
There had been very little talk after that. Lacey's mind was
whirling, as she thought about everything he'd said, and the things she
was just now beginning to realize about her life, past and present.
Lacey stopped in the middle of the street. It was late and
there was almost no traffic. Bob got out and leaned back in.
"You going to be OK?" he asked.
There had been very little talk in the car, too.
"I think so," she said, trying to smile. "When can we play
racquetball again?"
"Swings is four to midnight. I usually need some sleep after
that. How about we play just before I go on shift?
Say two in the afternoon?"
"Yes," she said. "I can do that."
He started to withdraw.
"Thank you!" she blurted.
"It was just shrimp," he said, grinning at her.
"It was the best shrimp I've ever tasted," she said. "But
that's not what I meant. Thanks for talking to me."
"I love being around you," he said.
There was no innuendo in his voice. It was just a simple
statement of fact.
As she drove away, doubts came back and assailed her. She
wished he was still in the car...wished he was going home with
her. She wondered what that meant. She didn't
want..."that"...not now. She frowned. Did that mean
she'd want "that" later? She pushed it out of her
mind. She just felt comfortable in his presence. He
said the most disturbing things, but that didn't make her feel
fear. She turned over in her mind, again—their
conversation in the restaurant. Then she remembered the last
thing he'd said.
He loved being around her.
That was odd, because you usually "liked" being around
friends. "Love" suggested something deeper, something one
almost required, rather than just enjoyed, like being with a
friend. She realized that she DID need to be around
him. He was the life raft in the middle of the trackless
ocean of her fear and self-loathing. He didn't care that she
had those horrible fantasies. He took her like she was, warts
and all.
She realized she loved being around him too.
They played racquetball three times a week. Both of them
started looking forward to the combat and the relaxed conversation that
came after that. They were so evenly matched that almost
never, in an even set of games, was one more than two games ahead when
they quit.
Every once in a while, they went for a drink. Twice, they had
dinner together—once at Santini's again, where she
had the veal, which was superb, and another time at a place she chose
that was adequate, but nothing to remember.
Almost never, did they talk about her background or the
incident. The time for that seemed to have passed.
Now, their conversation was just that of two acquaintances, catching up
on what had happened since the last time they'd seen each other.
Both of them treasured the time they spent together.
She went to the museum of natural history one day, and got into a
conversation with a curator, who informed her there was a group of
volunteers who were excavating the site of a Pilgrim village, in
anticipation of the property being developed into a strip
mall. Museum professionals were supervising, but if she was
interested, they could always use more help.
She started spending almost all her free time at the site, carefully
brushing away soil from some artifact, until it could be catalogued,
photographed, and removed for preservation. She made new
friends among the other volunteers. Two men asked her
out. She declined, but didn't tell them why. She
just said that she wasn't dating at the moment. They were
obviously disappointed. She didn't know how to feel about
those invitations. She didn't mind being around Bob...didn't
mind him looking at her. He did, occasionally. She
knew that now. He wasn't obvious about it, but he
looked. There was appreciation in his eyes, but he didn't
push it, and for that she was very glad. He flirted with her
occasionally, and she liked that, too. She was trying to
think of a way to flirt back, but was afraid it would throw a wrench
into their relationship.
She didn't know quite what to make of that relationship.
She'd never been with a man that she thought of as her
friend. The first time she'd classified him that way, she'd
giggled, remembering his tortured voice saying, "I suppose next you'll
just want to be friends!" His friendship made her feel warm
inside—safe warm—and she looked forward to seeing
him, whether it was to try to crush him on the court or just to have a
drink.
The dig, though, was what brought about the most change in her
life. She could be passionate about that—pouring
love and care into uncovering a simple shard of pottery, feeling
elation as she realized that what she was digging up was a brass
button. These things would go on display some day, and they
would be preserved for countless generations to see and
enjoy. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was
doing something that was good, and decent, above reproach, and
unselfish.
