Come Back To Me (10 page)

Her loss touched him more than he expected. Cara seemed so solemn, so adult. He wondered if she’d ever experienced a single carefree moment in her short life. At least she could function. He’d attempted to engage her mother, but the woman couldn’t even muster an answer to his greeting. He realized Cara must have made the funeral arrangements.

Two years ago it had always been Cara’s father, not her mother, who came to the hospital. Even though Cara had refused to see him, her father had usually made a point of swinging by the emergency room to have a word with him.

Aside from filing the formal complaint against Dr. Kent and removing the cast from Cara’s broken arm, James had no official involvement with the case. He hadn’t had access to Cara’s psychiatric chart and he’d never spoken with Dr. Bowman about her. Yet James always sensed that Judge Franklin somehow felt connected to his daughter through him, as if he’d thought of James as a conduit to Cara.

Watching Cara float through the room, James believed with his whole heart that the loss of her father had been a tremendous blow. Cara had very little to fall back upon. She couldn’t count on her mother and her grandmother appeared to be quite elderly.

Although the girl wasn’t as thin as the last time he’d seen her, she still seemed frail, and just as she had when she’d been hospitalized, she kept her eyes veiled, her face blank and smooth, making it difficult for him to read her.

Two years ago he couldn’t help being concerned for her. Even after he’d returned to medical school, he’d caught himself wondering from time to time how she was doing. Now he felt that concern resurface. James shrugged. Maybe it was force of habit. He’d just spent four years training to be concerned about nearly everything.

He and Debbie stayed for another hour before tracking Cara down to say their goodbyes. James was struck by an odd sensation as they walked down the porch steps, he felt almost as if he was throwing Cara to the wolves. In truth, there was nothing he could do for her. He reminded himself that he wasn’t a part of her life. What she made of herself, what she did from this point on, what happened to her, was none of his business.

So James wondered why it was that his chest ached as Debbie’s car pulled away from the curb. And why his eyes traveled back to Cara standing alone on the porch, her slim profile turned away from them, her shadow stretched long across the grass.

January 1974

I
n hindsight, Cara often referred to the twelve months following her father’s death as her “Black Hole of Calcutta” year. She felt like she’d been shoved into a suffocating little box from which there was no escape. College was out of the question, at least for the time being. Her mother was too depressed to climb out of bed, let alone deal with insurance adjusters, fill out the forms required to receive her father’s social security payments, or make any arrangements for the transfer of her father’s pension funds.

Fortunately their house was paid for, but Cara wasn’t a signee on her parents’ accounts and despite her grandmother’s help, there was no family member other than Cara to pay bills or even buy groceries. Taking the initiative, Cara contacted one of her father’s former law partners, Phil Jackson. He agreed to help Cara with the paperwork, and her mother was relieved to hand over control of all their assets.

While her father’s insurance payout was helpful, it wasn’t enough to live on for a prolonged period of time. Neither was his pension. He hadn’t been a judge long enough to accrue much retirement. Within weeks, Cara found two jobs. Despite her mother’s feeble protests that the job was beneath her, she worked as a waitress during the lunch hour in the grill at her mother’s country club. Evenings and weekends, Cara worked at a women’s clothing store in the mall. In addition, she registered for a full load of classes at the local junior college, arranging her class schedule around her work schedule. She shopped, did laundry, cleaned the house and prepared meals for herself and her mother. Her grandmother made herself available, but as the months passed, Cara could see that her grandmother’s health was failing and it was just a matter of time before she too would need assistance.

Cara managed to scratch and crawl her way through every day for nearly eight months, until the night her grandmother suffered a stroke.

Her grandmother lay in a bed in Intensive Care, minimally responsive, for three days. When she woke from the coma her cognitive functioning remained intact, but she was paralyzed on her right side.

Sitting at the bedside, holding her grandmother’s hand, Cara listened, shocked, as the older woman apologize to her.

She spoke slowly, trying to enunciate clearly, despite the paralysis on the right side of her mouth. “I feel so sorry for you, my dear. You have so much on your shoulders.”

Cara blinked back tears. “Don’t apologize, Grandma. It’s not your fault. We’ll work it out. I promise you, we’ll work something out.”

The neurologists told Cara her grandmother’s prognosis was guarded. With physical therapy, she might regain some function and perhaps partial independence, but they didn’t hold out much hope for a full recovery. Once her grandmother was stable, she would be transferred to a rehabilitation unit and then, depending upon her progress, she’d either transfer into a nursing home or Cara would have to hire help to care for her.

An anxious Cara left the hospital that evening, intending to go straight home. She needed to check on her mother and give her an update. In recent weeks, her mother had begun to show some interest in helping out around the house, she even answered the phone on occasion.

As she pulled out of the visitors’ parking lot, Cara worried what she’d find when she got home. When her grandmother had the stroke, her mother suffered a huge setback. The news about her grandmother’s prognosis could make things much worse.

Halfway home, Cara felt dizzy. It was almost as if her grip on reality began to slip. She swore she was leaving her body and standing outside, a stranger, watching.

Panic stricken, short of breath, heart thudding in her chest, Cara struggled to maintain control of the car. She had so little feeling in her body that the hands steering the car might as well have been made of ice. With an abrupt jerk, Cara turned the car down a side street, banging the front wheel against the curb. Throwing the car into park, she ripped the key from the ignition and jumped out, shaking like a leaf. Cara clutched at her chest and leaned back against the car door, struggling to get enough oxygen.

Cara was nearly overcome by the urge to run away, but she didn’t know where in the world she would run to and she had no idea what she’d be running from. Whatever this was, she knew it wasn’t anything she could see, it was inside, pounding at her along with the pounding of her heart. She might run forever and she’d just bring it along with her.

