Body of Ash (13 page)

2
1

RACHEL

Friday 1:
5
0
AM

With lips swollen from kissing and her body pressed against Jason’s, Rachel felt alive. Her boyfriend was a furnace beneath the covers, the feel of his hands a constant reminder they were alone. Pressed together on the couch, the barn loft had grown cool, but the weight of the quilt shielded them from the air. With chest and arms bare, Jason's skin melted against hers. Now and again, she would push out from
beneath the covers, only to have his hot limbs pull her back in.
             

For the first time all night, Jason’s breathing rate slowed. She wondered if he slept. The taste of his skin lingered on her lips, his scent pleasing as it mixed with hers. Even the air he exhaled wrapped around her, drawing her in. 

Morning would come. The night would pass and she would have to decide what to do.
Just after midnight, Jason texted a friend from Torrington.
When she prodded him about his plans, he climbed back onto the couch with her and through the delicate kisses he trailed across her forehead, whispered everything would be fine. Rachel believed him.

Tonight she was safe. It was time to relax and shut down thoughts and worries. Maybe even enjoy the opportunity of being together under the cover of dark with the one she loved.

For the first time in her life, she wasn’t tucked away in her little girl’s bedroom like a child. She was with Jason, perfect Jason, in his arms half-dressed and alone in the privacy of the unlit room. No prying ears from her folks or insinuating eyes.
Alone, just the two of them, kissing if they wanted to without being judged or reprimanded.
No grating sound of throats clearing, instructing her to maintain self-control. No whispers regarding proper distance. With her break from them – Rachel was the adult and in charge. They
couldn’t interfere and shame her for what she felt. As much as she wanted to reason with her parents, the idea was pointless. Although being alone with Jason was wonderful, freeing even, giving in to impulse and running away may have made her situation worse. Knowing that didn’t help. It changed nothing.

If she had calmly addressed them, with the support of the guidance office or the school social worker at her side, perhaps she could have convinced them to give her the opportunity to make her own decision. But, in her haste and resentment, she couldn’t see another option.  Feeling confined and backed in a corner, bolting was the only option. It was her life, not theirs.  She deserved the control – away from them and their demand for perfection.

Now it was too late. Everything had changed. They wouldn’t forgive her for shaming them. Not after leaving the house without permission and spending the night with a boy. It didn’t matter now, she couldn’t go back and pretend to be what they wanted her to be – pristine, appropriate, and without feelings of her own. She was a woman, not a child and they would never be willing to see it.

Jason was much more than just her boyfriend. Even now, in the quiet of the night, as his warm breath tickled her ear, she felt safe. Hip to hip, with arms snaked around each other,
there was something more to the moment than just the way his body touched hers.

Earlier, when she encouraged him to discover her unexposed breast, he did so with a hesitant touch. Wanting to know if he desired her, she explored him back. The proof was there; he made no attempts to hide it. She could feel his response as his body shifted against hers. 

Sighing at the sheer memory of it, her heart pounded quicker in her chest.  

As she listened to his rhythmic breathing, she wondered when she would find herself alone with him again. If her parents were waiting outside in the morning, ready to haul her away, would she regret the night they shared? Would she regret not giving herself to him completely? Would he?

All of her life she’d been taught that waiting for marriage was the only option. That giving your husband your virginity was the perfect gift. During their hours together, each time she felt herself about to cross that line, something held her back.

What am I waiting for?

It wasn’t the image of sweet Mrs. Bunt’s face that stopped her – the Sunday school teacher who blushed profusely while discussing the importance of purity with the teens during
summer Vacation Bible School. Not even the Christian teen articles that warned each time you have premarital sex, you give a piece of your soul away, were the problem.

Then what? If she was waiting for love, she didn’t need to look further. Sure, Rachel wasn’t experienced and although Jason was the only boy she had ever developed feelings for, she knew what they had was big. Marriage – they were too young for that, but the ring he gave her said plenty. It was a promise they would be together. 

Her parents’ matching gold bands didn’t keep her father from having sex elsewhere, but what did he know about keeping promises? So often he stood before a new couple and helped them recite their vows before God, claiming it was his most cherished part of his ministry, but her Dad clearly knew nothing of marriage. Rachel thought her father held the Holy Spirit in his heart, but she realized now that he was a sham, a false prophet leading them nowhere.

I’ll never be like him.

The night was going to end. If she couldn’t find a place to stay, her parents would lock her away – away from her school, away from Jason.

Forever
.

Being with Jason was all that mattered. A life without him would be hell. A hell she feared more than the one her father referenced each Sunday and was bound for. Tears stung the back of her eyes. Rachel couldn’t live like that – live without Jason. She needed him to hold her, to want her, and tell her that he couldn’t stand it either. He had become her air, a physical and hungry part of her. Now she was afraid he’d disappear.