It was, in fact, while she was doing work for the museum that the thing
happened that would change everything for her, in ways that would make
previous changes seem like nothing at all.
Chapter Six
Lacey was ferrying a flash drive containing hundreds of photographs
from the dig to the museum. A major discovery had been
found. A collapsed cellar had been uncovered and, inside it,
there were bones. Human bones. It wasn't clear yet
how they had come to be there, but there were no indications of
intentional burial. The artifacts found with the bodies
suggested that people had taken refuge in the cellar and had died
there. The pictures were needed at the museum as soon as
possible, so that decisions could be made as to what to do with the
find. This would become a political issue now.
It was ten after four, and traffic was a nightmare on the
freeway. There was no traffic on the off ramp she took, but
things were beginning to bottle up and slow down at the end of
it. Lacey hated this kind of traffic. It made her
nervous. It was obvious she'd be here for a while, because
nothing was moving, even though her lane had a green light.
She reached for a cigarette. She was about to light it, when
there was the screech of tires, the grinding crunch of metal on metal,
and her car lurched sideways. The side of her head smacked
into the window, and the cigarette flipped from between her lips.
As her head rebounded, she turned unbelieving eyes to see the blue car
that had sideswiped her crash into the back of the car in front of hers
and flip, impossibly, in a barrel roll that took it into the air to
plow into oncoming traffic. She realized, instinctively, that
the car had come down the off ramp of the freeway, behind her, going
much too fast. She heard sirens, behind her, and looked in
the rear view mirror. How had the blue car gotten past the
glut of traffic already behind her?
She heard screams, which galvanized her. She tried her door,
but it was stuck. She lurched against it, and with a groan,
it popped open and she scrambled out. She felt a moment of
vertigo and wavered on her feet. Her head throbbed, where it
had hit the window.
The scene was a nightmare. The blue car had rolled over two
others and was currently lying upside down, half on the
sidewalk. People in the cars it had hit were sitting, or
leaning, staring around them in shock. She ran to the one
closest to her and peered inside. The roof had partially
collapsed and glass was lying in tiny shards all around her.
It crunched under her shoes as she moved. A man and woman
were half lying, where they had leaned toward each other at the last
second. They said they were all right.
She darted around that car and saw that others were helping people out
of the second car.
A moaning cry came from the blue car that had caused all this.
Lacey ran around to the driver's side and looked in. With the
roof partially crushed, it was dark inside. She smelled the
pungent odor of gasoline and saw a puddle of the stuff collecting on
the sidewalk, near where she was kneeling to look in. She
crawled, reaching into the interior with her left hand, trying to
see. "Hello?" she called.
"My leg is broken!" came the agonized groan of the man in the
car. He was lying on his side, which looked odd, because he
was lying on the ceiling of the car. His hand reached for
her. "I can't get out!" he moaned. "Help
me. You have to help me!"
It was the voice that paralyzed her and bore, like a red-hot ice pick,
straight to the center of her brain. It was a voice she would
never forget—that she heard in fevered dreams she still had,
but wouldn't tell anybody about. His head turned towards her
and his brown hair fell aside. The same eyes stared into hers.
"You!" he gasped.
Lacey was frozen. In some dim part of her mind, she realized
that her pants leg was getting soaked with gasoline. Another
small part of her brain told her she smelled smoke.
Everything rushed back in, to push all thoughts away. She saw
his face, twisted, like it was now, hovering over her. For
the first time she remembered his elated voice shouting at her, "CUM,
SLUT! CUM ON MY PRICK, YOU DISGUSTING WHORE!"
"YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!" screamed her rapist, and her eyes cleared.
She leaned backwards, in an automatic desire to make her unresponsive
muscles work to get away from him.
"HELP ME, YOU SLUT!" he screamed. His hand clamped around her
left wrist, squeezing with maniacal strength.
She realized her cigarette lighter was still gripped in her right hand.
"I'll help you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
She flicked her lighter.
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