Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (8 page)

What’s more, at one point, she had sworn she had seen Craig Elliot’s face in the rearview, as if he were in the backseat. This time his partner Buck Kennedy was with him.

At that instant, spooked out of her mind, Ashley almost drove her black Toyota off of the road. In the process, she had inadvertently run a guy on a ten-speed off of the shoulder.

The perturbed cyclist flipped her the bird. “You brainless bitch!” the man on the bike yelled, shaking his fist. “Since when do they allow blind people to have driver’s licenses?” He stood brushing dirt and gravel from his scraped knees.

Ashley did not notice the biker, and because she had her car stereo turned up to a near deafening volume, she did not hear the person in the Jeep behind her honking their horn at her either.

***

While Claire Whittaker busied herself sweeping the front porch, she suddenly saw her daughter’s Toyota drive up. From Ashley’s car stereo the booming echo of drums, bass guitar, and Mariah Carey’s high-octave voice rattled the previously quiet neighborhood. Shockingly, Ashley practically swerved into the garbage cans that were near the mailbox.

What’s her problem? Claire thought, leaning the broom against the door. She hurried down the cobblestone walkway to the concrete driveway. When she peeked through the Toyota’s windshield, Claire became irritated that her daughter had a cigarette in her mouth. Did you expect otherwise? That’s all she seems to do lately. Is smoke! Smoke! Smoke!

After exiting the vehicle, Ashley removed her Diva shades.

To Claire, her daughter’s eyes looked spacey and bloodshot. Upon further investigation, she concluded that Ashley must have been suffering from allergies. “Honey, you just bought that car. What are you trying to do, wreck it already?”

Ashley frowned. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Well, you did almost crash into the garbage cans.”

“C’mon mom. Give me a break. I made a sharp turn. That’s all.” From the trunk Ashley retrieved a plastic bag from Kohl’s. From it she withdrew a floppy hat. “What do you think of this?”

“Looks a bit small.”

“It’s not for me. This is a sunhat for the baby. For when I take Kimberly to the beach. I’ve had it in the trunk since yesterday. Almost forgot about it.” Ashley took a long pull from her Marlboro Light.

Scowling, Claire turned her head to avoid getting smoke in her face. “For heaven’s sake, Ashley, can’t you put that thing out? Why’d you even have to start smoking? You lived your entire life avoiding cigarettes. Now all of a sudden this year you smoke like a chimney. It’s disgusting. I don’t get it.”

Disregarding the criticism, Ashley shook her head and then slammed the trunk shut.

***

In the house, her mother asked, “So where’ve you been?”

“Out.”

“I know you were out. I was curious as to where you were.”

Ashley did not feel like answering. Why couldn’t she come and go without being interrogated? She wasn’t a kid anymore. She was an adult.

“I gather you’re not going to tell me?”

“If you must know, I was at the cemetery.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. An hour.”

“What’d you do?”

“What do you think I did? I put more flowers on Peter’s grave.” In the oven-heated kitchen, Ashley observed that the juicy roast was already on a cutting board. It smelled yummy. The meal also included steamed string beans, carrots, and a tin of rolls.

“You know, it isn’t healthy, Ashley. I understand how much you still miss Peter. I was like that after your father passed away. But sooner or later you’re going to have to let go.”

Ashley walked over to the sink to sanitize her hands.

“I will eventually,” she insisted, reaching for the Jergens hand soap. “Except I don’t know why you say it’s unhealthy for me to still visit his grave. Peter hasn’t even been gone for a year. If anything, I think it’s beneficial. It keeps me from being lonely.”

“Maybe so.” With a long serrated knife, Claire started to slice the meat. “Don’t you agree though, it’s a little bizarre to be talking to a gravestone, half-expecting that gravestone to speak back to you?”

“I don’t believe you!” Ashley accused, suddenly swinging herself around. “You’ve been spying on me.” With a dishtowel, she dried her hands. “There’s no way you could know I do that unless you were spying on me.”

“I wasn’t spying. One day last month I was looking for you, so I drove over there . . . Ash honey, if you want to talk to his grave, go ahead. I’m just saying it’s not going to bring Peter back. The way I see it, you should focus on what you do have. You have Kimberly. You have me. And now you have a new job. Life is looking up.”

