Two Feet Above

"But not just pain, right Marshall?" she continued. "Directly, your masculinity. He wanted to embarrass you as a man. Make you feel responsible, to some degree, for not protecting your wife. With the rape, and also trying to force you into raising his child."

"Yes, Goddamn it!" my voice now strained.

"Okay," she quickly replied, trying to soothe me. "We're going to work on that together. There are several ways we can diffuse those emotions so that you're safe and centered."

It was odd. I was only trying to diffuse her, and that conversation. I was hoping for some kind of icebreaker, without much thought behind it.

"Geez, Ms. Baxter," I said with a nervous chuckle. "The next thing you're going to tell me is about my pride and ego." I hadn't even put together a decent sentence. She just stared at me like How did you know?

"Yes, that's part of it..." She continued but I stopped her right there.

"Ms. Baxter," I told her, shaking my head. "Understand something. If Theodore was still alive, I'd have already found him and strangled the life out of him with my bare hands. Would you consider that to be toxic... or normal?"

"Toxic, of course," she claimed as if gospel. "You're talking about murder."

"Well," I declared, as I stood, looking at her with pity, "then I think we're finished here. Most people I know would consider that normal, and those normal people would also agree that the direction you're going is fake science. Sorry. Being a man - a real man - is about celebrating your masculinity, not suppressing it. I'll make sure Margaret gets you paid."

The next morning at around eleven, Margaret appeared at our door and sat in the kitchen going over a list of prospective new counselors.

"I'm sorry about that, Marshall," she said sincerely. "But it's part of the process of finding a good fit." The new list - with about ten candidates - was mostly men. She suggested and I chose Dr. Frank Williams, for no other reason than a good feeling. He turned out to be a winner, and most importantly, easy to talk to. Frank did tend to focus on the humiliation aspect, but the way he went about it, put me at ease, and allowed me to speak openly and honestly.

Still, a lot of the therapy seemed superficial to me - sometimes even apathetic. I could easily get lost in the fact that we were talking about someone else, this had happened to.

At home, Becca and I remained much as we had since reuniting. We were like a couple of sympathetic friends. The times we were closest were when we were doing things with Trinity. She was our distraction and helped foster the warmest emotions. She was a baby after all. Still, that was often ruined, when I remembered suddenly whose child she was and the circumstances of how she'd come into existence.

Both our individual and our couple's counselor kept encouraging us, and reminding us that we'd been traumatized and it would take time. Life went on that way for two months. I was still on leave, and Becca had an open schedule at the shelter, so she'd go in for a few hours twice per week, to break the monotony. I didn't mind, because honestly, I wasn't used to being around my wife that often, and I needed a little private time.

When Trinity was napping, and I was alone with my thoughts, the house was at its quietest. That's when I finally began to hear it. A deep rumbling that started loud, and softly drifted off within seconds.

It was coming from under the house, and it sounded like pipes.

At our regular couple's therapy that Friday, Robert Toms smiled brightly at the end of the session, telling us he was giving the 'all clear' to resume sexual relations. He reminded us that either of us may still need space and said he'd leave it up to us to discuss a full move to sleeping together again. He advised me not to rush things.

Becca was as revved up as I'd ever seen her that night. She couldn't wait to get Trinity to bed. After putting the baby down, I heard the shower running. That was unusual. Becca emerged in a cute little nightie I'd gotten her for our first anniversary. She was beautiful and stunning.

"Excuse me, kind sir," she flitted and flirted, "I seem to be lost."

"Oh," I replied in kind, playing along. "Where is it you were trying to go?"

Just to my..." she blushed. "To my bedroom." Then she giggled. Damn, I'd missed hearing that.

I could feel my loins stirring even as I carried her up the stairs. Our faces were close, staring into each other's eyes, with a combination of love and lust. I set her down just over the threshold. Becca wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me. We'd only ever shared a kiss like that on our wedding night, on our second date, and once after I'd had to go out of town for training.

When we finally broke off, she kept her face close to mine and said, "I love you, Marshall. With all my heart, I love you."

