Deeper Illusions Read online

  I felt tears coming to my eyes. How could I have ever hated this man? How could I have ever felt rage towards him? He was the one really great thing in my life, besides my family and friends. He had been the only man who had ever treated me with love and kindness, instead of anger and disrespect.

  He smiled when he saw my tears. He knew me so well by then, so he knew when my tears were happy or sad, and he knew that these were very, very happy tears. I smiled and nodded mutely at him. “I love you,” I said.

  “I know that this is late, but Merry Christmas, beautiful.”

  We lay in the bed, fully clothed, and I put my head on his chest. This was more intimacy than I had been able to manage with him since the rape, and, although I was sorry that we couldn’t do more, lying there with him was as comforting as anything that I could’ve possibly imagined.

  Chapter Thirty

  I stayed at the resort, I mean facility, for another month after my breakthrough with Dr. Bryan and Polly. I was much more open with Dr. Knight, so I was able to tell her more about my feelings about what happened to me. She was able to understand that I not only had issues with Rochelle and Andrew, but that I also had severe issues from my past that resulted in my overall feeling of low self-esteem. So, in addition to the talk therapy, she also put me through a regimen of cognitive behavioral therapy, aimed at eliminating negative self-talk. The goal was to change my thought process through changing my behavior.

  The CBT process involved helping me to reconceptualize negative situations, because I automatically tended to think the worst of any given situation. Skills acquisition was the next phase, and this was where I was taught to catch my negative thoughts and replace them with positive ones. I was required to keep a journal and jot down any negative thoughts that I had throughout the day, then, the next day, I was taught about how to replace these specific negative thoughts with specific positive ones.

  I was also given a course of treatment called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. This was for my specific traumatic issues regarding Rochelle, Mr. Green, and Andrew. In this treatment, I was asked to recall what happened to me while the psychiatrist asked me to focus on their hand gestures. I followed these hand gestures with my eyes. I was also asked for positive thoughts, and the therapist did the same thing with the gestures. The goal, as was explained, was for my brain to process the memories of what happened to me differently. The treatment was somewhat controversial, as it had evidence that showed that it worked, and also evidence that showed that it didn’t work, but I was willing to try anything to overcome my traumatic incidents.

  I also continued my therapy with Polly and my group therapy for four hours a day. Acupuncture treatments were daily, as were massages. The acupuncture was geared specifically for my drug addiction. I didn’t particularly feel that I needed drug addiction treatment, as I really didn’t feel like I was addicted. I had severe trauma, two severe traumas within a period of nine months, so I went ape-shit. That was really all there was to it, so I felt that the psychotherapy was effective. I felt that the therapy aimed at my drug addiction to be superfluous.

  Nevertheless, I found both the acupuncture and the massage therapy to be incredibly relaxing, so I looked forward to these sessions.

  Ryan and I continued with our couple’s therapy, as well. We were becoming closer through the therapy, as I was able to express my feelings about my life being turned upside down after meeting him, and I was helped with processing these emotions and feelings.

  By the end of the two months, I was feeling myself again. Better than myself. I had the tools to help myself whenever negative thoughts crept into my head, and I felt that I had a handle on all that had happened to me with Rochelle, Andrew and Mr. Green. Ryan and I were closer than we had ever been. We still were not making love, of course. I still wasn’t ready for that, but I hoped that I would be, with time.

  I also hoped that I would stop being so afraid of strange men.

  Ryan, for his part, got me set up with a psychotherapist, Dr. Brammell, in Kansas City, so that I could continue regular therapy.

  The only issue that we were having was the matter of pressing charges against Andrew. Ryan was adamant that I needed to call the police and tell them what happened. I was just as adamant that this would never happen.

  “Not doing it, Ryan.”

  “Listen, beautiful, I know that you’re scared – “

  “Scared is not the word. He threatened to kill me, and I believe that he will. Or, worse yet, maybe he’ll come after you. If anything happens to you, I might as well be killed as well. I couldn’t survive it.”