No more waiting, I want tonight. I need him.

Swallowing the nervous lump in her throat, she felt more brazen. It was her life and no matter what tomorrow would bring, nothing could compare to what she was experiencing right now. Shifting her weight so she could face him without tumbling off the couch, she kissed him until he awoke enough to kiss her back. With her blood coursing wildly in her veins, she slid her fingers just below his waistband and tugged until the button on his jeans unfastened. 

Jason’s body, warm with sweat, was long and hard.  His dark skin stood in contrast to hers, his flesh soft beneath her fingers. A trail of dark hair ran from his naval to just underneath his boxers. Tracing it with her finger tips, a throaty sigh passed his lips. In response, her own body fluttered with sensation, sending heat through her belly.

“Hmm,” he whispered. “That’s nice, but you better stop unless you want to keep going.” His voice was husky and low, the sheer sound of it enticed her. 

In a reply, Rachel leaned back and undid her own jeans before edging them down her hips. Trembling in the darkness, she could see Jason’s eyes flash with desire. Using both his hands, he worked to remove the rest of their clothing. Finding a rhythm and pleasure in their building need, Rachel let go of all thoughts about her parents, about what was right and wrong, and focused only on the breathy sounds the two made.   

2
2

ANGELA

Friday 5:00 AM

Waiting for the sun to rise, Angela sat in Rachel’s room. Other than her husband’s constant snore on the other side of the plaster walls, the only sound was the clunk of the cast iron radiators as the furnace sent steam to the second floor. Two hours before day light, two hours before she could begin her search for her daughter, Angela wrung her hands with unease as she glanced helplessly around her child’s room.

Where would she go?

Despite her refusal to sleep, she was oddly awake and wishing the world would awaken with her. It was too early to make the phone calls to Rachel’s friends and even if she tried driving around, the darkness outside would prevent her from canvasing the area for any sign of her daughter.  Instead of looking, she waited for daylight, spending hours cleaning her house while her thoughts poured over the evening’s events. Frustrated with her inability to make things right with her daughter and sick of Brian’s attitude, Angela scrubbed: the walls, the banisters, the carpets. Moving from one room to the next, she ensured not a single item was out of place while her mind lingered on the frail form of Rachel rocking herself on the front steps, aching for a comfort Angela was too self-seeking to offer.

After stopping her assault on the house, she found herself in her daughter’s room. Studying the space, Angela wondered
how long it had been since she spent time in there. It had been her practice to enter Rachel’s room only to collect her soiled clothing from the small hamper stowed behind the door and to return them laundered and folded in a neat stack on the end of the bed – but she never stayed. Rachel had been taught early on to do chores and was responsible for changing her bedding each Saturday and vacuuming twice a week. The teen dusted her own furniture and was meticulous about hanging her clothing in the closet. Other than laundry detail, there was no reason for Angela to convene in Rachel’s room.

Sitting there now, she had become a stranger, visiting someone’s private space – someone she didn’t know very well. Although she had painted the crown molding
a creamy
beige and papered the walls a delicate Laura Ashley print of green leafy vines with small, pink buds, it was as if she was viewing the room for the very first time. 

The twin size bed, covered in a pink down comforter, had a white wicker headboard that matched the small vanity table with stool and the full length chest of drawers. The furniture, Angela now realized, had become outdated and was far too juvenile for a young woman Rachel’s age.

Funny, she never mentioned it.

On her bed side stand was a lamp with a simple silk shade, beside it, was her daughter’s alarm clock and a copy of
J.D. Salinger’s
The Catcher in the Rye
. A corner shelf in the room held a doll collection that Angela’s mother had started for Rachel when she was just three. Each winter Sylvia spent weathering in Florida, her mother would bring back an unusual doll to add to the assortment. When Rachel was little, Angela used to struggle with Rachel not to play with the collection, knowing it would enrage her mother if she stopped for a visit to discover any of the dolls damaged. Now that Rachel was a teen, she had at least twenty dolls that were immaculate, nice enough to pass on to her own daughter someday. Staring at their porcelain faces and glass eyes, Angela knew it wouldn’t have been the end of the world to let Rachel have one or two play with – but now her daughter was too old for childish things, and it was impossible to erase the past.

During the day, two large windows dressed with simple sheer panels overlooked the porch roof, allowing plenty of natural sunlight to enter the room, giving the illusion of a bigger space. Between them, screwed to the wall, was a large cork board. Decorated with movie stubs, some drawings she had done with a felt tip pen and snap shots of Rachel and her friends, Angela studied the various photos for the first time.

Although she had always known Rachel was a comely child, the pictures on her board showed a radiant side of the teen she wasn’t accustomed to seeing. Her daughter was
usually quiet and timid, but the glimpses of Rachel’s life before her showed a spirited persona rarely witnessed since she was a small child.