We stayed there, standing for a while, letting our hands and lips get reacquainted with each other's bodies. Finally, I moved her to the bed, gently laying her down so I could get undressed. While doing so, I took her in.

I was so familiar with my Becca's sumptuous body - young and alive, with flawless skin. She was in a naughty mood, and as she watched me eyeing her up and down, Becca spread her legs open, drawing her legs up and out. That's when I noticed her feet. Everything came flowing back, like a flash flood, an inundation. My cock withered, my face went blank, and my ears flushed angry red and hot.

Becca followed my eyes and let out an "Eeek," or some sort of squeaky noise, that said she instantly understood. She instinctively tried to cover up, but she was on top of the comforter. She returned her gaze to my face with her own look of horror.

I sighed like a balloon losing air. I was embarrassed, inwardly angry, and most of all humiliated. But why? I thought. It was overwhelming. I started to turn, and Becca desperately responded.

"No!" she almost screamed. "Don't!" Then more softly, "Don't leave Marshall. Please. I understand; I do. We can't help one another when we're separated. Stay here. Talk if you want, or don't. But we can cuddle? Let me hold you, and help to take away your pain, and... anguish. Hold me if you want. I need that too. Far more than sex."

Her aggression, both in the living room and in saying all the right things just then, steadied me. I felt some of the humiliation leave, and I was suddenly very tired. Leaving my boxers on, I crawled into bed with my wife. It had been a long time. She held me tightly and after a few minutes I felt rather than heard her sobbing. Instinctively, I stroked her hair like I'd always done.

Eventually, we talked for a bit. She tried to apologize for things that had happened and I shushed her, telling my wife that she had been victimized just like me. She cuddled up to me even more, as if trying to climb inside me. As I ran my fingers through her hair, she lightly stroked my forearm. We lay there, lost in our thoughts. Finally, overcome with the many feelings, she said goodnight.

Then she said, "Oh, I didn't want to screw up the mood when I came to find you in the living room, but there's something wrong with the water pressure in the shower and bathroom sink. 'Night, love."

The next morning was both awkward and satisfying. The latter was due to the physical contact all night. I slept better than any night in the previous eight weeks. The former was because we hadn't resolved anything, and we were both extremely anxious and determined to get our lives back.

I stood in the shower, trying to wrap my head around my attitude. Sure, I knew that was near impossible, and in fact, that was the main reason we were in therapy. While surprised at my reaction the previous night, it still made more sense than the apathetic attitude I'd been feeling.

Maybe it was melancholy. Maybe Margaret was right. And what was happening with these pipes? I'd have to get under the house and check it out.

I heard Becca speaking to someone in a hushed tone, as I turned off the water and got out. It wasn't surprising at all that I received a call from Margaret not fifteen minutes later. She wanted to check in with me. I laughed at her and said I was sure she'd already spoken to Becca. We talked for a bit, but I wasn't listening all that much.

Becca and I tried twice more that week. We achieved the same results. I spoke to Frank about it, as I'm sure she did with her therapist. Our couple's counselor, who was in touch with our individual therapists already knew our troubles when Becca and I walked in his door.

Dr. Toms apologized and said that he shouldn't have suggested we start having sex again. He said it was too soon, and I found that strange. Toms told us we didn't need the additional stress and to back off trying for sex for the time being, but that we should continue sleeping together whenever we both agreed to.

Talking to Frank that week, I realized part of my problem. I hadn't gotten an answer to a very important question I'd been plagued by. I decided to call Margaret that evening.

"What is her therapist saying about her awareness?" I got right to it.

"Marshall, I can't..." she hesitated. "That's not how it works. What she discusses with her therapist is private between them, just as what you say to yours."

I was immediately suspicious. I couldn't believe that with all these mental health professionals, especially as they all seemed to be working in tandem for our benefit, they couldn't comprehend the one true and most important question I needed answered.

"Marshall," she filled the silence. "What's on your mind? Tell me what's happening in there."

"Simple, Margaret," I replied. "The same thing as in your suite those first few days. I must know whether she knew what was happening. I need to know all of it, from the beginning. I feel like we're skirting the main issue."

