Chapter four

Morning ritual

Jane’s daily commute was a slow walk down steep stairs, with a sharp left at the landing.  French doors served as the office front.  The room where she conducted business began life as a proper sitting room in the early 1900s, hosting the good people of North Texas.  Jane liked to imagine real sit-downs in her parlor.  Talk about the heat, about the town expanding, about politics.  Talk about what was happening in rival Dallas just 30 miles to the east or about the opening of the Interurban Trolley route between the two cities.  Townspeople must have been especially abuzz about the 24-story Farmers & Mechanics National Bank built around 1920.  For many years Fort Worth held the bragging rights for the tallest building in the entire state of Texas. Dallas folks had to be spittin' green.  Jane could almost hear the gloating of Fort Worth’s finest. 

          The parlor-turned-office now entertained two to three employees on any given day.  Truth is, topics of conversation had not changed all that much.  Close your eyes and it could just as well be 1920: It’s hot outside, elections are adding to the heat and the city just keeps expanding.  The rivalry between Cowtown and Big D, too, had not changed really in 100 years, although transportation between the two cities had improved.  Interstate Highways 30 and 20 as well as Amtrak and Trinity Railway Express long replaced the old trolley system. 
          Jane superstitiously counted the stairs as she descended, typically 6 a.m. each day.  When the count hit 16, Jane was facing the double front doors.  Taking a right at the bottom of the stairs, the window tops of the wooden doors let in enough light to lead Jane down a short hallway that fed into the kitchen.  She didn’t need light to get around the small island and to the counter beyond where the coffee pot sat.  Coffee was an important part of her early morning ritual.  Jane’s preferences leaned toward strong, black coffee.  Not the watery Midwest version she was weaned on as a child, the kind you can see though.  She also didn’t believe in ruining coffee by adding milk or sugar.
           After the coffee was started, Jane’s ritual demanded she disarm the security alarm.   She didn’t like it to stay on during the day.  Just at night.  She had the pleasure of meeting local fire fighters from the neighborhood station when a friend accidentally set it off.  Jane had not responded quickly enough to catch the phone call from the security company and chaos ensued.  Disarming the alarm in the morning before others could set it off revealed more about Jane’s anxiety level than it did about her common sense.  But it was now in the routine, so that was that.  Jane walked back through the hallway toward the front doors, anticipating the velvet greeting on her bare feet from the 1918 Marta Maas Fjetterstromug flat weave.  A splurge Jane had never regretted. At the front door, Jane punched in the security code on the keypad, watching the lighted digital words change from "on" to "off."  Jane never missed the irony of that daily morning affirmation.  Satisfied, she returned to the kitchen to wait for her coffee.
          It used to be that Jane never waited for her morning coffee.  David would bring it to her in bed every morning.  Now, she occasionally allowed the smell of coffee brewing to take her back to those days, back to when she would wake to that sweet aroma which made her feel loved.  And for just a few seconds, she could be happily transported back in time.  Not too long or Jane might lose control of the new routine.  Jane might just plain lose control.  To make sure that didn't happen, Jane's new routine included one concrete and solid rule: never drink coffee in bed.   

Chapter three

Possessed

 

Jesse jumped out of the bed with such urgency she fell hard onto one knee.  The sharp pain worked in her favor, bringing her back to real time.  The 24 year old stood up, turned and faced the bed, searching for clues as to what happened the night before. 
          Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  I was raped!
          Jesse’s whole body shook as if she were possessed.  She began to imagine something inside her was gnawing at her gut, something deposited by alien sperm.
          What Jesse felt next was not imagined.  Without thinking, she scanned the room for the nearest waste basket.   She needed to puke.

 

Chapter two

Support Group

Jane Wallace loved early mornings. Her cell was silent.  No colleagues whining.  No clients hounding her for results.  It was the time of day that belonged only to her.  Her sacred routine was as important to her as oxygen.  Coffee in bed watching Morning Joe and ereading the New York Times.  The local newspaper, delivered daily, would be read later at the office.  Jane needed this routine.  Her family and colleagues did yoga or ran in the mornings or listened to loud music to get going.  Not Jane.  Slow and easy starts to the day set her in just the right frame of mind. 

