February Sucks - Gone Girl

I couldn't help it. She looked so sad and alone. I went to her on the love seat and held her while she cried it out. We sat there rocking back and forth for some time. There was nothing sexual about it, just two friends commiserating.

Finally, we spent a bit discussing how she might be able to help.

"Can you cook?" I asked smirking.

"Of course I can cook!" she responded, annoyed.

"Yes, but can you cook on Monday, Wednesday and Friday?"

By the time we were finished, Phil had texted her twice. We also decided that she could cook those three nights, and her children and her could enjoy a meal with us. She was determined to come by early on Monday, do some deep cleaning and do the grocery shopping. It was a start and I felt some relief as she left. Needless to see, I really liked Jane, and now I had a newfound respect for her.

Linda

Hopelessness was setting in, despite doing my damnedest not to let it. I think it had been nearly six months since I had seen my family. I think it had been six months since I had seen anyone at all, except Joe Jackson. I think, rather than know, because I didn't figure out that I needed to keep track of time until at least one month into my captivity. That's when I started using my fingernail to notch little straight marks into the wooden bed frame below the sheets where they couldn't easily be seen.

As far as captors go, Joe was pretty easy on me. Those first five or six weeks, were the toughest, especially when I became indignant or belligerent. My husband Jim has rarely seen that side of me, but it doesn't mean it's not there when I feel trapped or cornered. And I was definitely feeling like that. The back of Joe's hand would remind me that resistance was futile. Still, it took a while to become sticky.

It was after the first seven days or thereabouts when Joe had finally taken me outside the cabana. He'd pointed to me down the pure white sandy beach with the emerald green tropical water. "See that building there?" He hadn't waited for an answer. "That's a five star resort. 2000 people, give or take live on this island, and some weekends, depending on the time of year, there's more tourists here than residents. Like I told you, the resort is exactly 5.1 miles from where you stand. For you, walking it in the sand would take quite a while." He'd pointed to the four wheeler parked alongside the bungalow. "That is my transportation. In case you're wondering, it makes it there and back, with a little to spare on a tank of gas, but it would never make it back there. I have the only key for the gas, and you will never know its location." I assumed the extra gasoline was in the shed 20 yards or so behind our quarters.

"You can scream, yell, or hell even do jumping jacks out here. No one will ever know and on the off chance someone does see or hear you, they won't care. I've put up no trespassing signs about 2 clicks up the beach to keep the hotel guests in their lane. That chain on your leg there. That's the long one. Gives you access to the outdoors. No one, not even you should have to miss out on this breathtaking beauty. The shorter one is for nighttime and when I'm away. That keeps you indoors. Gives you enough rope to get to the restroom, or how do they say, hang yourself.

You'll be expected to clean up after yourself, and me. Cook too. You can do that having two kids, right?" I didn't answer right away. Joe had approached me slowly and measured. Then out of nowhere, he'd slapped me with all he'd had in him, leaving my face in the sand and my ear ringing and stinging again.

"You'll be expected to...service me, as well. Try to escape, try to hurt me, try to do both, and you'll get more of that, understand?"

I'd understood.

After that "learning period," things had settled into my new normal. Like I said, I'm no push over; no dummy, and I was motivated to see my kids again. Yes, and my husband, although I wondered if I might have a husband were I ever successful in getting back. I did my utmost to play the good little prisoner. I also had a plan.

I'd read about Stockholm Syndrome in college and it fascinated me. I even did a college paper on it. I wasn't going to become empathetic to my captor. But there were elements that could be used to my advantage. Still in all those months, Joe had remained stoic, and just out of my emotional reach. I began to sense he didn't care if I lived or died. I was simply being punished, for what I did not know. Maybe he was crazy, just under his controlled exterior, and he didn't know either.

The worst were the nights when he needed...servicing. Joe stopped raping me after the first 10-14 days. But he also never made love to me, not that I wanted or expected it. He would pound me into the mattress, taking and never giving. Rarely speaking. Nothing was off limits to him. Lube was rarely used. That didn't mean he totally discounted my pain. Sometimes he would stop, allowing me to get used to his assault. He would wipe away my tears, his face devoid of any affection. The last several weeks, I began using terms of endearment and being more vocal during the sex, just to see if I could stir any emotions. Nothing about him changed. What I mean is nothing. He didn't tell me to shut up, berate me, hit me, and he also didn't fall for it.

