Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (22 page)

Claire stood in front of the hot oven, where she had just cooked scrambled eggs, hickory-smoked bacon, and hash browns with onions.

“Why are you screaming at me?” she demanded, using steel tongs to remove the strips of bacon from the sizzling frying pan. “And what are you yelling at me for?”

Now that she had sobered up, Ashley decided it was time to inform her mother that she knew about her charade. “This summer, mom, you had no right to ask Troy to console me! I don’t need his emotional charity. I don‘t need anyone‘s emotional charity. Don‘t you understand? You should have stayed out of it . . . Do you realize how embarrassing it is to find out the person you thought you were falling in love with was only with you because-” She did not know how to convey the precise feeling.

“Ashley, have you been drinking again?”

“Damn you mom! Are you listening to me, or am I talking to the wall?”

“You have been drinking again, haven’t you?”

Suddenly Ashley swatted that morning’s copy of the New York Times, which lay near her knife and fork, onto the floor. “Stop trying to change the subject. And don’t speak to me like I’m fourteen-years-old. I hate that!”

Claire appeared to be dumbfounded as she now carried the breakfast over to the table. She set the warm plates down and then bent over to pick up the paper.

“I don’t think my asking Troy this summer if he would give you a shoulder to cry on was such a bad thing, considering how depressed you were. I was concerned, Ashley. At the time I didn‘t know what else to do.”

Eventually, after the meal, Ashley settled down. Yet, she still couldn’t bear to hear her mother defending Troy, as if he’d done nothing wrong. He should have told her about Sarah, an issue that, no matter how her mother tried to skirt around it, should not have been overlooked.

While loading the dishwasher, Claire asked, “Why didn’t you confront me with this last night?” She jammed the greasy frying pan into the bottom rack, causing a cluttering explosion of racket.

“Because I didn’t feel like it.”

“But I already invited Troy over for Thanks giving. I told you that yesterday. Now what am I supposed to do?”

Ashley scowled. “Get on the phone today and un-invite him.”

“Ashley, that’s mean.”

“Oh please, mother, give me a break, he’ll get over it. He can eat Thanks giving dinner with his own family. I don‘t know why he accepted the invitation in the first place.”

“I guess he didn’t want me to know that the two of you had gone your separate ways.”

“That jerk!”

***

By seven-thirty, with her stomach churning like a bubbling volcano, Ashley came to the realization that she did not feel well enough to go to work.

She was too hung-over.

At breakfast, she had felt fine. Nevertheless, as soon as she had gone into the bathroom to bathe, her meal wound up in the toilet. Not even a mammoth mouthful of Pepto Bismal did anything to relieve her discomfort. Ashley felt she had no other alternative but to call Stella to let her know she wouldn’t be able to perform her shift.

Nervously, she found her cell phone and then punched in the number to the bakery. For some reason, Ashley feared that she might be fired. She did not know why she thought this, considering how much Stella liked her.

Chill out
, she whispered to herself, while staring in the mirror. Her eyes were like black holes, in dire need of Visine and more sleep.
You’re just paranoid. You could take a month off and Stella probably still wouldn’t fire you. So relax! She’s not going to suspect anything
.

“Good morning,” the owner answered respectfully. “Stella’s bakery.”

“Hi Stella.” Ashley purposely tried to sound sicker than she was. “It’s Ashley.”

“Hello Ashley. How are you?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” She feigned a cough.

“Uh oh,” her boss replied alertly. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Well, it’ not really bad news. I just won’t be able to make it in today.”

“That’s all right. You not coming in today are the least of my concerns.”

“Why, is something the matter?”

“Yes. Actually there is something the matter,” said Stella. “Would you believe when I arrived at the bakery this morning, the front window was soaped?”

“What do you mean by, soaped?”

“Soaped. Like the way bratty teenagers might soap a window on mischief night. And that wasn’t the only thing that happened. Someone also bombarded the front entrance with about a dozen eggs.”

