Page 29 of Frankie and the Fed
My mind will probably never recover, but I’ve learned to accept it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the nightmares would likely stay with me forever, that I’ll probably never have a normal relationship like other people. But I’ve come to realize I can be somewhat happy. When I think about it, my psychologist has done well for me.
Three months ago, I started looking for a job again. This time under my real name. It was difficult to show my face outside when some people still remember me from the incident.
I couldn’t deny the pitying looks in their eyes, the flickers of recognition and the fluttering gazes searching for the scars, waiting for me to collapse, scream, or do something embarrassing. Although I answered all the questions and passed the interviews with no problem, I wasn’t hired. Eventually, I had no choice but to agree to an interview at T.J Publishing, a company belonging to my mother’s uncle, Toby Jefferson. At Mom’s request, he agreed to give me a chance and hire me, but he still required a preliminary interview.
I was happy to be like everyone else.
I sat across from Uncle Toby and stared back at him. I wasn’t going to give him any reason to think I would collapse at any moment. He took no pity on me, and I answered all his questions quickly and efficiently.
When I left with a handshake, I knew the job was mine.
He was looking for a brand manager for their digital fashion magazine. I convinced him that the job was tailor-made for me. He agreed to give me a month to prove myself, even though I arrived with no previous experience.
In the first month, he examined my every move, but now three months later, I manage a team of ten people with a high level of skill. I plan and distribute campaigns on social networks, follow all financial reports, and now I’m immersed in competition research that I conduct to plan our strategy for the future.
This is exactly the type of job I wanted back when I went to study business administration.
Uncle Toby knows I didn’t finish my degree, and although he continues to encourage me to go back to school, the degree wasn’t important to him when he hired me.
“I see the sparkle in your eyes,” he said. “You’re hungry for the job.” And oh, how right he was.
I love my job.
“I’m ready, Mom. It’s been a year already. I can’t live here forever.” I shrug and sit on a chair by the kitchen counter.
“You can live here as long as you need. You know it. I’ll never ask you to go.” An expression of guilt washes over her face.
I won’t ask again, she means. “I know you still feel guilty about what happened. But I don’t blame you.” I blame myself. I was the weak and stupid one who believed the man who told me he wanted me. And not once, but twice. Twice I fell into the trap.
I have to endure my parents’ expressions of pity every day, along with the guilt they carry, but what they don’t know, what they don’t understand, is that despite the severe injuries Michael inflicted on my body, the greater damage was done by Ethan. The man I trusted, the man to whom I gave my heart. I was ready to give my life for him, and at the moment of truth, he cut me loose.
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Okay, Ayala. If that’s what you want. But you’re continuing the treatment, right?”
“Yes, yes.” I nod. My parents insisted on continuing to fund my therapy even after I found a job. They want a guarantee I’ll continue to go, which I have no problem promising because I have no intention of stopping. The sessions help me.
I go up to my room and lie down on the bed, shoes and all, and look up at the shining stars stuck to the ceiling of my room. I think I was seven years old when I convinced my father to tape them up for me.
I love my job. I work overtime every day, even though I don’t get paid for it. Not because I don’t get the job done in a normal eight-hour day or because I’m not up to it, but because work helps me forget. The work fulfills me. I’m as busy as a bee collecting honey, constantly hovering over tasks, and supervising my employees. It fills all my time and all my attention, leaving no time for other thoughts to invade.
But as soon as I get home, reality checks in at the door and hits me full force.
I can no longer sleep without sleeping pills. My nightmares have changed. At first, I would dream about what happened, Michael on top of me, the smell of his sweat in my nose, and the intense pain, and I would run to the bathroom to throw up.
Now it’s worse. The dreams are worse.
I dream of Ethan. We make love by the lake. The sun warms our skin, the golden glint of desire in his eyes. I can hear the branches in the wind, like that day we lay on the blanket together. I feel him. I feel his heat. Then the setting changes. The trees disappear and become a black and menacing shadow. The sun disappears, and Ethan’s face becomes Michael’s. And then I scream…
Sometimes I see Michael standing in front of me, his gun pointed at Ethan, and I just stand there, watching the circle of blood spreading on Ethan’s shirt, while I can’t move. My limbs are glued to the floor. I can’t reach him, can’t help him. I stand there and watch him wither and die before my eyes.
There are brief moments when I’m sorry he’s not dead. Maybe if I’d lost him to death, it would be final, and the grief would be final. It would be hard, but not as hard as the rejection. And then I’m horrified by my terrible thoughts.
I’ve had a hard time explaining to my psychologist what happened with Ethan. Why I can’t get over it. How could it be that the man I loved, a man who gave me my body back, also took it from me with one short phone call?
I can’t understand what happened there, can’t wrap my head around it. How could it be that he came to save me but didn’t stay to see that I survived? How could I have thought we were in love, given my life for him, only to find out it was all a lie?
A huge fat lie that consumes worlds.
I’m getting over Michael’s trauma and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over Ethan.
