Strung (19 page)

"Yeah, well not as terrible as not being there for her, when she needed us!"

"Have you tried to find him?"

"No Acacia.  It's his business." he spits bitterly.  I know I'm pushing too far and I leave that thread of conversation well alone.

"Chayton I..."
I
what?  What is it I want to say?  What do I want to do? 
"I need to think this through.  All of it - including the Liberal
thingy
." My voice is soft and surprisingly controlled. 

"That is understandable.  But please, please believe me when I say that we – that I – meant you no harm and I am truly sorry," he pleads.
“Becoming involved was not part of the plan.”

"Sorry?" 
I have had enough and snap.  "What exactly are you sorry for?"  I yell.  I stand up, tearing my hands from his and start pacing the room.

"Well?  Do you want to elaborate?  Because I have a long list of things I feel sorry for right now!" 
I am aware that I probably look like a mad woman, stalking up and down the room in heels, stockings and a revealing striptease outfit, in full rant mode.  I have been known to reduce grown men to tears when I get started, but I just don't care!

"You're not going to answer?  Fine!  I'll tell you what
I'm
sorry for!" I continue.

"I'm
sorry
I ever got involved with that little prick!  Yes!  Compared to you, he doesn't have much to brag about!  I'm
sorry
that I was foolish enough to hope that he was capable of loving me even a fraction as much as he loved himself!  I'm
sorry
that I allowed him to slowly whittle away at my love, my confidence, my beliefs, my will, until there was nothing left; until I was just an empty shell of a person - the proverbial brainless, emotionless Stepford Wife!"  I pause just long enough to wipe frantically at the scalding tears streaming down my face.  I glimpse a movement and see him make to rise.

"No way mister!  I'm far from done!"
I point at the chair angrily and he wisely stays put, staring at me wide eyed.

"I'm
sorry
that because of him, I now spend my life actually feeling guilty for something I had no control over!  I'm
sorry
that for one precious moment I was weak enough to open the gates inviting you in - the very monster I had built the gates to keep out." I end in a whisper, my irate rant, running on fumes.

We stare at each other warily across the room, both of us worn out.  He looks so sincere and contrite that my heart goes out to him but I need to protect my own fragile threads of sanity. 
Finally, I find the energy to speak.  "I'd like to go home now please," I murmur politely.

~.~

Both of us are locked up with our own despondent thoughts, an ocean separating us on the pale soft leather of the SUV's back seat.  The silence is only broken by my brief phone call to Grace, advising her that I have found my own way home.

I say goodbye politely and let myself in.  I feel like I'm dragging myself through treacle.  My mind is trapped in a tempest of revelations.  Grant has a possible history with Robert.  Grant brought in Grace.  Can I trust Grant and Grace anymore? 
Just how many puppet masters do I have?  I wonder what Victoria is doing right now, if she would mind me banging on her door so late?  Could Victoria be the only soul left in the world, I could possibly trust?  I head up to my room and collapse on my bed in a tight protective ball as the dam bursts and my grief rips my soul apart.

Chapter 10

5th April

Time has shrunk to insignificance.  My days blur into a sticky morass of grey and black as the depth of my hurt and near paranoia consumes me.  I think I have eaten.  I think I have washed.  I think at some point I have removed my aching body from bed long enough to do these things.  I can’t recall.  My physical self continues to function on automatic - on survival mode.

My shattered, broken conscious is no longer connected to my body and I'm grateful.  Grateful, because I know that if I could feel the emptiness, which now occupies the place my heart once beat in, I might not survive. 

Chayton's betrayal of my trust has utterly destroyed me. 

I'm lying on my bed, curled up in misery
, heat pounding.  Somewhere, a grating sound is pushing at my consciousness, insistent and determined.  I sink deeper into the black, ignoring it.  It stops.  It will come back.  It always does.

A new noise jars me rudely to awareness.  The door to my room is rattling with the force of someone knocking
hard.

"What?"
I groan, realising how thick and dry my mouth is.

The door opens and Grace enters clucking.  "Victoria is on
my
phone, Acacia.  And you know why she is on
my
phone?  Because
you
refuse to answer yours; so talk to her –
now
!" she orders and holds the offending piece of technology out to me.

I lift my hand to reach for the phone, surprised at how heavy my arm feels.  Grace stalks out the room, closing the door behind her.

"Hello."

"Acacia."

"Victoria."

"I just phoned to see what condition your condition is in."

"Ha ha," I respond dryly.

"Well at least you understood the humour in that, even if you didn't find it funny.  Have you eaten today?"

"Probably."

"Okay.  Are you still hurting?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll leave you alone with your pain then and check up on you in a few days," she sighs.

Wait what?
  I claw my way frantically to lucidness.