  “But, beautiful, he might do it to others.”

  “I know that, and, trust me, that weighs heavily on my mind. But I just can’t do it. I’m sorry, it may seem selfish to you, but I have to keep you safe. And, I admit, I’m thinking of my own safety as well. No, no, no. I won’t do it. Please don’t make me.”

  Ryan didn’t push.

  Aside from that issue, though, Ryan and I were doing better than we ever had. I had high hopes that the worst was behind us. I lived through trauma and drug addiction. He lived through seeing his father, and making amends with him.

  But the worst was not past us. Not by a long shot.

  And the next blow would be, by far, the most devastating of all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On the plane on the way home, Ryan informed me that he had a special surprise waiting for me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It wouldn't be a surprise, now, would it, if I told you what it was.”

  Upon landing, and driving in the city, I soon found out what it was.

  Ryan had bought a brand new house.

  This was an even more beautiful house than the Tudor mansion we had before. This house was huge, in a classic Greco-Roman style. Ionic columns were on the enormous front porch, with a beautiful terrace that jutted out from the side, with sculpted balustrades bounding it, and arches opening onto the terrace. The house was a stucco grey, with enormous arched windows, and the roof was a Spanish tile.

  I knew why he bought that house, and I never loved him more than I loved him right at that moment. Once again, he understood my needs perfectly, without my saying a word.

  “You like,?” he asked.

  “Of course!”

  “I have another surprise.”

  When we walked in, I saw what the surprise was. The house was empty, aside from our bedroom, which had our bed in it.

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “We're going to decorate this house together. The last house didn't have you in it at all. Sarah was absolutely right. This gives us a chance to start completely fresh, and the house will be truly ours at last.”

  At that, I jumped into his arms. He kissed me passionately. But I pulled away. I still wasn't ready to be touched like that. I wondered if I ever would be. Still, this was a wonderful surprise, and I was feeling like I was getting back to my old self.

  So, for the next few weeks, we were busy hiring interior decorators. I had more of a jazzy, modern sensibility. Ryan’s taste was more elegant and masculine. We had plenty of room in the new house, so we talked about making the den to reflect my taste, and the living room to reflect his taste, and the bedrooms to have a marriage of tastes. The home theater was also going to have a marriage of tastes. The wine cellar would reflect him, while the sun porch would reflect me. We also worked together to build our vegetable and flower gardens, looking at different flowers – Roses, Geraniums, African Daisies, Gerber Daisies, and Peonies. In the vegetable garden, we chose thyme, rosemary, basil, mint and oregano for the herbs, and, for the vegetables, we planted kale, spinach, tomatoes, cucumbers and bell peppers.

  For the den, which had enormous windows that streamed natural light, I chose a multi-colored sofa with one cushion light green, another cushion dark blue, and the third cushion stripes of various colors. The lamps in the room would be Chinese lanterns of various colors. The walls
would be painted in accents of bright yellow on every other wall. The big screen television would find a home in this room as well. And, since the sofa would be so colorful, as would be the walls, we chose to leave the floor hardwood with white rugs. The de Kooning would be the centerpiece of this room, as it was brashly colored in yellow, red and blue hues. We would also decorate the walls with some of Ryan’s original paintings, some of which were abstract, others that favored the surrealist movement. Salvador Dali was evidently an influence on Ryan’s work in this regard. There was also some cubist work that was experimental for him, and these were some of my favorites. At any rate, there were three or four paintings that I thought would look perfect with the rest of the décor, so I selected them, and we consulted the decorators for the best way to show them off.

  After giving our vision for the den to the interior decorator, we decided to go with a more traditional look for the living room. Dark leather couches were selected, accented with sculptures that Ryan picked up in South Africa when he got my engagement ring. The throw pillows would add a pop of color to the couches, and the rug that we selected for the cherry wood floors was a piled white. Above the enormous fireplace would hang his Thomas Hart Benton mural that I marveled at the first day I saw his old house.

