Page 77 of The Lies I Told
Panic. Fear. Desperation.
Whispers of them all drifted through me. It would be logical to be afraid after the trauma of an accident. But I’d been terrified before.
I drew my fingers away from the pole as if they’d been scorched. Why had I been afraid before? Forty miles an hour in this area was insane. Only someone running for help or away from danger would be so foolish.
There’d been no one who had needed my help. This I knew from Brit, who had asked me over and over why I’d been driving so fast. Brit had chalked it up to the drugs she and the paramedics assumed had been in my system.There goes Marisa again. High, drunk, or loaded.
But I had been riding high in early January. I’d been busy printing and mounting my photographs for my show. I’d had several weddings, and I’d been diligent about following my AA program. My life was on track. There’d been no depression or sense of loss, my usual past triggers.
I wasn’t using. I’d no memory at my disposal to back this up, but I knew I’d been sober.
Someone must have drugged me. Richards said it happened more often than anyone wanted to admit. The realization was as clear to me as the street in front of me now.
The doctors had been more focused on saving my life, so there’d been no examination to determine whether I’d been sexually active or assaulted. The bruises on my body had been explained away by the accident, so if someone had hurt me right before, then the crash would’ve hidden their deeds.
Hand to my chest, my heartbeat drummed as fast as my fingers. Someone had drugged me.
“I’d been in bars since I’d sobered up, but I never drank booze.”
The memories were there, but they danced just out of reach.We’re here. We’re here. Shine a light on us.
“I want to. Come closer. Just a little.”
When moved toward the truth, my steps became mired in quicksand. Redirecting, I shifted back to my last real memory. Hanging pictures in J.J.’s Pub. Jack had been on-site that day and had helped me carry the two dozen framed black-and-whites into the banquet room.
“We’ve never had an art show before.” He laid the stacks of wrapped frames on a large cocktail round.
“Thank you for allowing me to be your first.”
Jack’s grin had a self-deprecating quality that was so charming. “Not exactly the big time.”
“It is for me,” I said. “It’s the first time I’ve showed anything outside of my apartment.”
“Fingers crossed you sell out.”
“Doubtful, but thanks.” I’d not been keen on showing my work, but a few in my AA group had insisted. I’d reached out to Jack, and he’d immediately agreed. Showing these pictures felt a bit like stripping down in a crowd of people.
He nodded toward the wrapped collection. “Should I unwrap these?”
I drew in a breath. “That would be great.”
“I have a hammer in the back room.”
“Not necessary.” I reached in my backpack and pulled out a hammer and packet of nails. “I didn’t want to start driving holes in your walls.”
He studied the reclaimed barnwood that he’d hired a contractor to put up a couple of years ago when he’d bought O’Malley’s, renamed it, and renovated it. “Doubt it’ll make a difference to this old wood. It’s seen its share of history.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll arrange the pictures around the center of each wall. Like wrapping the room in pictures.”
“Sure.”
He pulled brown paper off the first image and held it up. As he studied the print, his amusement vanished. “Brit said they were powerful.”
I watched him, seeing sadness and anger play across his features. “You could say I’m working shit out.”
Absently, he traced the edges of the frame with his thumb. “I’m surprised you went back to this place. I’ve never been able to.”
“It was a first for me. I’ve avoided it all these years until last fall. Then I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been back at least twenty times.”