Ashley sighed. “Whatever,” she muttered, now sitting down. “Let’s just eat dinner. I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But I’m not in the mood for a pep talk.”

“Okay. Guess what?”

“What?”

“I found Kimberly a high-chair. Throw some stain and varnish on it and it’ll look as good as new.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. Thank you, mom. You didn’t have to do that.”

What Claire Whittaker enjoyed doing, since retiring two years ago, was buy and then resell things on EBay. She’d pawn anything from old books, records, sewing machines, dolls, to any kind of trinket she could find either in her attic, or at the various flea markets, garage or yard sales, which she attended on a weekly basis. “I know. I wanted to. The next thing I’m going to do is look for a stroller.”

“All right,” Ashley told her. “You can do that. Then that’s it! You hear me? I don’t want you going overboard buying things for Kimberly. We don’t need to spoil her.”

“I’m not going to spoil her.”

“I hope not.”

“Although look who just purchased her a new hat.”

“I bought her the hat for the beach. She can’t be sitting in the hot sun with a bald head.”

Claire carried a serving dish with the steaming roast beef on it to the table. “And I bought her the high-chair because the one we have is cracked from when you accidentally knocked it over on Monday. Remember?”

Ashley filled her plate with both the meat and the veggies. “Okay. And I said thank you. I just don’t want her to grow up expecting things.”

“I understand,” Claire said, handing Ashley the tub of butter and a roll. “From now on anytime I decide to get Kimberly something, I’ll clear it with you first. Deal?”

“Okay. Deal.”

“Pass me the salt. I’m starved.”

“Me too. Wow! This roast beef is excellent. I hardly need a knife to cut it, it’s cooked perfectly.”

“It is delicious. This time, Ash, I almost cooked the roast beef as great as you do. Which, as you know is pretty sad when you consider that your father and I owned a diner. I should be able to cook the meat better than you.”

“I think your specialty is meatloaf,” Ashley noted. “I remember when I briefly worked there again during college, that’s what the customers used to like. The meatloaf and those big bacon double cheeseburgers.”

***

After supper, Ashley escaped to the basement, which she had recently turned into an art studio.

When she was younger, Ashley used to paint portraits, still life, and landscapes with peaceful themes. Since the rape, however, that had changed dramatically. Now she was doing frightening surreal art, alternating from daring cubist style to emotional impressionism.

Of late she had also started to write equally menacing poetry. Ashley kept these personal thoughts recorded in a journal beside her bed. In that same nightstand drawer, that’s where she also stored her .22 Caliber revolver. Ashley had purchased the firearm to help her feel safe, particularly when she planned to be out at night.

Her mother had not wanted her to buy it. Claire felt uncomfortable having a loaded gun in the house. She had heard too many horror stories about how they can accidentally discharge.

Now, after putting on her favorite Shania Twain CD, Come on Over, and locating her pallet and a clean brush, Ashley stepped in front of her easel.

Onto a new canvas, she let her imagination run wild. Soon mesmerizing images materialized.

On a nearby table, next to her pint of Smirnoff vodka, Ashley’s two bottles of prescription medication seemed to be beckoning her name.

There would be no nightmares tonight. Ashley was sure of that. The sleeping pills would see to that.

The following morning, Ashley’s mother woke her up at eleven o‘clock. Claire stood beside the queen-size bed, with the baby cradled in her arms.

Groggily, Ashley pushed her floral quilt, blanket, and sheet away from her face. Then, with her eyes still shut, she yawned.

“We were wondering if you were going to sleep all day,” her mother announced teasingly, putting the fidgety child down on the mattress. “Kimberly, my daughter is becoming lazy. Tell her to get up?” Claire wore an aquamarine V-neck top, a skirt, and she had her platinum hair pulled neatly into a secure bun. Kimberly only had a diaper on. The baby’s clothes were still in the dryer.

“Okay,” Ashley whispered unfocusedly. “I’ll be up in a minute. Is that coffee or tea I smell?”

“Coffee. I already made you a cup. It’s on the kitchen counter.”

“Oh. Awesome. Thanks. Did you put sugar in it?”

“Yes. And milk.”

