Fearscape (22 page)

The messages from her friends and teacher were of some comfort. Especially the one from Ms. Wilcox. The rest of Val's teachers were nice enough, but Val was never completely sure whether they actually cared about her, or were just pretending to care because they wanted tenure. Nobody was paying Ms. Wilcox to send Val feel-good messages; it was nice to know somebody cared.

Val wanted to respond but nothing came immediately to mind, and she ended up responding to her friends' messages instead because those were easier. She just reeled off a couple of generic platitudes — you're so sweet, I'm OK, my phone was stolen so I'll call you as soon as I can, thanks for your concern — and hoped that they wouldn't mistake weariness for bitchiness. And then paranoia got the better of her and she ended up deleting all her responses.

I just can't concentrate
.

No. More than that, she wanted to be alone.

Supposedly, that was a normal after-effect of trauma. Her mother had said so. The brain got locked in a loop of heightened arousal, and the sympathetic nervous system remained on red alert, sending out the biochemical equivalent of a warning siren. The fear was normal: healthy, even.

So then why do I feel so sick?

Her eyes lit on the final message in her inbox and her mind halted, her index finger frozen over the arrow key.

(I'll let you run for now)

Threat laced through each word with deliberate precision, like pins through a voodoo doll, and fear surged through her veins in a distinctly Pavlovian response.

He hadn't forgiven her for getting away.

He was warning her because he felt certain that it would do her no good, beyond scaring her senseless.

(Don't flee too far)

He believed he would capture her.

She knew she was giving him power over her by analyzing the message in such depth, doing his dirty work. She knew this, and yet she couldn't resist.

She never had been very good at that. Not with him.

A warm, sweet smell wafted into Val's bedroom and her stomach growled.

She padded into the kitchen and stared in surprise at the image of her mother wearing a flowered apron, bending over their dusty oven as if she thought she was Martha Stewart. “Good morning, Val,” she said, in a tone of forced cheer. “I'm making
pain au chocolat
.”

Val looked around for a box of pastry mix. There was none. “From scratch?”

“
Don't look so shocked,” her mother said, “I studied abroad in Paris, you know.”

Val hadn't known.

“
I got an email from Ms. Wilcox.”

“
Is that your art teacher? That was kind of her.”

“
She sounded worried.” Her voice caught a little. “What did you tell Principal Hopkins about me?”

“
Nothing personal. Just that you were having some family problems. He was very understanding.”

Her mother's look was pointed. Val avoided her eyes.

“
Thank you,” she whispered.

“
I still think you should talk to the police — ”

“
No.”

“
But if he — ”

“
No.”

Mrs. Kimble stiffened, then nodded. “Okay.” She took a tube of dark chocolate from the fridge, letting out her breath as she set it on the counter. “Okay,” she repeated. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn't change your mind.”

Val folded her arms on the table. “She asked me if I wanted to visit. Do you think I could?”

“
What time did she say again? After school? That doesn't sound like a very good idea, Val. I don't want you alone after school hours.”

“
Please? I miss my friends and teachers. I'm
lonely.
”

“
I don't want you anywhere even remotely close to that boy, Valerian. He might attack you. He might even kill you.”

Val paled. “You think he would? Kill me, I mean?”

“
I'd rather not find out,” her mother said sharply.

Both of them were silent.

“
Does that mean I can never go out again?” asked Val with an edge of bitterness.

“
No, honey. Of course not. Look. I'll call your teacher. I'll tell her we're having some safety concerns. About bullying — she doesn't need to know the details, just that you can't be left alone. If we can figure out a way for you to go safely, I'll take you to see your teacher.”

Val perked up a little. “When will you call her?”

“
As soon as the pastries are done.”

Val twitched visibly in her seat while her mother cleaned up the dishes with what seemed, to her, to be deliberate slowness. She fidgeted when her mother pulled the
pain
out of the oven with her ladybug-shaped mitts. Mrs. Kimble had been fixing her with a sideways look the entire time, torn between amusement and aggravation as her daughter's gaze flitted between the clock and the phone. It was nice to see Val still so excited about going outside, though.

There was a bit of a wild streak in Val — she had always loved being out in the sun, hiking, cycling, and especially doing anything related to or involving animals. They had recently signed Val up to work at the shelter as part of her mandatory community service; she had been so excited and wouldn't stop chattering, rather like a little animal herself.

Mrs. Kimble was afraid that what that horrible boy had done would stamp out that bit of life in her daughter, rendering her a pale shadow of her former self. Even now, she looked rather similar to a puppy that has found itself kicked, without warning or reason, and is still looking for the boot.

Mrs. Kimble had read up on some articles about victims of violent assault. Some became agoraphobic and were unable to venture outside without experiencing panic attacks. Others developed post-traumatic stress disorder and experienced vivid and terrifying reenactments of the initial trauma when confronted with stimuli that reminded them of the attack. To Mrs. Kimble's horror, these “stimuli” could be as subtle as an angle of light or shadow, or even just a sound.

According to the information in the articles there could be a delay between the attack and the onset of the symptoms. So maybe it was too early to celebrate. That sick son of a bitch. If her daughter's life was destroyed over this, she resolved, she and her husband would make him pay in full.