"That's it?"
I demand, my voice sounding stronger.

"That's what?"

"You're not going to try and get me to talk, or step out of the land of the living dead?  You're not worried that maybe my current behaviour is perhaps a little unhealthy?" I sit up, still hugging a pillow.

"Welcome back."
  Her voice is soft but firm and I know I’ve just been conned.

I sit in stunned silence, trying to process my sudden and rude awakening. 

Victoria waits a beat then orders slowly and softly, "Acacia, I want you to go and have a hot shower, scrub your hair, dress properly in anything but Pyjamas and join Grace for dinner; she has already ordered your favourite.  When you have finished, I want you to do whatever Grace asks you to do.  In the morning – phone me."

I don't know what to say.

"Do it now, Acacia.  Speak to you in the morning."  The line goes dead.

I let the phone fall to the duvet and stare at it.  She is right.  I've mourned long enough – however long that is.  I need to fight this.  Weary to the bone, I follow her instructions. 

I take care to focus on the now.  I listen to the sounds of water splashing in the shower and breathe in the fragrances of the soaps and shampoos, picking out the subtle combinations of fruits and flowers that make up each one.  I feel the initial sting of the hot water and imagine it washing more than just the soap and dirt from my skin.  I notice the softness of my towel as I rub myself vigorously.  I study the grout on the floor tiles as I towel dry my hair.  I feel the different textures of each item of clothing as I dress, noticing the new fragrance of the laundry detergent still lingering.  I scrub my teeth, feeling the usual prickle it causes in my nostrils and try not to rub the prickle away as I usually would.

I open my blinds and take in the burnt orange clouds, washed by a setting sun.  I pull a brush through my hair, feeling each root pull against my protesting scalp as I try to untangle the knots. 
Finally, I feel able to open my door.

Grace has ordered my favourite Subway, informing me that it is Friday night after all and we sit together at the breakfast bar.  She doesn't mention my behaviour or Chayton or Donavan's Pass.  She doesn't ask me how I'm feeling either – I'm glad.

Instead, she fills me in on the comings and goings of our guests, conversations held with Grant, and updates on the bills and accounts.  Fabulously, wonderfully, marvellously normal stuff!  

It's close to midnight before she allows me to trudge back to my room.  I've helped with stock-take in the pantry, we watched television together and played cards.  Now I'm
grateful to be back in my private space.  I remake my bed with fresh linen and open my window for a few minutes, to clear some of the demons from the room.  Tomorrow, I vow silently, it will be better.  It has to be.

~.~

7th April

I've had a rough weekend. 
I have started and deleted dozens of emails to Chayton -   C.J. Donavan.  To whoever-the-hell-he-is.  I haven't sent a single one.  I lean back in my office chair and gaze at the changing light outside the small window.  I have been in complete denial about the depth of my feelings for this man.  I had reasoned that it was the companionship, the sex, the idea, I was in love with. 

The
irrational truth is – it's him I love, so much, it hurts.  It's probably better that the relationship ends now.  The last thing I want is for him to smother me with some well-meaning pity or ill-perceived sense of duty if he finds out how much I love him.

If only it didn't hurt so much.  I feel as if
I have lost the high definition setting on all my senses.  Colours aren't as bright, sounds aren't as clear, tastes and fragrances have become bland and my body's ability to fight gravity has become lacking.  It's exhausting.

Grace lost it with me this morning over breakfast.  I don't blame her really.  At the end of her
well-meaning rant, she made me promise to join her on the sofa this afternoon for one of her infamous movie fests. 
If
I can actually focus on whatever movies she has chosen, the distraction might be good, for a few hours anyway. 

I have
slipped into comfortable sweats and an over sized t-shirt, pulling on a pair of thick socks before trudging heavily down stairs.  Dressed comfortably usually helps me focus.  I sigh and look at the umpteenth email waiting on my monitor, the cursor flashing after Dear Chayton, mocking me. 
To hell with it!
  I delete the email and shut down the machine. 

I know that
little May will be joining us, so I have between my office and living room, to find my happy face and slide it on.  They are ready for me when I get there.  Popcorn, pop, crisps and dip are all laid out on the coffee table.  May is sprawled out on the rug with her duvet and pillows, bounding with young teenage excitement.  Grace is smiling at me, patting the sofa next to her in expectation.

"Come on Acacia," beams thirteen year old May.
"We're watching Twilight – All of them!" she oozes with excitement.

"Seriously?"
I role my eyes at Grace.

"Honey, you haven't watched Twilight until you've watched it from my perspective!" she grins.

"Okay, press play!" I sigh, sinking into my chair.