So there I was, sitting on my bed in my tropical prison, wondering what is to become of me. The fight mostly gone, the despair seeping ever- so- slowly into my conscious mind. Then it happened.

Joe had me outside washing the windows with vinegar, water and old newspapers. He was in an unusually good mood. "I'll be back in two hours. Make sure you're finished and make some dinner. I want that bass I caught the other day. You know how I like it prepared. Less salt this time."

I acknowledged him with a nod. He walked to the ATV and said, without turning around,

"Need anything Boppers?"

I froze. I turned towards him, and I saw he froze too, still showing me his back.

My nickname in junior high was Lindy. Some other friends started calling me Lindy Boppers. That name stuck throughout high school. I hated it, but I allowed my close friends the indulgence. This voice sounded familiar, suddenly. After quickly clearing my mind, I started dressing him down, starting at his shaved head. Something about his gait also now made me think I knew this man. My curiosity overrode my fear. He just stood there. I wondered if he was afraid to face me.

Then it hit me. "Daryl?!" I asked.

He turned to look me in the eye. He knew, and he knew I knew.

"Daryl Johns" I said incredulously. "But why?"

He placed a finger to his lips. "Shhh. When I return. Make a nice dinner Linda. Red or white wine?"

I was so stupefied, I simply shrugged.

I'm surprised that I'd been able to coherently complete my assigned task. My thoughts were racing at supersonic speed and I felt physically sick because of it. Daryl Johns had gone to high school with me. I had limited contact with him. I would have had no contact at with him at all, had he not been best friends with my boyfriend. Robbie and I started dating near the end of our senior year. He was average in almost every sense of the word, but he was comfortable. He was funny, and kind, and he worshiped me. Flowers for Valentine's was off the table. Actually, he'd bring me flowers, but in addition, he'd use the gift money from Christmas to take me to some swanky restaurant. On my birthday it would be shopping for a new outfit with his money. It was on one such excursion, where I found the perfect little senior prom dress.

No one after high school had ever called me Lindy or 'Boppers'. Almost no one outside of my sister, and Jim knew about Robbie committing suicide. My sister found out the same way I did. Jim learned because I needed to tell someone to relieve my guilt. No, I didn't kill my ex-boyfriend. Hell, I didn't do anything, I thought. But the guilt was indescribable.

The last time I saw Daryl Johns was at Robbie's funeral, albeit briefly. I remember the way he stared at me, like I was dead meat walking. Something should have told me then to be worried. Robert Fulton hung himself five years after we graduated. An uncontrollable shiver went through me, wondering if Joe- Daryl- knew something about Robbie. I'm sure he knew the one thing; the source of my endless guilt.

Jim

Time is a funny thing. You hear that often, in books and movies, especially those romance ones that, Linda and I used to watch after the kids were in bed. I'd heard it from my parents and Linda's parents too, both before and after the...incident. Incident. That was the new unbiased term my counselor said I should try to use. September was only a few days away now, and five full months had passed. I had been getting my head back on straight, yet I was struggling with the loss of the one I loved most in the world, but still held on to some of the hate for what she'd done to me.

It was complicated. My wife, the mother of my children, had been snatched, easily, completely from under my nose. The rest of the world empathized with me, but only because of my wife having been snatched in a kidnapping. None of them, not one, had had to deal with the crushing humiliation at the club, when I'd been led to believe my wife had left to fuck Marc 'The Asshole' LaValliere. Most in my family had a hard time accepting my outrage. They wondered, silently, if Linda and I had actually had the kind of marriage we'd portrayed. They saw Linda's 'gone' status with different eyes.

Through all of it, though, Ellen was there for me. She was a great listener. She'd make those darned notes, and then never divulge what she wrote, which confounded me.

As is all too common, the client/ therapist relationship developed into something else. Ellen disagreed- not with our relationship status, but rather with my terminology. She considered me her patient. I'd argue that I wasn't sick. She'd say that was true, but I was certainly injured and needed to heal. I was in recovery for my injuries. I let that go, and would make light of it. "Well, I can accept that. Cause I would definitely NOT date my doctor."