  I had to admit that I was having the absolute time of my life with the interior decorator. It was always my dream to be able to have a house that was decorated the way that I wanted it, and I loved that I had an entire room that would reflect my vision. Plus, I had input on the living room, because Ryan was interested in how I could put some of my touches on “his” room as well. The sun porch would also reflect me, and I went about looking for the right wicker furniture with cushions I loved, the best plants and flowers that would thrive in the sun porch environment, along with a mosaic tiled table that I had to have. Never in my life had I had the opportunity to decorate a home where money was no object.

  Contentment was not the word for how I was feeling. Ryan was on another extended leave of absence from his job, and I selfishly was overjoyed about this. And he brought up, several times, the idea of opening an animal sanctuary with me. That would be our next project, and Ryan even hinted that he might leave his job to manage the sanctuary with me full-time.

  I was feeling better about myself than I had in a long time. The CBT was really helping me banish the negative thoughts, which also helped me feel much more in control of my life. My self-esteem was higher, too.

  At this point, I thought that nothing could touch us. After all that we went through, how could anything else go wrong? Fate wasn’t that cruel.

  How wrong that turned out to be.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  So much had happened to me in the past few months that I never noticed that I failed to get my period. I should’ve been paying more attention to this, considering how nauseated I was for a long time, when I was supposed to be over the drugs. In the back of my mind, I thought that maybe I was sick. Maybe something serious.

  That would be a good way for fate to come in and snatch our happiness away.

  So, one morning, with shaking hands, feeling completely nauseated, I finally took a pregnancy test.

  It was positive!

  At first, I was over the moon, excited to tell Ryan the news.

  Then a dark cloud immediately rolled in.

  What if it wasn't his?

  The thought of possibly carrying Andrew's baby made me want to hurl some more.

  I couldn't tell Ryan. Because I didn't know if I was going to keep it. I would know by looking at the baby who the father was, and I knew that, if I had Andrew's baby, it would bring on a lifetime of abject depression.

  So, I kept quiet, and made a doctor's appointment. I had to know how far along I was, but Ryan and I hadn't had sex since the rape, so there really would be no way of knowing who the father would be. My cycle had always been screwy, with my periods coming in a haphazard fashion. Sometimes the cycles were three weeks, sometimes four, sometimes six. So, just because the doctor would give me an estimated conception date, that would mean nothing. I had made love with Ryan only one week before Andrew raped me, so seeing the doctor would give me no peace of mind.

  If I kept the baby, I would just have to pray that it was Ryan's. But I was not at all sure that I was going to keep this child, because I couldn't live with him or her if I knew that he or she belonged to Andrew.

  So, after taking the pregnancy test, I went downstairs to see Ryan, and tried to conceal my feelings about the positive result.

  Because I honestly didn't know at that point what my feelings were.

  Ryan was sitting at the makeshift table. He looked extremely pale and his hands were shaking. He looked like somebody had died.

  I immediately thought that something had happened to Maggie, or even to his father. His father was actually in remission the last I knew, but I also knew that when the cancer comes back, it comes back with a vengeance.

  I went over to him, and put my arm around his back.

  He had a glass of scotch, and he was drinking it with shaking hands.

  “What's wrong?” I asked, alarmed.

  He just shook his head, his shaking hands attempting to bring the scotch to his mouth. He failed at this, then put the scotch back down. Then he put his head in his hands.

  “What's wrong?” I asked again. “Is it Maggie? Something happen to Nick? Your father?”

  He just shook his head, over and over, putting his head in his hands.

  “Then what is it?” I demanded.

  Between heaving breaths he said “It's Nat. She, she, she's pregnant.”

  “That's great!” I said. “Good for her. I didn't realize that she wanted children, but she'll make a great mother.” I didn't understand why that would upset him so, however.