“Great.” Sitting up, Ashley massaged her temples. It took a moment before she realized it was Saturday. Judging by the sunshine streaming in the window, (her mother had yanked the drapes open) Ashley could see that it was a gorgeous day. The authoritative light forced her to look sideways.

Jeez! How many sleeping pills had Ashley taken?
They were powerful, especially mixing them with vodka. For the first time in a long time, as she had hoped, Ashley did not have any bad dreams.

After slipping into her pink Terrycloth robe, she carried her big mug of Maxwell House out to the deck in the backyard, where her mother sat cozily at the patio table underneath the umbrella.

The fragrant lawn, which was enclosed by a wooden fence, was superbly green, recently mowed and weed whacked. On the other side of the six-foot high fence, they could hear their neighbor the Murray’s sprinkler.

“I still can’t get over how you converted the basement into an art studio,” Claire commented, as Ashley casually pulled up a chair.

Beside them, Kimberly rolled around in her crib, where she spent most of her time. Claire had an electric fan on, which kept the baby cool.

“Yeah. I suppose I gave it quite a make-over.” Again, Ashley yawned.

“That’s an understatement. It looks like a completely different room.”

“That it does. Sorry about the clutter.”

“Ahh. I don’t mind,” her mother said, nonchalantly flipping through the pages of that month’s
People
magazine. “The way you have the cellar looking now, reminds me of a movie I saw back in the eighties about this eccentric painter who had a studio in Paris . . . His was way messier than yours. Paintings, canvases, frames, drop cloths, and brushes strewn everywhere.”

“I’ll straighten it up this week.”

“No hurry. By the way, Ashley, when are you going to start trying to sell some of your artwork? Your paintings are spectacular. You’re more talented now than ever. You should take your art up to New York. If you did, I don‘t think it would take that long for you to be discovered.”

Ashley‘s sipped her hot beverage. “I’ve been thinking about doing that. Might have to drive up there one of these days and start visiting different galleries, see if they’ll include something I‘ve done in one of their exhibitions. I guess you’ve noticed my artwork lately is extremely personal.”

“Yes. I have noticed that.” As Claire spoke, she kept her attention focused on her magazine. A cold can of Diet Coke was perched on a coaster near her hand. “You’re reliving what happened to you. That last piece you did of the dead baby lying near the woods made that obvious.”

“Do you like that painting?” Ashley asked, not pleased to hear that one of their other neighbor’s the Abrams, had started their lawn mower. “That particular piece only took me about a week to complete.”

“Yes. The painting is wonderful. It’s so reminiscent of Picasso. I love the cubist approach. However, my only criticism would be that a depiction of a dead baby is a bit disturbing. Though I‘m sure there’s a market for a piece like that. I‘ll tell you what, I‘ll post the painting on the internet. See what kind of feedback I get.”

“All right. By painting what happened to me,” Ashley explained. “I think I’m subconsciously trying to rid myself of the memories. I know the baby didn‘t die, but at the time, when I was being held hostage, that‘s what scared me the most.”

Her mother’s voice took on an analytical pitch. “That‘s all well and good, Ash. But I wish you would have stayed in therapy. In this psychology book I’m reading, the author said some rape victims never learn how to be intimate again . . . And you’re so young. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

“Mother, we’ve discussed this before. And I’m going to tell you again, if I ever feel the need to go back into therapy, I’ll go. It’ll be my decision. Not yours.” Ashley stood up.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Inside. I need to freshen up.”

***

Like mysterious shadows, the ghosts followed Ashley into the bathroom.

After ten minutes, when she had stepped out of the hot shower, smelling of Dove soap, Ashley saw the bearded man Craig Elliot lock the door. KA KLICK! His powerfully built accomplice, Buck Kennedy stood near the porcelain sink, his back facing the steamed-covered mirror.

Self-conscious because she was nude, Ashley froze for a moment, unsure what to do. Her attackers stared at her with eerie eyes. The ghosts wore the same long-sleeved flannel shirts that they had on the night of the rape. The same blue jeans and muddy boots as well. Yet, to Ashley’s surprise, there were no dirty footprints on the floor. The peach-colored tile was still well scrubbed, and smelled of lemon disinfectant.

Our girl here
, Craig said to Buck,
doesn’t realize she’s walking among the dead. She’s dying and doesn’t even realize it
.