Ashley shook her head and sighed. She suspected the culprit had likely been Sara Kline.
That chick must be nuts! Soap and eggs. The only thing she’d forgotten was the shaving cream
.

“And do you know what they wrote?” Stella asked.

“Huh?”

“On the window, do you know what the vandals wrote?”

“No. I couldn‘t possibly imagine.”

“BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, SLUT! That’s what they wrote. Can you believe that? When I first saw the graffiti, I was so shocked I thought I might have a stroke.”

Ashley was tempted to tell Stella who she thought might have done it. Then she decided against it. She did not feel like explaining everything, particularly during the irksome throes of a hangover.

However, if Sara Kline ever did something like this again (or like Ashley had told Troy, something else to her car) then she would definitely notify the authorities and have them throw Sarah Kline in jail.

As she promised, Kitty Woo phoned Ashley at exactly noon. She had acquired the morphine.

“I knew I could count on you,” Ashley said excitedly. “Except I’m not at the bakery. So don‘t stop by there.”

Bewildered, Kitty asked where she was.

“I’m at home. I‘ve been home all morning.” Rather than go into how she had a hangover, Ashley figured it would be easier to make up a story. “I couldn’t go to work today because the baby’s not feeling well. She’s running a bit of a fever. So could you stop by the house?”

“If I have to,”

“Thanks. How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m on my way now,” Kitty responded in a business-like tone. “So be looking for me. I don’t want to have to knock.”

“Okay. You won’t.”

***

Ten minutes later, after parting the living room drapes, Ashley watched Kitty’s green Volkswagen bug pull up outside. She parked near the mailbox.

Showered and dressed, Ashley rushed to the door.

Her Asian-American friend, who wore a trendy leather jacket, thumped her side pocket, signaling that that was where the pills were.

“Where’s your mother?” Kitty asked, stepping inside the house. The clock on the wall ticked softly.

“She had to run some errands.”

“Perfect.” They went into the kitchen. It smelled of lemony floor wax. “What about your daughter?”

“Kimberly’s upstairs taking a nap. And don’t worry about my mom. She won’t be back until later. Could I offer you something to drink, soda, water, a glass of orange juice?”

“No. I‘ll pass. Do you have the cash?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Down to my art studio. That’s where I have the money. Watch your step. It’s kind of difficult getting down these steps, especially in heels.”

The basement, because no blinds covered the low-to-the-ground windows, was inundated with sunlight.

“What a trip,” Kitty remarked. With probing eyes, she glanced around.

“Yes. This is my studio. This is where I spend most of my time.”

“Holy tamale girl, it’s so Bohemian down here.” Kitty chucked Ashley the morphine bottle. “There you go . . . And again, Ashley, as I always feel inclined to do, I’m warning you not to mix this stuff with wine or martinis. Or whatever it is you’re drinking nowadays. Not even a little. Okay?”

“Trust me, I won’t. The only thing I might mix this stuff with is coffee to help keep me awake.” Ashley stepped over to the table near her easel to get her pocketbook.

As soon as Kitty had counted the money, she began to inspect Ashley’s art.

Like her latest work, these full-size paintings were surreal portrayals of famous buildings: The Washington Monument. Buckingham Palace. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. And one of the St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, which her mother blushingly thought was the most remarkable piece that Ashley, had ever composed.

“Whoa!” Kitty said, awestruck. “These paintings are spellbinding. I have to give it to you, Ashley; you’re more gifted than I thought you were.”

“Thank you. That‘s kind of you to say” Ashley felt both flattered and embarrassed. Everyone always seemed to praise her artwork to the point where she did not feel she deserved it.

“What’s this painting called?” Kitty inquired, aiming her finger at the canvas of Buckingham Palace.

“That piece is entitled, ‘A toast to the Queen.’”

“Neat. That makes sense. Buckingham Palace. The Queen of England . . . What about this one here?”

“That one I call ‘Afternoon in Moscow’.”