  “You don't understand,” he said. Then he hesitated, looked at his glass, then threw it against the wall. “You don't understand,” he repeated.

  “What don't I understand?” I asked.

  After a pause that seemed interminable, he simply said “She says that the baby is mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I wasn't hearing him right. I was hallucinating. Perhaps those drugs somehow reactivated in my system, and I wasn't hearing things right at all.

  There was no way he just said what he said.

  No.way.

  Calmly, I asked him “I'm so sorry, I don't think I heard you right.”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “No, I'm ok right here.”

  “Please, beautiful, sit down.”

  “Don't call me beautiful.”

  He was now breathing harder and harder, and his hand went sweeping on the makeshift table, crashing a vase onto the floor. Then his head was his in his hands, and he was sobbing more than I had ever heard. Even more than when he was going to confront his father.

  I merely stood there, my arms crossed. “Repeat yourself. Repeat yourself, goddamn it. Repeat yourself.”

  He looked at me with those green eyes, and I saw more pain in those eyes than I had ever seen. I was scared about the amount of pain that were in the depths of those eyes. He shook his head. “She came over when you were gone. I hadn't slept at all for five days, and I was also completely jet-lagged. All I did was haunt the streets, all night long, looking for you, asking everybody I saw about you. Night and day, night and day, that's all I did while you were gone.”

  I clenched my jaw, not liking where this was going. “Go on.”

  “She came over to help me out. Nick told her what had happened, that you were missing, so she hopped a plane. She hopped a plane, and came into the house after I hadn't slept for five days. Not one wink. Wasn't hardly eating, either. And I was so desperate to find you. So desperate to see you. And I hit my head hard, on the edge of the bathtub. I started to hallucinate – I saw my dad by the bed, with a blue head and orange body. I spoke to him.”

  I raised an eyebrow. I saw my fist was clenched, and I knew that I was tw
o seconds from hauling off and hitting him.

  “She came in the door, and, I swear to god, I thought that she was you. My mind was so desperate to see you, and I only thought of you, so when she came in, I was obviously hallucinating that it was you.”

  My fist was still clenched, waiting for the ending to this story.

  He got up, and started pacing the floor, rapidly. “I thought she was you. I was so happy. God, I was so happy. I was so terrified while you were gone. I knew that there was something wrong, something terribly wrong. I knew that you were in trouble, so when she came in, I never felt such happiness and relief.”

  “Go ahead. Go ahead and tell me that you fucked her thinking she was me. Go ahead and tell me that. See how far you get with that fucking story. See how far.”

  He said nothing, just stopped pacing and looked at me.

  At that, I walked up to him and pummeled him with my fist. It hurt like hell, because his body was still so hard, and it was like hitting steel. But I kept pummeling him, on and on and on, and he just stood there, not even trying to protect or shield himself. It was as if he thought that he deserved it, so he wasn't going to stop me.

  While I was hitting him, I was screaming “You fucked her. You fucked that whore while I was missing. You bastard. You bastard. You bastard. You fucking goddamned worthless bastard. You fucked her, and I was raped because of you. How could you do that? How could you do that? You fucking ruined my life, then didn't even care enough about me not to fuck her while I was in a shithouse getting high, trying to forget about a rape that happened BECAUSE OF YOU. I hate you. I can't stand the sight of you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

  There were tears streaming down his cheeks, but he wasn't making a sound. He just took my fists and my words, and, when I was worn out, and collapsed on the floor, he sat down next to me, and put his arm around my back.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said.

  “You know what, fuck you!” I apparently wasn't done with my rage.

  Then I was sobbing, my body pouring out more rage and grief. The rage and grief seemed to come from endless sources. Some before I met him, most after I met him. I thought that I had recovered from the rage and grief about the intrusive news stories, the Rochelle attack, the rape, Mr. Green. I thought that my stay at the hospital had helped me process all of that, yet this latest thing was literally the last straw, and it reactivated all of it.