It was dinner, occasionally. No dancing. No sex. Not even kissing, although we'd had our share of long hugs. Still, I could feel, rather than sense the change. Our dynamic was shifting every time we saw each other, inching towards the other thing. I doubted it would be much longer.

Jane had been true to her word, and I respected her for that. I think part of Jane's willingness to help my family centered around the destruction of hers. For the first four months, her relationship with Phil had become increasingly worse by the day. Phil was a walking cliché -- the worst midlife crisis ever, given ugly, human form. He was recklessly searching for his freedom, while systematically and deliberately while deliberately and systematically distancing himself from his wife and kids. Jane claimed it was due to the relentless guilt he carried over the Linda 'incident'. She often wondered what might have happened if he'd agreed to therapy; if someone could have only helped him with his self-destructive tendencies.

Jane would get us a glass of wine, or herself a scotch rocks and me a beer for the tougher nights. We'd let the kids go off to play video games and we would talk, sometimes long after they fell asleep. We both needed the balance, to keep our lives in order. One night near the end of July, on a particularly rough day for Jane, we drank a bit too much and made out on the sofa. Knowing the kids were sleeping soundly, we nonverbally invited each other to my bedroom. Once the clothes were shed though, Jane realized at the same time I did, we were both still married.

"I'm sorry Jane. I got carried away, forgive me please." I said turning away. She quickly dressed and came behind m, wrapping her arms around me. "No apology necessary. If I thought we were ready for this, the piece of paper wouldn't matter to me. That part is what it is. My bigger concern is the strong feelings I'm forming for you. I'm afraid of them, not because of us, but because we don't know our future. I mean, no one does, but we have too many question marks hanging in the wind."

I agreed, telling her that my feelings were becoming stronger too. She said she was too drained to wake the kids and drive home. I offered the spare room, which she gladly took. Lately, she's staying a few nights per week and it's platonic for now. I understood that I am and have been mixed up. Now there were two women vying for my attention, and to be honest, it's possible I'd fall for both.

This morning, Monday, I received a call from Jane.

"Jim, is there any possibility you can leave work and come home?" She sounded worried and anxious.

"What is it Jane? Are the kids okay?" Now she had me panicking.

"They're fine. I found...something."

"What?"

"I think you need to see it, rather than me try to explain."

After a quick chat with my boss, I drove home. Jane was sitting in the living room, with all of Linda's high school yearbooks on the coffee table. I gave her a quizzical look.

"Sit down Jim. Let me show you something I think is important."

She pointed at a photo of a rag top kid, with a geeky look. "Do you know him?" she asked.

I didn't, but looked at his name. "I don't, but I think that's Linda's high school boyfriend. He's dead."

Jane nodded her agreement. "Robert Fulton." She moved Linda's senior yearbook in front of me.

"Do you know him?" I saw another picture and again glanced at the name. "Daryl Johns? No."

"Well I do. That's Joe Jackson!" she exclaimed.

It didn't register, at first. It was almost like my brain tried to un-hear what I'd heard.

"What?"

"This guy, kid...he's Joe Jackson, Marc LaValliere's body double. The guy we hired to play...for the incident." At least she was now kind enough to let that sink in.

I've been speechless other times, certainly during the past six months. But I just sat there in shock.

Jane pulled me out of my stupor. "Jim, I don't see anything in any of these that associates Linda and Daryl. He didn't sign her book, or anything. But here's a picture of Robert and Daryl at the prom."

I looked again, starting to worry about what there was to see. Robert and Daryl were identified in the pic and the footer said it was the senior prom. Robert's head was down, but his eyes had looked up over his brow at the photographer. He looked like he just lost his dog. Daryl, sitting to his right, had the look of utter hatred as he tried a weak half smile for the camera.

"Jim, what are the chances, or should I say the odds, that Linda just happened to know her abductor in high school?"

I immediately called L.W. As I told him, he was not surprised and asked me to calm down.

"We know who he is. The feds got his real name a while ago. They've been looking for Mr. Johns and Joe Jackson."

This day was turning out worse than I imagined.