Grace can be incredibly annoying to watch movies with.  She doesn't tell you what's going to happen next – but she does talk non-stop throughout the film.  Occasionally, the constant commentary can actually make a film more exciting to watch.
We're on the third movie before she really gets started and whatever she's been slipping into her drink – and mine - is helping to fire up that wicked imagination of hers.

"You see...that's just the antithesis of what every woman needs," she quips.  "A man who is a frozen popsicle, eats four-legged cauliflowers, and is a fast operator."

I snort into my glass of happy juice as May demands an explanation from Grace.

"The man is ice cold, and he has this misguided conception that the four-legged forest creatures he prefers to hunt are vegetables.  As for the too fast...I'll tell you when
you're thirty," she winks at May, who has only just got the joke, and is now giggling uncontrollably on the floor.

"Jake isn't so bad," May says eventually when her giggles subside.

"Are you kidding!  Honey, that vampire might be the opposite of what every woman wants, but Jake?  Come on!  The boy is a dog.  He's what most of us, unintentionally, end up with."

"How so?" asks May, old beyond her years, yet still so innocent.

"Men, like dogs, are smelly creatures that hang around in rowdy packs, pee in all the wrong places and spend most of their time sniffing butts, fighting amongst themselves and barking orders."

"
Ewww!"  May pulls a face but giggles anyway, and her giggle is contagious.  Through Graces eyes and beautifully twisted mind, we snort and giggle our way through the films until May falls asleep and her father, Edward, comes down to carry her to bed.

"Thanks for that.  The separation has been hard for her," he whispers.

"No sweat.  That's what I'm here for," grins Grace. 

"Well thanks anyway," he says and leaves us alone.

"How are you faring?" she asks looking at me.

"I'm drunk, and I'll regret this in the morning – but for now, I'm okay," I lie. 

The truth is, although the alcohol, company and laughter have taken the edge off, I feel emotionally battered and completely empty, like my soul has left my body and taking all forms of happiness with it, leaving a big hollow space behind.

We continue watching the last
film, Grace comes up with comment about Edward Cullen and his chick sharing the same shade of lipstick to save money and I start laughing hysterically. 
Oh no!  Here it comes!

I laugh until my stomach hurts and
tears of mirth are streaming down my face and then real tears streaming down my face
.
  Scalding tears, that burn furrows, and I'm sobbing uncontrollably into Graces shoulder as she croons softly into my hair, her arms wrapped tight around me.

“Who the fuck am I?” I sob, although what I really want to do is scream the question in frustration.

“Who do you want to be, Acacia?”  Grace asks quietly.  “Look into your soul and find your reflection there.  Don’t be afraid of what you’ll find.  I can see you clearly and it’s an inspiring and awesome vision, but to believe it you need to see it for yourself.”  She rocks her body gently, soothing me.  “You fear the best parts of you Acacia, thinking these parts make you weak; a target.  You are so wrong.  These are the parts that give you so much power.  Acacia, there is nothing wrong with you girl.  Your kindness, your generosity, your natural instinct to want to trust and give the benefit of the doubt – these are gifts.  The man that made you doubt yourself – he is at fault.  He is the broken one.  Never forget that.”

~.~

8th April

I start awake.  I'm wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa.  Grace must have left me here when I fell asleep.  The only light in the room is filtered through lace curtains from the street lights out side.  I hear the sound again.  Soft.  The whisper of fabric rubbing against fabric.  I listen carefully, holding my breath so I can hear better.  The brief squeak of a shoe sole on the tiled kitchen floor is all it takes to confirm that I have an
intruder and my heart starts racing.   

I very slowly release the breath I've been holding and inhale some welcome air as quietly as I can.  Shifting carefully into a sitting position on the sofa, I free myself from the blanket.  I stand slowly, grateful for the soundproofing of my thick socks and tiptoe to stand behind a concrete pillar. 
I am sure the sound of my galloping heart can be heard in the room next door.  I tense hearing a small sound again, this time just on the other side of the flimsy wooden door, separating the kitchen from the living room.  I scoot to the door, pressing my back against the wall next to it.  I am relying upon the door to protect and hide me if it opens.  I wonder if everyone upstairs is sound asleep.  I hope so.

The door handle moves a little and I hold my breath as it stops in mid turn.  Then suddenly it completes the turn and the door swings quietly open.  I will my heart to be quiet, sure it's going to give me away and watch in terror as a dark masculine figure eases into the room and stops in the middle.  I'm pressed up against the wall trying to meld my atoms into the plaster.  If the door had opened fully, I would be hidden, but it didn't and I'm completely exposed.  All he has to do is turn.

And he does.  I don't give him a chance to react.  I take a running step toward the figure and use the momentum to swing a foot as hard as I can.  I feel a satisfied crunch of crushing gristle as my foot connects and hear a whoosh of expelled air and a hoarse grunt.  I race for the light switch.