Randy, he was the solution. She had to find Randy tonight. Cara hadn’t gotten high in months, but she was desperate to get wasted now before she did something stupid, like drive into a ditch or over a bridge or hit another car head on.

She’d always stayed away from Randy unless her friend John went with her, but John and his family had moved back to California. She’d have to handle this on her own. At that moment, Cara didn’t care. She was too terrified to worry about what Randy might say or do. The need to control her fear far outweighed her fear of Randy.

Cara started the engine. Terrified she’d screw up, Cara stayed under the speed limit all the way to Randy’s neighborhood. She left her car parked down the street and walked up the hill. As she expected the main house was dark, but the van sat in its usual spot. She tapped lightly on the van’s back door. It swung open and Randy peered out, his head wreathed in pot smoke. He looked her up and down.

“Long time no see.”

“I’ve been busy,” Cara said, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Yeah, I heard,” said Randy. “Your old man kicked. Too bad.”

Cara didn’t know how to respond and an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“So, you want to get stoned or what?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

“Got any money?”

Cara already knew she didn’t have money with her, but she checked her pockets anyway, just for show. “Uh, no, sorry, I didn’t bring anything with me. It was kind of last minute . . .” Her voice trailed off. Cara cleared her throat. “Can you comp me some pot, just a couple joints? I can pay you tomorrow.”

Randy blinked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ve got some new stuff. You can try it first, be my guinea pig. It’s my treat.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Cara agreed, before Randy could change his mind.

“Climb in.” He turned his back to her, disappearing toward the front.

Cara crawled onto the dirty mattress, closing the door behind her.

Randy pulled out a hash pipe. Cara didn’t normally smoke hashish, but at this point, she would have smoked, ingested or even injected anything to slow the pounding of her heart.

She watched Randy remove the foil wrapping from a small chunk of dark, slightly oily hash. He stuffed it into the bowl of the pipe. He handed the pipe to Cara, holding a cigarette lighter to the bowl as she inhaled deeply. Cara smoked three bowls, so intent upon distancing herself from her own fear the fact that Randy didn’t participate escaped her notice.

A welcome silence descended. From a great distance, she saw the hash pipe drop from her open hand. She felt her head fall forward onto her chest, and then, nothing.

When she opened her eyes, Randy’s face loomed above hers. She didn’t understand why his features appeared so distorted and she couldn’t remember why he was there. Why on earth was Randy Johnson in her bedroom? At that moment, she felt a hand between her legs. Was Mr. Walker lying on top of her, in her bed? Who was it, Randy or Mr. Walker?

It looked like Randy, but Randy would never be in her bedroom. Mr. Walker knew how to get into her room.

“No,” she muttered, fumbling with the groping hands.

Cara made a weak attempt to shove him off, but he was heavier than she was, stronger than she was and for some reason, she didn’t seem to have control of her extremities.

“C’mon, Cara, c’mon . . .”

She shook her head, thrashing from side to side now. She somehow managed to clench her legs together. Judging by the sound of his voice, Mr. Walker was angry. He would to hurt her, she knew it. He was going to hurt her and then he would rape her. She felt him pull at her clothing. Her shirt ripped.

“Stop,” she cried out, the word thick and oddly slurred. “Stop it. Get off me.”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, bitch!” His fist connected with the side of her face and Cara flipped onto her side, stunned.

She tried to gather her wits, but doing anything, even thinking in a complete sentence, was like slogging through quicksand. She didn’t want to be raped again. Oh God, she didn’t want to go through it again.

Someone grabbed her shoulders, jerked her head forward. Cara remembered where she was. It was Randy on top of her, not Mr. Walker. He flipped her onto her back and tore at the waistband of her jeans. Cara felt them unsnap. One of his hands held the waistband, the other tugged at the zipper.

“No!” she screamed, clawing at Randy’s eyes, raking her nails over his cheek and jaw.

Randy yelped and let go for an instant, long enough for Cara to kick free of him and lunge for the door to the van. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her backward. He straddled her, sitting on her chest, slapping her over and over until she felt like she would either throw up or pass out. Finally he sat back, panting.

“You stupid fucking bitch.” He pressed a hand against his bleeding cheek. “You think you’re too good for me? I know what you are. Everybody knows what you are, a fucking slut. You’re a fucking slut.” He slid off her and kicked her in the ribs.

“Get out!” Randy yelled. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t ever come back.”

Gasping for breath, Cara crawled to the door. She managed to open it and drag herself out, falling headfirst into the dead grass beside the van. She didn’t know if she could stand, but she had no choice. She needed to get as far away from Randy as possible. Cara lurched to her feet and stumbled down the drive. The direction of home was vague, but her body turned left, running on autopilot.

Maybe she’d get hit by a car, she thought. Maybe she would be very lucky and get hit by a car.

∗    ∗    ∗

“Damn I need this.”

James left the med center in Iowa City as soon as he’d finished afternoon rounds. The week had been intense, but fortunately the drive was easy and it gave him time to unwind. The weather held up too. Iowa was between winter storms. A couple days with Debbie would do him some good. He felt like he deserved a little rest and relaxation. Debbie was very adept at providing it.

The two had an easy, uncomplicated relationship. They had fun together. No demands. No distractions. James couldn’t afford any distractions right now, not in his first year of residency. Debbie didn’t even know he was coming. He’d decided at the last minute and he figured she’d be at work. Since she’d given him a key to her place James assumed she wouldn’t mind. If she was busy, he’d kick around for a day or two, maybe do some cooking, watch a little basketball. Spend some quality time in bed with her when she got home.