The Cove
Page 40
She was usually alone. At the beginning some of the patients had tried to talk to her, in their way, but she’d turned away from them. It didn’t matter really, because most of the time her brain was fuzzy, so completely disconnected from anything she could identify either outside herself or inside that she was as good as lost in a deep cave. Or she was floating up in the ether. There was no reality here, no getting up at six in the morning to run up Exeter Street over to Concord Avenue, covering a good two miles, then run home, jump in the shower, and think about all she had to do that day while she washed her hair.
Senator Bainbridge went to the White House at least twice a week. Many times she was with him, keeping together all his notes for the topics to be discussed. It was easy for her to do that, since she’d written most of the notes and knew more than he did about his stands on his committee projects. She’d done so much, been involved in so many things—press releases, huddling with staff and the senator when a hot story broke and they tried to determine the best position for the senator to take.
There were always fund-raisers, press parties, embassy parties, political parties. So much, and she’d loved it, even when she would fall exhausted into bed.
At first Scott had told her how proud he was of her. He’d seemed excited to be invited to all the parties, to meet all the important players. At first.
Now she did nothing. Someone washed her hair twice a week. She scarcely noticed unless they let water run down her neck. She didn’t have any muscles anymore, even though someone took her for long walks every day, just like a dog. She’d wanted to run once, just run and feel the wind against her face, feel her face chapping, but they didn’t let her. After that they gave her more drugs so she wouldn’t want to run again.
And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide—nothing sharp, no belts.
He had furnished it for her, she’d heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn’t splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.
Then he’d strip off her clothes and make her lie on her back on the bed. He would walk around the bed, looking at her, talking to her about his day, his work, about the woman he was currently sleeping with. Then he’d unzip his trousers and show her himself, tell her how lucky she was to get to see him, that he would let her touch him but he didn’t quite trust her yet.
He’d touch her all over. He’d rub himself. Just before he came, he’d hit her at least once, usually in the ribs.
Once when his head was thrown back in his orgasm, she saw through the fog in her eyes that there were two people at the window opening in the door, staring at them, talking even as they looked. She’d tried to push him away, but it hadn’t worked. She had so little strength. He’d finished, then leaned down, seen the hatred in her eyes, and struck her face. It was the only time he had ever hit her in the face.
She remembered once how he’d turned her onto her belly, pulling her back toward him and how he’d said that maybe one day he’d let her have him, let her feel him going into her, deep, and it would hurt because he was big, didn’t she agree? But no, she didn’t deserve him yet. And who cared? They had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he’d told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.
She hadn’t said anything. He’d struck her for that, with his belt, on her buttocks. He hadn’t stopped for a very long time. She remembered screaming, begging, screaming some more, trying to wriggle away from him, but he’d held her down. He hadn’t stopped.
It was five a.m. when Quinlan was jerked out of a deep sleep by her scream, loud, piercing, so filled with pain and helplessness that he couldn’t bear it. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her against him, trying to soothe her, saying anything that came to mind, just talking and talking to bring her out of the dreadful nightmare.
“God, it hurt so much, but he didn’t care, he just kept hitting and hitting, holding me down so I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. I screamed and screamed, but nobody cared, nobody came, but I know those faces were looking in the window and they loved it. Oh, God, no, make it stop. STOP IT!”
Senator Bainbridge went to the White House at least twice a week. Many times she was with him, keeping together all his notes for the topics to be discussed. It was easy for her to do that, since she’d written most of the notes and knew more than he did about his stands on his committee projects. She’d done so much, been involved in so many things—press releases, huddling with staff and the senator when a hot story broke and they tried to determine the best position for the senator to take.
There were always fund-raisers, press parties, embassy parties, political parties. So much, and she’d loved it, even when she would fall exhausted into bed.
At first Scott had told her how proud he was of her. He’d seemed excited to be invited to all the parties, to meet all the important players. At first.
Now she did nothing. Someone washed her hair twice a week. She scarcely noticed unless they let water run down her neck. She didn’t have any muscles anymore, even though someone took her for long walks every day, just like a dog. She’d wanted to run once, just run and feel the wind against her face, feel her face chapping, but they didn’t let her. After that they gave her more drugs so she wouldn’t want to run again.
And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide—nothing sharp, no belts.
He had furnished it for her, she’d heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn’t splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.
Then he’d strip off her clothes and make her lie on her back on the bed. He would walk around the bed, looking at her, talking to her about his day, his work, about the woman he was currently sleeping with. Then he’d unzip his trousers and show her himself, tell her how lucky she was to get to see him, that he would let her touch him but he didn’t quite trust her yet.
He’d touch her all over. He’d rub himself. Just before he came, he’d hit her at least once, usually in the ribs.
Once when his head was thrown back in his orgasm, she saw through the fog in her eyes that there were two people at the window opening in the door, staring at them, talking even as they looked. She’d tried to push him away, but it hadn’t worked. She had so little strength. He’d finished, then leaned down, seen the hatred in her eyes, and struck her face. It was the only time he had ever hit her in the face.
She remembered once how he’d turned her onto her belly, pulling her back toward him and how he’d said that maybe one day he’d let her have him, let her feel him going into her, deep, and it would hurt because he was big, didn’t she agree? But no, she didn’t deserve him yet. And who cared? They had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he’d told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.
She hadn’t said anything. He’d struck her for that, with his belt, on her buttocks. He hadn’t stopped for a very long time. She remembered screaming, begging, screaming some more, trying to wriggle away from him, but he’d held her down. He hadn’t stopped.
It was five a.m. when Quinlan was jerked out of a deep sleep by her scream, loud, piercing, so filled with pain and helplessness that he couldn’t bear it. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her against him, trying to soothe her, saying anything that came to mind, just talking and talking to bring her out of the dreadful nightmare.
“God, it hurt so much, but he didn’t care, he just kept hitting and hitting, holding me down so I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. I screamed and screamed, but nobody cared, nobody came, but I know those faces were looking in the window and they loved it. Oh, God, no, make it stop. STOP IT!”