“Girl, these paintings are so outstanding they belong in a museum. And what about this one? The picture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa? It’s so intricate. I love how blue the sky is, and how you have the Italian flag flying like a kite in the breeze.”

“That one I named, ’Pisa’,” Ashley told her. “I couldn’t think of anything else to title it. And the smaller painting on the floor of the Washington Monument is ‘Beautiful America’.”

“I really am loving this, girl.” As she continued to survey the room, Kitty folded her arms. “More than you’ll ever know. You should charge admission. So what kind of paint do you use?”

“Strictly oil. That’s why I have to use turpentine to clean my brushes. I apologize about the smell.”

“No big deal.” Kitty shifted her attention to the easel. “So all of these works of art are linked to September 11
^th
?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“The painting on your easel. I see the plane about to crash into the Empire State Building. So I’m assuming all of these other buildings are supposed to represent landmarks that you think might one day be targeted.”

Ashley could not help but find that theory fascinating. “I only hint at that possibility,” she explained, “in that piece with the New York theme. In all of these other paintings, there is no hidden meaning. I doubt terrorists would want to blow up the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or a cathedral in Russia. Then again, the Washington Monument maybe, and Buckingham Palace, considering how Al Quaida probably hates the British as much as they hate us.”

“That’s true. The British are our closest allies. So have you visited all of these different countries?

“No. I wish. Actually, other than going to the Bahamas on my honeymoon, I’ve never traveled outside the United States.”

“Then where do you get your inspiration from?”

“I look at photographs and pretend I’m there.” Ashley had turned to this technique because her mother had suggested she try to paint with more elegance and sophistication. Claire secretly had a thing against the rape-based paintings. In her mind, if her daughter were ever invited to take part in a high-class exhibition, she would prefer that Ashley did it with tasteful paintings, as opposed to haunting works based on madness.

“Anyway,” said Kitty, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Whatever you’re doing, it certainly seems to be working. I for one am completely blown away by your ability.”

Not long after Kitty had left, Ashley sat down in the living room and read the warning labels on the morphine bottle. The yellow one said,

MAY CAUSE MARKED DROWSINESS. USE CAUTION WHEN OPERATING A CAR OR DANGEROUS MACHINERY.

The read label read,

DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES WHEN TAKING THIS MEDICATION.

Obviously, since this wasn’t a legitimate prescription, Kitty did not have to attach these labels. Ashley assumed she had done it to remind her how dangerous the pills could be, particularly if she were to take more than the recommended dosage.

These warning labels were the same ones that had been on the morphine bottle that she had thieved from Brad. Yet for some reason, the cautionary statements had not warranted Ashley’s attention back then the way they were now.

To hell with Troy
!

Why did he keep invading her thoughts?

It was so frustrating. Why should Ashley care about Troy when he didn’t care about her? If he hadn’t betrayed her, she wouldn’t have to resort to this. Now Ashley felt she had no other alternative but to start self medicating again, to halt the agony and disillusionment he had caused her.

And screw therapy
!

What good did it do anyway, socializing with other rape victims, swapping stories of heartache?

Instead of helping, therapy seemed to bring Ashley more sorrow. Hanging out with depressed people who couldn’t seem to pull their lives together, and who did nothing but complain how unfair it was that they were victims. Ashley didn’t need to be reminded of that.

What was she supposed to do, keep recounting to the group how terrified and sickened she had been when she had been forced to give it up to those twisted maniacs behind her former job? And how she had been lucky to survive? No way! Ashley was done with that.

Besides, her therapy group knew about Troy. It would be upsetting to them if Ashley told them how he had let her down? About how he lied, and pretended to be her boyfriend because he felt bad for her. The group was extremely happy believing that Troy was Ashley’s hero. If she were to communicate this demoralizing news, negativity would prevail, causing smiles to wane.

Suddenly she found herself longing for Peter. Ashley realized, more than ever, that no one had ever loved her more than her husband had. And now she wanted to die so that they could be reunited.

Because from now on, Ash, you, me, and the baby, will be like the three musketeers.