In a calm measured voice, I asked, "So tell me, old friend, when did you start disrespecting me too? When did you decide I was worth lying to?"

"It's not like that Jim. Not at all. I had no idea how much Linda may or may not have told you about her past. You've been feeling better. I didn't want to take the risk. Make you worry unnecessarily about something that would only raise more questions than answers. That's my call so I made it."

"Not your call at all, L.W. The next time it happens, family friend or not, you're fired. Got it?"

L.W. resigned formally as my attorney less than 48 hours later, and made public his full retirement. In his wisdom, he realized he was no longer needed as my attorney, and that he'd let personal feelings get in the way of doing his job.

What was I left with? More lies. More deceit. More betrayal. Not so much from L.W. He did what he had to do, at least from his perspective. The idea that Linda had gone to school with this...Daryl...cemented in my mind that he was far more a paramour than an abductor. It cemented that Linda had made choices. Horrible, evil choices. Why else would Jackson, or Johns, suddenly decide to steal from his boss? Cause a media circus with a celebrity, get the feds involved...for what? Unless he and Linda planned this. It seemed less and less likely that we'd find them, or that they'd return. Why would she do it? I kept going back to that. I thought I knew her better than anyone alive. Learning how wrong you are about something like that does serious damage to your psyche. I trudged forward, hoping that soon, this nightmare would somehow be behind me.

Linda

That night when I first discovered Joe was indeed Daryl Johns, while having my first glass of wine...I should say bottle and a half...in over six months. Still, the alcohol barely numbed the revelations, in what turned out to be the very worst night of my life.

Daryl, was in fact, the same person, best friend of my former boyfriend Robert Fulton. Robert Fulton, the deceased. He laid it out so very systematically. It was if he'd practiced the conversation over and over many times. In fact, he had. I recall the conversation as though it just happened.

"Why Daryl? I never did anything to you!" I said in my desperation at some point.

"Ah, but what you did to my friend Robbie, that..."

"He was my friend too!" I nearly shouted.

"Don't you ever say that, you bitch!" Daryl leaned forward and snarled.

"No friend could ever so totally devastate another human being. Make him take his own life."

"What is it exactly you think I did to Robbie, whatever you think, you're mistaken." I said sitting up straight.

Daryl looked at me as if to say 'the audacity of this woman' and then chuckled. "Jesus, you really don't know, do you? You're so self-centered, so damned self-absorbed, it doesn't even register with you. Goddammit you're an evil bitch."

Daryl placed his drink (he'd opted for bourbon) and went to the bedroom we shared. It was an open closet. I saw him pull one of his duffle bags down from the top cupboard. I could hear him rummaging through his things. I wondered if he might reappear with a gun.

What he brought back was our high school senior yearbook. Daryl quickly flipped through some pages. He'd obviously folded a few corners down for a presentation he'd anticipated for a long time.

"Look at this and tell me what you see," he said, shoving the book in my lap.

I studied the photo. I was dancing with my boyfriend Robbie. "That's me and Robbie, dancing..."

"NO! Look at it closely and tell me what you see." His voice much more urgent.

"We're looking at each other." I said. I wasn't sure what he wanted from me.

"Yes, and what are you doing? What is that look?."

I studied the picture. I was looking up into Robbie's eyes and he returned my gaze with...was that lust? Adoration? Or worse, love?

"You see it now, don'tcha bitch?" he asked, his disgust of me apparent.

"Yes."

"Flip to the next marked page."

I did. There was Robbie and Daryl, sitting at one of the round banquet tables. Was it even the same night? Robbie looked...beaten. Daryl looked like he had most days since we arrived here.

"I...I don't understand." I whispered truthfully.

"I can see that you don't. That's part of the problem. People like you should come with some sort of warning label tattooed to your foreheads."

Daryl sat back down and took a long draw of the whiskey as I went back and forth from the first page to the second.

"I'm gonna tell you a little story, you clueless witch. I met Robbie on the second day after my parents moved into his neighborhood. A month later, I was starting at a new school, second grade. I was petrified, like most little kids are in those circumstances. When the class bully, Troy MacDonald, decided the new kid was an easy target, I knew life was going to be fucked.