There was more silence. That was unlike Margaret. "Are you working with your therapist to get past these feelings, Marshall? Is he asking you the sort of questions that help you open up about these feelings and then discuss them?"

"Margaret," I went on the offensive, "I'm hanging up now."

"Wait!" she screamed. "Wait... okay, listen, I'm not supposed to discuss this with you, but maybe it will help. Marshall, Rebecca has been tested and she does fit the profile for the ten percent who can easily be manipulated into hypnosis."

I didn't believe her. Suddenly, I didn't believe anyone. I guess that was the paranoia she'd alluded to.

"Who administered the test?" I asked.

"Her... therapist," she hesitated again, damn it. "That happened on the third visit. Has something happened to make you doubt her? Did something happen during your attempts at intimacy?"

"No," I responded coldly. "Never mind, Margaret." I disconnected the call. Something was wrong. I had no reason to mistrust anyone, but here I was, doing so. It could be me - my state of mind - but I didn't think so. I had a sudden dark thought: It could be Theodore and what he'd done to me during hypnosis. Perhaps, he'd fixed it so I'd never totally trust anyone again - put me under some damned spell or something.

Saturday morning, I found myself climbing - crawling - through the crawl space under our home. The leaky pipe didn't take long to find with a flashlight. I backed out, went for my tools, got an extension cord for my solder gun, and grabbed some flux. I turned the water off at the meter before I went back under and got set up for the repair.

The ground below was very wet, with a little pond forming. I needed to be careful with the solder gun in these conditions. It was a small pin leak, in the copper piping. I sanded the area, and applied the flux, holding the iron to it with my other hand.

A small amount of the solder dripped onto my wrist, and I instinctively jumped, smashing my head into the subfloor above. Fortunately, I didn't drop the iron into the puddle I was kneeling in, but it still hurt like hell.

I finished the repair and pulled all my tools out of the crawl space. There was a bump growing on my head, and I could feel it was probably bleeding. Why did they have to make these damned crawl spaces two...?

No sooner had I had that thought, when another came over me. The more I considered it, the better an idea it developed into. After putting my tools away, I went to the bathroom to tend to my head. When I came into the kitchen, Becca was making soup. She turned and saw me.

"Oh my God!" she said. "What happened?"

"Fixed the water leak," I replied.

"How did that happen?" she asked, pointing to the top of my head.

"Damned space under the house," this was it, and I said with emphasis, "I don't know why it's... only TWO FEET ABOVE the ground."

To my utter shock and dismay, Becca's head fell into a position as if she couldn't keep it held up.

Seconds before, her eyes had gone blank. I looked at my Becca. There was a profound sadness that could have easily consumed me, but I had to keep it together. I had to burn that image into my mind, because in the following days, I'd certainly need to remember it.

After the appropriate amount of time, being shocked and not knowing what to do, I stepped in front of Rebecca and lifted her chin. Her lifeless eyes were staring straight ahead at somewhere near my collarbone.

"Bec," I said with concern, "wake up. Wake UP, Becca!" I slapped her face, maybe a bit harder than I intended. That did the trick. She was back amongst the living. She looked at me, startled. She looked around the room startled, trying to get her bearings. Then her eyes locked on mine - reading them intently - for any sign. She did not find what she was looking for.

I got her a glass of water and held her while she cried. She seemed so sincere. I let her go, until she was either cried out, or thought the danger had passed. She finally asked if she could tend to my injured skull, and we carried on about our day.

>>>>

Driving around the lake near our home was always relaxing for me. I'd done it many times after a hard day on my job. I didn't lie to Rebecca. I'd told her I was having a particularly difficult day, and she didn't object to me taking some time to myself. She could have surely suspected something was bothering me after the events of the previous day, but if she did, she let it go.

How I'd managed to keep it together the rest of the day was beyond me. How I'd slept with her and held her was, well... a great acting job on my part.

Still, I didn't have any proof. What I had was a split-second - a measly split-second. Due to my job, though, that was plenty. There had been many times in the four years I'd been a public health inspector, that I'd seen that look. That split second as I extended my hand to a business owner, and announced myself to them. The look was sometimes quick, and others, lingering; like they were about to shake hands with the boogeyman. The look my wife gave me was more subtle and far less obvious. The only thing I knew about milliseconds involved the actual math. Right before her eyes went comatose there was uncertainty there, along with fear and the tiniest bit of guilt.

