Page 59 of Elijah’s Whim

Chapter Thirteen

Elijah

I was going to kill someone. Or a pair of someones. I had to keep my features on par with the story as she recounted it, or it would be obvious I was letting my carefully controlled temper get the better of me. I spent hours each day—well, before she moved in—practicing techniques of mindfulness, calmness, and qi alignment so I didn’t end up in prison beside people like these two.

Only two people on the planet knew I should’ve been there on my own merit. If I were lucky, one was dead by now, but I had no way of knowing without investigating, and I’d be damned if I’d even give him that satisfaction. The other was a woman I was quickly and finally putting in my rearview mirror.

Hannah lay in my arms, absentmindedly toying with my fingers while I buried my face in her soft hair. I imagined what it would be like to spend an evening this way after a long day at the office. We could take turns making dinner or spend time in the kitchen doing it together. Then after, curl up like this and watch a movie or read…

Hannah’s alto voice cut into my daydream. It was better anyway. I needed to be present for her, especially right now.

“I don’t think he’d made partner yet, so we hadn’t moved to Los Angeles. My mom didn’t have a nanny or any help from family, so if she needed to do errands, we all went along. We went to Target to get stuff for my birthday party, and my mom had her hands full with the twins.” She laughed. “Who am I kidding? She always did. We should’ve known then already that Sheppard was going to be a pain in the ass. God, Elijah, that girl cried so much when she was little. Everything, seriously, everything…made her cry.”

She stopped talking for a minute, and I wondered what she was thinking about.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I was just thinking of the other night again. When I went over to the house after work. She was so ugly to me. If she’s in a lousy mood and I’m around, I’m the one in her crosshairs. But, anyway, back to the story at hand. We were in the store—me, Agatha, and the twins, Sheppard and Maye. I wandered off down the next aisle, and my mom didn’t even notice because, like I said, the babies were crying.

“It all happened so quickly. Someone grabbed me from behind, and it wasn’t until we were in the restroom that I saw their faces. There was someone waiting for us in the bathroom, and the person who took me from the aisle stripped my clothes off. I remember I had a pink dress on that day and these sandals I loved. My mom hated them because the one always fell off my foot at the worst times, you know? In the middle of a parking lot, or in a restaurant, and we’d have to go back to see if anyone found it and turned it in.”

“It sounds like you have a really good mom,” I said wistfully, wondering what my own mother would’ve done. Sent one of the staff to find the sandal, I was sure.

“I really do. But she’s beat herself up mercilessly every day since this happened.”

“So, I’m guessing they changed your clothes in the restroom? You must have been terrified.”

“Yes and no. I don’t remember a lot of it, and I have refused to watch the security footage. I think since I don’t have the memory myself, why would I want to inject that into my brain? I don’t know if that makes sense. To some people it does, and to others it doesn’t. My therapist says if that’s how I want it to be, that’s all that matters.”

“It sounds like you have a really good therapist. And I’m already breathing easier knowing you’ve gotten therapy after something like this.” I only imagined how much worse this story was about to get.

“I do. Her name is Ellen. I don’t see her routinely anymore unless I’m having problems with something, and then I get back on a schedule immediately. I’ve tried doing things on my own before, and it didn’t go so well.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a support team.”

“Agreed. So the one gave me an injection of something while the other one cut my hair off so I wouldn’t be immediately identified as a little girl in a pink dress with long blond hair. Now I looked like a little boy with short hair in shorts and a T-shirt.”

I was tamping down outrage. As calmly as possible, I asked, “And no one saw any of this going on? There was no one else in that bathroom?”

Hannah started nodding, already sensing my agitation and wanting to calm it. I’d noticed it was her immediate response when she knew someone else was upset. Unruffle them first. Always the other person first.

“There was one woman. I remember seeing her, and I kept yelling that this was not my mom, because they taught us that in school. The woman looked at me in the mirror, but I was later made to understand she acted like she was just minding her own business so she could safely get out of the bathroom and get help.”

Hannah sucked in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through tight lips, then admitted, “That was always very hard to understand as a child. How could a mom-looking woman just stand there and not help me? You know?” She took another deep breath. “So still, now, when I retell this messed-up story, that sticks in here.” She thumped on her chest.

“Do you want some water or something? Need to take a break?” I rubbed my hands along her arms.

“No, it’s fine. I’m almost done. They closed off all the exits, and when the two people, who turns out were a man and woman, not two women like my child mind perceived, tried to leave the store with me sleeping on the man’s shoulder from whatever drug they injected me with, my mom saw them and knew it was me and was able to identify me.”

“Oh, thank God.” I spun her so fast on my lap, I nearly toppled her to the floor. I had no idea that was how this story was going to end, and I felt the relief as if she had been mine. “Oh, Hannah, thank fucking God.”

“Hey. Hey,” she said, hugging me and rubbing my back. “It’s okay, Elijah…”

I couldn’t loosen my hold on her. Not yet. So, instead, I just kept murmuring into her neck, “Thank God, beautiful. Thank God.”

Finally, I pulled back to look at her beautiful, all-natural face. I knew what she saw when she looked at me. I could feel the moisture on my cheeks, and I didn’t care if she saw that I cried for her. I had no problem crying when the occasion called for it, and I was so thankful she hadn’t endured days—or longer—of torture, molestation, or other kinds of sick, fucked-up abuse.

“Look at you,” I said. “Comforting me. This is so ass-backwards.” I shook my head in disbelief. How had this woman stumbled into my life?