For now, she would do her best to get Val through this as painlessly as possible.

“
Hi. You've reached Barbara Wilcox. If you're hearing this message, I'm most likely teaching, working in my office, or have already left the campus. You can leave a message, or send me an email at B.R. Wilcox at DHS dot edu. Thank you, and take care.”

Mrs. Kimble left a phone message and then went to her office with Val trailing after her and wrote a similar message via email. “There,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “It's sent. Now eat.”

“
I'm not hungry.”

“
If you don't eat, you can't leave this house,” her mother said. “The choice is yours.”

“
Maybe I am a little hungry,” Val said.

“
Good girl. Come on. Let's go eat some
pain
. Chocolate makes everything better.”

Not everything
, thought Val.

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

Dear Mrs. Kimble,

I'm shocked and upset to hear that Valerian has been the victim of such vicious bullying. She really is such a sweet girl. I honestly can't imagine anyone taking dislike to her, but children can be cruel and irrational.

My classroom is close to the western parking lot, so if you like you can park, wait, and watch to ensure that she enters the building safely. I'll make sure none of the other students stay late.

P.S. Sorry I could not return your phone call! I'm in the middle of teaching a class and the students are under the (mistaken) impression that my using the phone gives them permission to do the same.

Warmest regards,

Barbara

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

“
What a lovely woman,” Val's mother said, reading the email. “Very charming.”

“
She's really nice. She always complimented me on my work, even when it sucked.”

“
Oh, hush,” said her mother. “You're a regular Rembrandt.”

Val made a face, though it was obvious she was trying hard not to look pleased.

“
Why don't you go change?” her mother suggested. “Wear something nice. And maybe we can go out to lunch afterward, when you're done talking with your teacher.”

“
I'd like that!” said Val, sounding almost like her cheerful self. “It'll be nice to get out of the house, too!”

Val raced upstairs, eager to escape the confines of her room. It would be nice to get her sketch back, too. She tugged on one of her nice blouses with an ivy motif and a broken-in pair of capris. As she was strapping on her sandals she happened to look at her laptop, still open to the offending message. She slammed her computer shut and walked away with a bounce in her step.

“
You look nice,” said her mother.

“
Thank you,” Val replied.

No mention to Gavin's email was made.

The sun was reaching its zenith as they pulled up into the western lot. Val avoided looking at the quad where she and Gavin had often talked in hushed tones beneath the grove of mulberry trees. The last day of school warranted an early dismissal, and the campus was gradually emptying out. Val had never seen her school look quite so sleepy or peaceful before.

“
Do you have your phone?” Mrs. Kimble asked.

“
Yes, Mom.”

“
Okay. If you finish early, call for pickup. Otherwise, I'll be here in about an hour.”

“
Yes, Mom.”

“
Have fun, Baby,” her mother said. “Be safe.”

She kept the car's engine running and watched as her daughter made a beeline to the art building. Watched as she tried the handle, found it unlocked, and peered inside the room. Watched as Val gave her a cheery wave and disappeared inside the classroom.

She stayed a few minutes longer, watching, and then slowly she drove away.

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

Mrs. Kimble was sitting down to a cup of tea when the phone rang. Thinking it was Val, she set the mug aside and said, “Hello?”

“
Hello,” an unfamiliar voice said pleasantly. “May I speak to Mrs. Kimble?”

“
This is she.”

“
Hello! I'm Barbara. Barbara Wilcox. One of Val's teachers — her art teacher.”

“
Oh, yes. I got your email. Val speaks very highly of you.”

“
My email?” A pause. “Well, I'm very happy to hear that. Val is a sweet girl, but it's hard to know what's going on behind their foreheads sometimes. Anyway, I've been looking at some of my students' works and Val's was amongst them. The one I'm speaking of is a lovely sketch of a warehouse on the edge of town.”

“
I know the one you mean. It's an eyesore.”

“
But Val has brought it to life. Your daughter is very talented, Mrs. Kimble. I wouldn't mind keeping the picture but I wanted to know if either you or Valerian wanted to pick it up. I fear that with many of my students it's a case of out of sight, out of mind. Something they may regret in a few years if they ever need to create a portfolio.”

Mrs. Kimble nodded, then remembered the other woman couldn't see it. “That's very considerate of you. I'd be delighted to have the picture — Val rarely shows me her work. You can just send it home with her when you're done.”

Another pause. “Excuse me?”

“
Well, since she's there with you I thought it might be easier to give her the picture in person. Are they still being graded?”

“
No, they're graded,” Ms. Wilcox said. “Val got an A. But she isn't here with me.”

“
Did she leave early? I told that girl — ”

“
She isn't here at all. I'm in my office. Alone,” Ms. Wilcox added, with a touch of irritation.

Fear coursed through Mrs. Kimble's veins like ice water. “But your email said — ”

“
What email? The one to the students about their final projects?”

Mrs. Kimble went to her computer and recited the email verbatim.

“
That's my address,” Ms. Wilcox said doubtfully, “But I didn't write that email.”

“
What?” Mrs. Kimble shrilled. “Then who did?”

“
Well … the only other person who could have possibly sent that email is my student TA, and I'm not sure why he would have done that.”