If she could flip that fast on a dime, then logically - she'd done it many times before - or at least practiced it many times. If I was wrong - well - I could chalk it up to four years of mistrust in my job. I could chalk it up to what Theodore had done to me. I'd had my suspicions. They'd proven out to be mostly unfounded, but now? I had to know for sure before I could go any further with Rebecca. Before solving and working through the pain of our ordeal, I had to know for sure.

The one thing I'd wanted to avoid was tipping my hand in any way. It had been a gamble not saying two feet BELOW, but it was worth it, even if she was complicit and feared the worst. It justified me to be leery of what I was about to do. I still wanted to hold on - to a belief - that I was wrong in my conjecture. I wanted to hold tightly to it, even if it felt like warm butter sliding through my grasp.

When I returned home Rebecca and I discussed our day. We both had therapy appointments after lunch, hers' scheduled two hours after mine. I told her something had come up, and I would ask Amy to come by and sit with Trinity. Rebecca pushed me on what I had to do, but I deflected and she eased off.

Later that afternoon I was sitting with Frank Williams. After a salutation, Frank started right in.

"Marshall, I spoke to Mrs. Bachman earlier. I'd like to start today with..."

"What do your notes say about what happened to us, Doctor Williams?" I interrupted. He, as had become a recurring theme in my life lately, hesitated, albeit briefly.

"What do you want to know, Mister... I mean Marshall?" There it was again, that damned look that spoke volumes to me. For a badly damaged guy operating strictly on a theory, it only fueled my fire to get to the truth.

"Everything," I shrugged. "Start at the beginning."

Frank pulled the file out from under his notepad. He was scanning it. I wanted him to read.

"Read it to me," I commanded in a clear but non-confrontational tone.

He was all over the map. I could tell it was either highly irregular or he was hiding something.

"It says that you and your wife were assaulted," Frank began. I wasn't going to budge.

"Specifics," I cut him off. "Just read it word for word."

Frank sighed and started reading. I stopped him almost immediately.

"Frank," I said, "where it says that Theodore Rasmussen moved into our neighborhood, are you skipping the part about him knowing my wife during her childhood before I met her?"

Williams frantically thumbed back and forth through the pages, looking foolish. Then he looked right at me.

"Is this some kind of joke, Marshall?" he looked stunned.

"No joke, doc," I said confidently. "At least not on my end. Theodore was caught masturbating on my wife and her high school friend. He was never charged. They had both just recently turned eighteen, so it was an adult matter. Although it's clear he started working on them before that."

Frank looked once more just to be sure. He shook his head and looked at me.

"Unfortunately, Frank," I stated. "We won't be able to continue until I get answers to some blaring questions I have. I'll contact you." I stood and left without another word between us.

It was time to visit Rebecca's father. That was a seventy-five-mile drive, so I'd need an excuse to be home late. I called home and told Becca that we were having an intense session, and not to hold dinner for me after she returned from her counselor. That was a win-win for me, as I was now suspect to eat anything Becca cooked.

James, Becca's father, was surprised to see me. We rarely spoke or saw each other. He knew about Theodore, of course, and our troubles.

"Do you recognize this woman?" I showed him a picture of a younger Margaret from her website, and he studied it. I saw the change in his expression.

"I think she was there," he said, still examining the photo I'd printed from the internet. "Back when we were looking for a counselor for Becks. I don't remember the circumstances, but she's very familiar."

I asked him if he had a file or any paperwork from back then. He said after it was over, and Becca seemed back to normal, he probably discarded whatever he'd had. That was certainly understandable.

Suddenly, I had a thought. "Say, do you think you might have saved a business card or something in a personal phone book from then?"

He stared at me. "What does this have to do with you and Becks?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you trying to hurt my little girl? She's already been through a lot."

James was too old, and too wise to bullshit. "Dad, I'm trying to help her, and us, not hurt her," I half-lied. "There's some... irregularities. I need your help."