            Jane was almost always first to the office, which wasn’t saying much as her office and living space were under the same roof.   Jane’s office and home occupied one of the many four square homes still standing in the historic Fairmount neighborhood of Fort Worth.  She loved her neighborhood and her 103-year-old house.  They were growing old together, gracefully even.  It had been decades since anyone had called Jane “cute.”  She had never been a beauty, but she wasn’t unattractive either.  In the old days she was petite.  Today she was just plain short, 5-feet-2 inches, with a little extra around the middle.  Jane was perfectly fine with how she looked.  Aging had a liberating effect on how she viewed her body.  Once critical of lumps and sagging parts, she now was just plain grateful all the parts still worked.  At age 59, Jane told herself she had earned every wrinkle on her face and every gray hair on her head.  Besides, nobody was looking at her anymore and that worked to her advantage.  In her line of work she needed to blend into a crowd, and that's what middle-aged and older women do; they go unnoticed.       
          Until 5 years ago, Jane was a social worker with the city’s mental health agency that served the poor.  She was hired at the agency out of college as a counselor, meeting clients in their homes, monitoring their progress and making sure they stayed on their meds.  Family and friends used to worry about her, but eventually stopped asking, “Aren’t you scared to go into their homes?”  They got tired of Jane lecturing them to stop stigmatizing mental illness:  “They aren’t monsters, they are mentally ill. Would you say the same thing if my clients had cancer?  They don’t choose to have an illness.”  Jane loved her clients and she loved her work.  When she left the agency after 30 years of service, she was one of its top administrators, grants administration vice president.   She figured it was time to let one of her younger colleagues take over.  Jane wasn't ageist about the decision, it simply was the right thing for the agency.
          Jane was never good at sitting still too long.  It took a whole week of retirement before she started her own company. She had been thinking about what she wanted to do for some time, so she wasn’t entirely unprepared.  Jane had wanted to be a private investigator; like in the books she so loved to read.  She was tenacious about finding resources and she didn’t give up until she found something.  More important, she was good at assessing people and situations.  Thirty years in the mental health field had toned her skills in observation.  So, why not, Jane wondered?  She had enough to live on, so she didn’t really need to make much or anything, really.  With her personal and professional contacts, Jane figured she could find work.  She knew she wasn’t getting any younger, so forward she pushed; filing paperwork for a company she named Support Group, or SG.  She described the company in vague terms on purpose – “service provider for individuals and businesses.”  She reasoned that should cover just about everything. 
          Family and friends knew better than to question her mental health although Jane knew they thought she was nuts, and there were times early on that she agreed.  Doubts were soon buried after a couple of lawyer friends hired Jane to do some minor civil and criminal investigations.  That led to an individual hiring Jane to document a cheating spouse.  Jane went the extra mile for her client and was able to talk the cheat into admitting where he hid missing assets.  Jane was not beneath summoning her inner little old lady to take down slime.  The business really took off after one of her cases made national news.  A four-year-old child kidnapped 23 years earlier had been living three hours away in Oklahoma City.  Jane’s cell and email blew up with requests to find similar lost loved ones.  SG was up and running, just like many of the people she was hired to find.   
            Jane’s relished in the success of SG.  Her only wish: she could have shared it with her husband, David.

Chapter one

Chapter One

(C) Mary Lochridge, 2013

Deep breaths

Throbbing head pain awoke Jessie from a deep sleep.  It felt as though her head was imploding.  She could calculate her heart rate with each steady and punishing thump to her skull. 

          Lying in bed, the young woman strained to understand why nothing in the room looked familiar.  Sounds and smells were foreign.  Distant sirens meant she likely was still in the city.  Stale air mixed with a musky odor provided no clues as to where she might be, but they did rule out home.  She definitely was not in her own bed.  
            Jessie forced herself to slow her breathing.  Like magic, the effort reduced the harshness of the throbbing in her head.  Healthy breathing was something Jessie had done practically all her 24 years, thanks to her mother.  Her mother thought it fixed everything. 
          Deep breath, hold, release.  Deep breath, hold, release.  Deep breath, hold … are those voices?   The voices she now most definitely could hear seemed to be in the next room.  She held her breath, this time trying to make out words.  No luck, just garble.  
          Jessie tried to make sense of what she heard, what she smelled, what she was feeling.  Fear directed her thoughts.  She must have been doped and now she was being held somewhere. Why?  Ransom?  Her family had no money.
           A heavy door nearby slammed shut and the voices stopped. 
          Are they coming for me?  Frozen and barely breathing, Jessie listened for signs of her … captors?  Instead she heard a humming sound that drifted away from her room.  The voices, too, thankfully drifted away.   
          Jessie put her whole effort into following the voices and the strange humming until she heard the distinct and familiar ding-ding of an elevator door opening.  This is a hotel!  The humming likely wheels on some luggage.
          Jessie let out her breath, temporarily relieved.  She now turned to the task of piecing together what she could remember of the night before.

            I was at the GOP fundraiser at the new art gallery.  It was packed by the time I arrived.  I had one mission: to tear apart Hank Solis, the newest staffer for Texas House member Ted Jefferson. We argued.  It was hot inside.  Way too many people for that small space.  I was using cocktail napkins to wipe sweat off my face for chriss sake.  Then… goddammit.  Then what??!!  How did I get here?

Jessie was not about to lose it.  She was taught better. 

Action now, reaction later.  It was her mother again.  One of her many mottoes that typically amused Jessie but this time she was grateful for her mother’s company.  Moving to get out of the strange bed, pain shot up Melanie’s thigh and tore through her guts.  Gasping, she retreated to prone position. 

Deep breaths.  I can do this. I have to do this.  Jessie forced herself to try again.  Against her body’s will, she pulled herself upright, throwing both legs over the side of the bed, toes now feeling the floor.

            Assess, then progress.  Jessie now seemed to be channeling her mother.  Mom, is that you?  Are you really here?  I’m so scared.

Jessie took in more deep breaths to calm a racing heart and begin the assessment. My head hurts, now my gut hurts.  Shit.  What do I have on?  Just underwear?  I am gonna puke. Stop it.  Breathe. Be brave. Assessment. 

 After two minutes of eternity, Jessie braced herself with strong hands, leaning forward she was able to inspect the damage.  Even in the dim, early morning light Jessie could see that her inner thighs were spotted with odd shapes of black and blue.   Are those bruises?

Real time ended in that moment because Jessie understood.  Assessment complete.

            I was raped!